Anniversary Cheat

I'm not inexperienced, OK? Just because I've been faithful, doesn't mean I haven't flirted pretty heavily in business settings. I know how this works. You let them know that something could happen. They start to see how far they can go. You lead them on, push them back, then lead them on some more. They start losing focus a little, stammering once in a while, and then you have them where you want them. You close the deal on terms favorable to you. Then you either stop them there, or give them a little more, as you choose. You're in control.

This guy was different. We sat in my office for almost an hour going over my notes, with his left hand firmly established between my parted legs. Legs which he had bared by casually flipping my skirt out of the way again. His voice didn't stumble once. His focus remained sharp as we coaxed the complex deal into place, and he coaxed more moisture out of my pussy and onto my thong.

He didn't make the next step easy, either. He didn't dance; didn't want to go out drinking; was only up for dinner at his hotel. Fortunately, there was a decent restaurant there, and we shared a dark little corner booth. He wasn't exactly charming, but he could hold an intelligent conversation, and did so through dinner and dessert. A picture of us could have been sent to either of our spouses with no repercussions at all. What the picture would not have shown, was how widely my legs were spread under the table, how he'd shoved my thong to the side, completely baring my pussy, and the big wet spot on the seat. I was about ready to jump out of my skin if I didn't come soon.

Finally, after dessert, he told me he was pleased with our company's offerings so far, and he was certain that if things continued on their present course, we could do business together. Unlike most guys, he actually said it to my face, not my boobs. I smiled, catching the double-entendres. Finally, he had approved of something! He leaned toward me with a napkin in his hand, as if to wipe a smudge off my face. Suddenly, he shoved three fingers up my cunt as hard as they would go, while he thumbed my clit. When I opened my mouth to scream my climax, he deftly pushed the napkin in, muting me. His fingers rasped against my spot, as I clenched and came. Finally, he let me relax. "There, that's better," he said, delicately wiping the corner of my mouth with the napkin.

In his hotel room, my return to fidelity officially ended. It was the weirdest sex I ever had. We went into his room, he shut the door, and he began taking off his clothes, making a little gesture indicating I should do likewise. I did. I've never stripped less erotically for a man, but my pussy didn't know that. It had loved the appetizer downstairs, and was opening wide and drooling for the meal it knew was coming.

He took everything I had, without asking, as if it was his right. He used me almost as roughly as Brandon had, except he didn't rip any clothes. And I came just as hard, and just as often. But he did it all with this pleasant-but-deadpan expression on his face – just like when he was eating dinner. I never felt so used – so treated like a thing – in my life. I thought I should resent that, but I just didn't. I reveled in it, for some perverse reason.

He was good. I can't say he was a good lover, because he wasn't a lover at all. He was an equal opportunity ravisher: he took and used everything I had. And everything I had certainly loved him. He made himself completely master of my body. He was like a man playing with a complex toy, who understands its every nuance, and puts it through every one of its paces, getting his pleasure from the simple mastery. And, of course, cumming in me. Yes, I let him ride me bareback, and cum inside me. Why not? It wasn't anything Brandon hadn't done.

It was after 11:00 when I finally thought we were finished. He had already come three times, once in each of my well-used holes, and I had luxuriated in a nice long hot shower. I was pulling up my little thong when I heard his voice from the bed.

"What do you think you're doing? You won't be needing that."

The man had another erection! I sighed a bit, and rejoined him. Then he did something involving his tongue and teeth on my ear, his hands on my breasts, and his slick-with-my-juices cock between my legs, and my pique and tiredness were forgotten as off we went again. I remember a lot of climaxes and a few random thoughts – "I didn't know my inner thighs could feel like that," "I thought I already knew everything you could do to a pair of tits," "Does he eat every girl this way, or is it just me?" We ended up spooning, and he painted my insides again, sighed deeply, wrapped his arms around me, and fell asleep. It had to be past midnight. I tried to stay awake long enough to find a way out of his bed without waking him, but I was just too tired.

My cell woke me at 6:30. (I'd set it to voice mail at his insistence, but the alarm clock still rang.) I struggled out of our prospective client's arms and shut it off. I'd missed four calls from my husband, three last night and one this morning. He wasn't angry, just wanted to know if I was safe. The one this morning asked if I wanted him to bring me some different work clothes. What a sweetie – instead of reproaching me for my overnight activities, he was thinking of saving me from the Walk of Shame at the office. I called him back, took him up on his offer, and gave him the hotel and the room number. He suggested a shopping bag outside the door, so my companion wouldn't be embarrassed. He really is thoughtful.

I turned back toward the bed, and seeing our prospective client had morning wood, did something about it. Just a blow job this time, though I could feel his eyes memorizing every part of my naked body. By now I was getting off on the mere idea of being used by this inscrutable man – he didn't even have to touch me.

When we finished, my clothes were outside the door. I put them on, put yesterday's into the shopping bag, and was ready for the day. After breakfast, we went to the office, he signed the papers and became our client, and that was that. I was detailed to drive him to the airport, then take the rest of the day off. (From my boss's facial expression, he knew perfectly well what had happened, in spite of my change of clothes.) To my surprise, our new client didn't lay a finger on me, nor did he mention the previous night. He did say he'd see me the next time he was in town, and I had no doubt about what he meant by 'see.'

So now I had whored for my firm. The thought didn't disturb me. I'd often done some pretty heavy flirting to get clients or contracts, or to smooth the way with co-workers; last night was just a logical extension. Besides, I didn't get paid directly. More worrisome was the fact that I'd cheated, this time without a prior arrangement like I had made for Brandon. Still, I'd as much as told my husband that I spent the night with another man; his only reaction was to ask where to drop off a change of clothes. He was even willing to bring them to the site of my infidelity – and leave them outside the door, so my partner and I wouldn't be inconvenienced. I knew he loved me, more than ever, but I couldn't help comparing him with the other two men who'd had me recently.

Brandon and our client were two very different men, but they had one thing in common: they took what they wanted from me, as if it were their right, not my gift. I was OK with it, of course, not that it mattered. Brandon took me with roaring savagery; our client took me with almost clinical detachment, but they were both takers. They didn't care at all what I thought about it, or whether I enjoyed it (though of course I did). They saw me, wanted me, and took me – all of me. Repeatedly. My husband was a giver. Pleasing me was always his first objective. He did it very well, and he certainly got his pleasure too, but mine came first. Brandon and our new client seemed like lions, capturing me, dragging me down, and gorging on me until they were satisfied. My husband seemed like a scavenger, content with leftovers. That was when I began to lose what was left of my respect for him.

After my night with Mr. Inscrutable, things progressed pretty quickly. The next week, one of the guys in the office with whom I'd flirted pretty heavily in the past decided it was time he got a chance at what I'd kept from him before, and I saw no reason not to let him. It was a stereotypical office fuck: after repeating the stuff he'd already had but still liked (heavy kissing with ass-grabbing and crotch-grinding; blouse and bra opened and tits thoroughly explored), he bent me over a table in the spare conference room, flipped up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and plowed in. I was wet, he was hard, we both came, it was fun, and that was that. Zip up, button up, and back to work.

We had a 'difficult' client with a major account in town. My boss assigned me to work closely with him, saying he hoped I would do as good a job with him as I had done with Mr. Inscrutable. I did: both with numbers in the office (I'm actually good at my job) and a bit of medium-strength flirting. Then at dinner, at the dance club, and finally in his hotel room. He was happy, my boss was happy, I was happy.

It didn't take long for everyone in the office, of both sexes, to figure out that my pussy was no longer off limits. Well, it still was off limits to the trolls and geeks in accounting and so on, but I'd never let them touch me anyway. Squick! You know what I mean. But a couple of months after my Brandon weekend, between clients and good-looking co-workers, I was cheating on my husband about two or three times a week. I never told him in advance; usually, I didn't know myself. I'm sure he knew, particularly about the evenings I "worked late." If I was too tired for him, he not only accepted it, he gave me bubble baths and tucked me in. If I was bruised or stiff (some of those guys were pretty rough – is there something about me that invites that sort of thing? – do they know how much it turns me on, or do they just not care?), he would tenderly wash and massage me. When I was 'available' for him, he was still the same masterful lover. But as those times became fewer and fewer, he meekly accepted the fact. I know now that he meant it as a sign that he loved me. But instead of loving him more, I respected him less.

I hadn't forgotten about having Brandon come and take me in our house. In spite of all the sex I was getting, I still wanted that. But my husband proved surprisingly resistant to my hints and cajoling, so finally I outright asked him, and he said no.

"No?" I asked. "Just no?"

"No. Our home is the one place where you're all mine. I know you're going out with other men to cheat, and you're cheating on me regularly at work. I'm doing my best to handle it. But when you come in that door," he pointed to the front door, "you're mine. Our home, and our bedroom, are private to us. And I want to keep it that way."

So that was it. I should have felt something for my caring husband, if only pity, but I didn't. I felt only resentment that I couldn't give away this last privacy between us to his uncaring rival. I argued with him; for once, he remained adamant. But so did I.

I began to do things to deliberately 'soil' our home for him. I had guys I'd cheated with call me at home, and I would graphically describe how they had made me feel, while I knew my husband was listening. I didn't need to exaggerate, either: it was plenty hot just as it happened. I left my cum-stained underwear where he could see it. One particularly forceful playmate had ripped my panties and bra off me and used them to soak up the cum he'd sprayed on my face and boobs. I brought them home, still dripping, and hung the ruined underwear from the bathroom doorknob. (Why do I always seem to attract clothing-rippers? I'm spending a fortune on lingerie. Fortunately, my increased 'flexibility' at work is getting me some good bonuses.) I even tried not showering after 'dates,' coming to our bed with another man's dried cum at strategic points on my body. I stopped that after a couple of tries: I just felt too icky.

After a few weeks of these guerrilla tactics, my husband confronted me. Even now, he was determined, but not angry. Come to think of it, I can't remember a time he was really, truly angry with me. You would think that would have made an impression on me, wouldn't you? But no.

"I know what you're trying to do," he said. "You're trying to point out how the men you cheat with are already in our home and our bed, because they come home with you – in your mind and on your body. That's true, of course, to a certain extent. You may not see a difference between that and letting them actually have you in our home, but I do. And I will not agree to it."

Damn. I wanted Brandon now more than ever: what they say about what you can't have is true. But I had no more ideas than a rabbit about how to make it happen. I asked people at work; I even asked Brandon. He just laughed and said it was my problem. What made it worse was the girlish panting and giggling I could hear in the background that told me that Brandon wasn't exactly pining away for me. Finally my boss came up with an idea. It was totally sick, completely disgusting, and an utter betrayal of the man who I knew was the only one who truly loved me. I didn't care. All that mattered to me was that I was sure it would work.

It took weeks to set it up. Anticipating Brandon taking me in our bed, screwing me senseless in the one place my husband still considered private to us, had me climbing the walls. My boss said I spent more time screwing than working. (Not that he was complaining; he got his share.) The clients I 'saw' thought they'd died and gone to heaven.

The Day came. Brandon arrived at mid-morning, soon after my husband had left. As I expected, he began ripping clothes off me the moment he was in the door. He then flung me over his shoulder, carried me into the bedroom, threw me down on my back on our marital bed, spread my legs, and split me open with his cock. It was everything I'd been waiting for and more. The best orgasm of my life started when the head of his weapon pierced my pussy lips; it didn't stop until he spray-painted the far end of my womb with his cum. He took a couple of pictures of me lying there on the bed I shared with my husband, naked, panting, and leaking his cum from my well-plundered pussy. Well, there goes "private to us" with a literal bang, I thought, with considerable self-satisfaction.

I had wanted some action shots, too, so we had to fuck again. (I know. Awww.) I had bought Brandon a tripod and a remote shutter specially for the purpose. There was one with him taking me doggy style, my breasts swinging wildly beneath me, the soft flesh mottled red from his abuse. Another one in doggy, with my face on the mattress, held down by his foot while he ruts into me. One where he's fucking me from the side, one arm hooked behind my knee to hold my leg in the air and spread my pussy even wider for him, while he mauls my boobs. Finally, there was a sequence where I'm on my back with my head hanging off the edge of the bed, and he's fucking my helplessly offered throat while he has his way with my tits, then he pulls out and cums all over my face.

We meticulously prepared what my husband would see when he came home. First, he would see a strange car in the driveway. (Call it a cliché if you want. I prefer the term 'classic.') When he opened the door, he would see a trail of my clothing, leading to the dining room table. Prominently featured would be a sundress that was a favorite of his, now ripped and ruined, its buttons still demurely fastened, leaving no doubt about what its fate had been. On the table, he would see a sign reading "Your Choice." On one side were pictures of Brandon fucking me in our bed that morning, and a note "We're in the bedroom; feel free to join us if you wish." If he did, he would find me smiling lovingly at him from Brandon's arms, naked and freshly fucked on our bed. On the other side were divorce papers, ready to file and bearing my notarized signature.

Brandon and I relaxed on the bed, waiting for my husband to come home. He thought it necessary to fuck me again to make sure I was completely relaxed, and I didn't argue. I smiled as I heard the sound of my husband's key in the lock. The idea that I wouldn't get what I wanted never crossed my mind. I was young, hot, and smart, remember? We heard him walk through the living room to the dining table. We heard him stop. We heard papers; knew he was looking at the pictures. I could feel Brandon's abdomen moving as he chuckled; he tweaked my nipples just for fun. We heard an envelope open: the divorce papers. Then a brief scratching sound; then more footsteps, back through the living room. We heard the front door open, then close.

Brandon laughed out loud. "I guess he couldn't handle it, but he's too much of a pansy to do anything," he smirked. I laughed, too. I was sure he would be back, probably after Brandon's car was gone, and I would have won. I still couldn't imagine any other outcome. Brandon and I had the same idea about what we could find to do in the meantime, so once again I found myself royally fucked.

It was dark outside when we finally left the bedroom. I turned on the light to see the dining table. The pictures and the note were there, with a terse addendum: "Thank you, no." Brandon thought it was hilarious; I started to feel a little anxious. The envelope with the divorce papers was still there. I opened it and idly pulled out the papers. There seemed fewer than before, so I looked at the first page. There, just below my signature, was his. I looked at the front of the envelope. In his neat writing were the words, "Your copies." That was all.

I was outraged. How dare he! The papers were supposed to force him to do what I wanted, not give him an out. Now I was screwed: all he had to do was take them to the court house and we were finished. And I knew him well enough not to doubt that was what he would do. Now he was gone, without even a good bye. Even now, all I felt for him was anger, for ruining my beautiful plan. It would be years before I saw him again.

Brandon thought (predictably enough) that the best cure for my panic and anger was to fuck me senseless. Under the circumstances, that was probably as good as anything, and he proved himself more than capable of doing the job. Afterward, Brandon held me as I slept the sleep of the exhausted.

My alarm clock woke us the next morning; I had to go to work. Brandon insisted on (OK, he just plain took) a good-morning fuck from me, preceded by a blow job (i.e. throat fuck) to take the edge off. Then he left. He didn't say, but I was pretty sure he had someone else in line to fuck that night. Damn.

The next two years were a blur. I was making great money, having great sex with lots of guys (including Brandon), and doing whatever I wanted to do. I seldom thought of my ex-husband, and when I did, it was along the lines of "he's the guy who couldn't handle me," or "I'll bet he's missing what he used to have." Once in a great while, I heard his gentle voice in my mind saying "I believe this will be the undoing of us. Please don't do this to us." When I did, I would shrug, and think, OK, so he was right. So what?

I was assigned to a new client; he was a new rep from a company we already did business with. Good looking, a little shy, easily embarrassed by my little flirtations. Putty in my hands, I thought. He was wearing a wedding ring, but I never cared about that, as I was sure from previous experience I could make him forget about it. He was surprisingly resistant, but his virtue was no match for my well-honed technique. Finally, we were in the lounge next to the restaurant. I was in his lap, whispering naughty nothings in his ear while my ass 'accidentally' moved just enough to keep his quite nice-sized erection interested. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, so I stuffed the left one inside my blouse. He hadn't noticed the open buttons, but this certainly brought them to his attention. He was all mine, now: I even used his wedding ring to tease my hard nipple through the skimpy little bra.