A Devil's Wage

"Maybe we can go to a game with him," I smiled, rewarded with a punch to the shoulder. "...I am going to fuck you so hard tonight," I went on, just moving my lips over the words.

"You'd better," she answered aloud, waving a palm in front of her face as if to cool herself. "I really do need it."

_________________

And so we humped hard that night, and the next. Ellen was really taken with the whole thing, surprisingly so, as she had always been more that a little reticent with divulging too much of her own fantasy life.

As for me, I was absolutely subsumed with the thing, probably because I'd never before seen my wife so aroused by any fantasy, particularly one that skewered into my psyche like this one did. Sure she would be full of play at times with me, enjoying the various titillating games and exchanges we'd drifted into over the years of our marriage, the sexy give-and-take banter, but never like this. This was raw, some dark place just for her, with me almost redundant, feeding her scenarios, giving her more rope.

"Can you just imagine him on top of me," she'd moaned as I climbed her that first night, thrusting harder as she literally exploded into her first orgasm; a certain chaste shyness afterwards, as if wary of having left to much open for me to see.

Two weeks went by like that. Intense, often numbing sexual marathons; sometimes fucking her from behind, a position she hadn't had a particular taste for in the past, driving myself into her mossy, indolent depths as she clutched the headboard with whitened knuckles, whimpering as she crashed between climaxes, I could tell that it wasn't even me behind her anymore, that she was that far removed within her mind...

Two long weeks and then I got the call.

"Guess who called?" Ellen's voice came over my office speaker phone.

"Who," I asked distractedly, shuffling through a report on my desk..

"Come on, guess."

I heard the lilt of barely suppressed excitement in her voice. I reached over and plucked up the receiver.

"Oh, I'm guessing now."

"We have tickets to this weekend's game, if we want them."

"...That's nice. I didn't realize you were such a fan."

Ellen giggled uneasily. I could imagine her shifting from foot to foot, nervously glancing around our empty living room.

"So," she said.

"It's in Wheeling? Who're they playing?"

"He said it's in Pittsburgh. The Steelers..."

"Oh."

"It's this Sunday."

"Ellen, you sure you want to go?"

I let the words settle in hard; I had to say it. This screwy fantasy was out there, but this was different, and at least I was going to come out and say it. I didn't want my wife getting into deeper waters than she realized, or me for that matter.

"It's just a football game."

"Hon, I'm thinking Mr. Conti is—I think he's looking forward to something a bit more entertaining than just a game."

I paused, waiting for her—not surprised at the hardening of my cock, trained dog that it is.

"I don't know," she said finally, sounding flustered.

"I'm not saying don't go, Hon, " I replied evenly, realizing for the first time that my wife, who I trusted implicitly, might actually be turning the thought of sleeping with this strange guy over in her head. "I'm just saying that you have to..."

"I wanna go," she chirped, as if glad to spit the words out.

"Ellen we can talk about this tonight, okay?"

"No, I'm saying I want to go, I want to go to the game. ...I'll chicken out if I don't say yes now. I wanna go!"

"And?"

"We'll just watch the game, okay?"

My office door was open just a crack and I got up and closed it completely.

"Look, this Tony guy wanted to pop you right in our house," I said softly, choosing my words carefully. "You know that. You saw his expression when he saw me and the kids there."

"...Yeah, I know."

"So?"

"If you don't want to go..."

"I didn't say that," I countered, my hands trembling a bit. "I just want you to know what you're maybe getting into with..."

"He's not going to rape me or anything," she said suddenly, and I knew she probably had the exact image flash through her mind as was now flitting through my own—Tony Conti rampant, ripping my wife's clothes off, stripping her nude with sadistic delight, a mean glare as pinned her to his bed. My legs went rubbery with the thought.

"No," I said reassuringly. "But..."

"You get to say what I do," she blurted.

"Huh?"

"You get to say what happens," she said hurriedly, as if wanting to spill it out before she lost her nerve completely. "If you want, you can give him one of the, you know, the papers I gave you."

"My..."

"Yes."

"Ellen, look I..."

"I have to go," she chattered, though I knew she didn't, and heard the line click off. I sat there more than stunned, breathless, my heart racing. My office is a prime bit of corner real estate, but is fronted with floor-to-ceiling glass. I needed to get there, but my erection simply wouldn't slacken.

I laughed to myself in daft amazement, and put the phone back on its hook.

"I don't believe this," I muttered, sitting there for several minutes. It was true that this was always a fantasy I'd always enjoyed, but fuck, it was only just that, just a fantasy. Normal people didn't entertain lunacy like this. But at the same time I was also extremely excited, no denying that.

I thought some more, and then remembered his card. I'd slipped it inside my wallet, wondering now why I'd even saved it at all. Just tell him no, we couldn't make it—hell, just tell him to go fuck off was more like it. Then I thought maybe I was just being an absolute nut with the whole thing, a paranoid jerk.

Tony Conti picked up on the second ring. "Hey, Frank, how are you? Did Ellen tell you about the tickets?"

"She did."

"It's with Baltimore, man. It'll be an outstanding game. ...My buddy Art got 'em for me. He used to be a West Virginia player too, only he was good."

"Yeah," I muttered weakly, wanting to just cut him short and tell him we couldn't go.

"He was my roommate when we were out there. We try and do a couple games a year together, you know, have some fun like we used to in the day."

"Yeah, well..."

"I was telling Art about the wallet thing and all, and about you and Ellen, and he suggested that I should offer you our extra tickets. ...We usually bring a couple chicks out there with us, but I figured that you two might wanna make it a day."

"I..."

"Yeah, Art thought that certificate your wife gave you was a riot."

I shook my head, caught so off guard by him saying it like that that I couldn't form a single word.

"I was joking with your wife that maybe you could trade us two of 'em for the tickets," he went on into the silence, his voice tightening noticeably, a tense laugh dropped on like an exclamation point.

I looked out into the office, watching people moving to and fro, the blood whooshing in my head, I tried to speak, but again not a sound came.

"Hope I'm not being rude or anything, Frank" he said at last. "Ellen didn't say yes or no, but she seemed to be interested in ..."

I slammed the receiver down and took a sharp breath. My hands were shaking violently, and I felt faint for a second or so. It was impossible for me to think, the words—Ellen's, his, mine— tumbling through my consciousness like bits of shattered masonry.

I wished I kept a bottle stashed in my desk like some of the other managers.

My phone rang.

My secretary: "Mr. Pratt, I have a Mr. Conti calling."

"Put it through, Jean."

"Hey, Frank, I'm sorry if I..."

His sentence petered out. I held silent, closing my eyes, trying to focus.

"Look forget about it okay?" he went on, sounding embarrassed. "I just misread things is all. I really thought I caught a vibe from you, and when I was on the phone with your wife, she seemed to..."

"We'll come to the game," I cut in. "Ellen and me."

"...Great. That's...um, that's great."

I looked out to make sure Jean had replaced the receiver.

"Sorry I hung up like that."

"Hey, it's cool," he went on. "...I guessing you guys never really did anything like this before, did you?"

"...No."

"Don't sweat nothing, man," he cut in. "If it feels right when we get..."

"Two of my wife's vouchers for the two tickets, right?"

Tony Conti laughed across the line.

"That's the deal, isn't it?" I went on.

"Yeah, that's the deal. ...Why don't you two come out the day before, on Saturday. Art lives up in Shadyside and we can all stay there. Have a little party that night."

I didn't answer, the silence hanging awkwardly between us.

"You okay with it, man?"

"Yeah," I answered. "It's just that..."

"It'll be a great time," he said, bolder now, cutting me short again, taking hold of the thing firmly. "You want to get in with it or watch, whatever. And we'll...we won't get rough or anything like that if you don't want us to. You just..."

"I'll just watch." I could almost hear him smile over the phone, my stomach sinking as I whispered the words.

"Good, it'll be better that way."

"And you can do whatever you like. I think she'll like it a little rough," I said in a voice I didn't even recognize.

______________________

Art Carson was even bigger than Tony, a literal wall of a man, thick and solid, a neatly trimmed beard, thick black hair. He met us as we pulled into the driveway of his large home on one of Pittsburgh's better neighborhoods, a broad lawn, a Land Rover standing in the opened garage.

It was just past five o'clock, light flurries in the air, the gloom of dusk mantling everything.

He'd watched us as we slowed our car coming down the street, backing up a bit to swing in to where he stood.

"Hi," he said, choosing to come around my side of the car, watching me carefully as I got out, offering me his massive hand. "I'm Art Carson."

"Hi."

The passenger door creaked as it opened. I glanced over as Ellen slowly got out, hesitant, skittish.

Art Carson's expression brightened for an instant, a carnal malevolence registering in his stare. It was so fast, but I knew he had mentally stripped my Ellen raw in that instant, driven his cock into her body with every bit of power he possessed.

"Hi," she said, a low quaver registering in her tone, looking like she was ready to bolt.

"Hello," Art responded, trying for a reassuring grin. "...Let's get inside. Tony is here already."

"Ellen looked at me and took a few steps, waiting for me to come around—I took her forearm, she looked scared, as if wanting me to stop this now; to rescue her, to take her away, back to our home and our pleasant life.

"Come on," I whispered gently, leading her up the long stone walkway, following several steps behind Art, After a moment Tony opened the door, a barely suppressed leer on his face as he swung it open for us. "...It'll be okay."

Art Carson's house was richly furnished. I found myself wondering what he did for a living. He and Tony were making small talk as we walked through the rooms, the words not registering with me at all. Ellen met my eyes, looking slightly dazed. Tony took our coats, his hand casually gliding down the center of Ellen's back as he stepped away.

"So," Art said, opening the door to a room that was obviously his den, a small bar off to one side, an antique billiard table at the far side, comfortable-looking leather chairs and a sofa arrayed around a door-sized flat screen. "Want a drink?"

I shook my head, but Ellen nodded after a pause.

"What would you like?"

"Gin," she whispered hoarsely. I couldn't remember the last time my wife had had a drink, other than wine.

"Tonic?"

She nodded again, looked about the room, as if searching for the escape hatch.

"Come on," Tony spoke up, gesturing to the couch. "Have a seat."

We sat down on the couch; Ellen was swallowing dryly, her shoulders rigid with stress.

"Here you go," Art came over, holding out a tall glass to her. Ellen gulped, her eyes darting, another deep pull off the gin.

"Made it strong," he went on. "Hope you like?"

Ellen nodded. I looked at my wife and thought of these last couple days, a rollercoaster ride of emotions and recriminations from that first night.

I'd said it as soon as I walked in that night, pinned her tight, mashing her pert breasts against my chest, a strained whisper so the girls wouldn't hear, told her that I promised both of 'em, Tony Conti and this friend of his, that they could have a pull on her, my breath hot on her face, a perceptible tremble wracking through her small body. Her skin was moist, almost clammy; I tasted her neck, the salt, the fucking excitement. I met her eyes, told her I said they could do what they liked with her.

We fucked without preamble an hour later, up in our bedroom, the television in the den on louder than normal for the girls, our door locked, no foreplay, her slacks off, my trousers tangled down around my ankles, standing as I held her against the edge of the bed, a hard thrust into her sodden vagina, getting leverage, fucking her as fast as I could, seeing her instantly slip into her first orgasm, thrashing, smothering a pillow across her own face to muffle her shrieks, riding my weight into each lunge, telling her how I told them to be rough with her, rough as they wanted, do what they...

And then the awful crash, the spent seconds, reality tugging us back, Ellen in tears that first night, making me promise to call him to say no, then backing out by morning, then again that night, that hazy peek of what we were being drawn into, the knowledge that we were staring off a cliff, looking down into the abyss.

But each night I have to admit that I was getting more turned on by it, the pull stronger, the rationalizations better defined, that it wasn't anything that would change things between us, that it was just sex and nothing more. I knew Ellen, though fairy inexperienced when it came to sex, had been with a few boyfriends before me, that this was that same kind of thing. It had nothing to do with the core of our lives, of the love we felt for each other. I just knew I wanted it to happen, I was reaching for justifications, making it right and safe when it wasn't either.

And so here we were today, our two beautiful girls at my Mom's for the night.

I looked over at my lovely wife again and saw her drain her glass completely.

"Want another?" Art asked, staring at her with frank appraisal.

She shook her head.

"So, I think we got a transaction to conclude," Tony spoke up, smirking as he pulled two tickets from his shirt pocket and laid them out atop the coffee table. "...Second row back, right up by the fifty."

"And you have something to trade for 'em," Art said, still focusing entirely on Ellen.

I took out the two vouchers Ellen had given me, but hesitated. "You're okay?" I said, looking sidelong at my wife who was staring back at Art, her lower lip trembling. She didn't answer, just kept watching him with that blank, fearful gaze.

I laid the two vouchers right atop the Steelers tickets—Tony plucked them up, chuckling darkly as he studied the paper, Ellen's self-styled photographs and her playful words. He handed one to Art who didn't even bother to look at it.

"Ellen, how tall are you?" he asked.

"I'm..."

"Five-two, five-three?"

"Five-two."

"How old?"

"Thirty-two."

Art nodded and finally looked down at the paper in his hand; a black chortle, amused, leering.

"Tony says you got a kid."

"I have two. ...Two girls."

He rose up abruptly, towering over us as he crumbled the voucher into a spitball and let it drop to the floor.

"You ever fuck anybody as big as me before?"

My wife didn't answer, or better said, couldn't seem to utter a sound. She visibly cringed as she looked up at him, his arms thick as fence posts, massive neck bulging and corded. He had what could be called traditionally handsome features, chiseled seemingly from stone. His blackish beard was trimmed tight, stubbly with a few flecks of gray.

"Should be an easy question, baby," he went on sarcastically.

Ellen shook her head, averted her eyes finally.

"Good, because that won't be the same answer you'll be giving tomorrow," he went on, glancing at me, smirking for my benefit as he continued. "Stand up. Stand up and get the fuck over here!"

Art stepped out towards the open space near his billiard table, pointing to a spot like he was summoning a dog, Tony getting up and following him.

"Come on!" he ordered.

My wife started to get up, faltering as if her legs betrayed her. I reached over and took her hand, knowing I could end this still if I wanted to, knowing that I should. She pulled away from my touch and stood up, wobbly as she edged out to where they waited. She froze there, each of these men at least a foot and a half taller than her, each a good hundred pounds heavier than her—a flinch as Art stroked her hair.

"Take your shoes off."

Ellen had worn plain black heels, not too high, but when she haltingly stepped out of them, the effect was to make the men dwarf her all the more.

"Now your clothes. All of them!"

Ellen hesitated, her tiny hand brushing a button at her neckline. She'd worn a high-collared white blouse today, a skirt that was much longer than her usual tastes. It was a fine black print, the pleats sharply ironed, shrouding right down to her ankles.

"Come on, baby," he said, edging even closer now. "Strip or I'll do it for you."

"I think that's what she fucking wants," Tony said, reaching out and lifting the back of her skirt.

"Stop," Ellen blurted, twisting away from his grasp.

"How 'bout starting things up with a little kiss, bitch," Art laughed, the two of these men corralling her now, circling, edging her back towards the pool table. I still could have stopped it then, but I didn't want to. I have to confess it now; I simply didn't want to.

Art yanked my wife towards him, lifting her free of the floor and pressing his mouth to hers hard, her thrashings like those of a rag doll as he fairly wrestled her across the floor, his bearded face grinding against hers, muffling her whimpered pleas, stumbling as he gripped the back of her blouse and ripped it down the length of her spine with one motion. Ellen yelped as he powerfully launched her across towards Tony who grappled her about with ease, tugging her head backwards as he shredded the front of the blouse, buttons flying across the hardwood as he pulled the ruined cloth off her body.

"I'm gonna fuck you so fucking hard," he snarled, his face touching hers, lips barely brushing her quivering mouth. He spun her about, still gripping into that shank of dark, curly hair, raising her to her tiptoes as he unclasped the brassiere, letting her clasp the lace cups to her breasts as he reached down and with one deliberate motion, tore through the zipper of her skirt and let it and collapse about her ankles, grappling with her now as he got the bra off her and flung it at my feet. Ellen's eyes darted now, palms over her bared breasts, trembling from head to toe.

"Now look what you're gonna get," he said, twisting her to face Art who had stepped back and slipped off his shoes, visibly excited as he was taking off his clothes, though deliberate enough to neatly fold his shirt and trousers across the back of a chair, pulling his tee shirt up over his head—he was massive in his chest and neck, thick belted muscles that lacked the definition or finesse of a weightlifter. This guy was just powerful, the musculature of a man who used physical strength in his daily work, pounding defensive linemen in the NFL or breaking legs on some New Orleans dock.

He glanced right at me as he slid his plain white boxers down, his erect cock springing to attention, a huge thing by any standard, ten inches at least, thick around as my wrist, a blood-gorged purple shaft bent slightly upwards in an obscene bow.