Deep Down Inside Ch. 05-08

"Were people ever outside?"

"A few. Mostly guys smoking."

"But you said they couldn't see?"

"I mean, maybe if you put your face up to the glass you might make out something, but I walked by there every night and it just looked dark inside. But you could totally hear them out there."

"You had me up until right there. That sounds pretty awful."

"It wasn't bad, just awkward. Actually it was Steve who made it awkward. He asked me to lay on my back because he was an 'on-top' kind of guy."

"Don't know what his beef was, you look pretty good from down here."

"Oh, is that so!"

She arched her back and pushed her perky tits out for show.

"Yeah, well Steve had to be on top, but there was no way I was laying on that couch where who knows how many people had sat.. or fucked. I was trying hard to push out the thought of anyone else ever being there and hearing people right out front didn't help."

"So how'd you end up doing it?"

"I did it on Steve's shirt. But that protected maybe about half my body, so I rested my head and shoulders on it and he held the rest of me in the air with my legs over his shoulders. For about ten minutes it was amazing, and then I thought my back would break."

"He literally held you up the entire time?"

"I was amazed. But I mean all he ever did outside of work was workout, so he was fine. But I had a two-hundred-pound guy banging against me in that position, so wow was I wrecked by the time he finished. And I still had two hours on my shift."

"So you compromised your morals for lousy sex?"

"I didn't compromise anything, and it definitely wasn't lousy, just very physical, you know what I mean?"

Something about that last part really did a number on my libido. In part because she was rhythmically grinding her pussy on me now and her voice had gained a sexy rasp. I couldn't take it and pulled down my gym shorts. I also slipped her underwear to the side. I didn't stick it in, but she was glazing me now—her pussy coating my bare dick with slick feminine secretion.

"Ooo that's nice. Should I keep going then?"

"Um, yes please?" I said, doing my impression of an anxious fan.

"Ha! Well OK...". She then started to hum but ended with a sigh, her pussy settling more firmly on my cock. "Let me think, so I think it was the next night when he said he had a surprise."

"The next night? Like the very next night?"

"It was my fun years."

"I think I'm starting to understand that."

"Ha! Well his surprise was pulling a Bed Bath and Beyond bag from behind the bar and handing it to me."

"And what was in the bag?"

"A big thick blanket, and he told me Christmas had come early. So we spread the blanket over the couch and with him on top he was more like Bossman Steve from behind the bar. The guy was just so physical."

"How so?"

"He used to pick people up a lot, and he'd drop me off at tables." She slapped two hands on my chest, pushed up to my shoulders and shook me. "And he'd just grab me and move around, like he was on some high energy drug. It turned out he was the same way on the couch, "

"So kinda rough," I asked.

"Well, like... Yeah, I guess it was rough. He just kept repositioning me and pointing my legs everywhere. He'd stand on it, or put me up on the thick back of it at some obtuse angle. And I guess, yeah, rough, because that was the first time someone wasn't obsessing over me being overly comfortable. And then suddenly, like I was this nineteen-year-old girl and some muscled thirty-three-year-old dude is fucking me really hard with no strings attached and way better than the guys who'd been so in love with me. Definitely the best sex I'd had up to then." Her eyes shifted to one side, she goofed up her mouth, as she awkwardly admitted, "Sooo... That sort of filled out my calendar for the summer."

We laughed but her breath deepened into her belly and she spoke fewer words before pausing to inhale.

"I remember one time I was on the arm of the couch in a position where I felt really exposed to the front half of the empty store. And then I heard these guys talking out front. I recognized their voices, because I'd served them earlier, and I could see their faces in between the headless mannequins and clothing racks. They were all handsome, and real flirty, and I remember they said something out there to make me laugh and that set Steve off. He got really riled up and super loud."

"Verbally loud?"

"Yes. But also just our bodies were loud."

"More on that, please," I said jokingly.

"I'll let you figure it out. I just remember worrying those guys could hear, but also kinda hoping they could."

"Really?" Hearing she'd hoped a bunch of guys could've heard her getting fucked on a couch squeezed at my brain, milking endorphins from it, which then shot through my body like jets of water.

"Really! And I never talk during sex, but-"

"Hold on," I interrupted, my tone descending with skepticism, "I think I need to put this to the test." I then reached down between us and with the tiniest adjustment in angle, my dick followed a path inside of her, the warmth of her pussy sheathing my cock.

"Oh God!" She moaned.

"Alright," I exclaimed, trying to break through the fits of arousal I was experiencing in order to sound cheeky, "keep talking!"

She giggled, but it quickly faded into a soft murmur of, "Ahhhh-mmmm," as she kept rocking her hips, now enjoying my swollen dick fully inside her.

"I guess I should rephrase that," she acknowledged, followed by another murmur of, "Mmmmm." She brought her face closer to mine, "I don't do the dirty-talk thing."

"But you did, right?"

"I did, yes. With those guys out front I told Steve to fuck me harder. And then Steve started saying it, 'I'll fuck you harder! Oh yeah I'll fuck you harder!' But he had a voice that carried, and I kept watching their faces out front, waiting for them to hear us inside. I was so turned on."

"Did you want them to come fuck you too?"

"I don't know about that." She shut her eyes, and her voice weakened. "But I wanted them to look at me like Steve was. Hungry like that. They were all really good looking guys."

"Did you come?"

I could barely distinguish her words from her ragged breathing. "I probably had an orgasm somewhere in there."

I waited for her to continue as I started to thrust up into her and she moved her ass to meet my hips with a bump.

"What happened after that?"

"I think I'm going to stop there-mmmmmm." She sounded hypnotized or half conscious.

She'd seemed so deep into her story, going back in time and reliving the moment by moment details—getting off on them. I thought it would be cathartic, but perhaps it stirred up too many fond memories, flashing back on why the "fun years" were so much fun. It definitely flew in the face of the woman I'd come to know her as. Yet my respect for her only deepened. But I didn't know how to say that, and I don't know how to explain why I needed to hear everything—all of it, right down to the last detail. I just had to, I couldn't help it.

"Did Steve buy the couch? Is that what finally happened?"

She sighed at my persistence, "We bought it for him. For him and Alberto, his roommate. It had been marked down to half price and so everyone chipped in as a joke. That's the whole story"

"Did Alberto work there?"

She sighed again. "Yeah, another bartender."

"Did you-". She cut me off.

"Yes I fucked Alberto." Her forehead bunched up in annoyance, but she was still riding me.

I threw her to the side, climbed on top and pinned her arms back. I kissed her hard on the mouth.

"Who else?"

She was clearly annoyed with this question. "Why? Why is it so important?"

"Because I'm going to come so fucking hard in you."

Her eyes popped open. I could see a million wheels turning behind them. I let go of her arms and pumped her pussy steady and deep. Finally she came through for me.

"One more."

I rewarded her with a deep kiss, our tongues going wild.

"Who?"

"Boo-Boo!"

"The guy you stuck out your tongue at?"

I picked up steam, our bodies clapping loudly together, and her bed squeaked tumultuously. She scratched down my back and her mouth hung wide open.

"Mmm... Fuck, yes, him." She put a hand on the back of my head and guided it down. "Suck on my tit, Alex. Quick! Oh my God!"

I put her beautiful pink nipple in my mouth and began sucking in earnest. A powerful orgasm was building in her. Heat emanated from her skin like crazy.

I broke suction with her nipple just long enough to say, "I thought he harassed you."

"Always." Her voice was barely a squeak. "I was just bored. It was a boiling pot. The couch was a release... Tension, anger... I needed... Mmmmmm-oh my God... I-mmmm... I just needed to be fucked!"

"Oh fuck, so you fucked him? On the couch?"

"I let him do a lot of things to make me scream on the couch."

"Fuck, you screamed?"

"He wasn't like the others—oh God, he had a looser, sexier style. Mmmm... we'd do it in different areas of the store. Mmmm... Standing up front by the mannequins. Mmmm... Super risky!" She could barely speak, basically thinking aloud during a wave of bliss. "He was actually the nicest of the bunch. Uhh-mmmm... Just a player. But God he was kinky. Mmmm... he made it fun. Slipped dirty notes into my pockets while I was serving. Mmmm... Spelling out what he had planned for me."

"Fuck," I said getting close to coming. "You had me worried I was going to hear about guys molesting you, but that's hot."

"Mmm... It really was. Ahh... Some of the other servers would tell it differently. Ahh... I might've let down the ones who felt pressured."

I thought of how protective she'd been of Bobbie, and started to understand how deep those feelings ran.

"Well fuck that, all those servers saw was you not giving a fuck and following your heart"

"Yeah, maybe, mmm... But oh God, between Steve and Boo-boo... Those guys opened my nineteen-year-old eyes. Mmm-ahhh... Sex didn't have to be so possessive. Ahh... Or magical. Ahh-uhmm... It could just be this really fun-mmm-ah, sizzling hot thing. And—oh my God—Boo-boo had a perfect dick for teaching this girl all about it."

"Perfect? You mean big?"

"I'm not going there—oh God-mmmmm..."

She lost it to an unmanageable climax, crippling her ability to say another word and grabbing the sheets in a death grip. The real answer to my question was 'yes'. I knew she'd been enamored with the size of Boo-Boo's cock. After all, she'd screamed her little heart out over it, hadn't she?

And then it was my turn, as my cock pulsed and I erupted inside of her. For the second time that day I ejaculated in the woman. I felt an intimacy toward her body that I'd never experienced with anyone before.

Camille was beyond gorgeous, fun to be with, and way more than I deserved. And this amazing woman, with an athletic body honed to perfection by anyone's standards, with a face simultaneously angelic and intriguing, a woman who could have any guy in the world, she'd chosen me as a lover. The pride I experienced was even more euphoric than the ejaculation.

She could have any guy in the world because every guy out there had a massive hardon for her. They'd make eyes at her, film her ass when she wasn't looking, accost her with hugs around her skinny bare waist, seduce her with compliments and alcohol until she fucked them on a couch in a closed Anthropologie. I was as jealous of her as I was prideful, and for almost the exact same reasons. And being made privy to her 'fun years', I'd sustained a lot of hot friction between the two emotions.

She leaned to the side, her nipple leaving my mouth, and my partially erect cock sliding from her bright red pussy. She curled up on her side, facing me, and we snuggled like that. She murmured again how sore she'd be sore tomorrow, but added that it was worth it.

I already loved her. I'd loved her since we'd looked at each other in Ruth's Chris and decided not to order the ribeye. All the time I've spent with her since, most of which has been in marriage, has only confirmed what I'd instantly known then. It would be years before she'd be as openly honest and introspective about herself and sex as she'd been while explaining the significance of Steve's couch, but our sex life remains fun and sizzling hot because of it.

Chapter 6: Wife Watching

I took a lunch break while Penelope and Javier stayed at the office—our new office had a paint smell from week-old renovations that made our kitchen area uninhabitable. Penelope and Javier were also graphic designers, Penelope specialized in web graphics, and was so badass she'd been selected for design annuals two years in a row, and Javier had brought in his business from Univision and a few Latin American radio stations, producing logos and layouts for billboards with a gorgeous cultural style. Our group lunches had died out almost as soon as we were up and running and work was flooding in, so I'd grown used to eating on my own.

Our 'new smelling' studio was a mile drive from home, so I called Camille on the road to find out if she'd finished her meeting with Marty. Turned out he'd postponed and was planning on driving down to meet her at the coffee shop on Brookhurst just a few blocks from our home, the one that looked like an Italian cottage buried between a Daiso Japan and Bank of America.

Poke Fresh was also in the shopping center, and so I stopped there to get a Poke bowl instead of leftovers from home. Camille sat on the patio out front in the shade of a blue awning. Her laptop was out and she sipped a cappuccino as she worked. She'd worn a grey stretchy skirt and a fitted, V-neck blouse sans sleeves, and looked very professional, although the skirt was yoga pants tight and being short it didn't hide a damn thing from her knees down. She also had on red short heeled shoes, a rarity for her. These days she was wearing her dark chestnut hair in a ponytail, but she'd tied the ponytail up with a pink two inch ribbon for a splash of color. She was dressed to impress, but to impress who? Not Marty. Not that little fat guy.

I'd parked in the shade of a lollipop shaped tree, so I decided to eat in my car. I thought about calling her and seeing if it would be unprofessional for me to come say hello to my wife, but then I don't get to see the business side of her much, and something about witnessing her outside of our marriage was fascinating to observe—something admirable about her sitting there alone and taking on the world. If I could forgive the fact that the coffee shop overlooked a parking lot, it was a picture perfect moment—a young, sexy, lady sipping a cappuccino as she worked in a public setting—and Camille's flawless features and curvy body fulfilled the role so ideally.

Marty showed up within minutes but then so did another guy. He looked in his late forties, tall, fit, and extremely handsome. Camille had been working closely with Marty on not just his current book but his last as well, so they'd become somewhat friendly, and Marty greeted her with a polite hug. The handsome guy stepped forwards and was offered a handshake.

They gathered their chairs on either side of Camille as she walked them through something on her laptop, presumably their book. Their heads neared so they all could see the screen, and the handsome man would lean back to steal up close glances at the side of her face. He'd worn a white button-down shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots and I had the impression that he had a range of shirts from casual to formal but the jeans and boots were fixed across the spectrum. He also sat angular in his chair, so his body faced hers, and he stretched one arm across the table and the other around the back of her chair. His posturing showed off his size, invited her into his space and on a small level indicated dominance in the form of protection. I had insider information that he was a Hollywood stuntman and had bedded quite a few stars. I also knew his name was Graham Baxter. Camille had said his name numerous times during the last six months but I'd yet to attach a face until now.

I knew all this about Graham because Camille had been assigned his autobiography. More accurately she'd been assigned Marty's books, two in the last two years, and Marty had successfully pitched the idea for a tell all book about Graham.

Nobody at Penn Perot publishing wanted to work with Marty, Camille included. He had great contacts and good ideas, but he was not a persuasive person. He couldn't get the subjects of books to dig scandalously deep. It's what Camille's boss called 'juicing the orange', and Marty couldn't juice shit.

And "juicing the orange" came with a moral toll. Especially with Graham's book. Penn Perot was expecting him to name names and slut shame actresses, but Graham was a semi-decent guy and wasn't going to do that. Camille was expected to change his mind, so there she was, dressed sexy and smart, plying the stud with her gorgeous smile, grabbing his wrist when she had something to say, coercing him with her big, blue, supermodel eyes.

I knew it was all business but as I watched from my car jealousy crept up like a lion. At the same time I wished for my camera to capture how stunningly she handled herself.

Camille placed a hand on his shoulder, gently rubbed it, and leaned in with a sympathetic smile. I imagined her saying something like, "It's so sweet of you to care about these women." If I had a zoom lens I could've cropped him out and focused on her face, because her expression melted me—so femininely adoring and refined in her light power makeup.

Revisiting our wedding photos a few months ago had spurred me into buying a nice Pentax camera, and I'd been photographing her around the house, mostly documenting her switch to Ashtanga yoga. I'd capture her in headstands and backbends and her newly mastered handstands. Occasionally she'd lose her tee-shirt for the shots and wear only a sports bra, which I'm sure had to do with her tummy—she'd been working on the difficult poses so intensely that her abs showed slight definition when activated.

Those pictures captured her fun side and her joy of fitness, but her professional side focused on her elegance and confidence. I wanted to document those moments as well.

I came home that evening to find her on her third glass of wine, listening to rap on the stereo and dancing in the living room—an angry, energetic dance, jumping up and down, twisting her hips, her hair spinning around her head, and her fists thrashing front and back. Later, as we readied for bed, I mentioned that I'd seen her at the coffee shop but didn't want to interrupt her meeting.

As she stripped down to her panties she explained, "The stuntman came! And I think we reached a compromise."

"That sounds promising."

"Yeah. We aren't going to include names."

"You still think the book will sell? I was kind of looking forward to reading something dirty of yours for a change."

She smiled as she climbed into bed. She'd been sleeping without a shirt lately, and I had a hard time keeping my hands off her.

"There's still plenty of smut in it. And the plan I'm going to pitch to Penn Perot is to leave enough bread crumbs for the TMZ sleazeballs to figure out the who. Just so long as people are talking about the book we'll move copies."