My Cheating Wife

by Jaime Thorne

  I didn't feel anything but nervous, and I couldn't tell you why.

  She was beautiful and she was intelligent. She was exciting and she was engaging. She was married.

  All of that is true but none of it is unique, and none of it unique to me.

  I don't keep a running tally of the women that I've been with, but the number is high. I've been with women all across the globe and there is very little that surprises me anymore.

  Some of the women I've been with have been more beautiful than Avril. Some of them have been more intelligent. Some have been better in bed and more than a few of them have been married.

  But none of them sunk their claws into me quite as deep as she did.

  This was unheard of, for me to be waiting on the sidewalk for a woman was so unlike me that I didn't really even know what to do. I didn't know how to hold my hands here. I didn't know how to keep from looking like I was doing anything except for exactly what I was: waiting for her with bated breath.

  And for the first time, I started to really started to consider that she might have said yes but still not show. That she might have been leaving me high and dry and abandoning me to look like a fool and that would all make sense to me.

  From the outside, this looked clearly like a date. From the outside, it looked clearly like I was breaking the boundaries of the agreement the three of us had set up. From the outside, it looked exactly like I had asked her here to take advantage of her, and if I was her I too would have abandoned me and labeled me as an asshole trying to get her to cheat.

  Even though I wasn't entirely sure that was what my intention was here.

  I didn't know what I wanted, whether I wanted her as a friend or a lover or even something more. I knew that I couldn't forget her and I knew that I wanted to be around her in whatever form that relationship would take. I knew that I wanted Avril to be a part of my life.

  And I knew when I saw her today that she would always take my breath away.

  She wore a light and summery pink dress, one that set off against her long tan legs and left her looking as beautiful as she always did. Even with that big hat she was wearing and beneath those massive sunglasses she looked like she was positively glowing, like she had the sun contained within her.

  I found myself smiling not out of some need to arrange myself into a position where I held the authority. I found myself smiling because I couldn't help myself.

  “You came,” I said as she came within speaking range.

  “Of course,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I couldn't turn down the opportunity to meet R.A. Sallow.”

  In all of my rush of nervous feelings, I'd forgotten all about that. Forgotten that I had told her that I could introduce the two of them and told her that I would set it up. I'd also forgotten that my text to her last night wasn't entirely honest.

  “Complication in that,” I said, “He's not actually in town this week, he's at a gallery show in Spain and doesn't fly back for a couple of days.”

  “That's too bad,” she said, a note of discomfort in her voice that made my heart ache a bit, “So why did you have me out here?”

  “He told me the code to get into his workshop,” I explained, “I figured you'd like to at least take the chance to see his studio in person.”

  It was a dumb idea when I'd come up with it last night and it remained a dumb idea now. The flimsiest of pretexts to spend time around her, without any solid logic or foundation behind it.

  I should have dropped it. I should have given up on it. I should have told her last night that he was out of town and maybe I could have salvaged it by putting off the introduction until next week but that would have meant going more days without seeing her and I didn't know that I could stand the thought of it.

  But I didn't expect this to work.

  “Sounds like it could be fun,” she said, an inscrutable grin on her face, “I know he takes ages to work on his paintings and has a number of them ongoing at any time. I guess this'll mean an awful lot of work in progress and that sounds frankly fascinating.”

  My smile returned, beaming like a puppy wagging his tail after being called a good boy.

  I led her to the door to his studio and punched in the code to open it, graciously sweeping open the door and holding it for her to let her walk in.

  I'd been here a few times before and the space really was breathtaking, a two-story loft with an outdoor patio garden. Ostensibly it doubled as living space and studio, but in truth the only concession to living was a mattress on the floor in the corner. Even the kitchen had been overrun with paints, with R.A. devoting all of his time to the production of his art rather than distracting himself with mundanities like cooking.

  Easels sat in neatly ordered rows in the space. Row upon row of paintings that were all in some stage of completion. And I watched as Avril stepped gingerly into the room, peeling her sunglasses from her face and walking through the rows with palpable astonishment on her face.

  For my part I leaned back against a wall and watched her peruse the work, staring at all of them and drinking in the details. I saw the way her keen intelligence drew her eye to the salient parts, the way that she started to recognize the pattern of his work and the underlying tone in his process.

  If staring at half-finished paintings doesn't sound interesting then you don't understand what it is about them that is so compelling. It's about knowing the why behind the brush strokes, about understanding how the artist tackles the art and plans out their approach. Understanding that gives you a deeper connection to the technicalities of producing something that on its surface is astonishing in its simplicity.

  The saying goes that you never want to see how the sausage is made and the implication is that it's a dirty and messy business and that it takes away the magic of the finished process. While indeed it may remain dirty, I've always found that the magic is only enhanced when you understand how the trick is done.

  And looking at Avril now I could see she felt the same way.

  “So intricate,” she said, “So deliberate. He has this chaotic structure to his work that it's reflected in his process at all. Come here and look at this.”

  Pushing off the wall I stepped through the rows to stand beside her.

  “Look at the structure of the strokes here,” she pointed at the canvas, “And then see how it's applied to these three others right beside this canvas. He's refining the pattern as he goes along. It's a process reflected not just in one painting but through all of them. It's a pattern that develops and builds and you can see how he's doing it deliberately. Like parts within a symphony, incomplete without considering the whole.”

  Avril pulled off her hat and I watched her hair cascade down around her shoulders and my attention was drawn to her and her alone. I couldn't look away from her again, not then and especially not when she turned her beautiful eyes on me and looked at me with such open affection.

  “Thank you for this,” she said sincerely, “Thank you for letting me see this.”

  My response was not in words. Instead of words I stepped forward and took her into my arms and I kissed her.

  An act that was an impulse but one that I couldn't resist. A compulsion, a desire to feed a need that could no longer be denied.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AVRIL

  He kissed me and it felt right. Immediately it felt right. Immediately I felt myself and my body responding to this as if this was the plan all along, which it most certainly was not.

  I know that you probably won't believe me but my sincere plan this whole time was to come over here today in a strictly chaste capacity. I knew that Bruce might have other plans and other preferences, but I was honestly just interested in what he had as an offer for me.

  I'd always loved art, had always been drawn to it and to understanding the process behind it because it had always mystified me, had always been out of my grasp. I could paint a bit and I was a bit skilled at drawing. I could play a
few instruments and I could sing well enough.

  If all I was doing was transcribing or performing the work of another I was proficient enough so as to be passable, but I could never in a million years create something of my own.

  That was always out of my grasp, and so I'd always been more than a little fixated on how others worked. As if understanding that would give me some new means of understanding myself and my own lack of ability. It would give me some insight into the artistic condition.

  So I was sincere in my statement and intention. I came here to meet R.A. and to speak with him about his work. To understand it and to understand him.

  Now I'm not a naive woman. I knew men like Bruce could have a singular focus when it came to beautiful women and I didn't suffer under any illusions that there was no possibility that he wouldn't try to pull something like this. I knew when he told me that R.A. was away on a trip that it was all just a play at getting me into bed.

  So why go along with it?

  I wish I could tell you. I wish I could give an answer as to why even if that answer was a terrible one. Even if it laid me bare as a cruel and selfish woman, and made me unforgivable in the eyes of you and everyone else. I wish I could tell you that it was for pure pleasure or even to be cruel to my husband.

  But it wasn't.

  There was no clear sense of why. No clear and logical explanation that I could grasp at in that instant that made me decide not to pull back from him, slap him, and storm out of the place. No clear and logical explanation to tell you why I gave into him, letting his hands join his lips on my body as he moved me backward through the work on display and pinned me up against the wall.

  I don't know why but I know that I did and I know that I felt a need building in me larger and more intense than one that I'd felt in as long as time as I could remember. I know that in that instantaneous moment I made a decision to let him press on, knowing that in doing so it registered as a betrayal of everything I had with my husband.

  There are lines in relationships, red lines in the sand that cannot be crossed with anyone but your spouse. Doing so means a betrayal, it means crossing over from innocent naughtiness into cheating.

  I think everyone skirts those lines from time to time. Whether it's flirting with a coworker or getting a little too close with someone who is spotting you at the gym everyone comes right up close to the line from time to time and it's only through a strength of will or a knowledge that what they're doing is wrong that they pull back. They withdraw and remove themselves from a situation of temptation.

  Sleeping with him in front of Jeremy wasn't crossing that line. As odd as it is to categorize that particular event I could make peace with myself that fucking Bruce with Jeremy in the room wasn't cheating. Hell since it had been Jeremy's idea the whole damn time I don't even think it came close to skirting over the line.

  Meeting him at the museum wasn't crossing the line either, but it was closer to it than choosing not to go to the museum at all. When we'd spoken in the bar before heading up to the room that first night we met Bruce had made his interests clear and there had been an unmistakable note in that, an unspoken word that told me that if I was to go to that gallery he just might be there.

  I could expect it, and I went there to see if my instincts were true.

  And to see him and that made it close to cheating. It was certainly something that should make me uncomfortable, and likely something that would make Jeremy uncomfortable if he knew about it.

  Agreeing to meet him here, regardless of what my intentions were, was brushing up against that red line. Because I knew enough to know that this visit had deeper implications. I knew enough to know that a visit wasn't just going to be a simple visit with him.

  And I think on some level maybe I didn't want it to be.

  Kissing him, letting his hands run over my body, letting him pin me up against the wall and moaning into his lips as he had his way with me was all over the line. So was pressing myself against him, pushing my body into his and feeling the thrust of his hard and heavy muscularity against me. All of it felt so familiar and yet so very exciting at the same time, like it was right and necessary and needed.

  Not just because he was good and handsome and extremely fuckable. Not just because his cock felt so good when it was thrusting inside of me. Not just because I came so very hard the last time I was with him and that I had been having vague dreams about him ever since that night, that I hadn't been able to get him out of my head at all.

  It was also because he wasn't Jeremy.

  Something about him not being my husband added to the fantasy, to the desire. It made it all a part of it, made it all important to the greater feeling and sensation. I couldn't deny it any more than I could ignore it, the touch of him on me so different than if it was Jeremy. The feel of him holding me so hard and firm so unlike the way that Jeremy touched me.

  So very unlike him.

  And I craved that, the touch of another man. I craved it with an anger that was deep and rumbling in me. Craved it in a way that bubbled up through me and burned through my veins, that led me to do stupid things just like this.

  Taking him into my arms and pressing myself against him. Slipping and shimmying against him to let my dress slip off of my body. Showing him with my movements that I wasn't going to stop here, and that I was fully ready and prepared for this.

  On some level I always knew that we would end up here.

  Not consciously, but how else can you explain all of the unconscious choices that I made. How else can you explain why beneath the fabric of this light dress I wasn't wearing a single stitch more.

  His body tensed when he realized that, his hands running over the bare skin of my breast and cupping the bare skin of my ass. They knew that I was nude from the moment he removed my dress, that I was bared to him and that I was drippingly wet and ready for him.

  Bruce spun me, walking me backward while his lips traced trails up and down my body. We pinioned and bounced off the wall beside us, making our way steadily towards that mattress in the corner.

  I was going to fuck him. I needed to fuck him.

  “Yes,” I moaned out as he teased one of my nipples with his teeth and lips, “Yes please oh god yes fuck me.”

  He grunted and his hands gripped me in the small of my back and tugged me forward into him. One hand slipped around to dip into the wetness between my thighs and expertly tease out that bit more pleasure from me.

  “Yes just like that,” I cried out for him, “That and so much more I need this Bruce. I fucking need you inside of me.”

  As his fingers worked on me I remembered just how skilled he was. How he had made me feel with his lips and tongue and fingers alone, how he had brought me closer to orgasm quicker than any of my other lovers and how it was likely from that moment that I knew that I was hooked on him.

  That we would eventually wind up right here.

  The ground gave out beneath us and we tumbled into bed together. We rolled on the mattress and I managed to pin him beneath me, my naked body writhing on top of him as I slid down and worked my fingers into his belt and zipper and jeans. Opening and unveiling him and then moving down further to do what I should have done that night.

  I took him into my mouth, taking that thickness between my lips with a moan and tasting the saltiness of his skin. He had a musk to himself, one that invaded my nose and made me dizzy with it. One that made my whole body shudder and shake with a desire that built and built and built in me as I struggled to fit the whole of him in me.

  I bobbed on him, rolling my tongue back and forth across the head of him when I was at the top and thrumming it against the side of his shaft when he was spreading my lips apart fully. I bobbed up and down on him while my jaw ached and my lungs burned for air, and when I came to the surface to let him tumble out of my lips my hand stroked up and down his length while his hips bucked up against me.

  My eyes searched up his body to his face, locking eyes with him as he stare
d down at me with that hunger that I was only too familiar with. I had seen it in his eyes so many times before, his and the eyes of the men at the gym and the men on the boards I was on and the friends of Jeremy's who wanted me so badly but knew they couldn't have me.

  But Bruce could have me. He could have me whenever he wanted me.

  I slipped up, straddling him and taking him in me quickly. I needed him inside of me as fast as I possibly could. I needed to feel him filling me up and stretching me, to feel the whole of him making me feel like I couldn't take a single bit more.

  It was comforting, the feeling of being so filled up. The feeling that I was stretched to my limit, stuffed full of something hot and thick and warm that was throbbing with need.

  And it was comforting to press my hands against his chest, to feel his heart beating through the layers of fabric and to feel the firm grip of his hands as he slid up my thighs and gripped my waist, holding me and feeling the movement of me as I started to rise and fall on him.

  I was staring him dead in the eye while I fucked him, as if doing so would erase any chance I had of denying what was happening. As if the very fact that I was watching him secured the act in my mind with a sort of certainty that I couldn't ignore.

  And that made it hotter, that made it more intense. That made the words come bubbling past my lips without any thought other than that they were the truth.

  “You feel amazing in me,” I told him, “I love the feel of your cock inside of me, the feel of your body on me. The weight and the force of it, the way that you can take me and fuck me and make me yours.”

  Bruce trembled and I could feel his grip tighten on me.

  “Make me yours Bruce,” I begged of him, “Please god make me yours now. Please, Bruce, I need it. I need you to fuck me.”

  And what I had expected was something else. I had expected him to grab me and fuck me, to show me the force and the fury of his hips and his hard body. To pound me into the bed with a fury that was unmatched and untamed. To pound me and make me beg for more, to make me scream out my climax loud enough that Jeremy could hear it half the city away.