He was Disgusted with Himself

He followed her, disgusted with himself for doing it.

She said she had a dinner meeting. She complained about the restaurant, having to work late, having to miss the baseball game.

"Okay," he replied.

"You are mad," she said.

"No, really, it's fine," he said. He called his mom and dad, sent them to the little league field to watch their son play, and then drove, as fast as he could, south down the freeway, using the carpool lane when he really had to. He was sitting in the parking garage by her building when she came out.

He used his phone to locate her. The two dots, blue for him, an orange dot for her sat right on top of his. He watched her get in the car but she didn't pull out. Instead, she lowered the visor and went to work fixing her makeup.

As she left that morning wearing the thin black dress she would never even wear out to dinner he had been suspicious but she had insisted until lunch she would be home early to change for baseball.

Finally, she backed out. He waited in the corner of the garage for her to start down the ramp. He checked his phone again. This time her location was not available.

He switched apps to the parental monitoring app he had installed when they bought a phone for their 12-year-old. His phone showed he was at the park, hers tracked to the street outside the garage. He followed at a safe distance.

She did, in fact, go to the parking lot of the Australian themed steak house but her dot stopped in the alley behind the strip mall. He approached from the far end. He parked behind a dumpster. It was just a white pickup, who would notice a white pick-up, ever. he pulled out the digital camera with the borrowed zoom and she filled the small screen. He zoomed out and watched her smoke.

When the other car appeared in the alley, it drove right past him, bumped over the speed humps and pulled up next to her little Lexus. It was a sort of beat up old Hyundai.

A woman stepped out.

He zoomed out for a moment, then as the two women came together he reframed the image until it was just the two of them. They stood talking. He watched his wife stub out her cigarette on the asphalt then pressed the shutter button that began the recording.

They kissed, briefly, and then the woman's head went to his wife's neck. He had a 1080p image of her smile. The woman's hands moved over his wife's body, over her dress at first, then, beneath it.

Panties were lowered to the ground. His wife stepped out of them. The small brunettes head disappeared beneath black rayon for a moment but then the woman rose and stepped back.

His wife turned.

The woman rose her dress.

He zoomed in on her ass and the little tattoo of Winnie the pooh.

The woman stuffed fingers into his wife's cunt.

Stunned, Jared watched and recorded.

It wasn't long.

The woman released his wife and stepped away.

His wife turned, the woman raised her shirt, and his wife lowered to new knees on the parking lot, her mouth fixed to the woman's breast, her hand stuffed into open pants awkwardly.

They both smoked. They kissed again. The woman got into her car and drove off. His wife stayed behind, smoking.

He watched her pull out her phone then felt the sudden vibration of his own in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked.

"How's he doing?" she asked.

He started his truck, the headlights turned on. She looked up.

His phone rang.

He drove the 600 yards to meet her. His phone stopped vibrating about half way.

"Hey," he said.

"You asshole," she said. "You fucking followed me?"

"Okay, I guess we won't talk about this now." He took his foot off the brake and spun the wheel narrowly missing her bumper. He drove to little league, watched the last two innings, and ignored his phone as long as he could until he finally had to turn it off.

There was happiness and joy all around when he got home. She had changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt.

When their son went to bed, she began again.

"You have no right, no fucking right, to be following me," she said. She tried to keep her voice calm.

"Okay. I am going to bed."

She gave it thirty minutes or so and then came into the bedroom.

"I want an apology," she said, trying to yell and whisper at the same time. "At least an explanation."

"I want you to suck my dick," he said.

"Very funny."

"No. I'm serious. Take off the shitty Walmart sweats, get on your knees, and suck my dick."

She glared.

"Or are you a lesbian now."

"Fuck you."

"After," he said.

And then, the strangest that had ever happened to him in his life unfolded in the master bedroom of their goofy little house. His wife pulled the old T-shirt over her head and tugged the sweat pants down her legs. As if to make a point she carried them straight to the trash can and threw them away.

He stood and moved to the foot of the bed.

She descended to her knees.

It wasn't the best blow job. She still had a tendency to get him with her teeth, but she didn't object when he gathered her long red-brown hair in his hands, when he held her head in place, or when he thrust his hips forcing his dick into her throat. She moaned from time to time, gagged once or twice forcing him to pull back, but she took it, the whole thing, the whole time.

"Look at me," he said, as he was close.

She did.

He came, cum sputtered from her lips. He held his cock in her mouth.

"Swallow it," he commanded. "Don't look away."

He held her head on his cock till it hurt.

"Leave it," he said when she moved as if to wipe her chin.

"Now, I will fuck you," he said. He lifted her by her upper arm, placed her on the edge of the bed, lifted her feet into the air on either side of his shoulders, and standing, fucked her.

he honestly had never fucked her so hard in his life. His erection recovered as he fucked her until it was back to full strength. It was furious, an angry fuck, a fuck he had never delivered before.

He had, without question, loved every woman he had ever taken to bed. There were only six and one didn't really count but that's a long story. This was the first time he had ever fucked a woman without worrying about pulling her hair, going to hard, going too fast, stretching her legs too far, gripping her tits too hard, and of it. He had never done it like this. Ever.

Still. He didn't come again. That first one, it had drained him.

He only stopped because he was bored.

He backed away thinking he needed to take a leak. She rolled over, crawled up into bed, and collapsed, her round little ass taunting him.

He stepped to his nightstand and opened the drawer. There were various little doodads, ointments, gels, and toys, all of them designed for her pleasure.

There was a tube of Astroglide though. He removed it from the drawer and with a squishy sound reminiscent of a fart the required new underwear slathered it upon his dick.

He had never done this before either.

He held it over her ass, pale and white from winter.

"What?!" she squeaked. "No!"

He climbed on top of her and let his slippery dick slide between her thighs and ass cheeks. She had fat little thighs. It felt good.

he gripped her by the arm.

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long has it been going on?"

"None of your god damned business," she said.

He rocked back a bit and then forward, he approached at a different angle.

"Will it make you feel better to fuck my ass?"

"Yes. How long."

"Fuck you." she said, slightly less vehemently than before.

He needed his hand to help line it up. He failed at first to get inside of her. He gathered a glop of lube from between her cheeks and used his finger to press it inside of her.

"Fuuuuck..." she groaned but she lifted her ass. he slipped his finger all the way in and then out.

"Fuuuuuck." she groaned, and then, in nothing but a whisper, "yes."

And so he did.

He laid on top of her, thrusting slowly.

He didn't mean to grab her neck, it was just where his hand fell.

"yes, choke me." she whispered.

"Yes," she said again as he went at her ass, thrusting his cock deep, his hips slapping at her ass.

This time he did come, his cock pulsed killing her ass with his jizz, it became slick and he fucked on, harder, faster, until his ass cramped and physically, he simply could not fuck her anymore.

He got off of her, pulled on his jeans that lay at his feet, found a T-shirt, flip flops, his car keys, and his wallet. He could buy smokes at the bar. He left. He left his phone sitting there on the dresser.

Matt's was close, just a neighborhood bar. Monday was slow, a couple played pool, a few guys sat bellied up drinking beer, a cute blonde sat at the end. He ordered a beer and sent the lone woman whatever she was drinking.

"Thanks, but no thanks," she called over to him.

"Not hitting on you, just pissing off my slut wife."

"Oh, okay then." the woman said, accepting a margarita.

He lit a cigarette and wondered to himself. Was it over, or was it just beginning and what, exactly, did he mean by "it."

With his second beer he ordered a shot.