When Taken at the Flood Pt. 02B

With a sense of horror, I felt her body start to respond to all that stimulation—felt her pussy pushing back, involuntarily, against my hand. It began as no more than a slight tremor, but built quickly, in a tide of rising, inexorable urgency. As it engulfed her, Grace let out a heavy, guttural moan, which slowly grew in volume and emotional intensity. Then I felt her body jerk hard, grinding back firmly against my fingers and Mark's groin with short, rhythmic motions. In a perverse parody of the fucking Mark had just given her, her canal now stimulated itself against his cock, each spasm rubbing her vaginal walls gently up and down against his stationary but still-hard shaft.

What she was experiencing was not a mental or emotional orgasm, I'm sure, but there was little doubt that it was a physical one, brought on by the intensity of the sensations she'd been undergoing. Yet, even as her body continued to writhe, even as low, animal noises continued to swell, unbidden, in her chest and throat, Grace's eyes remained open, slightly glassy, locked on Sheila. I knew my wife wanted to turn away at this moment of supreme vulnerability, but somehow she could not. Instead, she was exposed, laid bare to her rival in every possible way. Sheila returned her gaze, and smiled—knowingly, cruelly—at this final degradation.

I shuddered as Grace's body continued to convulse against my fingers, aware that each automatic jerk of her vaginal muscles not only pleasured Mark's cock, but also served the biological function of drawing his seed further into her womb. Finally, at length, the wave passed and her body stilled. Grace looked back at me for a brief moment, in silent apology perhaps, before blushing, and at last lowering her eyes.

Mark, still wedged inside her, smirked at his wife. "Damn, the bitch loved it, Sheil!," he said, his voice dripping with scorn and smugness.

"Of course she did," Sheila replied. "All this time, the whore has been making do with this impotent cuck," gesturing at me. "No wonder she's so eager to get fucked by you Mark." Grace reached back and took my free hand in hers, trying, wordlessly, to repudiate their barbs.

At last, Mark pulled his now diminishing cock out of Grace's body—a wistful expression on his face signaling that he was sorry he couldn't just keep fucking her forever. Grace's pussy remained open and flushed, and her cunt-hole continued to gape. Below her opening, I felt a drizzle of the other man's warm, oily fluid, spattering down over my fingers. Mark slapped Grace lightly on the ass, "don't worry, cunt, I'll fuck you anytime. You got a nice tight hole. Just give me a call."

He wiped off his dick carefully on her ass cheeks before standing up and zipping his fly. Sheila had wrapped up her recording, and now she towered over us both, feet planted apart, arms crossed. "Now do you see how it is, Grace? You tried to humiliate us, and you paid the price. You got fucked. You got inseminated. You got filmed. That is what will happen if you try to mess with your betters again—especially if you try to mess with us again. One way or another, you will get fucked. We will reach up inside you and take what is most precious to you. And we will expose your defilement to the entire world. Remember that... Come on Mark," and with that she pivoted, grabbed her stuff, and walked out the door, trailed closely by her husband.

I glanced around, shell-shocked. Mr. Singh had been standing at some distance, an appalled expression on his face. Now, he shuffled off, gazing studiously away from us. The crowd had been watching, silent and transfixed, but as soon as Sheila gave her final monologue, it quickly began to break up—disturbed at what had happened, disturbed at themselves for gawking at Grace's suffering, maybe trying to pretend they hadn't watched, or even trying to unsee it in their minds. At any rate, it quickly became just Grace and I there in the arena.

I pulled my hand out from under her, and sat there, looking at the glistening patina of cum on my fingers, trying to think how I could clean them off. For a few minutes, Grace just lay on the floor, panting, torso down, ass high. I didn't have the heart to try to move her, but my face contorted with the thought that, in that posture, Mark's sperm was trickling further inside her with each passing second.

Long minutes ticked away. I gazed blankly at the dark, damp, unguarded opening of my wife's vagina. At length, I was able to help her to her feet. This released the bulk of Mark's seed, and it blobbed and seeped out of her, pattering heavily on the court surface. I picked up my shirt, using it first to wipe off the cum that had now begun to crust on my fingers, and then to try to mop up the insides of her thighs. Shuddering, I put it back on, bathing myself in the odor of Mark's seminal fluid.

Grace was a little sore, and hobbled slightly as we made our way back to our things. We dispensed with the bra, but I helped her put on her panties, hoping to avoid dripping too much of Mark in her car, or our home. Then we put on her tennis dress and shoes, gathered our gear, and made our halting way to the parking lot. We called in sick and went home to try to recuperate.

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Things were hard with Grace for a while after that. Neither of us blamed the other, not really. But each of us was still beset by raw emotions—jealousy, inadequacy, disappointment, hurt—and if we had chosen not to blame each other, then it wasn't clear where we else could direct these emotions. In the end, I think we each blamed ourselves, feeling that we'd let our spouse down, in various ways, at the most crucial moment in our lives. Meanwhile, hovering over all of this, was the sense that something in our marriage had been defiled that day, and that perhaps it could never be healed. Really, it is no wonder that we struggled so much to reconnect with each other.

Moreover, we were floundering, socially and financially. The Schwetzers had wasted no time in posting fully-identified videos and stills of Grace—of her naked; of me guiding another man's dick into her body; of her deep-impaled body shuddering in the throes of a powerful orgasm—and before long copies were all over reddit and porn sites. No sooner would we get one version taken down, when another one would be posted.

And people were watching them. It's not like folks shunned or shamed us to our faces (at least, not too often), but those images were always hanging over us, in every human interaction. You'd catch the barista at the coffee shop look Grace up and down, just a quick, inoffensive glance, and know he had registered her as that local amateur-porn star he'd watched online, and made plans to jerk off to her again after his shift. Or you'd get fleeced by a salesman, and wonder if he'd had the confidence to out-negotiate you because he knew you as that legendary cuck from the web. Or you'd run into some women's club matron at church, and hear the unspoken questions in her voice—did those things I heard about really happen? How could a woman like you do that? How could a man like you allow it to happen? How can either of you bear to show your face here now?

Plus, we were just flat broke. Soon after our tennis game, Mark managed to have my management position downsized, and I ended up as a foreman on the night shift. The hours sucked and the pay and benefits took a serious hit. Grace never did go back to school. Mrs. Simmons, her principal, called the same afternoon as our tennis game, informing us that serious decency complaints had been lodged against Grace, and that she need not return to work the next day, or any other. We had to take out payday loans just to get my car fixed, and the interest on those began to mount up fast.

Grace tried a few minimum wage jobs, but in most cases it turned out the boss had hired her believing (based on her online reputation) that she was a slut who would gladly open her legs to him. Even when a job was legitimate, she found herself dogged by leers and admonishments from the customers. Within a couple of months, she had, as I had feared, waxed her pussy and started stripping at JustGirlz. In fact, her video fame made her something of a celebrity there, single-handed turning the rat-trip into a magnet that drew people from miles around. She ran into Mark at least once—I heard that when she came on stage, he shouted that he wasn't going to pay to see someone strip if he'd already fucked her, and walked out. But at least the tips were good; and she never turned any tricks, that I'm aware of.

I was worried we weren't going to make it, but at last our luck started to change. Prakesh Singh called one day and said he had a lucrative opening for an associate at MidlandsBank. He told us he needed someone who stayed calm under pressure, and knew Grace fit the bill. It was a pity hire, to be sure. Grace is smart and was up to the job, but she had no relevant training or experience that would make her an obvious candidate. However, we were certainly not too proud to accept Pra's gift. We soon learned that Grace's new position would involve a lot of travel and remote networking—meaning, most of Grace's interactions would be with corporate staff and customers who knew nothing of her story.

To celebrate his new hire, Pra had us over for dinner and to meet the family. His charming wife, Deepati, pulled Grace aside at one point, all quiet subtlety, to suggest some changes—hair style and color, makeup, non-correcting glasses, wardrobe—which would help ensure no one would connect her appearance with those viral videos or that seedy strip-joint. Pra later added that she might also decide to use her maiden name, professionally.

Not long after that, Mark and Sheila disappeared from town under mysterious circumstances. The scuttlebutt was that he'd been arrested (though no one seemed sure whether it was for sexual assault or embezzlement), and his wife had run back to Daddy in disgrace. Maybe karma did finally catch up with them. All I knew for sure was that one day, his office was empty, and a for-sale sign went up at their house.

Only now did I realize how hard the Schwetzers must have worked all these years to sabotage my career. With Mark gone, my star abruptly began to rise at PhytoCorp. In no time, I had reached and exceeded the rank and compensation that I'd had on the day of that awful tennis match, and received assurances that there was more to come. With our newfound affluence and professional status, we managed to put our finances back in order, and the stress level in our household finally began to decrease.

As our tennis match has receded in local memory, it comes up less often, and the pain and awkwardness is less sharp-edged now. After our rough patch, the relationship between Grace and me has come back stronger than ever. In some perverted way, I think we've taken comfort in knowing that we've been through the worst, and survived it together. At any rate, we've been thinking more of the future lately, and Grace has been hinting that maybe it's finally time to start a family. I can't think of anyone I'd rather make a baby with.

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END

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