Corruption of a Geek Goddess Pt. 02

Author's Note : This grew and grew as I wrote it, but it should be worth your time: literally half the word count is taken up by sex scenes, to say nothing of kinky angst and dirty talk sprinkled throughout... and it builds up to a LOOOONG extended climax that took almost a month to get right.

It's been a while since Part 1, so this chapter opens with a quick recap of what came before.

Part 1 was a story about seduction and infidelity, with a little cuckold fantasy thrown in; this one is a story focused on the growth of that cuckold fantasy as it spins out of control. There's plenty of angst, some taunting & humiliation, reluctance, seduction & submission, and a bit of voyeurism to boot. (There's also some love, if you're into that sort of thing.) If that all sounds ok to you, I really think you'll like it. Enjoy!

All characters and events are fictional.

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Chelsea stood in her bedroom next to the man who had just fucked the life out of her. Her fiancé was asleep in living room... unless he'd been woken up by the sounds of adultery, in which case her whole world was about to implode. How could I have let this happen??

She'd never done anything like this, not even close. The way the world saw her -- in fact, the way she saw herself -- was as one half of a loving, adorable, wholesome, geeky couple. She and Mark were internet-famous for their funny and endearing YouTube channel about video games. They'd met Dylan, a fellow YouTuber with a fitness channel, and become fast friends. He'd flirted with Chelsea and subtly felt her up. She'd flirted back, a little too eagerly. Mark had witnessed some of this and felt a shameful, horny rush that gave the couple's sex life a big boost.

Then he and Chelsea made the fateful decision to invite Dylan over for dinner and a light workout -- the plan was simply to let him to flirt (and maybe touch) a little more so they could enjoy the naughty thrill. And the plan worked to perfection... until Mark passed out on the couch and Chelsea wound up taking Dylan to bed.

Now the deed was done and Chelsea was trying to contain her panic. She'd cleaned up the wreckage of her bedroom to hide the evidence, but now she would have to try and salvage the wreckage of her impending marriage, just months away. She would have to open that door to the living room and find out if it was already too late. Or, god willing, maybe Mark was still asleep. In which case she would have to find a way, somehow, to redeem herself.

***

Chelsea

"Ok... here I go."

With that, I forced myself turn the knob and opened the bedroom door -- just pure white-knuckle willpower. Every impulse in my fucked-up head was screaming at me to bury myself under the covers and will this whole catastrophe into non-existence, just let it rest until tomorrow and pray to god that Mark is none the wiser in the morning. I wanted to be eight years old again, to go back to a time when I wasn't really responsible for my actions. But that wasn't gonna work, and I hoped against hope that I wasn't still so childish that I might do something like that.

With the door opened in front of me, I paused just one more time, for just one more second, to steel myself for the scene in the living room, and then I crept out silently. I kept my eyes closed for as long as I could as I made my way down the hall -- just one more piece of childish magical thinking: if I can't see it, it doesn't exist.

But when I turned that corner and the room came into view I found that, in a sense, it really didn't exist: Mark was right where I left him, lying passed out on the couch, with the TV still on at the quiet volume we'd left it at -- maybe if Mark didn't see or hear anything, then what I'd just done with Dylan didn't exist either. Anyway it was a start down that path. A wave of guilt socked me in the gut, but that guilt was of no immediate use, so instead I focused on the overwhelming opiate bliss of the relief that came with it.

I walked just past the couch to see if Mark would stir, and when he didn't I slunk back toward the hall to motion Dylan to get the hell quickly & quietly out of my house; he inched by the couch, by my sleeping fiancé, holding his shoes in his hand for maximum stealth. (Oh look, it's more guilt: we're literally sneaking around behind my boyfriend's back. Because we're so awful.) I ushered Dylan out and that gorgeous, cocky bastard had the nerve to pull me in for a kiss in the doorway, barely if at all blocked from anyone on the couch who might happen to wake up. After a split-second's worth of hesitation I returned his goddamned kiss, accepting both the sensual delight of his embrace and the fresh wave of shame that lodged itself behind my eyes. Why don't you just put that over here, with the rest of the shame. You've got a nice little pile going, Chelsea.

Finally he was gone and I was free to do what I wanted most in the whole world right then: wallow in self-loathing. Fresh ammunition for that self-loathing just kept showing up. For instance, as I walked back towards Mark, I realized that I couldn't even nudge him awake and bring him to sleep in his own bed next to his own future wife. We'd straightened up the bedroom as much as possible, but the room probably still reeked of debauched, illicit, heartbreaking, and wickedly glorious sex. I had given Dylan everything, but I gave the love of my life the couch.

I got into the shower, where I enjoyed that self-pitying crying jag I'd been looking forward to. You ruined it, you're weak, you're stupid, you ruined it, just going around and around in my head like a chorus of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." I didn't bother trying to snap myself out of that torturous cycle. I wanted it to hurt, the more the better. I needed to get a head start on my penance.

Mark

I was so annoyed at myself for falling asleep on the couch like I did. Partly just because it's rude when you have company over, but mostly due to the fact that it cost me the chance jump Chelsea after that show she put on for me.

And, god, what a show it was. Act 1 was simply the outfit she changed into for the occasion -- form-fitting, skin-exposing, libido-firing beauty, so unlike what she normally wears.

"Wow," I blurted out when I saw her. "That's a hell of a getup."

"What, this old thing? I guess it is a little revealing." She was feeling playful. "Oh no, wait, you don't think it sends the wrong message, do you? I certainly hope it doesn't inspire our guest to do something inappropriate. That would be soooo awkward, I don't know if I could handle it..."

She sat down beside me and twirled her finger around my ear, still with that fake-innocent expression, and kept up her act. "Thank goodness I have my big, strong man here to defend my honor in case he gets a little fresh. You'd do that for me, wouldn't you, honey?" At this point she started lightly caressing the outside my crotch and leaned in for a kiss. God, I knew we'd had fun roleplaying the other night, but Chelsea was even more turned on by this whole scene than I thought -- feeling the rapidly stiffening lump in my pants only added to it and a visible little jolt seemed to run through her. She broke the kiss after a minute and eyed me with a more sober look on her face (although I noticed her hand was still dancing across the outside of my pants).

"But seriously, folks," she said. "He'll be here in like 20 minutes. Do you want me to go change? I don't have to lead him on tonight if you're not really into it."

In truth, I had been feeling a little anxious about our whole "whatever happens, happens" plan for the evening. Playing around with the idea of letting Dylan feel her up was intensely arousing when it was just the two of us -- I mean, almost distressingly hot -- but the reality of letting it happen again in real life, right in front of me, and even inviting it as Chelsea seemed eager to do... it was giving me a case of the yips. What would Dylan think of me? Hell, what would *I* think of me? Weren't we moving awfully fast?

But then there was Chelsea. She'd gotten off on the idea so hard the past few days. She'd taken the initiative in choosing that outfit. And the fact that she kept on fondling me even as she asked this serious question said everything about what she hoped my answer would be, like she was trying to get me to think with my dick. It was kinda working, and also I didn't want to be the guy who busted up the party before it really got fun. I didn't want to disappoint her.

"Nope, I'm still up for it if you are. I admit I'm a little nervous, but... yeah, good to go. You aren't nervous at all?"

"Hmmmm... teensy bit, haha." She laughed and held up her fingers in a pinch. "But listen, how about this: if Dylan does try anything and it gets too much for you, just give me a signal and I'll gently let him know to knock it off. You just, like, look at me and scratch your nose. Got it?"

Yes, I got it. We snuggled on the couch and watched TV while waiting for Dylan's arrival, but of course all I could think about was what might be about to happen. I turned it over in my head, and I almost had myself convinced that he wouldn't really try anything tonight, not with me right next to him. Then there was a knock at the door, we opened it, and with one look at the giddy leer Dylan gave Chelsea I knew I'd been kidding myself. We greeted him and I turned to lead us out to the living room.

It's crazy the tricks our brains can play on us. I was so keyed up and on-alert for signs of flirting between my girlfriend and our guest. I know I heard them say something to each other behind me, and I'm pretty sure it had to do with Chelsea's outfit. What it sounded like was Dylan whispering, "So, you wore it for me after all?" and Chelsea shushing him because I was "right there." I mean, that couldn't actually be what they said, but it sure is what I heard. I was just so primed to hear something naughty, and that's what my brain came up with.

After that, right from the start of the night, we were off to the races. When I'd pictured this whole thing, I imagined that Chelsea would take it slow, be coy, make it subtle -- but I guess she was more ready for this adventure I'd realized. And I imagined Dylan being cagey, trying to avoid my noticing like the last time -- but I guess when he caught on to the way Chelsea was leading him on, that went right out the window.

The first thing Chelsea did after greeting our guest was to grab a few beers for us before the workout. She made a show of trying to find them in the fridge, bending over to check the bottom shelf with her ass pointing right at us. I gulped, suddenly very anxious about how fast and how flagrant this was. I glanced over at Dylan and he had his eyes locked onto my girlfriend, enjoying the show; I watched his face slowly morph into a smug grin that almost made me want to call the whole thing off right there.

Back in the living room, chatting, Chelsea was lying on the couch; her feet were in my lap, but all her attention was on Dylan. At one point she did this big stretch that made her tits visibly strain against her top, and also made the top ride up and reveal even more of her belly. Conversation stopped as Dylan watched the show -- Chelsea turned her head to look at him just in time to catch him readjusting his shorts, and I saw them share a cheeky, naughty look that dropped my heart into my stomach with a thud and made my dick twitch against her feet. This was merely the start of the evening, a preamble, and I was wondering exactly what I'd signed up for.

I learned quickly enough once we finished our beers and the workout tutorial began. I wasn't quite ignored, but it was clearly the Dylan & Chelsea Show from the jump. Sure, they'd make just enough of an effort to include me so it wouldn't be weird, and they'd talk to me when I said something -- but I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was in the audience. I don't even think it was intentional for either of them; it's just that whatever was going on between them was so much more interesting than anything I had to say and it drew all of their attention. And mine.

It was the same routine I'd watched them play out on the video footage a couple months back, but on steroids. The same kind of barely-plausible groping disguised as training, only now they didn't care about getting caught, so furtive touches became lingering ones. Dylan would reach over from behind Chelsea and reposition her with his hands, and then they'd just stay like that for a while... basically hugging, pressed up against each other, carrying on a conversation with their lips an inch apart.

Their contact was also more daring than that first time. I lost count of how many times Dylan's hand made contact with the underside of my girlfriend's boobs -- or damn near on top of them, or right on her ass, or the inside of her thigh as he lifted her leg to stretch it -- and then stayed there.

And the flirty banter. Sooo many compliments passing back & forth right in front of me. Chelsea is a "fucking knockout" with "scrumptious" runner's legs and a butt that would be "even more spectacular" if she did some squats. Dylan, who is "chiseled" and "strong," has a "Superman chest" and "ridiculous stamina." When he apologized to Chelsea for getting too close with his sweaty workout body, we also learned that it's ok because he "actually smells kind of amazing." I mostly just watched, and listened, lost in my own world: trying to hide the fact that I was painfully erect for most of the workout, and wondering if I should give the signal for Chelsea to cool it.

"... right, Mark? Mark?" Dylan was snapped me back to reality. He was standing right behind Chelsea, who was leaning back against his chest and looked to be having the time of her life.

"Wha - huh?"

"Did you hear me?"

"Uh, no, I guess not. Sorry."

"I said, doesn't Chelsea look so damn foxy when she wears this stuff?"

"Oh yeah, for sure."

"God, you're so lucky, I bet she dresses sexy for you all the time." For the first time tonight, I saw Chelsea blush -- we both knew she dressed in t-shirts and hoodies for me, the same as anyone else. "Chelsea, you should totally wear stuff like this in your videos, you'd get so many new fans. And Mark wouldn't mind. Isn't that so?"

They were both looking at me, amused. "Oh. Well, no, of course not. I mean, whatever Chelsea wants, right?"

"Exactly! Whatever Chelsea wants, dude..." She laughed and seemed to wriggle her ass against Dylan's groin in a playful way, and that was when it became too much for me. Too embarrassing, yeah, and also too fucking hot to take any longer. My hand flew up to scratch my nose, but Chelsea wasn't paying any attention to me. When she did look over a minute later, I decided to let her keep having fun. Or maybe I just chickened out, I don't know.

Instead, I did the only other thing I could think of: I excused myself, jogged to the bathroom, and jerked off. Not my proudest moment. I stood there with my hand against the wall, eyes closed, picturing all the shit I'd seen tonight. Then I pictured the things I hadn't seen, crazy scenarios where Chelsea & Dylan go much further than just teasing. After 20 seconds I came in my hand. (Like I said: not my proudest moment.)

When I got back out there I had some post-but clarity going and the whole scene was a lot less sexy, but fortunately things cooled down pretty soon after. We had a dinner that was actually a lot of fun, and a lot more normal, so it was all good. I felt a little silly for getting so anxious. And I couldn't wait to jump Chelsea as soon as Dylan left.

Unfortunately... ugh. After the workout, and the wine, and jerking off, and tossing & turning the night before while I imagined what would happen tonight, I passed out on the couch in front of the TV. Damn it.

This whole thing fucked with my head. I even remember dreaming about the two of them actually having sex in front of me. Or, no, not "having sex" -- fucking. Slapping, spanking, yelling, filthy words, my fiancée begging for his cum. It was so vivid in my head, maybe the realest dream I've ever had. God, I so wish I would've woken up then.

I got up early the next morning and found Chelsea already awake, doing a load of laundry, everything back to normal. I hugged her, apologized profusely for passing out like that, promised to make it up to her today, then apologized some more.

"Don't be silly!" she told me. "It was a crazy night, I get it. And we had a great time, didn't we? Anyway, you know, I'm sorry too."

I don't know what she had to be sorry about -- maybe overdoing it in front of Dylan. But it was nice of her to make me feel better.

Chelsea

I woke up horny the next morning, snapping awake in the middle of a sex dream -- Jesus, even in my sleep I can't stop myself from fucking Dylan -- and a minute later I realized the bedroom still reeked of sex. I snatched up the bedding and started the wash before Mark could wake up.

When Mark did get up he apologized for passing out last night, and he really, really meant it. Ouch. Then an hour later, on the couch, with the sex-stained sheets still in the dryer, he started touching, rubbing, and nuzzling in the way he does when he wants me to know it's time to have sex... and I had to put him off: I was still just too sore after the pounding I'd let Dylan give me. Double ouch. Mark was cool about it, as always, but... yeah. Not great.

I needed to get out of there for a while, so I pretended I was dying to run some errands and told him I'd be back in a few hours. I spent most of that time just sitting at Starbucks, staring into my latte.

When I got back home in the early evening Mark didn't immediately tackle me or anything, but he was clearly in a state of high sexual vigilance. We didn't talk about that, and we didn't even talk about the show last night aside from some playful references. But it was obvious to me that my man had sex on the brain. And of course that was all because of what he'd seen last night.

It wasn't long until we did get into heavy petting on the couch before taking it to the bedroom (by then I finally wasn't feeling so anxious, or so sore). We collapsed on the bed, all grabby and giggly, and I got smacked in the face with the images -- and the sounds, and the tastes -- of what happened there the night before.

It was hardly the first time I'd flashed back to fucking Dylan, but it was the first time my mind didn't then collapse in on itself like a dying star made of shame & self-loathing. And that's because this time I was watching my boyfriend, and he was fucking randy. His usual slow & sensuous routine was gone and he seemed manic, overwhelmed, touching me all over like he didn't know what to do with himself, and a look in his eyes that said he was barely in control of his own body. His dick was sticking straight out and comically tenting his pants; I reached down to grab it while Mark was frantically licking my earlobe (?!) and I could tell, even through the fabric, that he was as hard as he'd ever been in his life.

Oh!, how I loved feeling that hard dick right then. Because, first: hard dick, yum. But more than that it meant he was happy, and if I make him that happy then I'm not *just* the horrible cheating slut who'd risk her marriage to get creampied by some cocky stud. For the first time all day, I giggled in joy.

"Heheheh, oh my god, babe! Are you seriously this horned up over last night? Still??"

Mark nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I guess so. It's embarrassing, and my stomach was in knots the whole time, but... that was just the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen."