Warning: Contains sexual content and coarse language
I must be fucking crazy.
What kind of guy lets his wife step out of the house wearing nothing but a tiny sexy dress and fuck-me heels, to go meet some guy she barely knows – a stranger, really. Meeting him for the sole purpose of getting laid.
She hands me the shirt she’s picked out for me – the dark black and grey one she loves. She tells me Bridget will like it. I can’t believe my wife is dressing me, helping me get ready to go screw another woman. I realize how twisted this whole thing is. That fact is certainly not lost on me.
Bridget is the goddess I’m about to have sex with. I get turned on at the thought, but that said, I’m still not sure I want to go through with it. This was a bad idea all around – probably the worst we’ve ever had. I don’t want anyone else to touch Ella. She’s mine.
She looks amazing tonight in that little wisp of a dress. I love her with her hair down. Just the thought of digging my hands in there and pulling at that gorgeous mane always gets me going. A vision hits me, as quick as a flash – Weston (or GQ, as I like to call him) with his prissy manicured fingers tangled up in my wife’s hair. My wife.
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I letting her do this? I’m seriously having buyer’s remorse. Or is it seller’s remorse? Definitely seller’s remorse. She’s my wife – I should be the only one who gets to have sex with her.
“Should I wear my hair up or down?” she asks me with that beautiful pout – the one that gives me the urge to just slam her against a wall and rip her clothes off. But not tonight. There’s no time. We’re busy getting ready to go fuck other people.
“Definitely up,” I say. GQ is not touching that hair. Fuck that shit. If she gets home with her hair all messed up, I’m going to lose my mind.
But like Mr. Stiff-Upper-Lip says, it is only sex. And I know he will be a huge letdown. I just know it. Hanson looks like the type who couldn’t find a clitoris if his life depended on it. He’ll probably make her fold her underwear and take a shower before he even touches her.
We stand in front of the mirror. She looks so small and fragile next to me. I’ve always been there for her. I’ve always protected her. And now I’m just handing her off to some stranger. What if this guy’s some kind of weirdo? My stomach tightens at the thought. But I’ve always trusted my instincts, and they tell me he’s not. He just seems very nerdy and uptight, and pretty harmless, all in all.
One night. Her curiosity will be satisfied, and the urge for him will go away.
“This is so weird,” she says, almost as if she’s been reading my thoughts.
I laugh a little. “Yeah… this is so fucked up.”
She tells me she can’t believe we’re actually going through with this. And I wonder if she’s scared, if she’s changed her mind. The last thing I want to do is something she’s not comfortable with. I do want Bridget, but not at the expense of my wife’s happiness. I ask her if we’re crazy. She says, “Yes.”
“Are you having second thoughts?” I ask. “We can call it off, you know?”
She seems to mull it over for a second. And as she does, her eyes light up and her beautiful lips curve up just a bit. It’s the same look she gets when she spots cupcakes in a bakery window or when her favorite pasta is presented to her at that little Italian place we like. I know she’s thinking about him. “No… let’s do this,” she says.
She really wants this man. And it cuts me a little. As a flash of jealousy hits me, a voice screams at me not to let her do this. She’s going to fall for him, it whispers. I straighten my collar and completely ignore it.
My wife has never been with anyone else. She’s probably had the itch for a while, the itch to see what it’s like to be with another man. Now, she’ll finally get it scratched and she’ll realize no one can make her feel the way I do.
And this is about me too, I have to admit. From the first time I laid eyes on Bridget, I’ve pretty much pictured her naked. I have a type. I love smart beautiful women who wear heels and paint their nails, who wear frilly little blouses – little frilly blouses I want to rip off. I like feminine women… the ones who are willing to put up with my rough-around-the-edges ways. Maybe it’s the idea of seeing a gorgeous conservative woman, all proper and perfect, lose her mind and go wild when I have a go at her.
I talk about these types of women, but I’ve never really had one, with the exception of my sweet sexy wife. I suppose that’s the attraction with Bridget – why I’m willing to do this, as fucking crazy as it is. My wife and I will finally get to live out our fantasies. I know it’ll be just once or twice… simple, quick and fun. And we’ll be back to our ordinary life in no time.
I think about my Ella as I wait for Bridget. I wonder where she is, what she’s doing at this exact moment. I wonder if GQ is fucking her already. I check my watch. Bridget is late – this doesn’t surprise me. And also, it’s too early for Weston to be banging my wife already. He seems like the type who likes to wine and dine a woman before he gets down to business.
This is torture. I shake my head and will myself to stop thinking about them. I check out the restaurant Bridget has picked out – it’s very glittery – all chandeliers and sparkly chairs. It’s also very sexy.
Bridget swoops through the door and she instantly owns the space. I get hard just at the sight of her. She’s wearing a slinky little black dress and her hair is up in a complicated up-do. What a shame, I think, that fancy hair is coming down real soon. I’m going to destroy it.
She flashes me a smile as she closes in on me. “Hi, Gabe,” she says, her voice a bit raspy. She reaches to kiss me on both cheeks, French style, and I’m speechless. It’s not usually my way, but damn, she’s just so… larger than life.
She steps to the hostess podium and tells the woman that we has a reservation for two. “Bridget Hanson,” she says, her voice smooth. And I wonder if she and I will click. She’s so commanding and put-together. I wonder if she likes to be in charge in bed too.
If she does, it won’t work for me. In the bedroom, I call the shots. Anywhere else, she can take over. But in bed, I want her submissive and in my clutches. I want to be the one with all the power. I want her to not only ask me to please her, I want her to beg.
The hostess leads us to our table. As I follow Bridget, I admire her backside, the curves of her tiny waist, her delicate neck, her beautiful long legs and sexy heels – I want those to stay on when I fuck her – everything else can come off.
We take a seat and as she stares at me for a second, a small playful smile stretches across her face. Her eyes are smoky, her lips ruby-red – they match the soles of her crazy-high black stilettos. That red lipstick is going to be smeared all over her face later. I smile at the thought.
A flash of guilt hits me. I can’t believe I’m about to have a sex with another woman. But I remind myself that I have permission. I’m not cheating. We both agreed on this, and Ella is doing the same things I am, this very minute.
“How have you been?” Bridget asks, the edges of her voice ragged. She leans her head to the side, lazy, and her eyes seem heavy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she was already turned on, already itching for it.
I smile. “Good… better now.” I wish we could skip the dinner and the small-talk, and just go straight to the sex. I couldn’t be any less hungry – for food anyway.
“What will you have?” she asks. “You want a drink?” she asks, biting her bottom lip.
I grin. “Tell me what you’re wearing under that sexy dress,” I say with a tilt of my head.
She blushes. But she loves it. Bashful, she says, “A black lace thong and matching bra.”
Mmm… I close my eyes, imagining it. I visualize myself ripping them off, taking her breasts in my mouth, sucking on those delicious sweet nipples. I need to see her naked… and now. “I can’t wait to tear those off,” I tell her in a whisper, “smudge that lipstick and fuck up that perfect hair.”
She seems to catch her breath. She doesn’t say a single word – I’ve caught her off guard again. She wants me badly – I can see it all over her face.
I reach for her knee under the table and rub circles around it. I travel further up her thigh, pressing my thumb hard into her soft flesh. She closes her eyes and seems to melt into her chair. Her mouth is parted as she seems to struggle to breathe. Fuck, she wants it. “How ‘bout we skip dinner and head straight to your place?” I suggest.
Eyes still closed, she nods without a word.