Anniversary Cheat

You know how after you have the wind knocked out of you, and you come back, the first thing you do is take inventory? That's the next thing I remember doing. Arms move? Check. Legs move? A little shaky, but check. That sort of thing. I still had on all my clothes except my heels; I could see one of them by the door. The blouse and skirt had survived, as long as the cum stains came out of the skirt. The bra, thong, and stockings were history. As for my body: my pussy was sore, but still usable; my tits hadn't fared too badly either, but I had rug burns on my ass and I could feel bruises starting on my neck and shoulder where he had chewed on me. All told, not too bad for a session with Brandon.

Slowly and stiffly, I got to my feet. I didn't see or hear Brandon, so I got a drink of water then went in search of him. He was in his study, looking at his computer. He heard me come into the room and motioned me to look at the screen. His smile was not nice.

I gasped. There I was, in living color, stretched out on his living room rug like some kind of obscene trophy, fucked into oblivion. He laughed at my reaction. There were close-ups of my exhausted, battered pussy leaking his cum; shots of my cleaning his cock with my mouth. I didn't remember having done that, but I knew I wouldn't have refused him, whether he asked or not. I didn't dare ask what he wanted the pictures for. Later, he gave me a complete set which I kept for years, so I could reminisce about my 'weekend out of time.'

There I am in the back yard, wearing a thong and my high heels, nothing else. Brandon sent me out there, then chased me all over the yard. He was faster than me, but he would let me 'escape' so he could enjoy watching my tits bounce while I ran. When he caught me, he would whack me on the tits or the ass, pick me up and turn me upside down while I squealed, or just tackle me to the ground and dry hump me. The shoes didn't last long, and I was faster barefoot, but he still caught me whenever he wanted to. The last time, he threw me backwards over his shoulder. He ripped my thong open (he did enjoy ruining my underwear) and stuffed two fat fingers into me. My bare legs flailed about helplessly in the air; my squeals as he finger banged me were loud enough to draw a crowd. They got quite a show. Brandon held me easily with one hand, while ravishing me with the other. When my screams became hoarse after what felt like 15 minutes of solid orgasm, he unceremoniously dumped me onto the grass, and sauntered into the house. To get a beer, I think.

Brandon enjoyed the idea that he was taking me away from my husband. I had wanted to take my rings off and leave them at home, then put them back on when I returned – symbolic of what I was doing with my marriage, which is what the rings are supposed to be, I guess. Brandon wouldn't hear of it. He took pictures of the glittery diamond on the hand that fed his cock into my mouth. He took videos of me posing in my trashy lingerie, looking like a cheap whore (I don't know why they say 'cheap' – that stuff is damned expensive!) as I used my wedding-ringed left hand to arouse myself for him. He took one of me finger fucking myself where it looks like my pussy is about to eat my diamond – he really liked that one. His favorites were the ones of my left hand, rings clearly visible, playing in his sperm as it decorated my face or tits, or dribbled out of my pussy.

Brandon became the first to fuck my ass. Typically, he didn't bother to tell me he was going to. I don't remember where we were; I think we might actually have been on the bed. He was pounding into me doggy style, when I felt what must have been his thumb jammed into my asshole. Brandon's not a big guy, but his hands are huge, with big thick fingers. That big thumb both hurt like the devil and sent me over the edge. He held still inside both my holes until I stopped shuddering, then started fucking away at me with his thumb and his cock. It wasn't long before my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the bed, him still on top of me and inside me. I felt his thumb pull out and thought he was finished. No fear.

Next thing I knew, that big cock of his had plowed its way past my sphincter and was half buried in my bowels. My poor ass had lain open and helpless before him; it hadn't even started to close after he pulled out his thumb. I squealed like a stuck pig. In fact, I thought I knew pretty much how said pig felt. I tried to close my legs, but Brandon was solidly between them, and it wouldn't have helped protect my ass anyway. He kept pumping, and few strokes later, I felt his pubes grinding against the my already-sore ass.

I had some crazy idea about trying to dig my way into the mattress to get away from him, it hurt that badly. Then he reached a hand under me and started working my pussy and clit again. I'd not come down very far after my climax, and was soon on the fast track to another one. I didn't know which way to fuck – up for his cock in my ass, or down for his fingers (three, I think) in my pussy – but whichever way I went, I loved it. He finally jammed himself inside of me, held me in place with his fingers in my pussy, pinched my clit, pulled my hair back, and shot my rectum full of himself. I squealed, I came, and I think I passed out again. Anyway, he has a picture of me, naked, spread out on my front, both holes gaped open and leaking his seed. And of course, the rings on my left hand.

Years later, I would still pull out those pictures from time to time and go through them. Brandon appears in very few of them, and then it's only his cock. But what he did to me is evident in every one of them. I'm usually flung somewhere like a rag doll and left to lie, either dripping sperm from one of my holes or painted with it. I'm naked or wearing the remnants of some kind of underwear or stockings, but my clothing has clearly suffered just as hard use as I have. The pictures look like sleazy porn, but my body remembered what it felt like when they were taken, and it wanted nothing more than to go back.

I don't remember eating or sleeping that weekend. I'm sure we did, because we expended an awful lot of energy. But my memories of such mundane activities were swamped by the mind-altering, rock-my-world, turn-me-inside-out, fucking. Early Sunday evening, I began to put myself back together for the drive home. I had known beforehand that Brandon would rip open whatever blouse I wore, so I had picked one where the buttons would give easily without ripping the fabric. I had planned on wearing it home, but I couldn't find it.

"Looking for something?" Brandon's voice had even more of a sneer than usual, and as usual, all that did was turn me on. I was naked; I could almost smell myself heating up. I straightened up to look at him. He had my blouse in his hand, holding it out to me and grinning. I held out my hand and walked over to him; he snatched it away. He used it like a bullfighter's cape to get me to charge, while he laughed at me and swatted my ass hard as I went by. Of course, he'd spent the entire weekend making sure my ass was properly tenderized, just like the rest of me. He went out into the back yard; I could smell the outdoor grills going. The neighbors would once again enjoy the spectacle of me running around naked, my tits bouncing wildly. Finally I chased him into a corner. I leaped for my blouse. I got a firm grip on it with one hand. As I flew by, he captured one of my legs and flipped me. I landed hard on my back, but worse than that was the tearing sound as my blouse was ripped in two. He laughed like crazy as he stood over me, one foot on my chest between my bare boobs, waving his half of my blouse over his head in triumph, like some kind of banner. I distinctly heard neighbors cheering this time.

I did manage to find my skirt and get it on, cum stains and all, before Brandon could do anything to it. But I had to wheedle Brandon out of one of his shirts, at the price of letting him viciously fuck my face. Even then, all he would give me was an old wife-beater undershirt with what looked like cum stains on it. That wouldn't have been so bad, except that I had run out of underwear earlier in the day. So I would be going home to my husband in a cum-stained wife-beater, a short skirt likewise, white heels, and nothing else.

Even then, Brandon wasn't through with me. He carried my nearly-empty suitcase out onto the front step (like the gentleman he wasn't), then seized me in his arms with my back to him. Deliberately, he reached in the side of the undershirt, captured a breast, and scooped it out, leaving it completely exposed to the neighbors. He repeated the action with my other breast. He then reached down to the bottom of my skirt, lifted the hem, and neatly tucked it into the waistband. Calmly, almost dispassionately, he set about arousing me again, fingering me obscenely as my legs spread and weakened. He twisted, batted, and mauled my naked boobs, pinching and pulling their nipples, all in full view of the neighborhood. It occurred to me that they must be accustomed to enjoying shows like this.

He whispered in my ear, "Next time, we do this at your house," brought me off a final time with his fingers, and released me. When I stumbled on my weakened legs, he gave me a slap on my ass. I stumbled; I think he was disappointed I didn't fall. Then he went into his house and locked the door.

I vaguely remember sitting in my car, hunched over the steering wheel, until it was fully dark. I remember I was already plotting how I could get my husband out of the way so Brandon could take me in our house. I don't remember much of the drive home, only thinking that the way I was dressed, I'd better not get pulled over. Finally, I reached the sanctuary of my garage. I turned off the engine and just sat there.

My husband must have been listening for my car. When I didn't go into the house, he came out after me. Technically, it was still the weekend, so I shouldn't have let him touch me. But I had to, or I would have spent the night in my car, as I lacked all energy to move. Tenderly, he helped me into the house. He didn't turn on the light in the bedroom. He helped me out of the shirt and skirt, swaddled me in the comfy old cotton nightgown I wore when I was sick or very tired, and let me sleep.

AFTERMATH.

Remember I told my husband that on Monday morning I would be drinking coffee with him, just as usual? It didn't happen. In fact, as far as I was concerned, Monday morning itself didn't happen, nor did Monday afternoon. I slowly came awake to the sound of my husband puttering around the house, and the smell of food – though something was odd about that, I couldn't put my finger on just what. He came into the bedroom and smiled at me.

"Hello, sleepyhead," he said.

"What time is it," I asked groggily.

"About 7:30," he replied.

"Oh, crap!" Galvanized, I sat up, in spite of the complaints of every muscle in my body. "Why didn't you wake me earlier? I'm going to be late, oh crap, oh crap..."

"Ssh." He gently pushed me back onto the bed. "It's 7:30 pm."

"Oh." No wonder that food didn't smell like breakfast.

"Don't worry, I called in to work for you: it seems you have a touch of the flu. I have some soup keeping hot on the stove. Meantime, would you like a bath?"

A bath was exactly what I did want most in all the world just then. I lay back on the pillow and drowsed, listening to the sounds of contentment to come as he fixed the bath for me.

It wasn't until I was contentedly soaking in the luxurious bubbles and oil of my bath (just the right temperature, too) that I realized what my poor husband must be seeing. I looked like I'd been ravished by an army. There were bruises on my arms and legs where Brandon had grabbed me and thrown me around. He had spanked me hard enough to leave bruises on my ass, too. And he had left hickeys on every tender, once-private place I had. The insides of my thighs, all the way up to my crotch; all over my breasts, especially the undersides; even the outer lips of my shaved pussy, glowed red with the marks of Brandon's ownership. As for my neck, you couldn't tell where one mark ended and another began. It looked like it had been chewed. I actually blushed. I hadn't done that in ten years.

My husband, though, was true to his word, and didn't say anything. Not a word, except to apologize when I winced. He tenderly bathed me, using sweet lotion where I was sore, and rinsed me clean. He washed my hair, using twice the amount of conditioner: it must have been a mess. Then he patted me dry, wrapped me in the fluffy robe, and fed me soup. When I was finished, he put me back to bed. And he did it all with the sweetest, most loving expression on his face you can imagine. I fell asleep to the sounds of my husband cleaning up the kitchen.

I'm older and more experienced now, but I still cannot recall seeing or hearing of such an act of outright love as he gave me that night. Would I have done the same for him? Hell no! If he'd done a fraction of what I did, I'd have had his balls for breakfast, then taken him to the cleaners in the nastiest divorce in history. Instead, I came home to a loving man who, with all his tenderness, tried to heal me from another man's use and abuse of me – abuse which I had deliberately left him to seek.

Did my husband's demonstrations of how much he loved me make me sorry for what I had done? Not a bit. I was already planning how to get him to agree to having Brandon in our home, ravishing me on the bed we shared. My still-sore pussy heated and moistened at the mere thought. You see, I was convinced I deserved to have it all: incredible sex with Brandon (and others?), and my husband's sweet love. I was young and hot, and smart enough to use what I had to get what I wanted. So why shouldn't I be entitled to have it all? I didn't actually want to hurt my husband, but if he happened to get hurt in the course of my pursuit of happiness, that was how it went. Collateral damage, as they say. Besides, it wasn't as if I didn't intend to make it up to him.

Tuesday morning, I sat drinking coffee with my husband before we each went to work. It was easy for me to convince myself that we were picking up right where we left off, just as I had said. But by the end of the week, I knew my husband had been right. Not that I told him so, of course – that would have been bad for discipline – but it was obvious we had both changed. I was more careful in talking to him: somehow reluctant to share feelings, readier to keep secrets from him. One evening, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know what he was feeling, and didn't really care to ask. I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that I loved him, but I just couldn't seem to make myself care.

We were expecting an important client at work on Friday. He could be difficult, but he was one of our biggest accounts, so we all treated him like royalty. It was no secret that he wanted a piece of me, and I had let him have some of it. For instance, there was the Friday night at the club where I had sat in his lap in a dark corner booth and murmured into his neck while he extracted a bare breast from my dress and played with it and his other hand made merry havoc between my legs. I think he was one of the ones I let push my thong to the side and give me a gentle climax, but I don't remember for sure. He had quite a nice erection; I remember him grinding it into my ass until I was half afraid he would bruise me. This was file nine for me at this point: I had done this often enough that I could do it without thinking about it. Enjoy the situation, play the client, and fend him off before he got the big prize, gently enough that he could keep his hopes up.

The client showed up and behaved as expected. I flashed him melting looks, along with some tit and thigh, while business was discussed at the office. He suggested the same club as before, and made sure I would be one of the party. I called my husband and told him I had a client meeting (which was true, of course), and off we went. We had dinner; he danced with me (OK, so we dry-humped standing up while music was playing); and I found myself in his lap again. I was mostly healed from my weekend with Brandon, so I was OK with his scooping a breast or so out into the open. I let him progress to my preset limit, which we both enjoyed, and then fended him off, all pretty much on auto-pilot. I think he had been hoping to go farther than last time, but he took it well, and we still stood to make our hefty commission. All in all, a successful day.

It wasn't until I was on my way home that I started to wonder. Why had I stopped him? Would there have been anything to gain from letting him have everything he wanted – for the firm, or for me? I found myself wondering what it – and he – would have been like. I hadn't let myself get picked up for full-on sex since before I met my husband. And after The Weekend, as I thought of it now, there didn't seem to be anything left to 'save' for him, or any reason to save it if there was. I pulled into the garage, wondering how long my return to faithfulness would last.

It lasted almost two weeks longer. The guy was a new prospective client. He was certainly no Greek god: he was the wrong side of 40, with a bit of a paunch and thinning hair. But the suit was expensive, the watch was understated but rich, and the shoes were good and well-polished. He was the kind of client we wanted, and the way his eyes followed my little wardrobe adventures told me that I had what it took to impress him.

He wasn't making it easy, though. I sat close to him and treated him to some nice leg shots; he clearly enjoyed it, but he also clearly expected it. Baseline stuff, he seemed to say. I pushed a boob into his arm several times, enough that he knew it was intentional (the soft bra I had on was ideal for this sort of thing, allowing the tit to squish nicely); same reaction. He kept talking business all the while, and doing it well, too, reinforcing my judgment that he was accustomed to the kind of tease I was giving him.

It was getting late. Our prospect was summarizing what we needed to do to get his firm's business. I was concentrating on taking notes; I'd given up advertising my availability for the moment. As he finished, I felt a hand on my leg. Not a tentative, see-if-she'll-let-me-do-this hand, either. This hand went straight for the slit in my skirt, entered it unhesitatingly, gripped my thigh, and rode upward to the bare flesh above my stocking tops, lifting my skirt with it. It was done as casually as picking up a pen, and with as much right as if he owned me.

The surprise made me sit up straight in my chair. My boss looked inquiringly at me.

"I was just thinking that while you're talking with the other partners," I said, caught out and trying to cover quickly, "he and I could go over my notes and make sure we have everything." Our prospect gave me a knowing look as if aware of my improvisation. His hand continued up my leg, his fingers exploring and claiming the tender flesh of my bare inner thigh as my legs opened to give him room.

"Good idea. My business with the partners will take the rest of the afternoon, so why don't you take our guest to dinner, as well?"

Our prospect agreed. With one hand he closed his tablet. His other hand cupped my pussy mound possessively, squeezed it once – then flipped my skirt demurely back into its accustomed place on my legs. He stood and offered me his hand to rise from my chair, and I could feel him fingering my wedding rings. (He wore one, too.) I looked at him, expecting to see a little smile, or smirk, or some acknowledgement of what he'd been doing. All I saw was cold appraisal. I stood straight, subtly pushing my breasts toward him; his expression didn't alter. I've rarely had so little idea what a man thought of me.