Sketches – Beads & Pearls Ch. 04

"No." Jessica bit her lip, then turned back toward her car. This would get around the office, too. "I have to go."

"No, you have to come! And so do I! Wait! " Frank shouted after her. "'No' to what? 'No' to answering or 'No' to...? Shit!"

Jess got home and told me all about it, from the email to the parking lot conversation. I told her Frank would blab and he did. Everything made the rounds the next morning. From what Jessica could see, reactions varied from incredulous dismissal to taking notes. The thin line between tease and slut seemed more a dotted line now.

It got back to her by way of good-natured wink-wink, nudge-nudge invites to "just hang out" on the patio. A couple of those moments were genuinely awkward, leaving her cold. No sense of discretion or a little too serious. Most of the time, they just laughed it off... though the good ones got her hotter than Tabasco sauce.

A sign of budding clinical hypersexuality? Maybe, but for the first time in years, we were having sex every single night. Of course, I couldn't leave well enough alone. A week later, I suggested she up the ante with a little wardrobe adjustment.

She usually wore a short, tight skirt and some sort of classy but revealing top. Think: jacket over a camisole and demi-bra. She responded by dropping the camisole from the ensemble. Her lace-covered boobs always seemed to be bursting from the jacket. If she bent over, the jacket flared open, giving "unintentional" flashes all day long. It was the first thing to get me thinking about Mardi Gras.

Jessica had the kind of looks that turned men stupid, and she knew it, but this shot the ego boosts into pure exhibitionist thrill. By the end of January, the office had risen from risky to risqué. Her cohorts weren't bothering to hide their stares. If they were blatantly obvious -- without being obnoxious -- she took it as a silent request. She usually granted a coy lean here or there.

While most guys admired from safe distance, Frank was increasingly touchy-feely. It was the demurring game: he came close to fondling, she pretended to not notice (even as the other guys did).

Jess told me all about it, three days running, looking for a reaction. I could tell she was going back to that unanswered question: What if she were tempted to do him again? But she wouldn't explicitly say it. Or couldn't. I don't know.

Implicitly, through our latest round of kinky fantasies, she knew what excited me. By her number of orgasms (same fantasies), I knew what excited her. When it came right down to it, I wasn't sure it should happen in real life. My word was the last fail-safe before my flirt wife became my hot wife. My slut wife. I couldn't quite give that word.

That's when I finally suggested Mardi Gras. I didn't think Jessica would have a problem flashing a little boob and I was right. Or a big boob, in her case. If that was all that happened it would've been fine, but I had ulterior motives. After the patio, and everything in its wake, I wanted to see what could happen without mistaken identities, without caveats or asterisks.

What happened? I gave the word and we went absolutely crazy. Our second night here, she blew a tailor and later a dance partner. Last night, she blew three guys from a bar in a French Quarter alley. One of them fucked her and I'd never been as hard as when I'd fucked her sloppy seconds. That 4-on-1 was one dirtier than a workplace 3-on-1 we'd only fantasized about. And I was right: she looked great in beads but better in pearl necklaces.

Why New Orleans and not home? I wanted to watch my wife become my porn star. And I did. Couldn't have done that if I unleashed her on her office. Did that get the craziness out of our system? Didn't feel like it. It felt like it was becoming foreplay.

###

Jess still had her face buried in my shoulder. She was a bit shivery, but it seemed like she didn't want to move. I'm not even sure if she knew how chilly she was.

I pulled the covers over us and she snuggled up to me. Her boobs pressed against my side. Usually, that was enough that I'd just have to play with them. Right now, I was preoccupied.

Under the covers, Jessica warmed up. Her body relaxed and she stretched herself against me. For as warm as she was, though, her nipples had hardened into fleshy little pebbles.

"Do I need to ask what you're thinking about?"

Her voice was muffled, her face still buried against my shoulder. "Do I need to answer?"

"Your discretion."

"That's kinda what I was thinking about."

"Your discretion?" Her leg was draped across me and I could feel heat radiating from between her thighs. "Or lack of it...?"

She nodded into my shoulder, but she didn't speak. After a minute, she unburied her face to stare at mine. "Ever since the Patio..." She took a moment, tracing a finger down my belly as she composed. "God, this week has just blown my mind."

"Yeah, me too..." I knew where she was going and I wasn't going to let her off the hook. "So, what about the patio?"

"Well, at work..." She wrapped her hand around my cock and gave it a squeeze. "What if I really did...?"

"Did what? Spit it out, girl."

"Well, yeah," she broke out in giggles. "What if I came home from work with a Monica Lewinsky dry cleaning mess?"

"Nice," as I choked back a laugh. Mess? I closed my eyes and saw dry, gray patches flaking from her black blazer. Maybe she'd meant it as a Frank-sized mess, but I saw Jess as her whole office's objet d'affection, their bukkake girl. I was not thinking with the big head. "What if..."

She gave my hardening shaft a gentle stroke. "You would be turned on?"

I glanced at her hand. "Hell of a way to ask, you little slut."

She giggled, but I was in deep thought over all the people that wanted to be deep in my wife. I love sex, obviously, but sex doesn't equal love. I was new at swinging, but I'm guessing that attitude made it possible to share in the first place.

"Yes, it would turn me on, but..."

Her tone was concerned even as she slowly stroked me. "But what?"

I pulled her a little closer. "Babe, there's a million things I worry about."

"Name one."

"I can name eight: they all work in your office." She giggled, lowering her head across my body as she listened. "If I lend you to Frank, the others will be jealous. I see complications and entanglements and collateral damage."

"Yeah..." Jessica kissed and flicked her tongue over the tip of my cock. Her lips brushed and tickled as she whispered: "But I can solve that."

"How?"

"By doing this..." The tip of my cock was just inside her mouth as her tongue slowly swirled over it. "To anybody that wants it."

"And everybody would want it." I can't explain why, but some part of me wanted my wife sexually used. "And I want you to give it." Well-used, but not used up. "...But I want you coming home warmed up, not topped off."

"Didn't topping me off last night warm you up?"

"Yeah..." Not only was she used, I watched her enjoy it. She'd validated my dark desire, absolving my guilt. If I'd had regrets, they swirled down the drain when she showered the cum of four men off her tits.

She French-kissed the tip, giving me the original 'hard sell'. "...Getting topped off warms me up."

"Kinky..." I had a sudden vision: three girls that work in my office. That instant, I was nervous my wife wouldn't be the office slut. "Just remember the Two Rules."

"Is that it?"

"That's all I..." Her mouth plunged down the shaft, taking my breath away. "Can... think of... Right now..."

It felt like she'd sucked my 8" cock out to 14". I didn't last another second.

Last night should've left any mortal man empty for a week. With Jess' lips, I full again. A moment later, so was her mouth. She stroked me, cupping my balls, milking every last drop from me. She was supernatural.

She swallowed and tucked me back between my legs. She patted my slowly softening cock and rested her head on my belly. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and deep red as she smiled. "Thank you."

She was thanking me? I just came like a fire hose! Oh, right. "You're welcome."

###

Sunday passed but we never made it to a church. We never reached for a drink, either. Instead, we toured the rebuilt levees of New Orleans and took pictures of storm damage that still hadn't been cleaned up.

For as much sexual momentum as we'd had, we swung the exact opposite. We didn't talk about last night or the night before. We didn't talk about The Patio or our "negotiation" this afternoon. We didn't call anybody for a follow-up freak session.

But I was thinking about it. All of it. It looked like she was too. All day Monday, as we toured the deep Bayou, I was bipolar on our sex adventures. I had a passing fantasy that all three guys from last night suffered horrible accidents. Then I imagined setting up a repeat performance. The next moment, I was planning how to get all the incriminating evidence back. Buy, beg, bully or steal? It was digital though: we'd never, ever know for sure if all copies had been deleted.

I thought about closing our relationship back up once we got home, no matter what we said about "sharing." I was in an altered state at the time, thinking with my dick. Did I have some sort of subconscious dominance fetish? The more I gave her away, the more I controlled her? I don't know. I didn't think of myself that way, I didn't think of us that way. Jessica was my wife; my companion, playmate and partner. There were moments that "sharing" seemed like the dumbest idea ever.

Fat Tuesday rolled in and we barely saw any of the carnival. Nor did we talk about our own clowning around. We were quietly warm to each other as we toured pirate sites around the coast. By dinner, over Irish coffee, we were getting some of the sexy spark back.

By Ash Wednesday, we actually found a church -- St. Louis Cathedral, ironically -- and attended services. I looked up at the big white steeples then back down at my wife's bare calves as she crossed the threshold. God, I felt like such hypocrite. Not that I preached being a prude, but I was an unrepentant sinner going into a house where contrition was de rigueur.

I sat in the pews and thought about us starring in some mighty fine home-grown porn. If it wound up on the net, we couldn't deny it. We couldn't say we "needed the money." Had we made a mistake? We could say it was a mistake... but would we? It was only a mistake if something bad happened.

In the face all the post-Katrina tragedy and suffering, gratuitous, consenting sex seemed a celebration of life. Not everybody would agree. They'd say I'd lured out my wife's inner slut, that I was her sexual enabler. How many around us would crucify us if they knew?

The congregation stood in unison.

The priest was speaking, his lips were moving, but it didn't match. All I could hear was Jessica's moans echo through the cathedral, and the murmur of "amen" in answer. I shook my head. I was losing it.

We sat down and I saw her skirt had risen up. I rested my hand on the closest of those perfect knees and gave a little whisper. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"

Her cheeks flashed pink. She bit her lip and shook her head, pretending to listen to the sermon.

I gave her a gentle nudge.

She took a breath and leaned over. I could barely hear her over the echo in the cathedral. "I was praying for forgiveness."

"For what you've done or what you're going to do?"

I swear her cheeks glowed the red of the stained glass.

"Can't lie, can you?"

She shook her head. "But I can kneel."

"You are a naughty, naughty girl..."