by K T Morrison
She nodded rapidly because she was kind and a team player. She blinked her big brown eyes behind her clear frame glasses. Now she asked him: “Do you need anything?”
“Need anything?” He stood, rubbing at his brow.
“You look so stressed.”
“I’m fine,” he said, “just you know...”
“Hey,” she said, “my dad left some of that whiskey—you know, it’s a single malt or whatever. Can I get you a glass of that?”
“Yeah, you know what, that would be really sweet.”
“Okay, go to your office and deal with your boat. Meet me back here in…”
He stood there dumbly then realized she was waiting for an approximation.
“Fifteen, Lib, just give me fifteen minutes.”
She gave him a tight-lipped curt nod. “I’m going to make popcorn and pour my man a whiskey.”
He stopped her before she darted away. “Can I have a Coke, too?”
“You got it. Go on and deal with your boat,” she said, got up as well and the two of them left the family room in opposite directions, him going up to his study, Libby going into the kitchen.
13
He closed himself in his office, sat in his leather swivel chair and swung around so he could look out over the black treetops of the neighborhood, the sky a deep inky blue. He texted.
Ben: I’m not a high school loser
It took a minute for Chelsea to get back to him.
Chelsea: you just talk a big game
Ben: I do not talk a big game
Chelsea: walking around like you got big balls Ben. Go to buy that boat for a mil
Ben: it’s more than a million
Chelsea: Mr. show off all talk no go
Ben: what do you want from me?
Chelsea: I don’t want anything from you
Ben: then what are you texting me for?
Chelsea: I wanted to show you something
Ben: what is it?
Now he watched three dots dancing while he waited for her text to come back. Only instead of words, an image flashed up, and it was clear what the picture was but he touched it anyway to make it bigger. Chelsea’s graceful hand, her two fingers spread in an upside down peace sign, the pads spreading apart her glistening pink petals. Chelsea Cunningham just sent him a picture of her pussy
“Holy shit,” he sighed and grabbed at his stomach. This girl wanted it so bad. She couldn’t leave him alone.
He responded.
Ben: hot
Chelsea: hot? That’s my pussy you piece of shit
Ben: why are you so angry?
Chelsea: You left me so high and dry today Ben. Just like all those other guys always talking about how they’re going to smash my pussy with their rock-hard giant dicks and yet no one ever comes through. Am I so intimidating?
Ben: you are intimidating
Chelsea: I had to come home and masturbate you asshole
“Jesus,” he said, his hand forming a fist over his stomach and pushing inward.
Ben: Did you?
Chelsea: I’m still so hot Ben. That picture is fresh I got home after the boat and I had to bust out one of my dildos you had me fucking plastic when I should have the real thing
Ben: I told you I was sorry I just can’t
Chelsea: you’re garbage man
Ben: Fuck you Chelsea
Chelsea: I bet as soon as you put it in me it would’ve gone soft
Ben: I would not
Chelsea: at least you didn’t come in your pants before I even took it out
Ben: I would have fucked you all afternoon in that boat
Chelsea: big talk Ben
Ben: I would have
Chelsea: I’m sure you would have I’m sure we would have done it 10 times I would’ve come 20
Ben: you would have
Chelsea: I guess we’ll never know
Ben: I guess we’ll never know
Chelsea: Finn is away on Saturday night
Ben: good for him
Chelsea: I’m going to be home all alone
Ben: don’t you have that dildo?
Chelsea: you’re such a chicken shit
Ben: no I’m not
Chelsea: garbage Ben
Ben: I’m not garbage
Chelsea: whatever. I can guarantee you if you can squeeze that big ego out of your house walk over one street I will give you the fuck of a lifetime
Ben: I’m sure you would
Chelsea: you ever been fucked so good you black out?
Ben: Sure
Chelsea: bull shit I can’t see Libby licking your asshole she won’t even suck your dick for you
“Holy Jesus,” he sighed at her awful words.
Ben: That’s gross
Chelsea: right gross my tongue in your asshole tell me it’s gross
Ben: you’re savage
Chelsea: 7 o’clock on Saturday Ben I’ll even cook you dinner
Ben: I can’t
Chelsea: fuck you Ben good night
“Shit, shit, shit,” he sighed, his arms heavy, chin going up so he could stare at his idle ceiling fan. He felt exhausted, like he’d just run a marathon. His cock throbbed in his pants, his heart pounded in his chest. He eased the chair sideways, leaned over to twist his office lock then did down his fly and pulled his dick out. He opened the messenger window again, clicked the picture of Chelsea’s fingered-open pussy. It was a beautiful one, a perfect one. Smoothly shaved—he’d felt it today, put his fingers inside it!—the petals were smooth and bright pink, her interior deeper in color and he knew the heat he’d felt and he ached to be inside it.
No lube necessary, he jerked himself with the slippery excitement that the texted image brought him. He looked at that model pussy, the one he dreamed about when he was in high school, and stroked himself hard and fast. His eyes went narrow, and he wondered if Chelsea would lick his asshole—was that something she did? What would sex be like with her?—he’d never been with a girl like that; not just beautiful but so sexually confident. His heart rate was all aflutter now, and he ejaculated in his hand while staring at another woman’s pussy. The experience left him panting and folded over in his chair.
He cleaned himself with tissue, closed up his phone and changed his password. Libby was not a snoop but she would be devastated if she found her way inside his phone.
“Oh, my God,” he sighed.
Why didn’t he just fuck her today? It would’ve been done...
And then what? Run off with her?—“So fucking stupid, Ben,” he muttered, chastising himself. He slumped back in his chair, did up his fly with his penis tucked back in his underwear. He plucked new tissue, wiped at his brow and his upper lip.
When he was ready, he went downstairs to join his wonderful wife so they could binge Game of Thrones together.
14
At bedtime, Libby changed into a T-shirt and cotton pajama shorts and met him in bed. He lay with his head propped up on the pillow, looking at a picture of the yacht he’d bought today. He wanted to be looking at that glistening pink Chelsea-mouth but was content to just watch pictures of the master stateroom and the bed where he’d almost fucked Chelsea Cunningham.
Libby came to bed on her knees, pulled the sheet over herself and tumbled with her back bumping up against him. She said, “Everything still good?”
“Yep, I think so,” he said, “I think I’ve fixed everything.”
“That’s a relief,” she said, “you feel good enough you could rub my back again?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he said, shut down his phone and tossed it to the night table. Libby stayed on her side and he rubbed the center of her back with one hand, his thumb drawing circles over her shoulder blade. Her eyes were open as she looked across the room, her lashes blinking.
She said, “You remember when we saw Dorchester in second year?”
“I remember.”
“Remember we went out with the gang that night and we had dinner at that Chinese resta
urant like right in deep Chinatown?”
“I remember. It was a great night.”
“Remember there was that Fuk Ken Fried Rice, and you guys ordered it, you and Steeple and Price?”
“How could we not, it was called Fuckin’ Fried Rice...”
She giggled. “When it came, it looked like a big octopus had eaten a smaller octopus and then vomited it up on a plate of rice.”
It got him laughing too. “It was really gross...”
“You guys ate it.”
“Maybe that’s why I don’t like Dorchester.”
“Hey—you don’t like Dorchester?...” She glanced over her shoulder.
“I like Dorchester just fine,” he said, “just not as much as you.”
“You remember how sick you were that night?”
“I was an idiot.”
“You were twenty. It was your birthday weekend, remember?”
“No excuse. I bet that Chinese restaurant was just fucking with the white people.”
“Like they get so many dumb white people ordering Fun Ken Fried Rice because it’s funny, like they made the name up and then just throw garbage on some rice for some laughs of their own...?”
“I can still taste it,” he mumbled, digging his thumbs along the knobs of her spine.
She whispered, “Hey, Ben...?”
“What?”
Her bare foot sole pressed the front of his shin. “You feel like getting frisky?”
His thumb stilled on her back. “I do,” he said quietly.
“Do you want to?” Her voice was breathy and hopeful.
“I do.”
Libby wiggled herself closer, pushing with her knees and feet until she was pressed right against him. He moved his hand from her back to caress her hip. “Roll over,” he said.
“Can we do it like this?”
“Do it like what?”
Then even quieter: “Can we do it like spoons?”
He suppressed a giggle from the surprise at Libby’s bushy-tailed request. “You want that?”
She nodded.
“You’re so cute,” he said.
He turned so his chest was against her back, ran his hand from her waist to cup her smooth tummy... And now he couldn’t help comparing his wife to Chelsea Cunningham. Chelsea Cunningham was tall and lean. His wife was petite and soft. Libby’s breasts were probably a little bigger, her tummy a little rounder, her navel a little deeper. Chelsea had a hard body. A sexy body. Now his cock was hard and pressing against Libby’s bottom. Libby began to squirm a little under his touch as he slipped his fingers into her panties. He ran his fingers down his wife’s pubic hair, felt it scratch between his fingers, found her center stripe warm and wet and inviting. He slipped his fingers inside her. Libby was tighter than Chelsea. Maybe that was his imagination. Chelsea had been with a lot of guys and Libby had only been with one.
Now he couldn’t wait any longer and he withdrew his hand from her panties to push down at his pajama pants. Libby worked her cotton shorts down to her knees, and he stroked at her opening with his tip.
“Why do you want to do it like this?” he whispered. It wasn’t their first time, but it was unusual.
“Is it okay?”
“Better than okay.”
“Is it weird?”
“You’re amazing,” he told her, then pushed himself inside her. Her interior was hot on him, and he sunk himself deep. She let out a thin high warbling sound as he started to pulse himself in and out of her. She made soft quiet gasps. He was sure that Chelsea was a screamer. He was sure Chelsea would thrash in their bed, probably claw at his back as he fucked her. Why didn’t he just fuck her? She wanted it. The hottest girl in his high school. The hottest girl he could ever get—even now she was insanely beautiful. Why didn’t he just do it?
“You’re so tight,” he whispered.
“Ben,” she scolded him because she wasn’t a fan of dirty talk.
“You feel so good,” he amended.
His hand slipped underneath her T-shirt and between her breasts. He cupped one in his hand and rubbed her hard nipple with the pad of his thumb. Now he pictured himself this way in that multi-million-dollar boat, laying with Chelsea Cunningham, fucking her. Imagine the sounds she would make. The dirty things she would do. Spooning was nothing to her. She would ride him. He knew it, he was sure of it. She would get on top and pound on him like a jackhammer until they broke that Russian gangster’s bed. He’d have to pay to replace it before he shipped the yacht to Saudi Arabia. His semen would have to be cleaned off the ceiling and the windows. He could have fucked her all day. He could’ve done it ten times before he got home to make lasagna. Shown Chelsea what Ben Todd was made of. Show her all those fantasies he’d had laying in bed when he was in high school were not just wishes—he could make them reality. He would spread her out on that bed and pound her until she screamed his name—
“Oh, fuck, shit,” he said, bubbling over and ejaculating inside his wife with barely a warning.
Libby whispered, “Did you...?”
“Sorry,” he said, “sorry...”
“That’s okay, Ben,” she said, and smoothed his hand over top of her cotton T-shirt.
“Sorry, I don’t know how that happened...”
“It’s a compliment,” she sighed.
“You want to give me a minute?”
“It’s okay,” she said softly.
“Sorry,” he said, feeling himself shrink inside her.
“It’s okay, Ben, it’s really okay...”
It was for the better because this guilty feeling that was washing over him right now would extinguish anymore passionate lovemaking tonight. He’d just made love with his beautiful wife who he cherished since they were kids—but he’d done it thinking of another woman. That mean high school bitch who’d been unkind to his wife when they were young. He betrayed her in more ways than one, and his heart was hurting for her.
She asked if he wanted a towel and he said he did. Libby sat up, cupping her hand between her legs and dancing on tiptoe over to the dresser where she withdrew a clean towel. She dabbed at herself, hiding away so he wouldn’t see. He looked up at the ceiling to give her space. She returned, put the towel under the sheet for him and recovered so he could clean without exposing himself.
Part 3
Succotash
Saturday, June 29
15
At seven o’clock on the nose, he showed up at Chelsea’s door with a hundred-dollar bottle of red wine. As soon as he pressed the doorbell, he’d already taken a step back looking to get the hell out of here. What was he thinking? This was crazy...
But then there was movement behind the glass and he knew it was too late. He straightened his posture and waited. The door opened and there she was: Chelsea Cunningham.
The girl of his dreams wore a turquoise tank top that clung to the perfect shape of her breasts then billowed loosely around her tummy. She wore jeans again, faded Levi’s that looked soft as felt. Her feet were bare, a gold ring on the toe next to the pinky on her right foot. Her hair was messy, hanging around her beautiful face and spilling over her tanned shoulders. “Well, holy shit,” she said.
“How’s it going?” he asked, trying to sound cool.
“Ben fucking Todd. What the hell are you doing here?”
He showed her the bottle of wine and an open palm. “I thought you invited me for dinner.”
Now she folded her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, put one bare foot over top of the other and studied him, her eyes going up and down while she smiled. “I did, Ben, I did. But there was no way in hell I thought you would ever show up.”
“Because I’m garbage?
Her smile was warm and nice. “Because you’re a big sack of chicken-shit garbage.”
“And yet I’m here,” he said.
“I couldn’t be happier,” she said, that smile pulling to one side, practically sneering. “Come on in, let’s have some dinner.”
He han
ded her the bottle of wine (but she didn’t even read the label), stepped up into her foyer, and she closed the door behind him. Bottle cradled at her side, she said, “Come into the kitchen...”
“Wow, your place is awesome,” he said.
“We didn’t just move in,” she told him, “we’ve been here a while.”
The narrow foyer was furnished with vintage items and potted plants. Everything was black and white, the floors were polished ebony wood, and original art in contrasting frames leaned artfully on shelves and even on the floor. The art shouted colors, bright primary pieces, some invoking comic books and old lurid movies from the fifties and sixties.