“There’s something else,” Ashley might say.
“Oh do tell, girl,” Tamara would reply.
Then Ashley would tell her how I creamed my boxer shorts from a lazy handjob. “He was pretty red-faced embarrassed about it,” she’d say, “so I didn’t say much afterwards, but I was barely stroking it and he ejaculated right into his boxer shorts.”
If ever there was an uproarious laugh from Tamara, I pictured it coming then. “What is Dave, like a pubescent boy?”
Fuck you, Tamara, I thought.
****
I got on my laptop and went to the porn search engine. Among the assortment of recent videos on the main page, I saw the heading “big cock stroking.”
Looking at other guys’ cocks hadn’t ever been my thing. I never sneaked a peek in the locker room or gym showers. I just wanted to imagine what Ashley had that night with Jim Murta.
The guy in the video had the camera zoomed up close to his cock, pointed up at the ceiling, as he sat in a chair. He never let his face show. He had a cock any man would be proud of, which is why he was probably filming himself and uploading it for the world to see. He was at least eight inches, probably nine.
Trent Reznor began singing, “I want to fuck you like an animal” in the background and the guy started stroking.
I began stroking myself.
The slit on his head would tilt down to the camera, before jerking up with the rhythm of his hand.
That’s the kind of cock that fucked my wife, I thought, the kind Ashley watched being stroked in front of her, that she wanted in her pussy, bare, despite knowing I was right outside. I’m looking at Jim Murta’s cock.
When the scene switched to him stroking hard over a wooden table, I knew he was about to cum. He had the camera on the other side of the table. His cock pointed directly at it. He removed his hand for a moment, letting it dangle and pulsate. And then it exploded in trajectories like fireworks. One shot went past the camera, but the rest splattered the wooden table. Then, finally, a few last bits just seeped out of him.
I replayed the cumshot in slow motion thinking, That’s what you gave Ashley, that big cock, and that fat fuck load of sperm. Fuck you, Jim Murta!
And then I came myself.
After I wiped myself off, I felt sick and disgusted. I could rationalize what I’d done. I was simply imagining that I was looking at the cock that fucked my wife. But good God, I thought, if I were ever to be busted jerking off while looking at something like that, what a dubious and convoluted explanation that would be.
If Tamara knew my reaction to the two of them being out tonight was to masturbate while watching another guy blow his load—imagining it was Jim Murta’s cock—she would laugh so condescendingly hard that it would echo in my brain for weeks. She’d have the satisfaction of knowing she had accomplished much more that night than she ever could have imagined.
****
Ashley texted me that she was still out drinking with Tamara but would be back in an hour.
I went through Ashley’s photo album, looking for photos from last summer on Cape May. We had rented a beach house for the week with friends. Tamara had joined us the first weekend.
That first day at the beach, Tamara had unveiled a new thong bikini. She had tried to talk Ashley into buying one with her, but Ashley had demurred. The suit showed off her spanking tight, toned ass and attracted major attention on the beach.
Teenage boys were ogling while she ordered drinks at a snack bar. Where was her modesty and sense of decency, I’d wondered at the time.
In the third album I found the photos from that week. There was one of Ashley and Tamara holding drinks and posing by the pool in their bikinis.
I pulled the photo from the plastic and took it into the bathroom. After checking to make sure the bathtub was dry, I sat down in it. I wanted to better imagine how they looked to Jim Murta that night.
I stared at the photo, going back and forth over their tits in their bikinis. Jim Murta would be standing, towering over them, staring down at two sets of nice big tits.
I wondered exactly how Tamara phrased her suggestion: “Why don’t you whip it out? Why don’t you show us what you’re packing? Why don’t you show Ashley your cock, Jim?”
“Ashley,” I pictured her saying, “the look on your face when you first saw Jim’s cock was priceless.”
I imagined him pointing it close at her as she watched it throbbing towards her.
Who in hell did Tamara think she was, offering up Ashley’s pussy to him?
Did Jim Murta even hesitate? Sure, Tamara was hot, but opportunities to fuck a married co-worker with her husband outside didn’t come along every day.
I stood up and sat on the sink. I imagined the moment when he slowly slid inside her.
“Oh my God,” Ashley my wife would say, “it’s so friggin’ big.”
“Bigger than your husband’s, Ashley?”
“Oh my God, Jim, there’s no comparison.”
“It’s still got a few inches to go, Ashley, but it will all be in you soon.”
“Oh my God.”
“Oh yeah, Ashley, it’s going all the way inside you.”
Jim Murta was off to the races now. He was getting his Jim Murta fuck on.
“Oh hell, yeah,” Tamara might egg them on, “ride that big fat cock.”
“Shh,” Ashley might whisper, “David’s outside.”
“Fuck David,” Jim would reply as his cock pumped deep inside her.
“Oh my God, I’m about to cum.”
“Say ‘Fuck David,’ Ashley.”
“Fuck David.”
“Say ‘Fuck David, fuck my husband.’ ”
“Fuck … oh God. Fuck Dave … David … fuck my husband.”
I stared at the photo of Ashley, dropping it onto the counter as I came.
****
Ashley came home an hour later, a little buzzed, saying “I’se gots to pee.”
When she came out, I asked her about Burning Man and she said, “Now she’s talking next summer” and told me Tamara said “hi.” She checked her email before asking if I’d mind if she called her Chicago friend Camilla, who was coming into town Friday.
I went into the bathroom and my stomach sank.
On the sink, right next to the tissues, I had left the photo of Ashley and Tamara in bikinis.
My heart started racing as I wondered how I could have been so stupid as to leave it there. Perhaps Ashley in her buzzed hurry to pee hadn’t noticed. But what if she had? Why would I have taken a photo from her album of them in bikinis into the bathroom? What explanation was there, other than that I’d jerked myself looking at it?
If she had noticed it, why hadn’t she called me out, saying, “What’s this doing here?”
I put the photo in my back pocket and prepared myself for questions. Lame as it was, the only excuse I could come up with was, “I was on the phone with my mom tonight, and she mentioned the reception hall we had for our wedding. Well I got out your photo album, and I was flipping through it in the bathroom—well, obviously, I got the wrong one—and then the picture of you and Tamara fell out. I was still talking to my mom, so I just left it on the sink to return it later. And then my brother called, and well, which album are our wedding photos in, anyway?”
When I came back out, Ashley was typing on her laptop. She told me her friend Camilla would be coming in Friday night. “Oh, and she wanted me to tell you that her boyfriend Mark may have Yankee tickets for Saturday. He’ll invite you if he does, but the emphasis is on may.”
“Oh, right on,” I replied, “that would be cool.”
I made my way into the bedroom and snuck the photo back into her album.
CHAPTER TEN
The next morning, Ashley made no mention of finding the photo.
The following night she had a presentation to prepare. I left her in the living room, went into the office, shut the door, and turned on some music. I was done looking at porn and catching up on financ
ial news when I noticed the “chat room” icon on the upper right.
It had been several years since I talked in Internet chat rooms. When I did, it was mostly to talk sports. I used to frequent a specialty room called “Yankees Baseball.” Sometimes Red Sox fans would infiltrate the room, and I’d join in the conversational Red Sox bashing. But the novelty of communicating with random strangers in real-time grew old pretty quickly.
I certainly never saw it as a way of meeting girls.
I clicked on the chat icon and went scrolling through the options. After a while, I found myself looking at the names of the “special interest” rooms in the User-Created Section. These were the adult-themed rooms and the majority of the room titles had something to do with sex. They had provocative names like “Women who Love Swallowing” or “Love Older Men” or “Submissive Women.” Others, like “Men Look at Daughter” or “Family Fun,” were downright creepy.
There was one called “Wife Likes Others,” which I presumed had to do with cheating. But then I saw another room simply entitled “My Wife.” I decided to check it out. There were about twenty-five people in the room, but most seemed on the conversational sideline. In the public scroll, only a few people were typing, and what they wrote was fairly generic:
“Jeremy 33, Kansas, any wives free to chat?”
“Mitch 49, Philadelphia, any swingers local—my wife’s 45, DD.”
“30m Las Vegas here—wanna talk phone about my hot Spanish wife.”
“Anyone wife swap in the Tucson area?”
“Who’s got pictures to trade tonight?”
I was about to exit the room, when I received a private message. “Hi Dave,” it read, “NYC here as well.”
“How did you know I’m in NYC?” I replied.
“I just looked at your profile.”
I had forgotten I even had a profile. I had created it a few years ago. It gave my name, age, location, and that I was in a relationship.
“Oh, I got you,” I typed.
“You married?”
“Yes.”
“I have a hot 43 year old Filipino wife, care to trade photos?”
“No,” I replied, “sorry,” and clicked off the message.
Another message popped up: “Brooklyn here, do you share your wife?”
“No,” I replied, “sorry.”
Another guy asked, “Your wife like black?”
This was getting pointless, so I figured I’d type something of my own in the public scroll.
I looked at what I’d written for a few minutes before sending it: “Anyone here learn your wife cheated and how did you deal?”
That prompted a flurry of private messages:
“Your wife cheated?”
“Have a pic of her?”
“What happened with your wife?”
But then someone messaged me: “Yeah, it happened to me, my wife cheated on me.”
“Hi,” I replied, “I’m Dave, I’d be curious how you handled it.”
“I was pissed but I eventually forgave her.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Two years.”
“And you’re still with her?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d be interested in hearing what happened,” I typed, “if you don’t mind discussing it.”
“Not at all,” he replied, “it all started with a cruise.”
“That’s where she cheated?”
“Yup.”
“Were you with her?”
“No, she had gone on a cruise of the Caribbean with a recently divorced girlfriend of hers.”
“OK,” I typed, “and?”
“Well I didn’t like the idea of her going, whatsoever. I even joked with her before about it being their ‘Girls Gone Wild’ week, but she assured me it was nothing like that, and that she was just going to be comforting a friend in need. I knew her friend and knew she would be looking for a rebound hook-up. But what was I going to say to my wife, ‘No’? All I could say was have fun, but not too much fun, you know.”
“Yeah,” I typed, “I know the influence a friend can have. So what happened?”
“Well, she sent me emails that week saying she was having fun, but pretend G-Rated stuff. How they took in a musical, how she won some money gambling, lay out by the pool. How her friend’s spirits were good. How we should take a cruise, the two of us, as a next vacation.”
“Well, anyway,” he continued, “when she got back, she seemed a bit depressed to be home. I understand the post-vacation blues, but this time seemed different. She was on her computer a lot the week afterwards and one day I saw she had left it on and was still signed on. She had written about her cruise vacation to two of her friends.”
“So you read the emails?”
“Yeah, her laptop was just sitting there on the kitchen table.”
“What did you learn?”
“Well,” he replied, “The very first night she boarded that ship, she met an entertainment director, a guy who works on the cruise. And the guy bedded my wife that first night. It seemed pretty torrid. She had sex with this guy the whole week she was there.”
“Wow,” I replied, “how did you feel when you read all this?”
“I was mad as hell.”
“Did you confront her?”
“Hell, yeah.”
“How did she respond?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, I don’t know what got into me. She blamed her friend, even blamed me in a backhanded way. I told her I wanted her to stop emailing the guy and she said, ‘Never again, I’m done.’ ”
“She was emailing him afterwards?” I asked. “You mean, when she got back home?”
“Yeah, she wrote him long emails about how fantastic he was and how she still thought about him all the time. But it was one-sided.”
“One-sided?” I asked.
“Yeah, his replies back to her were brief. Like he was really busy. Three-sentence emails. Not blowing her off completely. He said maybe he could see her when he was in Tampa in the summer. But it was clear to me that it was just a fun little vacation relationship for him. I’m sure he was off fucking a new wife on vacation the following week.”
“How do you mean?”
“I talked to a guy in this room who used to work for a cruise line. He said married women without their husbands are easy prey. He said he was constantly banging the married wives there alone. It’s like a contest with them.”
“Wow,” I typed, “so what happened after you learned?”
“Well, she swore up and down that nothing like that would ever happen again and I eventually forgave her. She swore he had used a condom, but I was like ‘Yeah, right,’ and had her get tested. Then a few months later, I started rereading those emails. I saved them all. And I got kind of fascinated by it. This happened two years ago. I must have reread those letters a hundred times now.”
“Were they graphic?” I asked.
“Not blow by blow, but there was enough for me to get a mental picture. It started to turn me on, the image of her with another man. This guy was young, around thirty, and she talked about how buff and strong he was, how well hung, how skillful he was in bed. How she knew that first evening he’d be sleeping with her that night. She was obsessed with this guy, but I think she meant nothing to him.”
“Meant nothing?” I asked. “How so?”
“Check this out,” he wrote. “The last day, she was out drinking by the pool and this guy took her to some secluded place on the ship. He works on the ship, it’s probably his usual spot. Anyway, they had sex there and she wrote how afterwards she couldn’t find her bikini bottom. So the guy told her he’d come back with a towel. Do you think he ever came back with a towel?”
“I guess he didn’t?”
“Nope, she waited an hour and a half for this guy to return and he never did. So eventually, she had to make her way back to her room in broad daylight, running for visual barriers with her hands trying to cover he
r ass and pussy. She told her friend it was twenty minutes of running from one thing to the next, with other passengers catching glimpses. She said she was mortified when two men walked passed her as she was trying to slide the key in her door. Can you imagine that? Guys checking out my wife’s ass as she’s frantically trying to open the door? Having just been fucked. What a slut she must have looked like. I swear, if I could have video of that afternoon of my bottomless wife running that gauntlet in public—”
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