Corruption of a Geek Goddess Pt. 02

"Yes, baby! That's right... and I love my little cuck, I really do..."

"ARRGHH! SHIT!" Mark boiled over. His hands kept a death grip on my hips as he suddenly, frantically began slamming up into me with all his might, knocking me around like a rag doll; I yelped & screamed in genuine shock. He was a wild man, holding nothing back. It was a sight I'll never forget, seeing my beloved completely lose himself beneath me.

But it couldn't last. I'd basically overdosed him on his most primal fantasy and brought him too close to the edge -- mere seconds after that wild ride began he was growling and twitching, spurting his load of cum into the condom. I collapsed onto his chest and lay there while we both caught our breath. Mark spoke first.

"Oh my god, Chelz... Jesus fucking Christ, that was... fuck..."

"Heheh... too much?"

"No... Yes, no, I don't know. You've never been so... it was a lot, that's all. Clearly I liked it, ha."

"Well, I've had a lot of practice lately. And I think I know what you like by now."

"Yeah. I'm just sorry I came so fast. You're always so sexy for me, and you go out of your way to turn me on and play my stupid little game. You deserve more than that, you know..."

"Stop that! In case you didn't notice I came even harder than you tonight. And I like your little game, too." That all happened to be true -- even though it was also true that Mark tended to finish awfully quick these days. As we spoke I felt his rapidly-deflating, latex-covered penis slip out of me and thought to myself, '... but it would be nice to get fucking stuffed for real again.' A guilty little shiver ran through me and I hugged Mark tightly to ward it off.

"I love you, baby," I said.

"I love you so much. It doesn't seem real how lucky I am." We lay there for another minute, silently basking in the afterglow, when Mark spoke up again. "Hey, Chelz?"

"Yes, babe?"

"I feel stupid asking this, but... that was just a story you made up, right? It wasn't real?"

"Hmmm... I'll never tell. Oh! Would you look at the time; we should really get some sleep. No more questions."

"Oh, you heartless bitch hahaha -- you're gonna pay for that."

"Mmmm... big talk..."

I honestly don't know what I would've done if he'd pressed me for a real answer.

Mark

The next couple weeks saw our perverted fantasy life kick into overdrive. That night when Chelsea made up the story about her & Dylan, and brought up the C-word explicitly, it clearly knocked down some of the guardrails in our bedroom. The put-downs got harsher, and the fantasies were raunchier & more specific. I spent more time with my head between her legs, and less time with my dick inside of her -- we were almost all foreplay now, mostly because she dragged it out so long that by the time we got down to real sex her teasing would have me ready blow.

Chelsea was amazingly supportive about all this, but I still felt self-conscious. A few times I'd make an effort to leave the game alone for a night and just make love, but then Chelsea would be the one to bring it up -- she'd say she could tell I needed it -- and when she did, my willpower just melted. It felt too damn good.

I asked her one night, "Are you sure you don't think any less of me for all this? I mean, subconsciously, doesn't it make you look at me different?"

"No way! I promise. I get it, I know why you're asking, but... well, ok, how about this: do these games we play make you think any less of me? Like, do you wake up in the morning, look at me, and think, 'Oh, there's the cruel bitch who always taunts me, I hate her'?"

"Oh GOD no, not at all. It's the opposite, I look at you and I'm so grateful. I'm kind of in awe of you."

"Exactly! That's how I feel, too. I'm just so thrilled to have such a fun, sexy, adventurous boyfriend."

That made sense to me, so we kept it up. Almost every day, sometimes more than once, Chelsea would pour slippery, naked poison into my ear and drive me into a small frenzy. And often -- increasingly often -- as we approached a climax, hers or mine, the talk would turn to Dylan in a pointed way. And before long I'd be swearing that I wanted her to fuck him, that she deserved it, and that I wanted to watch it happen.

Somehow I don't even feel bad about that afterwards. Chelsea is so kind & loving when our clothes are on that it just feels like a fantasy, never a threat. The fact that Dylan comes up so frequently does get in my head a little, and sometimes I'll get slightly paranoid about the story she made up, thinking that maybe it wasn't made up at all. (Could she have done it without waking me up? Was she acting funny the next day?) But that passes pretty quickly.

I guess it was inevitable that I did start to idly wonder about doing something with Dylan in real life. How would that work? We'd need rules -- condoms, of course... we'd have to stop after the wedding... I'd want to be there to watch... etc. But, again, I never take it seriously, because it's never going to happen. It might be hot, but it could also be disastrous. And there's just no reason to take a chance: Chelsea & I are in a great, great place.

Chelsea

Aw, hell. Is this bad? This is bad. Shit.

Mark loved my little suggestion that I'd already cheated on him -- that is, he loved the totally-fictional roleplay he thought I was spinning out, and he really seemed to enjoy it when I acted all coy about whether it was real. And, as Dylan kind of predicted, now he also likes talking (pretending) about how much he wants to watch me do it.

I should have kept my trap shut and not told Dylan about that last bit, but I couldn't help it: he really is the only person I can talk to about this stuff. Mark & I have been together since college -- by now all of my close friends are his friends too, including most of my family. What am I supposed to do? "Hey, Aunt Becky! I know we haven't talked in four years, but can I tell you a crazy story about your niece being a dirty whore?" Um, no.

So I text with Dylan about this stuff, and even though he's not exactly an impartial observer he does at least act like a good friend, and I always seem to feel better afterwards. I don't tell him everything, of course -- not the specific kinds of taunts that make Mark cum, and definitely not how quickly they can make that happen -- but I talk about our evolving bedroom games in a general way, and about how much I'm kinda loving them, but also how much I hate that I love them.

And Dylan always says the right thing, except when he doesn't. He's a flirt -- you know, a lovable rapscallion -- and we're talking about sex, so of course he's gonna make suggestive remarks to me, or send the occasional selfie that happens to look really good. I let it slide to a point, then once in a while he steps over the line and I remind him to knock it off, which he does. So it's fine... except you do get desensitized to that sort of thing after a while, putting up with more and more risqué comments. Then you find yourself giving some subtly playful banter back, just in a jokey way, and eventually your text conversations are starting to look an awful lot like some of the ones you had before you accidentally wound up with this stud's big, bare girthy baby-maker all up in you. Gah!

Ok. Bottom line, cards on the table. You want to know the thing? Here's the thing: I love Mark. I love seeing how happy & horny he's been the past couple months, how bonkers enthusiastic he is about our sex life. Our roleplay is somehow a turn-on for me, and the orgasms I have on my boyfriend's tongue are just as intense, strictly speaking, as the ones that Dylan dragged out of me that fateful night...

... but it's just not the same. It feels different -- not in my panties, but in my soul. As great as it is riding my wonderful partner's talented tongue until I'm cumming so hard I see tie-dye, I ache to be drilled into the mattress like some bully's plaything. As much as I delight in controlling my boyfriend and watching him squirm, I want someone to wrench that control from me and blow apart my whole goddamn world while I scream in helpless, beautiful agony. Sigh. I never used think like this before, but now I really miss getting well-and-truly fucked. That's the thing. And it's a problem, because even before all this started Mark wasn't exactly the guy who did that, and these days he's just cumming so damn fast once he gets inside me, and now I feel like I'm in withdrawal.

I can feel it coming with Dylan. His stupid, obvious come-ons feel less annoying and more amusing all the time. I've got this terrible itch I can't get to, and the one man who could scratch it talks with me every day, while that traitorous bitch in my head keeps sending up flares, fiendish little messages like: "it wouldn't be the end of the world... the damage is already done, anyway... maybe you can have them both... Mark would understand... you know it's inevitable, right?"

I hate that bitch so, so much. I try to shout her down, but my loving boyfriend's descent into cuckold fantasyland isn't helping. I tell myself that it's just a meaningless gremlin in my head, that everyone has these thoughts, and that of course I won't act on them. But then, over and over again when we're in bed, I find myself saying the words to Mark, out loud: I want to fuck Dylan. And when I say that, he literally tells me that I should do it (and then maybe cums all over himself for good measure). Our game doesn't feel like a release valve, like we're easing the pressure -- it feels like we're practicing for the real thing.

And that's what scares me the most. What if I'm not indulging Mark's fantasies as a secret penance, like I told myself? What if I'm just conditioning my boyfriend to forgive me, getting him so hot for the idea that, when the awful truth comes out, he likes it? What if that's why I haven't insisted we take a big fat timeout from the fantasy? And while we're at it, what if the real reason I let Mark fuck me without a condom that time -- that one time -- was just for plausible deniability, in case I'd allowed Dylan to knock me up?

In short: what if I truly am a monster?

I still don't think that's true. At least I hope it's not. But here's one story that is true. Last night Mark & I were in bed and we'd just "finished" a few minutes ago. It was one of those sessions where we didn't even have sex, where after riding his tongue for 20 minutes I got him so turned he came in my hand. I was lying there beside him, simultaneously blissed-out, and in love, but also hungry for a real old-school pounding. That's when Dylan happened to send his text; when Mark went to the bathroom to clean up, I opened it. It was a selfie, but really it was a dick pic. Dylan was in his underwear, and that cock of his was engorged & rigid, so much so that the head was peeking out over the waist band. Caption: "thinking of you tonight pretty girl - sorry not sorry."

This was so wildly fucked up & out of bounds, and normally I would have scolded him, or gone silent, or at least said something sarcastic and dismissive. Instead, still daydreaming about a hard dick thrusting into me, I stared at it in silence for a while, then watched my thumbs type out a one-word reply: "Yummy."

So yeah, this is not good. But on the plus side, all I have to do in the end is not actually fuck him again. And doesn't that seem like an attainable goal?

Mark

No death in the family ever comes at a good time, but this one was especially inconvenient.

My great-aunt Virginia ("Ginny" to everyone who knew her) came into the world right after Calvin Coolidge entered the White House. At 99 years of age she still had most of her marbles and was only a little bit racist, which was impressive. I was never especially close with her, but her 90^th and 95^th birthdays had been great excuses to have family reunions, and everyone was looking forward to the big 1-0-0. But, alas, it was not to be: after a few months of failing health, she passed in her sleep. I got the call on a Monday, and on Tuesday I learned that the funeral would be on Saturday, back East in Salem, Massachusetts.

I really wish Aunt Ginny had asked me about my schedule before dying (that's a joke), because Chelsea & I were booked to appear at a YouTuber convention down the road in Anaheim that weekend. We'd have our own booth for meet & greets and selling merchandise, and we'd be part of one of the Q&A panels. Also it just sounded like a fun time. I toyed with skipping the funeral but my parents insisted that was unthinkable, and anyway the whole family would be there and I never get to see most of them.

Chelsea offered to come with me, but we'd already committed to attend the convention and advertised that we'd be there, and the airfare was just awful. So, I'd go to my funeral/reunion, and Chelsea would do the convention without me. But she hated the thought of making the trip by herself -- without a partner to go with the whole thing felt a bit like a chore.

As it turned out, our next-door neighbor took my place. Nora's a few years older than we are, early thirties, living with her husband and 4-year old son; we're not super close with them, but we're definitely friendly and we hang out together sometimes. Nora had stopped by on Wednesday and we were all chatting. It was a long conversation, so let me just summarize...

Chelsea: "I was really looking forward to the convention this weekend, but it won't be any fun going by myself."

Nora: "At least you get to go on a trip. I'm cooped up in the house every day with the kid -- I never get to do anything anymore and it's driving me crazy!"

Me: "Hey, maybe you two could go to the convention together."

Nora: "Oh my god, yes! It's perfect! My husband will babysit!"

Chelsea: "Mark, you're a genius! Make love to me!"

Or something like that. The point is, Chelsea & Nora would make the trip together.

***

In the end I was glad I flew out for the funeral. For one thing, it wasn't actually a sad occasion. Don't get me wrong, we all loved Aunt Ginny, but she'd led a full life and it did seem like her time. We shared our fond memories of the grand old dame, and then spent the weekend having that family reunion we'd planned for her birthday.

And for another thing, having some time away from Chelsea only opened up a new dynamic in our sex life. Once she understood that I wasn't exactly heartbroken over here, she kept our momentum going with teasing texts and saucy pics, which we'd never really done before.

It started before I even knew it. Chelsea dropped me off at the airport in the morning, and for my almost six-hour flight I had my phone on airplane mode, completely cut off from the outside world. I landed at Logan Airport in Boston Friday evening, switched my phone back on, and as we taxied to our gate I got hit with a flood of texts from Chelsea.

The text chain began with a picture of our bed with three outfits laid out on top: one was her usual jeans & hoodies type getup, another was a bit more formal/professional, and the third was a skimpy tank top & miniskirt combo that was just about the smuttiest thing she could cobble together from her wardrobe.

> Hey babe. Just trying to decide on my outfit for the convention tomorrow. The three choices are: Gamer Girl, Internet Entrepreneur, and Convention Slut. Any thoughts?

> I don't know, I'm kinda leaning toward that last one, but I'd feel bad if I didn't check with you first. I mean, it's just SO revealing. And there will be so many people there, taking pictures... including our fans. What would they think of me? My god, honey, what would they think of YOU?

> And I'd be getting hit on ALL day long. I know that idea gets you hard, but try to think with your head, sweetie. Do we really want people to know what a slut your girlfriend is? Our bedroom games are one thing, but this is just so public. It's almost like I'd be outing you as a pervert in front of everybody...

> Oh, but I really want to do it! It would just be so naughty. If that's going too far, you just tell me.

> Wow, are you sure? You really don't mind? Last chance...

> Thank you babe! I have the best boyfriend ever. "Convention Slut" it is!

Chelsea, of course, knew I couldn't respond the whole time. She also sent pics of her trying on the outfit that looked positively whorish -- it made my dick twitch in my pants even as it sent my anxiety soaring. When I asked if she was serious she acted coy: "I'm sorry, the deadline has passed -- you'll just have to wait & see ;-)"

In the end she toned it down, wearing something a bit less revealing, though still plenty sexy. But she made up for it in other ways. Throughout the day my phone got pinged with suggestive selfies in public spaces, and (fictional?) little anecdotes about hot guys she flirted with. There was also a selfie from a bathroom stall of her holding her panties in her hand, saying she was taking them off for "easy access." How did my wife-to-be turn into such a sex kitten?

And, dear god, she's gotten so good at pushing my buttons -- my family was probably wondering why I seemed so distracted all day -- but I loved it all the same. That night, our phone call before bed turned into a bit of phone sex while Nora was out of the hotel room, each of us masturbating while she told me about all the filthy things she'd fantasized about doing, and about what kind of naughtiness could happen on the second day of the convention.

On Sunday I didn't hear from Chelsea as much, but that was fine; no one could keep up that pace forever. So, around midday, I got out my laptop and started browsing the convention's Instagram page. They'd posted tons of photos from the first day, and I felt a little bad about missing the action -- it looked like fun.

I got almost to end of the pics when I saw the one that made my heart skip a beat: there were Chelsea & Nora, standing in front of our booth... and there was Dylan and some other guy I didn't recognize, flanking my fiancé and our neighbor, with their arms wrapped around the women's shoulders. Wow. Nora and this new guy were beaming. Dylan had what I'd call a shit-eating grin on his face, pulling my fiancée in tight. And Chelsea had a flustered, nervous smile, kind of biting her lip. I'd say she looked... guilty. Yes, that's the word. So, wow again. I took out my phone and texted her.

"Dylan's there?"

"Oh, yeah, turns out he has a booth here too. Sorry, is that weird?"

"No, but it's a little weird you never mentioned it. We were talking all day."

"I know, shit, I'm sorry. I figured it might make you uncomfortable, and we were having so much fun talking about other stuff. I just thought I'd tell you when you got back... I'm sorry, I should've said something."

This did actually bother me. I've had an embarrassingly good time exploring this kink with Chelsea, but the only thing that makes that possible is having absolute trust in her; hiding little things like that scares the hell out of me. But, I didn't want to give her a lecture over the phone and spoil her whole day. We could talk for real when I got back.

"It's ok, I understand. Just, going forward, I need you to tell me everything, ok? Even if it's awkward."

"Yes, absolutely. I promise."

Dylan

Sometimes fate just deals you a winning a hand. And it might seem later like you got crazy-lucky, but actually I've found that everyone gets those golden opportunities, a lot more often than they realize, and the only trick is recognizing them and deciding to pounce. The opportunity might be hearing about a new apartment or an interesting job opening up, or that girl you're into having a huge fight with her boyfriend. And, sometimes, the opportunity turns out to be somebody's dead aunt. You just have to be willing to see it.