Zoe's Awakening Pt. 04

I wince at the memory of his huge cock and make a face. "Yeah. Packing a little too much if you ask me," I say. Page snorts with laughter and continues watching, his cock harder than ever at the sight of my come-covered face, twisted into an expression of undeniable ecstasy, on the screen. "You came then, huh? You loved feeling him fucking your ass and playing with your clit at the same time?"

"Yes." I reply succinctly, not really having much to add to that. No use denying it; the pleasure is written all over my face. My pussy is throbbing now, with new arousal as well as soreness, and I wish I could finger myself, but fear retribution if I tried.

We continue watching, for a few minutes so caught up in the action that neither one of us speaks. Then, on the screen, I see Brad and Dave begin fucking me at the same time. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of it, remembering the insane fullness, the way their cocks had hit every nerve inside me, giving me one of the most intense orgasms of my entire life. Page looks at me, my chest heaving, my hand shaking, still gripping your cock.

"How did it feel? Having your cunt and ass used like that? Tell me everything, slut." Page's tone is stern, leaving me no choice but to obey, to open my mouth and let the words tumble out clumsily.

"God, I don't know. Fuck. It was like... painful. And wonderful. I felt so full. And I could feel their cocks rubbing together, and that was fucking hot. And they were pressing against every sensitive spot inside me. It's the hardest I've ever come, I think." I add, as, on the screen, Dave starts to finger my ass. Then I come. I look like I'm in pain, my eyes shut tight and my jaw clenched. Soon, Dave is fisting my ass, and Page's cock is like iron in my hand, watching me be completely violated in every way, two of his friends buried in my pussy and ass, another standing over me, slapping my face like I've done something to personally wrong him.

I continue jacking him off, feeling his cock grow harder and thicker, swelling to its biggest size ever. The head is purple and angry looking now, and precum is leaking all over my hand, which, with my small fingers, strains to circle the whole girth. Page's hips start bucking to meet my strokes and he reaches over suddenly to pinch my nipple, so hard I yelp. "You're gonna make me fucking come..." He says, eyes still fixed on the screen as Chad finishes slapping me and starts fucking my pussy, come from the two previous guys leaking out around his cock. The image pushes you over the edge and he starts coming, spurting long ropes of sticky come all over his stomach, thighs, my hand, and even a bit on my face. He shudders as I finish pumping, then fixes me with a level gaze. "Clean me up," he says simply.

I comply immediately, licking every inch of him, cleaning the come off his body and my hand like it was honey and not semen. I lick my lips. The video finishes up within 5 minutes and he turns off the TV, turning to look at me.

"Well. That was...riveting. I have another assignment for you, though, lovely," Page says, with a wicked grin that makes him look like the devil himself.

+++

He sighs heavily. "But... you're exhausted. It can wait until Monday. Go home to your husband, have a relaxing weekend. I'll see you at the office," you say, and I can hear a slight reluctance in your voice, like it's taking a lot to let me go now.

After giving me a quick kiss on the forehead, Page gets up to shower and I put my clothes back on. It's strange how I'm wearing the same outfit as several hours ago, but feel like a totally different person. My body still hums with a sexual undercurrent and I am hyper aware of every sensation, from the thin fabric of my bra rubbing my nipples, to the tight fabric of my skirt hugging every curve of my ass and thighs. I feel electric and jittery and guilty and perfect all at once.

Page emerges from the shower just as I'm slipping into my shoes, ready to head home. To my husband. My stomach clenches at the thought of Mark. Page approaches me, seemingly to kiss me goodbye, but the kiss quickly changes from casual to needy, charged. Even though he just came spectacularly not half an hour ago, his cock is stiff and ready within moments, his towel dropping to the floor, hands pushing me downward. I'm on autopilot now, and I grab his cock without thinking and take it into my mouth. I suck and lick and stroke, bringing him off faster than I even thought possible, considering how recently he came. Soon he's muttering that he wants his come coating my mouth when I go home to my husband, and it sends him over the edge and makes my pussy clench and ache with emptiness. He finishes, I swallow every drop of come and leave, shutting the door quietly behind me.

+++

In the car, everything seems to hit me at once. I feel panicky, and for a minute I wish I would have just stayed with Page for the night, insulated from the reality of what I've become. Or always was, I suppose. I plug the auxiliary cord from my radio into my phone, hoping to get lost in some music, let it fill my brain and stop the weird buzzing, gnawing guilt from overtaking me. I tap open my music app and hit Shuffle All and start driving towards the home I share with Mark.

I'm lost in thought when I realize that Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio is playing: "...feeding on fever/ down all fours/ show you what all that/ howl is for..." The lyrics hit a bit too close to home, and I hurriedly punch the "next" button on my iPhone, praying the next song is a little more lighthearted.

Phantom Planet's Geronimo blares out of my speakers: "...just one touch/ that's enough/ and it's like pushing comes to shove/ I think you like this way too much/ I think you're way fucked up..." Again, the song is... too apt. Too reflective of my current situation.

I hit "next" yet again and it's like a punch to the gut. "No One's Gonna Love You" by Band of Horses. The song I walked down the aisle to at my wedding. A song that makes me think of Mark, my sweet husband, whom I thought I loved. Who I thought had somehow changed me. "...anything to make you smile/ you are the ever-living ghost of what once was/ I never want to hear you say/ that you'd be better off/ or you liked it that way..."

I tear the cord out of my phone, cutting off the music abruptly, irrationally angry. I want to hit something. Instead, I pull over into the next gas station and park, then lean my seat back to try to get myself together. I feel like crying but no tears come. I just sit, breathing heavily, wishing I had the strength of character to just fucking stop. But I can't. And I know it. So I sit up, push my shoulders back, and drive home. To Mark. To whatever awaits me.

The weekend seems to drag on forever. As much as I hate to admit it, I miss Page. I miss being treated like his personal sex toy, to be used as much or as little as he pleases. I miss feeling like an object, a doll to dress up and play with and fuck. I clean the house neurotically, driving Mark crazy the whole time, dusting every knick knack and ceiling fan and bookshelf and demanding that he help me clean the air vents and shampoo the carpets.

It keeps me busy, though, and more importantly, keeps me from calling or texting Page. I feel tempted a few times to slip on one of the many pairs of extremely scandalous underthings he purchased for me and bend over in the mirror and send him a picture, teasing him relentlessly. Somehow I manage to avoid it, and by Saturday night, just over 24 hours after I was utterly violated by 5 of Page's gym buddies, I'm horny and in need of release.

As usual, Mark doesn't notice. He's watching the game in the living room, (it's March Madness, after all, dontchaknow?) I bring him a beer, his favorite, in his favorite glass. Chilled, even, to the perfect temperature. 43 degrees Fahrenheit for a Pilsner. I'm the perfect wife, really. Except that you have secret gangbangs and serve as your boss's depraved little fucktoy... I think in the back of my mind. Yeah, well... there's that.

I've worn a tiny little black lace thong and one of Mark's flannel button downs into the den, and I casually lean over to set his beer on a coaster, making sure he gets a peak at my breasts.

"Thanks, honey," he says, absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the screen as some incredibly tall Asian man scores a point or three or five million. I don't much care for basketball, personally.

"Sure," I reply, my voice dripping with honey, promising something very sweet indeed.

"Mark?" I ask, sitting next to him, my thigh brushing his.

"Uh huh?" comes his distracted reply. I start to unbutton the flannel, slowly, staring at him, willing him to look at me. If he'll just look, he'll want to fuck me... I think. The whole shirt is unbuttoned now, and I shrug out of it, my tits looking ripe and inviting, if I do say so myself. Mark must have noticed from the corner of his eye because his head snaps around to face me. But instead of joyful surprise or desire, I see outrage and confusion on his face as he stares at me.

"What are you doing, Z? What if someone sees through the window?" He asks, stupidly.

I shoot him a venomous look. "We have blackout curtains, Mark. No one can see in. I'm sorry I was trying to seduce my own husband in my own home!" I'm angry, the sting of rejection worse than I could have ever imagined. I feel horrible, disgusting, shameful, ugly.

Disgusted with everything, myself, this whole situation, I quickly put the shirt back on and hurry out of the den and upstairs, Mark sighing resignedly, but making no attempt to come after me. I brush my teeth and fall into bed, where I try to masturbate but wind up crying and falling asleep instead.

Sunday morning, and Mark is gently shaking me awake, whispering my name softly. I wake up, trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes, fumbling awkwardly for my glasses. I hate them, but I can't see without them, and my contacts are no where nearby at the moment. Shoving them on my face, I see Mark sitting on the edge of the bed, breakfast tray in hand. I look at him, feeling numb and cold, and try to smile. "Thanks, hon. You didn't have to do that." I say, as I bring the tray over my lap, a slight smile at what's on the try. A banana and black coffee. My breakfast of choice, what I've eaten almost every day for my entire adult life. I peel the banana and eat it slowly, then savor the coffee.The elixir of life, I think to myself, enjoying the aroma and taste and warmth of the cup in my hands. I am a coffee addict. I love it almost as much as cock.

Mark has been sitting quietly the whole time and seems like he's holding something back. I set my cup down on the bedside table and move the tray to the floor. "What's wrong, Mark?" I say, trying to be a good wife. To make up for how incredibly bad I actually am.

"I don't know, Z. I feel like... maybe I'm losing you. Am I crazy? Or do you feel it too?" His eyes look wild, like he's seen some horrible apparition.

"No, Mark. I'm not going anywhere," I say, placing my hand on his, reassuring him as I lie through my fucking teeth. "I love you."

He breathes a sigh of relief. So easily appeased. So trusting. So naive.

I squeeze his hand again, and then rub up and down his arm, gently, invitingly. He looks at me, at my mouth, and leans forward, kissing me deeply. I respond in kind, sinking into the kiss, crawling toward him and curling myself into his lap like a kitten. We kiss for a while, his hands roaming all over my body. We have sex, missionary, how Mark likes it. Sweet, simple, vanilla, sex. It's fine. My clit tingles briefly but I don't come. I can't come now, I don't think, without what I know Page can give me. The sweet pleasure/pain that comes from humiliation, abuse, roughness. The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and as night falls, I find myself twitchy with the anticipation of seeing Page again in the morning, my craving for him only intensifying as the hours pass.