The Next Morning — The Prequel
There stood the man on vaca. Crowding between my wife and me in the alcove outside our condo. Big guy. Bigger than me. Big voice. Life of the party and even a smooth dancer.
Still with us instead of leaving us at our front door and continuing on to his rental unit down the lane from ours. The guy we’d met at the Pub. The guy who said he was down from Philly. The guy who walked home with us, helping me support my wife from his side with a strong arm around her waist, us all laughing and staggering in our lusty drunken state of mind, the man, Brett, I think it was, who lurched against my wife in the alcove while I fumbled with the house keys, kissing her and feeling her big tits, still mumbling things into my wife’s hair, although all I heard was “have a thing for a pretty blonde with nice tits.” The man quick enough to get her shirttail out and his hand up under it while my inebriated fingers fumbled with the key to unlock our home for him.
“There!” I’d said, opening it wide to let my wife and her guest come inside. Turning back to them and smiling toward my wife’s pretty face, I was blocked by his head dipping in and smashing his mouth against my wife’s. His lips made a kissing sound twice — loud, wet, sickening. When he straightened up, she looked surprised, certainly, but not at all unhappy about it. It seemed she was as amused at how much she obviously liked it as she was that he did it without asking.
That’s when I’d discovered that his whole arm was inside her blouse from underneath. In the porchlight I saw his thumb and one finger protruding from her cleavage, pinching at the top curve of her breast, the palm of his hand and other fingers working on her nipple, visible under her blouse like a rat burrowing into the flowers in your garden.
I’d decided to pretend I didn’t notice. She wasn’t squealing or slapping at him. I’d decided this had simply become what they call a rowdy party. I’d sought to make eye contact with her. When her eyes locked with mine, I know her so well that in two seconds I’d known two things. She was scared of me, not him. I could tell she did not want to hurt me, but I could also tell she didn’t want him to stop.
Trying to be Mr. Cool, I’d reached inside the house and flicked off the porchlight.
“Thanks, Brah,” said the man pawing at my wife’s tits. “No use lettin’ the whole neighborhood in on the fun, huh?”
Even in the dim glow of the streetlight, I could see his other hand had swept up between her thighs. She had on her usual miniskirt that she wore to dance, so it was easy for him to get to her. She’d breathed in sharply a half a minute ago. Now I knew it was when his hand had collided with her groin. She was gazing across the street at the forest where there was nothing to see while she let him cup her pussy.
Again, I was stunned that she made no attempt to even slow him down. I’d wanted to say something, to protest his taking such liberties, or at least make sure she was okay with all this, but I’d realized we weren’t going to have a policy meeting on the front porch of the condo at midnight, and just shouting at Carina would’ve made an argument I was not prepared to lose. What if I’d told her to stop? Wouldn’t that’ve caused a big scene? She’d obviously decided he could have a high degree of intimate pleasure with her.
My wife was no longer making any attempt at eye contact with me, which told me not to bring this all out in open discussion. Her gaze flitted from side to side; she was blinking rapidly and then staring at nothing in mid-space, as if there was some importance to the wall, while his hands worked on her body.
So as a compromise that I’d hoped would break up the groping session, I’d called out “Wine, everyone?” and strode into the foyer, hoping even he was not smooth enough to walk and finger-fuck her at the same time.
“Beer,” the man had corrected me.
“Beer it is,” I’d answered out loud. Then I’d mumbled, “Sonofabitch,” making a scowl into the darkness near our sofa, as I headed for the kitchen. I heard the front door close firmly as I’d gotten to the fridge. But I had a strange sensation of aloneness. As I’d swung open the stainless steel door, an icy chill hit me, and I’d wheeled around to find myself staring across an empty condo at the inside of my closed front door.
My wife was still on the porch. With that guy from the Pub.
Stepping to my left, I’d peered out the front window. Between the curtains I caught a glimpse of the man. It was as if they were in an alley in Europe, it was so surreal. My wife’s blouse was loosened and askew, and her skirt was disheveled, the waistband pushed up all the way to her belly button. A near stranger was mauling my wife’s body. She was leaning back against the wall with her feet wide apart and her back arched, presenting her breasts and crotch to him, lit only by the moon and one dim streetlight. Her eyes were closed and her mouth open.
Knowing he would not want warm beer, I’d put it back in the refrigerator and poured a half bottle of wine into the largest goblet we own. For my wife. In my glass, I’d thrown three fingers of whisky.
Debating the appropriate length of time one should allow a stranger your wife has picked up in a bar to steal a good-night kiss on the porch, I’d slugged down a big shot of the whisky. It was too much too fast, and my eyes had watered from the searing heat in my throat.
Just at that embarrassing moment, the front door had flown open, and my wife had swirled in, still unsteady, but floating it seemed, with a fixed grin, obviously searching for where I might be in the dark apartment. A step behind her had come the guy from the Pub, crushing up behind her and consuming both breasts in his palms. He’d nuzzled the pretty nape of her neck, whispered something to her I couldn’t hear, and accomplished what looked like a very smooth dance step by spinning her around and floating her back into his arms, finishing in a tango-like clench, lips to lips. This had happened in seconds while I still sputtered and choked on the whisky I had chugged too fast.
“Ha!” he’d yelled when he’d finished sucking face with my wife, then looked over at me. Seeing my face reddened and tears in my eyes from the whisky, he laughed, “You mad, bro?”
“Nauhck,” I’d replied, the whisky burn causing a gurgling sound to distort my answer.
Our new friend had made a face at my wife like “jeez, you’re probably embarrassed that your husband’s such a klutz” and he’d shrugged.
“Is that my wine, honey?” She’d asked me sweetly, half-heartedly tucking her blouse back into her waistband. I handed her the brimming glass. “That’s a lot,” she said, clearly embarrassed at the huge amount of red wine I’d poured for her.
“I think your wife’s already pretty drunk, dude, but yeah, that’s a good plan. Let’s get her shit-faced.”
I had not consciously made such a plan, but I raised my whisky glass and toasted her.
“Where’s my brew, buddy? Let’s get this party started.”
I trudged back toward the kitchen. I got out the man’s beer, but when I turned, he was right behind me.
“Y’all do this a lot?”
Too stunned by what “this” might mean, by what he might think was happening, I just shook my head ‘no,’ wishing I could explain that we had never done “this” before without conveying that we were not actually doing “this” at all.
But he wasn’t stupid. “First time?”
My drunken mind again could only nod ‘yes.’ But at least I managed to look to my wife to try to figure out what she was thinking was happening. She had her glass tilted up, taking a long sip as if the wine were water.
“Bad-ASS, Bo,” chortled the man heartily. “This is gonna be a blast.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just enjoy one last drink before bed-time,” I said, looking for the clock in the kitchen, hoping he’d catch my hint that it was late and he should go.
“Hoo, yeah, chug it, sugar,” he said, again embracing my wife in a side hug and lifting her hand holding the wine glass back to her mouth. “You heard hubby, faster we finish this last drink, faster we can get to bed!”
He looked at me with eyebrows raised and a glowing smile, as if we were fellow co-conspirators in rushing toward bedtime while my wife took another long swig on her wine.
Trying to get traction and control, I asked, “What unit are you in?”
“94” Bret said as he bent in behind my wife’s wineglass as it left my wife’s lips and kissed her. “38.”
He nipped another little kiss on her lips. “Or some shit like that. I know where it is when I see it. 2nd one from the corner,” he kissed my wife again, “kinduva reddish brown color,” he finished, looking down at her near-empty goblet with a horny smile. Ours was greenish.
“Honey?” I asked my wife.
She was looking up into Brent’s face, as if she was expecting another kiss, but she turned to me now.
“I’m ok.”
So my attempt to have a discussion about where things were headed was over before it got anywhere.
“Hell yeah, she’s ok,” said the guy we’d just recently met in the pub. I noticed his beer bottle on the counter was still almost full. “Where’s the john?”
“This way,” my wife said and turned her back on us to lead him down the hall. She was so tipsy that her ass moved in a very sexy way. Brett noticed. When she got near the guest bath, she motioned to the door. “Bedroom’s this way, too.”
“Thank yuh, darlin,” said Brett, swiping his trailing arm and hand across both breasts as he passed by her.
“Carina,” I said in what I hoped was a stern voice when she staggered back into the living room. “What are you doing?”
“Not sure. What do you want me to do?”
I was drunk, too, but her vague answer exasperated me. “You like this guy?”
“Kisses good,” she grinned impishly.
“Be serious. He has expectations.”
My wife crashed into me and took my shirt lapels in her little fists. Looking up with smoldering eyes, she whispered, “I’m drunk, he’s cute, it could happen.”
“Holy shit, Carina.”
“You’ve always said I could if I want to. I’ve wanted to in the past but I never did. Maybe this time I will.”
The toilet flushed down the hall, so she let go of me and burned another stare into my brain. “Stop me if you want to. I don’t think I can stop myself.”
“Hey, you two love-birds, wait for me!” The stranger from the pub walked right into a group hug that lasted only a second before he spun her away down into a dip as if they had been ballroom dancing. The kiss lasted a while and featured obvious tongue. When he spun her back upright, she was breathless.
Her shirttail was back out, and those two buttons were still undone. But it was her half-closed eyelids that told him she would not stop him. Her pretty brown eyes glittered, dewy with desire.
So it was down to me. At that moment I could no longer ignore the need to go to the restroom myself.
I kissed my wife, and she politely kissed me back. “Gotta be right back,” I mumbled, and she nodded.
I went to the master bedroom bath and rolled the noisy pocket door closed. I went fast and washed up quickly, but still, when I returned, my wife was sitting on the man’s lap with his arm around her. It appeared that she was kissing him. Her blouse was off, and her sexy bra was as low on her tits as it could go. With as much noise as that damn door makes, I knew they were not caught off guard.
‘So this is how it goes,’ I thought. I had long held fantasies of my wife with another man, but I’d never really worked out how we would go from “normal life” to “sharing my wife.” Reality had never gotten nearly this far.
As soon as she stopped kissing him, he returned to the work he had obviously been doing, and the bra was swept down by one hand as the other pulled her head back by her hair. In the next second, his mouth was sucking a nip as he cupped her full breast in his palm and fed it to his face.
I was embarrassed and went and turned off the kitchen light. I picked up my whiskey and touched the glass to my lips, but I didn’t want any more and set it back down. I got his beer and put it near the recycling bin. When I looked over to try to find her wine glass, he was sucking the other breast and mauling the wet one.
I now knew I had to stare and not miss another thing. Carina’s head was thrown back, and her back was arched. He’d let go of her hair and was smoothing his hand up and down her back while enjoying her tits. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders.
What does a husband say when his wife has decided another man can have her? In my fantasies, there were no awkward moments. I’d never visualized the time when I would be uselessly present while she and the chosen man engaged in foreplay. Should I sit down? Say something? Leave them alone?
She’d said I could stop her, but when was I supposed to do that? Right now it seemed a bit early but also way too late. So far, they had only kissed; even though she was topless in his lap, you couldn’t say they’d had sex by any definition. If I’d been asked in the cold light of day, I’d have smiled confidently that this amount of interaction would be no big deal. Witnessing it in the dim light at midnight, it was epic.
If I stopped her now, it would be very messy. Would she argue? Would he fight for her? I was not the least bit scared of him, but what a crummy way to end what had been up to this point a very enjoyable evening with a lot of laughs and drinks and dancing and sexy innuendo. And what a liar I would turn out to be after years of my bold words of encouragement to her to be more flirtatious and enjoy herself.
They were kissing each other on the lips again and murmuring words I could not hear, although his hand continued a vigorous mauling of her breasts. He was not subtle, did not caress her. He was rough.
I was surprised. I didn’t think she liked it like that on her nipples, and maybe she was telling him to be gentle, because he suddenly stood up and slung her off his lap onto the sofa. She landed in a heap and he was on her in a second, reaching under her skirt with both hands and whipping down her panties and tossing them into a corner.
“I’m gonna fuck your wife, man. She wants me to. Said so just now.”
“Carina?”
“If you don’t want me to fuck her, you better say something quick. But I know you want me to. And she wants it bad.”
I walked in a daze toward her. She lay with her hands in little fists beside her ears, her elbows out, her tits heaving with red marks all over them, her miniskirt just a band of fabric above her naked pussy.
I stopped short several feet away, unable to get too close, and looked down into her face. She turned her eyes from the ceiling to look at me, but she wasn’t coming back. She was his, and it would’ve been brutal to pull her back at this point. “Love you, baby.” was all I said as we both heard his zipper go down.
I walked backward three steps until I hit a cocktail table and sat down on it. This guy Bret was sloughing off his pants. I was again struck by how awkward it all was and yet how inevitable it had become.
He was going to have sex with my wife. She was going to let him fuck her.
When was this decision made? Years ago, I guess, when I had started telling her fake stories while I fucked her… scenarios I’d imagined or dreamed, about her doing it with another guy. Now it was real.
He had a nipple in his mouth when he set his dick against her pussy. She was still somewhat looking my way, but as he pressed it into her, she groaned and closed her eyes. I watched him ease it in, but then he went wild and started pumping in and out rapidly, and she made those sexy sounds of pleasure she also makes when I fuck her. He had stamina and strength, but it was just straight on missionary sex.
He didn’t intend to last long, it seemed, as he was obviously hammering at her with the sole intention of coming in her pussy. She fucked him back as best she could while trapped underneath him, but then he went rigid and yelled, “God DAMN! That’s good. FUCK!” and I could tell he was shooting off inside her. She was mumbling “ohmygod oh jesus oh yeah, cum baby” stuff like that. I don’t think she came.
He ground to a stop and collapsed on top of her. I couldn’t see much of her as he was so much larger.
I was still dressed, but I did have a very stiff erection. I couldn’t think what to do. I wanted to make love to her badly. For some reason, I thought for her sake I should wait patiently, so as to let them separate naturally and not embarrass her by pulling him out of her.
After ten minutes though, I said, “Carina? you ok?”
“Course she’s ok. She just got her pussy fucked. Girls are always ok with that, right baby?”
“unh” was all she said.
They began to disentangle and he stood. “Guess I need a washcloth,” he chuckled, looking down at his wet dick. He sauntered off toward the bathroom, but I noticed he went to the master this time. But he didn’t shut that pocket door.
“Oh darling, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. You always said when I find one I really like, I should just let go of my inhibitions and do it.”
“I did say that.”
“So that’s what I did. Was it fun for you to watch? I hope so. I wanted you to enjoy it, too.”
“It was incredible. But… It was not what I expected.”
The toilet flushed.
I looked at my wife who had basically not moved since he left her there. “What now?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I do!” said Brett. “I say let’s do it again!”
I looked at my wife, thinking she would call it a night.
“I can’t do anything on this sofa anymore.”
“No problem,” Bret laughed. “like Hubby said earlier, it’s about time for bed.” And with that he took her hand and hauled her up onto her feet. With one flick of his wrist and a wriggle of her hips, the miniskirt hit the floor, so my wife walked naked into our bedroom holding the hand of the guy she’d just fucked.
“C’mon, baby,” she called to me. “I want you too, this time. C’mon, come play with us.”