The Sexual Adventures of Maxwell Ch. 03

Chapter 3: In which our hero learns that everything is not as it seems

In the bathroom, Emily went about her usual evening ritual and to the casual eye, everything was normal, but inwardly it wasn't. Inside her, things were far from normal, but if she compared her mental state now to what it had been earlier that evening when she had left, she knew she was much better.

She had left the house with the full intention of having a wonderful night of sex with Anthony, but she had made the mistake of going out to dinner first. The reason that was a mistake is that it gave her time to think and him time to talk and he literally talked himself out of sex. Or talked her out of it. He was as hot in person as his profile online had made him out to be. And she had felt herself getting excited just thinking about him, about sex with him.

But he kept talking and she had time to think about what she was doing. It wasn't that she wasn't mad at Max—she was. Her husband had screwed up and she wasn't, honestly, the forgiving type. At least not easy, cheap forgiveness. He'd have to pay. But not like this, she realized. Not because it was too much or because it was immoral, but because it was the wrong punishment for what he had done. He had gone home with some college-age twit and screwed her and he deserved to suffer, but really it didn't matter if she had sex with Anthony or not, not as punishment of Max, anyway. And as Anthony continued to talk—he was charming—she realized she didn't really want this, which is what really mattered. This would just be a revenge fuck, not sex she really wanted. And that wasn't what she was after.

So, as soon as she was sure, she left. She didn't bother to tell Anthony anything—he was bright enough to get the message. She excused herself and simply left the restaurant. But she didn't go home. She went to plan. And when she had her revenge all planned correctly, she came home. Seeing Max, naked, curled on the bed, she knew she'd been right. He hadn't been as hurt by the idea of her with Anthony as he had been turned on by it. But his time would come.

She stood naked before the bathroom mirror and examined her body. She took care of herself, working out, eating healthily. She even kept to a fairly regular schedule, waking within 30 minutes every morning. Her breasts were still perky, her tummy still flat. No cellulose lumps on her ass or thighs. Her body was curvy, supple, and well-toned. She wasn't a knock-out beauty—Emily prided herself on her honesty, but she was cute. And could be sexy when the mood hit her. But her life was boring and she knew it, but she also knew it didn't have to be boring. And would no longer be.

She pulled on a sheer nightgown and left the bathroom.

Max was still lying in a fetal position in the center of the bed. Emily sat down next to him and pushed against him. "Wake up," she said.

Max woke and turned over. His stomach was covered with dried cum, his shriveled cock was slimy and sticky looking, his pubic hair matted. He stank of sex.

"Beautiful," Emily said. "looks like you sure had a fine night."

Max didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say, but he felt a stirring in the base of his cock. He reached out to Emily and tried to stroke her arm, but she pulled back.

"I didn't do it, didn't go through with it," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"I didn't do it, I didn't fuck Anthony."

Max frowned, his brow furrowed. "Really?"

Emily shrugged. "Really. I couldn't do it."

Max was silent for a beat, then he said, "Okay. I'm glad, I guess..."

"But this doesn't get you off the hook, you know." She glared at him. "I'm still mad at you. I can hardly believe you fucked that girl. What the hell? Do you even believe in this marriage?"

"Yes, of course I do," Max said.

Emily was quiet. She sat on the bed and tears started to trickle down her cheeks.

"Look, Em, I messed up. I know I messed up. You're the best thing that ever happened to me and I almost messed that up..."

"So you jerked off to me fucking some other guy? And you're getting hard now."

Max looked down at his cock. It was sticking out, at half-mast, beginning to come alive. He nodded sheepishly.

"Did you fantasize about me and Anthony? About his thick black cock entering my little white pussy and me screaming as he slammed into me again and again?"

Max's cock continued stiffening and Emily reached down between them and squeezed it, jerking him. Max put his hand over her hand and tried to pry it off his cock.

"No. Don't," he said.

She stopped moving her hand, but kept her grip on his cock.

"Does it excite you to think I was with another guy? I bet it disappoints you to learn that I didn't do it, doesn't it?"

Max didn't say anything.

"And you think jerking off while I'm fucking some other guy is the best way to help our marriage from where it is right now?"

Max shook his head. "No, of course I don't." Then, quietly, "But...it was hot."

"Describe it to me."

"What?"

"Tell me what you fantasized, what you thought I was doing."

"Fucking. I thought you were fucking."

"That's it?"

"No, but you don't really want me to give you a blow by blow, do you?"

She shrugged. "Sure, why not? I'm curious to see how well you know me and what turns me on." She leaned back, releasing his cock, then sat down on the bed.

Maxwell was looking at her strangely. "What have you got in mind?"

Emily was quiet for a moment, then she said, "Oh, we shall see. Here's the deal. You hurt me. You hurt our marriage. And I know I could have gone and fucked Anthony, but that wouldn't change the fact that you betrayed my trust. I could take Anthony on as a lover and keep fucking him. I could even bring him here and humiliate you by having you watch or even help fluff him or lick his cum out of my pussy. I know I could do that and you wouldn't leave me. You're a spineless piece of crap for a man and you would crawl and grovel...I mean, seriously, look at you. You lay here naked and jerked off thinking about me fucking Anthony tonight. And now, your cock is rock hard."

"Ok, so that's all true. I admit it."

"So how do we fix things then?" She paused and smiled at him mischievously. "That was what I went and asked myself. And I think I know, but," and she held up a hand, "I'm not going to tell you because that would spoil the surprise. See, you're going to have trust me. That's the only way we can rebuild our trust. Understand?"

Maxwell nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good. So, tell me, what should I have done with Anthony tonight?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes," Emily said. "I'm serious." She scooted back on the bed, spread her legs and lifted the nightgown. She ran her fingers through her pubic hair. "Impress me," she said.

Maxwell sputtered and hemmed and hawed, but Emily stopped him by glaring at him. "No, mister. None of that. Get to it."

So, Maxwell began. Haltingly and somewhat disjointed, but he wove a story, not the one he jerked off to, but something more...it began in the restaurant...

"You walked in and saw Anthony there, at the table waiting for you. He was hot, a tall, strong, built black man and you got excited that this evening would end with his cock buried in your pussy. And you walked up feeling a tingling down there, wanting to forget about dinner and go straight to the sex. He was facing away from you, so you walked up behind him and slipped your hands down his shoulders and chest to his stomach, as you leaned over him, saying a breathy hello as your hand snaked down to just dance, to flirt, with his cock. He stiffened, then relaxed, laughing, saying hello. And you took your seat across from him and looked into his eyes.

"You were wearing your little black strapless dress, the one that shows off your cleavage and you knew you looked hot, so you leaned over often, drinking wine and laughing at his jokes, feeding him dessert from your fork, watching his eyes looking down at your chest, between your breasts. You knew what he wanted and turned the conversation to flirting, to sex, to barely concealed verbal lusting, thrusting, and pounding in words, envisioning your bodies entwined and how your back would arch and your thighs would tremble as you rode him, impaled on his massive cock, trembling...and ever so sneakily, your hand wandered between your legs and pressed against the warmth, the wetness through your panties, until you could take no more...

"And so, as you're leaving the restaurant, you excuse yourself to the ladies room and slip off those panties and ball them up, sniffing their aroma: an intoxicating blend of perfume and pussy, the essence of desire. And you come out and as you leave the restaurant and walk to his car he leans you back on some random car and kisses you deeply, running his hand down your back, to your ass, to your bare thigh below the edge of your dress, his tongue invading your mouth, tasting your groans and moans, his body—the whole length of his body—pushed against you, a supple and hard physical presence of lust, his hands with full license wandering up and down, in, out, until you gently with infinite regret push him away and look at him and press your panties into his hand.

"From there to dancing, two bodies, sweating, working against each other, an agony of delay and slow promise, rubbing, touching, exploring, until you are exploding, a prelude to what is to come. A taste of honey, sweet on your tongue, his body a marvel of controlled aggression and power, feeling it writhe with you in a rage for release, an inexhaustible machine of rippling muscle. Wild abandon, your name is woman, smelling of sex, drinking deep of the draught of suspended beautiful fulfillment as your cunt calls forth in subtle elemental form for his cock, to enter and portend and distend and ream...

"So to his house, and already in driving you pull his hand between your legs and pleasure yourself with his fingers, plunging him in deeply, fucking yourself greedily, grinding as he willingly surrenders his hand to your ministrations, trying to focus enough on driving to just get home, to his bedroom, where he can rip off your clothes and taste your beautiful body, and so arrived there, hardly able to make it in, the clothes' removal a whirlwind where who knows or cares who removes what or where it goes, so that arrived not just in this space, his house, his bedroom, his bed, but in his arms, these black as coal arms, strong and surprisingly gentle, as he bends over you and putting his hands on your knees, gives just a hint of pressure that opens your legs and you lay there, your cunt open and exposed and oh how his fingers tremble, these strong and terrible fingers, how those muscles strain and how his body sweats as he bends between, his breathe on your thigh, and gently parts your labia, his head lowering, his tongue flickering and a sudden intense ice pick of pleasure ricochets through you, like Kundali energy released, spasming up your spine in liquid ecstasy.

"There is no need to 'prepare you,' for you are wet and open and willing, your senses heightened and dulled, and yet he worships there, praying with his tongue, again. So you pull him up and whisper, 'Fuck me. I want your cock in me.' And he pulls you and you slide under him on your back, so that he is kneeling over you, his body a covering, and you reach down between you and find his cock, gripping it, a giant dark thing in your tiny white hands, the head pink and dripping and you angle it down, toward the ache to be filled, to be fucked, angle it so that it rubs your body and you feel it twitch like a living animal, warm and hard, alive, until you position it, the head pushing into your pussy, parting you, delving into you and he pushes then in as you release him and touch his thighs, eagerly willing him in further and you feel the mighty black shaft of this cock sucked in and you sigh and you sigh as it travels in, journeying forever forward toward your soul.

"And then he is simply fucking you. Gentle and soft, hard and furious, sinking deeply as you cry out in pain or pleasure—your sense reeling so that the two are one or perhaps it is something else, something more elemental, more primal you feel, something preverbal; needing no words, his body is talking in thrusts and groans, in sideways motions and angling of hips, in fingers gripping asses or pushing against stomachs, in a cock engulfed, buried and lost churning into a cunt...and he fucks you or rather, you both fuck each other, for as much as he may be aggressively piling into you, your body is hungrily opening and calling his cock into herself, and then as you're fucking and screaming and writhing, for just a moment, a fraction of a second you dissociate from yourself and see as if from above on a bed a young white woman carelessly tossed, her hair strewn about, clearly in the throes of ecstasy, her legs wide open and between them a man black as jet, muscular back and buttocks, straining and clenching as he thrusts his hips forward and she thrusts up to accept him, to encourage him, to plunge his cock, invisible between them, deeper into her and then the vision is gone and you're fucking.

"And along comes a shudder, a shaking of pleasure and you ride it, surfing the wave until it falls over you and orgasm comes in the big O's bursting, blurring reality and you are bouncing on him, somehow on top, riding him, then again he is over you, maybe behind you, his cock out and rubbing against your labia. Exhaustion. You lay with him, stroking his belly, touching his cock, leaning over, you lick his cock, you'd never tasted a black man before and you find that he tastes good and you suck his cock in, tasting yourself on him, gagging yourself, willing yourself to take it all or at least as much as you can, and then he is fucking you again and you are overcome with pleasure as he drills in and with a shudder it comes. He cums. In you, shooting hot liquid, then pulling out as you shudder at his sudden absence and his cum hits your chest, lays a sticky trail over your belly and then he re-enters you and slowly, all a-tremble, rocks in and out, until, he too, exhausted, slips down next to you and still joined with you, pants and kisses your neck, shoulders, ears. You feel his ticklish whiskers, his rough and ragged voice, praising your body, your cunt..."

Emily was laying back, her legs spread, fingering her clit. Max's fantasy was interesting to her, poetic and erotic, but...and she smiled secretly to herself as you looked over at Max. He was sitting directly in front of her pussy, watching her touch herself. He had no idea what was in store for him. For them. No idea at all...