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The Best of 2013

The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
by Amanda Earl

Beating the Gothic Out of Her
by Amanda Earl

Real Irish
by Amanda Earl

Mercy and the Man. . .
by Amanda Earl

The Revenant
by Amanda Earl

The Vessel
by Amanda Earl

The Too Beautiful Boy
by Arthur Chappell

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

Never For Punishment
by Daddy X

Like a Brother
by Big Ed Magusson

Old Dogs
by Big Ed Magusson

Goodbye Roger
by Huck Pilgrim

He Sends His Regrets
by Huck Pilgrim

A Small Favor
by Huck Pilgrim

Ava's Honey
by john e

LOX
by john e

Eclipse Sex
by Oxartes

Adam and Eve on a Raft
by Robert Buckley

Dead Man's Switch
by Robert Buckley

Does Immortality come with a Pension?
by Robert Buckley

Embraceable Ewe
by Robert Buckley

A Fragile Desire
by Robert Buckley

Surviving Winter
by Robert Buckley

You're the Only One
by Robert Buckley

Dissolve
by Sybil Rush

Bing Cherry Silk
by Valentine Bonnaire

Colony, Collapsed
by Valentine Bonnaire

Have a Nice Day
by Valentine Bonnaire

l'heure bleue
by Valentine Bonnaire

Once Upon A Time . . .
by Valentine Bonnaire

Red Suede
by Valentine Bonnaire

Yellow, like the daffodils
by Valentine Bonnaire

Novelette

Invisible Lines
by Raziel Moore



Archives

By Alan
Curtain
Other News


By Alice Gray
Slick 50
The Fourth Veda
Stolen Hour


By Amanda Earl
Daddy Complex
The Graffiti Artist
Sex With An Old Woman
The Vampire Responds


By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies
Newborn
Remembering
Surrender


By Big Ed Magusson
The Fix
Methadone


By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...


by C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
The Doll
The Lady and The Unicorn
Riding the Dog
Fidelis


By Cervo
An Evening At...
Readiness Is All
Chinchilla Lace
Fridays At The Benoit
Cruising On A Sea...
Bitsy Takes a Test
Touring Persephone
Are You Kidding?
Quigley’s Harvest
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Angels’ Spawn


By Cherry Black
Mrs. Priestly
Face Down
Just A Simple Black Dress


By Chris Bridges
Second-hand
Fast-forwarding
The Whitechapel...
Passing Notes


By Daddy X
Nikki Didn't Like It
Overscratch
A Woman in My Position


By Dominic Santi
Drillers
Kiss of Peace


By G. E. Russell
Judgement Day
Nebulous
First Love, Last Romance
Snow White
This Desolate Eden
The Glass Cage
You Like It Like That...


By Helen E. H. Madden
When The Angels Fall
Husbands and Wives
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
Going Viral
Virtual Love


By Helena Settimana
Balance
Highway 69
Amadou
The Space Between


By J.T. Benjamin
The Question
Thornburg Sex Survey
Alternating Weekend
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
Advice From Miss Millicent
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
Use Me
Zachary's Perfect Date


By Jill
Kidnapped
Sheila Discusses ...
It's About Sex
A House On Fire?
Maureen and Sheila...


By john e
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
Saturday Morning


By Julius
In Praise of Pussy
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?
The Newcomer


By Juniper Maclay
Lunch Break
The Scientist
Public Transportation


By Keziah Hill
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming
Angel
Dutch Masters


By L.A. Smith
Missionary Position
Both Hands


By Lara Nickles
Almost
Hero


By Lilie Berlin
Naughty Little Girl
Color Less Ordinary


By Mike Kimera
Kneading
Soft Option
At the Adult Bookstore
Postcard
Playing With Barney
Deserving Ruth
Till Death Do Us Part
Happy Anniversary
Mating Calls
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
The Last Taboo
Hand-Jobs
Fucking Ugly
Paying For It
Sex with Owen
Ask Alice
The Sisters
Bar Snack

Smears
by Robert Buckley © 2007



He was at the edge of slumber, his mind reeling off a loop of jumbled images too inchoate yet to qualify as a dream. Her voice—her cry—echoed through the white noise in his brain once, and then again. He broke the surface of wakefulness doubting he had actually heard her. Then it came to him clearly, a sob dissolving into a despairing whimper.

"Linda!" He sat up. Silence.

"Oh—noooo!"

"Linda!"

He flung his legs off the bed and stumbled barefoot to the stairs. He bounded down, missing a step and nearly sliding onto his ass. He recovered and careened around the landing to the bottom.

She was in front of the desktop computer. She seemed unaware of his presence, frozen, her hands covering her face, shoulders hunched—everything about her body language communicated—what? Guilt? Shame? Fear? Certainly surprise.

"Linda, what is it? What's ...?"

She turned, startled. Then, with fumbling desperation, she repeatedly clicked the mouse.

He started toward her, but she turned, pleading, "No!"

The Web page dissolved into the desktop.

He was behind her now. His hand rested on her shoulder. "What the hell is wrong?"

She looked up at him, her eyes filling. "Oh, God, Tim. Oh, my God."

"Linda—Jesus, honey. What ...?" He looked at the screen. "What did you see?"

"I—I was just ..."

"Yeah, just what?"

"I Googled Rossin College."

"Yeah ... and so?" His wife's alma mater, a small school in Virginia, had sent her a homecoming notice. He'd seen it atop a pile of mail. She was not one for attending reunions, and he had never seen the place himself. He met her about two years after each had graduated from colleges at opposite ends of the country.

She shivered, and her chin trembled.

"Jesus, what's going on?"

He slipped the mouse from her hand and opened up the browser. Then he clicked on "history" and scrolled to "in order visited today." He moved the mouse to the last entry.

"No, Tim. Please."

"Shhh." He clicked and the page opened up. His eyes widened at the sight of his wife. A much younger Linda.

Her dark hair draped over her shoulder in a thick, lustrous pony tail that continued down and out of the frame. She was grinning—a dazzling smile, and her dark brown eyes, the ones he fell in love with the day he met her, caught the light.

A girl, a blonde about a head shorter than Linda—she had come to their wedding—stood beside her, and seemed to be straining to ... lick her cheek.

Linda's face and the other girl's—he'd forgotten her name—were streaked with some sort of white translucent gel.

There were other pictures—it was a gallery. Above the pictures a red banner screamed: FACIALIZED COEDS.

"It—it's a porn site." His last words came out in a raspy whisper.

"Oh, Tim, it's not—I mean, I'm not ..."

The subtext below the banner read: Horny lesbo Rossin College cum-sluts lick jizz off their freshly drizzled faces.

Tim stepped back. Linda? Cum-slut? Lesbo? Was he dreaming?

"Tim—you don't—you can't believe ..."

It took him a moment to gather himself. "Linda, how in hell ... what is this? Where'd these pictures come from? How did they ...?"

"Oh, God, I don't know, Tim. I remember when they were taken, but it isn't what they say it is. Oh, my God. What if people see these?"

"Okay, just try to calm down, and tell me what you can. You say you remember these pictures?"

"We were—I don't know, I can't even remember if we were seniors or juniors then."

"That's okay; just tell me how these pictures came to be."

"We were just, you know, a bunch of girls living in a dorm. It was a dull night. We used to do silly stuff like, you know, like everyone in the dorms did, all the time."

"What were you doing?"

"One of the girls used to like the frosting that comes with those cinnamon rolls, you know, that come in a little paper cylinder—you get them at the supermarket. You smack the side and the dough pops out and you put them in the oven and ..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know the kind you mean."

"Well, she used to steal the cup of frosting that came with them, you know, that you're supposed to spread on after you take them out of the oven."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, it drove everyone crazy, so one night, just to teach her a lesson, we went into town and bought a whole case of cinnamon roll dough. Then when we got back to the dorm we held her down in bed and smeared a ton of frosting on her face and hair. It was just a joke—I mean, we weren't being cruel, she was laughing and going along with it."

"Okay, but what about the pictures?"

"Brenda—you remember Brenda?—she had a Polaroid, and she took a picture of Ali—that's the girl we frosted. But then we all got silly and started smearing the frosting on each other. Brenda kept taking pictures."

Tim began to scroll down the rest of the page as a despairing whimper rose in Linda's throat. Another picture, a pretty ass bent over a chair, smeared in frosting, and two girls licking it off each cheek.

"Jesus!" Tim said in a long exhale.

"Oh, God, Tim. Please believe me ... we were just being silly girls."

Tim's eyes narrowed as he focused on an array of moles and freckles. "Jesus Christ, Linda ... that's you—that's your ass!"

Her eyes overflowed and her sob emerged unfettered and doleful.

He held his head in his hands a moment, then he hugged her. "Okay—okay. Honey, shhh, I know you were just being silly. It doesn't mean anything. God, it was twenty years ago."

"But—but—but ..." She could barely speak through her sobs as her throat spasmed. "Someone will see, they'll think—think—think ..."

He hugged her tighter. "Okay, let's not worry about that. The chances of anyone we know seeing them are pretty remote."

"But, I Googled Rossin. Anyone doing the same thing will see them."

"Yeah ... well ..."

She began to sob again.

"Well—then—if anyone asks, we'll just tell them the truth. Our friends will understand."

"But, what if someone at work ... my boss, if he were ..."

"You didn't put them on the site, so what could he do? It's your privacy that's being violated."

"Can't we do something? Can't we make them take them down?"

He thought about it. That would be the ideal solution.

"I don't think so, honey. These sites—well, there are so many layers, you could take forever finding out who really owns them, and you might draw more attention to them."

"But, Tim, we have to do something."

"Look, Linda, these sites change content all the time. A week or a few from now they'll have some other photos up. I think—well, I think we should just go on as if we don't know a thing about them. If someone should bring them up ... well, we just act like we don't know what they're talking about."

"Oh, God, Tim ... look, there are comments."

"What—where?"

Linda pointed a trembling finger at a thread beneath the gallery.

Tim read the comments silently. He knew Linda was reading them too as her breathing got louder, and she trembled in his embrace.

-- Fine fucking blow-job lips on Ponytail ...

-- Looks like she can suck cream out of a baseball bat

-- Love to put my ten-inch dick up her ass while she ate her girlfriends pussy.

"They're writing those things about me. Tim, God, look what those filthy men are saying about me."

Tim didn't answer. He was mesmerized. A sense of unreality took hold of him—those filthy comments from men—who knows who they were or where?—saying they wanted to fuck, gag, come all over Linda. His wife, the mother of his children?

"Oh, Tim, we can't just do nothing."

He had to force his eyes away from the comments. "Honey, I don't think we can. Look, I'll check around, maybe call our lawyer, but I think he's just going to tell us to ignore it and let it blow over."

"Blow over?"

"What if we took them to court? We'd just draw everyone's attention to them. Okay, so they put them on their site without your permission, but the fact of the matter is, Linda, you allowed a picture to be taken of your dorm mates licking your ass. And, it ain't gonna make a bit of difference that you were just a bunch of girls acting silly, that it was all—innocent."

Her shoulders slumped. "Oh, Tim, I feel so dirty ... so violated."

"I know, honey, I know."

"Who would do such a thing? How'd they get hold of those photos?"

"Linda," he shook his head. "No one had any inkling what the Internet would become. You couldn't have imagined them showing up where a whole world could see them."

"Oh, Tim ... the whole world."

"You said Brenda took the pictures. Would she do it? Was she mad at you about something?"

"No. God I haven't even heard from her in five years."

"Well, then, who the hell knows. Maybe an ex-boyfriend stole them off Brenda. Or she tossed them in the trash and the garbage man scooped them. Fact is, anyone could have gotten hold of them and posted them to this site, or any site. They keep stealing content off each other."

"Tim! You mean my pictures could be on other sites?"

"I'm sorry, honey. There's no way of telling. Once they're out there ..."

"God." She ran her hand through her hair. "From now on, if I get passed over for a promotion or a raise, I'll always wonder if it's because someone saw that picture—lesbo-comslut Linda."

Her shoulders heaved with fresh sobs, and then she wailed, "What if the girls see them?"

He tried to console her. "They won't ... c'mon; our kids don't look at that kind of stuff."

"But how do we know, Tim?"

He held her in silence until her sobbing subsided. Thank God the girls were off on a school trip. He'd erase any trace of the site from the computer before they came home.

"C'mon, Linda, let's go to bed. We'll work it out after a good night's sleep."

"How am I gonna sleep?"

He helped her upstairs.

*               *               *


Tim lay still with his eyes closed as Linda tossed beside him. She couldn't fall asleep, and who could blame her? The pictures of Linda reeled behind his eyelids like a slideshow, along with the lurid captions. What a mess, he thought.

At least she wasn't naked in them, except, of course, for the shot of her ass, but no one who wasn't intimately acquainted with her moles and freckles would recognize it. But, then it struck him like a rifle shot. Linda had dropped her pants and let a pair of girls lick her ass—lick her ass, for crissakes!

Okay, kids in dorms did screwy things. He did. He had a roommate who used to drink himself into a stupor and piss out the fourth floor window. He participated in a dick-measuring contest himself—thank God they were all too blitzed for anyone to think of taking pictures.

It wasn't like Linda had been a wanton slut, not the woman he married. Not buttoned-down Linda who was too modest to wear a two-piece bathing suit, never mind a bikini. But the photos, and their context—the context created by the people who put together that Web page—somehow it was as if they had created an alter ego of his wife. An odd notion began to gnaw at his brain that the porn-site Linda existed, perhaps lurking in the shadows, eager to emerge.

The thought made his cock twitch.

Linda tossed again. He reached over and laid his hand on her hip, then leaned closer and kissed her shoulder. Her body was tight, rigid. He slid his hand beneath the waist of her pajama bottoms and over her ass. The picture of her ass on the Web site loomed large in his mind.

She turned onto her back and his hand slid over her belly, fingertips fluttering the edge of her patch of dark hairs leading to her pussy.

"No, Tim. Please, I'm too upset."

She abruptly turned onto her stomach. "Just rub my back for a while, please."

His cock had poked its way out of the fly of his pajamas, but he sighed and said, "Okay, honey, sure."

He slid his hand over her back slowly, lovingly, taking an occasional detour over the rounds of her ass. After a while her breathing became relaxed and regular; she fell asleep. But he had a raging hard-on. He considered jerking off, but eventually fatigue overtook him and his cock and he fell asleep.

*               *               *


Linda was already up and gone when his alarm sounded. He had wanted to take her to breakfast, but once sleep took hold it did not yield its coddling grip easily.

He showered and dressed and was about to head out the door when he stopped. Like a guilty schoolboy he tiptoed to the computer and fired it up. Again he opened the browser and then clicked on History. Another click and the notorious Web page was again displayed on the screen. The thought again occurred to him that none of the pictures showed Linda naked, or flashing her breasts.

But this was just a preview page. He had to pay to get inside. Damn if he was going to give out his credit card number to these sleazeballs just to satisfy his curiosity. He gripped the mouse to click the browser closed, but his eye caught the thread of comments. There were new ones. Christ, the page was getting some heavy traffic.

He read the latest entry:

-- She needs a big-cocked cowboy to grab that ponytail and ride her ass hard.

"Fucking bastard," he muttered. But, an image of Linda on all fours being taken from behind by some anonymous man flashed in his head. He shook himself, more determined to turn the damned computer off, when something else nagged him.

He clicked the History button again. He counted how many times the page had been opened and when.

"Linda!" She must have viewed the page before she went to work.

*               *               *


That evening he found her curled up in her robe and slippers on their bed. He decided to let her nap and went to work to fix dinner for them. Later, he gently shook her shoulder.

"Hi, hungry?"

She stirred. "Yeah, okay." She sat up and stretched, and he caught a glimpse of nipple as her robe separated. Instantly the thought intruded that the pay site harbored photos of her in more explicit states of undress. He forced it from his mind and followed her downstairs.

She sat at the table as he filled her plate with roasted chicken and vegetables. She was silent, a faraway look in her eyes as she ate.

"I talked to a couple of people today—just hypothetically," he said. "They pretty much told me what I already suspected: We'd be creating more trouble trying to get those pictures taken down, than just letting it go."

She nodded. "It's just so surreal, seeing myself. Those awful comments."

"Hey, honey, those guys have no idea who you are. You're just a fantasy woman. They wouldn't know you if they passed you on the street."

She looked at him, an eyebrow cocked. "Do I look that different now?"

If sounded like an accusation, and it took him a moment to respond.

"No—of course not, Linda. It's just, well, you were twenty then; you're forty now. Yeah, you've changed, but you're still the beautiful girl I married. You turn guys' heads, I've seen them."

She shrugged, then forked a piece of chicken, raised it to her mouth and began to chew with an absent expression.

"Your hair," Tim said. "I had no idea you wore it so long, it must have reached your waist."

She nodded, but her eyes were still unfocused, her thoughts far away.

"You wore it shoulder-length when we met," he persisted. "I liked your hair long."

He gazed at her as she chewed and nodded silently. Her boy-cut hair was attractive, but he began to imagine it long and draped like a shawl over her shoulders.

She swallowed and said, "I talked to Jeannie about it."

His back stiffened at the mention of Linda's best friend—divorced and gratefully childless Jeannie.

"Do you think that was a good idea? The fewer people who actually know about the existence of this site, the better."

"Jeannie's not going to tell anyone. Anyway, she thought it was funny."

"Funny?"

"Uh-huh. I gave her a lift home and she asked me to come in for a while. We looked at it on her computer."

"And she thought it was funny?"

Linda shrugged. "She lived in a dorm—she said she did a lot crazier things. She didn't believe me, though, when I told her there were no pictures of me—you know—naked. So she used her credit card to get past the first page."

"I wouldn't have taken that chance. Who knows who these people are?"

"Yeah, well, if you did you would have gotten a good look at Brenda's boobs."

"Brenda?"

"I'd forgotten. Someone grabbed her camera from her, and we got her top off and smeared frosting all over her chest."

She said it off-handedly, but then she froze. "Oh, God, I can't believe I told you that."

"Honey, can you be recognized, you know, touching her tits?"

"Huh? Oh, no, just our hands. Brenda had huge breasts; they filled the frame."

"Linda, is there anything else about these pictures I should know?"

She looked at him as if the question was entirely ridiculous. He shrugged and let it go.

"Jeannie laughed out loud at the comments," she said.

"Yeah, well, she has a weird sense of humor."

"She had me laughing at them too after a while, but something she said ..."

"Huh? What did she say?"

"Something about how there might be guys all over the world ..."

"Yeah ... what?"

Linda's face flushed. "Jerking off to my pictures."

Tim at once was aware of a cool wet spot where his cock nestled in his shorts.

"Well ..." He cleared his throat. "I wouldn't think about that."

"I can't help but think about it. Tim, it's like there's another me that exists somewhere, some filthy little sluttish ..."

She didn't finish her thought. Instead, the faraway expression came over her face again.

She was quiet the rest of the evening. She got up while they watched television and, without as much as a good-night, went to bed. Later he slid in beside her and let his hands roam over her hip and thigh. She turned onto her back and his hand slid down her belly to her pussy where his fingers dabbled with her clit.

Her hand covered his. "Stop it, Tim." But, her fingers manipulated his as they stroked her folds.

She abruptly turned on her side and clenched her thighs together. "Not now—I'm really tired."

He was left again with a painful hard-on. And perplexed, the tips of his fingers were moist.

As her breaths became soft and regular, the slideshow of images reeled behind his eyelids, this time including an imagined shot of Brenda. He remembered her, and her bosom, straining against the dress she wore to their wedding. Her breasts were so large, he thought a chest cold could prove fatal.

Linda had touched those tits. Spread frosting over them. Had she told him everything? The other girls licked frosting off Linda's ass cheeks. Had she licked frosting off Brenda's gargantuan tits?

His cock tented the bedclothes. He got up and went downstairs.

*               *               *


He opened the browser and immediately clicked to the Web page. There were more comments from anonymous visitors. They echoed each other, they wanted to gag Linda with their cocks, fuck her up the ass, make her eat pussy while they fucked hers. After a while Tim's eyes glazed over.

"There isn't an original idea in the bunch," he mumbled to himself, then chuckled mirthlessly. "Morons."

He gazed at Linda's picture, the one with the blonde girl licking her cheek. Then the thought formed in his brain: What would you like to do to her?

His hand slipped beneath his pajama waistband, over his nest of hair and closed around his cock. He pulled it through his fly and leaned back in the chair. He imagined Linda naked, held down by her dorm mates, straining against their restraint. Her pussy was pink and glistening as he laid the knob of his cock against its slick folds.

She pleaded, "Please don't fuck me." But he knew she really wanted him too. So did the girls, as they broke into giggles.

He was stroking furiously now, ravishing slut-Linda in his mind.

"Tim!"

He hadn't heard her come down the stairs. He wasn't even sure he'd heard her voice. He sat up and tried to put his cock back in his drawers, but it might as well have been spring-loaded. He turned; his face felt like it was on fire.

"Linda—Jesus—I'm sorry, I was just ..." He stopped, knowing any attempt at explanation would be lame.

Linda's expression was fierce. "Is that how you think of me now?"

"Linda, no, please ..."

"Maybe you want to believe it—well, do you? That I let men come on my face."

"Christ, no! Of course not ..." But he was talking to her back. She had turned and was running up the stairs.

"You can stay down there!" she shouted from the landing. "You'd better."

"Oh, for crissakes!" But there was no appeal. He heard the bedroom door slam.

*               *               *


He was ashamed, but then his shame turned to self-pity, and then to anger. Didn't she and her girlfriend have a good laugh over the site? Yeah, a good laugh thinking of maybe hundreds, thousands of anonymous guys whacking their dicks looking at her pictures. So, he was horny—she'd turned him down twice two nights in a row. And hadn't he jerked off to her picture, for crissakes, and not some anonymous, whale-titted Internet bimbo?

In the morning, she got dressed, came downstairs and walked past him on the couch without a word.

He sat up at the sound of the front door closing and tried to stretch the stiffness from his back. "Aw, fuck her."

From the moment he arrived at work people gave him a wide berth. He wanted an excuse to vent on someone. Hell, he'd have knocked the boss on his ass if he'd said the wrong thing. He was glad to be out of there at the end of the day, but he couldn't make up his mind about going home. He spotted a bar. But to hell with that. His anger rose again. He headed home.

He walked through the front door. Her purse lay on top of the kitchen table. He pulled off his overcoat and suit jacket and draped them carelessly over a chair.

The computer was running.

He clicked history, then counted the number of times the Web page had been accessed. Damn ... she was looking at it too. Was she getting off on the comments thread? Or maybe reliving some fond memory of licking and getting licked by another girl?

He ascended the stairs bounding two steps at a time. The bedroom door was open. She appeared to be just shedding her work clothes. She stood staring at him a moment, then she rushed to shut the door in his face. He pushed it and her back.

"Leave me alone," she demanded.

"We have to talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"No?"

"No!"

Her blouse was unbuttoned almost to her waist. The bra she wore pushed her breasts up and apart affording him a view of shadowed cleavage.

Her eyes followed his. "I mean it, Tim."

He responded by pushing her back on the bed.

"Get out!"

He grabbed the lapels of her blouse and pulled them apart sending buttons flying.

"Tim, stop!"

He lifted her onto the bed and fumbled with her skirt trying to locate a zipper.

"Stop, c'mon, you'll rip it."

He might have if he hadn't found the zipper. He tugged it roughly until the fabric lost its tautness. He yanked skirt and panties down her legs and off. She began to flail her legs—but she didn't kick at him. He tugged at the bra until the clasp failed and it catapulted onto the floor.

"You want to know what I think of you, Linda? Huh? This is what I think of you."

He unbuckled his belt, and tugged his zipper down. His trousers fell away and he kicked his boxers off and climbed between her thighs.

"No! Don't, I don't want you to. Noooo!"

He fell onto her, pressing his lips to her neck, then turning to her breasts, sucking roughly at her nipples.

"Don't—don't ..." But she clenched handfuls of his hair and pulled him against her.

Her pussy was sopping. "You don't want it?"

She whimpered at his mocking remark.

Hips swiveling, he drilled his cock under her belly. She cried, her protests weakened, and her legs closed behind his knees.

"Bastard, bastard ..." her voice trailed off. But it released his trigger. Spasm after spasm, he strained to empty himself into her. Her body trembled beneath him, then trembled again; her cunt clenched, relaxed, clenched again, as if she were squeezing the last remnant of fluid from him.

They were both breathless, spent. But he managed to push himself off her and onto his feet. He stood for a moment looking down at her. Her hips at the edge of the bed, her legs dangling over; his cum drooled out of her cunt.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "I'm not sleeping on any fucking couch tonight," he declared, then walked to the bathroom and shut the door.

He stepped into the shower and let the heat pour down his back. He let his mind go blank—no more thinking.

When he finished he wrapped a bath towel around himself and stepped into the hallway—just in time to hear the front door slam.

*               *               *


"Aw, shit! Now what?"

He hurried downstairs with just the towel tied around his waist, then stalked from den, to kitchen, to living room, where he stood alone, seething. The towel slipped off his hips.

"Stupid," he muttered, but remained in one spot, shivering, naked, and feeling foolish.

Where had she gone? Maybe to Jeannie's to commiserate, have a good cry—or maybe a good laugh. At him.

Maybe he should call—no, fuck that.

He lifted his hand to his forehead and rubbed a thumb against his temple.

"Asshole! You don't rape your wife. What a shithead," he admonished himself.

But a voice asserted itself, in counterpoint to his shame and remorse.

Rape—bullshit! She was hot for it too. She had fucked him back—fucked him hard—and then she came so powerfully he thought her bones would shatter. He also knew she was continuing to access the site, knew that something had overtaken her, as it had overtaken him.

"But ...," he whispered at the empty room, "you don't treat your wife that way ... not your wife ... do you?"

He thought again to call Jeannie, just to make sure Linda was there, that she was all right, but decided against it. Better to let her yak it out with her friend; don't interrupt; don't interfere. But the hours passed and a weight settled in the pit of his stomach.

He pulled a robe around himself, but nothing else, and paced. It was 10 p.m. Where the hell was she?

As it closed in on 11 p.m. he was entirely frantic. He'd call Jeannie.

But there was no answer. It was Friday night—single girls went out on Friday nights. Was Linda with her—had she been there at all? He thought about calling the police, imagining the conversation with a jaded cop: "So, you say you had a fight with your wife? Give her time to cool off, pal."

At least, he thought, he could ask them if there had been any accidents reported; ease his mind on that score.

It was 11:20 when he picked up the phone. He had punched in one number when he heard her car in the driveway. Thank God. He was relieved, but now he was angry.

He heard her keys rattle in the lock, then her steps as she turned to close the door behind her. Her heels clicked on the tiles in a pattern that indicated a casual, unhurried gait. When she stepped into view his chin dropped.

She wore a leather jacket he hadn't seen her wear in years, and a black miniskirt she once said she'd never fit into again. But she had, just barely; high on her thighs, it possessively hugged her hips. A pair of high-heeled, knee-high boots completed her look.

But her face—she appraised him with a smirk, amplified by a garish shade of red lipstick. It was smudged at one corner of her mouth.

Her eyes traced their way from his chin to his hips. He shook himself out of his spell and realized his robe had fallen open.

"Been entertaining yourself again, Tim?" Her sneer curved into a mocking grin; she tilted her hip like a pro advertising herself on a street corner.

"Where the hell have you been?"

She shrugged and stepped toward him. What was that on her face?—Something sticky, white-translucent. There was a dribble over her left eyebrow, and another, reflecting the light, on her right cheek. She unzipped her jacket—she wasn't wearing a thing under it. There were more slimy streaks, over her collarbone, and between her breasts. Another over the curve of one breast looked like it had dried and become tacky.

He struggled to find his voice. "Linda—what ... what the hell?"

"You wanna know where I've been, Tim? Well, I just thought I should be the girl you want me to be."

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"What they said I was: a cum-drizzled slut. Wasn't it?"

"Linda, for crissakes ..."

"I found a bar, Tim. And I didn't go in there to drink, but I found what I was looking for. The biggest one—well, he was leaning against the bar. God, looked like he hadn't taken a bath in a week, but I could tell he had what I needed."

"Linda! Jesus, what are you saying?"

She let her jacket slip off her shoulders, revealing more streaks and smears over her belly, her ribs.

"I just tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'I want to suck your cock—okay?'"

Tim's heart skipped a beat, then it began racing. Blood simmered in his ears.

"I like it when a guy doesn't waste time thinking—doesn't look a gift slut in the mouth—sort of speak. Before I knew it he had me down on my knees—God, I almost choked on it. And when he came—well, I had to gargle."

Tim felt his brain cooking, synapses firing off, circuits shorting out, and electricity arcing behind his eyes.

"They had a crappy pool table there, husband. See, he wasn't finished with me. Not he, not his friends. Must have been at least a half-dozen of them that tossed me up on that table like a piece of meat, spread my legs and fucked me—Christ, they fucked me. And all the time they called me slut, whore, cocksucker. It just got me wild—I begged them not to stop."

Tim's ability to think, process what she was saying, was reduced to a level of passivity that follows shock. He heard every word, every nuance, but oddly it left him unable to move or speak—paralyzed—a prisoner of the lurid tale she was telling.

"They flipped me over when they were done with my cunt. Being fucked in the ass was something I'd never imagined before—I was afraid it would hurt. But the bartender greased me up with some margarine—well, they said it was margarine."

She unzipped her skirt, and with some pushing and hip maneuvers, it reluctantly let go of her body and pooled on the floor. Now she was naked except for the boots. She took a step back. "They kept my panties for a souvenir—my T-shirt too. They're hanging over the bar if you want to drop in sometime and see them."

Her grin widened and she licked her lips wickedly. "God, I thought my eyes would pop out when that first cock went up my ass. But then he started to really fuck me, then another took his place, and another, I lost count how many times I came."

She crossed her arms over her breasts and dabbled a finger in a streak of goo on her shoulder.

"They were just going to leave me there, but I asked them for one more favor. I said, 'Guys, my husband is going to be awfully disappointed if you don't come all over me.' Well, as you can see—they were happy to oblige."

He assessed her, still standing with her hips tilted at a saucy angle. There were streaks on her thighs, in her pubic hairs; slime clung to the rim of her belly button.

"Well, husband? Isn't this what turns you on, your wife—what do they call it—a jizz-drizzled slut?"

His rage asserted itself now, growing, pulsing hot in his chest, but controlled.

"What are you trying to prove, Linda?"

Her expression changed a moment. He tried to read it; perhaps a momentary twinge of regret, fear, remorse?

He stepped back, but she stepped toward him, closing the distance until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Now she resumed her tart, taunting demeanor.

"Well, Tim, I might have room for one more. You up for—what do they say—sloppy seconds?"

He grabbed her elbows and pushed her onto the couch. Before he could take a step toward her she drew her legs beneath her, kneeling; she flung her arms over the back pushing her breasts out. Tim bent and slid his hands beneath her folded knees, lifting her as he kneeled, hefting her into his lap.

"Go ahead," she sneered.

His cock was rigid, maybe it had been since she began her tale. But right then it ached to penetrate her. He drove himself into her cunt without preliminaries. Her channel was hot and slick. Had she really fucked them—was he plowing through their slime? He pummeled her like a piston, harder, faster, rage and lust fueling his assault on her womb, but she met every thrust. She straightened her legs, and pressed her thighs around his waist. He could hear the squeak of her boots rubbing together.

Their eyes locked, each glaring, furious, burning into the others. Then Tim's glance shifted to the gooey streak over her cheek bone. Linda's sneer reappeared.

"Go ahead—you want to. Lick my lover's cum off my face. Do it!"

He snarled, and hesitated. Just a taste, to prove one way or another—what?—that his wife was still his? Could he stand the answer? Could he pay the price to find out?

He pressed his lips to the spot and swirled his tongue.

It was sweet, it was sugary—it was frosting.

"Bitch!" he cried. She'd played him, but what did it matter? She had goaded him into tasting it, and he had done it. He fucked her furiously—he wanted to explode inside her.

Her shriek about shattered his eardrum, then he launched his fluids. Tremors seized him and his arms tightened around her.

*               *               *


Somehow—neither would ever be able to recall—they made their way upstairs, fell into bed, and fucked ... and fucked ... and fucked, until exhaustion overtook them and they surrendered to dreamless oblivion.

In the morning he reached for her, but felt only the still-warm depression where she had lain. He roused himself, wincing in pain. He must have pulled a muscle—maybe a couple of muscles.

He stepped into a pair of jeans, pulled on a T-shirt and gingerly made his way downstairs.

He found her in the kitchen, wrapped in her quilted robe, sitting at the table, absently stirring a cup of coffee.

He approached her until he stood right behind her, his hand hovering over her shoulder. She had not acknowledged his presence. Tentatively he rested his hand on her, closed his eyes, and said a prayer. It was answered an instant later when she laid her hand on his.

He walked around her and turned her to face him, then he knelt on one knee.

"Linda—I ..."

A vigorous shake of her head told him there was no need to talk, no need to analyze, and certainly no need to apologize—for anything.

He laid his head against her bosom and closed his arms around her back. She reciprocated.

Something had changed, something that frightened, but excited them. They had walked through a door, and there was no going back. They would have to adapt to and embrace whatever lay ahead.

He whispered, "I love you, baby."

And though he couldn't have imagined her being able to hug him any tighter, she still managed to fortify her embrace. And that told him, wherever this new journey led, they would make it together.

_______
© 2007 Robert Buckley. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Robert Buckley? Read his bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.


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