Club Ravish Ch. 02

With this, Olivia seemed to remember she could move.

She wasted no time in lowering herself from the platform, ignoring the playful caresses, pats, and tweaks as she did so.

Though he'd started from far across the room, Dean worked fast; he was already cutting into the fringe of the audience Olivia had built in front of the platform. She slipped and squeezed through crevices in the tightly packed bodies to meet him in the middle.

The smell of sweat and sex on her skin was as damning as her nakedness and the stream of cum still dribbling down her thighs. As she closed the remaining distance between her husband and herself, she seemed to trip, breaking through the last remaining bodies separating them -- a couple of burly men in strappy, leather garments.

Dean's hands caught her around the elbows -- warm and firm and out of habit, before he seemed to remember exactly what was happening here, and his grip fell like she'd burned him.

His expression was drawn into the hard planes of his face.

Olivia already knew he was unhappy.

She took a deep breath in preparation for a fight.

"Dean, I can explain--"

The music was so loud, though, the bass pounding. Olivia's apology, no matter how genuine, was marred and drowned in the torrent of noise.

Dean wasn't going to put more effort into understanding the apology than she had in making it.

"Don't."

A robust and vise-like grip wrapped around her wrist, and then the next thing she knew, Dean was dragging her out of the main room and down the back hall to the locker room.

Her free hand came around to cover her bare breasts -- she was still naked, and with the exertion of sex cooling at her skin, she was getting cold too.

In the locker room, she felt ironically underdressed.

The walls and floor seemed to sweat like the 'players' out on stages in the front of the house; things were sticky and clammy underfoot. She'd been filthy moments before, and it was only now that she was disgusted. Dean rounded on her, and she found herself shrinking back into what she couldn't place.

When he released her, she felt the phantom of a bruise at her wrist. She ignored this for now.

Meanwhile, Dean's eyes were red -- what he was no doubt seeing -- as he looked at his wife, naked and cringing away from him as around them, others tucked towels between their legs and nursed bottles of water.

"How could you?"

"Dean, I know it looked bad--"

"Bad?" He gave a hard laugh. "Well, bad for me, who got to watch other men fuck you, put their fingers inside you, and--" He cut himself off, giving his head a little shake like he was trying to be rid of the images replaying in his head.

"It wasn't--I wasn't trying to betray you. It was...a me thing. A sex thing. Not a betrayal to our marriage."

Rather than groveling and crying -- something Olivia already knew her husband had no patience for -- she had decided to take the rational approach.

The one where Olivia told him why she did it and why she didn't think it was some terrible hurt she'd inflicted on him.

Instead of seeing her flippancy as a respectable honesty, though, it only seemed to add salt to the wound. When she saw her husband's distress deepen, Olivia's first instinct was to rush to her own defense again. A thought occurred to her; when you find yourself in a hole, quit digging.

She shut her mouth.

"Not a betrayal? Then why didn't you tell me about it beforehand?"

It was hard to focus on an answer or Dean's rage, to be honest. Stagnating in her chilled post-sex sweat was making her really freaking cold now. Her nipples were tight like bullets and aching.

She was almost shivering.

"Dean, could we just--go home and talk about this?"

Her husband's eyes fell on her arm curled tightly around her, the way her form seemed to be shrinking down into itself and misread it.

There were several people in the break area, toweling off, relaxing, listening...

"What, don't you like being watched?"

Olivia felt her brow raise. She almost stepped back from the surprising wash of vitriol coming from her husband.

"It's not that I don't love you anymore. I just wanted--"

She didn't know how to say it. Something new? Someone new?

"--butterflies again," she finished quietly. "And I know you...prefer our usual way of...making love."

Her admission, soft and reticent and earnest, fell on her husband's stony demeanor.

"You know what? You didn't even ask."

Olivia opened her mouth to protest but realized she had nothing she could stand by. It was true; she hadn't asked. She had been so sure of her husband's feelings, she'd felt guiltless in steamrolling over them to sate her urges and went straight to the option that would keep him off her back, without even considering the inherent deceit of the act itself.

"I'm...sorry," she finally said in a way that suggested the words were scraped from the very bottom of her skull -- all she had left to offer. "I thought I knew what you liked. Knew how...limited that was."

"You assumed."

"Yeah. I did, and that wasn't right."

Dean watched her tightly for a few moments, his eyes slipping over her form. Olivia couldn't read what passed behind his eyes. She thought it almost looked similar to how he sized her up during sex but attaching that to the current situation felt like trying to jam a jigsaw piece that didn't fit.

Meanwhile, Olivia felt hyperaware of the other people in the tiny back room with them. Their voices had been the only ones rattling off the tile walls. It didn't matter whether or not the others' eyes were on them or not, their ears couldn't help but be. Their vigilance was.

"Touch yourself."

The order seemingly dropped out from the sky. Olivia looked at her husband, startled.

"What?"

She was sure she could feel eyes on her back. Dean jerked his chin towards the bench by the back wall behind her.

"Touch yourself," he repeated.

"I don't--"

"What? Want to?"

Olivia lowered her voice and shot a look at the other people in the room, seemingly off by themselves, but certainly not by themselves.

"Dean, there are other people here. This isn't the--"

"I thought you liked being watched."

Before she could answer, Dean was giving his head a little shake and speaking again, his hand cutting through the air in a little chopping motion like he was placing the order in front of her to see.

"You know what? I actually don't care what you want right now. Touch yourself."

Olivia stared, waiting for Dean to say he was joking or to call it all off. His eyes watched her with a chill he'd never leveled on her before. She found herself taking a step back. The back of her knees almost bumped up against some sticky bench by the lockers, but the distance she put between them did nothing to relieve the choking way his gaze pinned her. Her arms dropped down at her sides, and she was acutely aware of how her body jostled under the cold, white light. Of all the details, everyone else's eyes could pick up on; the dimpling of flesh at the give of her thighs or the web of stretch marks.

Her fingers brushed the tuft of curls between her legs, parting them. Her fingers pushed through to slip against her still-wet folds and cutting through the tightness and toughness crackling the air between her and her husband, fracturing their marriage, was arousal, clear and sharp.

Dean's eyes were fixed on where her fingers shifted between her legs, memorizing the tiny, twitching movements.

Already she was wet again -- either that or it was leftovers from her earlier activities. In any case, her cunt felt better than the rest of her did at that moment. The wetted pads of her fingers moved easily against her slick folds. Still, her thighs only parted to yield a narrow berth; she could do so much more if she just had the room.

She watched Dean watch her, although it wasn't her face he seemed worried about.

Did he want more? The last time she'd assumed what he wanted, she'd assumed terribly wrong.

Olivia moved carefully, deliberately, like she didn't want to startle him as she raised her leg carefully to brace her foot on the bench, spreading her legs further, baring the wet seam of her cunt and all she did to it, to her husband.

She pushed two fingers inside her, her arms getting a slight tremble from the strain the awkwardness of the position, and her fatigue from earlier set about her.

The man from earlier's leftovers were still inside her; it seeped out of her, her slick running milky as it dribbled out of her.

The array of people in the room seemed to close in slightly, pulling closer like invisible purse strings were cinching tight around them.

The walls weren't closing in, but that didn't mean other things weren't.

Their eyes slipped over her skin, and she felt them as poignantly as if they were fingers. The attention, the muggy heat of the room -- like the walls were sweating as they were -- it was all so tight.

Tight like her fingers pushing inside her, spreading her inner walls, dragging her slick out between her legs with each focused length crossed towards her release.

She could feel herself clench around her fingers and knew she was close.

Meanwhile, Dean's face was tight, his eyes moving from their locked point at the junction of her thighs before he jerked it up to her face, watching as her lips fell apart, eyes glassy, almost hazy with his fury.

At the back of her mind, she was acutely aware that she should be worried about her husband's already soured temper. Still, she felt a tugging in her toes where her legs twitched and trembled, and so she couldn't bring herself to care enough.

As it was, Dean seemed to care enough for the both of them.

He went to his wife like a stranger, like a brute. His hands closed around the tops of her arms, and Olivia was surprised by how her heart jumped in her chest. His fingers were tight; he'd never held her like that before.

Maybe it was because her fingers were still hilted firmly between her velvet, swollen folds, or perhaps it was the proximity of her husband in her nakedness that made her more attuned to his strength.

He didn't give her much time to ponder this because then he was crushing his lips against hers, her hand caught between their bodies, the cotton of his shirt rubbing against her sensitive nipples.

Dean wasted no time in forcing her lips apart and jammed his tongue inside. He swallowed her answering warbled yelp down, the force of his body lowering her onto the bench. Olivia was acutely aware of the other people in the room, watching them, or at the very least, noticing them.

Technically, all the sexy stuff was supposed to be kept to the front of the house, although she didn't know how strictly this was upheld.

She didn't usually make a habit of coming back here herself.

There was no way for anyone to know Dean was her husband.

Would they intervene? Did they think she was being attacked?

The descent of her body onto the bench made it easier for Dean to tear her fingers from her cunt. Her arms trembled, her skin was hot -- she wanted Dean to grab her again.

"Dean, I--"

"Shut up, Liv," he growled.

There was a look on her face that stopped him, and for the first time since he'd found her at Ravish, he looked a bit like her husband again.

"Just, not now, okay?"

She hadn't even been close to understanding what her face must've looked like until she became aware of the tightness in her throat and couldn't get her voice past it. She nodded, tiny, barely perceptible, and then Dean's lips were searing her all over again.

His grip was heavy on her wrist, holding it down, not only preventing her from reaching up to touch him but keeping her out of the way.

For a second, Olivia thought Dean might put his full weight against her to ram his cock up inside of her. She clenched emptily at the thought, her swollen cleft letting more of her slick slip out.

God, she had just been fucked rather generously, and already she was ready to rut again.

Her hips surged forward and met the bulge in his trousers.

Fuck, if he hadn't been holding her wrist, she would've all but torn his clothes clean off of him.

Dean broke the kiss, his hands firm against her as he pushed her away. Again, the absence of him was aching. Her eyes must've betrayed this because even as Dean's hands went for his belt and the zip on his trousers, he spoke again.

"I'll fuck you but, on my terms," he started.

Her arousal flared -- she had never known Dean to have terms during sex.

"You need to keep your fucking mouth shut."

It was her husband's voice but not her husband's words.

He'd never spoken to her -- to anyone, really -- with such vitriol before.

She opened her mouth to speak, already forgetting her husband's wish like she made a habit of it.

"You didn't talk to me before, and you don't get to now."

She hadn't even realized when his cock was out and free because it was only so for a moment, before he was getting her up against the lockers, her legs hitched at his hips, so he could more easily thrust himself into her.

Olivia let out a yelp as she felt her husband's cock force her inner walls apart. She was wet and well-stretched from her earlier endeavors, but he took her hard and abruptly. A faint sting rose and evaporated over the heat of her arousal.

His chest was against hers as he pounded into her, the fabric of his shirt chafing against the hardened peaks of her breasts. Shocks of pleasure strung through her like something tangible that could be pulled, tied, and tangled. Her cunt clenched around him, greedily clamping around him, taking his cock like her body knew it was the one she belonged to.

"Ah!--It's--"

"Shut up," Dean grunted, his face dropping into the damp crook of her neck.

Her toes twitched as a spasm went up her leg, nudging where Dean slotted himself between her legs like she was egging him on.

The others in the back room were staring at them openly now.

Olivia wanted to stare back, wanted to check between their legs to see if they were hard like the man taking her, but she didn't dare look away from Dean. She'd gotten the sense that she'd given other men quite enough attention for one night.

Dean stilled inside of her, the absence of his rough friction shocking her in how her arousal pounded back, protesting the way her husband confiscated their fuck.

She wanted to ask her husband what he was doing, to beg him to rail her. She wasn't supposed to talk, though.

"Wait," he said, a little breathlessly. "I want you on top."

Her stomach flipped, and then Dean pulled out from her and lowered himself onto the sticky bench.

He lay down, still fully clothed, his cock out of his trousers, erect and gleaming with her slick. His hands guided her back over him. It was all changing so fast now. Olivia stalled, wet and wanting but frozen, caught between her husband's commanding gaze and those of their spectators.

Dean got impatient after a few moments and grabbed his wife by the hips, dragging her down so that the tip of his thick cock was pressed against her entrance.

Her fingers found his chest and splayed, desperate to retain some grip on him as he sunk his cock into her tight heat. She was soaked and stretched. The only resistance there was, was the speed at which he took her, his hold on her hips forcing her down at a pace that must've bruised the inside of her.

When he was fully hilted in her, she almost wanted to draw her legs up. He was so deep inside, she thought he could've split her in half if he wanted to.

It was different from when she was fucked on the stage earlier. Dean wasn't all that big -- not like the man from earlier, but still, in feeling him inside her with his fingers bruising at her hipbones, she knew she belonged to him. Knew that even if she was seated on top of him like his cock was her throne, that he was still very much in charge.

He seldom commanded her attention like this. Her stomach flipped; she wanted desperately to know what he would do with that control.

"Move," he grunted. "Ride me."

Olivia rolled her hips obediently, but the angle she was at, leaning forward to brace her hands against his chest, was all wrong. She shifted so that she was straddling him on her knees and turned so that she was sitting back on her heels. Then she tried to bounce, circling her hips so that she moved in a back-and-forth and up-and-down simultaneously.

At the start of friction again, she couldn't help but moan.

Already wet, she felt more slick slip out of her to coat his thick length. When they fucked, there was an audible wet sound that brought with it the sound of their skin slapping together as she rode him, his hands still forcing her down hard onto him.

"Ah!--"

"You're so much of a little slut; you can't even keep quiet like I told you to."

Her skin burned, the eroticism and shame of his words only feeding her arousal.

"Dean, I--" she swallowed. There was nothing she could say that he would want to hear. She wanted to try anyway. "Dean, I love you."

"None of that sappy shit now."

His hands left her hips to form a vise-like grip around her arms. Now when he pulled her down on his cock, it was messier, sloppier, harder from the clumsy angle at which he fucked her. Her body moved like a ragdoll on him as he held her from an area with less control.

Her breasts bounced furiously; she could feel the impact as it reverberated in her body, in the shift of her ass and thighs. She thought of the give of her body, and suddenly the shame in her grew a little more. She wanted to cover up and shrink into herself, but she couldn't -- Dean was still holding her arms down. A vicious shiver ran up her; it was like her cunt was pulsating around him.

She never voiced this, didn't even try to reclaim her arms from him. Still, years of marriage didn't come without a certain antiquated knowledge of the other.

Dean could read her like his favorite book.

"Don't get shy on me all of a sudden."

He spoke through his teeth.

"We're past that, aren't we?"

He thrust into her confidently, like it was his right.

If one had asked either of them, they both would've agreed that it was. The spasming of Olivia's tight walls around him never ceased, even when the rest of her body leaned into how he pounded into her.

She came with a surge of heat inside of her and a raw moan scraping in her throat, and even then, she wondered if it had really happened.

Dean had scarcely reacted. He was still thrusting into her tight heat, not having so much as tensed his jaw when her powerful muscles squeezed around his cock, accepting his thrusts greedily as a renewed wetness slipped out of her.

There was a wet patch on the front of his trousers now, and as the heat dissipated inside her, a shivery, restlessness scattered in her body.

Her climax was fading quickly into a hypersensitivity brought about by his incessant thrusting.

Her skin was flushed. She was glowing like a lantern, and Dean was still feeding the fire inside of her.

With each thrust, her toes twitched. Her fingers clenched into the material of Dean's shirt as she tried to resist the urge to shove him away because, damn it, it was too fucking much.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that someone in the locker room was holding their phone in a strange way -- pointed at them as the owner had it awkwardly, away from themselves. They weren't pressing buttons but staring intently at the screen.

They were being recorded.

"O-Oh, wait--"

"No waiting. It's my turn to come, and I'm going to fill you up in front of all your little friends here."