Lucy Stays

"She wants you to stay."

Lucy stopped, but she didn't turn around. Her hand was resting on the doorknob. She knew she should go, but fear and a prurient fascination made her hesitate.

"Tell her." The deep voice was commanding, arrogant.

"Please stay, Lucy."

Lucy's eyes squeezed shut. Her grip on the knob tightened. But she didn't move.

"She wants you to stay and watch," came the deep voice, smugly confident. "Tell her."

"Please stay, Lucy. I want you to," whispered her friend, low and pleading.

Lucy was torn. Prudence said to leave, and quickly. Something more primitive said stay. She was frozen between the two when she heard the footsteps approach. She felt a large hand lift hers from the doorknob, and pull her around toward the living room.

As he led her across the room, she opened her eyes. The scene was just as surreal as when she had innocently walked in that door on an average Tuesday in August to return a borrowed chafing dish and some serving pieces to Anne. The man leading her by her hand was still nude, still erect, and still not Anne's husband. Across the room, Anne's head was tilted down, but her eyes looked up at Lucy. She had on a white terrycloth bathrobe. Lucy's sense of unreality deepened as the man bowed slightly and gestured at the window seat in the bay window. As he turned and walked across the room to Anne, the setting sun cast a pale, faintly red light through the sheer curtains behind her, washing out colors in the room and adding to the surreal feeling.

At Anne's almost imperceptible nod, Lucy abruptly dropped onto the seat, stiff and upright, primly swinging her knees together and crossing her ankles. In her pristine white cotton polo shirt and pleated shorts, she was the epitome of the thirty-five year- old soccer mom. Which was, of course, exactly what she was: a demure, monogamous mother of two confused as to why she was still here. But her thoughts were not on her children, nor her husband, nor even her own shock and surprise. In reality, she had no coherent thoughts at all. Her mind was simply filled, obsessed, with a snaky intermingling of voyeuristic anticipation, fear that the man would hurt her or Anne, and a morbid, compelling sense of arousal, unlike anything she had felt before, that shocked her by its very presence.

Staring as if in a trance, Lucy watched the man turn Anne to face her and bend to kiss her neck from behind. Still kissing her neck, the man brought his hands up, his hands folding under the collar of the robe on either side. Anne stood unresisting as the hands slid to the sides, over the shoulders and down her arms, taking the lapels with them. The robe pulled up from the belt and opened, its fall halted short of her waist as the front hung suspended for an instant on Anne's erect nipples. Then it dropped again, only to be held at her waist by the belt.

Lucy watched as Anne's hands twitched up, a reflexive attempt at modesty, she supposed, stopped by the sleeves that still covered Anne's forearms. A petty thought, My breasts are better; a little bit smaller maybe, but I don't droop as much flicked quickly through Lucy's mind, just as quickly forgotten as she watched Anne blush. The red flush moved like a tide from Anne's cheeks down her neck to her chest, momentarily stopping at the tops of those pure white mounds that had never known the sun. When the man used his forefingers and thumbs to gently stretch the nipples toward Lucy, the breasts themselves turned pink.

Lucy heard a small gasp, and realized it had come from her. For a moment, her attention turned inward. She hadn't noticed when her nipples had become so hard, but now she was acutely aware of the pressure of her bra against them. She realized she had been gripping the edge of the seat with white-knuckled strength and relaxed her hands, letting her arms cross under her breasts, squeezing the sides and lifting them a little. She squirmed on the seat, trying to get comfortable. A gasp that didn't come from her drew her eyes back to her half-naked friend and to the naked man who stood behind Anne.

The man's left hand had come around Anne's left hip and disappeared under the flap of the robe. Lucy could see nothing of it except a terry-covered mound, a mound that pulsed in the same slow rhythm as the wrist that moved forward and back, in and out, from under the robe. She watched the slow movements for what seemed a long time. Another gasp caused her eyes to flick back to Anne's face. Anne's mouth was open and her head had arched back against the man's collar bone. Lucy was sure Anne was about to orgasm.

With that realization, Lucy's mind began to work again, if only for a moment. I should leave now. It'll be too personal if she knows I've seen her come at the hands of this stranger. It'll affect our friendship, Lucy thought. How could I explain this to Fergus if he found out? How could I face the neighbors? Then she flushed with shame. Not for Anne, but for herself. She was going to stay. She was going to watch her friend stripped bare, body and soul, before her. The thought excited her, inflamed her. Nothing this exciting had ever happened to her, and her mind was engulfed with an erotic intensity that wouldn't let her leave.

The wrist was moving in and out of the robe faster now, and Anne's panting kept pace. Lucy watched as Anne stiffened and her face strained, mouth wide open and eyes unfocused. She heard Anne's breath catch, three times, almost like hiccups. How can she be so quiet? thought Lucy. I'd be screaming. Then she saw Anne's hand flash down to pull the man's hand away. Lucy nodded in sympathy. Fergus too often kept rubbing her after an orgasm, after she had become too sensitive.

Lucy's breath was coming more quickly now. One thumb moved unnoticed up to her nipple to caress, but she jerked it back down when she felt it. The man was turning Anne's back to her. Anne seemed almost passive. Lucy had never seen her like this. The Anne she knew was active, confident, always ready to do what needed to be done in the community. She wondered what power the man had over her.

The man put his hands on Anne's shoulders and pushed gently. Anne bent forward at her hips, spreading her legs slightly at the same time. Lucy was presented with a featured view of Anne's terry-covered rear. Lucy's eyes went up to the man's face and, for the first time, she really looked at him. He was tall, but not as tall or powerful as Fergus. Black hair brushed straight back, with a hint of five o'clock shadow. He had a trace of a smile but it didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes were hypnotic, deep and cynical. Lucy couldn't look away. Movement finally drew her eyes back down, as the man's hands slid down Anne's back, finally reaching the fold where the robe doubled over the belt. The hands pushed. The belt loosened, and suddenly the robe was gone.

Lucy stared at her friend's sex, as if in a dream. She saw the outer lips engorged, dusky with desire. The inner lips had pushed up, blossoming like a pink flower in the darker furrow. Anne's lubrication gleamed in the light. Is that what I look like? thought Lucy. Do I look like that right now, under my panties? At the thought, Lucy again felt the pressure of the bra on her nipples, and she knew she was wet like Anne.

Lucy could not see Anne's face, but the wet sounds and the small rocking motions of the man's hips etched an image into her mind. She started to get up, to walk closer, to see that shaft in her friend's mouth, but she caught herself and sat down. Lucy's eyes closed and she let passion well up, listening to the nasty, dirty sounds that burned in her brain.

A soft grunt focused Lucy's attention back on the naked couple. The man's hands were on each side of Anne's head as he pushed her back from his pelvis. With a push on one side and a pull on the other, he turned Anne to face Lucy. Without prompting, Anne dropped to her hands and knees, eyes fixed on Lucy, face red again. There was a shiny streak of moisture on one cheek. The man's eyes were on Lucy as well as he knelt behind Anne, and he had that same tiny smile.

He's going to fuck her now, thought Lucy, mildly surprised by her choice of words. It was not her normal vocabulary even when thinking of sex. Her eyes widened as the man drove his hips forward. She saw Anne's mouth open, soundlessly except for an explosive exhalation of breath.

He's fucking her. He's really fucking Anne. He's fucking Anne while I watch, and she's letting him. Lucy's attention to the scene before her was total. Lucy didn't notice the thumb on her nipple this time. She didn't notice that she was rocking her hips, pressing against the seat's cushion in time with the man's thrusts.

The movement of Anne's head was hypnotic as it jerked forward each time the man's pelvis slammed into her rear. Lucy watched as Anne's stare lost focus, became glassy-eyed, and then disappeared under closed eyelids. A guttural moan escaped Anne's lips, and then Lucy again heard the breath catch, more little hiccups this time, as Anne's back and neck arched up stiffly for a small eternity, and then collapsed.

The man stayed still in Anne until she had finished her shudders. Then he withdrew and allowed Anne to fall to her side, looking spent. As the man stood, Lucy's eyes were drawn compulsively to the man's penis, still standing erect, shiny now with Anne's juices. His thing, his *cock*, is still hard! He must not have come, she thought. Oh God, does he plan to do something to me? She forced her eyes away and looked at his face. It was a mistake. His eyes captured hers again and wouldn't let her go. He began to walk toward her with a hard, thin smile. Lucy sat frozen in her seat.

Lucy looked again at his erection. The window seat was low. She knew that if she leaned forward a little, her face would be level with his penis. He's going to put it in my mouth, she thought, covered with the taste of Anne. She shivered and wondered whether she would let him. Whether she could stop him.

Instead, he stopped and offered his hand. Unthinkingly she placed hers on his palm. He pulled her up and turned her to face Anne in a motion that couldn't have been smoother if they had been dancing. Lucy felt those hands each grab a handful of cotton knit, and then her arms were forced up, over her head, as he pulled her shirt off. Almost before the shirt hit the floor, his hands made the return trip down to her waist, pushing her arms back down, with his thumbs hooked in her bra straps. Lucy stood shocked, breasts bare to her friend, bra inside out around her waist, still fastened.

The abruptness filled her with excitement. He hadn't asked permission. It would be like rape if it were not for the fact that she had not fought it, had thrilled to it. She felt passive, helpless, although she was not actually restrained. The feeling filled her with both dread and arousal. So caught up in her need was she that she didn't even blush when she saw Anne, head propped up in her hand, watching his hands move up to play with her nipples.

Lucy hadn't noticed when one hand had left her breast, when it had undone the top button on her loose fitting shorts. The other hand on her breast and the sight of Anne's hand moving to slide between parted thighs had captured Lucy's attention.

But she did notice when the hand slid under the waistbands of both shorts and panties, down through her bush, and along her sensitive folds to the entrance to her vagina. Even as her hips surged forward to help impale herself on the finger slipping inside her, even as a moan escaped her mouth, reality hit her like a splash of cold water.

Sanity exploded in her brain with blinding suddenness, and she knew she couldn't do this. The husband and family that she had quite literally lost in his eyes flashed into her brain, and the thought of consequences overruled desire.

She turned to the side, jerking his arm out of her shorts with both hands. She raised her arms to bring her bra into place and snatched up her shirt. Her shorts had fallen to her hips; she pulled them to her waist and held them with one hand. She heard Anne call out as she ran to the door, but the words didn't register. In seconds she was driving away in her bra, the crumpled shirt pressed tightly to her chest over it. A block from her home she stopped and pulled on the shirt, thankful that there was no one to see her. She sat there trying to think, trying to decide what to do.

Anne would call tomorrow, and Lucy still had the chafing dish in her car. She would have to talk to her, to see her, sometime, but she had no idea what she would say. She decided not to think about that now. More pressing was the question of whether, and what, to tell her husband. And when. Her mind whirled, tumbling turbulently from one thought to another. She finally decided she'd have to figure out what to do about her husband later as well. She drove the short distance home and went in the door.

Steeling herself to face her husband, she opened the door and announced her arrival, only to be met by silence. Walking to the kitchen, she saw the note under the refrigerator magnet: "Took the kids to pick up Chinese. Back soon." Breathing a sigh of relief, she made for the shower, as if to wash off any evidence of events. In a white terrycloth robe very like Anne's, over a tee-shirt and panties, she was still towel drying her short, brown curls when the silence was shattered by the chatter of her children and her husband's hello. She went through the usual routines of greeting and serving the food without any of them noticing that she was mentally absent. When her husband and kids elected to plop themselves in front of the television to eat, she took her plate into the den, ostensibly to check her email.

She was staring at the screen saver when the kids bounced in to kiss her good night. After trying to sort out her feelings, she had finally decided that she would wait until after she had talked to Anne before tackling Fergus. She rationalized this by worrying about what Fergus might tell Charles, his golfing buddy and Anne's husband. After all, she thought, I didn't really do anything wrong. I didn't cheat. I don't tell Fergus every time someone hits on me or tries to cop a little feel at a party. This isn't so different as long as I didn't do anything.

Having made the decision to procrastinate, she leaned back in her chair and began think about what had happened. She closed her eyes and remembered, remembered how much more intense her arousal had been than anything she had felt in years. Fergus is a fine lover, she chided herself, he makes me come every time. He knows just what makes me feel good. He's very considerate and gentle. He loves me and he's faithful. Even as she tried to believe it was enough, she heard a second dialogue in the background, saying, Yeah, but it's the *same* every time. The same foreplay, the same positions, the same conversation about getting ice water afterwards. He makes you come, but he doesn't make you *want* to come. He doesn't drive you out of your mind with desire, with wanting. How can he? We've been married thirteen years. I've seen him grunt on the toilet seat. What chance does he have to create such excitement. We know each other too well. It's not fair to compare. But *you* can still feel that consuming passion. You felt it today. Today was hot, today was lust. Don't you need some of that too? And all the while, like a video loop, image after image flashed fleetingly through her mind. Anne's wet vagina as she sucked the man's penis no, his cock, she corrected herself. The open-mouthed surprise on Anne's face when he drove that cock into Anne from behind. Her own hips thrusting forward against his hand, driving the finger inside her.

She first noticed the smell. Herbal Essence. Shampooed hair. Even as she began to break out of her erotic fugue, her husband's hands encircled her from behind, cupping her breasts as he always did, even around the kids when he thinks they aren't looking, the old peeve appearing like a Pavlovian response. Cupping her breasts was just routine now, after all the years. Kissing her neck, he said, "Good night, sweetheart. Don't stay up too late."

Tonight, however, the hands on her breasts and kiss on the neck, so perversely like and unlike the scene at Anne's, pulled the trigger on her desire. Quickly she spun the desk chair around and jerked his open his robe. The boxers he used as pajamas were at his knees before he could react. She grabbed the flaccid penis and sucked it into her mouth. Fergus's face looked blank, uncomprehending, at this wanton act, but his penis knew how to react. She felt a sense of power and a surge of desire, both at how quickly the shaft hardened to its full length in her mouth, and at knowing it would be entering her body soon. Once it was hard, she backed all the way off and then let it part her lips as she moved her head forward. Like it was a first touch. She knew HE would already be hard when HE brought HIS cock to her. She wondered what HIS cock would taste like. She struggled to remove her robe while she held his erection in her mouth. Seeing her problem, Fergus grabbed robe and shirt and pulled both up. As the shirt came through, she had to let his erection fall from her mouth. She raised her rear from the seat and pushed down her panties. Without ever fully standing up, she dropped to her hands and knees in front of Fergus. Wanting to feel wanton, lewd, to show her sex as Anne had, she let her head drop to the floor, presenting her rounded ass to her husband.

"Fuck me, Fergus! Dear God, put it in me now. Please," she pleaded. In her head she heard, What's come over me? I must look like an idiot. What will he think of me. What am I doing?

If Fergus didn't know why, he knew what to do. Lucy grunted as she felt him shove his cock, dick, prick into her pussy. She closed her eyes and it was HIM behind her. He's fucking me, just like Anne. And I'm letting him! Letting him fuck me! Then she remembered the eyes, the knowing, cynical smile. She came for the first time. As she felt the cock churn in an out of her channel, she thought she heard a groan, like Anne might make fingering herself as she watched. She came again. She was building up to another when her husband grabbed her hips and pulled himself as far into her as he could go. Not now, she groaned to herself, just a little more and I'll be there again. She tried to shake her hips back and forth on his cock to get that final friction, but he held her too tight as his convulsive jerks signaled his climax. Suddenly he let go, pushing himself abruptly back, apparently too sensitive to let it go soft in her the way he usually did. They lay panting on the floor.

"Do you want some ice water," came the familiar refrain after a few minutes.

"Yes, please."

She retired to the bathroom, back in their comfortable routine again, to clean up before sleep. As she went through the motions, her mind was troubled. She knew she hadn't really been with her husband in any way that really mattered. She had been with HIM. It felt like cheating.

The water was waiting when she emerged, and so was Fergus.

"Jesus, that was great. What brought that on, Sweetheart?"

"I don't know," she lied. "I was reading a hot romance on the web, maybe it worked me up without my realizing it. Or maybe you just caught me during that fifteen minute period once a month when a woman really wants a man, like those two comediennes talk about, the Mommies or whoever they are. All I know now is that I need to sleep."

With a tender kiss and a whispered, "Thanks, Honey," Fergus turned over and was soon dead to the world. It took Lucy a lot longer.

BRRRRINNNGGG. Lucy stirred groggily. BRRRRINNNGGG. She reached over to the bedside table and jerked the phone off its cradle before it could ring again. "Hello," she said, unenthusiastically.