Corruption of a Geek Goddess Pt. 04

Afterwards, once we'd calmed back down, I saw the problems it could cause. I told him the video couldn't be sexy or suggestive, and then I went through his first edit and picked out all the moments he wanted to leave in that simply had to go. And I made him swear to watch the video's comment section like a hawk for at least the first week, and delete any posts that even hinted at lurid ideas about the kind of relationship we might have... of which there were apparently many. Dylan policed the comments like he promised, but if I checked first thing in the morning while he was still in bed, there would inevitably be a few winking references to the kinds of things we probably got up to after the camera stopped rolling. Well, shit.

Let's see, other little things that might spark guilty feelings... hmm. First is when I spend the night at Dylan's. It's not the part where I'm in his bed all night (too focused on other things *wink*), and it's not even the part where I wake up next to him (being wrapped up in his powerful arms is not the worst way to begin your day). It's just those few minutes where I'm sending Mark the text saying I might not make it home tonight, and waiting for his response. The second little thing is bumping into a friend of mine while I'm out getting a drink with Dylan; it only happened the one time (so far), but it spooked me so much I was dragging him out the door five minutes later.

And, third, those bracelets. Sometimes I'll happen to look down at the kitschy plastic one Dylan bought for five dollars or 20 bubble gum wrappers or whatever, and I'll find myself grinning stupidly, with this ineffable sense of belonging and pride welling up inside me. Then I'll pass by the dresser and spot the magnificent gold & diamond one that Mark spent thousands on, and I can feel my face turning pink: What are you doing, Chelsea? It's gorgeous, and Mark would really enjoy seeing you wear it. So, you really should. In fact, you're going to. Just... not today. Next time. And then, later, I'll catch Mark staring at the Princess Peach bracelet on my wrist and feel an evil little horny tingle in my panties — I'll look away then use my other hand to idly play with the bracelet, as if I I'm not even doing it consciously, just because I know it'll focus his attention and keep him reminded of how naughty his girlfriend is being. I guess I could wear both bracelets at the same time, but... ugh. Why does that feel wrong?

So, yeah: lots of emotions going on here.

But none of that stuff matters, not really. Or, anyway, it's not what made me want to remind my boyfriend that he had an exit ramp if he wanted. No, the thing that made me check in with him was the date I'd had with Dylan that day.

Mark & I were recording voiceovers for our new video. We'd fallen way behind on new content so we couldn't cut it short no matter how insistent that itch in my panties got, the one that's become my constant companion whenever a Dylan Date is on the horizon. We'd get all the audio we might need from me, then Mark would sit alone at his computer and try to focus on video editing while his fiancée is off getting her hungry kitty seen to by a cocky stud. Jeez, it sounds so wrong when you put it like that, downright cruel as a matter of fact... which is probably why we both got a charge out of it.

Anyway, it was a good evil plan, but we didn't finish my part until after 4:30 in the afternoon, at which point I immediately started doing the math in my head: primping for the date to look hot for my man (maybe 20 or 30 minutes), a naughty goodbye for Mark (tack on at least another 10), hop in the car (and, shit, it's rush hour), probably hanging out with Dylan before our clothes come off... so it's gonna be, what, 6:00 or 6:30 before I get that perfect slab of manhood back where it belongs?? Ugh!

I was in a rush, impatient — normally I gave myself more time over there, left earlier, especially these past few weeks. So as soon my last line was read and my microphone was switched off I was scrambling; I knew Mark could tell how eager I was to make my escape, but there really wasn't much point in trying to hide it by this point. And it probably turns him on, the lovable little perv... right? Within just a few minutes I'd dragged him to the bedroom where I had my shorts off & my legs spread, my ass on the edge of the mattress, two fistfuls of hair in my hands as I locked his mouth in place atop my vulva. I talked the both of us into high gear while he serviced me.

"Ohh yes... do it, babe, do your part... hurry it up, don't fuck around, I wanna goooo... Mmmm, kiss it, get it wet, make it ready... ready to receive him, baby... ooohh that feels nice — yessss, show me you want it like I do, give me your blessing..."

He went right on blessing me while I rambled — would've stayed down there all night if I'd asked — but I lifted his face off of me before I even came, so fixated was I on my goal for the night.

"Oh, baby baby baby, such a great job, really, thank you." I looked him in the eye and smiled warmly, lovingly... then placed my foot on his shoulder, and used it to shove him away. "Now get out. I need to get dressed for Dylan, and you're not allowed to see what I bought for him."

He stumbled back, fell on his ass to the floor. My god, that was so undignified! Guilt welled up inside me for a few seconds and I almost apologized, thinking I'd gone too far, been too cruel, too overt. But then he got a look on his face — that look: pained but lusty, shocked but impressed — and I figured I done good after all.

"Oh, shit," he said. "Wow. You mean I'm not, uh... he said I can't see it?"

"Aw, honey, don't be silly. I wouldn't let him do that to you: *I* say you can't see it. Not yet anyway. It's Dylan's present, he deserves to see it first."

"Oh, fuck. Okay."

We shared a naughty smile as I ushered him out of our bedroom, then I stripped everything and threw on Dylan's present: a fishnet body stocking that wraps tight around my arms and torso, and covers precisely nothing. Not gauze, not mesh. Just a thin lattice of black fabric that wraps around my naked upper body leaving holes big enough for a wide-mouth bass to slip through, one of those ridiculous things that looks SO much sluttier than wearing nothing at all. Before, I never really saw the point of something like this, you know? Like, if someone had handed me this thing six months ago, I'd have made a crack about how they clearly stole it from a Parisian whore who tries too hard. But now, looking at myself in the mirror through Dylan's eyes... I think I get it.

Anyway, I did my hair & makeup and threw on some actual clothes over my hooker uniform. On my way out I stopped to straddle my boyfriend on the couch and give him one last tease before I left, just reminding him where I was off to, and why. Just to make sure that, in his own way, he'd enjoy the evening almost as much as I did.

"Mmm, you're killing me," he said after a minute. "Are you sure I can't get one peek and what you have on under there? A little hint?"

"Nope! Access Denied."

"Ok, ok. But... maybe when you get back tonight?"

"Hmmm, maaa-aybe... that is, if Dylan lets me go. I've got a sneaking suspicion you may have to wait until tomorrow."

Mark snapped out of his kinky lust-fog. "Oh, no no, Chelz: you really do need to come back tonight, remember? Talia's coming over — we're having breakfast with your sister. She's gonna be here in the morning."

Shit, I forgot! My baby sister Talia just got back from her internship and was coming over to spend the day with us. I hadn't seen her in six months.

"Argh!" I groaned in genuine despair — without saying it out loud, I'd kinda been planning to let tonight turn into a sleepover at Dylan's. "Maybe... maybe you could entertain her for a couple hours? And I'll get back early, before noon?"

"Ha! Oh, Chelsea. My darling, my love, my reason for living — I'd do anything for you. But, no. Not a goddamn chance."

Yeah, fair enough. Just think: Mark, trying to concoct an excuse for my sister as to why I woke up somewhere else; me, stumbling home god-knows-when, fresh from my lover's arms... that was a recipe for disaster. And I did in fact miss Talia like crazy.

Plus, there was one other nagging little worry this would help with: I kinda-sorta stopped paying super-duper close attention to my cycle a while ago. I know, I know. Look, you don't have to tell me how stupid that is; I'm well aware. Clearly there's a little (or a lot of) cognitive dissonance going on here. Like, I know that I absolutely should keep careful track, and that I promised I would, and that it's not even that hard. I know it's just that I don't want to think about it — my stupid brain seems to believe that if I ignore the problem then it must not exist, and even knowing how asinine that is doesn't seem to help; I literally can't summon the willpower to stop and look at a damn calendar for two seconds. But, even so, I had a vague sense this was my risky time, and that if I had to see Dylan I'd better try to get him to cum somewhere, anywhere, besides deep in my womb. If I was only gonna be there for a few hours instead of all night... maybe that would be easier to pull off.

So, yes. For several good reasons, Mark was right about my not staying at Dylan's, and I promised him I'd be home later tonight.

When I texted Dylan that I was on my way, he said I should meet him at the bar around the block from his place. I got there, sat next to him, ordered a drink, and did my best to communicate with looks & touches & just generally acting like his needy slut that I'd really like to get back to his place. I was almost done with my drink when he said I should relax, that we had all night — I guess he also assumed that, since we were getting a late start, I'd just sleep over at his place.

"Um, actually... I have to go home tonight. Sorry."

"No, actually: you don't. I know you want to stay, so just stay."

"I do. I really do," I told him. "It's just that we've got company coming over in the morning, and I... you know, Mark says I really need to be there. He'd be mad if I wasn't. Sorry."

Ladies & gentlemen: behold the coward! No mention that I happened to agree with Mark. No hint that I actually was eager to greet my sister when she arrived. I just laid it all off on my boyfriend. It's his fault, Daddy! I swear!

"Hrrm." Dylan's eyes narrowed and he silently watched me for a long moment, tapping his finger on the bar, like he was making an important decision. Gulp.

"Okay," he finally said. "He wants you back tonight? Then he'll get you back. But not all of you."

"What, um... what does—"

"Grab your stuff. We're leaving."

/**********/**********/

Dylan led Chelsea the short distance back to his place; three times along the way they passed someone else on the sidewalk, and each time Dylan would make a point of wrapping his arm around her shoulder or possessively grabbing her ass.

As soon as they walked through his front door she threw her arms around him, kissing him hard — she needed this. Tonight, even more than usual, there was a fire in her loins, driving her forward. The couple made out and groped each other as Chelsea more or less dragged Dylan to the bed. When they were finally standing over it, her last small reserve of logic & conscience sent up a tendril from deep within.

"Ohh, wait. One thing, Dylan... Daddy... um, you should maybe finish in my mouth tonight? Or on my face, my tits... really anywhere you want except... I think it could be risky, just now. Just for tonight. Okay?"

"If you say so, Princess."

They fell back on the bed. Chelsea was increasingly frantic — rubbing and kissing her man, tugging at his clothes, eager to move things along. Dylan, on the other hand, was unusually passive, almost disinterested. It was so out of character for him that Chelsea had to stop and address it.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. You're in some kind of rush to get back home, back to him, and I don't want to keep you. We might get carried away, lose track of time again, right? Maybe we should just chill out. Make a snack, watch some Netflix — just have a quiet night and make sure you get back in time."

"Shit, no. No no no." She was pretty sure Dylan didn't mean that, but even so the mere possibility was enough to send a tingly panic surging up her spine. "We have time, hours still. Right now I'm all yours. And... I need it. Come on, please? I'll make you feel good, anything you want. I promise, Daddy, I promise..." She was rubbing his crotch through his pants, licking his neck, doing everything her body commanded to entice the alpha male beside her. The scent of her arousal began to fill the room.

"Hmm. Okay. But you have to show me you really want it. Show me you deserve it. Impress me, Peach."

"Of course, what should I — oh!" She smiled, suddenly remembering. "I have something for you, a surprise. I think you'll like it..."

Chelsea slid off the bed and stood a few paces from Dylan, who just lay there with his hands folded beneath his head, watching. She summoned all her naughty, seductive energy and willed herself to attempt a sexy striptease, swaying to music that wasn't there, trying not look as desperate as she felt. Dylan forced back a smile, maintaining a good poker face. Taking pity on her, he picked up his phone and put on some music, a slow-tempo hip-hop track. Then, to immortalize the moment on video, he pointed the camera at her and hit Record.

The camera rolled as Chelsea got into a groove. Knowing that she was being recorded made her more self-conscious, but only for a second. The transgressive thrill that came from putting herself on display; Dylan's perfect confidence in his authority; the thought that Mark would get to see this, would bear witness to her shameless display — all of it sent a fresh rush of blood to her nether-regions and washed away her doubts. This was good, this was fun. This was right.

The fishnet stocking came into view as her top began to come off; Dylan dropped his mask of indifference and gave her the smile she'd been craving.

"Oh-ho! What's this now, Peach?"

"Just something I thought you might enjoy..."

"Did Mark like it?"

Chelsea responded proudly. "No, Daddy: I wouldn't let him see it. I got this for you."

"Good girl... now let's see some more."

She beamed at him, nodded her head to the beat, did a sexy pirouette while swaying her ass. Her top was lifted up & off, baring the gloriously obscene sight of her high, heavy breasts bound beneath the sleaziest garment she'd ever owned. Chelsea glanced down at them and saw her body in a new way — put on display like this and bouncing in time to the dance she performed for her extramarital lover, they weren't a playful geek's shapely breasts: they were the juicy tits of a wanton slut. A chill ran through her; she closed her eyes and relished the thought.

"So, Mark, my man..." Chelsea's reverie was broken by Dylan, narrating for the video they were making. "Take a good look. I guess you'd better, because I don't think she does this for you. Is that right, Princess? You ever dance like this for my little buddy?"

"No, never." Chelsea turned her head to look right into the camera. "It's just for you, Daddy."

"Aww, poor guy. But what about now? You gonna give him a treat like this after he sees this video, so he doesn't feel left out?"

"Hmmm... I don't know, maybe. Should I?"

"No."

"Ok, Daddy." She said it without hesitation, then began the process of slowly working off her pants, still dancing.

Dylan tried to content himself with the one little dig at Mark, that lone twist of the knife. He didn't want to be cruel for cruelty's sake. He still wanted (or believed he wanted) for everyone to be happy no matter what twisted games they played. But deep down, the prideful and irrational part of him that drove much of his thinking had bristled at the thought that Mark had dared to deny him a full evening with his favorite toy, a woman he increasingly saw as his own. He knew that it made no sense, but he also knew he didn't care — he still felt what he felt, desired what he desired. So, he wasn't done yet. Not by a damn sight.

"That's right, Princess. He wouldn't even really appreciate it anyway... or if he did he'd just have a little accident in his pants. You told me he does that sometimes, right?" Chelsea's skin flushed and she averted her eyes, at last embarrassed for her fiancé, but after a beat she looked back and silently nodded, still swaying. "But that's alright: *I* appreciate it. I love seeing you dance. In fact, that reminds me of something..."

"Hmmm, what's that, Daddy?"

Dylan paused the recording and put the phone down to let her know. "Another opportunity to watch you dance — have you asked him about the thing we talked about?"

"What thing, Daddy?" Still swaying, cheerful & sultry, her pants now halfway down her legs.

"My invitation."

"Your—" Chelsea froze in place and her pants dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Dylan already knew she hadn't talked to Mark about his coming to the wedding. Left to her own devices she'd likely put it off indefinitely, but just now he was in the mood to force the issue.

"Yes, Princess. I really think I ought to be at the wedding, don't you? I can be well behaved. You won't even know I'm there..."

"No. I mean, yeah, that would be nice. It's just that sometimes we get carried away when it comes to this stuff — Mark & I both, all three of us really. And it could make him nervous, bringing it up now. Lately he's been... uh..."

Her train of thought was interrupted when Dylan began peeling off his clothes. Typically casual and loose-fitting they were off seconds, presenting Chelsea with the sight of his toned, formidable figure and his rapidly-hardening manhood, looking delicious and ready for action. He peered down the length of his reclining body at her as he began to slowly work his fingers up & down the shaft. He said nothing, letting the moment hang in the air, watching her eyes lock onto their target as her chest heaved with suddenly deep breaths — Dylan never failed to enjoy the power-trip that came from seeing physical desire overwhelm her whole being. These days it took such a tiny push to refocus her whole being on what she most desired.

"Chelsea," he said, "wouldn't you like to come join me on the bed?"

"Unh... god yes." She shifted her weight to take that first step to him; Dylan held up his hand.

"Then first tell me you'll talk to Mark about the wedding." He waited for a response, but she was frozen in place. "Come on. You were supposed to have done it already. And anyway you know you want me there. It'll make it more special, like a changing of the guard."

Dylan looked into her eyes while he spoke, but as she listened her gaze never left the rigid tool in his hand — calling to her, helping the rationalizations to go down easier. Well, you did already say that you would...

"Ok. Yes. I'll talk to him, I promise."

"Soon."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Good, then we're agreed: before we have another date, Mark will text me with the invite. Right?"

"Yes... but, what if he says no?"

"I'm not worried about it. Just tell him it's what you want." He pointed his phone at her again and resumed the recording. "Alright?" She nodded. "Ok, then. Now you can come join me."

The camera captured the aftermath: Dylan's nude physique resting confidently on his bed in the foreground; and Chelsea, clad only in the slutty fishnet lingerie Mark had never seen, staring down at it, rapt, as she covered the short distance with a sexy sway of her hips. She climbed onto the foot of the bed and slowly crawled up in between his legs, mouth agape, eyes fixed on her prize. Dylan held it up by the base for her as she neared, but just as her lips were an inch away from making contact he pulled it back out of reach, teasing her.