Fourteen Day Program Ch. 05

"I missed you," Tom confessed in a whisper, "I love you, and I don't want to be angry." He felt her tighten into him at his words, then pull back her head, and angle her face up, and they kissed, briefly, lips caressing and tongues just touching, a lover's kiss.

"I love you, too," she said, her face inches from him, her eyes switching between his, too close to focus on both. "It hurt that you wouldn't talk to me. You never did that before."

"I know," he admitted, then joked, "usually it's you who won't talk." She smiled at his quip, and he added. "I couldn't stay away. I love you."

She separated herself from him. "Are you okay?"

"Not completely, no, it still bothers me," he told her, holding her hands, facing her, "but not enough to not see you."

"Thank you, baby, it means so much to me." She leaned in, kissed him again, then stepped back and picked up her bag. As she bent for the bag his eyes briefly traced the smooth contours of her wonderful ass, smooth, sculpted and tight. He realized she wasn't wearing panties. "I have to go now," she smiled. No panties, no bra, and leaving. For two days.

"I know." She smiled, a warm smile, for him, for their love together.

"I'll be back Sunday," she said, and her smile flickered, changed from the warm loving expression to something more eager, and her eyes took on a devilish crinkle at the corners, twinkling too much. He'd known it, but hated having it in his face, even so briefly. She wanted to go.

"I'll see you then," he kissed her, and she turned, and he watched the door close behind her, and stood in the hallway of his empty house, listening as the car door closed, the engine started. And then there was silence and he was alone with his thoughts and the imagined group of whispering observers, drowned out by the pounding in his ears, and the almost silent shell hardening over his heart.

Friday night and Saturday he accomplished nearly nothing. His moods varied from despondent moping and fretting to periods of intense and earnest research on the internet, for appropriate locations for next weekend. He would spend an hour online, finding a place, researching public areas, parks, waterfront, and shopping, until his imagination drove him from the computer, to pace, or sit and think, or sleep restlessly. He skipped meals, eating at odd times, but his stomach began to bother him. He wanted to drink, but knew it wouldn't help his outlook. It would just darken his imagination and make him feel sorrier for himself.

What was she doing right now, he thought as he stared at the television. Was she being used by strangers and enjoying it, getting gang-fucked by strangers and staff, those guys with the giant cocks she'd been so enamored with, eating cum from pussies and asses, sucking used cocks, and begging for more? Was she taking cocks in her ass, telling them to pound her harder, hurting her, making her ass so sore she wouldn't be able to sit?

Or was she chatting with the staff, getting debriefed, explaining to him how good everything was until she had to come here and upset her husband? Would she be pleading with them to release her from the restrictions that restrained her and challenged him, pleading for the love she felt, and couldn't deny or live without?

Or was she laughing with them, telling them how silly and immature he'd been, joking how their conditioning had worked, that he really thought she loved him still, it felt so genuine when she said it, that he was totally fooled, and didn't suspect that they had turned her into a wanton slut, who fucked her husband, but laughed behind his back as she fucked strangers?

His imagination ran a parade of images through his head, blocking the television, swimming before his eyes. His brain tormented him with questions he couldn't avoid. Would she tell him what she did while she was away? Would they allow it? Would she enjoy it, as she said she would? Would she enjoy it more than she enjoyed sex with him? Would she still want him? And if she said she did, was it true? Did she really want to have sex with her husband, who had given her ordinary sex for so many years, only to find out she wanted more, better, harder and hotter? Could he believe her when she said it was true?

Could he believe her when she said she loved him?

As these ideas took hold, his emotional defenses moved in, unnoticed, protecting him from complete breakdown, creating feelings in him he did not recognize or welcome. They whispered to him that he was betrayed, that she was using him, deceiving him, and they began building a barrier around his wounded, aching heart. He did not feel it, or ask for it, or want it; he was barely aware of it as it began, slowly; starting from the hardening shell of scar tissue on his love, where it had torn, and healed, and torn again. The defenses knew what was best, to protect him from further emotional harm, and they began closing his access to that love, hiding it from him, leaving him bitter and spiteful and alone, but safe from further harm, and in control.

It was late now, past midnight, but his despair and loneliness kept him awake. He left the den, leaving the television on, ignored, and returned to his computer. By two in the morning he had found his place, a riverside tourist city. It was more than a three hour drive, but he'd gotten decent rates at a good hotel, staying Thursday through Sunday. They had a waterfront area, a large mall, and several adult stores that he wanted to bring her to, and some strip clubs that they might visit. He thought of making her watch the strippers, getting her a lap dance, and taking her back to the hotel to perform for him.

He fell asleep still imagining his wife, dancing naked in their room, with him recording the event.

On Sunday he woke late, in the den, the television still on. He checked the cable box, saw it was almost eleven. Fuck, he thought, she'll be home in a few hours. He scrambled to his feet, went to the kitchen to make coffee, and headed for the shower. He scrubbed his sleep away, shaved his two-day beard and his pubic hair, then got busy with coffee, breakfast, dressing, and straightening up the house after his bachelor episode. Liz was due home around two, she'd said, and he finished with plenty of time to relax.

And so, tasks complete, he sat and waited for his wife to return. What would that be like? The weekend he took her home from her adjustment had been constant arousal and horny gratification, exploring her enthusiasm and her change. This felt way different. That weekend she had told him everything she'd done and experienced in the two weeks, or at least a good portion of it. Would she be allowed to tell about this weekend? Unlike the night he had introduced the video, he was fully prepared to have his questions denied. The weekend he'd gone to retrieve her with Darla she was desperate to see him, to come home to him. What about now? Was she truly happy to be home? Could he believe her if she said she was? And could he safely display his frustration without it getting back to them?

He set his mind to being glad she was home, began convincing himself it was true. When she walked in, if she looked happy to see him, he'd play along, and welcome her home. A part of him wasn't pretending, he knew; he really WAS happy to have her back. But too much of him was overly suspicious now, and protective of his feelings. But he could be convincing, just by allowing his true emotions to emerge, although he would be very cautious.

Besides, he realized, he hadn't had sex in, what, four days? He was horny for a big release this afternoon, and maybe a second one tonight. Maybe in the heat of passion she'd confess -- no, he thought, maybe if he asked in a way that allowed her to meet her obligations, she would tell him what she'd done. If he worked it into sex, telling her he wanted her to tell him, that it would turn him on ...

He grinned, admiring his cleverness and cagey manipulation of the circumstances.

A short time later he heard the car, and automatically rose, and went to the window. He was surprised at how nervous he was, how anxious he was to see her. He'd spent so long being suspicious that the feelings of anticipation were almost foreign; new, like a first date. He smiled to himself, and looked out the window, and saw her.

He was pleasantly surprised to see that she was the same woman she'd always been, and his heart stirred a little at seeing her, as it always did before, and he relished the sensation. She was still the woman he loved, at least now, as he watched her walk to the door, bag in hand. She was wearing a light skirt and print blouse, and she looked as fabulous to him as she ever had, her hair loose, her face made up, and a small eager smile on her lips that was reflected in her eyes. She was glad to be home, with him; he knew the look, and it touched him. They couldn't make her fake that, could they?

He went to the door as it opened, and she came in and was suddenly in his arms, holding him as if she'd been away for a long time, and not just a long distance. She made small sounds as she pressed herself against him, wriggling slightly to get closer, as if to leave no part of her without contact with him. He felt his heart stir, and noticed his member following close behind.

"I missed you," he risked, and she cooed softly, pressing her hands into his back, and he added, "even before you left."

She pulled her face back. "Oh, Tom, I missed you, too," she whispered lovingly. He heard the sincerity, but feared its origin.

"Do you love me, Liz?" he asked.

He face changed from eager reunion to surprise, to confusion, and to hurt. "Honey, why would you ask that? Of course I do. You are the only one I love." She searched his face. "Do you still love me?" There was need in her tone, a grasp for reassurance. Was she as uncertain as he was? "Baby, please tell me nothing has changed, please tell me you love me. I swear I couldn't live without you."

"I love you, Liz," he said, "so much it hurts," and he felt relief as he heard his own words. He felt the hurt then, even as he knew he still loved her, still trusted her, and sadly, still doubted her. "I don't want to be angry, or fighting, and being apart from you tears me apart. Thinking about where you were, who you were with ..." the words spilled out, unbidden. His hips pressed forward, into her, and she smiled as she responded, pressing back. "Can you tell me what you did?" He expected the answer, and got it.

"No. Not permitted."

He pulled back from her, looked into her eyes, seeing both of the women she was, then; the loving woman he loved and had married, and the horny, wanton slut she had become. "Come inside," he said, taking her hand, and leading her to the living room, and sitting together on the sofa. He angled his body to face her. "It's been a while," he said. "I don't know if you are tired, or how you feel," he told her, staring into her eyes. He kissed her, slowly, tenderly, but even as he did a thought in the back of his mind asked where her mouth had been. She tasted minty, like toothpaste, or gum. She returned his tender kiss, and their mouths opened, and their tongues dueled with practiced familiarity. He felt her breath in his mouth, while his pants swelled uncomfortably in his lap, and he sighed, and broke the kiss. "I want you," he told her, not whispering.

"Mm-m, good," she replied. "Me, too."

"I want you to suck my dick," he said, and reached to his pants, opened them, pulling them down below his knees. "Suck me, Liz. Tell me you want to." Her eyes sparkled as he had come to expect, and she smiled, and scooted her hips back, and lowered her head to his lap. He felt her tongue circle his head, lick his shaft, and he closed his eyes and his head fell back as his dick was gently wrapped in her warm, wet mouth, and he heard the mewling sounds of her taking pleasure in sucking him. He allowed her to stroke him with her mouth a few times, before pulling her head up to look at him. "Kneel down, so I can see you," he instructed, and she slipped from the couch, pushing his pants further down and spreading his legs, settling herself between them. She looked up at him, one hand wrapped at the base of his cock, now fully hard, and kissed and licked the head as they looked at each other.

"Do you like to suck my dick?" he asked. She nodded, licking it. "When you went to them, the first time," he began, stroking her hair, "you sucked a lot of cocks, didn't you? You told me that when I came to get you."

"Yes, baby, I did."

"Did you like sucking all those cocks?"

"Yes," she smiled, "it was hot."

He thought about the next question, being sure to craft it carefully. "Without telling me when or where, not including those two weeks you were away,have you ever sucked another cock besides mine?" He watched for her reaction, and saw her pause, and think, and then smile.

"Yes, yes I did."

"More than one?"

"Yes," she said, smiling, and took his cock into her mouth, sucking the head, then pulling off, rubbing it on her lips. "A lot of them," she added.

"Tell me about it, about what you did, about how you enjoyed their cocks in your mouth. Don't say when or where, just what you did." He saw her face brighten as he bypassed their control over her. "Suck my cock while you tell me." She pushed her head down on his shaft, swallowing all of him, to the base, and gagging a little, then stroking him with her mouth several times before pulling off.

"I was on my knees, naked, and there were three men, standing," she said, and sucked him again before resuming. "I was sucking them all, stroking them, going from one to the other, like this," and stroked her mouth down his cock several times, full long strokes with her wet lips and tongue. "They were hard, and big, and beautiful, and all for me." She sucked his head, played her tongue underneath, and bounced a few strokes. "I felt them filling my mouth with their hard cocks, felt them pushing into me, it was so hot." Her words seared his brain, and the image took form in his imagination, and he closed his eyes, seeing it as she spoke; his Liz, his wife, sucking three hard cocks, going from one to the other.

"I sucked them good, baby, I wanted their cum in my mouth and on my face," she stroked him as she spoke, then took him in her mouth again, "like this, like I'm sucking your beautiful cock," she moaned as she took him back inside her. "They were so hot, so hard for me, and I sucked them all, switching from one to the other." Another series of sucking strokes. "They told me to play with my pussy, and I did."

"Do it for me, Liz. Finger yourself. Is your pussy wet? Is your little clit nice and hard from sucking my cock?"

"Oo-o, yeah, baby, my pussy is dripping wet, sucking your cock makes me so hot," she cooed. "They called me a slut and told me to fuck my pussy while I sucked their cocks." He watched her, then closed his eyes again, seeing the scenario in his head as she knelt for three men, naked, fingering herself as she sucked their cocks. "They told me they were going to cum in my mouth and my face, I was so hot, I wanted it so bad." He felt her mouth wrap itself around him, sucking hard, and she moaned on his shaft before pulling off. She stroked him with one hand. "Are you going to cum, soon, baby?" She licked his length. "Do you like hearing this, hearing me tell you about how I sucked their cocks?"

"Did you make them cum?"

"I sucked them until I felt them getting close, baby. I felt them getting close, I wanted them all shooting on me at once, I wanted their hot cum shooting out of their big hard cocks, all for me," she oozed, and took him in her mouth again, stroking. His hips jerked upwards. "Oh, yeah, baby, I can feel you getting close, just like I felt them." She pushed her head down, making a small choking cough, pulled up. "Oh, I love having my mouth full of cock." Again. "I knew they were close baby, and they moved closer, I had one in my mouth, and I was pumping one, and the other was jerking himself, watching me fuck my cunt with my fingers, calling me a horny slut." Again, gasping as she pulled off this time. "Then the first one shot his cum on my face, while I was still sucking, it was so hot, feeling his cum covering me, with another cock in my mouth." Tom felt his cum begin to boil as the image of her, face striped with cum as he had done so many times, but not his, and her mouth stuffed with another. He groaned, and she answered. "Oh, you like that, baby." She stroked his shaft, holding the head at her lips as she licked and told her tale.

"When he finished cumming I took the last two and tried to suck them both at once, cramming two cocks in my mouth, oh, they were so close, and I held their heads in my mouth and stroked them, and one started to cum, and I pulled back, and opened my mouth with my tongue out, and his cum was shooting in my face and my mouth, and then the last one started, and he just laid his cock on my tongue and filled my slutty cocksucking mouth with his hot load." And with those words Tom exploded, and he opened his eyes to see his cock spew it's load onto his wife's mouth and face, as she made yummy sounds and bathed her beautiful face in his creamy syrup. Her tongue tickled his cockhead as he shot his load, covering her mouth, striping her nose and cheeks. As his volleys softened she took him back in her mouth, sucking the remaining cum until he became too sensitive, and he pulled his hips back, and out of her mouth.

He looked at her, smiling and content, satisfied with her face coated, rubbing his cockhead in the messy residue. She had sucked his cock, taken his cum on her face. But in his mind, he had watched her suck three men, just as enthusiastically, with the same drive and desire as he saw in her now, imagining her looking up at them, with their loads on her face, licking their cum from her lips.

Thoughts of next weekend flitted through his head, as well as home videos he still wanted to shoot. Mental images of the 'adjusted' Liz doing whatever nasty thing he asked were mixed with memories of the previous Liz, loving him, having regular sex, and living their lives together. In his head the flashes merged and separated, two parts of the same woman, two sides of a coin; the one he loved, and the one had wanted. She stood, and scooped a glob of semen from her cheek with a finger, sucking it clean with a grin, then strode from the room, picking up her overnight bag as she headed for the bedroom. In his head, a third woman joined the melee of memory and imagination, a filthy horny slut who loved all kinds of sex with numerous partners, and the image of that women wedged its way into his head, forcing the other two aside, making room for itself. He forced the three images from his conscious brain, forced himself to think of other things, tucking the three facets of his wife into the darker recesses of his brain, where his involuntary processes tried to sort and separate and meld them.

The one he loved.

The one he wanted.

And this third one, the new one. The one he despised.