Corruption of a Geek Goddess

"Well, yes, now that you mention it I guess we have stepped it up a bit," I said. "That's not a problem, is it?"

"Of course it's not a problem, dummy! But I'm wondering, does that have anything to do with ... you know. Are you just horny all the time because you're thinking about Dylan taking liberties with your blushing bride-to-be?"

"Oh, Jesus. No. I never thought of it like that. But ... ok. I don't know, I guess maybe it's possible. Is that bad?"

"No, no no no, it's not bad. I'm just happy it's picked back up. In fact, what I was thinking was: what if we don't say something to Dylan before he comes over? If he doesn't try to flirt with me, great. And if he does flirt with me, well ... would that be so awful? Maybe you and I would have even more fun afterwards..."

I stared at her in stunned silence for a beat before breaking into an embarrassed smile, and she had her answer.

God damn, I love this woman. So bubbly and warm-hearted, goodness just radiating off her at all times ... but then she's also kinky and adventurous, in that way that geeks often are.

On top of everything else I was proud of her. This was a difficult, risky conversation for us — and one that I wasn't even willing to start — but as always she chose openness & honesty, owning up to everything so we could handle it together, as a couple. I drifted off to sleep knowing in my bones that we could work through anything.

>> Chelsea <<

I felt a whole lot less guilty after my talk with Mark, like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and now I wasn't a big ol' piece of shit. A+ for Chelsea!

Well, ok, maybe a B+: I didn't come clean about texting with Dylan or what that had turned into. I meant to. And I tried, I really did. But then he jumped in and told me all about how he kinda found it hot to see what happened, and he was being so wonderful to me, and that just felt like a good place to leave it.

So, I didn't tell him about the texts. And there was officially no reason to mention that I had to run and get myself off after the workout that day. And it just would have been cruel to be honest about those times I thought about Dylan while making love with Mark.

Anyway, Mark's funny. We've always had an open-minded sex life — there's no kink-shaming in this house — but I never would've expected him to get off on seeing me get felt up by some hunk ... and if he did get off on it, I probably wouldn't have expected him to admit it. But he did, and it felt like absolution for some of the "questionable" choices I've made recently.

As relieved as I was to hear him say all that, I was also a little taken aback. My brain basically said: You're ok with that, dude?

I think that's what inspired me to make my little suggestion about letting Dylan do his whole Casanova routine again if he wanted. Like, ok sweetie, that's how it's gonna be? A Greek god puts the moves on your girl while you're two feet away, but you're so cool & sophisticated, so very enlightened, that it gets your dick hard? And then you just come right out and tell her? Well, I can be one enlightened motherfucker when I want to be, so bring it on.

See? We have fun. In three days Dylan would come over for supper and a light workout tutorial, and now I was feeling eager & playful instead nervous & guilty, and that's all because my future husband is awesome. I really do love the little pervert.

We spent those few days teasing each other, and we even watched the video footage that had started all this — I could tell Mark was a little embarrassed but, as promised, he got hard as a friggin' rock. We didn't even get to have sex that night: what actually happened was we stitched together a cut of all the times Dylan had touched me that day, put it on a loop, and Mark came all over my hand about a minute after I started stroking him. And a minute after that, his head was buried in my crotch while I stared at the screen and said some dreadfully raunchy shit.

Now, I can do dirty talk, but it's deliberate, it's intentional. This stuff just came spilling out of me with zero filter. Stuff like: "Oh my god, baby, do you see what he did with your girl? Look at that, look where his hand is ... Do you think he's gonna do it again? Ooh, yessss, I bet he will ... Will you watch it happen this time? You'd better fucking watch — I'm gonna put on a show for you ... Fuck, Mark, our friend makes me SO fucking wet! I love it so much..."

And so on — I kept him down there for 20 minutes and two orgasms. Mark's penis didn't come close to getting inside me ... but it was hot. (My man's good with his tongue.) If this is how it's gonna be, I was starting to hope Dylan really would get a little fresh with me again. Shit, by the time the dinner rolled around, I was pretty much counting on it.

>> Dylan <<

People usually get the wrong idea when they see how I am with women. They're all, "Damn, Dylan, you're always on the hunt for pussy, trying to get with every girl you see." But I'm really not. Yeah, I flirt pretty hard with just about all of them — friends, classmates, professors, online followers, etc. — but it's not part of some campaign to nail a thousand chicks by the time I'm 40.

It's just fun, that's all. It's like a game, and most of the girls I meet are happy to play along. I mean, with guys I chat about sports or video games or whatever. The girls I meet, they never want to talk about college baseball or MMA. But we can still have fun teasing each other, seeing how far the other will go, that sort of thing. And I've gotten pretty good at feeling out the situation, knowing when to shut it down or when it's cool to keep going. And, yeah, sometimes it turns out they want to do more than talk, but that's not why I do it. Not exactly.

That's how it was with Chelsea. I wasn't trying to actually get her into bed — it was just a little teasing. And like I said, I'm pretty good at reading the situation. She might be about to get married, but she never once sent out those "go away" vibes. In fact, as soon as I started she was way into it. It was cute, so I kept at it. I didn't think anything would really happen.

So it wasn't part of some scheme when I went over to their house for dinner. I really was gonna be in the neighborhood, and I just wanted to hang out with my friends. I'd give them some more workout tips, we'd have fun cooking dinner, we'd get a little drunk on wine — it'd be a blast.

I got a treat right off the bat when they opened the door and I saw what Chelsea was wearing. Unlike last time, her outfit was all tight spandex and lots of skin. Attagirl! I'd teased her in our text messages about dressing up like this for me, but I didn't think she'd actually do it in person. So the night's off to a good start, but it was still just good clean fun as far as I was concerned.

Things started to change for me during the workout. She was acting different this time. When I gave her subtle little touches, she'd be a lot more obvious about leaning into the contact, or touching me back on the arm or whatever. If I made a quiet little remark, something suggestive, she'd shoot one right back loud enough for Mark to hear, a little smile on her face like she wasn't nervous at all.

Well I don't like to lose a game of chicken, so I stepped it up. Instead of whispering about how hot she looked, I'd just say it. Instead of a quick little touch on her hip, let's make it a lingering touch on her ass. Instead of waiting until Mark had his head turned: fuck it, I'll run my hand across her bare midriff while he's looking right at me. Chelsea never backed down the whole time.

That's when I started to look at her in a new way. Shit, Chelsea was ... different. She was different from who I thought she was, for sure — not as shy, not as careful. But she was also different from the kinds of girls I usually take to bed. No doubt, plenty of those girls are naughty or adventurous like she was being, but none of them are like Chelsea in other ways. The girls I date don't flaunt their geeky interests, they don't usually wear glasses, they don't live their lives in jeans & hoodies & t-shirts. And they definitely don't have a ring on their finger.

For someone like me who lives on a steady diet of sexy basic bitches, this was new, and it was exciting. I honestly was just messing around at first, but as this whole scene played out I started to want her for real.

And then there was Mark. There is no goddamn way he missed what was going on. He saw us, he heard us, and by the end of the workout I wasn't being subtle at all; I was basically groping his girl and telling her how sexy she looked. He'd just turn away like he was embarrassed, or he'd get this weird smile on his face and try keep the conversation going. When I asked some dumb question about the sports bra she was wearing, Chelsea pulled her top down to show me the brand name in a way that popped her cleavage right in my face, and she did it while staring right at her boyfriend. Mark just watched.

I think that's about when I decided it was on. Now, I normally don't go after girls who aren't single. I mean, it's happened before, but as a rule it's just not worth it: I don't want to sound like an asshole, but there's plenty of drama-free pussy out there if you know where to look. Why risk it?

And Mark's a good guy! I like him. But either he was playing some sort of game with me — which kind of pissed me off — or he's just too goofy to deserve a fine piece like Chelsea all for himself. Either way, if she's putting it on a platter like that, and he's gonna watch it happen and not do anything about it ... well, then let's just say Mark doesn't get a vote anymore. It's up to me & Chelsea. And if it's up to me & Chelsea, then I think she's gonna have my dick in her — tonight if possible, and if not, then soon.

So let's get to work. We'll ease off on the obvious flirting and groping, just make it subtle so they don't think anything is up. We'll keep it light, happy. We'll have a nice, long supper where the wine glasses are never empty.

And then we'll just see what happens.

/\**********/\**********/\

After the workout, the trio settled down for a healthy supper (a gnocchi and mushroom mélange that Dylan whipped up) with a healthy amount of white wine (the three bottles of chardonnay that Dylan had brought) and moved to the living room to unwind and watch Season 4 of The Simpsons. It was a lovely time, but between the wine, the workout, and his restless sleep from last night, Mark was fading fast ("Just resting my eyes, babe..."). By the end of the second episode he was officially passed out in the couch.

A good guest might have acknowledged this as his cue to leave, but before Chelsea could suggest such a thing Dylan took the initiative.

"Come on, grab your glass, let's move to the other room so we don't bother him."

"Oh. Sure," Chelsea replied.

They sat side by side at the kitchen table for 20 minutes, sipping their drinks and making chitchat while idly scrolling through videos on Chelsea's laptop. Dylan was as charming and attentive as ever, but their conversation was more stilted now. Though neither of them would say it out loud, it was obvious that they'd reached a precarious moment. The touching, the flirting in front of Mark, the texting without Mark, the pictures she shouldn't have sent, the wine she should've stopped drinking, the passed out fiancé in the next room — if they wanted it, a tipping point was around the corner. The weight of it slowed their banter to a crawl.

More and more, Chelsea could focus on little else. We're friends. It's just some harmless flirting. It's fun. A game. Obviously you're not going to do anything. Relax. How could it even happen? It's not like he's just going to lean over and plant one on you. And you certainly won't do that, either. So how would it ever get started?

Oh, I know how. Duh. That would work. But you're not going to do that. Obviously. So relax. Just smile and drink and enjoy his company. He's delightful! And it's exciting just sitting here with that tension in the air, so there's no need to actually do anything. You're not going to say it. In 20 minutes Dylan will leave and you can go wake up Mark and fuck his brains out. Mark. He's fine with this. He watched the flirting. He thinks it's fun and sexy, so you're good. Right? He's fine, you're fine. You're not going to say it, so everything's fine, and you can officially CHILL THE FUCK OUT, Chelsea. Good. That's better. You're not going to say it.

Then, during a lull in the conversation, as if she was hovering over her own body, Chelsea watched herself frown, bring a hand up to the back of her neck, and start rubbing.

"Hmm. Sore," she lied.

Oh shit.

Dylan instantly recognized his cue, and he wasn't going to miss it. "Oh! I can help with that, I learned this great massage technique. Sit up."

In a flash, Dylan stood behind her and Chelsea found her neck and shoulders being kneaded by one of the most attractive humans she'd ever seen in real life. And, to his credit, Dylan wasn't lying about his technique. Everywhere his hands went, a wave of tranquilizing pleasure followed, radiating out to her whole upper body. Her scalp tingled.

"Ohhhhh, holy shit, dude ... That's incredible ... God damn, Dylan, I think we're gonna invite you back more often, ha ... Where'd you learn to do this ... Mmmmmmm..."

Within three minutes Chelsea was a puddle of blissed-out goo; Dylan slowed his movements to a halt and rested his hands on her shoulders.

"Feeling better?"

"Ohhh, yes." Chelsea tilted her neck all the way back and looked up at Dylan standing above her, the crown of her head resting against his abs — they were like steel, she noticed.

"Dude, you're amazing. I wish Mark could do that to me." In the back of her head Chelsea knew she shouldn't have said that, but blissed-out puddles of goo have very poor impulse control. She could barely muster the will to regret it.

"Well," Dylan offered, "I could teach you how, you know. It's not too complicated..."

"Mm-hmm," she smiled. "Yes please."

"... but we can't really do it sitting in chairs. We should find a spot where we can lie down."

Even in her current state, that sentence tripped Chelsea's alarms, and some of the tension returned to her mind. Everything up until now she could explain to Mark, and to herself. But to bring this man to a soft, quiet place so they could lie down and caress one another — they could call it a massage lesson, but they'd both know what that really meant. It would then only be a question of degree: how far would they go, and how bad would Chelsea have to feel in the morning?

In the span of about six seconds, Chelsea fought a desperate rear-guard action inside. No, some other time, I'm exhausted. That's all she had to say, then she'd be through it. Let their text convo peter out, tell Mark not to invite him around anymore. She could even tell Mark the truth, mostly: Dylan had made a real pass at her. Mark would understand. He'd appreciate that Chelsea had shut it down, and that she hadn't hidden anything from him. It would make them stronger. That was clearly the best thing to do.

But the whole time she was thinking these things, she was also staring up into Dylan's dark brown eyes, and that connection was where the real decision was made. She watched her own internal struggle, detached, already knowing that she wouldn't refuse him. There was no logic behind it, no weighing of costs and benefits, and no rationalizations about why it wasn't that bad. She would say yes because she already knew she was going to say yes. A body has needs.

Finally, a slight, sad smile still on her lips, her eyes half closed, Chelsea uttered simply:

"Ok."

Dylan helped her up from the chair and they quietly made their way back through the living room, past the snoring Mark. Instinctively, Chelsea held Dylan's hand as she led him to her bedroom.

*****

Once there, Chelsea flicked on a soft bedside lamp. As she spread a large yoga mat across the floor, Dylan saw her bedroom for the first time and noted the soundproofing the couple had put on the walls for when Chelsea recorded her voiceovers — that was almost too perfect, but they'd still need to be careful. Chelsea, too nervous to think about such practical matters, just looked at Dylan expectantly.

"Ok," he started, "just follow my lead and you'll do great."

With a reassuring smile he lay face down on the mat and Chelsea followed, kneeling beside him.

"Alright, grab ahold of my shoulders at the base of my neck, and I'll walk you through it."

Dylan made a show of teaching her something, but Chelsea was too distracted and tipsy to make any headway. She poked and prodded to little avail, but after a few minutes of Dylan's easy charisma and the simple pleasure of having her hands on his body, she once again relaxed and found herself having a great time. She wasn't dumb enough to believe Dylan when he told her how well she was doing, but nonetheless she would break into a goofy smile whenever she heard one of his compliments.

"Hold up a minute," Dylan said. "Why don't you try working on my front." He rolled over onto his back.

Chelsea watched him reposition himself. She noted dimly that this move further shredded the flimsy pretense of a massage, but mostly she was excited by the prospect of getting her hands on Dylan's chest, and staring again at his face.

After just a few moments of the frontal massage, Dylan interrupted her.

"Hey, you'll never get any leverage from there," he said with an impish grin. Without warning, he reached over, grabbed Chelsea by the hips, and hoisted her petite frame up and over so that she straddled his lap, facing him.

"Aiyeee!" Chelsea let out a surprised whoop and giggled in joy. She playfully scolded him. "Dylan! You scoundrel! How dare you."

A big smile plastered on her face, she resumed her "massage" — really just the idle fondling of Dylan's abs and pecs. The last parts of her rational mind still trying to hold back the tide began to sign off. She was acutely aware of sitting directly on top of the bulge in Dylan's shorts. Her sex, quietly humming for most of the night, began to almost vibrate. In one instant, her hips set to their task of arousing the man beneath them, beginning an almost imperceptible grinding rhythm. The next, Chelsea caught herself with a start and willed her body to stop the motion. But it was too late — biting her lower lip, Chelsea resumed her grind, subtly at first but steadily ramping up. Now staring directly into her eyes, Dylan began to match her movements, and inside of a minute they were dry-humping on the bedroom floor.

"Oh, Dylan," she offered weakly. "We shouldn't..." But there was no change in her movements.

"That's very good, Chelsea. You're making me feel so good," Dylan soothed. He reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face, then let his hand linger as he began to gently stroke her cheek with his thumb. Chelsea let go a quiet moan. His thumb made its way to her lips, caressing them top and bottom, and her breaths became quiet gasps. All the while, still grinding.

Dylan moved his hand to the scruff of her neck and took a firm but gentle hold. It's what you'd do to a kitten to make it go limp & passive, and in this moment it worked the same way on Chelsea — her movement, all movement, finally stopped, as her soft eyes tried to focus on the man beneath her.

"Come here a sec." Dylan's hand applied the slightest pressure and Chelsea's torso wafted down towards his chest. They lay motionless, almost nose-to-nose, as Dylan went back to lightly stroking her cheek with his fingers. "Chelsea. You are so, so beautiful. You're stunning. Just stay here a moment, ok? Just let me look at you. God, I love just looking at you."