Amy Ch. 01

Since I usually write about some of the things that have happened to me in my life, this is a bit of a departure. I have tried to put myself in the mind of a man and deal with the problems of an unfaithful wife from that perspective. There's a third part still in the writing stage, but I'd like to know what you think so far.

Chapter 01: Dwight, the Postman, Rings Her Bell

The meeting at the district office broke off a few minutes before noon. I had a substitute in my classroom for the rest of the day so decided to go home. The garage door was open and Amy's little blue and white Mini was parked on the left. She'd said she was going to visit her girlfriend Megan in Pasadena and take her out for lunch but, knowing her friend, I guessed the plans had changed.

It was a warm day and the sky was bright and cloudless. I figured she'd be out by the pool tanning herself, topless, on a lounge chair with a cold iced tea in one hand and The New Yorker in the other. I came out the back of the garage onto the patio but the lounge was still folded up. I walked out to the Jacuzzi on the side of the house, but she wasn't there either. The sliding glass door was open so I walked into the living room.

Crumpled on the carpet just off the front door were a powder blue short sleeved shirt and a pair of matching denim shorts with the tell-tale red stripe running up the seam. Like a trail of breadcrumbs leading down the hall were his black shoes and socks, her pink tennis shorts, her pink and white candy striped blouse, his black briefs, her beige bra and, wedged in the door of the guest bedroom, her matching silk thong. If the trail of clothes hadn't told the story, the thong did. She usually wore lace Victoria's Secret bikinis but, when she wanted to seduce me, when she wanted sex, she wore one of the silk thongs we'd bought on a lark at an adult toy store in Vegas. It was almost a Pavlovian thing between us when she wore them.

They were fucking now. I could hear the bed rhythmically groaning and her sensually moaning. She was almost ready for an orgasm to take her away. She always moaned in a low, guttural purr when she was ready to cum. Soon it would change into a series of high pitched chirps, almost like a bird, then a long deep wail with expletives about thick cocks and deeper and more and harder peppered into the carnal song.

I walked down the hall as quietly as I could, but I figured any noise I made would have been cloaked by the sound of her lovemaking and the cadence of the bed heaving up and down with the movement of their bodies. I wasn't really certain what I was doing, or what I was going to do. Here was my beautiful wife fucking another man and I was angry, in a state of complete mental turmoil. Yet here I was also, the lyric of her lusty song drawing me toward that door, now held slightly ajar by her discarded thong, like a sailor to the Sirens.

When I say Amy is beautiful, it's not just braggadocio- she's a knock-out. I had been her AP Literature teacher during her senior year in high school- no, for those of you with smutty minds, nothing happened then- but when she came into the classroom that fall she literally took my breath away. Brown eyes, wavy shoulder-length blond hair, tall and beautifully proportioned. Long slim legs, full hips, narrow waist, tight abs, and a full firm bust- she had the whole package but you would never know it by her shy demeanor. She dressed casually with no hint of vulgarity, sensually but not provocatively; her clothes accentuated her curves but were always tailored on the conservative side. I didn't know if her parents were rich and she shopped at Nordstrom's or whether she just knew how to pick up stylish things at Marshall's. It didn't matter.

My infatuation with her physical beauty, of her as eye candy for a 30 something guy, eventually dissipated but never completely disappeared; she was always a presence, an awareness, in my classroom. What especially made me take notice of her as a person, however, was what went on behind those dark brown eyes as the school year progressed. She was really bright. At first I thought I was thinking of her in Teacher's Pet terms: good grades because I think she's cute. A quick look at her other grades brought that notion to a quick halt. Straight A's since junior high school. Probably in elementary school, too, but those don't get cycled beyond 6th grade. As a general rule, kids that are good at English and history usually suck at math and science; she did not at all fit into that general rule. Usually kids that are good at algebra don't do well in geometry; she got A's in both- at the AP level.

Her boyfriend Greg had been in my class as a senior and was now in his senior year at West Point. An all-around athlete: baseball, track, football, and basketball, and lettered in three. When I was in school, a black senior dating a white freshman would have caused a few whispers- as much about the class as about the race. In this new century it didn't even warrant the whispers. They had met during her freshman year and had been going together ever since. She'd been kind of a trashy dresser when they first met but later she told me that she'd started grooming herself so that she "could comport herself as an officer's wife." Her words, not mine.

Having her in my classroom also reminded me that I was a man. I'd been numb, a ghost, a non-entity, for almost a year. My wife and 4 year old daughter had been killed the summer before by a truck driver arguing with his girlfriend on his cell phone- ran a red light and killed them in the crosswalk. We'd been married for six years and she was 7 months pregnant with our second when she died. There were his lawyers and my lawyer and insurance company lawyers, depositions and trials, recriminations, anger and despair, but there was mostly incredible loneliness. That first year back in the classroom I had been a robot on autopilot, a zombie, going through the motions of teaching but not really being there. All of my seniors that year knew the cause of my depression and were most supportive- or at least as supportive as 17-year olds can be- but they had all graduated and few beyond that class knew anything. And I had withered mentally during the summer, haunted by echoes of my daughter's laugh and the rustle of soft cotton sheets when I spooned next to my wife as we drifted off to sleep.

I had thought, actually believed, that the zombie me would be the thing that walked into the classroom; by the end of the day I knew otherwise. I have to say: I never once fanaticized about sex with Amy. I was still to raw to think much of sex at all. Seeing her for a few minutes every day, hearing her talk, watching her smile and laugh with her friends, reminded me that it was time to think about living again. My wife and family would always be close, but I was still here in this cruel joke. I could either laugh at the cruelty or succumb to it. I chose to laugh.

Early May came and she sat for all of the AP tests; neither I nor any of her other teachers had any concerns about her passing, only about how high her scores might be. Then came June and graduation. We hugged, she told me she was going back to West Point for Greg's graduation and commissioning ceremony, and that was it. She was gone and our lives went on. She became an officer's wife, or so I heard, and the pain of my past continued to recede like the colors of a beautiful tapestry left too long in the sun. I started dating again and got lucky a few times but nothing serious ever came of it.

So here it comes, the new school year; the summer of 2007 passes and I saunter into my old classroom. I test the old familiar key but, to my surprise, the door is already unlocked... and who is sitting on the edge of my desk but Amy! Almost nothing about her has changed. She is still dressed as if from the cover of Vogue and her body is still as fit and toned as it was when she graduated. Her face has matured, filled out, no longer girlish but with the blush of youth still flushed in her cheeks.

I stand at the door, shocked. She starts to laugh, a quiet, subdued laugh, when she sees the astonishment on my face. "What are you doing here?" I ask, probably in a stammer. "I thought you'd be in some far off exotic locale touring in a sedan chair while your husband..."

There is a subtle change in her composure. She slides herself gracefully off the corner of my desk and glides toward me. She's happy to see me- that much is obvious- but a pall of sadness momentarily creases her brow. We hug quickly then separate. She looks at me, our eyes meeting for a second, but she says nothing.

"I am so glad to see you again, Amy," I say, now with a little bit of composure in my voice. "Are you back here for a while? Did Greg get stationed here?"

She cuts off my conversation. "Greg died in Afghanistan last year, just before Veteran's Day." I drop down onto the top of the first desk in a long row of desks, speechless, her words not yet piercing through the veil of comprehension. "IED. Never knew what hit him." Her lip quivers. "I swore I wasn't going to cry when..." but it's no use. She sobs on my shoulder, her limbs quaking in pain. It's hard for me to keep from crying too, but in about 10 minutes students will start filing into the room and I can't afford to be red and bleary eyed when they start taking their seats.

She returns to my desk for a tissue, then makes her announcement. "I'm your new student teacher, Mr. Collins." She's now managed a smile and the tears have been blotted from her cheeks, but she's still fragile. "I'm finishing up my credential program at UCI. I knew you were a Master Teacher in the district, so I asked if I could do my student teaching with you."

So that's how it started. We started dating after her tutelage and started sleeping together a few weeks later. I remember the first time I touched her body, saw her naked, kissed her lips, and felt the blood of lust and passion coursing in quick pulses through my body once more. She reminded me again that I was alive. The following year the Recession hit and she lost her job, so I asked her to move in with me. One thing led to another and we got married during the summer.

I can see her on the bed. There is a mirrored closet at the back of the room and I can see her voluptuous body leaning back against the firm black chest of our postman. He is on his back, his left thumb and forefinger plying a proud nipple to full erection, the other thumb teasing her clit. Her arms are splayed back next to his ebony shoulders for support and the chocolate drop nipples on her firm round breasts point impudently to the ceiling. She has straddled him on her knees, his cock splits her tan line and she is slowly sliding up and down the thick black shaft streaked with white fluids, still moaning. Bareback! They're fucking bareback! He leans up, kissing her neck, nibbling her left ear, turning her head, probing her mouth with his tongue to begin a long passionate kiss. Her swollen pink clitoris has poked out of its sheath, pinched gently now between his thumb and forefinger.

She starts chirping and pulls her body straight up, impaling herself directly onto his manhood. With every downward thrust her firm tanned breasts quake, the hardened nipples quiver, and her long golden hair shudders in waves like wheat in the wind. She bites her lower lip and her eyes close as if in deep meditation of the lust penetrating deep into her loins. She leans over, using her hands to balance herself on his black, chiseled thighs. She rides him, her distended cunt lips milking the full girth of his manhood, then the wail begins. She's cumming. Oh God! is she ever cumming!

"Oh goddam your cock is so good," she croons, "I want it deeper, oh fuck oh fuck"

"You got it all, baby, you got it all," he growls back. His hands have moved to the full, sensuous curve of her hips. He pushes her down onto his stiff ebony organ- he pushes hard. She pleads to him in her lust, her passion and pleasure for more, for harder, for deeper.

"I'm cumming, Dwight baby," she cries, "oh God damn Dwight baby, I'm cumming all over your cock." Slap, slap, slap. Her ass cheeks smack on his pubic mound.

"Keep it up baby," he hisses through clinched teeth, "you're gonna make me cum." His eyes are closed. "Keep doin' that. Mmmm baby! Keep slammin' that tight white pussy on this big black cock."

Her movements become frenzied, frantic, her body shakes, her flesh trembles. "Oh God!" she cries. She's like an animal with him. Up and down she slides, her bald pussy slipping smoothly, effortlessly on his slick tumescent shaft. It length seems to go on forever as it burrows in and out of her body. He is huge.

"Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh damn Amy baby," he bellows, "I'm cummin' baby, I'm cummin'!"

Her back arches. "Inside me Dwight, cum inside me! Cum in me baby, cum in my pussy!" Her eyes fly open as if she's been hit with a lightening bolt. She yelps, her mouth contorts to form a perfect 'O'.

He slams her down onto his pelvis and holds her there. "In your pussy, Amy, you're taking all of it in your pussy!" I can see the muscle at the base of his cock twitch as it pumps thick white semen deep, oh so deep, into her cunt. She continues to ride him and thick sheets of his cum slide like sea foam down the petals of her femininity to paint the inside of her thighs a shiny white.

She stays on top as his cock emerges from between her pussy lips, the pink tip finally popping out as she lifts herself off his thighs and lies down beside him. They kiss deeply, passionately, his hands wandering up and down her body, boldly touching her flesh while she continues to run a finger along the length of his penis. She fixates on the thick pearly fluid oozing out of his man-slit, coats the palms of her hands and strokes him. He smiles and purrs as his hands meander along the inside of her thighs and tease her taught ass cheeks. She slides down to the object of her lust and takes him in her mouth, her hand still stroking his stiffening rod. He responds. In a minute he is hard again, and his thick black shaft is no longer marbled with their combined fluids. It is now a pure, shiny black- an ebony scepter in her hand.

"Ready to do it again, lover?" she teases. Her tongue darts out to touch the tip of the swollen pink head; it captures a thin silver thread of his semen. Her hand never ceases its casual stroke.

"I don't know baby, three times in two hours has got to be a record," he laughs. He rolls on top of her. She spreads her legs wide to take him. Her heels are behind his thighs and her hand guides him to her newly aroused womanhood. The pink bulb capping his engorged midnight black shaft separates the swollen lips and disappears quickly inside her pussy. As he penetrates, her legs wrap tightly around his thighs and she pulls his body close. He begins to fuck her slowly, rhythmically, his lips finding her nipples and mouth, neck and ears. She immediately starts to moan.

So they'd already done it once before I got here, I thought to myself.

Up to this point I had been in third person mode: watching like an independent observer, part of an audience in a sleazy nightclub, a dispassionate critic for a porno flick preview. Mind you, I'd never actually watched another couple have sex up close and personal, so to speak. I'd come close a few time on double dates at the drive in, and one time walked in on a naked- and very erect- roommate while he was helping his girlfriend out of her panties. But as I walked back down the hall, listening to my wife begin to chirp, a chill went up my spine: this was not a floor show or porn flick. This was my wife. This was my wife in bed. This was my wife in bed with another man. They were screwing and she was really enjoying it. REALLY, REALLY, enjoying it. They were having unprotected sex and he was cumming in her pussy. The mailman was fucking my wife and his massive black cock was ejaculating his sperm deep into her young womb, the secret place inside her lush body where only mine were to quest and conquer.

But at exactly, precisely the same moment, I was turned on like I've never been turned on before. My own manhood was pressing heavily against my zipper and my briefs were sticky with smears of clear pre-seminal fluids. I unbuckled and unzipped my pants, dropped my drawers, opened the chaise, laid down, and made myself cum to visions of her: leaning back against his chest, his hands on her tits; her glazed hairless pussy taking him, moving with him, making him cum; watching his thick muscle spasm in cadence to her movement as it pumped thick threads of spunk deep into the most dark and intimate recesses of her womanhood. Watching them kiss. Listening to them even now as first she, then he, climaxed together.

Now I had to deal with it. I got in my car and started back to school, then realized I'd been watching them fuck for over an hour. It didn't seem that long, but it had been. Under usual circumstance I'd be locking up my classroom and leaving for home in a few minutes, but I needed time to think this whole affair through. At the end of our street I parked behind the vacant postal van and called her on my cell. I told her I'd be a little late, that the meeting had been a little more caustic than expected and that a few of us were going to go to a local watering hole to commiserate and loosen up a little. She laughed and said that would be ok, that she was working on something real hard right now. Going for number four I thought to myself.