Ryan's Wife

Ryan entered the abandoned warehouse.

The music pulsed, a low thudding beat like that of a heart. People danced—girls, guys, androgynes—or else thrashed around in the throes of an epileptic fit. Most of the crowd kept themselves to Miller Light and marijuana, but a few shot heroin as openly as they downed their drinks. Posters covered the walls, for other shows or anarchist movements.

None of the guys at work, used to polo shirts and khakis, would recognize him now. His leather jacket was full of safety pins and band patches and metal studs and spikes. He wore a band shirt and combat boots and ripped striped pants with zippers up the back. He'd tied feathers and beads and ties in his brown hair, gelling up random spikes and flicks and curls. He wore liquid eyeliner and mascara. Probably everyone at his job would run screaming and clutching their wallets.

Ryan had told his wife he was working late. She believed him, like she always believed him. She was too stupid to guess about his secret life.

Sometimes Ryan hoped that his wife was cheating on him, simply to add some interest to the boredom of his life with her. No, she wouldn't have the courage. Even if attraction to her tennis pro or grocery-store clerk made her clit throb, the idea of doing so couldn't pass her faded blue housedress. She was exactly what she seemed, as shallow in her stupidity as a puddle.

When he entered, he gathered some attention from women and men. Ryan cut a fine figure of a man: he worked out regularly and took care of his body, and always dressed well for his visits. But it was more than simple surface attraction. With his well-cut hair and clothes that obviously didn't look like they came from a thrift store, he looked like someone that could score you drugs, and that also made him desirable.

For a moment, Ryan considered dancing or getting a beer. But he had been horny for days, ever since his wife's last attempt at getting more of the mediocre sex she was so good at, and getting his erection taken care of was the first order of business.

He tossed aside with a gesture a leering girl in fuck-me boots and a short denim skirt and too much red lipstick and walked to the bathroom.

In the walls of one of the back rooms, someone had carved several holes. The walls were thin enough that even a girl could put her cunt up to be licked, although a man's cock was better suited for the purpose. It was the ultimate in anonymous sex.

Ryan undid his pants and dropped them around his ankles. He had no underwear on. He put his cock through the hole.

Within a few moments, a warm hand found his cock and started to stroke it up and down, very slowly.

Ryan relaxed as the girl's (man's? Ryan decided it was a woman, since he was straight) hand sped up a little, increasing the pleasure. Every once in a while she pulled back to focus on a different area, lightly circling the head of his dick with her fingertip or tickling the underside of it ever so lightly. She was very good, and he felt waves of pleasure through his cock. He breathed quickly, enjoying the sensation. There was nothing better than being in the hands of a woman who knew cock and loved cock and needed cock and worshipped cock.

So unlike his wife.

She had broken a vase today, accidentally dropping it while she was putting in the flowers he had gotten her in order to get her to shut up about his "workaholic tendencies." It was the third household object she had broken this week. Sometimes it seemed Ryan's entire paycheck went to replacing things.

"I'm so sorry, boobear," she said as she cleaned up the vase. She always called him boobear. Ryan, who was of the opinion that no one should ever be called boobear, had given up arguing about it long ago.

The girl pulled back from his dick slowly, her hand caressing the top as she pulled away, squeezing the top of the head until he produced a little drop of precome. Shit, was she done already?

But that cock-loving bitch hadn't even started. Starting at the base, she licked the shaft ever so slowly with the tip of her tongue, ending with a flourish at the head. She went back down the other side, her tongue stretched out wide over his cock, and started back again along the cock, still slow. She clasped the base of the shaft with her hand and dove in.

She'd been going slow up to this point, but Ryan could tell how hungry she was, taking in his first three inches and rubbing her tongue up and down the shaft. Then she sucked him in, all seven inches of him, leaving only the tiniest part of his cock covered by the wall. Her head moved up and down his shaft. Her tongue pressed up against his cock and licked side to side as she sucked him in. Her mouth was in a tight ring around his cock that felt so good, better than pussy, better than anything.

Ryan moaned.

It only seemed to encourage her to go deeper and faster, taking in all of his cock, so the head of it was pressed against the back of her mouth, licking the underside of his dick with so much pressure that he felt like he was going to explode, moving her head up and down so that the tip of his dick rubbed against the top of her mouth.

With a sudden irresistible jolt, Ryan knew he hated his wife. He hated her boringness, her faded blue housedress, her 'boobear', her clumisiness, her routine attempts at sex. He hated everything about her. Her existence made his skin crawl.

Ryan came.

As Ryan took his dick out of the hole, it occurred to him to talk to the woman (or, he supposed, the man). If she was this good at giving head, how good would she be at fucking? Ryan hurried to the other side of the holes, violating all manners, for a chance to find out.

The woman was still sitting there, the only person not attending to a cock or a pussy. She had a small smile on her face. Her blonde hair was spiked up, and she had multicolored hair extensions. She wore leopard print and plaid and a vest with pins and badges. But something about her face was very familiar.

She looked up at Ryan, who was still zipping up his pants. She mouthed a word.

"Boobear?"