tagLoving WivesSarah: Eleven Forty Four

Sarah: Eleven Forty Four


Author's note:

The fantasy story setup was that my husband would meet a couple in Chicago and do the wife while the husband watched, and call me on the phone while they did it. The couple played cuck games at home, but had never actually done anything like that in real life.

We started writing something fairly realistic, but then the characters just got away from us. We ended up with something just totally over the top – appalling, lurid, depressing, comic – you name it. It vastly helps if you read our previous story "Wendy and the Ritz" so that you understand the characters of Maxine and Arthur, and of what they are capable.

* * * * *

It's Wednesday night and David Brooks is tied up on the bed again.

"The new guy at work, he's gorgeous..."

He wants her to go faster, move faster, but she keeps the tempo languid, controlling the pace. Her nails, barely barely touching him, restrained. . "Really good looking. The last time we did it I pretended it was him. You know."

David is groaning now.

"But I'm not pretending it's him right now, not like this. Because if it were him I'd be doing a lot more than just these little baby caresses. I'd have it way down my mouth, and I'd be looking up at him, pleasing him...making you watch me." She moves down, her mouth next to her husband's straining cock, and exhales, warmly over it, sending a shiver up his spine.

"But I'm not doing anything more with you than this," she whispers, her fingers lightly around his shaft. "Because I really want to save my mouth for him. I want you to think about my mouth on him instead of you."

Her fingers pause, her hand closing around the base. In a voice so soft, a whisper, "I've been talking to Arthur you know." Breath warm in his ear.

"The e-mails, I know."

"No." She says, her hand gripping him tighter now, moving just barely. "On the phone. "

"What?" he catches his breath, looking to her, tempo interrupted.

"Friday night."

"What?" again. "What have you been...?"

"Friday...." She says.

"But I don't know if...."

"Shhhh –look at me and just shoot right in my hand baby, because this is last time I'm touching you for awhile."

Then comes the shot across his body, him pulling, stretching against the soft binds, his cock aching, aching for more – more pressure, more contact, and his sweet smiling Sarah right next to him, a growing pleasure in her eyes at just barely holding his straining cock, denying him any small favor of a squeeze, even a kiss, and he is exploding now, his semen shooting in the air and far, far down the bed.



"David," she is untying him, "I'm calling him now, get out of the bedroom. I want to be alone with him when I call."

"Can I watch?"


Even more than anything, perhaps, is the site of her as he stands in the hallway only partly redressed, she is nude, looks beautiful, too good for his plain face. (Hot looking wife, dude, how'd an ugly mother fucker like you get her? ) . And she is excited now, her mouth parted, still smiling, always smiling and she looks him right in the eye as closes the bedroom door on him, to make him wait while she...calls another man...naked and flushed...why would she want to be alone unless...

This feels so dirty to her, so good, make him wait, make him suffer a little, he likes it. Closing the door on his puppy dog face while she calls another man – a real man – not a dildo or a pretend person on the net. This feels naughty, dirty girl. Make him wait.

The sound of the little lock clicking shut.... He is hard again, hard and helpless. It burns in him, that she knows this.

* * * *

They had been exchanging e-mails with a couple identified as "Arthur" and "Maxine" for several months. They were somewhat older. The e-mails from Arthur were restrained in tone, informative. He wrote to David about the experiences, the agonies and ecstasies, of being a willing cuckold. And also of their two recent experiences in "turning the tables," in making Maxine the passive voyeur.

Maxine sent her own e-mails to Sarah, giving her tips on how to play some intense sex games at home. Maxine's e-mails were funnier, more explicit and descriptive. They seemed nice enough, helpful and forthcoming and not wierdos.

Somewhere along the way, the playful e-mails, unbeknownst to David Brooks, became more dangerous.

* * * *

And thrilling.

* * * *

He is sitting at the kitchen table, absolutely still, when she reappears. She is half dressed now in the routine casual nightshirt, her face still flush, he knows the telltale look. She sits down and lights a cigarette, produces a piece of paper with numbers written on it, "Arthur Robbins."

"This is Arthur's credit card number. He wants me to pick a hotel in Chicago this Friday. He wants you to make the reservations. He said make it clear when you do that you are not Arthur, that you are booking the room for him using his credit card, with his permission. Be sure to get a setup with a separate bedroom."

"Sarah," his stomach churning now, "we barely now a thing about these people, really. What do we really know about them?"

"I know that he gives good phone. Twice now. David I started telling him fantasies that I could never tell you. I love you so much and I at one point I would have never, ever done anything like that..."

A pause...

"But now I really know that you want me to, it's all you've talked about for more than a year. So... "her tone firm, unyielding. "I am going down to a fabulous hotel in Chicago this weekend and I am going to get taken care of, get paid attention to, and get seduced. Not by you. Do you want to come with me or not?"She looked, purposefully, at the growing bulge in his underwear. "Don't even think about it, David, you're not getting any more of me until I've had someone else."

God, she looks so beautiful there (I started telling him fantasies that I could never tell you)...new and cruel words for her...

His hands clenched, still sitting at the table. Back in her normal voice, she stands, looking at him, a slow drag of her cigarette. "Doesn't it just suck to get what you asked for?"

* * * *

A torturous two days. He jacks off repeatedly. Twice she finds him and rolls her eyes, walks away, saying nothing. They rearrange job things to take off early Friday afternoon into the summer muck and traffic of Chicago. They have chosen the Swissotel downtown, near the everything district. It is beautiful and modern, five star prices and service, according to the guidebooks but somehow a less famous marquee makes it less intimidating than other choices. My wife got fucked at the Swissotel is somehow more comic, less of a loser feeling than My wife got fucked at the Ritz.

Arthur sends only one further e-mail:

Hello David and Sarah. Friday, 7:30 PM, be in the lobby. Look nice.

Arthur's wife Maxine, however, sends an increasing number of e-mails addressed to "Sarah not for David" but he can't resist reading them. They are funny and breathless. She wants Sarah to call her – during the festivities: You'll like him she types to Sarah, he's gracious and aloof but he's very charming. Call me, baby, and tell me when you're doing it! Make fun of me, don't be kind! Just make me suffer. The tone of the e-mails becomes increasingly more urgent, pleading.

David thinks: maybe I could get his wife someday, do this funny round big hootered girl. Do her rough, get him back, get them both back. But it's only a fleeting thought, a thought to file away. Right now, it is all about Sarah, all about his wife and friend.

She has really started to fixate on Arthur's image. She has carried around the photo of him in her pockets and purse for the last two days. "Guess whose photo is stuck in my pants?" She says, "Not yours." He groans at this. Sometimes with frustrated humor. Sometimes the groan isn't funny at all. Angst, cuckold angst, this is the black pit of it. You asked me too, baby, her voice rings in his ears (fantasies that I could never tell you).

* * * *

And he's starting to have second thoughts about good old Arthur. Arthur seemed nice enough in the e-mails. As he rereads them he starts to pick up the cues: You and Sarah are nice people, David. We're not. But what sucks is that Arthur doesn't sound like a liar – I don't look like a Chippendale's stripper; the rich guy talk, the businessman talk, even other words from Maxine (He's very confident around younger women)....

And that sweet, horrible bolt he feels in his cock every time in the last two days that Sarah points to the crotch of her jeans and says "David, guess who's picture I am sitting on right now? No, honey, really guess..."


"That's riiiiight," she says, "and not you, honey. Aren't I mean?"

* * * *

In the lobby there, at the Swissotel. It's 7:25 PM.

Sarah had been very worried about what to wear, fretting, getting ready for a real date. Knowing Arthur is a businessman, she doesn't want to look too "slutty."

"David," she says knowingly, as to a girlfriend, "rich guys just hate that."

She has finally settled on a mid-length all black dress with longish sleeves, a fairly good plunge on the cleavage; the husband has never seen it, would remember it if he had. She's insecure about her breast size, now, knowing that Maxine seems proud of her own and comments on them often.

David, at her insistence, checking her make-up. Straightening out the wrinkles from the dress, combing her hair down conservatively, helping hike her boobs up into the bra. Their emotions are live wires now: he is thinking of her, and she is thinking nothing of him.

The lobby bar, Swissotel Chicago USA. It's 7:25 PM.

Ten minutes ago they sat down, a spot where they can see the cars pull in for valet service at the front entrance. Gorgeous wood and chrome and leather. Fake modern European. A waiter approaches them, gracious and pretty and gay.

"You are Mr. and Mrs. Brooks?"

David shudders at this, feels set up. Sarah seems cheery though.

"Yes we are."

"Mr. Robbins would like you to enjoy this." The waiter produces a bottle of champagne and a pair of lovely little fluted glasses.

What an asshole, thinks David, without saying a word.

"Cool!" says Sarah, out loud. "Cheers to new experiences."

The gay waiter fills their glasses, a practiced gesture, and leaves soundlessly. The label is French and foreign. Neither David or Sarah knows what it says; they are not champagne drinkers. Both know that it is probably very expensive. Nothing about Arthur and Maxine is inexpensive or simple.

She is drinking quicker than he is.

He looks at her. Done up in her "conservative" black dress, with better posture than him, comfortable with the glass in her hand, and now smoking...she looks like his Sarah but not like his Sarah. She is beautiful now, acting rich and casual. This is not his place at all, not like him. But there she is, looking amused and distracted and nervous and more than happy to be here, being treated, by someone else, that is going to fuck her just for fun.

It is still 7:25 PM in the lobby bar of the Swissotel.

And he thinks: what in the world am I doing here? What have I done? Shouldn't I have just jacked off quietly instead?

And she thinks: Go let's go let's go let's go!!

At 7:26 PM, a moment in time he will remember more than her because he is glancing up at an abstract sort of clock on the lobby wall...a car pulls up to the door of the Swissotel.

A black Jaguar sedan.

* * * *

She knows, in an instant, it his him. He is – as promised – vague and preppy looking. He is wearing a suit – a black business suit and a red tie.

"It's him, it's him," she says, as if waiting for her first date. She touches her husband's hand, pats it.

"How do you know?" he says, "could be anybody." But already David just knows it's him. Just like the son of a bitch to pull up in a Jag. It does kind of look like the photo he'd sent. Not that much of a big deal, I guess, he thinks.

But she sees things that David never will, can't possibly see: She knows, from fifty feet away through the glass, that the suit is silk, that the watch is a Rolex, and sees that smirk of his. A grown up. And she just wants to look so perfect; as her hand pats down the wrinkle in her new black dress and again she arches her back up to make her tits look bigger.

They are standing up now, as he enters the lobby. Arthur spots them amongst the crowd, right away. Of course.

Neither of them is sure what to do – do they shake hands? Does she hug him? What next? What now?

Arthur's attention is to him. He extends a strong handshake.

"David, I'm Arthur. This feels like we've known each other a lot longer than just now. If this is weird for you, that's okay, weird for me too. Later, we can talk as two regular guys about this thing. But not here."

"We'll have our own, ah, separate, uh, guy thread later or something." Goddamn the rich, David thinks, they are really fucking charming.

His attention turning to Sarah now, she is patient like a good prom date, letting the boys talk first. "Hello, Sarah. I've been thinking about you."

"Hi Arthur," she says, girlish, girlish. He puts his arm around her comfortably, possessively.

"David I really do know this could be crazy for you. As a guy with the same compulsions as you, I've felt everything you're about to go through, even these odd awkward moments right now. Shall we sit down?" He sits down next to Sarah; they are across from David.

Arthur is talking again, controlling this conversation, and looking at David without any meanness of intent. "David, you've showed up for this night and that takes great moral courage. I mean it, man." And Arthur seems genuine, supportive. "I know what it's like to push yourself to this place...and it's because you love this woman...that's part of our wiring, you and me."

And David starts to say "yeah, it's a..."

"You really don't have to explain, David."

"God it's weird how we met up like this," says David, a tiny bit more comfortable...until he sees the man's hand on his wife's knee.

She is quiet now, not like her to not be talking, but she is staring moon eyed now at Arthur, looking at him with curiosity and total concentration. The waiter has slipped a third glass onto the low leather ottoman between them. Arthur pours a glass, refills the others'.

"David," he says, raising his glass "You came here, man, you didn't chicken out. You have courage that other guys never, ever will. You are willing to push yourself to this limit and this just might mean that beyond this little kink of yours, you might accomplish great things." Arthur clinks the glasses together.

"And with that, David, I want you to hear something important."

Arthur turns to Sarah now, and close, his hand on her knee and mouth close to her ear. In a low voice...

"Sarah, I am going to so fuck you up in front of your incompetent husband."

"I know!" she giggles, "I know I know!" as her head slides onto his shoulder.

* * * *

Some of them want to use you Some of them want to be used by you Some of them want to abuse you Some of them want to be abused...

--Annie Lennox--

* * * *

Four voices, now:

The good husband, shaking now.

The businessman, the artist.

The wife, the good wife just almost gone bad, the almost-just-about-to-be-a-slut-wife, and the words cannot describe the rush, the total fucking head rush, of it – freedom freedom finally it's about me, I am going to do anything tonight. Make him suffer make him suffer make him suffer he asked me to...with a good looking rich man that is just so perfect in that beautiful black Jag...

And the other one, the businessman's wife. The one not present but still there – the little jester, the funny round girl, dirty jokes to cover her black hole of a heart. I'll use you, you use her, I'll use him, everybody use me, everyone just use everybody because it just doesn't fucking matter it's all just funny now let's all jump together over the edge because it doesn't matter.

Tonight a man will take another man's wife. A thing that happens hundreds of times, over and over, every night. Tame by the ever-lower and edgier standards of fantasy born on the internet, on television. Just a man and another man's wife. Boring. Cliched.


Pulses quicken.

Some melodrama underway... dark and inevitable...spiraling down.

* * * *

It's 7:56 PM in the wood and chrome lobby bar of the Swissotel, Chicago USA.

* * * *

She is talkative now, the third slim flute of champagne starting to relax her. Arthur's arm around the back of her chair, her hand on his thigh. "I love your suit, David never wears suits. Isn't it funny how we got from the e-mails to all the way here? I was saying that to David on the way down. " Chatty, chatty, Sarah, all soft smile and head now getting a little fuzzy, a little fizzy with the champagne. David gets irritated when she starts talking and talking and talking when she's had a few. But to see her this way with someone else...part of the long slow burn. You asked for it. You wanted, politely, to see her "date." She's on a real date now, mother fucker.

A cell phone rings.

"I'll just turn that off, I guess...." He says, fumbling for the phone in his pocket.

"David," says Arthur, "why don't you see who it is?"

"I wouldn't want to miss any of the..."

"Answer it, David."

Arthur is smiling at him as the husband's cell phone chirps a little song.


"Hi, David." A woman's voice, light as air.

"Hhiiiiii Daaaaaaavid," she says again, girlish, flirtatious.

David stares directly at Arthur and answers her.

"This must be...Maxine."

Arthur smiles and shows absolutely no emotion. Sarah looks bemused; they have now turned their attention to him.

"Hey David," a sigh and a pause, "whazzzuuuup?" The woman's voice slightly distorted from the cell phone, sexy and willing.

"Oh, nothing. Nice to finally here your voice."

"How's Perrier Jouet?"

"I'm sorry?" he says.

"The bottle, Daaaaaavid, how's the bottle going down?"

"It's good I guess."

"I'm having one too. It's a '90."


"About three dollars a sip, David. Arthur left me a bottle so I could drink what you guys are having."

"Arthur's a very thoughtful man," he says into the tiny phone, watching as Arthur, just smooth, smooth as hell, pulls his Sarah toward him, his hand behind her neck, their lips are almost touching. Arthur is whispering something to her, inaudible. God Sarah is beautiful, beautiful with her eyes turned up and lips red and wet almost, almost touching this other man, this vague looking set prop in a silk suit holding so close his wife, his lover and friend, there in her new black dress she bought just for this night (when? where?) .... he is outclassed there, the nerd, the third wheel and the feeling just sucks except for the look on her face, her beautiful face, eyes turned up to this stranger, and he is so hard he think he will explode.

"David," the light voice on the phone again, "are they kissing yet?"

"Almost," he says flatly.

"Fucking hot isn't it?" she says, menace now in her school girl voice. "Isn't just so fucking hot to see your pretty wife kiss my husband?"

"Oh yeah."

"I love him so much, it just kills me he's there with another girl, messing with her in front of you...Hey David?"

"Yes, Maxine."

"I'm naked right now."

"You know, Maxine, that doesn't surprise me." His hands almost shaking, Sarah's and Arthur's lips not yet touching. Him thinking: do it do it do it, just finish me off and kill me you could with that kiss look at her I love her so much and look at her.

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