The Day After

AUTHORS NOTE: This story contains scenes of extramarital, unprotected and unapologetic sex. If you object, please feel free to move on.

I came awake early Monday morning and made an instant decision to get up and get out before she woke. I didn't want to see her, didn't want to talk to her; I couldn't, not now, so soon. I slipped from the bed carefully, avoiding looking at her naked form stretched out where she slept. I needed to get away from her, to clear my head, and get my thoughts and feeling under control. I needed separation. I skipped my morning workout and headed straight for the shower, but as I showered, images of the previous night flooded my brain, unbidden and unstoppable, impossible to ignore. I snuck my clothes from the bedroom silently and dressed downstairs, skipping coffee and breakfast, the urgent need to get out driving me almost to desperation. Every room showed the remnants of last night's party; the plates and cups, napkins and food left out. I saw her in my mind's eye, my sleeping, naked wife, the final remnant of last night's party. I winced and headed for the door.

But as I grabbed my briefcase in the hallway she was there, looking sleepy and worn, pillow creases still on her cheek, her blonde wavy hair hanging in a tangled mess past her shoulders, framing her face like a glowing vandalized halo. God, she was beautiful, and I hesitated as she stepped into the doorway, blocking my exit.

"I heard you get up," she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and stifling a yawn. She looked up at me, her bare feet holding her to her true height of five-two. She held her robe closed with one hand, and I assumed she was still naked underneath. "I wanted to see you before you left."

I stood there frozen to the spot, terrified and enraged, and said nothing for fear of losing control. "You're going in early?" Her voice was soft, just short of tentative. Was she pretending nothing had happened? Or was she afraid of me, of my reaction? We had not spoken last night, and I was not ready today. The tension was thick between us.

"I have a lot to do today," I lied. She stepped into me, her body lightly pressing against me, and I involuntarily took a step back. Her hands reached for my arms, releasing her robe, and it opened to give me a flash of her bare skin as she pressed to me. That body. Last night, that wonderful, sexy body; my wife's body. Memories struck me like a mallet, and I felt my body go rigid as she touched my arms and closed the gap to me.

She lifted her face to me and stood on her toes, and brushed her lips on mine for a kiss. I felt her light touch on mine, but all I could think of was her mouth, last night. "I love you," she said softly, and settled back down, but still looking up, watching me. "I wanted you to know that before you left." Was she seeing my confusion, feeling my resistance? Was she as scared as I was? "We'll talk tonight," she almost whispered, "when you get home." She stepped away, allowing me to pass. I couldn't look at her as I moved for the door. "I love you," she called to me, a little louder as I exited the house.

Work was a shapeless fog of movement and words layered over flashbacks of image and sound; I couldn't concentrate, I pretended to work and got little done, avoiding the eyes and attention of the office staff. Could they see the memories of the previous night bombarded my brain, distracting me from my duties? I answered email robotically and cancelled two appointments; unable to focus. I skipped lunch. My imagined rehearsales of tonight's conversation ranged from screaming rage and slaps to weeping confessions, filled with remorse. I considered not going home, avoiding the inevitable conversation, but late that afternoon I found myself behind the wheel, still in my trance, driving as if on auto-pilot.

In the driveway I sat in the car for what felt like hours, and thought of her, my wonderful, lovely wife, remembering our twelve years together, the dating, the love, the hurtful yearnings, the desperate aches when we were apart; our wedding, our vows. She was The One, and our years together had been almost unbroken bliss. Seeing her every day was a reminder of all that I loved in her, and feeling her love returned. But images of her face and memories of her love for me shining in her eyes were suddenly swept away by images from last night, that alien look in her eyes; her lips, her body, her voice, saying things I had never heard, doing ... things. I felt the tension creep into me, but my body was exhausted from the strain of the night and day; rage eluded me, and all I could manage was a worn resignation.

She was in the kitchen when I went inside, sitting at the table with a cup of tea, and she looked up at me as I entered but I tore my eyes away, avoiding the familiar connection that lured me to her. The smells of dinner filled the house, and I glanced around, seeing the rooms; neat and in order, all signs of the party the night before eliminated. But the normalcy of the surroundings served only to accentuate all that had changed between us. My brain rebelled at the welcoming scents and images of home, and family, of life before last night.

I set my bag on the floor, but remained standing, away from her, not approaching. Not the usual routine. My eyes returned to her but I couldn't meet her gaze. She was dressed in her casual clothes, jeans and floral print buttoned shirt, her breasts straining as always to be contained. Her face no longer held the puffiness of sleep, and her light makeup created the angelic visage I loved, her hair brushed and neat. I tore my eyes away as images of her unkempt hair and smeared makeup last night clouded my eyes, superimposed over her, possessing my vision.

"I wasn't sure I would see you," she said softly. The house was quiet, no soft jazz that she loved so much playing in the background the way it normally would. "I thought you might not come home."

"I considered it," I responded tersely.

"Please, sit," she said, anxiously fingering the mug of tea on the table in front of her. "You're making me nervous. More nervous."

I stiffened and rebelled internally, not wanting to do what she asked, not wanting it to be her way, to give her even that small victory. But this was OUR house, not just hers; it was ours, together, the house of love we shared, as much mine as hers. I felt my body move to a chair next to hers, then pulled away, and sat instead in the chair on the other side of the table, away from her, facing her across the table with a feeling of childish pride in the small victory of doing something differently, of avoiding her proximity.

"Dinner will be ready soon," she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "We can eat first, and talk later, if you want." She paused, waiting for a response. "Or we can talk now." Another pause, and she added, as if it was news, "We have to talk about it."

"I'm not hungry," I lied. Her eyes flashed a moment of hurt, and she looked down into her tea. "I'm not sure I can eat." I wasn't sure I could even stay in the room. I sat with my back straight and clasped my hands on the table in front of me. "I'll take a cup of tea," I blurted, unsure why I said it. I watched silently as she rose and went to the counter, pulling a second cup down from the cabinet, preparing my tea. I watched her while she couldn't see me, looking at her ass and legs, her back, but again the memories of last night invaded, and instead of seeing her standing, dressed, I saw flashes of her, naked, her ass, her legs. Last night.

She put the steaming cup in front of me and thankfully returned to her seat across the table, not trying to invade my barrier. I wrapped my fingers around it, feeling the heat seep into my skin, grateful for the sensation, of feeling something recognizable and normal. The tension in me settled, just a little, from the small sensation of the warm mug. I didn't drink it; I just held it in my hands, clasping it tightly, as if it was the anchor that that would hold me together. I sat silently, staring at the steam rising from the mug and realized I was holding my breath. I stilled my heart and heaved a deep sigh, feeling a little more of the tension slip.

"Please, Carl, say something."

I looked up at her and met her eyes. Her forehead was creased with concern, her eyes searing mine with longing, almost despair. As I had in the car, I suddenly saw our lives together as it had been before, remembering all we had done and shared, and I felt my love for her, now bruised and battered, floating to the surface. My heart stirred in my chest and her expression pulled my emotions into focus; I felt my love for her as it had always been; the need for her, the incomplete feeling when we were not together, my desire to be with her, only her. But my memories betrayed me again, as vivid flashes of last night crossed my mind, crowding out the love, trying to crush it, destroy it. Her. My Wife. Last night.

"I'm not sure I even know who you are," I said quietly, and felt a moment of delight for the hurt that flashed in her expression.

"Oh, Carl," she replied timidly, but I interrupted her.

"No, seriously," I said, a little louder and too sternly, and she started, her eyes opening wider at the increase in volume. I heard my own voice violate the silence. "Who are you? Are you the woman I married, the one I fell in love with, and promised to stay with, forever? Through sickness and health? Is that you?" I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, still holding the mug, securing my position. "Or are you that ... that THING, that woman last night, that..."

Of all the imagined conversations I had held in my head during the day, none of them had gone like this. In my head I had scored great verbal victories, piercing her with words until she cried and begged, or I had lashed out, angrily, until she cowered and cringed. In none of those did I struggle, or feel confusion or hesitance. In none of them was I torn in two directions, unsure of my future with her. In none did I struggle with my emotions, pulled in two directions at once. But reality is different, and I felt my hesitation and despised it, and berated myself for my lack of conviction.

"Thing? Is that what you saw last night? A thing?" There was hurt in her voice, a little admonition for my invective. My heart stirred, wanting to hurt her and protect her at the same time, shamed at my desire to lash out, and elated that I could injure her, to make her share my pain.

"No. Not a thing," I clarified. I stared into her wounded eyes, those wonderful, round blue eyes, and remembered them on our wedding day, lifting her veil, seeing the longing and fulfillment in them, falling into them, overwhelmed with my love for her. "A slut. Last night I saw a filthy slut fuck two guys in front of her husband, who she now claims she loves."

There. It was out there now, the words spoken and clear, and unable to be recalled. I sat back, thrilled and horrified at my victory, and waited for her crushed remorse. I watched her as she lowered her head again, hanging it down, her shining blonde locks covering her face, hiding it from me. "I know," I heard her say softly, wounded. Her head stayed down, unable to meet my eyes. But when she raised her head again her face was steel and expressionless, and I instantly doubted my success. Her lips were tight with resolve.

"Let me say this one more time," she insisted. "I DO love you, you ass. You think because of what I did I stopped loving you?"

"How am I supposed to know now?" I yelled at her, lunging forward and slamming my palms flat on the table. "What the hell am I supposed to believe? That you've been faithful? That you love only me?" I was spitting with rage as the words erupted from me. "For all I know you've been fucking whoring around the whole time!" I was shaking, gasping for breath, and I tried to control my adrenaline, wrapping my hands back around the mug of tea, feeling the heat, feeling my anchor, settling my nerves.

The accusations hung in the air like a carcass. I glared at her, turned away, glared again. She sat motionless, her only movement in her chest as she took deep breaths, and her eyes narrowed. Her lips started and stopped several times, but nothing came out. At long last she bit the inside of her cheek, and spoke.

"That's what's bothering you? Whether I've been faithful?" She shook her head, the incredulity thick in her voice. "Whether I love you?" she asked. "That's what has you so upset?" She snorted a sardonic laugh. "Here I was afraid that you were horrified at the things I did, how willingly I did them." She angled her head, squinting a little. "How much I enjoyed doing it." She blew out a breath, but there was no relief in her eyes. "God knows it scares the shit out of me," she muttered. She lifted her mug, sipped, wrinkled her face. "Cold," she said under her breath. She looked back at me, and her face softened, changing from the woman I didn't recognize, back into the woman I married and loved. She stood and walked hesitantly to my side of the table, and knelt next to my chair, taking my hands between hers, holding them as I had held the mug, a tether to what we had been before.

"I have always loved you; I will never stop, never, as long as I live. I don't know how to make you believe that, but it's the truth. You look in my eyes, tell me," she pleaded, "tell me you see the truth, that I love you, and only you." Her face was only inches from mine, and her radiance took my breath away. "For as long as we both shall live," she added in a soft, gentle voice.

I was captured, then, ensnared as I had always been, in her beauty and her love. Here, her face just inches from mine, holding my big hands in her little ones, comforting me, reassuring me. My anger momentarily forgotten, I responded with resignation to what I knew was the truth.

"I know," I whispered. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them, gazing directly into those deep blue pools. "I love you, too." I looked for that woman again but could suddenly see only the wildness of last night, her lost look of wonder and excitement. "But last night ... those guys ... and you, you were..." I struggled, my anger fighting with my hurt and confusion. "What happened to you? How can I believe you?"

"I don't know how to make you understand that last night doesn't change what I feel for you." Her face was filled with regret and sorrow, and cautious resolve. "If it makes you feel better to hear it; I have never cheated on you, never. I never will."

"Except for last night," I sniped cheaply, and instantly regretted it.

"You were THERE," she reminded me, "I wasn't cheating; we were together."

"Yes, but..." I gritted my teeth, remembering the painful visions of her, with both of them, as I watched. "How could you do that?"

She moaned; a plaintive wail of confusion and frustration, and squeezed my hands in hers. It felt so right, loving her, and I didn't want to hate her. There was a tightness in my chest, and the tension of the day, the memories, had exhausted me. I felt the anger drain away with my energy, leaving behind a confused and hurt husk.

She stood then, waiting for me to move and still holding my hands, until I turned my chair to the side, away from the table. A look of relief swept over her; her shoulders dropped, and she lowered herself to sit across my lap, releasing my hands and wrapping her arms around the back of my neck, snuggling her head into my shoulder as if she could burrow inside me. I felt my arms holding her, clenching her to me, and stroking her back.

"Oh, Carl," I heard from between my neck and shoulder, "what happened to me? How did we let this go so far? God, I'm so scared I can barely breathe," she moaned.

"We were drunk, honey," I answered lamely, and was suddenly astonished that I was comforting her, as though she was the one who was hurt. I held her closer, and felt her body tremble, just a little, and I made soothing sounds into her hair, stroking her back and shoulders as she began crying, and I held her silently, feeling my selfish hurt feelings slipping away, replaced only by my desire to protect her, to keep her from harm or pain.

She cried almost silently, and I waited for her to stop shaking, until her breath became deeper, more regular. She pulled her face up and her eyes were puffy and red, and she sniffled.

"It's okay," I told her, wanting to believe it myself. Maybe hearing the words from my own mouth made it more true. "We're okay."

She kissed me tenderly on the lips, holding her lips to mine, no tongues, just love and need and comfort. I remembered those lips, last night. She looked at me, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

"Oh, Carl," she started, but I hushed her.

"Jess, honey, we were drunk," I explained, "it...well, I guess it just got out of hand."

"No." she insisted, shaking her head, and she slipped off my lap and stood for a second, looking at me, looking down at me. Did she think I was the bad guy here? She began pacing then, her voice raised, talking to the room, her back to me. "No, we were drinking, yes; I was drinking, but we were not that drunk," she insisted, "I wasn't THAT drunk." She shook her head at me again.

"I was pretty drunk," I admitted. "We were having fun, playing around," I told her. "It went too far."

"Too far?" She whirled and faced me from the other side of the room, her back against the counter. "Playing around! You got grab-assy before the party even ended. Then when everyone else had left you were making out with me in front of those guys, and telling those guys what great tits I had, and you were feeling me up right in front of them!"

"I guess I WAS pretty drunk," I mumbled, recalling my actions. I picked my head up and looked at her. "You seemed to like it, though..." I tried.

"A first I didn't, I was uncomfortable; I was going along with it for you, I thought you wanted me to," she explained. Her arms were waving animatedly now, the way she does when she gets riled. "And then I was a little excited, you bragging on me and all," she told me.

"Maybe you were drunker than you think..."

"The drinking doesn't explain it, not all of it, not even close," she emphasized. "Yeah, I had a few drinks, enough to get me to go along with the fondling, and not stopping you when you were feeling up my tits." She blew out a breath. "And you telling them how hot you thought I am, and kissing on me and rubbing me; I started liking it." She stopped, ran her hands through her hair, that lovely, subconscious nervous tic she does. "And oh, shit, when they started saying stuff back, and you didn't stop, I thought you wanted it; I thought I was doing it for you!" She was panting a little. "I was LIKING doing it for you!"

"Well, it was fun, at first..."

"And when that guy Mike pulled out his dick?" She started pacing again, walking the length of the small kitchen, back and forth, her hands stressing her points like a spastic windmill. "Was that fun for you? Because YOU DIDN'T STOP ME. And I got all excited, and I just started blowing him! Was that fun for you? Christ Almighty, I started out going along because I thought it was for you, but once I got his cock in my mouth, I ... I lost it! I fucking lost it!" She was frantic now, raving and shouting as she paced. "First I was doing it for you, then I LIKED doing it for you, and then I JUST PLAIN LIKED IT!" She looked at me, boring her eyes into mine. "And I lost it! All I could think of was sucking his cock and fucking him..."

"Really?" I asked.

Her eyes softened, lost their intensity, and I thought she might start crying again. She came to me, dropping to her knees again in front of my chair. "Why do you think I'm so upset?" She took my hands again, and her voice had a fearful, shamed whine. "Carl, honey, I'm scared half to death from what I did! I sucked Mike's cock, and then his friend was pulling my pants down, and I helped him. I FUCKING HELPED him! Right in front of you, thinking you were okay with it, but I didn't even care anymore. I WANTED him to fuck me while I sucked Mikes cock!