This erotic love story is not intended for minors or for those offended by sexual writing.
That's the only thought reverberating in my head as I watch a videotape of my wife—my beautiful, intelligent, loyal, supportive, caring wife—fucking some freak of nature with a mammoth cock.
"Uh, uh, uh," she grunted, "fuck me harder. Stuff my hot pussy with your big dick. Fill me up with your hot cum. Give me your cum, give me your cum, give me your cum . . . "
And he did. Over and over and over again . . . while I sit mesmerized by the vulgar scene playing out on a wide-screen TV in a pricey apartment on Park Ave. in New York City, belonging to the man who'd fucked my wife and preserved the encounter on videotape.
I don't know what surprises me more. That my wife cheated on me and I never knew about it. That language like that could come out of the same mouth that kissed our two children. Or that I'm sitting not two feet away from the man who fucked my wife senseless and I'm not choking the life out of him.
The whole experience was incredibly surreal. If you'd told me just a few days ago that I'd be watching an amateur fuck-film starring my wife, I'd have laughed in your face.
So, how did I get here? How did I learn my wife is a slut and that there was a videotape out there of her sexual escapades? And more mportantly, how did I come to be sitting in her lover's apartment watching said videotape? Well, it all started last Friday when I came home late from work . . .
My wife, Sarah, and I have been married for seven years and have two children, five-year- old Elena and three-year-old Dustin. All those years together haven't been a cakewalk, but we still have a very good sex life and we've learned to overcome whatever problems we've faced with love and understanding.
Sarah works in the city assessor's office of our small town, which is just north of San Francisco. I'm an electrical engineer and own a consulting company, specializing in security gadgets. Getting my company started and economically sound was difficult to say the least.
When we first got married, I was still a student, so most of our problems resulted from the amount of time I spent at school and getting my company up and running. Since Sarah was the one who had to work to keep us afloat during that period, she was not a happy camper.
It is quite late by the time I arrive home and find Sarah and the kids eating dinner at the table.
Sarah looks up at me with her sparkling eyes. "Welcome home, darling."
"Sorry, I'm late," I say before giving each of them a kiss.
As I take my seat, Sarah pours me a glass of wine and hands it to me. I take a quick sip and it tastes so good to me. As I talk to the kids and find out what they’ve been up to today, amazed at their intelligence, wondering if Sarah and I had seemed so to our parents, Sarah leaves the table and goes into the kitchen.
She serves me a plate filled with roast chicken, rice, and vegetables. Finished with their own dinner, the children run off to watch TV in the living room.
"I have some news," Sarah says as I start eating.
Putting my fork down, I give her my full attention, absently noting that she hadn't yet changed out of her work clothes.
Pushing aside a lock of dark brown hair that had fallen in front of her eyes, she continues, "I have to go to New York for a week."
"Manhattan?" I ask, surprised because her job doesn't normally require traveling.
"Yes," she says, "Manhattan."
"When and why?"
"Monday of next week," she says with a smile. "I've been chosen to attend a conference at Columbia about new federal tax laws that might effect the city's tax base." She pauses to take a sip of wine and shrugs. "I assume Al picked me because I'm in his favor—for the moment anyway. Who knows, maybe it'll lead to a promotion."
I can't help feeling proud that she is doing so well. Now that my company is doing very well and I'm making enough money, there's no reason for Sarah to work—but she does it, she says, because she likes it. I guess she got used to working and wants to keep busy. Personally, I’ve always thought she keeps working so she can get dressed up and socialize but maybe there’s more to it than that. Maybe she feels the need to contribute and apparently she is doing very well. This trip seems a positive sign, anyway.
"Maybe you can take the week off," she suggests. "We could party in the city this weekend, every night during the week, and the following weekend. Wouldn't that be fun?"
"What about the kids?"
She smiles. "I've already spoken to your mother. She'll be happy to come and take care of them while we're gone. You know how lonely she's been since your father passed away."
My father died last year after cancer had left him a wisp of himself. Naturally, my mother had taken his death very hard. Now, it seems the only thing she lives for is to spoil her only two grandchildren, so I know Sarah is right. Mom would jump at the chance to spend a whole week with Elena and Dustin.
"I'll make some arrangements," I say after a few moments consideration. "It shouldn't be a problem."
"Great. The city's budget is paying my way, so they'll buy my ticket as soon as I give them the okay. I'll just pay them for your ticket and have them get it at the same time."
"Okay." That settled, I start eating again, managing to polish off half the piece of chicken and all of the rice.
After dinner we put the children to bed. We make love and although I’m tired, her passion is enough for both of us and she is alive beneath me, reminding me how I love her, and how I’ve always lusted after her. We go to sleep holding each other, our sweat drying saltily on our skins. I’m looking forward to Manhattan .
* * *
New York City is one of my favorite cities in the Spring and the Fall. Winter’s and Summer’s are so badly tolerated that the citizens all leave the town behind for better pastures. But the Spring and the Fall, and even Christmas make up for that. I’ve spent many months here in dealing in security matters, and consulting with security firms, but Sarah, because of work, or pregnancy, or whatever, could never come with me. I look forward to showing her the town.
Riding in a limo to a prestigious hotel near Central Park, Sarah cuddles up beside me and laces her fingers through mine. "Isn't this exciting, Brad?"
Smiling at her, I say, "You know how much I love this city."
"Don't I though," she purrs seductively. "It's a good thing we're almost there."
As we cross the tunnel from New Jersey into Manhattan, we're like too young lovers again. I'm struck by how pretty Sarah looks today. At thirty-three, she still has a youthful appearance, her face fresh and her eyes a striking dark brown. Her figure only improved after having our child, as far as I'm concerned. When I married her, she was too thin for my taste with a too-small bust and a too-small ass. However, I'd been won over by her slender waist, gorgeous face, and mesmerizing eyes. And let's not forget—she was a great fuck. But now, she'd filled out beautifully into a perfect Marilyn Monroe type figure and I'm a sucker for Rubenesque women.
At the hotel we go into the bar to have a drink and all I can do is watch Sarah’s eyes as she takes in the elegant surrounding, the beautiful people, the extravagant tastes and sounds of the privileged.
We eat in the hotel dining room on sumptuous delicacies as Sarah listen’s to the New Yorker’s at tables around us, her eyes glowing.
We make love in a strange bed that night. The first in seven years. I feel like a race horse coming out of the stable, my hoof’s pounding, I neigh in her ear and plunge into the night. The city is tomorrow.
As we are headed into the restaurant for breakfast the next morning I am accousted by a voice that I have missed since school. “Brad? Brad, is that you?”
I look around and see Lynn, my ex-classmate. I had heard that Lynn is teaching at a small engineering school in Georgia.
I run to her, pick her up in the air and twirl her as Sarah, a curious smile on her face comes back and joins us.
I place Lynn down onto the floor and let her get her feet under her. She is breathless when we hug-her soft breasts moving against my chest. I step away, smiling, “Sarah, this is Lynn Holders, used to be Mellows when we were in school. She was a friend and classmate.”
The two women smile and shake hands. I can't help comparing the two-same height, same size, Sarah with rich brown hair and Lynn with golden tresses. While I watch them, an illicit picture forms in my mind of the three of us naked in bed together, making love in our hotel room. But alas, it's only a dream. I’d never get away with hanky-panky with Sarah.
Lynn says, “you are as beautiful as I’d heard, Sarah. I’m happy to meet you.”
Sarah says, “Thank you. I’m happy to meet you. I’ve heard an awful lot about you.”
Lynn, laughing, “I hope,” and she turns back to me, “that it wasn’t all bad.”
Sarah and I join in her laughter.
Sarah says, “It was all good.”
Lynn and I had been very good friends at one time, actually. And if you believe it was a simple friendship, then I have a brige I want to sell you.
Finally, when they finish, I ask, “What are you doing in New York, Lynn?”
“I’m in town for a conference."
Sarah says, “so am I. Where’s yours?”
“Here, in the hotel,”
“Mine’s at Columbia,” Sarah replies.
I ask, “Lynn, have you eaten?”
“No. Matter of fact, that’s where I was headed when I saw you,” Lynn says.
“That’s where we were headed too,” Sarah says, “want to join us?”
“Sure,” and we three head toward the restaurant again. Sarah walks ahead, to the maitre ‘d’s station as Lynn and I continue our conversation.
As we walk behind Sarah, I ask, “How’s Howie? How are you two getting along?”
Lynn replies, “Howie’s great, we’re fine. Married life, you know?”
“I think married life is great,” I protested. “You would, knowing you." She hits my shoulder with a light punch, "You always were a one woman man. I’m really kidding anyway, we’re doing fine.”
“Bored?” She blushes.
“No. No. Nothing like that. Just both too busy, maybe.”
Up ahead, Sarah has apparently charmed the maitre ‘d and he’s waiting there with her to seat us. We walk up and follow them as they lead the way down the isle through the dining room’s tables. The restaurant is extensive and appears to have several different rooms.
We press on. “What do you hear of Nancy, and Ellen, and Sam?”
Lynn is keeping her eye on where the maitre ‘d is leading Sarah so we don’t get lost as she answers, “I got Christmas Cards from Nancy and Sam, but I haven’t heard from or of Ellen. She seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. I really don’t believe she ever got a job after school. If she did, I didn’t hear about it.”
Sarah and the Maitre ‘d turn to the right ahead, at the end of the tables and we follow several paces behind them.
As we turn to the right behind them, a young man gets up from where he’s sitting with his friend. “Sarah, my God, it is you.”
Sarah has stopped, and the maitre ‘d has stopped just beyond her. I hear my wife speak in a much colder voice than I’ve ever heard from her, "I think you've mistaken me for someone else," and she walks past him, and she and the maitre ‘d continue to our table.
Stunned, I lag behind as Lynn walks ahead of me toward the table where Sarah is seated, waiting.
The young man must be no more than thirty. I watch as he sits his lank muscular frame back into his seat. He is handsome, as only the virile youth can be, and his carriage is resolute and confident. He has very dark hair and he is tanned which is somewhat unusual in the city.
He is sitting with another, slight older man who is light skinned and haired. I have to wonder if this youngster really knows Sarah. But, if so, why did she seem so offended. I realize that Lynn has seated herself alongside Sarah and both are waiting for me as the maitre ‘d waits poised with my chair pulled out and in hand.
I make myself move, and as I pass their table, I hear him speak to his companion, "Well, lah-dee-dah. Aren't we stuck up?"
His friend whose pale blue eyes somehow disconcert me, asks, "Are you sure it's her?" His long hair falls in front of his face when he leans over toward the other, asking his question. He pushes it back with a veined pale hand.
"What the hell?" the young man grouses. "You saw the video yourself."
"Yeah, she sure looks like that hot bitch." Completely shocked by what I'd heard, I continue on my way. I speed up my steps until I place myself at the chair the maitre ‘d has had patiently holding for me.
“Thank you,” I absently tell him as he pushes it under me.
Sarah is looking at me with a worried expression, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “What was that all about,” and I turn and look back toward the two men’s table, “do you know that young man?”
“No, of course not,” Sarah says, “he mistook me for someone else.” And she bends her head to her menu.
I am so disturbed by the whole incident, it's impossible for me to enjoy my lunch. How could it be an accident? She must have known him somewhere along the way. My turbulent mood is better suited to starting a row than carrying on a civilized conversation, but neither Sarah nor Lynn seems to notice. They have so much in common—including difficult husbands—they are oblivious to my sullen mode.
After lunch, while Sarah and Lynn go shopping, I wander around, hoping to surreptitiously come across that young man, but he's nowhere to be found—neither is his companion.
Despite my anger at the mysterious scene at the restaurant, I pushed it into the back of my mind and Sarah and I managed to have a good weekend. We had fun, going out for dinner and drinks and we even went dancing one night.
Sarah certainly seemed bubbly while we'd danced the tango at that sultry nightclub in Midtown.
On Monday morning, Sarah and Lynn go to their meetings and I sleep late. A night of dancing always leaves we wiped the next day.
After having a later breakfast, I take a stroll by the pool, but everyone there seems too young to me. I've never been interested in socializing with immature men or women.
Not finding anything of interest anywhere else, I go back to the hotel lobby and take up residence at one of the comfortable conversational groups scattered there. I pick up a magazine from the table next to my chair, but I can't concentrate enough to read.
My thoughts keep returning to what happened with that young man in the restaurant. He didn't look old enough to have known Sarah before we were married, but he certainly seemed to know her from somewhere. Totally confused, I try to figure out where and when they could have met. The two men's words keep reverberating in my mind. A hot bitch—that's what they'd called her. My beautiful, loving, supportive, wife, Sarah—a hot bitch.
I suppose she is—although I'd never thought of her in those exact terms. And I'd certainly never heard another man call her that or imagined they would—at least not while I was within earshot. Maybe they'd assumed Sarah was alone and Lynn and I were together. After all, we'd been behind Sarah, laughing and talking.
Finally, I give up trying to reason the situation out. Placing the magazine back on the table, I decide to go back to my room and lie down for a while. Maybe a nice nap will clear my head, so I can think more clearly than I am now.
But before I can rise, the young man who'd accosted Sarah sits directly opposite me. Looking around, I notice there are plenty of other places to sit, so I doubt his sitting across from me was a coincidence.
"Hello," he says to me. "Good afternoon," I say.
"I saw you at lunch the other day. You were at Sarah's table, right?"
"Yes," I agree.
"You're married to the blond?"
"Yes," I lie, knowing the blond had to be Lynn. I usually hate lying, but under the circumstances, I thought it was the best way to find out what was going on.
"But,” and he leans forward toward me as his eyebrows raise slightly, “you must know Sarah pretty well."
I realize that the young man is much more handsome, more virile looking, than I’d first thought. He must be a killer with the ladies. He must have an easy time of it.
"Yes, pretty well."
He leans back and his smile shows every tooth in his head, I am somewhat amused at my jealousy of youth.
"She's really nice," he says.
"That wasn't what I heard when I passed your table," I respond.
"You heard us? I thought we were speaking quietly enough not to be heard. Sorry if I said something to upset you."
I smile at him. "Why should it upset me?"
He relaxes when I make that comment.
I laugh. "I think she’s hot too, uh . . . Who're you?"
Joining my laughter, he says, "I'm Harry Standard."
We get up and shake hands. "Happy to meet you, Harry. I'm Brad Holders." Even though it's probably an unnecessary precaution, I've assumed Lynn's husband's name just in case this guy knows Sarah's last name.
"Yeah, happy to know you too, Brad." Once we're both seated again, he asks, "So how well do you know Sarah?"
I smile. "Not as well as you do, I don't believe." With a sudden flash of insight, I realize if I play my cards just right, I might be able talk Harry into showing me the videotape he and his buddy were talking about. Wow, wouldn't that be amazing? I could satisfy my curiosity, reassure myself that it isn't Sarah on that tape, and maybe even show the bastard the error of his ways.
"I wouldn't mind getting to know her better though," I say.
He looks up at me and smiles. "Oh, yeah. I bet you would. She's great."
Luckily, I stop myself before I can issue the obligatory thank-you most men give when their wives are complimented.
Instead, I smoothly say, "I'm sure you'd know, Harry." Hell, if I'm so slick, why is it I'm not absolutely certain my wife isn't on some filthy videotape?
Harry stretches his arms above his head with a self-satisfied smirk on his face and I have an overwhelming urge to punch his lights out.
"Christ, what a day," he says.
"Oh, what do you do?" I force myself to ask with an even tone.
"I'm a contractor. Trying to rebuild the city, you know?"
He looks too young for such responsibility. "You live here?"
"A few blocks from here, just up Park Ave. What about you? You're a professional, right?"
"I'm an engineer."
"Electrical," I say. What the hell? Are we bonding here?
"Down south. Georgia mostly. I have my own company," I say, mixing some truth with fiction.
"It's nice that your wife is here with you."
"Actually, she's here for a conference and I'm with her—on a vacation of sorts."
Wanting to get this conversation back on topic, I add, "We were lucky to run into Sarah here. We met her a long time ago."
"Well, maybe your luck has just begun," he slyly says.
"How's that?" I ask, silently congratulating myself that he took the bait.
"Well," he says, leaning forward to speak to me confidentially, "what if I introduce you to the real Sarah. The real thing."
"I've already met Sarah, many years ago," I say, feigning innocence. "Maybe I don't get what you mean." He frowns in confusion and it's my turn to stretch and do a stupid smirk.
"Oh, of course. You're talking about the video, are you? I heard you talking to your friend about a video."
His cat-that-ate-the-canary grin returns and he confirms, "Yeah, there's that."
"Wow, I'd like to see that," I say, my voice laced with the kind of lustful wonder only a man from the sticks would have.