Peyton Ch. 01: Uncaged

As always, everyone involved in sexual activity are 18 years and older. Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoy.

Quill

***

I felt Phil's eyes on me, even without turning to look at him. From across the abyss of the small space of our rental car, my husband watched me, as if cautiously observing the presence of a new lifeform.

There was music playing in the background; a radio station that neither of us knew. It didn't matter. The sounds coming through the car's speakers was mere white noise to cover up the agonizing silence of words not spoken.

My own eyes were staring out of the passenger window watching the trees blur together as they whipped across my view. My husband sat next to me, in the driver seat, alternating between being an attentive driver and sneaking glances at me.

Both of our thoughts were running wild with the chaos of this past three-day weekend. A trip to Vegas, a break away from our humdrum everyday existence, was just what we needed. We'd fallen into a rut of sorts, like most marriages that span a decade do. This was our chance to reconnect; to get back to who we were as a couple.

Little did we know what chain of events would lead us here. Our stale life had been turned upside down in a span of 72 hours. Our future, our marriage, our bond as husband and wife looked so different than they did this past Friday.

Who were we?

To all our friends, we were the "good couple." Polite. Decent. Never disagreed or argued in public. Always held hands and kissed each other goodbye with a loving peck.

Were we those two people you see who can't take their hands off each other? That couple annoyingly gnawing at each other in public? No. We were never that, not even in the beginning. Our loins didn't burn with the fire of lust. Our connection was deeper than two genitals meeting in sweaty coitus for 15 or so minutes. I was in love with my husband's mind, his soul, his very essence. And he was in love with mine.

As far as our sex life, it was...respectable, if such a word can exist for a sex life.

To me, he was a stable, faithful, dependable partner who valued me as his equal. I trusted him which, considering my history with men, was a big thing.

To him, I was the loving, caring, loyal woman who would never betray him. He as well had a jaded history with his previous wife who was unfaithful for a good majority of their marriage.

That's all we needed to know about each other. Our sex life mattered so little amongst the rare gems we found when we met.

At least, that's what we thought. We'd done a fantastic job convincing ourselves of this. It's funny how much life can change in such a short amount of time.

This weekend had thrown back the curtain and showed us a glimpse at the people hidden behind our carefully constructed façade. Neither of us knew the hidden depravities that lurked within the mind of the other. We'd carefully hidden them from the world, safely tucked away in a secret compartment. We'd hidden them for so long that we ourselves had forgotten where to find them.

Well...not anymore.

A sigh came from Phil. I turned away from the scenery to look at my husband, thinking he was about to say something to kill this silence. Anything. Talk about the weather. Tell me he loved me. Call me the whore of Babylon. I would've welcomed any words to end this torture.

We locked eyes. There was a silent stare between us. His mouth opened, finally, and I awaited what I thought was the beginning of a conversation that was long overdue. But at the last second, he lost his nerve. His mouth closed into a thin-lipped smile. I awkwardly reciprocated with an awkward smile of my own before his eyes returned to the road.

"He can't even look at me." I chastised myself inside my head. "How could he? How can things ever be the same between us again after what's happened? He knows. He knows I'm a slut.

I would've given everything I owned for just 30 seconds of being a mind reader. I wished I could see inside of Phil's head. Just a peek, so I could determine my future. Was I about to be a single woman? A divorcee? A whore with a scarlet letter stamped on her chest?

Normally, he was an open book. After 10 years of being married to a man, you've had every conversation; laughed at every joke; heard every story. You come to a point where you can look at him and see what he's feeling.

But not now.

Now, his expression was foreign, blank, and cryptic. He was lost in thought, trapped inside of his own head. No doubt, his brain was rewinding the events of last night; watching things transpire.

My husband can be your worst nightmare when it comes to poker, but now was not the time for him to go all mysterious on me. I needed to know how he felt about...everything.

I looked down at my sandals, my eyes latching onto the white painted toes of my freshly pedicured feet. My own mind wandered into the drunken abyss of the last few days. Images, both innocuous and carnal, flashed in my thoughts.

The dinging of slot machines. Hot breath on my neck. Illusionists and magic shows. Sweat dripping on my back. Wonderful, exotic meals mixed with expensive champagne. My hair getting pulled to the sounds of wet skin slapping. Singing and dancing. My orgasmic moans ringing out as hard cocks repeatedly plunged into my wet pussy.

I don't know if my breathing changed, I looked different, or if my husband was just psychic. As my thoughts began to run away with the speed of an Olympic sprinter, Phil's voice boomed through my reverie.

"You feeling okay, Peyton?"

It startled me out of my reverie. "Huh?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Nothing. I was just asking how you were."

He sounded anxious; almost as anxious as I felt. His question, which seemed to come out of nowhere, had me unable to meet his eyes. I knew what he was asking; what his words weren't saying.

He wanted to know about this weekend; about how I felt about...everything that happened. To him, I was completely unlike the wife he'd been married to for a half a decade. He didn't recognize the woman of the past 72 hours. She was a stranger; a sexy alien that he'd only dreamed about.

The only thing I could say at that moment was, "I'm okay, I guess." Then, with a bit of reticence in my voice, I added, "How about you?"

Even though he opened the volley, my return question threw him off almost as much as his threw me. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he shrugged and answered, "I feel...I don't know...surreal."

At least he was more straightforward and honest in his answer. Unfortunately, that was not what I needed to hear. I needed more reassurance than surreal.

My vision became blurred as my eyes teared up. I tried to hold it back, but it wasn't long before it became too much for me. A sob cracked out of me.

"Hey, hey, hey." Phil said as he reached over and gently touched my shoulder. "No need for that."

"I'm...a slut!" I sputtered before devolving into more sobs.

"No...babe, don't think like that."

"I am! How could I do that? How could I...I..."

I couldn't even say it. The words wouldn't come out of my mouth. Saying it aloud made it real. It wasn't just one of my vivid dreams. Those things really happened, and I did them.

And worse yet, I enjoyed it. Like a slut.

I felt the car pull over, which was odd seeing that we were on the freeway. A quick glance out the window assured me that we were safely in the shoulder.

When he put the car in park, he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over from his side to mine. He pulled me into a hug and wrapped his arms lovingly around me. I sniffled into his neck and leaned my head against his.

This. This is what I needed.

"Listen, Peyton. Don't forget, I was there too. You did nothing by yourself, okay. You are not a slut. You are my wife. I love you more than life itself. Nothing will change that."

His voice was tender and reassuring. His hands softly stroked my back in that way he does. It's so comforting. So loving. It always calms me down.

But I didn't deserve his love. I didn't deserve his devotion. There was so much that he didn't know about me; so much I didn't tell him.

"Phil...I...need you to know..."

His kiss cut my words off.

I let out a sigh when his lips released me. A grateful smile formed on my face as I looked into the loving eyes that held me. "How can you even stand to look at me?" I asked.

"You do own a mirror, right?" he asked with a chuckle. "Looking at you has never been a chore."

I let out a teary, flattered laugh at his unexpected compliment. "You know what I mean." I said, semi-seriously.

"Yeah, I do."

I could see him thinking, running things around in his head. He was gathering his thoughts and feelings. After a few beats, he gave me a nod.

"If I'm honest, the whole thing seems like a dream. You know? My brain still can't connect. It's like everything that happened happened to another couple. Like...I see it in my head, but from the outside, like I'm watching two people who aren't us."

"Yeah. Me too." I agreed with a sigh, looking away as shame filled me. "I definitely don't know who that woman was."

That...was a lie. I knew EXACTLY who that woman was. She was the tigress I kept caged up inside of me, hidden beneath the carefully crafted persona that I portrayed to the world. She was the embodiment of all my hidden thoughts and passions. She was everything that I thought I buried after I left...him.

Phil gently lifted my chin with the tips of his fingers until our eyes were locked. "THAT woman is still my wife. You hear me? Nothing is gonna change that; not even..."

"Watching her fuck your two best friends right in front of you?" I finished his thought for him.

He paused, as if caught off guard. For a second, I feared I ruined things. But his contemplative face turned into a smile as he said, "Not even that."

I broke down crying again, only this time for a different reason. Tears of relief, happiness, and love flowed. We embraced once more, hugging each other tightly.

But I couldn't help that nagging voice telling me that he'd never love me if he knew everything.

***

I was always self-conscious about my body. I guess I can consider this a gift from my narcissistic mother. What she lacked in love and attention she more than made up for with condescension, judgement, and alcoholism.

I wasn't the tall, leggy, sized-one model that appeared in magazines. That was my older sister. She was the spitting image of my mom, an ex-model/ lifelong pageant queen. Both had blonde, silky hair that stretched down their backs. Bright, blue eyes. Slim figures with perfect, ladylike proportions. Not an ounce of unnecessary fat on either of them; even my mom in her 40's.

My sister and mom were, by all conventional standards, the perfect women; ladies born with classic beauty.

Me? I took after my father. I was only 5'3" to their 5'9". I had shoulder length brunette hair to their blonde; brown eyes to their blue. I was not the perfect barbie doll, and there was nothing exotic about me or strikingly beautiful.

However, that wasn't the worst of my sins. My worst sin was...I was a chubby kid. That, in the eyes of my perfectionist mother, was irredeemable.

Commandment number one according to Gloria 3:15 was: As a woman, thou shalt not be fat.

She was so obsessed with the perfect image. It was like our entire lives was to prepare us for the pictures she took for Instagram, or the family photos that hung all over our house. We were boxes to be checked, not people.

Wealthy husband? Check. Expensive house? Check. Sporty cars? Check. Beautiful daughters?

Christina? Check.

Peyton? Peyton? Peyton?

I was told I was taking ballet at age 9. It didn't matter if I liked it or not. The same with being a vegetarian.

Ballet for me was a mixed bag. I enjoyed dancing. I also wanted to please my mother. But it messed with me mentally.

As you know, there is a certain...physique...most successful ballerinas share. Well, I wasn't that. Not petite. Not slender. So, growing up always surrounded by people who didn't look like me took a toll on my young mind. I always felt out of place; like my very existence was wrong.

Over the years, I grew into my body, as most kids turning into adults do. By the time I reached the ripe age of 18, that childhood chub had turned into...something else. My waist was slim, and my stomach was flat. I even had abs. However, the same DNA that made me a chubby kid also made certain features of my anatomy more...voluptuous.

I had D cup breasts, not much bigger than my sister's C's. However, on my small body, they were much more pronounced. And thanks to a lifestyle of dance, the thickness of my hips, thighs, and derriere were toned. Even my round, cherubim face fit my sinfully sexy body.

No, I wasn't the model that would walk the runway. However, I was certainly built like a model that would appear in...other places.

I noticed the effects that my curves had on men. It was different than my sister's or mother's. Men told them how beautiful they were, but they couldn't take their eyes off me. Eyes followed me around the room. Men often tried talking to me away from the group. My young mind ate the attention up, thinking I was finally as beautiful as the other ladies in my family. I didn't realize there was a difference between how they saw us.

My mother did, of course. She knew what wicked desires lied behind the eyes of the men. She knew it was their cocks appreciating me, not their hearts.

Thus, her criticism of me took a detour. She couldn't call me Little Miss Piggy anymore. I'd graduated to Little Miss Slut.

Apparently, everything I did was to "tease every hard cock within a 10-block radius". Anything short of a baggy hoodie was insufficient in hiding the perky swell of my young, gravity defiant globes. Jeans were too tight on my hips and ass. Skirts were too short. Shorts were obscene.

It was like she blamed me for the body I had.

By the time I reached high school, I'd fed and nurtured a healthy resentment towards Gloria. I didn't want to be her clone like my sister. I wanted to be everything she wasn't. I wasn't prim and proper. I wasn't a pageant queen or a model.

I was Peyton. And I was set to find out who Peyton was.

So, I quit ballet and joined the dance team at my school. It was a much better fit for me. I enjoyed it so much more, and I fit in better. I wasn't some prissy Stepford daughter built in a factory. I was different. I needed more of a diverse group to belong to. And I found it on the dance squad. All the girls were so different, and yet, we were all the same. Our body types meshed into a synchronized unit of rhythm and movement.

The dance moves were more sensual; more suggestive. But they fit my personality more than Pliés and Pirouettes ever did.

Next change I made was, I ate whatever the hell I wanted. No more diets for me. No more Gloria-sanctioned food. Pizza with pepperoni and sausage. Steak. Pork chops from the Soul Food place that became my all-time fav restaurant. All the things I was denied as a kid, I ate at my pleasure.

And yes, part of my rebellion was the tried-and-true act of teenage defiance. I dyed my hair with streaks of blue, pink, or whatever other color would piss Gloria off.

And you know what? I liked it. I liked me. Gloria's frustration was my beacon in the night, letting me know that I was moving in the right direction.

My rebellion widened the canyon between us. My father wasn't concerned. He saw it for what it was, a teen girl's attempt to find her own identity. He understood me. He even admired it a little. I could see it in his eyes. No matter how much the she-devil shrieked at him to intervene and bring me back into obedience, he just chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.

The day I left for college was the day I truly reclaimed my life. College for me was about freedom. Nothing short of a two-hour plane ride stood between me and the leggy blondes to which I was compared. Here, I truly got to be my own person.

But I eventually found that even distance couldn't fully free me from Gloria's oppressive reign over me. We never really escape the insecurities of our childhood. They stay with you; become a part of you. The only thing physical freedom does is give them room to fully blossom into bad life choices.

Once I separated myself from my mom and moved a few hours away, I found a fundamental truth that changed my perspective. Once I stopped being compared to the leggy blondes, I realized I was NOT the ugly duckling I was led to believe I was. Here, I was just me. Small waist, pretty face, with a big bank.

I was fucking hot.

I want to say that this newfound attention didn't affect me because I was more concerned with cultivating my mind. I wish I could tell you that the attention I got from guys who finally saw me instead of my sister was mere background noise that I ignored. It would be so great to be able to claim with full honestly that I did not succumb to the rampant nature of hook-up culture and remained focused on my studies.

Ah...yes. If only

***

COLLEGE YEARS:

Let's just say that I learned a lot in the next 4 years, but most of my important lessons came from outside the classroom. There was more to college than formulas, thesis statements, and crash studying. There was also human nature, human depravity, and hedonism that can only exist in the porn addled generation of Z babies.

I was educated at frat parties, in back seats, sneaking into dorm rooms, and at various risky, public places. I had many teachers in my human sexuality lessons. Most of them were male. Most of them were peers my age.

Notice I said most. There were a couple of...ahem...curious moments. And there was a certain professor who was not a peer my age. He had a lot to teach me, both inside the classroom and out.

Take that as you will.

To me, sex was like a buffet. Believe me, I sampled much of the array. I wasn't a virgin when I entered college, but for me, my sex life didn't happen until then.

My first dip into the sex pool of college happened with weeks of my freshman year. The weather was still warm, and classes had just started.

There was this frat guy. Josh. His hunter instinct had his wolf eyes zeroed in on me since he first saw my boobs bouncing down the street as I walked back to my dorm after sampling a local ice cream shop. My T-shirt did nothing to camouflage the fullness hidden within my bra.

Yes, he was hot, in that preppy, arrogant, entitled, rich heir sort of way. He was a Senior and was a well-established figure on the campus. His reputation was the high spending, panty-collecting Romeo.

He was a player. A dog. A fuck-boi.

It was apparent from the jump that his interest in me had nothing to do with my personality. Our first conversation lasted well over an hour, and I'd have been willing to wager money that he didn't even know what color my eyes were.

Still, the attention sparked something inside of me. It fed that part of me that'd been starving all through my youth. For once, I was desired. I was pretty.

His fraternity was having a party. It was supposed to be wild, epic even. But aren't they all?

Of course, he invited me to be his special guest. Of course, I accepted. Of course.

When I arrived, I practically had to swim through a sea of drunken, gyrating bodies to even get into the house with the large, Greek letters over the front door. The music was booming from inside the house. The laughter was ringing through the night air. The smell of alcohol, marijuana, and sex filled my nostrils.

Josh saw me before I saw him. I was wandering around, looking like a doe-eyed gazelle, ready to be eaten.