THE TENANT

A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel

By Arnica Butler
*********

Copyright 2015 by Arnica Butler

All rights reserved. No duplicating and no resale, but

feel free to share with friends or family.

Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in
this book, other than those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, companies, organizations, events, or products, is
purely coincidental.

All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older.

Cover characters are models. Image(s) is/are licensed from:

Tanyunya2014 / DepositPhotos

Published by Thirteenth Line Publications

Other Hotwife/Cuckold Novels By Arnica Butler:

Not Black And White

The Hotwife Summer

A Dark Place: Cuckolded in Lagos

The Hotwife Tattoo

A Gamble: The Making Of A Hotwife

READERS!

Get a FREE book when you SIGN UP for our newsletter!

Browse our catalog and email us your choice.

We email once per week and do not spam.

You can also follow Arnica Butler @ArnicaButler on Twitter.

Please drop me a line! I love to hear from readers.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: The Lake House

Chapter 2: Potrero Hill

Chapter 3: Moving In

Chapter 4: The Next Morning

Chapter 5: The Beginning

Chapter 6: Turn Into Obsession

Chapter 7: The Hole

Chapter 8: Trivia Night

Chapter 9: The First Game

Chapter 10: All Over Again

Chapter 11: The Boots

Chapter 12: The Real Thing

Chapter 13: Orange Chair

Chapter 14: Addiction

Chapter 15: Turned Tables

Chapter 16: The Final Act

Chapter 17: An Ending

More From Arnica Butler

1: THE LAKE HOUSE

“It's horrible,” I said, making no attempt to hide my frustration. I usually didn't like to
participate in Sheila and Mark's ritualistic complaining, but the challenges of renting out the
lower floor of our Potrero Hill home in San Francisco were getting to me.

Sheila raised her eyebrows in sympathy. “Of course it is” she said. I could tell she was torn
between her desire to complain and wanting to know why I didn't answer with my usual,
stubborn, cheerfulness.

Sheila, who was an incorrigible cougar a few drinks in, often had a few too many at the lake
house. At that point she liked to touch my arm and shower me with compliments about my
positive attitude. “What I love about Brian, here, is that he's always such a positive man!” she
would yell, in her nasal accent. The Shapiros were from New Jersey, and Sheila frequently
yelled and talked about people in the third person.
Mark and Sheila were old friends of the family, and they had known me a long time. Even
though the Shapiros were quite a bit older than us, we enjoyed each other's company. They
had a timeshare at a house on Lake Tahoe and invited us often. It was a nice deal, especially
since our house was eating up so much of our fun money.

“We rented a place on Long Island, you remember that, Sheila?” Mark waved his spatula in the
air for emphasis, telling the story to no one in particular. He dispensed some advice to the
lake: “Never do that again.”

“It's such a good deal,” Shelia protested. “Such a nice neighbourhood, for someone to rent a
nice place. There's almost nothing to rent in that area.” She was slurring away. Sheila knew
almost nothing about San Francisco. The Shapiros lived in Reno, and as far as I knew, she
hadn't set foot in San Francisco since the sixties. She brought the straw of her drink to her lips.
“What's the problem? Too many gay men?”

I flinched, and hoped that was the end of it.

She took a sip of her drink, something fruit-coloured and almost certainly syrupy-sweet, before
she raised her eyebrows again. “You know it wouldn't be bad to rent to a gay man. They're
very tidy. Just one, though...otherwise...” She waved her hand around in the air and rolled her
eyes.

I decided to ignore Sheila's completely un-PC comment – she'd said much worse, in a much
more public setting. She was almost sixty and some truly crazy shit came out of her mouth
sometimes. I shook my head.

“Nah, we wouldn't care about that. Just so many...weirdos, people with bad credit, guys giving
us a bad vibe.”

“You have to be careful,” Mark agreed solemnly, shaking his spatula again.

His eyes, though, had shifted to the distance. A pleasant, warm look came over his face. A look
I knew was reserved for attractive women. In this case, the attractive woman was my wife.

I scanned the other, nearby patios as my own eyes drifted down to the lake. Sure enough, the
eyes of most of the men seated on lawn chairs, facing the water, were being pulled like
magnets to the shore. Every man around had taken a nice long look when Anna had headed
with her kayak down to the dock about two hours ago. Some of them had been too late, and
only caught a glimpse of her perfect figure, sealed in her skin-tight wetsuit. Now they wanted
to make sure they didn't miss her as she returned.

I looked down at the shore. Sure enough, the change in the air had been created by Anna,
cutting through the water in her kayak.

Anna glided ashore and stepped out of her boat. She had grown up on the water, sea-
kayaking, and she had the fluid grace of a person well-accustomed to what she was doing.

She was wearing a wetsuit for the lake, because we were up at a pretty high altitude and it was
early in the summer. Plus she liked to jump into the water in the middle of the lake for a swim
and a cold thrill.

I watched her with delight as she shook her long, light brown hair loose from a ponytail, and
reached for the zipper of her skin-tight suit. I knew that more than a few men had their eyes
on her hand now, hopeful that she was going to do what they were hoping for.

Down, down, down went the zipper, and where it opened up, Anna's almond-colored skin
came into view: her smooth neck, her flawless chest, the dip between her full breasts, her
chest, rising, filling out, promising to end in dark, chocolatey nipples...

Even though I knew it was coming, I was disappointed when the red fabric of a skimpy bikini
stopped the show.

She wriggled out of the sleeves of her suit, and her breasts jiggled lightly. Once her toned arms
released, she let the suit flop at her waist. We all – because I knew every other man in sight
was looking at her – took in the lovely sight of her long torso and flat stomach, disappearing
into the black rubber of her wetsuit.

She didn't keep going, though, to reveal her coltish legs and her high, rounded ass to the
audience on the patios.

She used a towel to dry off her arms and her chest, and then she climbed the stairs to our
patio. Her eyes darted to the other decks, and sent the other men's eyes scurrying.
Anna knew people were watching her, everywhere she went. She liked catching them in the
act and making them look away.

She would never admit this, of course, but I saw how much fun she was having.

Anna treated me to a smile as she climbed the last steps. Her nipples were hard, I could see
now, beneath the thin fabric of her bikini. She caught my eye and grinned. “Cold out there,”
she said.

Mark had dutifully gone back to flipping his steaks, but I saw his torso shake with a private
chuckle. Mark was one of those older men who didn't hide that he was looking, because it's all
he was doing at his age.

“Brian was just telling us you've got a problem with your rental,” Sheila screamed.

Anna took her towel to her head and gave her wet hair a good rubbing. She grasped her wet
suit and began to squeeze herself out of it. Inch by inch, her body twisted free of the rubber.
Every unblemished, toned inch of her, except for the very small parts of her body she had
covered with the bikini.

Anna knew she had a great body, and she didn't mind showing it off.

Sheila set her drink down. Sheila also didn't try to hide that she ogled young women, but her
ogling was more wistful than lustful. She shook her head. “I had legs like that, when I was
younger.”

Mark harrumphed.

Sheila laughed, and turned her attention away from Anna's legs to her face. “Sweetie what's
the problem with the house?”

Anna shrugged. “We just have no luck with people.”

“Like what?”
“Like...they're flaky, they have bad credit, they...do you remember that guy last week,” she
turned to me, “who showed up drunk as hell?” She turned back to Sheila as she sat down. Her
cheeks were flushed bright pink with the cold from swimming, giving her an almost erotic
glow. “It's stuff like that.”

“Sheila would show up drunk to a viewing,” Mark quipped.

“Oh,” Sheila waved at the air, dismissing his comment.

There was a silence. I spent the time admiring the little bumps that were traveling over Anna's
creamy toffee-coloured skin, up to her neck, down her spine, over her shoulders.

Anna was a delightful example of all the amazing things that could happen to a person if they
came from a multitude of ethnic backgrounds. Her mother was a stunning, olive-skinned and
light-eyed daughter of a very illicit Portuguese-Swedish romance, and in photos she looked like
exactly what you would expect and hope for from a Portuguese-Swedish love child. Anna's
father was a mixed-race man from the Dominican Republic. All of these divergent colors and
shapes had swirled around to produce Anna: tall, long-legged, with the firm muscle tone and
the body type (best manifested in her very round, very high, ass) that confirmed the African
lineage in her mixed heritage. It was particularly disarming because her glowing skin was a
dark shade of cream, and her hair was silky and golden-brown.

But her eyes were probably the most striking feature about her: they were a bright, shifting,
sea-green shade that almost looked unreal. They immediately drew attention directly to her
face, where a unique blend of very European colouring, and features that were not exactly
from that continent, combined in her intelligent countenance. She was almost always
described as stunning, because she was precisely that: she sent a lot of men into a state of
fumbling idiocy. Anna was the kind of woman who actually made men walk into walls, and I
had seen it with my own two eyes on more than one occasion.

I had walked into a wall when I first saw her, for example.

I had no idea, still, why Anna had ever even spoken to me, let alone married me. I had spent
most of the time we had dated walking around in a state of shock, half-believing I was in a
dream. When she smiled at me on our wedding day after saying “I do,” I was certain I would
wake up.

She claims to think I have a good sense of humour, and she likes that I am “chilled out.”
Anna is a high-octane person. She works in marketing and she does not relax. She comes up
with brilliant ideas in the middle of the night and wakes me up turning the light on to write
them down. If she is taking a rest, as she was on this particular day, she has to go do
something, like kayak to the middle of the lake and take a one-mile swim with her boat
dragging behind her.

On the other hand, I like to relax with some beers and old people like Sheila and Mark (who
Anna genuinely liked by this time, but originally put up with only because she could pick their
brains for baby-boomer marketing information). I ride my bike to the store. I work at home
and take about half as many projects as I could. I volunteer to work with mentally disabled
adults. I like to keep everybody calm.

As long as this works for Anna, it's great. I often had a difficult time believing that the stunning
woman who frequently left for work after microwaving her coffee for one minute and eleven
seconds (because she could save time pressing “1” three times, versus three different
numbers) could really be interested in a man like me.

So far, though, we had made it through five years.

Anna made me a plate of food. She did it quickly and efficiently, and then leaned back in her
chair. She smiled at me.

I watched her, in awe of her beauty and the fact that she was married to me. I really loved
Anna, and this was in spite of the fact that our personalities seemed so incompatible. I loved
the way she moved, I loved the way she handled people, I loved how reckless and brave she
could be.

I also loved that, though it didn't happen very often, she liked to come to me for reassurance
and comfort. Because even women like Anna have occasional moments of insecurity.

And let's face it: Anna was the hottest fucking woman in any room, hands down.

She bit into a cherry tomato and looked out at the lake. Everyone had gone quiet, enjoying
Mark's barbeque. He was a marinading master.
“We have a cousin,” Mark announced suddenly, both of his hands on his hamburger. He was
looking into the distance.

I had no idea what he was talking about. He had erupted with this statement out of nowhere.

“Oh yeah,” Sheila said, aligned with his thoughts in that uncanny way that old married couples
are.

I looked at Anna for help. She was usually very good at figuring out conversations like this. She
shrugged.

Mark took a bit out of his hamburger and began explaining through his half-eaten bun. “He's a
lawyer. He needs a place in the city. He doesn't want to buy -”

“It's crazy,” Sheila assured us. “I tell him all the time that real estate is where to put your
money.”

“-because he wants to pay down his student loans-”

“Went to Columbia!” Sheila shrieked.

“No kidding,” Anna said, her interest suddenly piqued. I couldn't tell if it was her competitive
or her intellectually flirtatious nature. She did her undergrad at Stanford and was a bit of an
educational elitist.

“He'd be perfect for you. He's a nice kid. Young, but he wants to make partner, he works all the
time and the rest of the time he just sleeps. I just remembered it, that he was looking for a
place. My aunt's kid. Nice kid.” Mark slapped a thick steak onto a plate and set it in front of
Anna.

“It's not healthy,” Sheila mused, “him working so much. He needs a girlfriend.”

Here it comes, I thought.

“If I were younger,” Sheila said, her eyes misting over, “I would eat that man up with a spoon.”
“But you're not any younger, so don't frighten our guests,” Mark bellowed.

Sheila rolled her eyes and shooed him away. “He's gorgeous,” she mouthed to Anna.

Anna laughed appreciatively.

I tried to get her attention, to indicate that she should start cutting her steak, but I was too
late.

“What? Are you a vegetarian? Eat!” Mark screamed at her, as he returned to the table with a
steak for me.

“Out in that crazy boat all day. It's not even a boat. You need to eat,” Sheila affirmed. “Skin and
bones.”

Anna smiled at me and picked her knife and fork up theatrically.

We dug in.

2: POTRERO HILL

The house we had purchased was slightly beyond our real means, and I wouldn't have dared to
invest in it if not for Anna. She was always so sure that the right outcome would come her way,
and if it didn't, she would make it happen.
Anna had the brazen confidence that beautiful women have. Everything did, usually, go her
way, but I don't think she knew how much of it was probably attributable to the fact that she
was so stunningly beautiful.

As for me, I was an average guy. Things went more or less average for me – Anna being the
one exception to the rule.

“We'll just rent the property below out, pay for half the mortgage with that,” she had
explained. “And then it's fine. We sit on it for a few years and make a killing.”

Renting out the basement walkout, it turns out, was one thing that Anna couldn't make go her
way. No matter how attractive she was, and no matter how much renters wanted to stay once
they got a whiff of her, she couldn't turn her potential renters into quiet people, or people
with good credit scores, or people who didn't, as she put it, give her the “heebie-jeebies.”

It quietly infuriated her.

“Oh god,” she said, out of nowhere in the car on the way home. “I really hope Mark's cousin
works out.”

I had forgotten all about the conversation, had too many beers the day before, and had a
headache.

“Huh?”

Anna was not patient with my memory lapses. “Mark's cousin,” she snapped. “For the rental.”

“At least we can be sure of one thing,” I said. “If he's related to Mark, he's bound to be good-
looking.”

Anna had her knuckles in her mouth and opened a little wider in a smile, a show of
appreciation for the joke. Mark was a large man with features that had turned gnomish in his
old age, but gave the appearance of never having been particularly attractive.

“Let's keep out fingers crossed.”

“That he's hot.”

“That he has a huge Italian sausage,” she shot back.

I knew Anna was just joking, the way we often did. What she also knew is that this kind of
comment was a little less of a joke for me.

Something quivered inside of me.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” I asked. “A nice, hot, Italian man with a big cock.”

Anna shrugged, as if she didn't care, and flipped open a magazine.

Then, like five minutes later:

“I mean...if it was spicy.”

Two weeks later,Mark called me and asked if John, who I had nearly forgotten about, could
come over in an hour to look at the place.

And then, just like that, there he was.

“Hi. Mr. Richter? I'm John.”

The man in front of me, standing on my porch, was at least six-foot-five. He had an athletic
build, and beneath the orderly and expensive fabric of his suit shirt, googyouthful muscle gave
him definition. His hand was extended, and after pausing idiotically, I took it. He gripped my
fingers in a firm handshake. A wiry strength pulsed in his squeeze, hinting that he could crush
my hand if he wanted to.
I stared.

“John Smith? I'm...Mark Shapiro's cousin? He recommended this place to me as a rental?” the
man continued, in response to my dumb stare.

His voice was calm, a tone of self-assured professionalism about it. He had released my hand
and returned to his agile stance, his brown eyes revealing not a trace of discomfort with my
awkwardness. He waited patiently.

I heard Anna walking up behind me. I felt her hands on my shoulders, stopping me from
speaking. Anna frequently saved me from saying something stupid. Her career had trained her
well in smoothing things over.

On the other hand, she sometimes jarred people with her directness, which I had a feeling she
was about to do.

She scrunched up her nose, and extended a hand, which John took in his long, large fingers. His
face had brightened at the sight of my wife, and he smiled. A smile of bright, straight teeth.
“I'm Anna,” Anna said, and she gave him a smile that sent my stomach into a tailspin right
through my feet, because I knew something “direct” was coming.

Something “so Anna.”

I worried, sometimes, that Anna was going to get someone punched in the face. Anna. She
possessed a not-so-secret desire to make people uncomfortable with her directness. In her
defense, she claimed that her directness (better described as a tendency to bring up anything
and everything that everyone else in the room preferred to leave unspoken) eventually made
everyone more comfortable.

But Anna was beautiful. She could say whatever the hell she wanted.

I was the one who was going to get punched in the face.

I could tell “directness” was coming because she always had a particular, wooden smile on her
face right before she dropped something like this:
“He's just surprised that you're black.”

Oh lord.

The brown eyes, set in rich chocolate skin, turned to me. John cocked his head, and the teeth
flashed again. A quiver of fear snaked through me. For a moment I was unsure if his smile was
friendly, or the smile of a wolf right before eating a meal.

It was true: I was surprised that John was black. Okay? I was surprised that he looked like an
NBA player in his physique, I was surprised that he looked like a model, and again, I was
surprised that he was black. This is because Mark Shapiro was a stout Italian man with a stout
Italian family.

John didn't miss a beat. “Not as surprised as my daddy was.”

My mouth hung open. This shut even Anna up for a second, and John let us stand there,
unsure what to do, for a good half a minute, before he reached out and slapped me on the
back. “No man, I'm just kidding.”

I could feel Anna's delight with his edgy humor. It was sort of radiating off of her. She loved a
quick mind and she loved a sharp joke that was almost over the line.

Surprisingly, John put me at ease with his slap. His smile was friendly and immediately took the
edge off his joke. Somehow, it also communicated that it was okay that I was a stupid white
man who had acted like a fool when someone's cousin turned out to be black in the year 2015.

Anna pulled the door open and waved John in. “We're happy you're here. Come in, please.”

“You know,” John said, and his voice was friendly but authoritative. He straightened his tie.
“It's nice of you to invite me in, but I have a ton of work this evening for a deposition. Do you
mind if we just go down to the place?”

It was a Saturday. Anna's eyes sparkled with recognition of another person just like her, a
person who wore a suit on a Saturday and made plans to do work all afternoon.
“Sure,” Anna said. I could tell by her voice that she liked him very much and would rent him
the apartment without even checking his credit. “Let me get the keys.”

I stood awkwardly by the door.

“So...” I said, and I cringed at the sound of my white-guy-trying-to-be-cool voice.”What law

firm you work for?”

“Look man, don't even worry about that whole thing,” John said, and like his smile, he had a
soothing effect that put me even more at ease. “Mark loves to pull that one. 'Hey, my cousin
needs a car, let me send him by.' He doesn't bother saying 'he's a brother.' People don't see it
coming. I get it.” His eyes moved away from mine as Anna approached.

Onto her.

No, Brian, you're being a fucking crazy person.

And a racist crazy person at that.

Anna flashed a quick smile at John, and hopped down the steps. We followed her.

My face was aligned with John's head even though he was step ahead of me. His back
stretched his shirt with hard muscle.

The guy was extremely attractive. Even I had to admit that. I don't have any gay tendencies,
I'm sure of it – and after so many years of living in San Francisco, you get plenty of
opportunities. But I had to appreciate the guy's looks. His calm demeanor. He was the kind of
guy I'd like to be like.

Anna unlocked the entrance to the apartment and we filed in. The apartment was small but
better refurbished than our part of the house. It didn't take long for us to look it over:
bathroom, living room with a small enclave with French doors to be used as a bedroom, tiny
kitchen.

John glanced over everything perfunctorily without saying anything.

I watched Anna, who seemed to be watching him. My mind was utterly distracted from the
main idea here: we were finally going to rent this fucking apartment and be able to pay our
mortgage without having to cut back on food. It should have been exciting, but my mind was
miles away, reading into every movement of Anna's face, searching for flickers of attraction to
John in them.

“Look, if you all are ready to sign on this, this place will work great for me,” John said abruptly.
“I've got a load of student loans and I need to rent something ASAP. The price is right.” John
was standing with hands in his pockets, looking casual but in a hurry at the same time.

I shifted from foot to foot. I could feel Anna glaring at me through her skin.

“We've already looked at your application,” Anna said, casting her a brief flare of a warning
smile in my direction, because in truth we hadn't done much with the application besides look
at it sitting on our table. “And honestly, we'd be thrilled to have you. You're a perfect match
for this place.”

My mouth opened, and I wished it wasn't doing that. Words began to come out of it, and I
cringed as they did. “Yeah,” I said. “You're not a drug addict or unemployed.”

There was a pause as the two of them looked at me strangely. I wasn't even sure why I said
that.

“I assure you I'm neither,” John said in his rich tones, smoothing his tie against his hard chest,
as neatly as his voice smoothed the whole thing over. To Anna: “Do you have an agreement?”

Anna produced an agreement, seemingly from thin air. And a pen.

I watched the whole thing like I was watching a movie.

What could I do?

Did I even want to do anything to change the outcome of this exchange? The guy was a perfect
renter: busy, professional, single, hardly ever home.
Handsome.

Hot.

Maybe a little too perfect.

I looked at Anna, studying her features as she folded her hands to wait for John to read
through the agreement. Was she too interested in him? Looking too closely at his face?

Don't be a fucking idiot. She's looking at the paper, not him.

Watching his hands, probably. His big, strong hands, dark on the back and pale on the palms,
able to grip anything in his wide palm. A basketball, a woman's head...

Get. A. Grip.

“When can I move in?” he asked, his pen hovering over the paper.

“Anytime. We can pro-rate the rent to any date.”

Was Anna's voice her usual professional voice, or did I hear a tinge of sultry breathlessness?
Come-fuck-me intonation?

Stop.

“How's tomorrow?” John signed the paper as he asked. His signature was a bold, legible slash
of dominance on the white sheet. He looked up at my wife. His eyes crinkled with a boyish
charm.

I looked at Anna's reaction. Was she melting for him? She smiled and fell back on her heels. “If
you want to, that'd be great.”

He extended his hand, and again my wife's small, pale hand was covered in his grip. “Excellent.
Warn the neighbors...and I'll see you tomorrow.” He looked at me, winked, and then exited.
Anna closed the door behind him, waving at him almost obscenely as he drove off. She pressed
her back against the door and rolled her eyes skyward. “Oh. My. God.”

“Pretty hot,” I said. I wasn't sure if I was irritated or somewhat turned on by how silly my wife
was acting. I wasn't sure if I wanted to draw more of this attitude out if her, or if I wanted to
call John and tell him to never come back.

Anna blinked.

“Who?” she said innocently. “John? The renter? I didn't even notice.”

I felt a little bit like I had just swallowed a hot stone. A pain spread throughout my body, but it
was pleasurable as well.

There had been a time when Anna and I had played these games, before we were married. But
they had been dropped with our monogamous commitment. I had never been sure if Anna had
taken them as seriously as I had, and we had never really hashed out our feelings about them:
it had just been something fun to do. I had set my feelings and my desires aside, but I could
feel them stirring now.

“You didn't notice his bulging muscles?”

Anna opened her mouth wide and shook her head. Her eyes were alive, very quickly, with
interest. “Really!” she proclaimed.

I moved closer to her. “You didn't rent to him without a credit check because you thought he
had...”

“Excellent assets?” Anna offered.

I could feel my cock twitching to life, between Anna's unusual interest in the middle of the
afternoon, and the way she was teasing me playing into my fantasy. I pushed my hand
underneath her shirt.

“It would be convenient,” Anna mused.

“What's that?” I asked, hoping she would give me what I wanted.

“To have a nice young man around to pay the rent,” she said, and slapped me playfully.

I put my lips close to hers. Was she deliberately teasing me, with the promise of talking dirty
about the neighbor and then switching off so quickly? Or was she just honestly not aware of
how much it turned me on?

“What would you do,” I said, and I let my lips graze hers, “if John couldn't pay the rent one
month?”

She bit her lip, and brushed her lips against mine. Now the electricity between us was
palpable, and I felt the old, familiar excitement of our younger days building. She waited the
perfect amount of time, breathing softly on my lips, her body pressed against mine, before
summoning her sexiest voice. “But he's a lawyer,” she said in a half-whisper. “He'll always be
able to pay the rent.”

I moved my hand up her shirt, and under her soft bra. I found the little knob of her nipple and
squeezed it lightly. “Pretend,” I said. “Use your imagination.”

Anna gave me a smile that made it seem like she knew exactly what I wanted to hear, and
exactly how deeply I felt it inside. It was a smile of complicity, and it sent a near-orgasmic wave
of pleasure through me. My cock was rock hard.

“A hypothetical,” she said.

“Yes.”

I squeezed her nipple a little harder, and her mouth turned up and down in both pain and
pleasure.
“John can't pay the rent...” she said. “And I'm all alone in the house one night while you...”

I almost never did anything at night. “Go bowling,” I offered.

It almost broke the mood. Anna blew a laugh out of her nose and had to raise a hand to keep it
from splattering me. “And you,” she repeated, placing her head back against the door, “are
bowling...”

I was still serious. I was lifting my thigh to get it between her legs, and pressing her up against
the door. Everywhere she touched me my skin was burning. I rubbed her nipple between my
fingers.

She pushed away from the door and we began moving toward the bedroom. “I'm all alone,
and I would call John and tell him he could work off his rent if he came up here to do some
odds and ends,” she said.

She twisted past me, ran down the hallway, and jumped into the bed in the spare bedroom,
like a young girl. She bounced on the bed. “He would have to start here,” she said. “This bed is
very squeaky.”

I closed the door.

She threw herself down on the bed, and leaned over the side. “I think the problem is
somewhere around here,” she said.

I wasted no time taking her cue, and I was so hot for her I had no more time to let this
delightful game play out much longer. I went around to the side of the bed where her legs
were and I yanked her toward me. She played along and let her legs open and her skirt rise up
to her waist. I pulled her panties down and admired her beautiful ass, and the area between
the two hills of her buttocks: brown, silky hair, shaved neatly into a rectangle for her revealing
swimsuits. Her pink flesh in the center, wet with excitement.

Her fingers appeared between her legs, sliding along her engorged slit. “I think the problem is
right here. I think John could pay the rent by paying special attention to this area, right here,”
she said.
I could take the hint.

I lowered myself down, and when my face was still nearly a foot away from her body, I could
feel the heat radiating from between her legs, and smell the tangy sweetness of her ripe cunt.
It was unusual, nowadays, for Anna to be so ready, so willing, so wet, in the middle of the day.
And I had barely touched her.

My cock was almost paining me, as I delighted in the thought that perhaps Anna was turned on
by the same idea I was turned on by. Maybe really turned on, not just by the idea in the
abstract, but by the idea of really going through with it.

I inhaled her scent, a mixture of ripe fruit and almost a spiciness, a flavor and smell that were
totally unique to Anna and dissimilar to every woman I had ever known. She had none of the
cloying sweetness of most women: she was less sugary and more tangy. I extended my tongue
and traced it along her inner lips, then moved down to where her swollen clit was stretched
with excitement and easy to find. I found the bundle of nerves in the center, and rubbed hard
on them with the tip of my tongue. I was thrilled by the way Anna's body jumped lightly, and
her muscles tensed with almost too much pleasure. She stopped talking and breathed heavily.

I kept going, sensing that she was wet enough and riled up enough, whatever the reason, that
she would come quickly. I was right. Her thighs squeezed inward, tight against my ears, while
her ass rocked lightly. I grasped her with both hands to keep her still, and kept going. She
began to mewl, and I did not relent. Her pussy was dripping all over my face now, and making
her inner thighs wet. I felt her grow as hard as stone everywhere in her body, and begin to
squeal.

When she came she bucked away from me, and I let her shriek and grasp the sheets, but I held
her ass close to me as I stood up on my knees and guided my cock to her opening. I wanted to
be inside of her while she was still shuddering and clenching from her climax.

Anna collapsed in submission, and I glided into her pussy easily. She was drenched, and the
walls of her flesh were squeezing still in uneven rhythm as she rode out the last of her orgasm.

Which was fine. I was so hard I almost came as I slid into her.

“Will that do it,” I asked. “For the rent? Or do you need more?”
But Anna was done. She was done talking dirty, and she was especially spent after her orgasm.
She balled the sheets in her fist and moaned.

I slammed inside of her, imagining I was John, filling her up with my huge, black cock.

In no time, I was groaning and gripping the flesh of her ass as hard as I could. “Fuck!” I yelled.

We collapsed on the bed, and gave a shared laugh for the fact that we had messed up the
spare bedroom – a room that, until this moment, had gone utterly unused.

At the time, it was just a game. I don't think there was any part of me that really believed
things would get as serious as they did.

3: MOVING IN

The next day, Anna was watching John with her arms folded. “He doesn't have much stuff,”
she commented.

I looked at John warily. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped out of it, giving any
woman around a lovely view of his enormous biceps. They were constantly flexed to grip the
large boxes he was unloading from a small rental van.

I was looking for ways to make him seem like less of the handsome, clean-cut, all-around nice
guy he seemed to be. When I found it, I pounced on it: Why didn't this guy have any buddies?

Probably because men hated the fucking guy. He was probably an asshole, I thought.
“God, he must not even know anyone here since he just moved,” Anna murmured, and as
always, whenever she seemed to have read my mind, I felt a shiver of fear sneak through me
for her uncanny abilities.

I said nothing.

“We should go help him,” Anna declared.

I knew what was coming.

“Well,” she corrected herself, “You should go help him. I'm just a girl.”

She looked down at her nails in sarcasm, because she loved saying this kind of thing (Anna was
anything but 'just a girl'). She crossed the kitchen to make coffee.

“It's three pm.,” I said involuntarily.

“It is. And I'm making a coffee for myself because I want a coffee,” she snapped. “I'd ask you if
you wanted one but you'd probably tell me this is why I have insomnia, or some other shit I
don't give a damn about.” Anna had no tolerance for me, or anyone else, even insinuating that
she should do something besides whatever she had decided to do. The more trivial the activity,
angrier she got. If you wanted to see Anna really blow up, you could keep bugging her about
whether or not she was too hot or too cold, like so many people have a tendency to do. I know
exactly how fucking hot I am and it's not your fucking problem! she would scream at anybody's
grandmother.

I smiled at her flare-up. She would kill me, but I found it sexy.

She looked out the window again. “Now go help that poor boy move.”

John was balancing a box that appeared to be very heavy on top of his muscular thigh, and
reaching for something in the van with his hand. His face was strained by the effort of it. He
didn't notice me at all.
I stood awkwardly and waited for him to pick up the box with two hands.

“Hey, John,” I said. “Uh...you need any help out here?”

He shoved the box onto the floor of the van. “Man,” he said, but it seemed to be unrelated to
whatever I was saying. He panted for a second. “I've been wondering when your wife was
gonna come out here with some lemonade or something.”

An image of Anna in a fifties-housewife dress, carrying a tray of lemonade across the small
yard, right after sweating herself into a frenzy watching John through the window, took up all
of the space in my mind. I didn't answer.

John grinned. “Just kidding,” he offered, taking my silence for discomfort. He looked over his
van, which was half-empty. “You think you can help me with this couch?”

I surveyed the contents of the van. There was a small leather loveseat in the van, along with a
flatscreen TV. It was bachelor furniture. Nice, tasteful, but not meant to really be used by
anyone much of the time.

“Sure,” I said. “You don't have a bed?”

John rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. “I never sleep,” he said.

He looked at me with the same friendly smile that he had used so many times already, and I
realized it was a joke.

“It's being delivered,” he said. “IKEA.”

“Okay,” I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I was acting a little bit like an idiot. I wasn't
sure why. John was disarming in some way.

I reminded myself that John had no way of knowing that I had fucked my wife while thinking
about my wife fucking him.
Still, I was having a hard time playing it perfectly cool.

“Great,” he said. “Let me run this in and then I'll come back for it.”

I stood by the van, trying to look collected, while John bounced easily with the heavy box down
the steps to his apartment. I looked up at the kitchen window. Anna had a cup of coffee to her
mouth, and I could almost see the grin on her face behind it. She shook her head and
disappeared.

We moved the couch and the flatscreen together, and then I helped John with the remainder
of his boxes. Nearly all of them were filled with books.

After the last box was in the house, John opened the refrigerator and took out two beers. He
uncapped them using the move I had never perfected, of hitting them with his closed fist
against the counter. He did it casually, and handed me a beer.

I was mildly out of breath, and my arms felt strained, but I was trying to look as relaxed as
John, who was not even remotely winded. I held up the beer instead of saying thanks, just in
case I ended up huffing as I spoke.

It was a throwback to man's descent from primate groups, this ritual of showing or faking
physical prowess, but what can I say? John was intimidating with his huge biceps and great
looks.

By his proximity to my wife.

“I really appreciate the help, man,” John said. “I don't know a whole lotta people here still, and
everyone I do know had some mysterious thing they had to do today.”

Even though there were plenty of reasons to dislike John, or at least feel intimidated by him,
he really did seem like a nice guy. He had a way of speaking that made me feel like less of a
dick. I recovered my regular personality a little and said the least stupid thing I'd said so far. “I
had a buddy who ran a marathon just to get out of helping me move.” This was true story.

John gave me a wide, appreciative grin and looked down at his beer, shaking his head.
A small knock on the open door made us both turn. The lightness of the footsteps indicated
that it could only be one person: Anna.

John almost instantly produced a beer from the fridge and handed it to her. She took it absent-
mindedly, looking around. “This place is a lot smaller with stuff in it,” she said. Her eyes fell on
the sleeping area. “No bed?”

“He doesn't sleep,” I said, surprised by my own quick thinking. Anna's comment had
threatened to turn a little awkward.

Anna held her beer toward John as though for a toast. They clinked their bottles together. She
did not turn to me after her cheers. “Well, welcome, and hope you like it here,” she said.
“Listen, I've made way too much food for dinner, and since you just moved in, we'd be happy
to share.”

I squinted at Anna.

Anna wasn't exactly in love with cooking. I was fairly certain that she hadn't made anything for
dinner in three years, let alone too much of something, in the middle of the afternoon and in
only forty minutes.

John's eyes shifted from me to Anna, and he opened his mouth to hesitate. “Uh...”

“Oh don't worry, we won't make it awkward or anything,” Anna said. “And we won't start
doing it to you all the time.” She let the comment hang in the air by itself, long enough for
everyone to get a whiff of the innuendo, and then she smiled. “Inviting you to dinner, I mean.”

I watched this unfold, and even though I had been, just seconds ago, baffled by Anna's invite
and a little angry at her for inviting him without asking me (or even having made any food, as
she had just promised), I abruptly said:

“We have wine.”

John set his beer on the table and pointed a finger at me. “Done,” he said.

“How about around six?” Anna said. “Or are you starving now?”
I looked at her again. She was really bluffing it. There was no way she had anything made, and
the more I thought about it, the more I doubted there was any food in our house at all.

“I am starving,” John said, and I got nervous, as though I had told the lie myself and was about
to get caught in it. “But I have to straighten a few things out here, take a shower...” he looked
at his watch. “Six. Yeah, six is fine.”

“Okay,” Anna chirped. She had slammed her beer, somehow, without anyone noticing, and she
set the empty bottle on the table. “We'll see you then.”

Anna made way for her purse as soon as we were through the door, and pulled a light
crocheted sweater over her arms, tossing her hair over her shoulder and rattling keys. “I have
to go,” she said. “I have to get something for dinner.”

“I thought you made something. So much food we couldn't eat it,” I said, in a mocking tone.

Anna shrugged, unaffected by my teasing. “He wouldn't have come if I...” she let her voice trail
off as she dug through her purse for something. She looked up at me. “What do you think?
Chicken? Steak?”

I channeled my inner valley-girl and placed my hand on my hip. “Oh, John, my hot neighbor,
come over...I just made too much steak on accident...there were two people and I lost count
and just threw, like, ten steaks on the grill...two hours before we were going to
eat...ohmygaaaahd.”

I was being a little bit of an asshole, I could hear it in my voice. Part of me was joking, light-
heartedly, but there was a knife's edge of dumb, animal jealousy.

Anna could go either way with this kind of thing. Sometimes it set off her powder-keg temper,
and sometimes she just laughed.

I waited for her reaction.

She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Yeah, you're right.” She placed her hand on my chest, in mock-
seduction. “You're always. So. Right.” She was annoyed by my comment, but she was in a good
mood. She hopped out of the door, her hand up silently in a gesture of goodbye.

I stood in the kitchen.

Anna was not a friendly, invite-the-neighbor-to-dinner type.

And why was she in such a good mood?

And why did I find myself thinking of the evening ending with Anna and John pouring me glass
after glass of wine, until I passed out in my chair, while Anna lowered herself discreetly under
the table, inch by inch, until she was gone. And then John's face contorted with pleasure as she
put her mouth around his cock...

What in the actual fuck was wrong with me?

Anna purchased insane amounts of prepared food from the deli at an overpriced local market,
and ripped open the containers, dumping them into our dishes. She was mildly frantic,
ordering me around and then waving me away, the way she did when she really wanted things
to be perfect at a dinner party or a presentation.

I burned with jealousy as I watched her. She seemed not to care that she was acting like this,
or care if I noticed. She made no effort to hide that she was fussing about the dinner, or that
she was hurrying because she wanted enough time to go upstairs and perform the elaborate
beauty rituals that would lead to her coming down the stairs in a t-shirt and jeans, looking
very, very natural but having orchestrated the whole look as though it were a photo shoot.

Anna, after all, was in marketing, and she marketed every single thing. She knew a complete
package was the key to sales.

What in the fuck are you talking about, Brian? Your wife is not selling anything here.

But did I want her to be?

A little bit.

She disappeared upstairs after fretting about whether or not the pesto dish would seem
authentically homemade or not if she reheated it, and then she pointed at one of the several
bottles of wine (expensive) she had purchased. “Get one of those in the decanter,” she said in
parting.

I knew that I should be suspicious of my wife's behavior, and therefore jealous, and therefore
inclined to confront her about what she was doing and how transparent she was being about
it. She was flirting, with her food and her wine, and her desire to get everything 'just so.'

I mean, people did not make this big of an effort for other people unless some small part of
them wanted to bang the other person. Even if it seemed out-of-reach, even if it was only a
sliver of a chance. I myself was the person who always said this, especially when any man was
nice to Anna and helped her out.

“Just trying to get in your pants,” I would say.

“Nah, this guy was married..fat...he had no chance with me...he was old...”

“There needs only to be the smallest chance,” I would explain to her, “like, that a meteor will
strike us all dead right now except for you and him, and you will have no choice but to fuck him
or let the human race die out...and that small chance, is enough.”

“Or a man wouldn't be friendly to a woman?”

I always looked like I was thinking it over. “No,” I would say. “No, I do not believe they would.”

“What explains men being helpful to other men?”

“The slightest chance of gay sex being the only thing left on earth after a meteor kills everyone
but you and him, or you get locked in prison together for some reason.”

Anna always laughed.

“Or that he has a girlfriend you will be able to have sex with at some time in the future.”

“Sick.”

But Anna didn't actually need any of that explained to her. She knew every man she met would
gladly fuck her. She just enjoyed pretending like she was clueless sometimes, for comedic
effect.

The only thing I didn't know is if she knew exactly how crazy it drove me, seeing her flirt with
other men.

I looked at the clock. 5:30. Only half an hour until John arrived.

I went upstairs and sat on the bed, watching Anna through the open door to the bathroom,
inhaling her soaps and shampoos. I pretended to be deliberating between two shirts as she
came out wrapped in a towel, and threw open the drawers.

I liked watching her as she actually thought about several outfits. I savored the sharp-edged
sweetness of watching her be choosey about what she would wear. Selecting her outfit with
care, deliberately not getting fancy, and not getting too casual.

She made an unusual choice, and selected a pair of tight jeans and a white t-shirt. I watched
her first slide a black lacy boy-short pair of underpants up onto her creamy skin.

Nothing unusual there. Right? She wore those all the time.

I imagined them traveling down her body in reverse, being peeled away from her taut body by
John's large, black hands.

I shook my head.

She trotted into the bathroom – still having completely ignored me – and kicked the door shut
with her foot.
I did not get to see the rest.

I pulled a shirt over my head, and found myself briefly considering what to wear for John as
well, before I went downstairs to decant and drink some of the wine.

Anna skipped into the kitchen. Her hair was damp, which she had done on purpose. Everything
about her was on purpose, from the shade of her dark blue jeans, and the fact that she was
wearing jeans at all (she always wore skirts) to her bare feet, to her white shirt.

To her white shirt, a thick material that clung to her skin, and showed off her tight stomach,
her long torso, her lack of any trace of body fat, and...her breasts. Her full breasts with the
dark areolas and the dark nipples, which were unencumbered by a bra. This was not by
omission, but rather because Anna thought every single thing through.

The effect was very satisfying, I had to admit. Because the material was thick, it was not
outrageous. But the outline of her nipples could be discerned, if you were looking right at her
breasts, and once you saw it, you had a hard time not looking there to see it again. It was, in
fact, the only thing either of us could think about. I caught John trying to look, trying not to
look, trying to look at something else. It was deeply satisfying to be united in the same
struggle, and Anna was also very pleased with herself. I could tell. She had a smugness behind
her smile.

John graciously pretended not to notice the food was from a deli, nor did he ask for recipes or
ingredients or praise her cooking. But after several glasses of wine, I became the drunkest
person at the table, and was immediately suspicious. Suspicious of his complicity in her lie.

I watched them. They became embroiled in a conversation about some legal decision that had
been made in a case that affected marketing, and after a few minutes I had no handle on the
conversation whatsoever. John became very animated as soon as he realized that Anna was a
formidable conversational partner, capable of navigating legal terms and complicated legal
questions without batting an eye.

I poured myself more wine.

I couldn't tell if I was miserable or delighted, watching John and Anna, who seemed to be
constantly moving closer and closer to each other, looking deeply into each other's eyes.

Don't be fucking idiot, Brian. No one is looking into anyone's eyes.

They did though, seem to be doing just that.

I liked the idea of Anna thinking of John as a sex toy. I liked the idea of Anna thinking about
him paying his rent by making her come; I like the idea of her sucking his cock, taking it up the
ass, screaming in pleasure as he filled her completely. Working it off when she couldn't get the
toilet fixed in a timely fashion (I filed this idea, which had only just occurred to me, away for
later use).

I did not, I realized miserably, pouring my sixth...or maybe seventh?...glass of wine, like Anna
talking to John excitedly about legal matters I could not understand. I did not like the way they
were leaning their heads together, making private jokes in legalese. I didn't like the way she
was smiling for him.

I was getting grumpier and grumpier, when John seemed to pick up on my foul mood. “We're
being really rude,” he said. “It's like that when I go to my sister's place – she's a musician, right,
and they start making all these jokes like, I can't believe Edwin started off that concerto in D-
flat...and I'm like, ha ha ha ha ha.” He imitated nervous laughter, and made a face not entirely
different from my own expression.

Fuck, I really wanted to dislike the guy. But it was hard.

“What is it you're in, again, Brian?” he said, making a gesture toward the wine I had placed,
rather piggishly, on my side of the table. I nodded that he could have some.

Anna's face had fallen a little: she had been enjoying her rigorous – and private – discussion
with John.

“I do computer science stuff, mostly coding for websites.”

“You freelance, right?”

I always hated admitting this, because everyone listened to my answer and then sort of looked
at Anna like: you poor dear.

“Yeah,” I said, and I was sucking in my breath to say more about it, defending it automatically
as I always did.

But John shook his head, pouring wine. “Man, that's cool. I wish I knew how to do something
like that. One of these days, everyone is going to figure out lawyers are full of shit, and I'm
gonna be out of job. But coding...everyone needs that. And,” he added, raising his eyebrows
with his eyes on the wine. “It would be nice to make my own hours.”

He smiled.

I had to hand it to him, he was a really nice guy. A nice, upstanding, successful, charming guy.

And hot. An athletic, muscular man.

In truth he looked more like the kind of guy a woman like Anna should be with. There was the
ethnicity thing, which was weighing heavier on my mind than I wanted to admit to myself that
it did: they looked like two people who belonged together. And maybe I was imagining things,
but Anna's personality seemed to have changed around him.

Stronger.

Less demure.

More...black.

But there was also some kind of rapport between the two of them. The Anna I used to know,
who got really involved in discussions, whose eyes lit up at the first whiff of intellectual debate,
whose face flushed as she took on her own, passionate side of an argument, was coming back
to life in front of my eyes. This was more like the Anna I dated, the Anna I fell in love with.

It was just like old times.

Except:

The flushed cheeks and the eyes filled with excitement, the waving hands and the clenched
fists swiping at the air for emphasis – none of that was for me. It was all for John.

The handsome black man who lived in my basement now.

I poured myself more wine and tried not to make a fool of myself while John explained the
details of his specialization – a very lucrative- and complicated-sounding sector of financial law
that I could not understand a word of. I watched his face, which was almost a cliche of a good-
looking black man's face – strong jaw, full lips, large nose, eyes that were darker than his skin
and set into a permanent, determined squint, as though he were always trying to remain calm
and measure something. I stared, when he wasn't looking, at his broad shoulders. The drunker
I got, the more he seemed to tower over me at the table.

At the same time, John was a very pleasant man. And I was being a huge dick.

Anna, at some point, looked at me helplessly and with the tiniest bit of disdain. She gave me a
small frown, the one she reserved for when I had too much wine.

And I had.

When the conversation somehow slid away from me, and resumed with Anna speaking
passionately about something or the other to do with regulations in advertising, I stood up and
mumbled that I was going to the bathroom.

Then I went into the guest bedroom, and fell asleep on the bed.

4: THE NEXT MORNING

“Oh god,” I moaned, adding a little more pain to my voice than I actually felt. I rubbed my eyes.
“I am so sorry I fell asleep.”

Anna was by the window, dressed impeccably for work in a black and white skirt made of tiny
checks, and a plunging white blouse that promised and delivered on being see-through. Her
waist was cinched by a thick black belt and her golden brown hair was pulled up in one of her
elaborate work-buns. She took a sip of her coffee without turning to me. “Yep. It was pre-tty
embarrassing.”

She was amused.

One very nice thing about Anna, as if there weren't already enough lovely things about her,
like how her ass looked in this skirt, was that she was quite forgiving of my occasional forays
into over-drunkenness.

She was forgiving in the sense that she didn't harass me about them. She was brutal in the
sense that she did not do anything to soothe my pain. I sometimes felt like she hid all the
painkillers on purpose, just to make her point without nagging.

I rifled through the cupboard. Vitamins, galore.

“There any Ibuprofen in here?”

Anna tossed her coffee in the sink and offered no assistance. “Gotta run,” she said, and
approached me to give me a quick peck on the cheek.

The scent of her body rapidly awakened all of the feelings I had the might before. I grabbed a
bottle of zinc tablets and popped the lid off. “How late did John stay, then?”

The tone of my voice was pretty laden with jealousy.

Anna rolled her eyes. “All night,” she quipped.

I stuffed three zinc tablets into my mouth. “All night, huh? All night doing what?”

Anna reached past me for her keys, which she never misplaced and never forgot. I looked
down between her breasts.

She crinkled her nose. “The nasty,” she teased.

She looked at my face, and I have no idea what she saw there as I munched on zinc tablets and
considered the idea of her and John doing “the nasty,” and whether her “nasty” was as nasty
as the ideas I was coming up with in my own mind.

“You stink. John went home like fifteen minutes after you went to the bathroom.” She held her
hands up in quotation marks for the bathroom. “Bye.”

My wife left the house with her signature wave, a hand up in the air without turning around,
and each finger curling down into her fist.

I sat down in my office and tried to do some work, but my head was pounding.

I gave Anna and John some thought as I lay down in bed, gave myself an erection, and jerked
off in the shower. My imagination was dulled by my hangover, and I played out a very quick
and dirty, vanilla scene, in which John pressed Anna up against the wall and hammered himself
into her while she gasped and moaned in delight.

Then I gave it no more thought. I got to work.

I guess you could say that was my last day of freedom from obsession. The last day that I had a
mere fantasy in my mind. Fantasies, you retreat to at your choosing. But Anna being fucked by
John would not remain only a fantasy much longer. It was going to become, very quickly, an
obsession.

I don't know. Memory is a tricky thing.

Did I see it coming?

5: THE BEGINNING

It happened that very night. The beginning of the obsession.

We tried to ignore it. Anna lay on her back and folded her hands neatly over her stomach. She
closed her eyes. I turned to look at her face, to see if she was going to break, but she was
good. She looked still as stone, asleep like a statue over a tomb.

Two floors beneath us, emanating from the only place it could, were the voices of two people
who were having the most raucous sex either one of us had heard in a long time.

The woman's voice was gasping, wheezing like an accordion: a shriek on the way in, a sigh on
the way out, the pace increasing with each passing moment. Underneath her shrill tones, we
could hear the lower, more serious baritone of our renter. He was delivering instructions to
her. His voice was muffled and we didn't know what he was saying, but the tone of it alone
was turning me on.

I turned to Anna. Still serious and still.

Suddenly, a bang ricocheted through the building.

Anna's eyes flashed open, and she turned to me.

When our eyes met, we burst into laughter.

“All he does is sleep,” she said, imitating Sheila.

“It's unhealthy,” I rejoined.

“They are really athletic,” Anna said.

We both closed our mouths and listened for a moment. Now, it was only the woman's voice,
really rising to a nearly-hysterical shriek.

Anna widened her eyes.

We both knew what was going on there, if there was no more noise from John.

The climactic shrieks of the woman John was entertaining reached an incredible level, and
then collapsed.

“He must be really good,” Anna said, teasing me.

I wasn't entirely sure what sensation traveled through me.

The truth was, I was jealous of every man my wife spoke to.

Yet, at the same time, I liked thinking about her with another man. Since John had moved in, I
had cataloged every gesture, every glance, exchanged between the two of them. I savored
them at night and spun them into elaborate fantasies. I was still waiting for a chance to engage
Anna in the same game of teasing we had played after he had signed the rental agreement.

The woman down below us screamed. It was almost call-the-cops screaming, until it ended in
gasping, with her yelling – very clearly through all the floors of the building - “Oh fuck baby
that's the spot!”

Anna covered her mouth. “Again?” she said.

“Tell me,” I said, because my cock was hard and I felt particularly brave. “What would you do
if, say, John had a problem and you couldn't fix it right away?”
The idea had occurred to me at the dinner she had invited him to, and now I wanted to play it
out.

Anna let her hand slide away from her face. The screaming had died down.

“Fix. Like...a leaky faucet or something?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“And I went over there, in very short-shorts with a toolbelt on...”

“And your tight tank-top.”

“I don't have a tight tank top.”

She laughed at how serious I got.

“Okay, so I go over there in a tight tank top I buy at Wal-Mart for just this porno, and I wear a
toolbelt, and I bend over the sink and wiggle some stuff around, and I'm like, “Sorry John, I
can't fix this plumbing.'”

“And then he says, you have to do something. You're the landlord.”

“And I say, well...I can't get another plumber in here until Friday, but I can-”

“Check your hose.”

Anna threw a pillow on my head and pretended to suffocate me.

“Oh god. Oh god that's so bad. Your hose?”

But she was on top of me now, and in my mind she was checking John's hose. Checking it
really, really closely. It was leaking.

“You're having some sick fantasy right now, aren't you? And it's full of puns about the
plumbing!”

I threw Anna off of me and down onto the bed, holding her down by her arms. “Good god,
woman. You freak me the fuck out with that shit!”

She did, really, freak me out when she read my mind like that. But I was too heated up now to
give it too much thought.

Anna just grinned.

“We can't afford to lose our tenant,” she panted. Her lips were parted in her mischievous
smile, and she was grinding her hips against me.

“We also can't afford a plumber,” she continued, in a breathy voice. “But I could work it off, I
guess. Or do something to appease him, in the meantime.”

“And what would that be?”

My cock was hard now, pressing into the flesh of her thighs. I had her pinned to the bed and I
could tell she was in the mood for that kind of sex.

She licked her upper lip. A shudder went through me. Every now and then I feel like I step
outside of my own life and only then realize what I have on my hands with Anna. Gorgeous,
incredibly sexy, dirty-minded Anna.

“I've never been a landlord before,” she said. “I have no idea what kind of payment would
make up for a leaky faucet.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“It's not a very big problem,” she continued teasing. “Not worth a piece of my ass, certainly...”
Oh god, she was turning me on, filling my head with images of her taking John's cock inside of
her tight ass.

I wasn't, truth be told, as in to anal as the modern porn industry seemed to believe all men
should be. It was something we did every now and then – and less so as more time passed –
whenever we got a little tipsier than usual or got caught up in one of those seemingly random,
really hot sex moments.

I liked the idea of it more. The domination of it. And as I sat there thinking about it, I knew it
was true that I would prefer to watch someone fuck Anna in the ass than I would even want to
do it myself.

I flipped her over anyway, and yanked her by the ankles. She complied willingly, knowing that
what I wanted was her body to fold and her ass to be up in the air. She let her arms get
dragged up above her, and lay there, submissive and ready for me. She probably would have
let me do it.

Her cunt was dripping wet, and placed a thumb against her clit to make her squirm a little as I
admired my view. Her hair covered her face, and her knees were spread slightly apart to give
me full access to her engorged pussy. Or, if I wanted to, her tight little asshole.

I pushed my boxers down and went to her wet slit.

She moaned for me, putting on a real show.

“What will you say to him?”

“I'm sorry,” she moaned.

I thrust into her deeper, fucking her hard the way I loved to imagine that John would,
punishing her for not getting the sink fixed.

It seemed almost impossible, but again I was ready to come in mere seconds. I had to fight to
keep it down, and fight to rid my my mind of all the filthy images I was conjuring up, of John
fucking the shit out of Anna in every hole, and every possible way.
But Anna was wetter than ever, and after just a minute she was working herself up to come. I
felt her muscles squeezing my cock.

We had stopped talking, and now there was nothing but the slap of our skin against each
other. I couldn't see Anna's face beneath her hair. I wondered what she was thinking of.

Who she was thinking of.

If it was me, or if it was really John. And how she would be more than happy to apologize for
some landlord foible by getting bent over his kitchen counter.

She bit into the pillow as she came, and I felt her juices welling up around my cock with every
squeeze of her pussy, and then I grabbed her buttcheeks and dug in hard as I ground my seed
into her sloshing wet cunt.

I fell asleep.

I woke up to the neighbor's barking dog, who was really going at it. My vision was blurry and I
waited until the red lines of the clock settled into something legible: 2:17.

I rolled over in the bed, knowing that in all likelihood, Anna would not be there. It was not
uncommon for her to get up in the middle of the night and go downstairs to do some work. It
was better than the nights she turned the light on and began scribbling furiously on a notepad
she kept by the bed, until she turned out the light and lay beside me, oozing a fitful energy that
wouldn't allow me to sleep.

I closed my eyes. The dog was still barking, but with less enthusiasm. I vaguely heard
something heavy scraping along the ground, but I was starting to doze off and didn't give it
much thought.

Anna's voice tinkled through my near-sleep.

“Oh hey, what are you doing out here?'

My eyes snapped open. For some reason my heart was instantly racing, and I was wide-awake.

Had I actually heard her?

Then, the low baritone of our renter. His words were unintelligible, but his tone was friendly.

The dog started to bark again.

“Oh no.” Anna.

More baritone voice.

The voices lowered.

I sat up in bed and craned my neck, as though I would hear better by pointing my ears in that
direction. They were still outside, but they had lowered their voices to a low rumble and a soft
tinkle.

My chest felt like someone was squeezing it, and my stomach turned with an unfamiliar
feeling. It was both pained, like jealousy, but also excited. Like the first stages of love: thrilling,
full of sharpened edges, charged with dopamine.

I crept up to the window, which was open. A light breeze was whipping the gauzy curtain in
the silver light of the moon and the sodium-gray of the streetlights. I was crouching, sneaking
up to my own window.

I knew, as I crept in the darkness, that I sort of wanted to see something illicit. I was hoping to
find Anna with her hand on John's arm, or John placing his big, basketball-gripping fingers on
her lips.

I lifted my head slowly, and looked out at the street.

John was wearing gray sweatpants, the expensive kind you see at places like Urban Outfitters,
that somehow just look better than regular sweats. Or maybe it was his body, perfectly
proportioned, holding the material just so. He had no shirt on, and the muscles that had hinted
at themselves beneath his dress shirts were exactly as I expected: lean, youthful, and hard.

They looked good together, John and Anna. Their dark complexions, their perfect, exotic
bodies.

They were leaning lightly on their respective trash bins. They were almost three feet apart, and
a dull disappointment flopped in my stomach.

But as I watched Anna, who had crossed her feet and was pushing a strand of her hair behind
her ear, the excitement started to build. She was inclining her head toward John, smiling as he
spoke. Now she was tipping her head back and grinning, nodding in agreement. She twisted
her foot, she tucked her hair behind her ear again. She leaned closer and put her thumbnail
between her teeth as she told him something. Smiling.

How romantic it was, I thought, half-bitter and half-intoxicated. Two workaholics meet in the
dead of night, taking the trash out because they are awake with their brilliant thoughts. -Oh,
hi, what are you doing here? - -Me, too! Oh, man, what a coincidence.-

Sparkle, sparkle, charm, charm.

John was jerking his head in the direction of the house now.

Anna looked hesitant for a moment.

It was all so obvious: he had asked her in for a drink.

She looked up at the house. She shifted a little, scraping her foot on the driveway.

Her voice said something short.

She looked back up -

I ducked.

Then I heard a little scraping, then footsteps. A gentle puff that passed through the house as
the door opened and closed.

I scurried back to the bed in case she was going to come upstairs right away.

That was good, right? Anna had decided to come back inside, and turn down John's drink.

It was what I should have wanted her to do, right?

Of course it was. I closed my eyes.

My mind, though, started to craft a fantasy. It began with the scene I had just witnessed. John
and Anna, leaning on the trash cans.

“We're both up,” John said, his voice low and laced with flirtatiousness.

“We are,” Anna said suggestively, twisting her hips lightly.

“I'm not going to get any more sleep.” John.

Anna put her thumb to her mouth, and he watched her, drinking up her full lower lip in his
mind, imagining how it would taste in his mouth, how it would feel when he bit into it with his
teeth, how it would rub him like heated silk on the underside of his cock, just before her
mouth closed around his entire shaft...

“Me either,” Anna said, her hands itching to touch his bare chest, and feel his hard flesh
beneath her palms. Imagining the heat of his body pressed against her, pressing her down into
the sheets, his cock filling her up and making her writhe in pleasure...

“Hey,” John's voice, friendly and no more. His eyes wandering all over Anna's body, though,
letting her know how much he wanted her. “You want to come in for a cup of tea?”
Anna hesitating.

Then Anna biting her lip. More twisting of her hips. “I think I need something stronger.” Her
voice, in my fantasy, had changed to a porno-grade voice, sultry and deep, dripping with sexual
innuendo.

I flashed to them ripping their clothes off, slamming into doors and walls as they attacked each
other like hungry animals. To John's big, dark hands palming Anna's firm breasts, his thumbs
on her nipples, moving in little circles, teasing them until they were hard.

Then his mouth, bright red even in the dark, opening to suck the hard little knobs up into his
wet lips. I imagined Anna, pressing her head against the wall and clawing at his flesh, her pussy
welling up with excitement until it dripped down her thighs.

And then John moved down....no, then Anna moved down. Sliding down the wall, her hair
dragging behind her, her hands finding the button of his jeans. Her eyes lighting with
amazement as she pulled inch after inch of cock from his pants. Her hands full of him, her
tongue running along her lips as she thought about tasting him.

I wanted to wait for Anna to come upstairs, but my cock was throbbing and my blood was
filling my head, pulsing so loudly in my ears that I couldn't hear anything but my own breath,
and Anna's imaginary voice in my head:

“Maybe something like this,” Anna said to John, her hand on his cock, admiring the girth of it,
nearly too big to get her fingers around.

A fat, thick drop of precum squeezed from the distended head of John's cock, and Anna turned
her head to catch it, the way you would drink water from a tap. She rubbed it together on her
lips, coating them in a pale white sheen. She licked her lips and pumped his cock for more,
letting it drip, drip, drip into her waiting mouth, before she lost control of herself and
swallowed him whole.

I had my hand on my cock, dying for some release. Could I convince Anna, in the middle of the
night, to get on her knees and suck my cock, and hope that she would think of John as she did
it?

My heart thudded to a brief stop, before knocking again on my chest and pushing the blood
around in my veins.
Where was Anna? It seemed like a long time had passed since she had come in.

I tried to listen for the sounds of her in the kitchen.

She wouldn't have brought John back in here, would she?

To our house. To have a “cup of tea?”

The familiar feelings I had when I watched Anna flirt with other men, so long ago, surfaced
inside of me: jealousy, burning low in my torso. And then another feeling, cool and hot at the
same time, flaring through my groin.

I sat up. I cocked my head as if that would help me hear better what Anna was up to. As if I
could hear if there were another person in the house, moving softly behind her, her fingers to
her lips, smiling. Sssshhhhh, her mouth would say. This way.

Where would she take him? To the basement, to the piles of things that would muffle the
sound?

I shook my head.

God, what was I thinking?

I stepped onto the carpet, but half-drunk on desire, I walked quietly to the balcony.

I heard the sound of a teacup sliding on the counter, and for a moment I felt the excitement
building again.

Then the light, plastic click of a keyboard.

Of course.
Anna had gotten up because she couldn’t sleep. She had taken the trash out and run into John.
Insomniacs, out for a spin in the moonlight. But she did a lot of work at night, like this, and
Anna had never been one to waste time.

The clatter of the keyboard got faster, busier.

I felt a pang of satisfaction, and of disappointment. My sweet Anna was loyal to me, and she
wouldn't go running off with the hot, black neighbor just because he happened to be in the
middle of the street, happened to invite her in...

But disappointment lurked underneath the layer of relief, and I knew what it was. I knew but I
pushed it away.

I pushed it away long enough to get into bed, and then I started my fantasy again, right where I
had left off. John's white cum dripped into the back of Anna's throat, her eyes locked on his as
she swallowed him whole and sucked him until he came. John grabbed her hair, and tilted her
head back, and her eyelids fluttered as his cum streaked her face and landed on her thick
eyelashes, her hair, her cheeks, her lips...

I groaned into the pillow as my own orgasm, brought on by just a few quick strokes of my cock,
clawed through me and left me shaking, alone in the dark.

6: TURN INTO OBSESSION

I fell asleep that night after some fitful tossing and turning, and when I awoke, Anna was in the
shower. I blinked at the alarm clock numbers, which slowly took shape.

6:15.
I went into the bathroom. The shower was one of the better elements of the house, an
oversized stand-up shower with glass doors and brown and blue stone floors, a nice bench at
either of it, and of course: the glass doors. Which allowed for a great view of Anna, whenever
she showered.

She was turning in a slow circle beneath the dual showerheads, and the last of her soap was
sliding in ribbons over her body. She used a very faintly-scented body shampoo that smelled
like jasmine, but my imagination filled the air with the scent of her body instead. The tangy
scent of her pussy.

I dropped my boxers and opened the shower door.

She treated me to a fake face of surprise. “Oh!” she said, jumping lightly. “I had no idea you
were there.”

She kept turning, like a dancer in a music box, and smiled as the water ran all over her. Anna
took showers just like she was in a movie and being filmed, all the time. I even spied on her
through the door when she thought I wasn't in the bathroom, to see if she really did just keep
turning and turning and letting the water and soap run all over her body. She did. She also
used a loofah to get herself very soapy, and ran her hands all over her body. It was a great
show every time.

I stood under the second shower head and watched her.

“You were up late,” I said.

Anna's face was unchanged as she turned toward me. The smile was still on her lips.

She murmured an assent and gave no further information, just kept turning.

“What did you do all night?” I said, trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible.

She opened her eyes after making one mysterious circle, and looked right at me. The color of
her eyes, in the morning light and the reflections of the colors of the stones, was such an
intense teal they almost looked unreal. “Work,” she said.
There was something funny about her tone.

Or was it something funny about the fact that she had actually answered my question?

Or was it just something funny about me, something that was making me read too much into
every word and gesture of Anna's, to the point of driving myself crazy?

I placed my hands on her waist.

My cock, which was hard as steel now, rubbed across her ass and her thighs as she turned. She
had her eyes closed, and her lips turned into a teasing smile as she came around again. “Happy
to see me,” she said.

But it wasn't just that. I wanted to get my hands inside of her. I secretly wanted to find her
dripping, soaking wet, the kind of wet that came from being turned on well before 6:15 am,
the kind of wet that happens only when a woman sits in her kitchen thinking and thinking
about the man in the rental unit, until she has to move her fingers down and into her panties
and make herself come with just a few, expert strokes...

Or maybe the kind of wet that was even wetter than that, the kind of sloppy, filled-up wet that
comes from being fucked nearly senseless by the man in the basement, on her kitchen table,
biting her own wrist to stop herself from screaming...

As I fantasized these scenarios, I moved my hand down between her legs, applying a light
pressure to stop her from spinning around again. She seemed to have a mechanical
momentum, and she pressed against my wrist, as if she wanted to go around again and could
not stop herself. I pushed my fingers between her folds.

I found the silkier wetness, the moisture that slipped against my skin, only when I dipped
inside of her.

But she was more wet than she should be.

Wasn't she?
Even as my fingers were moving into her body, and she stopped her turning to push up against
me, craving more, my mind was racing through paranoid thoughts. Even as her hard nipples
pressed against my skin and her eyes fluttered closed like a half-sleeping animal, and her lips
parted to release a puff of ecstatic air near my neck, I was thinking of why should would
already be so excited. It was so early in the morning, she had been up all night...for a man to
have an erection in the morning was one thing, but whose wife was as slippery as this in the
morning with nothing to stimulate her?

Had she gotten this way just thinking about him? Thinking about the excitement of another
man, playing out her own secret fantasies? Had she lathered herself up with her jasmine soap
and imagined John touching her body? Instead of her own hands had she been thinking about
his hands, dark and strong against her lightly toasted skin, moving from her neck and over her
chocolate nipples, down the middle of her stomach, over her light brown hair, and to where
my hands were now?

Or was it something else? Had his hands even been there? Maybe they had only started
something, and not finished. Maybe she had tasted his full lips, and felt his tongue in her
mouth, and they had panted like teenagers against the wall, and then she had told him to stop.
I imagined her, her light hair stuck to her cheek with the lusty sweat he had induced in her,
pushing him away reluctantly, her sea-green eyes imploring him to keep going, even as she
said, I can't...Brian...

And then had they embraced for one more kiss, and had her body arched against his with a
deep ache inside of her? Had she felt his cock against her thighs, ready for her, and had she
almost, almost, let him throw her on the floor? I could almost hear them panting together,
wanting to fuck.

I curled my fingers inside of her, up toward the backside of her clit, and she moaned. I pulled
my fingers out of her, and pushed her gently to the bench. She was ready, and she wanted to
be taken: she placed her hands on the bench and turned herself up toward me. I looked down
at her ass, hoping to find some trace of betrayal on it: a mark, a fading slap.

I guided my cock to her dripping wet pussy. The outside of her lips was washed away clean by
the torrents of water gushing from the shower, but I was too blind with desire to think to turn
them off. My cock squeaked through her flesh on the outside, before finding the soft,
superheated, super-wet center.

I sucked in my breath as I was enveloped in her wet flesh.

I wanted to get her talking again, the way she had the day John had rented the apartment, but
it seemed too out-of-place now. To say to her: tell me how you want John to fuck you, or,
better yet, Tell me how John fucked you, would be absurd.

Instead, I thrust into her and, overcome by a sudden fit of lust and rage and elation and animal
savagery, I grabbed her wet hair and pulled her by the hair as I pummeled into her. She gasped
but let out a pleased moan, and pressed her hands against the wall with her fingers spread.
She pushed back against me to take it deeper, and harder...

And that's what she wanted, wasn't it? A deeper, harder fuck than I could give her? A really
enormous cock, all the way inside of her?

She began to make obscene noises, to clench around me, and I knew she was going to burst all
over my cock soon enough, so I let my filthiest imagination loose:

A cock so big, so long, so filling, and a man to fuck her so hard in the ass that his cum spilled
out of her mouth. And then I imagined it, John's cum just gushing from her mouth as he yelled
behind her, his cock so deep inside of her she was screaming in pain, his face contorted as he
spewed his cum into my wife's tight ass.

I yelled as I came, and thrust deep into her.

I leaned against the wall, my hands above hers.

She was panting. She said nothing, just lifted her knees to the bench. My cock slipped from
inside of her. It was still aching, still hard. She folded herself up and turned around to face me.

“That was fun,” she said. She kissed me on the mouth, patted me to get me out of her way,
and stepped into the shower. “I have to get to work,” she said simply, and took one, two, three
spins in the shower before hopping out, without giving me another glance.

She moved to the sink, leaning over the counter to examine her flawless face for any signs of
flaws, which she never had, Not even a dark circle, after a sleepless night. Nothing displeased
her, so she formed a pout and gave herself a fashion-perfect shot, before looking under the
counter for something. All the while I watched her, the water dripping down my face without
me even having the thought to push it away.
“I have to work late tonight,” she said. She had a tube of red lipstick in her hand. She leaned
forward again, and applied it, then grabbed a Kleenex almost as soon as it was applied and
scrubbed it off.

Then she looked at me, blew a kiss, and walked out of the room.

When Anna left that morning, she ran into John coming out of his apartment.

Was it coincidence? I wondered. Or had they orchestrated it?

It bothered me the way they exchanged something between them, some kind of high-strung
urban-professional knowing look.

I watched her wave at John through the window of the car, and then turn her head to back up.
I watched John's face as he lowered himself into his own vehicle. Was he smiling? Smiling
because he wanted my wife?

Or was he smiling because he had already had my wife?

And I was not smiling, but I was definitely savoring something about either one of those ideas.

My thoughts were beginning to turn to obsession. I could feel the change inside of me.

I needed to get some work done. I opened my laptop and made some coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself staring at the screen. I was replaying, and replaying, and
replaying the scene from the night before. John's shirtless torso in the dark, the lines of his
muscles highlighted by the silver moonlight. Anna in her skimpy shorts, her legs hanging out of
them, teasing him. I embellished, making John taller, making Anna flip her hair more. I tangled
the real memory up with my fantasy until I couldn't tell them apart anymore.
My Master's is in computer science, and I ended up, in a series of long stories, freelancing
coding for designers. I had aspirations before that to do something in artificial intelligence, so I
took a ton of Cog Sci classes.

I had a special obsession with human memory, and its weaknesses. Once something was
recalled in the mind it was corrupted by the present. Everything in our minds, therefore, was
more or less a lie. And there was no way of knowing how much you lied to yourself, how much
you created, how much you dismissed, how much you added or subtracted.

I liked to ruminate on this idea, the idea of lying to myself constantly.

I loved to ruminate on this idea, truth be told. Especially if it involved Anna. Something about
the pain of Anna's love for me being a lie gave me a nice little punch of pain that I enjoyed.

The only check on your own reality was other people, and how well your memory aligned with
the reality of the present: but other people were as unreliable as you.

Maybe John and Anna had fucked right there on a trash can.

Or maybe John and Anna hadn't even seen each other last night at all.

Jesus fucking Christ, Brian.

“You have a deadline,” I told the computer. The coffee had gone cold.

I decided to go to the library.

I left the house clear-minded enough, concentrating on thinking about something besides John
and Anna. But my resolve began to degrade, and without even realizing it, I had fallen back
into a trance, visualizing the two of them together. The emotions that seized me were so
jumbled: I felt the anticipation of Christmas, the longing of early love, the excitement of new
lust, the rage of jealousy – all at once.

In this state, I walked too far, and snapped out of my reverie when a streetcar nearly grazed
my nose. I looked around. I was blocks away from the library, and I didn't even recognize the
neighborhood.
A homeless man chuckled. “Almost gotcha,” he said. And chuckled some more. His dog, as
calm as he was, with the same fearful tendencies lurking beneath his exterior, stared at me.

“Thinking about a girl,” the man said to his dog, stroking it from head to the middle of its back.

I felt in my pocket for some change, and came up with a ten-dollar bill. I handed it to him. He
nodded his thanks, and then turned distantly back to the street where I had almost died.

The scene was surreal. I blinked as I turned back in the direction I thought I had come from,
and began to walk up an enormous hill. By the time I reached the library I was deep in the
same thoughts again. My stomach was twisting in knots. John and Anna, John and Anna.

Anna. Her lips full and red.

Anna. Her mouth full of cock.

I wasted the whole day like this, staring at the screen of my computer. I even started Googling
John, though why, I could not be sure.

I thought about their exchanged smiles as they left the house.

What was to stop them from meeting for lunch?

Maybe they were even at a hotel right now.

Stop it.

Deadline.

I had entered a few lines of code after an hour, and chances were it was inelegant and barely
functioning. I had looked at my phone thirty times, I suppose hoping that Anna would call me,
text me, anything – even though she never did that during the day.
I was going crazy.

I spent part of my time thinking about the time before were were married, when Anna liked to
play her games. Flirting with other men, and then ditching them before anything went too far.
Some of my time remembering the hot feel of her cunt as we both (I hoped) fantasized about
her fucking John. Pleasure snaked through me as I savored the thought that maybe she was as
serious as I was in her fantasizing.

But most of my time, I dedicated to imagining her with him. Rolling, climbing, stretching into
absurd positions, kneeling and opening her mouth. Her skin wet and pale with gallons and
gallons of his cum, her eyelashes sticking together, her tongue licking at her lips, John's cock
spreading her open.

I tried to rein in my thoughts. I was getting next to no work done. I was spacing out without
even realizing it, staring at the screen.

The thing was, Anna had never taken her games to the point where she had actually done
anything with another man, besides kiss, maybe grope a little.

The question was: did she want to?

Had she ever wanted to?

Did I really want her to? Or were these things better left to the imagination? The imagination
that was now consuming me, now making it impossible for me to work? The imagination that
was sending me to the internet looking for porn that would satisfy my desire, but ultimately
did not because...

In the end what I wanted was to see Anna in those videos.

In the end what I wanted was to watch Anna with another man.
7: THE HOLE

A few weeks went by like this, and I got way behind on work. I didn't even see John that often,
and if I did, it was only briefly, as he walked into his apartment from his car. As far as I could
tell, he and Anna didn't run into each other the whole time.

It didn't stop me from obsessing about Anna and John. I was obsessing to the point it almost
seemed unhealthy. I even went downtown by Anna's work one afternoon, like a private
investigator, to watch her come and go from her work. She never did either, and the afternoon
was wasted. I had spent it all on a park bench, with a Subway sandwich in my hand that I never
took more than bite out of. I must have looked like a crazy person.

I was a crazy person.

And even as I sat there, waiting for Anna to swing out of the glass doors – what in the hell did I
think I was going to do? Was I going to chase after her? Surprise her? She could be going for a
coffee, for christsakes.

But no, I thought, and I wasn't sure if it was a delicious or a sour thought. She could be going to
meet him.

And would I stop her?

That was the real question.

Would I stop her or would I follow her, and watch from behind a corner as they entwined their
hands, and the wind blew her hair from her face so she could lean in and kiss him? Would I
follow them to a hotel, and sneak around, stealing a bellhop uniform and putting a key-card in
the door at the exact right moment like a spy? Would I creep into their room and watch John's
hands peeling the clothes from my wife, until all that remained was red, lacy lingerie,
purchased just for him, covering her hips and her pussy, her breasts spilling from the bra...

All day long, I thought like this. For weeks.

And then one night, we ventured into our side of the basement. I couldn't remember why. A
fuse? A question about the water heater? I had been reading a magazine before something
Anna told me to do had prompted us both to go down there. I had read the line: anticipated
increase in mor- thousands of times, all the while thinking of Anna's lips against John's cock.

Or, it didn't have to be John, necessarily. Sometimes I imagined that Anna was off with all kinds
of men, or maybe many men at once.

What in the fuck, I wondered, my eyes passing over a-n-t-i-p-a-t-e-d again, slowly, like my own
anticipation. What in the fuck are you doing?

I was just thinking.

But I was thinking until I had a serious problem, until it was becoming an obsession. It was
interfering with my work. It was interfering with our relationship. Anna had already tousled my
hair and kissed me on the cheek the way she did when she had been talking to me about
something important and I had spaced out. “Don't worry, sweetie,” she had said. “They're only
like $2200.”

This was the line that was supposed to get me to say: “What?!”

And then she would say, “The boots. The boots you just said I could buy, no problem.”

Instead I had stared into space, where I saw her legs spread before me, gushing with white
cum from an orgy of men.

So somehow, I had ended up in the basement. Anna seemed to be looking for something. I had
next to no idea why I was there.

That's when we heard it.

The moan of a woman reverberated through the wall. I paused, my ears perked up in interest.
“Oh no,” Anna said, in a low voice, and covered her mouth. We both remembered the last time
John had brought a woman home.

I froze. I almost felt like I was getting caught spying.

Anna stopped, her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. She waved her other hand at me.
Find it quick, her hand was saying, and let's get out of here!

I moved as stealthily as I could, but we had pushed almost everything we didn't want to see or
deal with into this room, and it was an avalanche of discarded pots and pans, clothing, books,
papers, and various other items, waiting to happen. I stopped a slide just in time but had to
throw my weight against it awkwardly and there seemed to be no way to extract myself. I had
no idea what she wanted me to do or look for, anyway.

In the meantime, John's low voice purred from the other side of the wall. He was smooth-
talking his lady-friend, and though his voice was too low to hear what he was saying exactly, it
was sexy as hell just hearing the intonation.

I heard a gasp, and a high-pitched ooohhh!

I pressed myself against the quickly-mounting mudslide of papers and books, and looked at
Anna helplessly. She was no longer laughing, but was looking at the wall as though she could
see through it. She was deep in thought, and a shiver of excitement went through me, straight
from my heart to my crotch.

She was definitely thinking about John, next door, and where his hands were. What he was
doing that was eliciting such gasps from the woman with him.

“Anna,” I whispered sharply.

Her eyes drifted to me, and she stared emptily at me for a few seconds. Then, like shaking off
sleep in the morning, she jumped to help me.

Next door the moans had become more serious, more intense.

Anna pushed on some of the papers so I could twist around.

That's when the banging started.

Almost like a scene from a movie, our renter John began to slam into his partner hard. The wall
echoed with a loud bang, bang, bang, as the headboard slammed against the wall. Each bang
was punctuated by a throaty gasp from the woman who was taking his huge cock deep inside
of her.

Anna was smiling, and her mouth was open in partial disbelief.

Then the woman really started shrieking, as the pounding intensified. Plaster began to shake
loose from the unfinished ceiling.

Anna covered her mouth again, smothering an amazed laugh. Her eyes widened as she
watched the plaster raining down on the piles of clothing and books.

And then, right in front of us, a small chunk of plaster caved forward onto the pile, from where
the pipes entered the room.

I could see that a hole had just been formed in the wall.

Ludicrous as it may have seemed, we now had a peephole right into our neighbor's bedroom.

Anna reached out, without moving her feet at all, and shut off the light. Her mouth was open
in disbelief, as was mine.

It was embarrassing as hell. I couldn't believe the timing.

As our eyes got used to the dimness, we looked at each other.

The woman was still moaning. It was an intensely erotic sound, like nothing I had ever heard
before. I could see on Anna's face that she was utterly curious.

And the hole was right there.

We looked at each other for a moment, and then she shrugged.

She leaned forward, and she looked in.

I watched her face as it contorted into the strangest expression. I had no idea what she was
looking at, just that it seemed to travel beneath her skin and flush her face, make her breathe
more quickly, make her hum with the energy of an excited woman.

My cock was already hard, from listening to the ecstatic mewling of the woman. But now it
began to pulse with an almost painful desire. I watched my wife and imagined what she might
be looking at that held her attention that way, riveted, disappearing into whatever she saw on
the other side of the wall.

Could she see John? Was she looking at his cock, and was it enormous? Was she savoring the
full view of his sculpted body, his ebony skin covered in a sheen of sweat, his purple cock erect
in front of him, wet with another woman's juices? Was she wished she could reach out and
hold in it her hand?

Or was she looking at what John was doing? Was he moving his tongue over the clit of his
partner with such expertise that she couldn't contain herself, and was Anna watching, longing
to feel him do the same to her?

Was the heat that flushed her face traveling down between her legs, melting through her skin
as a liquid honey? Her eyes were getting wider and wider, her lips were parted. I was enjoying
the sight of her, watching another man, fantasizing about him. I was going to enjoy sinking my
fingers into the flesh of her pussy and finding it sopping wet with her desire for John. She
wouldn’t be able to deny it.

She brought her hand to her lips and kept watching. She had evidently forgotten I was there.
The screaming was escalating now, and the pounding had started up again. The headboard
was now smacking against the wall again, at an alarming pace. The woman was screaming
obscenities now, and I could barely hear John's growling beneath her high-pitched screams.

My cock was throbbing now. Anna seemed to have been so completely absorbed in the scene
that she didn't even look over at me with embarrassment or apology. She was just hungry to
keep watching whatever it was that she saw.
The couple on the other side of the wall reached a loud, animal-sounding climax, and the
pounding ceased. But Anna did not tear herself away from the wall. She kept looking. I could
hear someone moving around, and the low rumble of John's voice.

Was he standing up, showing his full body, glistening with sweat? Anna couldn't stop looking,
and in her mind she was thinking about him.

Finally, she leaned back, and the spell was broken as she blinked. She turned to me.

Wow, she mouthed.

Then she jerked her head to indicate that we should go back upstairs.

I followed her, dizzy and lightheaded. Blood was rushing everywhere in my body except to my
head. My cock was as hard as when we had started dating, as when I was a teenager.

We had been married for five years, and I was hot for Anna all the time. Who wouldn't be? But
the thrilling excitement of the beginning of our marriage had faded a little. We went upstairs
and brushed our teeth, for example, instead of fucking against a wall in a parking garage.

Now, though,I was so overcome by watching her, watching John, that I didn't want to give her
the chance to make me wait all the way to the top of the stairs. I skipped up the last steps, and
caught up to her on the landing of the first floor. I pushed her into the living room and grasped
both of her arms, pinning her up against the wall.

Anna was as ready for this kind of romp as I was. Her mouth was already open when my lips
met hers, and we kissed violently. She bit lightly into my lower lip. Her body rose and meshed
against mine; I could feel her hardened nipples through the fabrics of our shirts, pebbles on a
plump cushion.

I dropped her hands and put my hands on her neck, squeezing her lightly. It was a boundary
we had often played with before, but had long-abandoned. I squeezed until her eyes watered
lightly, and she bit my lip again. Her hands moved down to my belt buckle and began to take
my pants off.

I pulled away from her mouth, and looked her in the eyes. She met my gaze challenging me.
She was panting lightly.
“You sure liked watching John and his girlfriend,” I whispered.

She bit her own lip now, seductively, and unbuttoned my pants. She was teasing me now, her
eyes full of mischief. “So what if I did?”

My pants dropped to the floor, and I felt her palm along the length of my shaft. Her eyebrows
raised. “Evidently you enjoyed watching me,” she said.

She grasped my cock, and squeezed tighter than I remembered her ever having done. She
gritted her teeth, almost in an expression of anger. “Would you like to know what I saw?”

I pushed her back against the wall, and squeezed lightly against her throat. I saw the corner of
her mouth turn up in a smile. It felt so good to be passionate with Anna again, to be doing
something different, something bordering on the unknown. I liked it when I wasn't sure of her
reactions, when I didn't know if she was angry or filled with lust. “I want to know,” I said,
“what you liked about what you saw.”

She leaned her head forward, and placed her mouth close to my ear. “I liked the way John
fucked his girlfriend like she was a three-dollar whore.”

Anna had a filthy mouth. She hadn't used it lately, and hearing it now, soft and sultry,
promising much more filth to come, I almost had to support myself against the wall. I pushed
my hand between her pants and underwear, and her skin. I wasted no time being gentle,
because it was clear that Anna wanted to imagine herself getting fucked like a three-dollar
whore.

My fingers found her neat, feathery pubic hair, and then the sopping wet folds of her pussy.

“You really did like that, didn't you?”

She nodded, and her eyes narrowed like a cat's as I slid my finger over her hard, silky clit. Anna
had a big clit, and it was easy to find and sent her to shuddering in almost no time. I stroked it
now, pleased to find it harder and more engorged than ever before.

“Would you like John to fuck you like a three-dollar whore?”

I pushed my fingers inside of her, and she pressed herself against me and shifted her weight to
give me easy access. She mewled instead of answering, but the assent was evidence in her
smile. I pushed deeper, and I went for it:

“Would you like it if I watched you getting fucked like a little whore, by John?”

She opened her eyes and me mine. She was smiling. Her pussy tightened around my hand.

“Does he have a big cock, Anna?”

She nodded.

“And what would you let him do with that cock?”

The heat in my own dick had spread out, beneath my skin, everywhere in my body, and now I
was almost boiling. I didn't wait for Anna's answer to grasp her by the shoulder, and push her
onto the floor. I ripped her pants and panties away, and I straddled her.

She was still in her shirt, but her long legs were open between mine, and she was squirming in
desire. I held my cock, hovering over her navel. I pushed her shirt up so I could see her flat
stomach. Up, so I could see the bottom half of her tits, and her umber-colored nipples.

“What would you let him do with that big cock, Anna?”

I was speaking in a low voice, because I didn't want John to hear us.

“Anything,” Anna said, flippantly.

I stroked my cock. “Tell me details about anything,”I breathed.

Anna moved her own hand down to her pussy, to show me that she, too, could hold out in this
game. But she was having too much fun teasing me, talking dirty, and she said:
“I'd want to feel his cock all the way at the back of my throat.” she held her hand to her long,
swan-like neck. “It was so big though,” she mused. “I don't know if I could take it all.”

I moved closer to her mouth, and I used my knees to pin her arms down. She smiled again, and
watched as I guided my cock toward her lips.

“I'd like to see that, Anna,” I said. “I'd like to see you take that whole, big cock in your mouth.”

These were things I wouldn't have dared to even think of saying to Anna just last night, but
something about the hole in the wall had made us both kick over any obstacles to our desires
we'd been building.

Anna opened her mouth, and I placed my hand behind her head.

“Show me,” I said. “Show me how you would take it.”

I pulled her up, and she opened her mouth to get my cock inside of her. The tip of me slid
along her hard palate, over the soft back of her mouth, and into her throat. I kept pulling, and
she kept opening, until her entire throat was filled.

I looked down at her lips wrapped around my cock, and instead of imagining my own cock, I
imagined John's. I imagined her lips stretching even more, almost splitting, as his thick, purple
cock went deeper and deeper inside of her.

Oh fuck. I was going to come.

I pulled out of her mouth, and gave her an apologetic shrug. She seemed to know what it
meant, and she spread her legs for me. “Fuck me hard,” she said.

“Like you want John to fuck you?”

She grinned. “You can't do that...but you can do your best.”

Oh god. I wasn't going to make it very long.

I moved my cock to her pussy, and I slipped into her. She was so wet I could almost imagine
that she had fucked another man before me, and that she was filled up with his cum. Another
man like John, who had fucked her like a whore and filled her every hole with his seed...

I looked at the wall, to get the image of Anna's open mouth and wicked grin out of my mind.
To try and banish the thoughts of her face stuffed full of my cock, and the imagination it
inspired: John's meat poofing her cheeks out, turning her face red as she choked on his cock.

I was relieved, after a few thrusts, to feel Anna's cunt clenching around me, and feel her
grinding her hips against my pelvis. She clawed at my back through my shirt and managed to
scrape away some of my skin, even through the fabric. The pain let me hold on just long
enough to feel her orgasm pumping at my cock. Her already wet pussy seemed to well up with
even more of her hot liquid, the scent of her filling the air. She threw her head back on the
ground and I hammered her only a few more times, looking at her closed eyes and hoping she
was thinking of John, before my own climax exploded inside of her.

I yelled as I came, and my orgasm ripped through me from head to toe. I thrust so deeply into
Anna she yelped, but when I opened my eyes, she was smiling. She grasped my neck and
pulled herself up to my face as I wound down, pumping the last bits of my cum into her.

I collapsed on the floor, and rolled off of her. It was a hot night, and the windows were
unusually closed for a torrential rain earlier in the evening. It was humid and I was covered in
sweat; so was Anna.

I pressed my forearm against my forehead. I was panting.

For a moment we just stared at the ceiling.

I didn't want to ruin the moment by opening my mouth and talking. I wanted to talk, and I
wanted to see if Anna's participation in this little game meant what I hoped it did: that she was
interested in returning to the arrangement we had before we got married.

It wasn't a secret to Anna that seeing her with another man turned me on. And it wasn't the
first time we had played a game like this. But all of that had ended a long time ago, and Anna
had never seemed willing or desiring to return to our old games. It had been part of the
conditions she had laid out when we got married. She hadn't wanted our marriage to get
“complicated,” and I couldn't even remember when or where we had discussed it. I couldn't
even be sure she had said that. It was just implied.

All these years I had been hoping for some glimpse of the old Anna, the Anna who wanted to
flirt with another man not just for herself, but to please me.

When I turned to Anna, still not knowing if I was going to talk to her about it or not, her eyes
were closed. I never knew if she was really sleeping when she did this, but she slept so little I
decided it was a bad idea to wake her up. Rain began to tap again at the windows. I closed my
eyes. We took a nap there, on the floor, listening to the rain, naked.

A few hours later, Anna woke me when she rose and walked to the stairs.

It was definitely too late then, to bring up my burning question: was she just pretending? Or
did she want to go back to how things were before we got married?

Or, as I deeply hoped, did she want to go beyond it?

8: TRVIA NIGHT

(SEVEN YEARS EARLIER)

“'Ow the fook should I know?” Dave said, in what was supposed to be a Cockney accent, but
combined with the pitcher of beer he had slammed, sounded more like he was having a stroke.
Our “team” was doing surprisingly well at Beefy Thom's Pub Quiz Night, by having hidden
stashes of useless information in each man's head, but this one had us stumped.

“Those little twats aren't going to know the answer to this one,” Reggie assured him. He
leaned back on the booth with his arms over the back of it and surveyed the room.
'Those little twats' referred to the unseen team Brainy Bitches, who were quickly beating us,
which was unacceptable. Because they were girls. They were also mysteriously impossible to
pick out of the crowd. Reggie wanted to get sight of them, because he had a ready opening in
this trivia game. He was hoping they were all hot.

“What do I put?” Dave demanded.

“Winston Churchill.”

“Thames Weekly.”

“All right,” Dave declared, scribbling on the paper. “Fish. And. Chips.”

The quizmaster tapped on the microphone. “Times up in ten,” he warned.

“Don't put fish and chips,” I moaned.

Dave pointed the index card at my nose. “Better to go down makin' 'em laugh, than to look like
an idiot with no sense of 'umor, mate.”

Probably true. I looked around the room. It was a crowded Friday night, and the trivia game
had begun with twenty groups. There were three or four clusters of all women, but none of
them seemed as excited as Brainy Bitches should have been, considering that if they kept
going, they were going to win unlimited free beer for the night.

“Uh....'fish and chips.' No,” the announcer, our buddy Chance, gave a fake laugh. “No, the
name of the British military newspaper published in Germany is...the Sixth Sense. Ten points
for this obscure piece of trivia to Brainy Bitches, who are now twenty points ahead.”

“They're cheating,” Dave proclaimed, still using his terrible accent. “'ow in the fuck would a
bunch of girls know that one?”

Reggie tossed his quiz cards dramatically onto the table, as though he had lost at poker.
“How would anyone know that? Hey Chance?” he yelled. “You know that this is not actually
fucking Britain, right?”

Someone piped up from the back of the room. “Yeah. Give us a question about baseball or
something, you fucker!”

In truth, most of the questions had been about American sports, which was making our defeat
at the hands of Brainy Bitches even more humiliating.

Chance turned the music up. “Ten minute break,” he shouted.

I checked my phone again, and my heart twisted as I saw there was nothing from Anna.

We were in that strange, twilight stage of our relationship, where both of us, we would later
confide, had feared the other was still dating a lot of other people.

For Anna, this was a realistic idea, but when she told me she had worried about the same
thing, it made me laugh for almost ten minutes. I am an average-looking guy, but I don't turn
anyone's head. Not even in college, when I was trim and almost athletic from a lot of biking
(almost, because I tended to balance the biking out with a lot of beer). I have sandy hair, and I
am 6 feet tall, and neither thin nor fat, ripped nor flabby, handsome nor ugly. A friend who had
ended up in the FBI told me I would make a good spy if I were smarter. No one could
remember my face.

“Fish and Chips, huh? You guys are fucking idiots.”

I looked up. I had known already that it was Anna's voice. Low. Clear. Lacking, unlike so many
girls from Southern California, the upspeak that made girls sound like a bimbo from an eighties
movie.

I could feel Reggie puffing up next to me. Reggie was the guy who got all the girls, and if any
one of us was in this girl's league, it was him. His pride was swelling as much as cock probably
was for Anna, who was looking particularly unearthly in a sea-green dress that matched her
eyes and set off her tanned skin, with a dip between her breasts that revealed the swell of
each perfect mound but cut off abruptly at her bra line in a shape that almost looked like a sly
smile. She had a drink in her hand and was twisting the straw.
“Don't tell me you're Brainy Bitches,” I said, smiling to see her. I didn't want to admit it to
myself, let alone Anna, but she had me twisted around her finger by then. She was the sexiest,
hottest, most incredible woman I had ever fucked. And something about the way she was so
above my league, and the way that other men wanted her, made her even more appealing to
me. It was a strange sensation, one I hadn't really felt before.

“Not just me,” Anna cooed, and I could see Reggie's head twisting back and forth from Anna to
me, flabbergasted that the hottest woman in the bar was not only talking to me and ignoring
him, but seemed to be flirting with me.

You and me both, Reggie, I thought.

“You didn't call,” she said.

Reggie was getting whiplash now, and Dave was openly staring at Anna.

She set her drink down on the table and leaned closer to me. “That...was a mistake. Because
now, I am going to win all this free beer, and I'm not going to share it with you.”

My heart was still climbing up from the abysmal low it had fallen to when she said that was a
mistake, because I had worried that she was going to dump me right here and now.

“I thought you would be busy,” I stammered. And it was really true.

Anna shook her head, a light smile on her lips. “Well, now I am. Winning.” Then she leaned
over to me, and whispered in my ear. “Let's make it a personal wager, shall we?”

This was the kind of thing that Anna did that made me fucking crazy.

“Okay,” I agreed, because I would have agreed to anything she said.

But she smiled, and stood up. She picked up her drink and turned to leave. “Okay,” she agreed.

I watched her for a full few steps before I recovered. Dave was already expelling a low whistle
from between his clenched teeth, and Reggie was turning to me in disbelief.
“Wait. Anna. What do I get?” I said to her.

She threw her head back and smiled, her wide, perfect smile. “Whatever you want. You won't
win.”

“And if I lose?”

She tapped her teeth, turned, and disappeared among the bodies who were now out on the
prowl.

“What in the fuck.” Reggie turned to me. “That. Is Anna?”

I was still watching her.

“That girl? That girl right there? Anna? The girl you are dating? That, is Anna?”

“That girl fucked you, and you didn't fucking call her?” Dave said slowly. “Man fuck you. Fuck.
You. You are too fucking stupid to be my friend.”

Reggie hit me on the shoulder, because I was still staring after Anna.

“Psshht,” Dave said. “Brian has left the goddam building.”

Reggie hit me on the shoulder again. “Dude. Brian. Hey. What did she fucking say to you?”

I snapped out of my reverie. “We have to win this game, gents.”

They were both looking at me with expressions of disbelief still. And this was, and continues to
be, one of the things I enjoy most about being miraculously married to Anna: guys looking at
me and wondering what in the hell I had managed to do to get a woman that hot to even talk
to me.
“When that girl,” Reggie said, “figures out what a fucking loser you are, give her my number,
okay?”

Dave shook his head.

“I mean it,” I said, pretending I wasn't enjoying this little salute to my manhood. “I have to win
that game.”

“Blowjob?” Dave said.

“What?”

“Blowjob. Is that what she promised you?”

I shook my head. Better than that.

Anna was sitting on a barstool, her long legs almost dripping down the length of it. They were
crossed, and I noticed the high heels she was wearing for the first time. She had an answer
card in her hand, and was pulling it in lazy circles against the table with her forefinger. Her
eyes locked on mine as I approached.

“Looks like you lost,” I said.

She smiled, and it was such a sexy smile, like she didn't mind having lost at all. Like she was
hoping that whatever I came up with was positively filthy.

The thing about Anna was that she seemed to want to really be submissive, to get roughed
around during sex. Not one thing about her subscribed to that fantasy in everyday life: if you
told her to do anything in the middle of the day and outside of the bedroom she was likely to
pour boiling water on you. Or at least cut you down with an arched look and a shake of her
pretty hair.

“Looks like,” she slurred. She brought the card to her lips. “So. It looks like I owe you one.”
“Anything I want,” I said, pulling the barstool opposite her out from under the table.

A mischievous look glinted in her eyes. “Anything you want,” she repeated, punctuating the
you with her full lips. She waved the card.

Okay, so here: don't judge me. I was, and to an extent I remain, way out of my league. I was an
ordinary guy, with an ultra-hot woman paying attention to me, and so even though I had
plenty – plenty – of dirty thoughts going through my head at the moment, I didn't want to
overstep my bounds. I was still convinced that Anna might have suffered from a head injury,
and would snap out of it any moment and realize she wanted nothing to do with me.

I looked around.

“Where are your girlfriends?” I said.

“Why? Do you need them for what you want me to do?”

I shook my head and, I'm afraid, almost blushed.

It may be, at the end of the day, that this was the right tack to take with Anna. After all, we
ended up married. But I balked, and I reached out and took her hand. “All I want,” I said, and I
was genuine in this desire, “is for you to come home with me tonight.”

Anna maintains, today, that she loved that. That she really had been up for almost anything,
and that so far with our relationship she hadn't really decided if I would be a fling, or
something serious. She says I melted her heart.

I remember it slightly differently: that a little, brief flicker of disappointment crossed her face,
just before she smiled, and gave me a heart-melting look.

I mean, we did go home and have wild sex. Don't get me wrong.

Anna let her skirt rise up to the top part of her thigh in the car. We didn't talk, she just walked
her fingers over my neck and looked beautiful whenever I turned to her and smiled.
But when we closed the door to my apartment, we smashed into each other. Anna reached
into my pants and grasped my cock, her fingers clamping down on it hard as her other hand
fumbled with my pants and pulled down my boxers.

I had been hard the entire car drive, so it felt good to be let free. I slid the straps of her teal
dress away from her shoulders and down to her waist, so that I could take in a nice view of her
perfect breasts. The effect of her light skin contrasting with her coffee-dark nipples was
intensified in the dim light.

I pushed her toward my bedroom, and we stumbled and knocked things over in the heat of our
passion. I pushed her onto the bed, disregarding the picture she had knocked from the wall.
She was still clothed, but her breasts and legs were exposed. I began to move down her body
with my mouth.

Anna's skin tasted sweet, and the color of her nipples and skin created the illusion of eating a
fine piece of candy. I sucked her left nipple into my mouth, and her body rose up to meet me.

But she had no patience for foreplay: she rarely engaged in much of it, and that would be true
throughout our relationship. Her hands reached for my cock and pulled it toward the place
between her legs where she was ready and waiting: and had no underwear on.

The idea of Anna flouncing around in Beefy Thom's in that dress with no underwear to cover
her neatly shaved snatch sent a shudder through me.

She pulled me into her, and I was encased by her sweet flesh. She grabbed the back of my neck
and we slammed together, hard, for several minutes. It was all I could do to hold until I felt
Anna tensing up, squeezing my cock with her pussy, and then tossing her head backward,
hanging from my neck as her muscles spasmed with her first climax of the night.

She dropped onto the floor, releasing my neck, and I pumped myself into her.

Then we lay there, panting, as we always did. The sex was just that hot, for no other real
reason than that I loved Anna, and I liked to believe she loved me. Even way back then.
“Did you want me to ask you to do something else?”

Anna was holding her hands up toward the ceiling and looking at them. It's a habit of hers.

“Like what?” she said, coyly.

She turned to me. She was smiling.

“Like...” I stopped myself, She was completely disarming, even after having sex. “I don't know,
like...something sexy.”

She propped herself up on her elbow. She extended her arm to sweep over the disheveled
sheets, the broken picture frame. “This wasn't sexy?” she demanded, but her tone was light-
hearted.

“No, I mean...”

“Something with a zucchini,” she quipped. “No, I only do that on the tenth date. And only on
the tenth date. Just once.”

I smiled. It was not entirely possible to determine if Anna was joking or not.

She twisted her head and slid down slightly on the pillow. She looked up at me, and blinked
innocently. “Not zucchini?”

“No,” I laughed.

“Then what?”

I sucked in my breath.

“Oh, just tell me, sailor. I'm not shy.”

It was definitely true. She was not shy. On the first date we had had sex, she had walked
through the house I shared with five other people completely naked, to get a glass of water. I
had been relieved and disappointed at the same time that no one had seen her.

“I don't know, some kind of sexy dare.”

“A sexy dare,”she mused. “Like?...”

She was walking her fingers up my chest.

“I think I know what you're thinking of,” she declared suddenly.

Did she? Because I didn't, not exactly.

“Kiss a girl?”

“Maybe,” I said. “That does sound good.”

“But that's not it, is it?”

I squinted. “I...I don't know.”

“Hmm. Well, I can't help you if you don't know what you want and it isn't a tenth-date
zucchini.”

She flopped back onto the bed.

A few moments passed, while I tried to think of a way to formulate what I wanted, and then
Anna suggested it.

“Is what you want,” she asked coyly, but sincerely, “for me to flirt with some other guy?”
My eyes widened.

“Uh...no. No. God no.” Yes. “What would...why would you think that?”

She grinned and bit her lip. “Really? Really you don't want that?”

She turned again to look at me.

I was unable to speak. The truth was, I did want that, exactly that, but I didn't want to say it.

“It's okay if that's something you want. I think I get it. I had a boyfriend who was like that.”

My cock twitched.

“I didn't get at at first,” she continued, “But then I took this Cog-sci class and I asked the
professor about -”

“You take Cog-sci in marketing?”

“Of course, dummy, we're in it to manipulate your mind...anyway the prof said it was a really
common fantasy.”

“Was this some kind of sexual psychology course?” I was playing the funny dumb guy, because
for some reason, I didn't want to really admit to what Anna was already getting at: I had a
common fantasy and I wanted to see her with another man.

Maybe, at the time, the fantasy wasn't so strong. Maybe I just wanted to see her flirting,
teasing, or exciting another man. Perhaps the reason I didn't want to just delve into it had to
do with the fact that it was a newly awakening fantasy in my own mind.

And the things it said about myself, since I'm inclined to over-think that sort of thing, were not
things that I really wanted to hear. It said that I needed something from seeing other men with
Anna, and although I didn't know what that could be, it lurked around in the back of my mind
as a kind of stale smell I didn't want to get too close to or disturb. It had to do with validation,
it had to do with darker animal desires, it had to do with control.
All things I didn't particularly feel like exploring at the time, especially if it meant putting Anna
off our relationship. Because Anna was the most amazing woman I had ever met in my life. She
was more than beautiful, she was that rare mix of hot and beautiful, and she was a little dirty-
minded, and she was smart as hell, and she was funny. And for whatever reason, she liked me.

“Nope,” Anna said, and I had derailed myself so much I barely knew what she was talking
about. “Just a regular psychology course.” She turned on her elbow again, and moved her
hand down my chest. “But,” she whispered, and her voice took on a very sexual tone, “the
professor really, really liked my question. He liked it so much he kept asking me more about it,
like why I was asking, if I had a boyfriend who was into that kind of thing, and then what I
thought about it...if I would do it...” her hands were moving down, down to just above my
cock, which was already coming back to life even though we'd just had sex.

“I knew it!” she shouted triumphantly, when she found my hard cock and wrapped her hand
around it. She leaned in close to me. “You like the idea. You're imagining the Cog-sci professor,
staring right up my skirt, because I'm sitting in the front row...”

I didn't say anything, for one thing, because it was all true, I was imagining the exact scene she
had described; and for another, because she had slid down my body and was placing her lips
close to my cock. Her breath wrapped around my dick and I shivered. My cock was still covered
in her juices and my cum, and watched as her lips moved right next to the very tip of me, while
her hand moved slowly up and down my shaft. “You're thinking about his greedy little eyes,
undressing me in front of the whole class, and his dirty mind thinking about how he would like
to be the guy I let fuck me so my boyfriend can watch. Just spreading my legs open and taking
it, so he can see me submitting to another man for him.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

I lifted my head to get a better view as she swirled her tongue around the tip of my cock like it
was an ice cream. She looked up at me and smiled.

“I'll give you an incredible blowjob,” she told me, and squeezed my aching cock, “if you tell me
the truth right now.”

“Okay,” I managed to say, like an idiot.

“Did you want to see me flirt with another man?” She moved her hand up, rubbed the precum
that was practically gushing from the tip of me around in a lazy circle, and then moved down.
“Even just a little?”

Who knows what I heard? Who knows what she even said?

“Yes,” I croaked, and I moved my hand to the back of her head. It was an involuntary reaction,
and for a brief moment I thought she might get mad.

But I had given Anna what she had wanted, and as I soon learned, she was all about keeping
her agreements. She gave me a final grin, and then, with her eyes still locked on mine, she
opened her mouth and swallowed my cock, moving down the shaft at an excruciatingly slow
pace.

When she reached the base, her hand appeared from nowhere, and feathered her fingers over
my balls. I could feel another climax building, though it was hard to believe, and I balled her
hair into a fist.

Anna stopped just as I was about to come, and the sensation that seized me was almost
unbearable. She walked herself up, on her knees, to just above my cock, which was twitching
wildly above my pelvis. I waited, almost too wound up to stop myself from grabbing her and
pulling her down onto me so that I could have the release she had taken from me just a
moment before.

She held my cock in one hand, and pulled her soaked lips apart with the other. She guided my
prick, with no more deference for it than she would have had for an animate dildo, to her
clitoris. She began to rub it over her swollen button, and she looked up at the ceiling as she
did.

Now she was simply using me, grinding the ache in my cock deeper and deeper inside of me as
she moved my head over her hard little button. The tip of my cock was covered in her flesh and
her juices, but she abandoned the rest of me, and left me to watch her make herself come,
using the head of my cock as her tool.

She rocked her hips without setting them down, and I stopped breathing as I watched her: a
magical, unreal creature, who for a moment seemed to be an illusion or a dream I would wake
up from with a huge hard-on. She moaned, and her legs shook as she came.
And then slowly, slowly, as though it were some kind of ritual and she was the goddess of it:
she lowered herself onto me, and by the time her throbbing wet pussy reached the base of my
cock, and her juices stuck to my balls, my eyes were clenched shut as my second orgasm of the
night roared through me.

9: THE FIRST GAME

This was how it began. It was Anna who essentially created the game, and Anna who initiated
it. Even though it might seem, from the story, that I was just getting dragged along by her, it
didn't feel that way at all. Or maybe better put: it didn't matter. Because Anna had accurately
read my desires, with the same uncanny ability she would take to her marketing career. And
likewise, with the same extraordinary perception, she delivered to me exactly what I wanted.

She jumped right in on our next date. She had insisted on driving halfway across the city, going
to some place where they served a specific kind of Dominican food that I had to try. The bar
was lively, and there was a place for dancing.

Which of course, I did not do.

There are a lot of reasons for my not dancing, but they can be easily reduced to two main
ones: I am a white guy from the suburbs of Portland, and I am a computer science major.

Anna was looking especially stunning in a red halter dress that somehow accented the part of
her that was Latina. It accented the shade of her skin, brought out the wild color of her eyes,
and clung magnificently to her curves from the waist up. It flared at the bottom, and grazed
her long legs as she walked. Even though the perfection of her ass could not be seen in all its
glory, the dress hinted at it. It was almost more tantalizing that way.

A very savory aspect of Anna was that she enjoyed wearing skirts. She played such masculine
hardball in so many areas of her life, but when it came to the way she dressed – and this is still
true – she was always sexy and feminine.
I was mildly uncomfortable with all the dancing, and the gallons of hot sauce Anna was
dumping on her own food and mine. “Try it,” she was insisting. “This one has a lot of flavor.”

Dutifully, I tried sauce after sauce.

“Yeah. No. Yeah, this is just burning my face off again.”

She bit into some kind of empanada and smiled derisively at me.

We had a few beers, and watched the dancers. My mood was lightening with each drink, until I
was almost considering taking up dancing.

Then Anna leaned across the table and smiled at me, taking my hand in hers. “I have the guy,”
she said, and she was almost shouting because a live band was playing.

“Huh?” I said.

“The guy. The guy I'm going to tease you with. I have him picked out.”

Her words made their way slowly through my brain, and I was, of course, uncertain I had heard
or understood her correctly. She turned her head, toward the bar, turned back to me, and
winked.

I watched as Anna slinked to the bar, winding through the crowded table with ease and grace.
She sat down on one of the tall chairs and leaned just so, so that the fabric of her orange-red
dress slid from inch after inch of her thigh. She was wearing some incredibly sexy shoes, which
I noticed for the first time: a tropical-looking wedge of wood that was wrapped around her
perfect feet with straps of canvas the same color as her dress. Her foot was bent into a perfect
arch, and her carefully groomed toes, painted the exact color of the fabrics, peeked out at the
end.

The bartender visibly changed his mood as she sat down. He was attending to a group of girls,
a gaggle of undergrad-aged blondes with whom he almost certainly had an excellent chance.
He was a fit Latino with an unbuttoned shirt and waves of jet-black hair, probably an accent he
took care to enhance, and that seemed to be exactly what they were there for.
But when Anna st down, she drew him away. The girls, who were pretty and cheerful, looked
suddenly dull and tawdry next to the magnetic Anna. He hurried the order, smiling at Anna,
and then approached her.

I watched Anna's body language. She was leaning in to the bar, chatting him up. I couldn't see
her face, but I watched the bartender's reactions, and it was easy to imagine what she might
be saying. She wasn't sure, she was almost certainly cooing, what kind of drink to try. She
leaned her elbows on the bar and got close to his ear. She made him press his lips together
before a self-satisfied smile.

I sat, watching her. It took awhile for the whole thing to reach my consciousness: that this is
what we had talked about before, in bed. That this was, in fact, what I was interested in
seeing. This was the game that I wanted her to play.

There was the excitement of not knowing how far she would take it. Not just that first time,
but any time she did it.

The bartender was not her mark, though. As soon as he got busy and had to attend to other
customers, I felt a pang of disappointment. Tension had been building up inside of me as I
watched her flirt with him, and it seemed to get sucked out of me as soon as he walked away.
But Anna had more in store for me. She threw her hair over her shoulder and looked in my
direction.

Don't worry, the look said. It was infused with Anna's incredible confidence. It turned me on
even more.

And sure enough, it was only a minute before he came up to her. Anna always managed to
give exactly the right cues to exactly who she wanted to come to her. Maybe she had fluttered
her eyes up to catch his for just a moment, given a small smile, twisted her napkin in her
fingers, looked down as though she were shy. Who knew?

But there he was, the guy she had singled out. He was a great-looking, tall Latino, wearing a
very plain set of jeans and white shirt, buttons not partially open. He stood next to Anna's chair
and set his drink down on the bar. Anna flipped her hair, and I could see her face as her mouth
opened up in a wide smile. Her fingers fanned out and traveled down her throat as she
laughed appreciatively at the joke he must have told. Their bodies moved closer together.
I watched, and inside of me my feelings were a soup of contrasts. I was turned on watching
Anna suck men in with such ease, seeing her exude her sexuality on someone else. It was
voyeuristic, sure, but there was something about her doing it for me that was incredibly hot.
Almost like I had exerted control over Anna, who was uncontrollable.

Mixed with that feeling, although it may seem paradoxical, was the sense that it was all out of
control, that it could spin into something nightmarish at any moment. The danger of not
knowing what Anna would do next made my stomach squeeze and flip-flop, and jealousy was
pacing like a trapped animal inside of me. All of it threatened to explode, and I had no idea
what would surface if it did.

The two of them looked at the dance floor, and Anna shrugged and grinned again. She put her
hand on his arm and moved her head in a way that made it clear she was apologizing for not
being a good dancer.

He lifted her hand to his mouth, and placed his lips on the top of her hand.

Don't worry, I could almost hear him saying. I'm very good.

There was a light piece of music playing, and I still have to guess at whether it was salsa or
merengue or samba or any number of many dances I cannot do. The two of them fell into an
easy rhythm, and it turned out (unsurprisingly), that Anna was quite good.

I had turned my chair to watch them, and for a few minutes it was sort of like a Disney movie.
Sweet, light-hearted dancing, and the two of them smiling and making the occasional, zany,
salsa mistake and laughing. Moving a little closer to each other. Spinning, shaking, but all very
distanced.

The song ended.

A new song came on, one which seemed to cause a stir within the crowd. A very fast techno
beat was layered beneath a trumpet playing, and around me a number of people stood up to
get onto the dance floor.

I frowned, because there didn't seem to be anything to the song that was all that special.
Anna and her man had looked at each other and smiled with excitement. Now they were
dancing at a rapid pace, in precise movements that almost seemed like they had to have been
rehearsed, and he was spinning Anna around and around. Her red skirt was lifted up into the
air, and every now and then a flash of her black, lacy, boy-short lingerie came into view. Just a
flash; the rest of the time it was just a teasing blur of her long legs, moving to the beat, and a
swirl of fabric.

It was very entertaining.

And then.

The music that had led into the song came to a sudden halt, and the entire crowd on the dance
floor seemed to expect it, because they all spun into their partners' arms at that moment, and
slowed, and clasped each other in a different kind of embrace.

The beat changed to something more traditional sounding, and slower-paced.

Anna was now pressed up against her man, their fingers intertwined, their eyes locked. The
light-hearted flirting of the previous song was gone, as was the frenetic dancing of the first
part of this one. Now they were dancing, pressed against each other, their light sweat
mingling. This kind of dance was not about fun. It was about sex.

It practically was sex, they way they were doing it.

Now his hand was on her lower (very lower) back, and I could see he was inching it down,
down to her ass, probably pleased to find that it was hard and round, and full of promises he
couldn't see beneath the fabric. Their faces were very close together, and their lips were only
inches apart.

I had a very stiff erection under the table. Their bodies, locked close together, moved back and
forth. A sort of slow-motion grind. Every second brought them closer, and his hands lower and
more insistent. Anna was smiling, encouraging him.

She twisted so that her back was against his chest, and I watched with a cocktail of feelings as
his hands began migrating upward from her slender stomach, to her ribs...until they brushed
past her breasts, taking way too long in their travels up her arms, which she had extended for
him to grab for a spin.
Way too long.

He was getting a nice, big feel of my girlfriend's perfect breasts.

She opened her eyes, and looked directly at me. She winked.

They began grinding, because although it was set to a different music and they seemed to be
combining some actual dance steps into their movement, there really was no other word for it.
His mouth was moving closer to her neck now, and I could see from the way that he was
tensing up, he was thinking of some way to turn her to face him.

To get her lips underneath his.

And then to draw her in, until he could take all of her.

I twisted uncomfortably in my seat.

Our waitress – a very attractive Latina with a narrow waist and a huge pair of tits, blocked my
view to ask me if I wanted anything to drink. Her interference sent a knife of anger through
me. I barked my drink order at her, and she furrowed her brow in surprise and annoyance. I
didn't care. I just wanted her to move.

When she cleared my view of the dance floor, they were gone.

My heart stopped and my cock stabbed at me with pleasurable pain. Had they gone already?
Maybe Anna had seized her chance, and escaped to the bathroom, where she was now
bending over a toilet, her skirt up around her waist, her hands on the wall...

But her red dress caught my eye in my peripheral vision. They were merely walking back to the
bar. Anna was fanning herself. I'm so hot, she was saying.

I liked that Anna was in such control of this man. She wasn't acting like herself. She was
waiving much more wildly than usual, channeling her inner Latina. I could see she was
dumbing herself down a little, sexifying her movements a little more – playing the game she
played best, the art of selling. Tweaking everything she did so that he could not resist her, and
thought she was really interested in him.

It was textbook. She touched her throat, she leaned so that he could see her cleavage. She
laughed at everything he said, her eyes attentive and glistening with her excitement and rapt
attention.

I began to admire her expertise, and I was really getting off on the fact that she was doing it
when the thought occurred to me, cold and hard and very suddenly:

Then wasn't that precisely what Anna was doing to me?

Manipulating me?

As though she possessed some kind of extrasensory perception, she turned her face toward
me at that moment, and looked into my eyes. She didn't wink but the wink was sort of implied
in that moment. A knowing look, a sharing look.

Did it matter if she was manipulating me?

What the hell did I care?

The man had moved closer to her now, and his hand reached out and rested on her thigh.
Anna lowered her eyes, leaned in, and listened to whatever he was whispering in her ear. She
smiled, and her eyes briefly fluttered up to meet mine. She nodded, and then he turned to the
bartender.

She mouthed:

Now.

This first time we played the game, I was in a limbo at that moment, racking my brains for
what she meant by that.
I was sure it was now she had mouthed. But I sat there, looking stupid, my cock having robbed
all of the blood from my brain.

She widened her eyes, and pointed at the door.

Then she placed a hand on his arm, and said something to him in her coquettish way.

She was walking toward the bathroom.

My eyes moved from side to side. I watched him take a sip of his drink, turning to survey the
room with the smug expression of a man who believes he is going to get laid.

But Anna was on the dance floor.

In the back of my mind, the ideas were all mixing together, but not very quickly.

“Oh,” I said aloud, as the whole picture hit me at once. “Fuck.”

I paid with a fifty because I had no change. Later I would learn to pay for each drink as it came.
To be ready whenever Anna said now, to leave the man she had teased so mercilessly.

Now had meant run away.

Not sure if I was doing the right thing, I stepped out into the parking lot. I gave a last glance at
the poor guy at the bar. He had a smug expression that made it hard to feel completely sorry
for him, but it was a terrible thing Anna was doing.

She ran up to me from the side of the building. She was flushed, smiling. She grabbed my arm.
“Okay. We have to go,” she said. She had intense excitement in her eyes.

She led me out to the car, and she had the keys in her purse. There were so many things going
through my head, and she was smiling at me every few steps, totally in control of me, leading
me like a dog. I didn't even think to drive my own car. I just followed her, and sat in it, waiting
for wherever or whatever she would take me to next.
She rolled the windows down and let the wind blow her hair around. She was still radiating
heat from the club, from her dancing, and our running to the car. She drove without saying
anything for a few miles, then her right hand moved over to my side of the car.

She managed to get her hand into my lap, unbuckle my pants, and reach in to grab me,
kneading my balls and driving me crazy – all while driving. I just stared at her, and let her do it.
There was nothing else I could do. I had never let her drive my car, and she was doing it the
way she seemed to do everything: fiercely, and competitively, even if no one was around. She
was driving way too fast and had scraped the undercarriage a few times as she hit potholes or
took steeply changing hills.

Her hand was on my cock, though, and it was the only thing I could think about. My balls ached
from the half hour she had tortured me, and my head was pounding with pent-up lust and a
strange residual left by jealousy and excitement.

She pulled into a strip mall. I had no idea where we were, at all.

It was a pretty risque place to park – it wasn't that late, and some of the lights were still on.
The parking lot was bright, and there was no dark corner to hide in.

But there was no stopping her. She turned the car off, and slipped her panties off gracefully.

My cock was already out, so climbed over and hopped on to it in one easy motion. Her pussy
was so wet I could feel her nectar dripping onto my balls immediately, and I glided right into
her like a knife in butter.

She tipped her head back, and her mouth was open. She rode me hard and fast, and she came
like a rocket. She screamed and her pussy clenched on my cock, rippling with wave after wave
of her orgasm. I let her hot, soft muscles spasm on my cock, stroking me like a mouth. My cock
felt like it was going to split open, but I loved it when she came first, and then I pounded her
while she moaned with her leftover ecstasy, until I spilled my cum into her.

She let me grab her and move her body over my cock, just as I had imagined that man from the
bar doing. Her eyes were open but they were distant, and I came in almost no time at all
thinking about how she was probably imagining the same thing: his big, thick cock, dark and
pulsing, ramming up inside of her while he grasped her with his huge hands and held her up
with his enormous arms.
I found myself hoping, as I burst into her sopping wet pussy, that she was imagining his cum
filling her up. Instead of mine. Or with mine.

Even though I was also hoping that she was not imagining that at all.

What was I thinking? I didn't even know anymore.

There was nothing wrong with her imagining that, I thought, as we panted on each other, both
of us sweaty and tired. That's what this was all about. Imagining these things. It's all I wanted
to do: imagine.

Except.

Anna had gone a little bit further than just imagining.

I leaned into her full breasts, and felt a fear unlike any other I had felt before creeping in on
me.

Or was it excitement?

It felt like an adrenaline rush at a really bad moment, like the time I had been skiing and
started a jump over what I thought was a small drop and looked down to find fifty feet
yawning below me, and no way to turn back the clock...maybe there was no end to the depth
below me, the danger that awaited me. It was exhilarating, but I felt it deep in my crotch: it
was also terrifying.

She slipped off of me and plopped into the driver's seat. “Phew,” she said. She seemed more
satisfied than ever. “That was great.” She had quite the glow on her cheeks now, and she
seemed so completely contented that I just smiled back at her.

It was short, but it was one of the best fucks I had ever had. At the time, I couldn't quite put
my finger on why. It was only later, as we went through more and more games, and we
became closer and closer, that I could see it for what it was: I had a desire to see Anna get
fucked by other men. It turned me on. I really wanted to see it.
Anna kept playing these games while we dated. Always the same set-up: we would go out, and
she would pretend to be single. I would watch her flirt with another man, and then we would
leave the scene and return home (or sometimes not get all the way home) to fuck ourselves
silly. There was a night we fucked in the bathroom of the bar where she had seduced some
guy, and we literally climbed out of a window to avoid running into him on the way out,
because he seemed a little like a tough guy who would go into a rage if he found out what was
going on. At the height of our addiction – because that’s almost what it became – we were
doing this three times a week.

But after I proposed to Anna, she seemed to lose interest in her games. She played them with
less enthusiasm, or didn't want to do it some evenings. Until she stopped suggesting them
altogether.

The idea sort of faded in my mind as well. We settled into married life, and the sex was still
good, but became more routine.

It didn't happen in any kind of sad way – just that way that I think life goes for everyone.
Passion sort of loses its punch, new habits get formed, security in the relationship builds and
the fantastical jolts of adrenaline and serotonin are no longer delivered for staying up late to
fuck. The chase ends, and people get tired.

We still loved each other and had a passionate relationship...just...we took the time to floss
our teeth before hopping into bed now, and we didn't prey on poor young men in bars for our
own amusement. Or challenge the boundaries of our love to get a high.

And then John arrived.

10: ALL OVER AGAIN

So there I was, seven years later, married now for five years. Obsessed again.

Only this time, I felt the pull more strongly. I didn't just want to see Anna flirt with another
man. I wanted to see some very, very dirty things.

I wanted her to go all the way.

Maybe I had kept things pent up all these years, and they had just concentrated inside of me.

But now I was like an addict. I was spacing out, spending all of my time thinking about Anna
fucking John.

One night at dinner, maybe a month after he moved in, a few weeks after my obsession began
in earnest, Anna slammed her fork down on my plate. Evidently I hadn't been listening to her.

“Brian. I said, you missed the deadline for that Rice project.”

I closed my eyes.

“I know,” was all I could say.

“What in the hell is going on with you?”

Her tone wasn't admonishing; it carried the overtones of real concern and a lightheartedness
to it. Anna was the real breadwinner in the relationship, and we both knew it. I might be the
one paying for vacations and fancy dinners, but Anna had the real job, and Anna had her shit
together.

“I can't concentrate,” I said.

Anna smiled, confused. “Too much porn on the internet?”

“Something like that.”

She stood up and opened the refrigerator.

“Seriously,” she said. “What do you need to do so you can get back on top of things? Take a
break?”

I looked at her.

She turned to me. “Do you have...sexual needs that aren't being fulfilled?”

Even though it was the kind of joke Anna often made, the timing was uncanny and the
question took me by surprise.

“Something like that,” I said. My voice was low and had taken on a tone that made her face
change.

She narrowed her eyes. “You really do.”

I said nothing.

“Is it something you want me to do?”

My chest felt tight.

“It's John.”

Her face did not register shock, at least. She was quiet. She was thinking.

What was she weighing, in that mind of hers? I had no way of knowing. I knew that Anna was a
calculating woman, a person who did not make rash decisions, even if they seemed
spontaneous. She weighed her options carefully – but since I couldn't know if she was honestly
attracted to John, or honestly interested enough in this fantasy to take it all the way, I could
have no idea what she was measuring in her thoughts.
“If you aren't careful, I'll start to think you're serious.”

I realized that it was now or never. I wasn't certain about Anna's tone: if she was serious, or if
she was teasing again.

I felt the same queasiness as the first (and only) time I bungee-jumped.

I made sure that my voice sounded serious. I lowered it to nearly a whisper, and delivered this
sentence almost monotone:

“I think I am serious.”

Here it was. The moment of truth.

Anna's lips parted, and her head tilted just a tiny bit. Her expression went flat, and I had no
idea what she was going to do. She left me wondering for a full couple of minutes, and the
silence in the room was almost deafening.

“Serious?” she said, and now her own voice was serious.

I nodded.

“Because I am, too.”

I exhaled. I hadn’t even realized that I had been holding my breath.

She laughed suddenly. A strange laugh, and it made me laugh nervously. She held her hand to
her cheek. Then against her mouth. She shook her head. “I'm sorry,” she said. “That was just
kind of tense.”

It still was. At least for me.

But now Anna-The-Planner was at work. Anna-Make-It-Happen.

“Okay,” she said, and she was using the voice I knew she used in meetings, to lead people, to
convince people. “What is it you were thinking?”

I covered my eyes and shook my head. Anna's cut-and-dry approach to some things really
made me uncomfortable. “I don't know Anna,” I said. “I...I guess I just imagined it sort
of...developing naturally. Like...you're attracted to John. And then you just kind of...” I stopped.
No, that wasn't really what I had been thinking.

“No,” I said, echoing my own thoughts. “No, that wasn't really what I was thinking.”

I opened my eyes.

“Want to know the truth?” I said. For some reason I felt suddenly bold.

I watched Anna respond. She liked it. She was twisting inside of herself with expectation. She
grinned and nodded.

“I want you do it. I want you to sleep with John. But I want to control it. I want to tell you what
to do.”

Anna had her hand on her hip.

There was a strange element to our relationship at play here, and that was Anna's desire for
sexual domination, which was evident and which she admitted to readily. It was combining
now with her real-life lack of tolerance for anyone at all telling her what to do, which was also
evident and which she not only admitted to but practically bragged about. The two were
competing inside of her now, and I was enjoying the show of conflict on her face.

Anna hardly ever had to grapple with this kind of thing in her own mind.

She tapped her fingers on her pelvis, from the pinky to the pointer, in two steady, neat drum
rolls. Her lips were pouting, her eyes were narrowed in concentration. Anna, I knew, was
making an extensive list of pros and cons, weighing her options and desires, calculating all of
the possibilities, good and bad.
She was almost terrifying.

“You tell me what to do,” she repeated.

I nodded.

Her face changed. Her decision was made. Her conscious mind sort of rolled from where it had
been hunched over a desk and thinking, to now, the moment with me. She stepped toward
me. She was smiling, but that could be a bad thing.

Anna liked to surprise.

She pulled on my shirt, and made me step toward her.

This was the moment.

“And what would you have me do?” she said sassily.

And this is where my seriousness disintegrated, and I had to laugh a little.

“Jesus,” I said. “I have no idea. I hadn't thought it all the way through.”

It was true. I hadn't expected Anna to take it all so seriously. I hadn't expected Anna to be so
willing.

And now? Truth be told, I was a little bothered that Anna was so willing. I knew it didn't make
any sense to feel that way. This whole conversation had been my idea. The obsession was
mine. I had no justification for wanting Anna to resist it, just so, just some perfect amount that
made me feel...like what?

Anna's hand was finding its way between my skin and my sweatpants.
Strangely, a small pang of disappointment was knocking at my chest. It wasn't exactly what I
had envisioned.

She brought her lips close to mine, her wry smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

“Would you have me do incredibly dirty things?”

My cock responded to her touch. My cock was thinking for itself, filling up, ready to be treated
to whatever it was I would ask her to let John do to her.

But in the back of my mind, a pang of disappointment was tapping at me.

What had I wanted? What was it reasonable for me to want?

“Would you ask me to do filthy, degrading, humiliating things?”

I would. That's exactly what I wanted her to do. That's what I wanted to see John do to her. It's
what I imagined all the time.

Didn't every man want his wife to talk like a filthy little whore, as well?

Grab his cock, start to slide down his body, with her lips opening wider and wider. Going where
he hoped she would go: to his cock?

But it was bothering me. It bothered me right through Anna smiling with her lips at the tip of
my cock. She asked me if I would ask her to suck John's cock, and I said yes. She asked me if I
would tell her to take the whole big thing, and precum began to ooze from deep inside of me,
and I said yes. My voice was a hoarse whisper. Her mouth was wet and she swallowed all of
me, her hand clamped around my balls and squeezing.

But I had lost the thing that had really made me most excited.

Control.
I had wanted to convince her. I had wanted to push her into it. I had wanted her reluctant.
Virtuous and in need of prodding. Who knows exactly what I had envisioned?

But with her eyes closed, and her mind free to think whatever she wanted as she slurped on
my cock, who knew if Anna hadn't simply played me? Who knew if this was my idea at all?
Anna was an expert marketer, and one thing she excelled at was subterfuge. Under-the-radar
advertising.

She sold people things they didn't need or want, and she made them think the whole thing
was their idea.

What if Anna wanted John all along?

She sucked hard on my shaft, with a hungry, almost violent suction.

It felt terrific, and I could feel my orgasm being pulled out of me, almost like I was unwilling
(except, of course, I wasn't: it was hot as hell). I came hard and yelled at the ceiling.

That part was good.

But part of me was still unsettled.

11: THE BOOTS

Even if Anna had tricked me somehow, and even if Anna was back in control of this game that I
had started, my obsessive thoughts and her wild sexiness were not making it easy for me to
step back and think rationally about where we were going with this.
We went shopping the next day.

It was a planned trip. By that I mean, we had planned it before the conversation from the night
before.

But Anna was racing to the goal now, and part of me was superheated with excitement. Part of
me had a hard-on all day watching her finger black lingerie and give me a complicit smile.

But another part of me wanted to stop what I had apparently put into motion.

Everything she looked at now was something sexy, and everything she touched could be the
thing she would wear to have sex with John.

At a shoe store, Anna took things to a new level.

She found a pair of knee-high brown leather boots. They had five-inch heels, they were clearly
the pride of the store. An elephant would have looked sexy in them.

Anna ran her fingers up and down the smooth brown leather of the boots. Then she flipped
the model shoe over and her eyes widened a she looked the price.

“One thousand dollars,” she said. She started to put the boot back, but an idea occurred to
her. I could see it forming in her mind.

“Hmmm,” she said. She looked at me, and twisted the boot playfully in her hand.

I was a few steps ahead of her, or maybe right in pace with her. But I waited for her to deliver
her idea.

“What if we made things a little more interesting?”

I played innocent. “What things?” I asked, as if I had no idea.

“Well...” she said. “You have things you'd like me to do...”

I nodded, and I looked around the store a little nervously, trying to get an idea if anyone was
listening as much as to make sure that no one was looking, because I could an erection
growing in my pants already.

“And I feel like, I should have some kind of...bonus...waiting for me at the end of it. After all,”
she stroked the boot seductively, like it was a cock she was working into a frenzy, “I never
work for free.”

See the thing about Anna? She liked to be submissive in bed, and someone who didn't know
her well might read all kinds of things into that that simply weren't true. Because Anna gave up
only the control she decided to give up. The rest she kept for herself. The rest she twisted and
manipulated.

Her hands were moving up and down the soft leather of the boot, like it was an enormous
cock.

I looked at her expression.

However much I may have wanted to put the brakes on everything; to tell Anna there was no
way I would pay her to have sex with another man; to laugh in her face and go home and do
something clean like have cookies and tea; I couldn't. I couldn't stop any of this, because it was
leading me, not the other way around.

Anna knew it.

And so did I.

“So you do what I want, and I buy you these boots?”

She bit her lip. “Exactly.”

You have to understand that I love Anna. And maybe this is all part of it. But right then, just
then, I wanted John to do the most fucked-up things to her. Something about her turning the
tables on me this way made me want to see walk her around his room on a dog leash.
I took the boot from her and set it down in its place. “Let me think about it,” I said, and my
own calm, beneath which I was raging with all kinds of filthy ideas and desires, surprised even
me. “That's a pricey boot.”

I could see that Anna liked the way this game was panning out. It flashed across her face. I
wasn't sure if she wanted to hide her pleasure or not, but her face returned to its usual
cheerful, dangerous unreadability. She let her hand linger on the boot, and then she walked
past me, the slightest smirk on her face.

Or did I imagine that expression? As soon as she was behind me, I no longer trusted what I
thought I had seen.

All I knew was that my wife had just agreed to let me give her instructions about what I
wanted her to let another man do to her, for the price of a leather boot.

My chest was tight, and my heart was pumping rapidly.

I was excited, there was no doubt about that.

But the excitement was so raw, and terrifying, that it almost made me sick.

Anna didn't bring anything up again for several days. She let me simmer, thinking about what
we had agreed to. And not agreed to.

She got ready for work, made coffee, talked absent-mindedly about dry cleaning, snapped
back at TV reporters on the news, and put her lunches into tiny glass Tupperware containers.
She let me wonder if I had imagined everything we had discussed, if I had misread something
she had said when I suggested my idea.

Of course, I had a feeling she was doing just that – building the tension so that I started to
doubt whether she had agreed to anything at all.

I didn't want to come pawing at her desperately, like some out-of-control addict or animal.
She had agreed to it, after all.

Hadn't she?

I couldn't remember if she had ever exactly said yes to any of this. She had liked the idea, but
maybe she was just pretending. Maybe everything she had said to indicate that she was taking
it seriously had been a game to her.

She had, after all, never received my specific instructions.

I was so obsessed with thinking about whether Anna had, in fact, agreed to my fantasy, and
whether she took it seriously and understood that I really wanted her to do it, that I gave no
thought at all to how she was going to accomplish it.

There was certainly no doubt that Anna could pique John's interest. There was no doubt in my
mind that he was attracted to her. Every man was attracted to Anna. Had I given it any
thought, though, it was still a tricky situation: she needed to maneuver the situation so that
she and John ended up in the apartment, in his room, where I could see them.

John didn't seem like a reckless guy. He really didn't seem like the kind of guy who would fuck
his landlord's wife in his own bedroom.

I didn't actually think about any of this, though, like I said. My mind was occupied with endless
circles of imagining Anna on the other side of the wall, her skin covered in sweat, her pussy
filled with cock, and me watching her.

And then worrying about whether or not Anna was really trying to make that happen or not.

Anna must have known that I wasn't sleeping well. When she rose in the middle of the night,
she didn't touch me or try to rouse me. This would bother me later, because if I had been
sleeping as I usually slept, the whole thing might have unfolded without me even knowing.
She sat up first, and there was nothing unusual about that. She always paused before slipping
out of bed, as if she weren't sure whether she wanted to or not.

I was on my side, and my eyes were closed, but I was awake and they snapped open the
moment I felt her sit up.

The weight shifted in the bed, and then she was gone.

I rolled over onto my back and looked at the ceiling.

Anna had been up two nights ago, to do work in the kitchen, so I didn't give it a lot of thought
at first. It was just another night of insomnia for both of us. I tried to close my eyes, and maybe
I even began to drift off.

It was a cool night, but Anna had left the windows open. She insisted on it up until the coldest
winter nights, and closed windows, reluctantly, for rain alone. So there was nothing unusual
about the open window, either.

I smelled cigarette smoke. It came up from the street, and my nose sought it out. I had been a
smoker in college and I still loved the smell of it from a distance, outside. It reminded me of
good times.

Then I heard Anna's voice. A light laugh.

I opened my eyes, as though I could better see her voice.

That was her voice, wasn't it?

Again.

By the time I got to the window, I caught only the tail end of whatever had been happening
out there. The scene was so unusual, and ended so quickly, that for a second I felt sure I was in
a dream. I saw Anna's hair, John's black arm resting on his knee. He was seated, and then he
stood up. The orange tip of a cigarette streaked through the darkness. Anna had on a gray
sweater-wrap, and her bare shoulder hung out of it. Smoke came from near her face – but
Anna didn't smoke.
And then they disappeared from view.

Their voices were low, and I heard them for a few seconds. The scrape of feet on the sidewalk.
A door opening. A door closing.

Crickets.

I blinked into the darkness. The scene had happened so quickly I didn't even know what to
make of it. I looked at the clock. It was 3 am.

What time had Anna gotten up, I wondered? Had she really been smoking a cigarette? Where
had she dragged that gray wrap out from?

My mind pondered these and other meaningless questions, before the reality of what was
happening crept into my mind:

They had entered the building. Together. And they were not in our house – Anna's and my part
of the house.

They were in John's apartment.

You fucking idiot.

My mind and body closed off from each other, with the strange divergence that occurs in an
emergency or a crisis. My limbs began to move, even though my brain was still, apparently,
confused. My body took me down the stairs, through the silent kitchen. My brain managed to
note that Anna was not there, but continued to be too slow. My thoughts were lingering on
things like the fact that her laptop was out on the table and still glowing, and hopefully she had
saved her work.

But my body knew where to go, what to do. Down the stairs again, down to the basement. My
hands reached up to a shelf just above my head on my way down the stairs, and grabbed a
flashlight.
And then, there I was, in the basement, my face pressed to the wall, straining to see through
the opening to the living room and kitchen, where a single light splashed against the olive
green paint and gave off a dim glow. I could see the outline of their figures, and indeed my
wife was in John's apartment.

What were they doing?

The light was dim and whatever they were saying to each other or doing was taking a long
time. My back was starting to hurt from the way I was crouching on a pile of clothing and a
some unemptied boxes from when we had moved. The whole pile was terribly unstable and I
felt like I was going to slide off and crash through the wall.

I should have readjusted everything, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the hole in the
wall, from the snippet of the scene between John and Anna that I could barely see.

In fact, the fact that I could barely see it was only making it hotter. Better, in a way. Like when
Anna wore extremely conservative clothing.

Like her white t-shirt at dinner with John.

My eyes were on their silhouettes, my ears prickling with every laugh of Anna's, ever smooth
rumble from John. My cock was twitching in anticipation.

But my mind was on a troubling loop.

What if Anna had actually planned this whole thing right from the start? What if Anna had only
tricked me into thinking that this was my idea? What if clever Anna, with all of her marketing
skills, had turned the whole thing on me so that she could go to John's apartment in the
middle of the night, guilt-free, and fuck his brains out?

How could that even have happened, idiot?

And:

Did it matter?
Did it really matter to me?

My cock reported that nothing mattered, nothing except seeing Anna fuck John.

I pressed myself up to the wall, which was comical because it wasn't possible to get any closer
and it wasn't improving my view of anything that was happening. I could faintly hear Anna's
voice, and John's baritone beneath it.

The voices of flirting. Moving together like a harmony and a melody, entwining themselves.
John insisting, Anna resisting.

I blinked. It was cool in the basement but I was sweating.

My cock was rock-hard and my mouth had gone dry. It was so close now, this thing that I
wanted.

And then.

And then Anna and John's silhouettes came together. I couldn't see very well but I could see
well enough to know that their mouths were inches from each other, then centimeters, then
nothing at all.

My breath was caught in my throat and my heart actually stuttered inside of my chest.

Anna's lips, on John's lips. Their big, poofy lips pressed together. Now his hand would move
down to between her thin thighs, and up the length of her leg, over her panties (which ones
had she worn?)...

Suddenly, however, the figures parted. Anna was shaking her head.

Then she leaned back to kiss him, and before I could get my mind around what was happening,
she was gone. The sound of the door closing echoed through the apartment.
I watched, only because I was so stunned by the abrupt ending, as John hung his head.

I pushed myself away from the hole.

The disappointment hit me hard, in the face and the chest. My cock felt like it had been
pounded by someone's foot.

I used the flashlight to scramble up the steps.

Something had gone wrong.

There was a part of me that was relieved. My sweet Anna was so faithful she couldn't do it, she
couldn't truly give herself to another man.

Or maybe John had something wrong with him, some perverse desire...

And then there was disappointment. That was the feeling that drowned out all the others.

Anna was closing the kitchen door gently behind her by the time I reached the top of the steps.

She held her finger to her lips to silence me.

I followed her upstairs, still uncertain of what she was going to do or say. Adrenaline was
rushing through my body, and a sick nervousness.

By the time she closed the bedroom door and turned to face me, my cheeks were flushed with
emotion.

“You watched?”

I nodded. I was trying to read what it was that was on her face. It didn't seem like regret, or
nervousness, or defeat, or embarrassment.
It seemed like complete confidence.

She folded her arms. “I wanted to make sure that this is really what you wanted,” she said. She
lifted her chin, eying my reaction.

Then she reached out with her hand and grasped my cock.

“Is it?” she said. “Is it what you wanted?”

The sweet-sick feeling had migrated up to my heart and was squeezing me almost as hard as
Anna was squeezing my cock now.

She moved her body closer to me.

“You never gave me your specific instructions,” she said. “So. Now that you know this is what
you want: tell me what you want to see.”

My mouth was open and I was unable to speak.

Anna smiled.

“Or just show me.” But her eyes fell down to my cock, and I knew she could feel how wet I was
at the tip of it. “Although...you probably won't last as long as John will.”

She pushed me backward, and I fell into a chair.

“Anna,” I managed to say. “Look...I am so turned on by this -”

“Obviously,” she laugh-whispered, and her hands went to work on freeing my cock.

“I just...are you really okay with this? This turns you on, too?”
Anna grasped my cock in her hand and guided me to her pussy, where her flesh was wet. She
slid her body down, and my shaft moved easily into her body. She shifted and I nearly lost it
right then and there.

Since the idea of John, and watching Anna with him, had come into our lives, sex had been like
the sex that teenagers have, quick and dirty slamming and slapping of skin. No need for
thinking, or imagining: we were both right there at the edge of pleasure right from the start.

Anna took her time, knowing how close I was. If her moisture was anything to judge by, she
was probably nearing the edge as well.

She moved slowly up and down my shaft, though, just not quite giving me enough to push me
over the edge. She looked down at me as if to say: Does this answer your question?

My abdomen trembled. I was so close, and Anna just kept going, maybe even more slowly, her
eyes on mine.

Until finally, unable to take any more of her teasing, I grabbed her by the hips and slammed
her down onto the base of my cock, while I thrust upward at her as well. She gasped with
delight, a tiny bit of pain, and it took very little to send both of us over the edge. Anna's pussy
was so wet that I could feel her spilling out onto my balls, dripping down to my anus, spreading
out on the chair.

We laughed at ourselves after that. Right after sex, it can be seen for what it is: a little
ludicrous. We decided to make a snack.

I forgot to tell Anna what I wanted her to do with John.

But Anna had it all under control, as I would soon find out.

12: THE REAL THING

I watched Anna getting ready for work each day after that, not knowing if she was getting
ready for just herself, just me, or for John. Not knowing if any of these things were, at this
point, completely independent of each other. I watched her choice of lingerie, which provided
almost no information, because Anna wore sexy underwear all the time.

But what would she choose for John? Black, to show how naughty she was? Red for her
passion? White, because she wanted to give off some air of innocence?

Would she choose something new, to entice him further under her spell? Or would she choose
something old, to give him the impression that her affair with him was unplanned and casual?

How much would she tell John?

I was on my stomach, watching just glimpses of Anna in the door frame as she moved from
one side of the bathroom to the other, each time in a more clothed state. Here was Anna with
only thigh-high stockings, and her shower-damp landing strip glistening. Anna with her breasts
bouncing as she shook her hair vigorously with a towel. Anna's hips encased in a rich brown
lace (perhaps this was the one for John?”)

“Are you going to tell John?” I said abruptly.

Anna passed by the door frame again, this time with her breasts pressed up tight against the
same rich chocolate lace and satin of her panties. The bottoms, I noticed now with satisfaction,
were a thong, the same hue but many shades darker than Anna's exotic skin. Her two round,
high buttocks were displayed neatly on either side of the satin strip.

“Tell him about my third nipple?” Anna joked. She was leaning toward the counter, applying
make-up, and it gave me a nice view of two crescent slivers on her butt.

“That we...have an arrangement,” I said.

“Want me to?”
I wasn't sure about that.

I looked at the floor. Did I want her to? Or was it more exciting if she didn't?

On the other hand, it was sort of mean to John, who seemed like a nice enough guy.

But a guy who was willing to screw your wife, Brian.

“Honey?”

Anna was standing in the doorway, buttoning herself up into a silky, dark brown shirt with a
stringy white pattern on it.

But who could blame him?

“Should I tell him or not?” Anna was getting impatient. She liked people to answer her quickly
and economically.

“Uh...yeah, I don't know.”

She turned and went back into the bathroom. “Well...” and I could tell by the change in her
voice that she was applying lipstick, “if you decide call me, because I think tonight's the night.”

My cock, which was admittedly already a little hard from watching her get ready for work,
slammed into the mattress, hard as a rock.

I felt like an idiot, sitting on the bed the way I was. I mean, if I had played out this particular
scene in a fantasy of mine, I certainly wouldn't have been on the bed like a teenage girl reading
a magazine at this moment.

But Anna saved the moment from being awkward by being in a hurry. She kissed me on the
forehead, still buttoning something on a dark brown skirt, and swept herself out of the room
before I had a chance to do much of anything.
“Like 8 o'clock. I'll text you if I'm late,” she said.

She was swinging a blazer over her head as she went down the stairs.

When I look back on it, after everything that happened, I pinpoint this moment as the moment
where I lost control. I became unfocused, I didn't answer her question, I was indecisive. And
then I forgot all about it.

But shit happens.

Now I was really, really, really behind on work.

I was losing clients, that's how bad it had gotten.

I spent the morning in a trance anyway, staring at the trees.

This was a bad addiction. I knew it, and I couldn't do anything about it. I couldn't stop myself or
cut myself off.

I wondered if Anna knew how bad it was.

Was this sex addiction?

That had always sounded like such a minor problem to me. Kind of like people who say they
have trouble because they are 'too rich' or 'too beautiful.'

Why had it lain dormant for so long in me?

And where was it headed?

Would I spend the rest of my life like this, just waiting for Anna to come home and screw some
other man? Thinking about it all day, watching it all night, tasting her cum-salted skin for
myself, and then starting it all over again?

Or would this satisfy me?

I sighed aloud.

If there was one thing I knew, it was that no vice ever satisfied a craving.

And what about Anna? Why was Anna capable of getting so much done, why could Anna take
it or leave it, why could Anna concentrate on other things?

I opened my email.

It was full of angry emails about late projects, with a lot of Re: fields filled with multiple
questions marks and exclamation points.

Someone even wrote a subject heading in all caps.

I closed my laptop quietly and bit my fingernail.

Okay. Okay, Brian. You're getting what you want so open your computer and get to work.

But I didn'twork. I did nothing, nothing I can remember, until 7:00, when I crept into my
basement. I knew Anna would be late. I knew it might take longer to convince John, there
might be traffic, that hundreds of things stood in the way of Anna being in that room at 8:00
on the dot.

But so many other firsts in my life, I was too excited to care. Even sitting in the dark of the
basement, waiting, was exciting. The dark around me, thick and slightly musty, the hot water
heater flaming up and then turning off, the hours ticking by slowly...it was all part of the
experience.
And then the door opened in John's apartment.

I heard Anna's voice.

In the hours that had preceded this moment I had created a neat pile on a chair, so that I could
rest on my knees fairly comfortably to watch through the hole. I had practiced getting up and
down without making any noise. I looked up, now, at the light pouring through the hole, and
for a second everything seemed utterly ridiculous.

I should go, I remember thinking. Up the stairs, out the door, to John's entrance. I should bang
on the door, let Anna know I wanted her to stop.

I should want my wife to stop, right?

Instead, I sat in the dark, listening to them in the apartment. The talking quieted down, and I
knew they were kissing.

I did a strange thing, and sat there, staring into the dark and just listening for a few minutes.
I'm not sure why. Maybe I wasn't ready to actually see what was happening. Maybe I had
second thoughts. Maybe I didn't want to be disappointed by something.

Whatever it was, I listened to the sounds of two lovers moving around in a bedroom, finding
their way to the bed. My heart was slamming against my chest, and I felt a heightened sense of
everything: the dark, every muffled sound, the smack of their lips together. I could almost feel
Anna's mouth on my mouth, or see her lips on John's lips, just from what I could hear. I was
frozen in place by a cold, numbing liquid that was coursing through my veins.

Then I slowly crept up on my knees, as I had practiced, and looked through the hole.

Was this actually happening?

I pinched myself, underneath my arm where it hurts the most. I gritted my teeth as the pain
came a few seconds later, in a grating wave. No one would pinch himself like that in a dream.
This was really my wife, and she was fucking another man to please me.

John had his big, dark head between her legs already. Anna was splayed out on the bed, still
partially clothed. They had made a lot of progress in the time I had spent on the chair,
hesitating.

I couldn't wait to make her tell me all about what I couldn’t see: was he rubbing his lips over
her thighs, tickling her with his late-evening bristle? How was he different than me? How did
he feel against the outer petals of her vulva, while his tongue rubbed her? Did he go inside of
her to taste her nectar?

My cock was throbbing by that point. I had never had an orgasm while I was awake without at
least touching something. But I felt like I might just ejaculate all over my pants, right now.

I heard Anna moan. It did not seem fake, though what could I know? I wasn't even really
certain I knew my wife at all anymore.

John placed his big hands on her thighs, and pushed them open further. Now he was right in
the sweet spot, and I closed my eyes because I could barely stand looking at it. I was sure I
could smell Anna through the wall somehow. My mind was playing tricks on me, drawing me
into the room where they were. I felt like I could hear Anna's breath, though it couldn't be
true. I even felt like I could taste her in my mouth.

I pinched myself again.

Anna twisted underneath John's bulk. I wondered what he was doing. I only had a view of his
huge, bare back, and his head buried between Anna's long, toffee-colored thighs.

His head began bobbing up and down as he put the final touches on his pussy-licking, and
Anna's legs wobbled and swung wildly as she tossed her hair around on the pillow and
screamed and moaned.

“Oh, baby, yes, right there!”

In spite of how serious all of this was for me, and in spite of the ache in my groin, I had to stifle
a laugh for Anna's private joke for me.
Because Anna would never, ever, call anyone “baby.” It was a pet peeve of hers.

Aside from being absurdly funny, it was also a signal to me, and the warmth of it spread all
over my body. Anna was still mine, even if John was making her come at this moment. Anna
was still making jokes for me, and doing what she was doing because I had asked her to.

It had been a deliberate choice to leave my pants buckled, because I hadn't wanted to jerk off
while I watched this first time, and after all the teasing that Anna had subjected me to up until
now, I didn't trust myself to last if my dick was in easy reach.

I wanted to wait until she same home, and then take her myself. I wanted to feel my cock
inside of her stretched pussy, full of another man's cum.

Anna's screams crescendoed, and she screeched and hollered about how much she loved it,
whatever it was, whatever John was doing to her. She moaned and gasped and clawed at the
sheets.

It could have been an act, but it was driving me wild either way.

I noticed that her legs were shaking, with the kind of jittery motion that simply couldn't be
faked. Anna might be mine, but John was certainly pleasing her in a very real way.

A stab of something like jealousy went through me.

But I liked it. I liked the danger of it.

I liked the ambiguity of it. Was she acting for me? Or was she acting for him? Was she acting at
all? Maybe he was just so good, he was actually driving her that crazy.

She lifted her head and clutched at his thick, black neck as she came. She pushed his face into
her pussy, and I wondered where his mouth was – inside of her? How wet she was; what she
tasted like tonight.
And then she let her head fall backward, so she could look in the direction of the hole (she
missed) and she smiled. A smile for me.

Wasn't it?

“Oh fuck,” she said, and I could hear her very clearly. “That's so good, that's so good...oh god,
you're so good, that feels so good, I'm going to come, oh my god!”

And she did. I could tell it was real.

John finished her off like a pro, making her gasp and begin to shudder. She tried to push him
away, but he kept going, just to make her scream a little. I watched her writhe in his hands,
unable to escape his clutch, the pleasure too intense as he pushed her past her limits.

Then he rose from the bed, standing up to his full, enormous height.

This had been pleasant to watch, but it was nowhere near the depravity I had hoped to see. I
was glad to see a mildly crazed look in John's eye: he still had plans for Anna.

He was still wearing the pants of his suit, and he stood looking down at Anna as he slid the belt
off, and unzipped them. His mouth was moving, but his voice was deep and low, and I couldn't
hear what he was saying. My ears were ringing with all the sexual energy I had pushed down
inside me.

But his face conveyed that he had given her a command.

Anna, for her part, had flipped over in a sexy, cat-like move. She turned her round bottom
toward him, and pushed it up into the air.

Then she winked in my general direction (again, missing terribly, but these were confusing
times) and really turned it on.

She kicked her feet up from the edge of the bed playfully. She tossed her hair over her
shoulder and looked back at John. She was smiling and opening her mouth and licking her lips.
I looked at my wife, acting like a trashy porn star. Her heels were still on and she looked like
such a slutty, whoreish imp. Anna did a lot of dirty things, but she never did them with quite
this same...act.

I wanted not to be attracted to it. I never watched porn in which girls acted like this because I
found it so cliched.

But something about Anna doing it, and the fact that it was so outside her normal behavior,
was acting to turn me on even more. Even though it didn't seem possible. Here was was my
wife, acting like a dirty little wannabe slut from a Girls Gone Wild video.

The suit-pants dropped to the floor.

John's thighs were large and muscled, which was only to be expected, but now that I had a full
view of them, they were quite impressive. My eyes went immediately to his boxers (silk), and
the bulge that was disfiguring their smooth appearance.

John slid the boxers from his hips, disentangling his cock as they caught on him on the way
down.

Now here was the thing we could not control. It would have been such a letdown if he had
been even an average-sized man.

But we were not disappointed. I wasn't, and I could not fathom how Anna could have been.

His cock was rock solid. A big, long, thick member, dark black and veined, at attention in front
of him.

I sucked in my breath. He was just inches from Anna's waiting pussy, which she was now
twisting around seductively in front of him.

Her eyes were surely focused on his cock. I imagined her widening them and licking her lips
appreciatively. She pushed herself up on one hand up a little, arching back with her other hand
to reach back and grasp his hard flesh in her palm.

When she found him she smiled devilishly. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “Oh, it's too big!”
It was theatrical, but believable. Especially if you were John, especially if you were about to get
a piece of sweet Anna for the first time.

John said something else, and again it was so low I couldn't make it out. I didn't care. I just
watched Anna's hand, sliding up and down his thick shaft. She turned herself around again.

“Oh, you want some of that?” he said.

I heard that.

Was she really going to suck John's whole cock? I began to tremble in anticipation as it became
clear that was what the plan was. John was holding himself up for her, she was moving closer
to him...I looked at his member again, really focusing on the size of it.

It was so big, it would fill her up to up her chest. All the way down her throat, stuffing her right
to her collarbone.

I looked at Anna, who seemed small and pale in front of John's dark and muscled frame. She
was sitting on the edge of the bed now, holding his cock in her hands. Rubbing him gently. I
had trouble seeing her hands, and my eyes were starting to ache from the strain of the
attempt.

Her uncanny ability to read my mind must have set in, because at that moment, Anna twisted
herself, scooting to one side, so that I could see better as she went in for John's cock with her
wet mouth.

Such a pro.

I sucked in my breath as she extended her tongue and licked at the tip of his dark and
formidable cock.

I watched, and electric satisfaction rippled through me as John reached out and placed his
hand on the back of her head. He gently, but firmly, pushed her mouth down onto his entire
dick.
Anna opened up. Her lips encircled his meaty cock, and stretched to accommodate him. She
kept going.

My eyes were wide with disbelief as his cock just kept disappearing into her mouth. All the
way, into her cheeks, and into her throat. It was so big that when it filled her throat I could
actually see it travel down her neck in a bulge.

“That's it. You can do it,” he coached, in his baritone voice.

Oh yes, please do it, Anna. All the way.

Anna suddenly pulled her head back, and gasped for breath. A sinking feeling twisted inside of
me. His cock was too big for her to swallow in its entirety. I couldn't fault her, but I couldn’t
help but feel disappointed.

She hesitated only a moment, though, before she tried again.

This time she went all the way to the base, and her strained lips pressed up against John's dark
and hairy balls.

He must have been practically suffocating her. As she had passed the top of his dick, I could
hear labored breathing through her nose, but now there was no way for her to breathe.

It was an act of submission and humiliation, and she was doing it because she knew it was
what I wanted to see.

John palmed her head in his giant hand, and began to move her back and forth over his cock.
He looked down as my wife sucked her hardest and her best at his thick, black slab. She got it
so wet, so sticky with her throat, that I could hear it even through the walls.

I could see John's hard abdomen straining with an approaching orgasm, and I licked my lips
and practically clawed at the wall. I repositioned my eye so that I wouldn't miss the details of
Anna swallowing his cum, or of him splattering it all over her face. Exactly as I had imagined on
so many nights before this, and now it was almost real….
But Anna pulled away, John's cock sliding from her mouth one inch at a time. She looked up at
him. “I want you to fuck me,” she said.

She turned on the bed, and returned to the position she had been in earlier. Now her face was
toward the wall where I was watching, and I would have a view of her face as John entered
her. I knew that her pussy was glistening with sticky juices, and she was ripe and ready for him.
Anna knew, though, that I would derive my greatest pleasure from a nice view of her reaction.
Of her face as it twisted up in pain and then in pleasure when John entered her.

The tip of his cock was nearing her fleshy ass now, and he reached down to pulled on a fistful
of her hair. He pulled her head and her back up against his chest. He really was gigantic man, I
could see now; Anna's head barely came up to his pecs. She leaned her hips forward so that
she could reach under herself and find his cock with her hand again.

“That's it,” I saw his mouth say, and barely heard the deep rumble of his voice. “That's it little
girl. Stroke that cock.”

“It's so big,” Anna gasped, and her eyes moved along the wall to search for where I was
looking. “It's too big. I can't take it all!”

What a show. She was gasping and breathing heavy, moving her hips up and down, and that
voice. It was as if she had a cock in her mouth and a cock in her ass and was begging for
someone to fuck her more, as if she was already having an orgasm. She was breathy and
pornographic, and it was not the usual Anna. It was a show that she was putting on for me.

John jerked on her hair and grabbed one of her asscheeks with his enormous hand, pulling her
ass towards his cock. Anna continued to complain that it was too big, but her hand guided him
to where he could slip himself inside of her.

“Oh God!” Anna screamed, in a low growl, as he began to enter her. Her eyes met mine and I
watched the change in her face as he entered her and spread her apart. He was taking his
time, and only a few inches of his enormous slab were between her legs already. “Oh!” she
squealed. “Oh, it hurts! It's too big for me!”

Her voice was theatrical, but her face betrayed that there was some truth to what she was
saying: John's cock was huge, and it was causing enough pain or discomfort that her mouth
was trembling with the effort not to frown.
He released her hair and she fell forward, but she made no move to get away. Instead she
pushed herself backwards, sliding onto that enormous cock and moaning as she did.

She turned her head and looked back at John, her head tilted downward so I knew she was
watching his cock.

John pushed her hair out of the way. “You like that, don't you Anna?”

Now his voice was loud, easy to hear. Anna moaned, oh yes, and started to push herself back
and forth, back and forth. She cried and mewled as she did this, biting her lip and saying over
and over how big and thick his cock was, and how she just couldn't take any more.

My stomach filled with what felt like a cold liquid. Now it seemed like Anna had forgotten me,
forgotten what she was doing here – or rather, what I wanted her to be doing here – and now
was caught up in John's cock and all of the pleasure he was giving her. Her head was still
turned to watch him moving in and out of her.

Her voice kept delivering every dirty thing she could think of, in a sexy moan. Everything
except what she knew I wanted to hear, something that would remind me she was still my
Anna. Even if John's cock was so big that:

“Oh! Oh! It's too big! I won't be able to walk tomorrow! Oh, fuck!”

My cock throbbed with every dirty sentence that came out of her mouth. It was all lewd and
obscene and terribly good, and it was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to see and hear. But
the cool sensation that had begun moments before was threatening to eat me alive if Anna
didn't look up at me and wink, or say 'baby,' or give me something to let me know that she
hadn't been carried away by John and his giant cock.

For a moment it was like I was outside of this place and this time, and this was not my wife,
and I was not hiding behind a wall. It was like I had never met her, and she had just gone on
with her life, and this was the man she ended up with, the man she let fuck her, the man she
wanted…

Her body was rocking back and forth as John pummeled her. Finally, she turned her head, and
her eyes moved over the wall until they rested where I was. Though she couldn't have seen
much of anything, she didn't look away.
John was pounding her so hard now that her hair was flying forward and whipping back against
her face, sticking to the sweat that covered her. He mouth was open, and she was moaning.

But she was looking at me.

John was suddenly impatient, unable to wait for Anna's moaning movements over his cock. He
grabbed her hips and began to pump at her furiously. I ripped my eyes away from Anna's stare
to watch what I could see of John's cock where it entered her – sinking into her skin, then out,
then in again.

“Fill me up with your hot cum,” Anna murmured, but ever so loudly, just then – as if she were
reading my thoughts. “Fill my pussy up with all that hot, hot cum. Baby.”

John began to thrust his huge stick into Anna. He lifted a hand and slapped Anna on the ass,
and the smack cracked through the room.

“Ride that cock!” he growled.

Anna complied, gyrating her hips in rhythm with his.

I looked back to her face. She was still smiling that complicit smile, looking right at me.

“Oh, spank me again!” she screamed.

Another slap, and she rolled her eyes in pleasure. She began screaming in breathy pants, in
time with the movements of John's cock. “Oh!” she kept squealing.

I felt like this went on for an eternity, the sound seeming to amplify with every passing
moment, until they seemed to be screaming together through a loudspeaker. I watched his
dark skin against Anna's ass, watched her open mouth as she made sounds that could be
mistaken for agony or ecstasy.

She stopped looking at me and closed her eyes, she was off in her own world now. I couldn't
tell anymore if she was acting, if she really liked being spanked.
They both gave their final, orgasmic howls. John's body strained and he pummeled her
ferociously as he came.

I nearly collapsing from exhaustion behind the wall, where I was straining to keep myself lifted
enough to keep watching. I could not take my eyes away from the scene, even though one leg
was asleep where I was propped up against a box.

It was worth the excruciating pain in back to keep watching when Anna's eyes fluttered up to
where I was, where she knew I was watching, and she said: “That was so good, baby.”

Her voice was directed back to her lover, who had pulled his enormous and still-hard cock from
her and was watching his cum drip from her engorged pussy. I wished that I could stare, like
him, at the white froth spilling from her shredded hole. I could see her later, but it wouldn't be
fresh. It wouldn't be the same.

“Oh god, that was so good,” she continued. She had her fingers in her mouth. They were done,
but she knew I was still there, wanting, waiting, getting hotter and hotter. She was teasing me.

Her eyes were on me, and her words were for me. She turned and crawled to him. She moved
her hands over his chest. His hands moved down, grasping whatever he found of her body: ass,
thighs, her round, full breasts.

“That was fun,” Anna cooed in his ear. “But I have to go though, before Brian comes home.”

John shook his head. He leaned down to pull his shirt off the floor. “Dang, girl, you are cold.”

Anna smiled.

It was delicious watching her smile like that, leaving him when he clearly wanted her to stay.
He wanted more of her, and who could blame him?

Anna gave him a kiss, trailing her hand down his neck and his chest, over his t-shirt. And then
her figure disappeared into the darkness of his apartment, and a streak of light made a
widening square on the floor as the door opened.
She was coming home.

I was waiting in the living room when she opened the door and closed it behind her.

She turned to me and we stared at each other for a few moments.

I was scared, for those few seconds, that I had made a terrible mistake. Her face was
unreadable: she could have said anything at that moment. She could have told me John was
the man for her, and she only now knew it. She could have started to cry, or thrown something
at me, or become distant. Anything was possible, and the seconds ticked by in torturous
silence.

“So?” she said, and it was dim in the room so the smile on her mouth was difficult to gauge.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

She took a few steps toward me. Her shoes were in one hand, and she still held them. She
swung them a little. “Speechless?”

Her eyes moved down to my cock, and I realized again that I had the fierce erection that I did.

“You saved yourself for me?” she said, her eyes sparkling now.

I felt a sense of relief, somewhere beneath the ache in my cock. She was still happy, still
interested. Yes, it was true: she was now flirting with me.

“Tell me about it,” I croaked.

“You saw it.” She was teasing me now, smiling. She knew what I wanted to hear.

“Tell me how you felt.”

She moved very close to me, and rested both of her arms on my shoulders. Her lips were close
to mine, and the memory of her mouth being sucked up by John's big lips, of her pouty mouth
kissing the tip of his cock, filled my head. Her body was close to me now, and I could smell sex
all over her. Sweat, her pussy, and the bleachy scent of another man's cum.

“I liked it,” she said. “I liked spreading my legs for him, taking everything he gave me. Knowing
you were watching. Knowing how much you wanted to see me get fucked.”

She sliced through each of her last words, punctuation them, slapping them the way John had
slapped her ass. See. Me. Get. Fucked.

We were standing by the couch and I pushed her over the back of it. She squealed with
surprise and a little bit of childish glee. For her, this was a fun, amusing game, and she was still
capable of being silly.

But I was beyond that. I was serious as hell. My cock was so full it was aching, and I wanted to
fuck my cum into her until she knew it wasn't a game, until she couldn't laugh, until she
couldn't even breathe.

I jumped over the couch back after her, and she seemed to catch the lust in my eyes, because
her smile faded and her eyes locked on mine. She propped herself up on her elbows and let
her legs fall open.

I jerked her by the ankles toward me, and used one hand to awkwardly push down my
sweatpants.

“I'm so wet,” she said. “I wonder if you'll be able to come.”

I lifted her hips up and sheathed myself in her.

This is my wife pussy, I thought. Full of another man's cum.

She was, indeed, so wet that it might have been hard to come if I hadn't just watched her fuck
another man.
She placed her hand on my shoulder and positioned herself so that I could more easily bang
into her, and so I did. She moved her hips to help me, and when I looked at her face as I
started to come, she was smiling.

Not a challenging smile.

Just a genuine smile.

I yelled at the ceiling, and then lowered my head to stare at her full tits as the rest of my
orgasm shuddered out of me, for the next several minutes.

When Anna rose from the couch, she crossed immediately to the closet where I had placed the
boots. Then she put them on.

Of course they looked stunning on her. They came up to just below her knee, the color of the
leather and the tawny color of her skin almost identical. The boots were only a shade darker.
She had no underwear on, only her bra, which we had never removed in all the excitement.

She twisted her hips and admired her boots.

I watched her inner thighs, as my cum and John's dripped down her leg.

She smiled at me.

“Good deal?” she said.

“Good deal,” I murmured.

She walked off to look at herself in the mirror. “Me too.”

13: THE ORANGE CHAIR

The power that Anna's first time with John had given me was going to my head. The power of
having gotten her to do something like that, for me. It tasted like a drug, and now I wanted
more of it.

I was so hungry for her all the time. We had had sex five times in under two days, since she
had come back from John's arms.

I had her on her knees when the idea occurred to me. I was watching my own cock moving
slowly in and out of her while she told me how big John's cock had been, how she was still sore
from the fucking he had given her.

My thirst for power seized me suddenly, and I grabbed her hair and pulled her up against my
chest. I did it with the vicious, hot vigor we were now using in bed, fucking like animals, almost
violently.

But Anna responded to this kind of sex: she always had. It had only faded away over the years
because it was tiring to maintain, because it started to feel false, because it was just easier to
have regular old sex.

But now, now I was infused with an intensity I hadn't felt for such a long time I could hardly
remember it. And it was consuming me.

“I want to take this game to the next level,” I whispered fiercely into her ear, and she opened
her mouth in a wide smile and simultaneous gasp. She was still rocking her hips up and down,
moving over my cock at the pace I had set, but nearing an orgasm. I felt her body shudder
around my cock. She liked the idea.

“I want you to go to John again, but this time I want you to do to him exactly what I tell you to
do. Really do it this time.”
she leaned her head back against my shoulder and around my cock she quivered in
anticipation. I looked at her long, exposed neck. “What's that?” she panted. “Tell me what you
want me to do.”

I grasped her with one hand by the hips and the other by the neck, stopping her movement,
enjoying her squirming with the need to come.

I was also close to bursting, but I was having too much fun, savoring her need and just being
inside of her, to come just yet.

I searched my buckets of filthy, nasty fantasies for one that was not to outrageous. It wasn't
easy. All the time I had dedicated to fantasizing about her and John had produced a lot of
utterly filthy things.

I couldn't say why I wanted my beautiful wife so utterly humiliated and debased, or why I
didn't just want to do it myself. But I did.

“I want you to get him to throatfuck you on that orange chair,” I said, choosing the last thing I
had imagined that day that didn't involve breaking the laws of physics.

She squirmed on top of me, trying to move, but I held her so that she couldn't. I moved my
fingers up and down her throat. “I want to be able to see his cock inside your throat, moving
up and down, all the way inside of you. Where do you think it will go to, Anna, since you've
already swallowed it?”

She reached up and touched her neck at the very bottom, where it met her chest plate. I
pressed on the soft indentation and smiled. Anna shuddered.

“I want you to do it on the chair so I can see you open your eyes and look at me.”

Now I was the one who started to move, because the image of Anna, looking at me through
the hole in the wall, her eyes red and brimming with suffocating tears while John's balls
slapped her in the face and his cock filled her throat, had tipped me nearly over the edge.
I moved my hand down to her slit, which was smeared with the silken cum of her previous
orgasm. I slipped my finger between her folds and lightly stroked her clit. “Can you do that for
me Anna?”

I stopped moving my finger.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You'll do it on the orange chair, and let him fuck his cum right into your face?”

“Yes.”

I rewarded her with another stroke, taking her almost to the edge. I stopped, and let her pant
and squirm on top of me. She whined a little, and I could feel all of her muscles straining to just
send her that one degree of pleasure more, to another screaming orgasm.

“And you'll do it just for me?”

“Yes.” She was desperate now.

“Say it.”

Her body was almost impossible to hold still now. She was straining against me like an animal.

“I'll get John to fuck my face, just for you.”

I pushed her back down onto the bed, and pounded into her. I could feel her coming just
seconds before me. Her pussy was throbbing around my cock when I came, lifting my head and
yelling at the ceiling because, not for the first time since we had taken up this game, the
orgasm was so intense I almost thought I would pass out.
“How will you do it?” I said, after we had collapsed and dozed off for a bit, and were now lying
in bed tickling each other's arms. Anna had her hands in front of her, held toward the ceiling
again.

She pulled them back. “Oh no,” she protested. “I can't do it again, not now. And if I tell
you...who knows what will happen.”

Part of me felt like I could get her to do it again, and that it might be fun, but the other part of
me also couldn't take any more. Not at this moment.

“No...but what will you say, to...you know...get him to do it?”

She flipped on her side. “Leave that to me,” she said coyly. “And you just enjoy the show.”

I knew that Anna could deliver, and up until now just watching her had been the ultimate
titillation. It was everything I wanted, right?

But for some reason, I could feel the same desire that had been, before, to see her fucking
John, transforming into a desire to her watch her convince him to fuck her a certain way.

Don't get me wrong. I still wanted to see them together. But I felt something creeping up
inside of me, and it was making me just as hard as thinking about her with John sexually, and
that was a desire to see her flirting with him, finding a way to ask him to throatfuck her. Just to
give me what I wanted.

I looked at the ceiling. My cock was getting hard again, but I could see that Anna was dozing
off, and since she was so rarely able to get any sleep, she was likely to chew my face off if I
disturbed her. I rolled on my side and tried to sleep.

But I wasn't able to sleep. I couldn't get the thoughts out of my mind. Imagining Anna, and
Anna's plans for John. Would she arrange some kind of run-in with him? Would she call him?
Would they go somewhere for a drink, and sit close to each other, laughing and touching
fingers across the table-top?
And how would Anna convince him to go back home, to where I could see them together?
What would she say, between the moment she began to tease him and the moment he
brushed across her lips with his stiff, dripping cock, to convince him to let her sit upside-down
in that orange chair so he could fuck her?

I threw the covers off, and looked over at Anna. She truly seemed to be sleeping. I was
sweating on the sheets.

I went downstairs, to the small second bathroom with a tiny shower in it. The shower drained
all over the floor because it was so small that whoever was in it billowed the curtains out, and
whoever had installed it had done a piss-poor job of it. It was mostly for showing and listing
purposes, to turn the tiny little room into a full bath.

Even the cold water didn't appease me. My mind was on high-power, churning out image after
image of Anna and John, and producing nightmarish scenario after scenario: Anna is so
captivating he decides he is in love with her, he is so captivating Anna falls in love with him.
She decides she doesn't want to humiliate herself for me, so she runs off to a hotel instead.
They are too caught up in the moment to make it home. I confront Anna about it and she
shrugs. It just wasn't possible, she says. You knew the risks.

His cock is so big I never satisfy her again.

I jerked off in the shower, and then stood with my hands on the wall, trying to calm my mind.

I was behind on work.

I was wasting every moment of the day thinking about my wife fucking another man.

I was obsessed.

And nothing seemed to satisfy the obsession. The more she did, the more obsessed I became.

And where would this lead? She couldn't have an affair with our renter forever, going deeper
and deeper into more and more depraved acts, doing whatever I asked until what? This was
headed in a terrifying direction.
But I couldn't put the brakes on it.

I couldn't bring myself to do it.

That's how obsessed I was.

Anna poured herself a cup of coffee and took a bite out of her bagel. I looked at it with disdain,
She had slathered it in vegetable cream cheese, which I hated, and since Anna only ever took
one bite of a bagel, the leftovers went to me.

She chewed quickly, looking out the window as if there were something fascinating there.

Out of nowhere, and almost as if her mind were on something else, like car insurance, she
said:

“I think the orange chair will probably happen tonight. Maybe this afternoon. So be ready.”

I left my coffee cup in front of my nose. A cool, tingling sensation dripped down my body,
almost like a liquid poured over me.

I slurped my coffee loudly. I wasn't sure at all why I did that. It was almost theatrical.

I'm so cool with that, Anna, I'm just taking a sip of my coffee. Listen to me SIP MY COFFEE.

“I'll text you,” she added.

Then she picked up her purse, kissed me on the cheek, and left through the side door.

I was still sitting there with coffee mug in front of my face.

Strange.

It was strange that she left by the side door.

I whirled around. She was alone, walking across the lawn.

No John.

What was she up to?

Maybe she isn't up to anything. Maybe Anna's life doesn't revolve around John's cock quite the
same way yours does, Brian.

You fucking perv.

I watched her, and then, like she was in some fucking movie, she jerked wildly, and seemed to
twist her ankle on something in the lawn.

And her bag spilled onto the ground.

And then John was in the yard. Coming out of his apartment.

Kneeling next to her. Helping her scoop up papers. Smiling. His mouth close to her ear. The
two of them whispering together.

What was he saying now? I had a great time last time.

I want to see you again.

Anna was looking around, furtively. Toward the house. For John, it was as if she didn't want me
to see her. She looked down, and shuffled her papers with the vigor of a person who wants to
look like she's doing one thing, while in fact doing another.
Moving her mouth, saying something to John.

What was it? Call me. Meet me at Joe's bar. Come home at six, Brian will be out. I can't stop
thinking about your cock.

She wanted me to see it, though. Anna had never fallen down once in the whole time I had
known her. She had the agility of a cat. This was all a show, and she could have staged it
anywhere.

But she staged it here.

I can't stop thinking about your cock.

Or worse:

I can't stop thinking about you.

They parted with a very theatrical act of ignoring each other. Just neighbors here, folks,
nothing to see.

But I knew better. I knew there was something to what Anna had done, some way of luring
John back to her, while making him think he was the one luring her.

A dark thought slithered around in the back of my mind. Or do I just remember it that way,
now that I know the truth? The dark thought was that everything was in reverse. That I was
the one being duped, led to believe that I had things under control.

Maybe I never had this thought. Memory is fickle, and when we remember we all of have a
tendency to make ourselves more suspicious, more clever, more aware of what was really
happening before we found out that it was happening.

I know that.

I still think I had a thought like that flicker through me. I ignored it, though.
I was too caught up in my own needs, my need to see Anna, my need to make Anna do what I
wanted her to do, my desire to see John fuck her like a rag doll.

I spent all of the day thinking about Anna. Thinking about Anna and whether or not she could
get John to fuck her just like I wanted. Thinking about how I would watch Anna put on her
well-earned shoes and take a twirl in them.

The text arrived three days later.

Anna: Have things set up should be there by 9pm. Told John you aren't home.

I stared at my phone.

A sea of conflicting feeling rose up inside of me.

The primary feeling was excitement. Excitement flooding my veins, a mixture of adrenaline and
lust, giving me the shakes, raging inside of me like I was a teenager again. The excitement of
flesh, of sweat, of skin and lips and the scent of sex. The kind of new, fresh excitement I hadn't
felt for a long time, since back when Anna and I started dating.

Underneath that raging pulse was something else, though. Painful and sweet.

And there was worry.

Jealousy.

The helplessness of being clutched by an addiction, and then the love of it that makes you not
care.

I walked to the store down the street and I bought a pack of cigarettes. I stared at my phone
some more.
What was there to say?

I lit up a cigarette, the first I'd smoked in almost fifteen years.

It tasted terrible.

It tasted so terrible, so terribly good. It went through me, and it was suddenly every afternoon
when I was young. Having a smoke, not caring what would happen because of it, floating
through the afternoon. Pretty girls, warm summers, nothing to do...

I had a beer. Another cigarette.

I was jittery.

I wrote back:

Okay.

I was out of control. I opened another beer.

Nine pm.

Anna usually managed to leave work by six or seven. Not because her job was the kind of job
that people normally left by that time, but because Anna was a fucking maniac. She went in,
she made phone calls, she put nothing off, she made things happen.

What would she do until then?

I wanted to write to her, or to call her, to ask her where she was going. What they were going
to do. How she had arranged things in such a way that could say with confidence that she
would be home by 9pm. That she would get John into his apartment by then, the apartment
below the home of the man whose wife he was fucking, how she would get him in there and
his cock into her mouth by some certain time.
Who was this woman I was married to?

I couldn't call her. I felt as nervous as when we had first started dating. Like I didn't know her
again, like I might be shot down or told a lie.

You might think that was a terrible feeling. I tried to mope, tried to drink away a feeling of
depression that I didn't have, tried to tell myself it was a bad feeling.

But it wasn't.

It was a good feeling. An invigorating feeling,

A feeling I had felt had gone away forever.

There was also the fact that, even though I had this fear of the unpredictability of what was
happening, I knew that Anna was doing it because I had asked her to.

Right?

I took a long drag of another cigarette. The light had grown dim around me, and now it was
well past dusk. I hadn't turned on the lights, and I shouldn't. The cigarette was burning my
lungs, and I knew I would be sorry tomorrow. Tomorrow when I started thinking about it,
craving it, and I was back where I had been so long ago.

Wanting something bad for me.

Doing it anyway.

It was not too late to stop. To put the cigarette out, to never smoke one again, to pick up my
phone and text Anna back, to just not do these things. Not do them, because they were almost
certainly headed for disaster.
I looked behind me at the house, all the lights out. For a moment, just a moment, the whole
thing seemed so sordid.

I was a man who was going to sneak into my own house, watch my own street from the
window like a stalker, watch my wife come home with another man, sneak into my dark
basement and watch her through a hole in the wall.

Like a cigarette. Tasty. But bad.

I could send her a text now and call it off.

I could put out the cigarette now, go to sleep. Get up and run ten miles. Tell Anna we needed
to get back to the way we were before.

But the image of her with her mouth open, spit coating her face, her eyes on mine, John's cock
inside of her...it filled my head and the smoke filled my lungs.

Sweet. Deadly. Bad.

Good.

When John and Anna arrived they came in separate cars.

I had been standing three feet away from the darkened window of my bedroom, looking out at
the street, for about two hours. Like a zombie. When a car passed, my pulse elevated and the
blood pounded in my ears. In my cock. I drank another drink, then another.

Headlights swept across the small front yard, as all cars did when they came up the hill to our
corner. But they stayed there, frozen in time. Slowing.

The car was John's. The sleek black used Lexus.

And only seconds later, more lights. A sweep over the house, the light bent as it glared onto
the side of the house where out parking spot was.

Anna.

Anna right behind John.

Where had they gone, or how had they met up? My mind played through all the possibilities
again – and this was now the hundredth time for any of them. A quiet bar, leaning toward each
other and smiling with complicity. Dinner, where John ordered some kind of rare wine and
laughed as he poured it, telling Anna he didn't believe in being pretentious about wine.

They were whispering. They were laughing and whispering as they each crossed the yard,
toward each other. The half-whispers, the too-loud whispers of two people who are trying to
be discreet but can't see themselves for what they are. The kind of hoarse, loud, silly
whispering that comes from teenagers.

Women having affairs.

Men seducing women.

They met in the middle of the yard and glued themselves to each other. I could only see their
figures now. Kinetic, hands everywhere. Touching and coming together again and again.
Melting together. Laughing.

They ran to the basement door. As if they would get caught suddenly. They were being silly.
Cheerful, laughing.

The door slammed and I crept downstairs. The excitement was clawing at my chest. Down,
down, creeping like a cockroach, into my own basement. Stepping lightly, trying not to make
any sound.

Moving in the dark, thinking of Anna, of what filthy things might be coming out of her mouth
at this very moment. Trying to be quiet.
I could hear my breath, almost as if it had become the breath of another person in the
darkness. It was thick and black, and in front of me I could see the pinpoint of light. The hole
that would let me see into John's apartment. Right where the bed was. Right where the orange
chair was.

Anna climbedonto the chair, and it was like she had channeled the spirit of a pole dancer. She
folded up neatly to flip her body around, so that her head was hanging down, and then she
unfolded. Her long legs stretched upwards until they were straight and crossed at the ankle,
almost like she was doing some kind of elegant dance routine. Her arms were draped over the
armrests, as if she meant to convey that she did this kind of thing all the time.

Her head was hanging down, her long hair grazing the carpet.

It was exactly as I had envisioned it.

John seemed almost taken by surprise. I wondered then, as I would for many nights to come,
for many years, what it was that Anna had said. Or not said, before she coiled and then
uncoiled on that ratty orange chair.

But John hesitated only a moment. His boxers were sliding down now, his fingers moving them
impatiently down his hard thighs.

He got on his knees. Moved closer to the chair.

His cock was twitching visibly in the air. Pulsing with heat, knowing that he would soon have
another man's wife’s mouth around his cock, that he could pummel her face and fill her up
with his cum while she lay there, draped on a chair, her mouth open as nothing more than a
flesh hole for him.

Anna, true to her promise, shifted her eyes right toward the hole where she knew I was
watching.

I wondered what she was feeling. What motivated her at that moment. Who she wanted to
please.
Was her pussy wet thinking about me, how I was hungry and crazed behind the wall, watching
and trying to keep myself quiet? Or had she forgotten me entirely?

She had said, before, that she thought about me watching. That it turned her on, that she liked
the feeling of degrading herself and giving up her will to please me. That knowing that I was
getting off watching her under John's cock, his punishing thrusts nearly ripping her apart, had
turned her on.

But was it true?

John's well-formed buttocks filled the space where Anna's eyes had met mine, and then I had
nothing more to look at than his ass, rocking back and forth.

But wait.

John's legs began to open slightly, as though to get a better position for fucking my wife. And
between his two trunk-like thighs I saw Anna's eyes.

His thick, purple balls were resting on her nose, blocking her airway. Keeping her from
breathing. His soft sack was against her delicate nostrils, and now she was choked off
completely: his cock was inside of her throat and his ball-sack was on her last airway.

She had her eyes closed, and then she opened them.

Her eyes were watery, red-rimmed. But she looked right at me. Right to where she knew I was,
starving like an animal. Her fingers clutched at John's thighs, as though she wanted him to go
deeper, fuck her more roughly, choke her until she passed out.

His hips moved quickly, and though I know it's impossible I felt as though I could hear the
stickiness of his cock in her throat. The glug, glug, glug; that humiliating, degrading sound of
her face being used as a hole and nothing more, to pleasure a man who was not her husband.

She dug her fingernails into the back of his thigh, and he pulled his long cock from her mouth.
I watched my wife gasp for air – she was really gasping, licking her lips and gulping at the air.
Saliva streamed down her face, into her eyes, but she persevered enough to look at me. Then
she opened her mouth, and I watched as the tip of John's cock passed her lips, and then filled
her mouth.

Again he fucked her, and he fucked her just as I had wanted her to tell him to: mercilessly,
hard, like a toy of his that he could abuse in any way that he wanted.

She gagged, and she gagged beautifully. She moaned into his cock, all the while staring at me
through her tear and spit watering eyes. Her lips were stretched wide, and when he pulled his
cock from her mouth the second time it was almost like looking at a misshapen rubber band, a
distended anus: they seemed fatter, wetter, almost like they could never go back into place.

In again. Glug, glug, glug.

I had my hand on my cock now. Anna's legs splayed apart and rocked with the motion of John's
fucking her, and the way they seemed like the feet of a doll only heated me up more.

Why?

Why would watching someone abuse the woman I loved make me so hot?

Who cared. I stroked myself furiously. After all that had happened I was no longer worried
about my ability to get my cock hard again when my used and cum-covered wife came home
to me, dirty and smeared with another man's cream. I would be able to fuck her all night.

I could fuck her like this – and for a moment I thought I would lose it before I got to see the
final scene, as I thought of the feel of Anna's abused mouth around my cock. How she would
try to close up enough for the small size of me, after taking such a big piece of meat in her
mouth.

And then I heard John groan, and he pulled out of her throat.

He leaned back, and I had a beautiful view of the destruction and humiliation of my wife's face:
Her mascara was streaked and her face was wet with saliva. She looked so used, so fucked,
and she fluttered her eyes open to look me in the eye.

And then, streak by thick, globby streak, the cum.

John's cum.

Hot, sticky, and seemingly unending. A streak cut across her throat, and then her forehead. His
white liquid slashed across her cheeks, over her used and fattened lips. It mixed with the spit
and the tears he had wrung from her eyes. The whole creamy, slick mess began to slide down
her face. Anna brought her hand to her throat, and looked directly at me. Her lithe body was
akimbo above her freshly-fucked face, and she looked like the last scenes of a porno.

John was panting, staring at what he had done, just as I was.

I felt my own climax surging up from inside of me, and I released my cock, fighting the
temptation to give myself the final release I was now burning to get. I let go, though, because
after pausing with her hand on her throat to give me a full view of what she had promised to
deliver, Anna folded herself up neatly again and turned around on the chair.

She spread her legs, and her gash of hot-pink flesh was wet and glistening. Her neatly
manicured fingers, long and playful, made their way to her clit. She pulled herself apart, clearly
wanting not only to make herself come, but to put on a show. Her pointer finger moved up and
down the hyper-sensitive flesh of her little button, and her eyes half-closed in pleasure.

My own cock was throbbing painfully now, but I resisted the urge to relieve myself of the pain
because I could see that Anna had more planned than just what I had asked her to do.

One of her hands was kneading one of her breasts now, squeezing the full flesh and her own
nipple. The sight of her face was so obscene; she was so used and degraded, and yet she was
transforming her humiliation into a near work of art as she took back the power to do
whatever she wanted.

And John was getting turned on.

Anna made herself come, panting more rapidly until she closed her eyes completely and she
came in a hard shudder and a tiny squeal.
The pain in my cock was spreading throughout my torso, but I stared into the hole in the wall.

John grabbed her from the chair with two hands on her shoulders, exactly as though she were
a doll. He tossed her onto the bed, and so now she was closer to me, easier to see. I lifted my
head and tried to inhale the scent of the scene through the small hole in the wall, but was only
given the plastery scent of broken drywall for my effort.

Anna was facing me now, and for a moment her expression did not reveal anything between
us. She looked almost vacant, and I was overcome by the worry that I had maybe taken things
too far. John was behind her, and his cock was in his hand.

But Anna lifted her eyes and looked directly at me. Or, at least, what she knew to be me,
behind the wall, aching to see more and aching to fuck her.

Her face was dry now, but a film of cum and dried spit covered it and gave her skin an odd hue.
Her hair was wet with a streak of John's cum. Her eyes burned into mine as her body began to
rock back and forth, and she opened her mouth with pleasure as John's big slab of meat
entered her.

I could not see it this time as it stretched her open, filling her completely, making her wince
and then smile. She grinned for me and then her eyes rolled back in her head a little as she was
overtaken by her own pleasure. She began to moan, and the sound that came from her lips
held no affect, no drama: she was making the sound of a woman who was getting fucked hard
and good by a huge cock, and there was no way to embellish it.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and arched her back, looking upward at the ceiling. John
was pummeling into her, slapping against her skin, his face concentrated and contorted by his
own animal lust. They slapped together for what seemed like an eternity, and I stared, my own
cock spasming heavily in front of me. Behind the wall. Watching John my renter slam his cock
as deep as he could into my wife.

Anna's lips parted and a high-pitched whine began to build in her mouth. It seemed to come
from deeper and deeper inside of her, and then she dropped her head again to look at me, and
smile, just as the height of her climax rippled through her body.
But John reached out, and grabbed her hair, yanking her head up and toward the ceiling to
arch her back as his muscles strained against his skin and he yelled. He thrust even deeper as
he came, pushing himself against Anna in hard, punishing thrusts.

Anna's eyes watered, but I couldn't know if it was from the hair pulling or the strength of his
thrusts, going so deep inside her they nearly tore her apart.

My entire body was screaming at me now, because my cock ached, but also because I had
stood, leaning slightly with my hand on the wall, in a state of near-paralysis. The pain of my
arm falling asleep and my back seizing up made its way through the haze of my hard cock, and
I pushed away from the wall to shake myself out.

I heard the low murmur of their voices; Anna's light like the garble of some velvet bird; John's
low like a the growl of a big cat.

Negotiating something.

I leaned back to the hole in the wall, and Anna was already putting her shirt on.

John was on the bed, and he was trying to grab Anna's legs with his feet. He wanted her to
stay. I watched him warily. Was there more to the way he was touching her than just lust? Was
he flirting with her in a romantic way?

Anna just gave him a smile that could have meant anything. She patted his feet, told him that
her husband would be home soon, and lifted her purse from the floor.

Her eyes flicked up to the hole, to meet my own hungry eyes, just before she turned and
walked out.

She was opening the door to our house only a minute later.

I moved toward her. She flicked on the lights, and without her telling me I knew it was to add
realism to her story for John. Her reason for leaving, that I would 'come home.'
I felt a little sorry for John, because he did seem like such a nice guy, and we were being so
devious and careless with his feelings. But, in the same way that my need overcame the
rational side of brain when it came to questions of where this was going and how it would end,
I pushed the thought away.

The painful ache in my cock pushed the thought right out of my mind.

I used a finger to beckon Anna toward the living room, away from the kitchen.

She stepped close to me in the semi-darkness, a coy, challenging smile on her lips.

I could smell the film of dried cum on her face now. She smelled strongly of sex: cum, sweat,
her own juices. A sweet and acrid scent, similar to the one that she had when I fucked her, but
different. The smell of another man was all over her.

I placed my hand on her jaw, and stroked her lip with my finger.

“You have such a filthy mouth, Anna.”

She closed her lips on the tip of my thumb with a half-smile.

I wasn’t sure, for a moment, what I wanted to do with my wife. Which hole, coated in John's
cum, I wanted to fuck now to reclaim her and to feel her obedience first-hand.

But Anna took the decision into her own hands, as she fell to her knees, and pulled my still-
unbuttoned pants with her. Unconsciously, I grabbed her hair, and I pulled her head close to
me as her mouth encased my entire shaft. Her warm tongue, her hard and soft palates, the
very soft back of her throat at the tip of my cock, enveloped me.

All of the images I had just seen and committed to memory, especially of Anna stroking her
throat after John fucked her, crowded my mind. I came almost instantly.
Anna did not release me. She looked up at me, and met my eyes. She swallowed all of my cum,
and she sucked every drop from my shaft when, as I shuddered with the last of my shattering
orgasm, she slowly pulled her mouth from my dick.

She held it in her hand and rubbed the tip against her pillow lips. Almost like a kiss.

She looked up at me and grinned.

“I have to go take a shower,” she said. “You owe me a new pair of shoes.” She stood up and
began to walk toward the stairs. With her hand on the banister she turned to me.

“And they are going to be ex-pen-sive.”

I looked down at my cock, which was still hard.

That's fine Anna. I'll buy you any shoes you want.

14: ADDICTION

The addiction was worse by the next day. Raging. Out of control.

I woke up with a hard-on, I thought of nothing but sex. I thought of nothing but Anna. Anna
getting fucked in any one of the dozens, and then hundreds, and then thousands of perverse
ways I was cooking up for her.

She brushed me off in the morning.

“I'm too sore, I'm late for work,” she said. Her voice was playful, lighthearted.

But it devastated me.

The slip into depravity was accompanied by mounting paranoia. Every gesture of Anna's that
did not seem loyal enough sent me into spirals of dark thoughts.

I was losing it. I watched her make coffee and thought I found betrayal in the way she didn't
make mine first. She let a hand towel fall to the floor in the bathroom and didn't pick it up it
was my hand towel and her carelessness with it signified that I lost her.

These were the more rational thoughts.

I knew I had to stop. I had to somehow extract us from this situation. For one thing, we
couldn't have a renter living in our house who my wife was fucking. A lawyer, for fuck's sake,
who would sue us for everything we were worth if he were to ever discover the hole in the
wall through which he was being watched while he fucked my wife.

While he fucked my wife…

This was the problem. Every attempt I made at having a rational thought ended like this. With
me thinking about Anna fucking John, and getting her fill of his huge cock. And in that way, the
whole day would tick by, wasted on my fantasies.

How do you get out of this, Brian?

But like any addict, I wasn't really thinking of a way to get out of it. I wasn't really trying. I
thought about it just long enough to convince myself that I was still a rational person. That I
knew I had a problem. That I was going to do something about it.

Just enough to give myself permission to sink back into my fantasies, my memories, my plans
for Anna.

I spent the mornings staring at my computer screen, getting involved in fifteen minutes of
distracted work that would have to be re-done (if in fact, anyone ever hired me again, which
was looking less and less likely because I was probably getting a terrible reputation by now). I
drifted off, thinking of what I could ask Anna to do next. Anal, dildos, more throatfucking,
bondage, dressing up like a rubber doll as I had seen in a porno on one of my more depraved
days.

Then back to reality again, back to the angry emails, back to trying to get myself under control.

On more than one morning, I went downstairs to the hole, with a quick-dry plaster I had
bought. I even once got it out, had it smeared on the spatula, and was about to fill the hole in. I
was inches from it.

The evil voice inside of my mind was shrugging it off, though: there are other ways to watch
your wife, John.

I got closer to the hole with the plaster.

There are videos, or you could have her meet him in a hotel, or you could sneak into his
apartment and hide there...you have the key…

“Jesus,” I remember whispering. My hand was shaking.

I set the spatula down and left it there, where it dried to a hard substance that was impossible
to remove.

The truth was – and I couldn't admit this to myself at the time – I liked the hole. There was
something about that particular form of watching Anna that I didn't want to take away from
myself.

I mean, I could. If I wanted to. I could stop any time.

On and on it went like this.

The third time Anna slept with John it was weeks later. She did it for a purse, a brand-name
purse, the color and size and appearance of which I can’t remember because I was so drunk on
desire and delusional when I agreed to buy it that I could barely see straight.

I wanted her to have anal sex with John.

The scenes of extended seduction about what I wanted her to do were getting cut shorter. I
was desperately maniacal, ready to fuck as soon as she walked in the door.

Anna was, as I may have mentioned, always quite liberal in bed. Back when we were dating,
and for a bit when we were first married, she was willing to have anal sex. Neither of us were
really into it – for me, it was hotter to play with her ass. I liked to put a finger inside of her ass
while I fucked her from behind in her wet pussy.

But I wanted her to take John' cock inside of her. I wanted to see her face when that enormous
piece of meat was rammed all the way up her ass.

If I had been more clear-headed, I would have given some consideration to what was driving
me. I was usually interested in what I wanted – deeply, psychologically – from my sexual
desires. Reflecting on it now, I still can't be sure. I wanted control, even if that seems strange
that I was doing it through John – but it was almost as if I had more sexual power over Anna by
getting her to do humiliating, hardcore acts with another man. A bigger man.

I was blunt about it.

“I want you to get John to fuck you in the ass.”

Anna's mouth turned one corner in an amused smile. “Shouldn't be hard,” she said. Then
quickly: “To convince him, I mean.”

She had her arms folded over her chest. “He has a really big cock, though.”

I didn't say anything. Whatever she wanted me to buy her, which she would likely end up
paying for herself because I was going to be financially destitute in a month at this rate, was
fine with me. A new car, a new house, a Faberge egg. Whatever.
I agreed to the purse blindly, and then we fucked like animals. It isn't worth describing, it was
over so quickly, because I had been raging with desire all day until she came home.

Two days later, she said she could do it the next night.

“But John's cock really is big,” she said. Then she held up an object and winked at me. I
squinted at it, not recognizing what it was for a moment.

“I think I need your help getting ready for it.”

We were in our spare bedroom – and this is a detail I would remember later, later when I
found out about everything. It raised no suspicion in me at the time: we had fucked there back
when we first started this game.

I was already unbuttoning my jeans.

“Take your clothes off,” I told Anna. My eyes were on her little toy, though. I couldn't be sure
what she wanted with it, but I knew she would direct me.

Anna climbed onto the bed. She had left her blouse on, unbuttoned, and her heels – the heels
she had demanded for her throatfucking. They were incredibly sexy, but I was too hungry to
linger on them for long.

She positioned herself like a prop, and again it was not a thing that made me wonder at the
time, because who doesn't want their wife to get on the bed and thrust her ass at him? To
have her heeled feet kicking playfully with her knees spread apart just a little, and a glistening
wet cunt with a tight asshole above it, bared and exposed for his pleasure?

Who thinks much about that?

I stood behind her and slipped my fingers along her wet slit. She was as turned on as I was, and
she twisted inside of her skin in pleasure. I drew her juices up from her pussy to the eyelet of
her anus, and made a few teasing sweeps with my finger. I watched her body ripple. I gave
some thought to making a circle around her hole with my tongue, dipping into the metallic
taste of her, but the idea of it almost made me spill out right there.
And I wanted to fuck Anna. Hard.

I pushed my thumb into her, roughly, and I felt her sphincter squeeze. She gasped, and I
pushed deeper. I knew she would relax. The heat of her body around my thumb, of all things,
was almost too much to take.

She bent her arm around, and her fingers slipped the butt plug – a medium-sized, hard metal
dildo with a sexy black ribbon on it for a tail, down the crack of ass. “Get it wet,” she said. “And
then put it in.”

I obeyed her, trying to fight my building orgasm. I pulled out my thumb, and I could feel her
tense up as it left her somewhat roughly. I dipped her toy into the drenched folds of her pussy,
and slid it upwards to her pink hole, which was pulsing a little from its last invasion. I teased
the opening with the dildo, and then I pushed it in.

Because it was smooth and slick with her juices, it slid in easily. I watched the ring of her
asshole thin out as it stretched to accept the dildo, getting wider and wider.

Not as wide as John's cock. A little shiver went through me, thinking of how much more she
would have to stretch to take John inside of her. I visualized his dark meat filling her up, and I
had to suck in my stomach to keep from exploding all over her.

The dildo disappeared inside of her, and her flesh closed around the end like a pair of lips.

Unable to take any more, I grasped her hips and impaled her on my cock, using her feet as
grips. My first thrust pushed her to the bed face-first, and we scooted forward with every
thrust, until her head was banging against the headboard as I fucked my cum inside of her. My
eyes were on her ass, and the dildo that was stretching it out.

For John.

“What are yougoing to do with it?” I asked her, when we were both able to talk. We were lying
on the bed, and I was absent-mindedly pulling at long strands of her hair.
She sat up on her elbow. “Leave it in,” she said. She sat up and swung her feet neatly over the
side of the bed.

“All day?” I croaked. “All night, too?”

She was buttoning up her blouse. She answered only by giving me a look and a smile.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I have to get some work done,” she said. She stood up,
sliding her skirt up over her hips. She bent over to pull her underwear on underneath it.

“You should probably work a little, too, no? You're getting behind.”

I looked up at the ceiling and brought my wrist to my forehead. A knot formed in my stomach
as I thought of all the work piling up, all the late projects that would probably be the end of my
career if I wasn't careful. The fact that Anna was aware of it made it even worse.

She was right, of course. But it was killing the mood.

Anna, though, was not one to nag nor to linger much on anything. Her philosophy was that
people would do what they wanted to do. She never told anyone what to do. She fucked with
them until they thought they wanted to do something. The thing she wanted.

I had this thought as my eyes grew heavy with sleep. It was disorganized and started to mix
with so many other, random thoughts, the way things happen as I drift off.

So it was another thing that I perhaps should have given more thought to.

But did not.

15: TURNED TABLES

I got up after a short nap, and sat in the kitchen with Anna in the latest hours of the night. She
worked and I pretended to work, but all I was thinking about was the dildo in her ass, and her
upcoming time with John.

I went to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, she was dressed and punching 1:11 into the microwave for
her coffee. She looked well-rested.

I had an erection that was pushing against my underwear and my sweats. My very first thought
in the morning had been the dildo in Anna's ass. I desperately wanted to say something about
it now (well, I desperately wanted to bend her over the counter, to feel its small bump
protruding from her little hole, to turn her around after I inspected it and get her to suck my
cum from my cock).

The microwave beeped. She poured the coffee from a mug into her metallic canister for the
car, unafraid of spilling it on her white blouse.

“Gotta run,” she said. She moved her fingers down my body, and brushed them over my cock.
“Don't get too excited,” she said.

I smiled.

The thoughts going through my head at this point were so perverse and so lewd that I could
barely retain an expression on my face that did not seem obscene.

I sat down at the kitchen table, where my computer was still waiting.

But all I could think of was Anna.

Anna sitting at her desk at work, squirming with a butt plug inside of her. Anna thinking about
John. Anna's ass aching as she walked down the street, Anna screaming as the tip of John's
cock passed the outside of her ass, because even though she had squirmed with a dildo inside
of her all day long, it was still too big not to make her squeal…

I went upstairs and took a shower, my hands on the stone wall as I jerked myself off and came
in almost no time at all.

It was going to be a long day of anticipation.

I sat staring at the text.

Inside of me I felt like a wild animal had been set loose. I was actually going to start crawling
the walls, banging my head, screaming and pounding my chest.

Calm the fuck down Brian.

I read it again.

[Anna]: He can't do it tonight. Emergency depo. Take me to dinner instead?

I knew, from the way that my heart was pounding, that a dizzying rage was building up inside
of me, that desperate thoughts were percolating from my mind – I knew at that moment, for
certain, that I had a real problem.

Tell him to cancel his fucking deposition, I actually wrote, but had at least the sense not to
send it.

I paced the house.

I threw my phone and almost broke it.

I was losing my mind.

I went back to the shower to cool down.

I agreed to Anna's dinner alternative, though I had no interest in it. I didn't want to see Anna in
a restaurant, even if she did flirt with other men.

I wanted to see Anna on all fours on John's bed, turned around so that I could have a nice view
as he spread her tiny asshole wide open and then fucked her raw.

I wanted to watch John's cum dripping out of her torn-up hole.

But after I cooled down, I could think more clearly. I knew these were selfish thoughts. The
thoughts of an addict.

So I agreed to go to dinner.

I went in a daze, as I did most things now. Anna had arrived in the car, already changed into a
tight red dress. She hadn't gotten out, and hadn't given me the chance to release any of the
pent-up hunger I was feeling. She did it so casually, as though none of this had ever happened.

I was almost angry with her in the car, though I knew I had no right to be. She drove and talked
about ordinary things, and seemed to have moved on completely from the idea of fucking John
that night. She was not addicted. She didn't care or think about it at all.

And I was in the passenger seat, sweating with my obsession.

I followed her through the restaurant, watching her beautiful ass in a tight red dress, thinking
of all the things I would love to do to her. Most of them were beyond obscene by then.

Memory, like I keep saying, is a funny thing. Sometimes when I remember this night, I think I
knew it was coming. I embellish my memory of my own thoughts as I watched Anna walking
through the restaurant. She had reserved a table, and it seemed like the kind of place that
needed a reservation long before she could have made it, impromptu, that afternoon.
Did I even notice that at the time? It's hard to say.

In some memories of this scene, I had a sixth sense, a premonition that something
extraordinary was gong to happen.

Other times, I remember myself as utterly clueless.

And still in other memories of my memory, I had a sense of foreboding.

I remember only that I felt as if I hit a brick wall when we rounded a corner and Anna collapsed
into a booth. My entire body went completely numb. I turned my whole body, not just my
head, to face the hostess who had escorted us there.

I must have stared at that girl forever, like maybe if I did that, she would take me out of this
scene. I remember every detail of her face. She was a teenaged blonde, a girl whose jaw shape
and thin, jutting lower lip revealed that there were many, many people in her family tree with
the last name Fitzgerald, and that her voice would be nasal, like she always had a cold…

She was staring at me, blinking, annoyance making its way down her face like a slow drip.

I could feel my heart as I looked at her, this weird little girl. She waved the menus toward the
table again. Big, leather-bound menus, for big, leather-bound restaurants.

My heart was kicking me from the inside, extra slowly.

One.

Two.

I wanted to explain to her that I could not sit down there, that I couldn't even look in that
direction. Because in that direction, sitting in that booth next to my wife, was the man who
had been fucking her.
Who? Yes, it's confusing. Fucking my wife, little girl.

I had this one-sided and unreal conversation with the hostess, and she was growing more than
impatient. Now a look of fear mingled with her annoyance.

Anna tugged violently at my shirt sleeve, pulling me down into the booth as she
simultaneously scooted around.

To the middle.

Between us.

Get fucking control of yourself, Brian.

I looked at John.

He was looking at me with a similar face to the one I imagined I'd been wearing.

He looked surprised, and surprise – real surprise – is a hard thing to fake.

He looked really uncomfortable.

He looked like I did.

We looked at each other's faces, and then we both slowly turned. To Anna.

Anna had her chin propped up on her palm, and she tapped her lips with her fingertips. Her
mouth was open, and she was smiling.

Anna was unsurprised. Anna was unafraid.

Anna was in control of everything. The realization dripped over me like the hostess's
annoyance.

She wasn't looking at either of us, though. She was looking at the hostess.

“Three whiskeys for now,” she said.

The hostess was looking at Anna now with a mixture of fear and admiration. She had no idea
what was going on here, but it was plain to see that whatever it was, this one woman had both
of the men on either side of her by the balls.

And she was having fun.

The hostess nodded and went away, probably to get someone old enough to actually serve
whiskey, and Anna did not take her eyes off her.

The air was thick with tension. Anna tapped her teeth. Without looking at either of us, she
said:

“Gentlemen. I've been very, very bad.”

Anna waitedfor the whiskey to come. It seemed to take an unusually long time.

I wonder what John thought about, in those moments. I myself had no idea what Anna was
going to say. Why she had brought all of us together, why her single proclamation was that she
had been very bad.

I had a few thoughts during that time. The thought that Anna had some perverse desire to see
me get angry at John, as part of our game. There were women like that, weren't there?
Women who wanted to see men fight over them. Only John would easily kick my ass.

Also, why the elaborate game? Why the tricks, and the lies?
After all, Anna knew that I knew she was “having an affair” with John. I wasn't going to jump
across the table and punch him in the face.

I felt myself getting angry at Anna. Now things were going too far.

Anna's face was calm, so whatever she was planning to say didn't trouble her terribly. She had
proclaimed to have been bad with a hint of sexy mischief in her eyes, and I was starting to feel
all of the excitement and all of the sinking, terrible pain of watching her with John all over
again, like it was fresh.

I looked at John. His eyes were already on me. They were moving slightly from side to side,
scanning my face for what I imagine were the same things I wanted to know. Namely: what the
hell Anna was up to.

John looked as ignorant as I was. He did not have the smug expression on his face of a man
who is pulling one over on someone.

Was his face the face of a man who has just been caught fucking another man's wife? I gave
this some thought. Did he look scared? Did he believe that Anna was going to tell me, and that
it would be the first I heard of it?

I had all these thoughts in the silence that hung over the table while we waited for our drink
order. Anna had complete control of the conversation, because neither John nor I wanted to
break in and start revealing just how little we knew about what Anna was about to do.

The whiskey came. We all lifted the glasses to our lips.

A comical aside in all of this, is that the sophisticated Anna had forgotten to tell the teenage
hostess what kind of whiskey she had wanted, and the girl had evidently served us a nameless
well whiskey. The three of us made very minute scowls, but we drank it anyway. Such was the
gravitas of the moment.

Anna set her glass down. She twisted it with her fingers.
“The whole thing,” she began, “has gotten a little out of control. And it's my fault.” She raised
her hand to her neck and nestled it beneath her hair. She looked up and her eyes were
glittering. Not with any true remorse to match her semi-apology, but with an excited, almost
sinister glee.

My chest tightened. Now this was a different kind of tightness.

Anna looked down at her drink. She was attempting to look remorseful, but the performance
was falling flat on me. Too much of a smile remained on her lips.

“So...” she cleared her throat. “John has been watching us, darling. And John, Brian has been
watching us.”

The sentence fell on everyone but Anna like a blanket of lead.

I looked at John, and his mouth seemed to be eternally forming a “w,” as in “what?”

As in, what the fuck.

He sat back, his eyes narrowed, his mouth still making that shape, his gaze flickering from me
to Anna.

I was primarily concerned with Anna's confession that we had been watching him. For a
moment, self-preservation took precedent as I thought about the legal ramifications, the ways
we were going to get sued, the possibility of getting home faster than them and covering up
the hole as if it had never happened. Ways to get away from John's fists, which were going to
start pummeling me at any moment.

And then the other thing that Anna said sunk in.

John has been watching us, darling.

Now it was my turn to form soundless w's and look from Anna to John.

My heart, I think, had actually stopped in my chest.

Anna turned to her left and dug into her purse.

Her voice was muffled by her hair and the table as she searched for something.

“The problem, I think, is that everyone had gotten a little bit out of control. Everything was fine
for a while but...” she left her sentence dangling in the air. She emerged from the depths of her
purse with a small video camera, a very expensive piece of equipment, small enough to fit in a
purse. “I'm the one,” she said, “who has gotten the most out of control. I can't stop making
videos. Neither of you can stop watching them.” She thought for a moment. “But...there would
be nothing to watch if I didn't make them,” she added, as though she enjoyed being at fault.

At this point, she turned to me, and her eyes delivered a very sharp warning. It would take a
few seconds for the full idea to make its way through my mind: whatever she was confessing
to in this confession, she was not telling John about the hole in the wall.

She pushed the video camera into the middle of the table.

“I can't go on like this,” she said. “It's too much sex, too much debauchery. But I had no idea
how to stop myself. Or either of you.” She looked from me to John, and back again. She gave a
friendly smile, but there was a glint of something else in her eyes. Something devious.

There was a silence at the table. Anna took a sip of her whiskey. She was buoyant, like she was
telling us about a shopping trip.

John exhaled, and leaned back against the booth.

The knot in my stomach was threatening to take over my body. I didn't dare reach for my
whiskey because I knew my hands were shaking. I looked at Anna.

Who was this woman?

I looked at my whiskey.
John started to move, and I had to resist the urge to flinch. He exhaled again, like he had taken
a long drag on a cigarette and was blowing the smoke on everyone. He extended his arms out,
over the back of the booth. “Damn,” he said.

Anna fluttered her eyes in my direction.

They were both looking at me.

“What do you mean,” I began, and I realized I was very close to making a scene, so I put myself
in check. I repeated the sentence, in a lower voice. “What do you mean, John's been watching
us?”

John was shaking his head. He was shaking his head like he was impressed by the way he had
just been taken for a ride. I was relieved that his main sentiment seemed to be awed
amusement, but he was also pissing me off a little.

“Look,” Anna said, setting her whiskey down. She had a businesslike voice on. The waitress
came back, her eyes bright and ready to take our order, but the three of us glared at her with
enough severity that she pretended she was on her way to something else.

“Look,” Anna repeated. “I've decided to come clean to both of you, here, at the same time, so
that we have an exit strategy from what has become...” she waved her hand in the air
dismissively. “A big mess.”

She looked at me, and then at John. “This whole thing started because Brian and I had a little
game we used to play.”

John's mouth was open, but he didn't seem shocked. “You're swingers,” he said plainly. He
seemed to already have this piece of information.

I opened my mouth to say something – I didn't know what it was going to be, but I felt some
need to correct that statement. Anna shut me down with a pointed side-eye.

“And then...” she turned to me. “John, it turns out, had a little fantasy of his own. Not unlike
yours,” she added sharply, before I could open my mouth.
We all looked at each other.

I was angry at Anna. I felt like this was an extreme violation of the trust we had set up. I was
extra-pissed that she had brought it up this way, with all of us together.

As though reading my thoughts, Anna spoke up, her eyes on something distant in the
restaurant. “Everyone had a fantasy. I had my own desires. Satisfying the two of your fantasies
was what was driving me. At first it was just Brian, of course. But then John told me what he
wanted, and I figured I could get double the thrill for the same price.” She picked up her glass.
“And I did,” she added.

I leaned on the table. I had lost my composure a little. “So John just said to you, I want to-”

“Look man,” John interrupted. “I wasn't about to have sex with your wife. Not until she told
me that you two had an arrangement. That's what she told me. She told me you were cool
with it.”

Anna looked at me. “I wanted you to get what you wanted,” she said. “But he wasn't going to
do it unless I told him that.” She looked at John and arched her eyebrows, as if to say, right?

“Why didn't you tell me?” I seethed.

Anna looked at me with her triumphant expression, the one where she is about to shut down a
discussion with some kind of trump card.

“Let me ask you this? Would you have been so turned on by it, if I had?”

My mouth was open for a moment. And then I snapped it shut.

She had me there. It would not have been as exciting if it had all been arranged.

But this still didn't clear up the rest of the story.

Unsure of what I was even feeling, I shrugged and tilted my head to indicate she should
continue. “The rest of the story?” I prompted.
“That's it. John wanted to know what I said, and what I did, when I went back to you. He
wanted to hear about how you asked me about him, how we fucked after he fucked me. If you
think about this, it's not an unreasonable request. We were using him, in a way, and he was
just getting something for himself.”

“Besides getting to fuck my wife?” My voice was angry now.

“You wanted me to fuck your wife,” John said, holding up a finger in his defense. “So be
careful, there.”

He turned to Anna. “But what's this about John watching the tapes?”

Tapes. He was too young, this guy, to be saying that word.

Anna shrugged. “He liked to watch. You liked to watch.” She smiled. “I liked to watch.”

She stretched her arms out on the table. “I know you're both mad, which is why I let it go on. I
didn't know how to stop it...I didn't really want to. I was about to go through with it again
tonight. I changed my mind at the last minute. I know you both also got a little addicted to
what we were doing, and so I know you'll understand when I confess to you: I got a little
addicted, too.”

John and I looked at each other. Something in his eyes told me this statement was true.

It was true. I had never thought, in all this time, about how Anna might be as obsessed as I
was. I never gave twenty seconds of thought to John; I had only seen him as an instrument of
my own desires. I had been selfish, thinking only of myself and my own satisfaction.

“We were all selfish,” Anna said, and I jerked my head to her, because she had done her
creepy thing of reading my mind. “But we have to put a stop to it before it gets out of control.
This is why I met with you guys here. Someplace neutral, someplace public where nothing
could get out of hand.”

John and I were staring at each other now.

He grinned, a kind of beaten and annoyed grin, and took his whiskey in his hand. He looked out
into the restaurant while he took a sip of it.

My head was reeling. I had to straighten the facts out a little, before I could even imagine how
I felt about them.

Anna seemed ready for this. She turned slightly toward me, and took my hand in hers. “Look,
honey, I started this whole thing for you. And no offense John, but I was never dishonest with
you about it being all physical. The only shady thing I did, and it was pretty shady, was filming
you,” and here she cut into the word filming with her voice, looking at me with her intense
eyes, letting me know what I needed to know, and that I needed to shut up about the hole in
the wall, “without you knowing. I did that for myself. John, truth be told, was sort of
uncomfortable with it.”

“At first,” he said quickly. Then he smiled at me. “I can see what the appeal is,” he said. “Never
understood it before.”

I could feel my face flushing. I didn't know with what exactly. I tried to go back over what I had
done with Anna, how I had done it, whether or not it was deeply embarrassing.

Anna placed her hands flat on the table. “Now,” she said. “I think everybody needs some time
to think about all of this. I'm going to destroy the camera and all of the..” she looked at John
with amusement, “tapes. What year are you in? And then I'm going upstairs.” She pointed
above her, and I realized for the first time that the restaurant was on the first floor of a hotel.

She leaned in toward both of us. “I, personally, want closure. I still have everything ready for
tonight.”

She let that sink in on both of us.

“So whoever comes up there, we'll have our final...” she waved her hand in the air in a circular
motion, unsure of what to call whatever it was between the three of us. She placed her purse
in her lap and began digging again. “John, as I understand it, you've given your notice?”

It was a completely random question, and it took me a second to realize what 'notice' she was
talking about.
John looked surprised, and then a wry smile came over his face. He nodded and brought his
whiskey to his lips by bending his elbow and swinging it to his mouth.

Anna slid two key-cards across the table, one to John, and one to me.

Then she turned to me, and kissed me on the cheek, scooting herself across the leather to get
out. I let her out, and she waved her hand over the table. “I expect you guys will sort this out,”
she said. And she turned, and disappeared, waving goodbye with her one-handed flutter of
fingers.

I stood watching her, and then, not knowing what else to do, I collapsed in the booth.

A little timidly, I looked at John. He was still watching Anna over his shoulder.

“That's some wife you got there,” he said finally, as he turned to me.

I had no idea what to say.

“Man. Let me buy you a drink.”

What else could I do? The truth about John, and I have no idea how to explain it or convey it, is
that he wasn't a bad guy. He was somehow putting me at ease. The full implications of what
Anna had done - how carefully she had balanced everything so that she had committed
multiple betrayals, but no one could legitimately be angry about them, because everyone else
had committed a dubiously loyal act themselves – was sinking in.

It was actually very brilliant.

Very deftly handled.

I also couldn't argue with her that the whole thing had gotten out of control, and needed to
end.
I was mostly interested in how blind I'd been, how obsessed with myself and my desires, that I
hadn't even considered the idea that John might want something, or that Anna could be
playing her own game.

John held up two fingers for our waitress, and the whiskey came quickly.

We slammed it.

“Damn,” John said, wiping his mouth. “I forgot to change the brand.”

“It's bad,” I agreed.

An awkward silence.

“You goin' up?” I finally said.

John raised his eyebrow. “Man, that is up to you.”

I had so little time to think about it.

But I had known the answer all along. I slid my own key-card across the table, and left John's
car by him.

“Give me five minutes,” I said.

In a daze, I walked through the restaurant, and into the lobby of the hotel. To the elevator.
And up to the room where my wife was waiting for the final act of this crazy adventure.
16: THE FINAL ACT

“Is John coming?”

Anna was standing by the window with her gorgeous backside to me. The curtain was open
and overlooked a patch of the skyline, as well as the uglier side of a building next to the hotel. I
had no idea how she'd managed to change in such a short time, but she had: her pale skin was
encased in the sexiest nightie I had ever seen her wear. It was a form-fitting, short skirt that
almost looked like a dress, except that it was made entirely of a delicate black lace. Where her
ass pushed the fabric out to form a perfect, round shape, I see the shadow of her ass-crack
through the material, and her bare skin glowed through the endless holes in the fabric: she
was wearing nothing at all underneath it. It ended just below her full bottom, and her long legs
seemed to dangle from it. She was still wearing her heels, very expensive and fashionable black
heels that wrapped and criss-crossed around her foot, evoking the idea of bondage just
slightly.

I marveled at Anna. At her appearance, as I always had: it was incredible to me that this
gorgeous creature was my wife.

But also at her sexual confidence, her cleverness, her mischief. She made me uneasy, but at
the end of the day, I still loved Anna. And I think she she still loved me.

“I don't know,” I said. I loosened the tie I had worn.

Anna turned suddenly.

The nightie was even more spectacular from the front. It cut into a deep v-shape, but still
would have been moderately conservative if not for the material it was made of. A material
that provided teasing glimpses of her nipples, the hair above her snatch, her belly-button...all
nearly revealed but not entirely. Her hair was down now, and she tossed it over her shoulder.

“I hope you're not mad at me,” she said. “It's part of the reason I decided to come clean about
everything tonight.”

I was so busy looking at her body that I didn't really remember what she was talking about.
“It's still the same game, you know.”

I snapped back to attention. “What?”

She smiled. “Still the same game. If John comes. You tell me what you want, and I'll do it.”

I cocked my head. “So all this time, you got him to do what you wanted by telling him it was so
I could watch?”

“But on video,” she said quickly.

I blinked.

She shrugged. “He liked to see you getting off on him fucking me…and...so did I. So it worked
out for everyone.”

“Except me.”

Anna sighed.

“There really wasn't any other way to get him to do it. But would you have really wanted me to
tell you that? You liked the secrecy of it. I didn't want to ruin it for you.”

I squinted.

“Admit it,” Anna added. She ran her hand along the bed.

She didn't give me time to answer, because I could see in her face that she knew she'd won the
argument. As she always did. And she was right, even if I hated to admit it to myself.

“Sit down over there,” Anna said. “It's our last time with John.”
I sat. I was so used to having an erection nearly all the time now that I had practiced the art of
being comfortable with one, as I sat or rose from a chair, or walked through a crowded lobby.

Anna made me a drink from the hotel bar and brought it to me. She had another in her own
hand. She gave me a smile.

“How are you so sure he'll come?” I said. I knew he would, but how did Anna?

But as if answering my question, there was a light knock at the door, a pause, and a click as the
second keycard was inserted. The door opened, and Anna sat on the bed, crossing her long
legs.

As John walked into the room, saw the expertise with which Anna had arranged the chair I was
sitting in. She had cast the lighting away from me, and onto the center of the room where the
bed was. It had the immediate effect of solving what could have been an awkward first few
minutes of the interaction. Almost immediately, the bed seemed like it was onstage, and I
seemed like the audience. John barely needed to acknowledge me, though he did give me a
light nod.

“Do you remember what I wanted you to do?” Anna asked him.

John gave his lips a lick of almost bashful uncertainty. “Yes ma'am,” he said.

“Good,” Anna said. I almost expected her to say some kind of corporate cliche after that (then
we're all on board).

I hadn't expected the interactions between John and Anna, which I never heard very well
through the wall, to be quite like this. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

John gave one final glance to me, as if to say that it was my last chance to back out, but I lifted
my whiskey glass to my lips and said nothing.

John moved toward Anna, and she rose up on her knees on the bed to begin unbuttoning his
dress shirt. As soon as this began, it was like I was both out of the room and still in it: the
sensation was disorienting.
And intoxicating.

Anna's eyes were on John's body as she slipped his shirt off his shoulders. His hard chest, his
big muscles. I watched her fingers trail over them, her cheeks gaining a flush of obvious
pleasure. A sensation of mixed feelings burned through me. My cock twitched.

Anna's hands were on his belt now, unfastening it. The leather strap slipped from the metal,
and flipped open. I heard the metal rumble of the zipper as she pulled his pants open. Her
hand dipped into his trousers, and she smiled as she found what she was seeking.

John pushed his pants down, taking the silky boxers he had been wearing with them.

Now his athletic dark body was fully exposed. His buttocks were hard and round like Anna's,
and the two of them looked like an ad for something now, provided the very lewd way that
Anna was massaging his cock in her hand was cropped out of the picture.

John's cock was at eye level for me now, and the effect was to make it look even larger. I
stared at its girth and length, and at Anna's hands moving up and down it with a familiarity
that sent a pang of jealousy through me.

She bit her lip.

John took the lead now, and placed his big, black hand on her neck, his thumb moving up her
jawline as he pulled her face toward him. Firmly. Taking some of the control that Anna had just
moments earlier. He placed his big lips on hers, and kissed her, but as he pulled away he bit
into her lower lip and took it with him for a few inches.

He pushed her around then, so that she turned and end up on all fours. Her short nightie rose
up on her ass, and now her snatch, and the tiny patch of hair that covered it, were visible
beneath the line of the fabric.

John slid her nightie up, and his eyes opened briefly in surprise as he took in the small dildo in
her ass. He placed his thumb on the ribbon, and pushed the protruding tip of the dildo into
her, making Anna suck in her breath slowly and tip her head back.
“You've been getting ready for this, then?” John asked her.

Anna just smiled.

“How long?”

“All day,” Anna purred.

“Hmm,” John mumbled, and pushed on the dildo again. He moved the ribbon out of his way,
tossing it up to the small of her back. His fingers moved down to her cunt, which was dripping
with her juices already. I heard the sticky sounds of her flesh as he dipped a finger in. from
where I was, the scent of sex was faintly growing, rising into the air from where the two of
them were. I brought my whiskey to my mouth and noticed that I was shaking.

But with excitement.

From where I was, I could see the bright, wet pink of her pussy, already engorged and craving
the touch of John's dark fingers. He stared down at her for a moment, and then placed a thick
fingertip on her clit and stroked it lightly like a feather. Anna gasped and twisted her hips in
desire. She bit her lower lip and looked back at John, but as she did, she flashed me a smile.

He parted her petals one by one, feeling each layer of her between his fingers like it was the
material of suit he was thinking of purchasing. He held her skin between his fingers, feeling
how soft and wet it was, smiling.

John's dark finger disappeared into Anna's flesh. He twisted his hand, and Anna moaned.

He was stroking her clit from the inside out, and it was driving her wild.

John smiled. Thinking, surely, of how good it would feel when he slipped his shaft between
each of those swollen, soaked lips. Just to get his cock wet, before he rammed her in the ass.

His fingers moved expertly, toying with her clit while she struggled to stay still enough for him
to touch her. Her muscles contracted and twisted beneath her skin, and her breath came in
ragged, puffs from her mouth. My cock was so hard by now that it felt like it might split.
He reached up and wound the black ribbon attached to the dildo around his hand – it almost
didn't make fully around his large paw, and he began to pull on it.

Anna moaned as the dildo she claimed to have left inside of her all this time, since the evening
before until now, slowly eased from her asshole, stretching it as the fat middle middle passed
through he sphincter. It popped out and John tossed it aside.

Anna's asshole was tinged slightly red, and gaped open for a moment, before it began to
twitch closed. It was utterly obscene, but I was riveted by it. I could hardly wait for John to
push it open further, stretch it out until it yawned even wider and took even longer to close
up.

He slid a wet finger from her pussy into her gaped hole, and I sucked in my breath. I could feel
that my cock was dripping precum now, making my underwear cling to me.

His finger glided into her, because her pussy was so wet there was ample lubrication. I could
see her juices glistening on her thighs.

John put another wet finger inside of her, and this time Anna moaned.

And then another. The third finger made her wince, but John did not hesitate, He pressed
down on the small of her back and forced her to arch her back again. Anna turned back to the
wall in front of her and mewled.

And then he sort of clawed upward with his hand inside of her, and she mewled and howled,
her legs starting to tremble, her stomach muscles crunched into a tight ball.

John lifted his thick cock up to her ass. He pressed the tip of himself to her throbbing anus as
though his penis was giving her little ring a firm kiss.

“You're going to come with my cock in your ass,” he said.

Anna moaned in response to the command, and moved her hips backward, pushing her ready
asshole up against his cock.
When he pushed forward and stretched open the first part of her, an agonized sound came
from her chest. She whimpered and clawed at the bedsheets.

“Oh god,” she howled.

John's cock disappeared inch by inch into her ass, dark and thick. As her ass stretched open
further, and further, she flung her torso around on the bed but kept herself there for him. She
was squeaking and crying, now, submitting fully to John in the most intimate way.

But I could see her mouth and it was not agonized: this was all an act, or at least partially an
act, and my wife was actually a dirty little whore who liked cock in the ass. Big, black, cock in
her ass.

My mind was racing now to lewder and lewder places, hoping that John would really give it to
her. It was, after all, the last time.

He lifted her up so that she was sitting on him, and she groaned and shifted her weight,
howling as his cock went deeper and deeper inside of her, forced in by her own weight. She
leaned back on him and he pulled her legs to each side so that her pussy was exposed to his
fingers.

From where I was sitting, I had a great view of his cock moving in and out of her ass when he
body rose and fell. He was really stretching her tight little hole open, and the sight was almost
unbelievable even though it was right in front of me. His cock disappeared into her unyielding
skin, and above that scene was her tumid flower, dripping its nectar onto John's cock, and his
balls.

His fingers came around to where she was exposed, and quickly found the little ball of her
clitoris, as though he did this all the time – as though he had fucked my wife thousand times
before and not just twice.

Anna was covered in an a feral sheen on sweat; her mouth was contorted and her every breath
escaped as a whine.

Then a moan, then a howl, then a scream, as he stroked her with his fingers like an expert.
When she came her entire body shook, and I watched as a creamy cum gushed from her. It slid
down to lubricate John's rapidly thrusting cock, and he pressed into her clit as she shrieked and
gasped and twitched, well past when she might have needed it. I knew her ass was seizing and
clenching around his cock, and I could see how much he enjoyed it.

Then he took both hands and lifted her by her hips, plunging her up and down on his cock.

Anna was used up now and flopped like a rag doll: her ass was so wet with her own cum, and
so stretched by John's cock, that she moved over him like a sex toy. He essentially jerked
himself off, with her tight, pink ass as a glove.

He shoved her very suddenly onto her chest and her knees again, and she moaned. Then she
tossed her hair and looked directly at me.

Her eyes burned into me.

“Oh god,” she panted and squealed at the same time. “It's too big. Oh, fuck, it hurts so much.”

I'll never know how Anna knew what I wanted to hear: we never discussed this outright. In
many ways, Anna's insights into my sexual needs were somewhat disturbing, but at the same
time:

She was saying exactly what I wanted to hear.

Getting fucked exactly the way I wanted her fucked.

She mewled and sobbed in obvious pleasure.

John really started fucking her then, and the slapping of his thighs against her ass set a beat
beneath the sounds of her warbling and cooing.

When he came he yelled. Anna screeched as he thrust brutally deep, deep into her ass.

Anna's voice was shrill as she twisted and writhed, still impaled on his cock. “I love that hot
cum,” she rasped, “Oh fuck, that was so good. Oh god.”
When John pulled his cock from her she gave a sigh, a groan of disappointment, and fell
forward, spent. Her ass was a gaping gash, and her thighs were smeared with her cum. A
trickle of John's milky-white cum spilled up and out of her asshole.

He stood back and admired his handiwork. His dick was still throbbing and hard as a rock.
Anna's breath was still ragged, and she heaved on the bedsheets like a horse. She tilted her as
up for him – for me – to get a better look.

For a moment I couldn't even breathe. My cock was robbing my entire body, but especially my
mind, of oxygen and blood. Anna's gaping ass was the only thing in the room at that moment:
red-rimmed, black in the center, and dripping John's cum in spurts as her sore, used asshole
spasmed.

Then John leaned forward and whispered something in her ear.

I watched as Anna's mouth opened, upturned, and her tongue made a circle around her lips.
Whatever it was, she was agreeing to it.

She turned around, and winked at me as she did so. I was so stunned that I couldn't figure out
what she was doing, even as she dropped to her stomach and flipped her legs up so she could
grab her heels. She was now prone, poised on the bed, as though in the absolute sluttiest yoga
pose. Her hands were grasping the heels of her shoes behind her.

She lifted her head, and brought her lips to the exact height of John's cock, before I figured out
what was going to happen next.

And there was John's cock again. Still had, getting harder, even though he had just filled Anna
up with his cum. Now he was going to put his dirty, cum-smeared cock that had been in her
ass...into her mouth.

Anna opened her mouth, and it was wet and hungry.

I watched, almost unable to take any more, as Anna extended her tongue like a porn star
taking abuse, John slapped his thick cock on her obediently extended tongue.
My dick ached painfully, thinking of how much I wanted that wet mouth on my own cock.

He moved forward just an inch. Now Anna's big lips closed around the tip of him and she
sucked on him like a lollipop.

He let her lick and suck away for several minutes.

“That's it,” he breathed.

My cock was so hard it was sending pain through my entire lower body. This heat mixed with
the pain of hearing these words while Anna slurped away at the fat end of another man's cock.

The thick black shaft kept going, disappearing, while her mouth stretched open wider and
wider until the scene no longer looked real, and her throat was stuffed full. Her lower lips
finally pressed up against his ball-sack, but still her kept pushing her onto him, until her face
was smashed completely into his abdomen and hips.

All the while, Anna kept grasping her heels.

Then she flicked her eyes from John's face, to mine.

I rose up out of the chair like a zombie. I felt drunk and almost depleted, as I crossed the room
to the bed. My cock was so hard it hurt now, and I was moving mechanically, trying not to fall
over. My mind was so focused on Anna sucking John's dirty cock that I could hardly command
my limbs to move at all.

I dropped my pants next to the bed, and I clambered up so that I was on my knees behind
Anna.

I looked up briefly at John, but his eyes were on my wife, on her mouth around his cock, and so
I looked down to Anna's ass.

There is was, lovely and still gaping, still dripping John's cum.
Anna started making these porn-star noises, like she was eating some meal she couldn't get
enough of. She moved her own head forward when John pulled away with his cock, trying to
get more of it into her throat.

He tightened his grip on her hair and held her still.

For some reason, the sight of his dark hand grasping her hair sent me over some kind of limit.

I grasped Anna's hips, lifting her ass up to where I could get inside of her. She held on to her
heels, letting me take hold of her like a prop. I plunged into her ass without warning or
foreplay.

Anna gave out a muffled scream, but she continued to do her duty for John, allowing him to
fuck her mouth, even as my cock filled her sore ass.

I slid in easily, in part because she had already been stretched, and in part because John's cum
made a slick lubrication. I thrust in as far as I could go and pulled hard on her to get in even
deeper. Anna moaned.

This big, thick slab of John's black meat was moving in and out of her mouth.

Sticky, gurgling sounds were coming from Anna's throat now. I just watched, my cock encased
in her searing-hot flesh.

John thrust several times into her face, and then pulled his cock out to let her breathe. Long
threads of saliva connected her distended lips to the tip of his cock, and then fell onto her face
sloppily, before he dove back in. Anna's ass clenched around me.

From deep in her throat the sounds of absolute submission: choking, gurgling, swallowing
sounds. But also her sultry, moaning approval.

I lost my composure entirely, not caring if I wouldn't get to see the rest of John's fucking her
face before I came. I began to pound into Anna's ass hard, and her gaped, wet asshole was still
tight around me, even after fucking John. It was hotter than her pussy. Her gasps, muffled by
John's cock, only drove me closer to the edge, and so it was after only a minute or so of fucking
her good and hard that I felt the fountain of cum that had built up inside of me surging forth.
Anna herself had moved one hand to her pussy, which I noticed only then because she started
to moan more and her ass began to spasm wildly around my cock just before I came.

I couldn't even scream, because it hit me so hard. I was open-mouthed, making no sound,
when I looked up and saw John's cock sliding from her mouth, into his own hand. He stroked
himself vigorously as his second round of creamy cum splashed out and all over my wife's face.

Anna collapsed on the bed, turning around and lying on her back.

I leaned back against the headboard, and the cool sensation of the material on my back started
to bring me back to reality. I wasn't sure how to wrap this up.

Luckily, John pushed himself off the bed and went into the bathroom, where next we heard
the water running. Anna and I made a few moves and were lying in bed side by side by the
time he emerged from the bathroom, so we could say goodbye to John cuddled together as a
couple.

Which may seem strange, and even stranger still that it somehow was not awkward. But that's
what happened.

17: AN ENDING

“Here you go, I think that's it.”

I set the last (I hoped) box of John's seemingly endless books on the floor of the rental van.

“Thanks. I have a couple of beers in the fridge,” John suggested.

We both looked back at the house, where we knew Anna was watching from the kitchen.

“Probably not, man,” he disagreed with himself, and we both laughed.

“Your new place is all right?” I said. At the end of the day, I still liked John, and I was sorry to
see him go from a landlord's perspective. But Anna was right: we couldn't keep living like this.
Luckily for us, John was a reasonable guy and saw the logic of his moving out.

He smiled. “We'll see...I doubt it will be the same.”

Diplomatic, as always.

“Okay, well...don't run off with the rental.” I had rented the van for him, because I felt bad that
he had to move after such a short time.

We shook hands.

And that was that. Anna waved from the kitchen, as though an endearing friend were simply
leaving for the afternoon and she would see him again the next day.

It was for the best, of course. But as with anything addictive that you give up, I had my
moments of longing. I don't think we are finished yet with our lifestyle, but we definitely can't
have our “friends” living in our house.

Anna had been right in her prediction that the evening she had planned helped bring about
some kind of closure. John had remained for about a month, but I was able to concentrate at
least enough to finish some work. I still spent some time – and maybe more than was healthy –
thinking about Anna and John, but it was more about the memories than the endless
possibilities of fantasy after fantasy.

Anna slid her arm around my waist and we watched John drive off. Then from nowhere, she
produced a hammer and a jar of spackling.
I knew what she was trying to say, but the combination of tools was ludicrous. “What am I
supposed to do with this?” I laughed.

Anna blinked at me. “I don't know. I'm just a girl.”

“What if I can't fix it?” I said, a seductive tone in my voice.

We smiled at each other. But Anna wasn't in the mood to take the bait..not right now. “Go!”
she said. “Patch it up so we can get a new tenant.”

“You don't want to...” I said suggestively.

Anna shook her head. “No. And the next renter will be a woman.”

I made a growling noise as I opened the basement door.

Anna rolled her eyes. “An old woman.”

“Hot.”

“With warts and three tits.”

“Even hotter!”

Anna rolled her eyes again.

But she was smiling.

END

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed my story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Please don't forget to leave a review...it's the best compliment I can receive, and it helps boost
sales and get my stories out to the readers who want them, so I can keep writing more long
works like these for you to enjoy!

Also, don't forget to Sign Up For Our Newsletter and Get A Free Story

(Just please email us your choice)

If you enjoyed The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel,

give my other novels a try!

Not Black And White: A Hotwife Novel

When a photographer turns Rick on to the idea of watching his wife with another man, Rick
feels an obsessive desire inside of himself catch fire. He can't help arrange for his shy, girl-next-
door wife Danielle and the rugged, black photographer to cross paths. He knows that Drake
Reyes' erotic photographs are not as abstract as they appear, and that Reyes sleeps with his
married models. He knows his wife is not immune to Reyes' charms – no one is. He just can't
help but imagine what it would be like to stand in his gallery, looking at Reyes' lurid photos,
knowing his own wife is the model, knowing how the photos were taken.

But was it really his idea, or have Drake and Danielle been as manipulative as he has?

Please note, this is the novelized version of the short story Black and White , with significant
changes to all scenes depicted in the short story, as well as the point of view. There is,
however, some repetition: scenarios which occurred in the short occur in the novel. There are
plenty of fresh new adult scenes, however. Please enjoy.

A Gamble: The Making of A Hotwife

Ryan is just an average guy, coaxing his sweet, beautiful wife Victoria into playing into his
hotwife fantasy – even if they're just pretending. But a trip to Vegas with his co-worker Brad
and his sexy wife Irena turns Ryan's life upside-down. To help Ryan, Brad makes a proposal
that could change everything...but it all centers on Victoria's innocence. How far will Victoria
go to save what she holds most dear, now that her virtues, her love for Ryan, their marriage,
Ryan's desires, and even their finances all hang in the balance? This is a 52,000-word novel
about risk and romance, filled to the brim with the hard, steamy scenes you love. Please enjoy!

The Hotwife Summer

When Ben and Summer have the chance to spend the summer in Italy, their stale marriage
starts to heat up in ways Ben could only have dreamed about. Summer is ready to take his
hotwife fantasy all the way, and her choice is a sexy, Italian, Michelin star-studded chef. It's too
late to put the brakes on what he's set in motion when Ben discovers the humiliating truth
about Summer's choice of man. Summer has a taste for being naughty, and a filthy little plan of
her own. Will it be everything he could wish for, or will Ben's cuckold fantasy turn into a
nightmare he can't escape?

The Hotwife Tattoo

When Greg's brother marries his wild, tattooed, ex-girlfriend Renee, he knows things will be a
little complicated. But when Renee befriends his wife Sara, she starts to change in almost
unbelievable ways. Greg sees that there is something more to Renee's plans than just friendly
sister-in-law bonding. Is Renee's influence all bad, or can Greg get something he has always
wanted and never admitted to is wife – maybe even himself?

A Dark Place: Cuckolded In Lagos

Lagos is the one place in Africa where you can make anything happen.

Three people are carving out their fortunes in Africa's largest city, but each of them holds a
deeper, darker desire. What is the secret desire of the angelic Charlotte, who finds all men's
eyes on her after dark in Lagos? What about Andrew, who keeps a secret hunger so buried
perhaps he doesn't admit it even to himself? And what could be darker than Clement
Ambode's already shadowy “reliability” as an all-purpose contractor in the underbelly of
Lagos?

Charlotte, Andrew, and Clement will find themselves in a very dark place when their worlds
collide in this ultra-sexy, novel-length cuckold story.

NOVELLAS

Nothing Better To Do

“No. No...it's cool. She just...never seemed like the marrying type.”

Rob is finding out from the locals in his wife's small mountain hometown that his soccer-mom
wife Kirsten may have been quite a different person once upon a time. He'll find out the truth
first-hand when a late summer blizzard traps everyone at a party, and his wife comes up with
some very indecent ideas for passing the time.

After all, there's nothing better to do...

Claire's Cowboy

When he gives his wife Claire the gift of a vacation of her choice, Chris is perplexed when she
wants to go on a horseback-riding adventure in Montana. Nothing about that kind of trip has
ever appealed to Claire. Next, she mentions a mysterious ex-lover, and she turns out to be
nearly a professional at riding horses. Chris can't help but wonder if her choice of vacation, and
the rugged man who will lead the tour, are just an uncanny coincidence...or if there is
something more to Claire's cowboy?

SHORT STORIES

If you're a new fan of Arnica Butler, why don't you try Wives Gone Wild?

I've put together ten of my short stories about wives on vacation, who get taken every way
you can think of while their husbands watch. Ten stories for $4.99! For fans of my longer
hotwife novels, these stories may not be for you (but then again...they might). These are quick
or medium-length, dirty stories about men taking willing wives right out from under their
husbands' noses. Most include very graphic scenes of humiliation, menage, cleanup and...well,
that's all I can write about here!

Stories included in this bundle are: Double-Cucked; Cuckolded in Texas by The Oil Tycoon;
Watching My Wife Get Trucked; St. Paddy's Day Cucktale; A Long Hard Winter; Watching My
Wife Get Lumberjacked; My Wife Goes Back To Black; Cuckolded On A Plane!; Cuckolded In
Vegas!; and Cuckolded on My Dominican Vacation.
Because sometimes, you just want to get down and dirty, right?

Enjoy!

INTERRACIAL CUCKOLDING SHORTS

One Night In Puerto Rico

What would you risk for it? And what could you gain, from one night to change your marriage?

When they meet and watch swingers Meg and John in action on vacation in Belize, the seeds
are planted for something new in Jenny and Josh's dull marriage, and things steam up back at
home in unexpected ways. But she would never really do it, would she?

Now they're on vacation one year later, and it looks like Jenny is going to take things all the
way with a big, black stud she found on the beach...but where will this lead them?

This is a 13,000-word explicit erotic story with an element of romance, and only for adults who
like to imagine what could happen in just one steamy night.
First-Time Hotwife

Annie and Dave. An ordinary marriage that has gotten dull. But now Annie's made a discovery
that will change their marriage completely. This story alternates between the voices of Annie
and Dave as they take their marriage to the next level, and seek out a big, black stud to take
Annie hard and unprotected, while her husband watches. Their marriage will never be the
same...but will it be better? This story is 12,000 words and for adults only.

BISEXUAL CUCKOLDS

What Ella Wanted

Nick has more than one secret desire, but he doesn't really know it until his best friend's
gorgeous wife coaxes them both into showing each other their favorite porn videos. It looks
like Ella wants to do more than just watch someone else getting pounded for another woman's
pleasure. Is Nick brave enough to stick around and give Ella what she wants?

Approximately 15,000 words.

The Calendar

Adam's sexy MILF wife Nadia takes on a new project at her photography studio: a calendar full
of hot firemen. Adam doesn't mind: he enjoys fantasizing about his wife taking it hard from her
big, sexy models (especially the hot black bull). But Nadia has a whole different kind of cuckold
adventure in mind. Will Adam be man enough to give her what she wants?

Approximately 11,500 words. Contains explicit scenes; for adult audiences only.

CUCKOLD HUMILIATION QUICKIES

Need a quickie? These fun cuckold stories will get you hot fast:

Legally Hotwife

Joanna's husband has always been inadequate and pathetic, but now he's dragged them both
into a mess with the mob. It looks like Joanna will have to work off his debt with his new boss
using her legal skills – and all of her assets! This story is approximately 11,500 words of alpha
male domination and extreme cuckold humiliation, told from the female perspective and only
for adults!
The Wife Swap Trick

Watching My Wife Get Jackhammered

Watching My Wife Get Lumberjacked

Watching My Wife Get Trucked

Boss Hog Cuckold

St. Paddy's Day Cucktale

Coffee In Her Cream

Mike and Christy have a mild little swinging "game" going, but Christy is taking it a little further
than Mike expected with a big, black bull named Tony. Just when Mike thinks he's already had
the biggest surprise when Christy starts crossing the line, Tony's wife Michelle shows up and
heats things up in a way he couldn't imagine. Find out what happens in the approximately
7,000-word, explicit, interracial wife-swapping story.

Make Yourself At Home: My Best Friend's Wife

Sam is recovering from a messy divorce and gets kicked out of the house. What can his lifetime
buddy Rick do but let him stay at his place? Except Rick just got married to quite a little
number: the sexy, fun, flirtatious Michelle. One night, Rick mentions that Michelle and he have
a special arrangement in their marriage. Sam isn't sure what to make of things...until Michelle
helps him understand.

Check my Author Page for additional titles! And please don't forget to leave a review: it's the
greatest compliment an indie author can receive! Thank you,

Arnica