“Oh right,” I said, “well I definitely want to be there, but I kind of need to play it by ear. Is it OK if I have to show up later?”
“Yeah, of course, it will be probably go on for a while.”
****
I fell asleep on the couch after Ashley went to bed.
At 4 a.m. I made my way to our bedroom. I was deliberately clumsy getting into bed. I wanted her to wake up briefly.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Sshh,” I said, whispering, “Just past four. Go back to sleep.”
“Oh my God, Dave, have you been up working all this time?”
“Yeah, it’s OK. Go back to sleep, Ash.”
****
“How’s the project going?” Ashley asked, when she called after lunch.
“It’s going,” I replied, “but my team’s still pulling data. I think we’ll get there; it’s just a race to the finish.”
“Are you exhausted?”
“I’m hanging in there, been chugging coffee, a little wired on adrenaline.”
“What time do you think you’ll finish?”
“Tough to say, I’m hoping to get out of here by six or seven. How late will the happy hour go?”
“People will probably be there until at least nine.”
“OK,” I said, “I’m just going to have to play it by ear. I’ll call you around six and let you know my status. I’m really sorry about this. Is that OK?”
“Yeah, of course,” she said, “no worries. Do what you have to do, baby.”
****
By six, the office had cleared out. No one works late on a summer Friday, unless they absolutely have to.
Ashley called to tell me she’d just arrived, and what a beautiful night it was on the bar terrace.
I told her I had just gotten the last data runs back and was going to crank as quickly as possible. “Hopefully, I can be there by eight,” I said. “I’ll call you in an hour.”
“OK,” she said, “good luck, and hang in there. I know the office is the last place you want to be on a beautiful Friday night.”
I had nothing in particular to do, but I decided I’d at least be productive. I did my expense report and started an employee review that wasn’t due for two months.
When I called Ashley just after seven, she sounded a little buzzed. It was noisy, with lots of talking and laughter in the background.
“I’m going to try for nine, Ash,” I said. “I just finished going through all the data, and I’m mad-rushing the second half of the report.”
“I’m so sorry, honey. I miss you. I’ll have a margarita on the rocks, no salt, waiting for you, if you can make it, but I understand if you can’t.”
I was bored, but determined to stay in my office for the duration. On every call to Ashley, I wanted my work number to show up.
This sucks, I thought, but it was better than being at that happy hour. I had to give credit to the online guy two nights ago. He’d at least made me consider Ashley’s potential perspective on a last-minute bail. Because of him, I had laid down the groundwork the night before. And now I knew for sure she wasn’t embarrassed going alone.
To anyone asking why I hadn’t shown, well, a major project had come up. Her husband has an important job. “I feel bad,” she could say, “he was up until four a.m. last night doing a major pitch.”
No one could say, “Can’t say I was surprised he’d chicken out. That’s how a pussy like Dave Martens rolls.”
I called her at eight and apologized, saying that I still had another couple hours. I told her to say hello to everyone for me, to tell Craig that I was sorry to have missed him.
She said that was too bad, but she would make sure to have a stiff drink waiting for me when I got home.
And she did just that. When I walked in at eleven, she gave me a big kiss and showed genuine sympathy for the extra long day I’d just endured.
I had escaped a very awkward social situation.
I acted disappointed to have missed it and asked who was there. She threw out the usual names like Tamara and Craig and others. Jim Murta’s name never came up.
I felt calm and more relaxed than I had for ages. The guy online the other night was right. My wife was home with me. I had a drink in my hand, my wife beside me, and I had avoided the happy hour. Spending five additional hours where I didn’t want to be—at work—had been worth it.
As I lay in bed, I remembered a Flintstones episode I’d seen as a kid. Fred and Barney were in a pickle. A hidden camera show had caught them carousing with dancing girls at the Buffalo Lodge. It was going to air that Saturday night. When they realized their wives were going to see the show, they spent all Friday night lassoing TV antennas off every house in Bedrock. Exhausted as they were at 5 a.m.—having yanked every last antenna—they felt satisfied and relieved.
That’s how I felt. My efforts paid off.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What time are you heading to Candlewood Lake?” I asked as we lay in bed.
“Noon. I should probably leave by eleven-fifteen just to be safe.”
“I feel like I’ve barely seen you all week—”
“I know, me too!” she said curling up into my arms.
“And now you’re heading away,” I said, affecting a kid’s whine.
“I’m sorry, we’ve planned it for weeks, and I haven’t seen Jessica since last Christmas.”
We started kissing; then our tongues intertwined. Once I had her t-shirt off, I knew it was on.
I sucked on her beautiful breasts, cupping them, caressing her. I went down on her until she reached orgasm. Then I went inside her. I sensed I wasn’t going to last. I tried to slow up, but I was too hard and turned-on.
Within a minute, it was happening. I was fucking cumming.
“God, I’m sorry,” I said, “I think it’s just that we haven’t been doing this for a few days.”
“It’s OK,” she replied, “I should probably get ready if I’m going to make the train.”
God, I thought, after she left, what a pathetic send-off that was.
****
I called Craig.
I was surprised when he picked up.
“Hi Dave, how are you?”
“I’m good,” I replied. “Sorry I couldn’t see you last night—last minute work bullshit.”
“Them long hours on a Friday night. That sucks.”
“Yeah, I know, but I wanted to call because I said I’d be there.”
“Don’t sweat it. I understand.”
“How was it?” I asked. “Good time?”
“Yeah, it was cool. We basically took over the outdoor deck.”
“I wish I could have been there,” I said. “Ashley said it was fun. I guess you’d concur?”
Then Craig paused. I thought I heard him sigh.
“But it was cool?” I said nervously.
“Dave, I’d like to apologize,” he said, “for how I’ve been since the party. I mean, how I’ve been with you.”
“No need to apologize, Craig.”
“No I do need to. I know what happened to you had to be difficult. I was uncomfortable being the one to tell you. And it was just awkward. Because I don’t like office politics, gossip, and bullshit. I like to keep above all that stuff and I do. It’s how I am. And what happened had me in professional self-preservation mode.”
“I understand Craig, no worries.”
“Yeah, well, you’re my friend, and I feel I should have been there for you more.”
“I appreciate that Craig, but I really appreciate you telling me what you did. And as I said, we are working through it. We’ve talked. Ashley and I are in a good place.”
“I’m glad to hear that bro,” he said, “I really am. And I mean it about checking a Yankees game this summer. We should really do that.”
“You bet,” I said, “I’d like that.”
“Me, too.”
“But Craig, given what happened, I hope you don’t blame me
for asking this, but was the party uneventful? I mean, there aren’t any new rumors that came out of last night?”
“No, Dave, it was a good time but uneventful.”
“Was Jim there?”
“Yeah, but there were no rumors.”
“Can I ask, did you see them talking to each other?”
“I don’t think they talked at all, other than as part of a group. There were no one-on-ones or talking in a corner, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s kind of what I’m asking, yes.”
“Yeah, none of that. Ashley was at a table with the other girls. And she spoke with her boss by the bar for a while. And Tonya, the female sales manager—I saw her talking to Ashley. Murta mostly stood by the bar with his sales guys.”
“Did the rumor about Ashley come up?”
“No, not at all. No one was going to be so classless as to bring that shit up.”
“How about Tamara?”
“She was just bopping around, you know, being Tamara.”
“OK, so there was nothing I should wonder about? I mean, it was just a regular happy hour? And Jim and Ashley weren’t talking to each other?”
“Right, I swear, there was nothing you need to wonder about.”
“Anyone ask about me? Like if I was showing or why I hadn’t showed?”
“No, other than me asking Ashley. She told me it was fifty-fifty, and then when it got late, I figured you couldn’t make it.”
“OK, cool, but otherwise my name didn’t come up?”
“No, not at all.”
“That’s what I assumed but just wanted to check with you. I appreciate you telling me.”
“You OK, Dave?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Like I said, I really wanted to be there for Ashley, and couldn’t, and then I guess given what happened, imagination gets the best of you sometimes.”
“Of course,” Craig replied, “I understand.”
“Well, I don’t want to keep you, man.”
“OK sure, but seriously, let’s do that Yankees game before the summer’s over.”
****
I got back from doing errands around six.
There was a certain what-the-fuck-to-do-with myself feeling as I broke out the shaker and fixed myself a martini.
Pretty soon I found myself on my laptop, checking the “My Wife” chat room. After a few big sips, I typed in the public scrawl, “My wife recently cheated & looking for perspective, advice on how others handled.”
The now familiar flurry of private messages ensued.
One message seemed interesting enough. “I’ve been there, my friend, Tom 56, Charlotte, NC.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“My wife cheated for eight years. My teenage kids were on to it before me. I was stupid or in denial or both. LOL.”
“How do you find out? How did you react?”
“I was hurt, distraught, couldn’t sleep, all those emotions of betrayal and rejection, but I didn’t want to split up for the kids’ sake and once I accepted it, I found it a real turn-on. I still do. Tell me about what happened with you, Dave.”
I told him about the night at the party, the rumor, how I couldn’t sleep, either, the fear I still have, how it felt like such a fuck-you, my humiliation, how I couldn’t face the happy hour.
“I can understand she hurt you and I can relate,” he replied, “but you have to admit what’s happened is pretty hot. I mean, you know it’s hot, right?”
“I guess, when I step out of myself or my ego, or think of it objectively, sure. I think about the details. I’d pay to hear them if I could do it anonymously.”
“But just the details you have are a turn on, right? I mean you said you’ve been jerking off, right? You’re imagining that night, right?”
“Yeah, but I know it’s fucked up.”
“She must have really wanted this guy to do it with him, even knowing you were outside.”
“Yeah, I figure she got caught up in the moment.”
“What’s your wife’s name?”
“Ashley”
“And you said she’s thirty?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm,” he replied, “a great young age. Your wife must be very pretty for this guy to have chosen her.”
“Yeah, she is,” I typed, “She gets hit on a lot, which I used to not care about.”
“I bet the guys at work hit on her a lot more now, right? Knowing she took a co-workers big cock bare at a party with her husband right outside.”
“I’ve suspected so,” I replied, “but I think she’s learned her lesson there.”
“The fact that she told you—her own husband—that he had a much bigger cock, right to your face … Wow, that is so hot to think about. She’s got a real naughty side for sure.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, “kind of stunned me speechless when she told me.”
“I’ll bet, but that got you even harder, right? You said you jerked off thinking about his size, right?”
“I’ve thought of his size but I know that’s fucked up.”
“Dave,” he said, “you don’t need to be uptight. It’s OK that it gets you hard. I get hard thinking about my wife. And I’m really hard thinking about what your wife did and your situation. Can you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?’
“Show Ashley to me. I got to see this girl. With my wife here, I’ll delete after looking, but please send me a photo of your wife.”
“BRB,” I typed.
I went into the kitchen, poured my second martini and thought about it. I’d been asked for photos several dozen times now. I had hundreds now on my laptop. What harm would there be to send one to some old man in North Carolina?
I scrolled through the photo files and found one of her posing in Central Park in a summer floral dress, smiling.
“Just sent,” I typed.
“Mmm, she’s absolutely adorable. So naturally pretty. So innocent looking—and those tits on her!”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Show me Ashley’s tits, Dave.”
“I don’t have any nudes.”
“How about a swimsuit, so I can really admire them?”
“One second,” I replied.
I probably had thirty of her in a bikini, but I sent the one in the sky blue bikini, from Florida, two days before that night.
“Oh my fucking God,” he replied, “what a fucking rack. Your wife’s tits are amazing and luscious.”
“Thanks.”
“They are perfect for titty-fucking.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“No wonder that guy picked your wife when she displayed her big titties to him. I’m surprised he didn’t just blast a load all over them, right then.”
“Well her friend has big tits as well, if not slightly bigger.”
“Oh God yeah, Dave, show me her friend. You have one of Ashley with the girl who watched in the bathroom? What’s her friend’s name?”
“Tamara,” I said, “and yeah I do. Hold on, let me find one.”
I sent him the one from the Mardi Gras party.
“Wow, yes, Tamara is a hottie as well, and great fuckable tits for sure. But I can see why the guy chose Ashley. I would, too. That guy really did hit the jackpot that night.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it.”
“Do you mind if I pull my cock out and whack off looking at your wife, Dave?”
“No that’s OK,” I said before telling him I had to go.
****
On the elevator ride down and as I walked across the street, I thought about the photos I had just emailed.
I’m sure plenty of guys have jerked off thinking of my wife, especially guys at her work who know the rumor. Ashley’s in plenty of photos floating around on Facebook. So some random old guy in North Carolina has a few pictures of my wife. It wasn’t like they were compromising.
I switched to Gin and Tonics when I returned.
Reluctant Cuckold Page 19