Oscar and Irene Pt. 07

Irene ended up traveling with Matt three or four times a year, mostly within Europe, but occasionally further afield. Even though it ate me alive when they shared a hotel room, we desperately needed the money, and as long as I didn't actually have to witness it, I was able to justify it.

I thought I had come to terms with my wife's ongoing love affair with her boss, but there was always tension in the house right before she went away with him. This time was no different, and upon learning that she was to accompany Matt to Los Angeles for a long weekend, Irene went bikini shopping with her best friend Daphne. The two of them were like schoolgirls as they planned their trip to the local mall, Maremagnum, and I listened jealously as they discussed how many swimsuits Irene should pack for her trip to California.

When they returned from the mall several hours later, they both had purchased several two-piece bikinis, and were giddy with excitement. I knew Matt paid my wife very well for her company, but I wasn't thrilled that she had spent so much money on frivolous clothing. Irene seemed to read my mind, because at some point she assured me that she hadn't wasted any of our money on swimsuits.

"Matt gave me his credit card, baby," she said with a giggle, "he likes me to show off my body when I am around him."

That was a bigger kick in the nuts to learn that my wife's boss had paid for her sexy bikinis, and Irene seemed to get some pleasure from rubbing my face in her relationship with her boss. It was a true relationship too, not just a sexual tryst. They had connected on many levels, and in addition to being the sexual highlight of her life, Matt was also her mentor, her best friend and her trusted confidant. I knew that she shared all of her hopes and dreams with him, and it really pissed me off.

Matt was superior to me in every quantifiable way that women find appealing, and it hurt even more that they also connected intellectually. I wasn't sure how much Irene had shared about their relationship with Daphne, but the two of them were definitely sharing some hidden joke about Irene's upcoming trip. Judging by the way they were carrying on, I assume that they had enjoyed a cocktail with lunch, at the mall. So, it was no surprise when Irene opened a bottle of Cava, and the two of them enjoyed a glass.

Predictably, one glass turned into three or four, and once they were drunk, Irene had a great idea.

"Let's have a fashion show," she exclaimed. "I want to try on all of the stuff Matt bought me."

This was my cue to leave, and as I went to excuse myself, Irene emptied the entire contents of her shopping bags onto our living room floor.

"Where do you think you are going?" she asked me aggressively. "I need a man's opinion."

I tried to stammer my excuses but Irene was having none of it. Truth was, the last thing I wanted to witness was my wife cavorting around in some revealing bathing suits, paid for by her boss. However, Irene had made up her mind that I was going to watch, so I walked over to the sofa, and stood next to it, with my arms folded in defiance.

We had always been an equal partnership during our fifteen year union, but ever since Irene had taken a lover, she had asserted herself over me, and taken the reins of our marriage. Tonight was to be no different, and when she spoke it was with considerable authority.

"Sit," she ordered, as I lowered my ass to the sofa.

Daphne let out a little giggle, a combination of the champagne surging through her veins, and the knowledge that Irene controlled me.

There was a large pile of clothes on the living room floor, and as my wife began to select the first item for tonight's fashion show, I observed it cautiously. She selected a bright yellow, two-piece bikini first, and as she removed the tiny items of clothing from the pile, I could see that there were more than just bathing suits in it. I saw some lingerie first, a camisole, a matching garter-belt and what appeared to be some tights, or possibly stockings. Then a Lycra mini-dress, in an impossibly bright shade of lime green, and some matching stripper heels.

After my wife left the room to go and change into her new bikini, Daphne and I remained in the living room, and even though I was content to sit in an awkward silence, Daphne was buzzed and wanted to talk.

"Irene is so lucky to have such a generous and attentive boss," she mused, as I sat there in my jealous silence. "I wish my boss would buy me lingerie, although I imagine that there is a price to be paid," she added with a giggle.

I knew that Irene was paying the price for Matt's generosity, having witnessed first hand some of the sacrifices that she made to accommodate him. I only hoped that Daphne wasn't fully aware of the relationship between my wife and her boss.

A few moments later, Irene entered the room in a bright yellow, two-piece bikini, that left nothing to the imagination. It was very flattering to my wife, accentuating her nice breasts, although the tiny top barely covered her nipples. The bikini briefs were tiny also, providing just enough coverage to be considered acceptable to wear in public. Or so I thought, until Irene twirled slowly to reveal the rear of the bathing suit.

Her ass-cheeks were fully exposed, lifted and separated by a tiny piece of fabric that disappeared between her buttocks. I recoiled at the visual of my wife, and I closed my eyes briefly to try and blot the lewd image from my mind. As I did so, the memory of Matt's handprints across Irene's ass, after he had spanked her in the shower, filled my mind. Despite my efforts, I had been unable to shake that image, even though it had occurred several months ago.

As I opened my eyes, they were drawn to Irene's butt-cheeks, or rather, what hidden delight lay between them. I had my suspicions that Matt had taken my wife's anal cherry, although she would neither confirm or deny it, no matter how much I begged her to tell me.

Once Irene had completed her twirl, she invited comments from Daphne and I. I remained silent, my jealousy surfacing as Daphne spoke.

"That is beautiful, Irene," her best friend said. "Matt will love it."

"Take a picture," my wife instructed me, "I want to get Matt's approval."

My hands were trembling as I held my iPhone up to capture my wife in her new bathing suit. One picture turned into two dozen, as Irene positioned herself provocatively, for Matt's visual stimulation. The alcohol had obviously emboldened her, because the photo that she deemed appropriate to send to Matt was taken while she was on her knees, holding her breasts skyward, as she blew a kiss to the camera.

"Forward it to Daphne," my wife ordered me, as she left to do her next costume change.

I heard Daphne's phone ding moments after I sent her the picture, and as we waited for Irene to return, Daphne used some kind of phone filter app to make the necessary adjustments. When the photo was returned to me, Irene was sporting a cute set of black kitten ears, digitally added, and some adorable cat whiskers. The modifications, done on a phone app favored by teenagers, added a girly quality to my wife's outfit. Although when Daphne told me to send it to Matt, and dictated the caption that she wanted me to write beneath it, I felt like even more of a wimp.

I reluctantly sent the picture to my wife's boss, the caption "Matt's pussy. Meow." leaving no question as to my wife's intent on their upcoming trip to Los Angeles.

A few minutes later, Irene emerged in her new lime green Lycra dress, with matching green heels, looking much more like a stripper than a happily married woman with kids. This impromptu fashion show went on for nearly two hours, Irene and Matt sharing their intimate thoughts openly, using my phone as the conduit. I was forced to take several more pictures and as the girls applied the appropriate filters to them, I had to write the caption that they dictated, and forward it to her boss.

After a while, Irene stopped leaving the room to get dressed, opting to strip down in front of Daphne and I, between each costume change. It was at this point that I noticed her clean-shaven pussy, an indication that a trip away with Matt was imminent. Even though I much preferred her neatly trimmed bush, the way she had groomed herself for the entirety of our fifteen year marriage, Matt had decreed that he liked shaved pussies, and this was one of his non-negotiable requirements for Irene's trips.

It was during one costume change that I noticed that her complete lack of pubic hair extended to her nether regions, and she must have noticed my reaction, because she offered an explanation.

"Matt told me to get a Brazilian Wax treatment," she said proudly, as she rotated one hundred and eighty degrees, and bent over at the waist. "He paid for Daphne to get one too."

My face reddened at this thought, and even though I wanted to ask Daphne how she was going to tell her husband, I kept quiet. At some point, Irene had modeled all of her new outdoor clothes, and there was just a pile of lingerie left on the living room floor.

"Time for you to go to bed, Oscar," she said dismissively. "Matt won't want you to see me in any of my intimate wear. He can be very possessive."

As she reached over to pick up an expensive looking silk camisole, in a beautiful shade of mint green, I left the room quietly, my erection throbbing in my underwear.

I have no clue what time they finally finished the fashion show, but they had switched to Irene's phone, and I was cut out of the remainder of the evening. In the morning, I got up early to make Irene some coffee, and on my return to our bedroom, it was evident that she was ill. At first, I took a little satisfaction from the fact that she was hungover, but as the morning progressed, it became apparent that it was not alcohol related.

Irene had caught some kind of stomach bug, and twelve hours later it was obvious that she was in no state to board an international flight. Irene's main concern was letting Matt down, but she was too ill to communicate with him, so she left it in my hands. I think Matt thought I was joking at first, as I had spent the previous evening sending him photos of my wife in various states of undress, and she seemed perfectly fine during our photo session. However, once he realized that Irene wasn't up to the task, he dumped the responsibility of finding a short-notice replacement, on my shoulders.

"Figure it out," he texted me. "My flight is tomorrow at 6.20pm. Have Irene's replacement meet me in the First Class lounge of KLM by 5pm. Make sure she understands exactly what is required of her. Tell Irene I will still pay her for the trip, and she can keep the clothes for our next warm weather adventure. Don't let me down, Little Boy."

Even though it was infuriating that Matt referred to me as "Little Boy," I had a lot to do and very little time to do it, so I focused on the task at hand, rather than the perceived slight. I knew Daphne was the obvious choice, but I had no clue if she understood the requirements that would be placed on her, if she elected to go. I called her first, after securing permission from Irene, and while Daphne was open to the idea of going to Los Angeles on such short notice, she wanted to talk in person about Matt's expectations.

I really didn't want to have this conversation, but the three of us gathered in Irene's bedroom, and I listened as my wife brought Daphne up to speed. Irene was dealing with a severe stomach bug, but was able to communicate effectively with her best friend. I tried to excuse myself several times, but Irene was having none of it, and instructed me to stay.

Daphne was focused on the benefits of the trip, asking questions about the pay, the type of accommodations she could expect, and whether or not she would be able to have a clothing allowance. She didn't seem to have any concerns about what she had to do for Matt, but finally my wife broke it down for her best friend.

"In addition to operating the overhead projector, and facilitating the question session, you will be expected to take care of Matt's more intimate needs," my wife informed her best friend.

I sat there fidgeting nervously as Irene detailed Matt's sexual proclivities, his stamina and his penchant for lingerie.

"Any questions, Daphne?" Irene asked.

"What's his favorite sexual position?" Daphne asked my wife, apparently willing to try them all.

"Probably doggy-style," Irene shared candidly, "although he likes to sixty-nine also."

"Does he like blowjobs?" Daphne asked, innocently.

"Oscar can answer that one!" Irene exclaimed with a giggle, alluding to the fact that I had witnessed my wife suck her boss off.

I shuffled uncomfortably in my chair, uneasy with the way this conversation was going.

"Oscar?" Daphne said coyly.

I lowered my head to avoid being sucked into this conversation, but my body language said it all.

"I will take that as a yes," Daphne said. "Matt likes getting his cock sucked. Any other tips guys?" Daphne continued, as if I could somehow make a contribution to this conversation.

I remained silent, but my wife continued, giving me way more information than I needed. "He likes it in the shower, he likes to spank women, he enjoys the occasional titty-fuck, but doesn't normally come that way."

"How does he like you to dress?" Daphne continued.

"According to the occasion," my wife answered. "But always have a clean-shaved pussy, and always wear a garter-belt and stockings," she advised. "You never know when Matt is in the mood. He has a voracious appetite."

"Luckily for me I already got a Brazilian Wax treatment," Daphne exclaimed cheerfully. "Will Matt expect anal sex?" she asked, as if she were enquiring about his favorite breakfast cereal.

"Can you excuse us Oscar?" my wife said quietly, her desire to keep this a mystery still evident.

"Irene, please," I responded, "I want to know if Matt has enjoyed your forbidden orifice."

"It wouldn't be appropriate to discuss my relationship with Matt," she teased me, "just the same way that I wouldn't air our dirty laundry in front of him. Now go. Beat it."

As soon as I left the two of them to chat, I felt better about being excused. Irene had granted me one small mercy, as the thought of her airing our dirty laundry and telling Matt about our recent sexual encounters, would have been downright humiliating. In my current state of restriction, which Matt had made very clear was subject to change at any time, I was only allowed to make love to Irene twice a month. This in itself was a tough pill to swallow, but in addition to the frequency restriction, there were numerous other rules.

I was only permitted to enjoy Irene in the missionary position, the other more exotic methods of coupling reserved for Matt, in order to keep his sex-life with my wife exciting. I was also required to wear a condom for penetrative sex, to keep Matt's pussy unsullied. Of course, Matt also dictated the brand and thickness of the condom, and in a very thoughtful gesture, had recently started to provide me with the prophylactics of his choice.

The Japanese brand, identified by its English label, "Little Boy" was very thin and designed to increase stimulation, which was probably the very last thing I needed. After two weeks of celibacy, I was always ready to erupt, and the last few times my wife and I made love, I ejaculated before I was even balls-deep inside her. This was emasculating enough in itself, but as my wife taunted me just prior to me entering her, I realized that my premature ejaculation was a source of amusement for Matt and her. In fact, as if to rub my face in it, on more than one occasion Irene was waiting for me on her back, holding her cellphone.

"Come on, baby," she would taunt me. "Put your cock deep inside me and let me know when you are ready to go. I am going to time how long it takes you to come, as Matt and I made a bet on it."

I never lasted long, and having seen the way Matt performed, when the three of us went to New York, only served to increase my feelings of inadequacy. Matt knew exactly what he was doing, and over a period of a few months, he reduced Irene's sexual attraction to me, to virtually zero. The two week interval between my sexual encounters was the perfect period of celibacy, just enough to ensure premature ejaculation on my part, without ever putting me in danger of having nocturnal emissions, which would have reduced the tension, and allowed me to make love to Irene like a normal human being. In addition to the enforced celibacy, he permitted, no positively encouraged, Irene to mess with me.

At his direction, we would enjoy frequent make-out sessions, her tender kisses ensuring an hours-long erection, and a steady flow of pre-cum, on my part. Occasionally, if Irene got excited by my leaking cock and my tortured whimpering, she would have me fetch her vibrator, and would masturbate in front of me. This was something that she never would have done prior to meeting Matt, and I wondered what other boundaries of hers he had pushed, and eventually crossed.

Sometimes, when Irene masturbated she would get caught up in the moment, close her eyes, and be transported to some other place as she climaxed repeatedly. Occasionally, she would cry out Matt's name as she reached her orgasm, although she would always apologize after she had composed herself.

I learned over time, that these impromptu vibrator sessions provided the perfect opportunity for me to ask any questions that I had about my wife's sex-life with her boss. As she got engulfed in her pleasure, she would candidly answer any questions that I posed to her, my crestfallen reaction exciting her, and often pushing her to her next climax.

"Does Matt ever come too soon?" I asked during one such session, hoping to discover a chink in his armor. "Are you ever left wanting more?"

Irene, to her credit, always answered with brutal honesty when she was approaching her climax, and eventually I stopped asking her questions, as it was just too painful. Irene, apparently wanted to rub my face in her relationship with her boss, because she continued to share the sordid details with me, although she waited until I was eating her out, before spilling her guts.

This was my least favorite part of our relationship, made even worse by the fact that she chose this moment to belittle me. Whenever Irene returned from Matt's arms, I was required to go down on her. This had been a bone of contention for me, from the first time it occurred. I deemed it unnecessarily humiliating, a spiteful act designed to literally rub my face in my wife's infidelity.

Irene would disrobe, as I knelt naked at the foot of our marital bed. She would rotate slowly so that I could take in any evidence of Matt's rough treatment of her. This could take the form of bruises or handprints from where he had spanked her, love bites on her breasts, neck or shoulders, or ligature marks on her wrists and ankles if her had restrained her.

Occasionally there would be dried semen on her breasts, chin or neck, where he had obviously tit-fucked her. Sometimes, even remnants of lubricant between her ass-cheeks, as if to confirm my suspicion that he had taken her forbidden orifice. After she had allowed me to take in the evidence of Matt man-handling my bride, she would lay on her back on our bed, her head propped up by pillows, so that she could observe my submission. More often than not, Matt's dried semen would be smeared all over Irene's labia, clitoris and inner thighs, and as she spread her legs wide, and tightened her stomach muscles, the load that he had just blasted inside her, would be slowly ejected.

"Eat," my wife would say with a giggle, "before it gets cold."