Behind His Back (11 page)

T
he next morning
I wake up in Hunter’s Spartan white bed wearing nothing. I vaguely remember him carrying me into his room and helping me out of the romp suit, but I have no recollection of showering. A subtle sniff under my arm offers harsh confirmation, and I resolve to clean myself up without waking Hunter, who’s sleeping beside me like a sated lion in the Serengeti sun.

I sneak into his stark bathroom and inspect the shower, which is unusually clean for a bachelor. Equally unusual are the bottles of expensive designer bodywash and conditioner in its corner. I pry one of the caps open and inhale. It’s an intoxicating aroma of seaweed and mint, which makes me even more excited about the prospect of showering—until I realize that no bachelor would buy these products for himself. Their presence suggests I’m not the only woman taking morning-after showers in his loft.

I start the water and creep to the door to take another look at Hunter, who’s still sleeping peacefully. So what if he fucks other women? He’s not the one who’s married. All that matters is that I’m the one he fucked last night—and hopefully again this morning once I’ve cleaned up.

When I’m done, I step out of the shower and find a tiny white robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Could he have put it there just for me, or is it more evidence of the other women he brings home? I wrap myself in the soft terry cloth and look in the half-fogged mirror, and my jealously recedes when I see how well it suits my body. Like my gray Fräulein robe at home, it’s scandalously short, and my firm ass just barely pokes out the bottom hem. As I pose and check myself out, I concoct a series of silly housewife scenarios where I’ll have to further expose myself for him—bending over to slide pies into the oven, reaching up to the highest shelf on a step stool, or applying lotion to my legs while pretending not to notice that he’s watching. The sleeves are long and billowy, making my legs and ass the focal point, but I leave it open just enough at the top to showcase the inner sides of my tits.

Feeling suitably sexy in my little robe, I head back to the bedroom so Hunter can tear it off of me. But standing over him, watching him sleep, I can’t bear to wake him. He worked hard last night, after all. So I decide to let him sleep a little longer while I snoop around his loft. In the corner opposite his walled-in bedroom is his studio area—a white stage with a massive white backdrop draped behind it. Surrounding the stage are studio lights, a tripod, and a large table that’s scattered with prints. A few others hang on the wall in sparse glass frames. All of the photos are of beautiful, fit asses of women. Some are clad in tiny shorts and yoga pants, while others are a little more pornographic. He clearly has a specialty, and some of the shots make me wonder whether he’s more than just a fitness photographer.

Leafing through the pictures on the table, I find a print of what might be the most perfect female ass I’ve ever seen. A familiar envy wells up inside of me, and I feel an immediate need to hit the gym and do some kettlebell swings. My ass might be my best feature, but he’s surrounded by perfect asses all day. And how many of these flawless-assed women has he fucked?

Suddenly I feel another familiar sensation—Hunter’s hard cock against my backside.

“Nice to see you admiring my work,” he says.

“They’re gorgeous.” I try not to let on that I’m talking about the girls and not his photographs, which are just as beautiful.

“It’s a delectable ass, isn’t it?” he says.

“Yes,” I say, feeling dejected. I don’t turn to him—I stare down at the photo on the table, wishing it were me.

He leans in and brings his lips to my ear. “But yours is better.”

“Really?” I say. I’m fishing, but I don’t care. I want to hear it again.

He grabs a handful of my hard rump and says, “It’s the best ass I’ve ever fucked.”

He massages my cheeks, kneading them in his warm hands, and he draws my wet hair to the side, giving his lips access to the back of my neck and shoulders. Within seconds I’m slippery.

“Did you fuck her ass?” I ask.

The kissing stops, and Hunter pauses to choose his words.
Damn it
. I should have known better than to ask such a stupid question. Of course he fucked her. He’s a fitness-model-turned-wealthy-photographer with a faint Australian accent and a loft in the Garment Factory.

“Yes, Faith. I fucked her,” he says. “I fucked her right here on this table, actually.”

His hand starts kneading again, working its way closer to my wet pussy, and he punctuates his words with kisses on my neck. He lifts the back of my tiny robe with his hard cock, exposing my ass.

“Does that bother you?” he asks.

It should bother me. I should be assembling an imaginary posse to go out and hunt the bitch down, but instead the thought turns me on.

“No,” I say.

“No?” he says. “You like thinking about it? About me fucking her right where you’re standing?” He starts rubbing my pussy. How does he always know which buttons to push? He’s making me jealous, but the jealousy is an aphrodisiac.

“Yes,” I say. Visions of sharing Hunter with the faceless ass model flood my mind.

“No? You’re not jealous? It doesn’t bother you that these other women sucked my cock?” he says. “That I peeled down their panties and fucked them the way I fuck you?”

He forces my legs apart and tugs the lapel of the robe down to my elbows, holding it tight behind me so that my tits are exposed and my arms are bound by it. I’m so excited that I can’t form words to answer him.

Then he forces his cock into me. As I gasp and whimper, he bends me over the table and fucks me at a ferocious pace, forcing me to stare at the ass of the other woman he had in this very spot.

“Do you like that ass?” he asks.

I tell him I do.

“Do you want to eat her pussy while I fuck you?”

Good fucking God, do I ever. I’ll do anything to keep this gorgeous man’s brilliant cock hard.

Still binding me by the lapels of the slinky robe, Hunter continues fucking me while I stare at the prints of perfect asses scattered around his work table. I picture him fucking every one of them—each one eagerly spreading her legs for him and then licking her lips after she’s swallowed every last drop of his sweet cum. It should be self-administered torture, but it only heightens my arousal. My body shakes and I cum quickly, and then Hunter pulls out and summons me to my knees. Still shaky, I turn and kneel before him, and I wrap my lips around his cock just in time to take his white, hot load on my tongue.

When he’s done, he strokes my hair while I lick his cock clean and then plant tender kisses on it. Then he heads for his shower, leaving me dizzy and excited and somehow still hungry.

M
y hair’s
still wet on my cab ride home. My fancy new romp suit, which I’ll have to awkwardly hand to a dry cleaner at some point, is in my handbag, and I’m reliving last night in my mind, playing back every minute of the action and doing my best to catalog it in my memory in case nothing that hot ever happens to me again.

Right at the part where Hunter buries my face in the black leather couch, my phone rings, jolting me back to reality.

These days, everyone I know texts. There’s only one person who still actually calls me, and he’s the last person I should be talking to with the salty taste of Hunter’s cock still on my lips.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey, darling. How’s my girl.”

How am I?
Oh, I don’t know. Amazing? Phenomenal? Filthy and naughty and unimaginably slutty and alive for the first time in years? How do I articulate to my distant husband that another man—a man who probably doesn’t love me and whom I probably don’t even love back—has fucked me out of my post-college slumber? And how do I tell him that if I have my way, I’ll continue to fuck him—and maybe even fuck anyone else who can make me feel that way?

“I’m good,” I say. “I’m just on my way to the gym.”

“Really? It sounds like you’re in a car.”

Fuck. He knows how close the gym is to our home—and that walking everywhere is what I love most about our perfect neighborhood. Is there a hint of suspicion in his voice, or am I just imagining it because I know he has every reason to distrust me?

“Just running late and didn’t want to miss the warmup,” I say.

“Okay,” he says.

Phew
. Despite all of my recent deceit, I still can’t lie to him. And even if I could, he’s a lawyer—he’d see through it sooner or later.

David tells me he’s on his way to a breakfast meeting, but he’ll try to call again later. He’ll be home tomorrow, which is a day early, and I’m strangely relieved by the prospect of seeing him again. I should want as much distance as possible right now, but after my past two whirlwind trysts with Hunter, I need to re-enter my normal, quiet life for a breather. But hopefully just a short one.

I tell David I love him and he tells me he loves me, and then I’m alone again for another day with my unruly frat boy libido. This morning’s quickie was too much of an appetizer to fill me up, and I’m bursting with pent-up energy. Maybe going to the gym isn’t such a bad idea after all. Besides, I’m still coping with a strange jealousy about the photos of the other women Hunter fucks. I’m eager to hone my backside with some heavy lifting.

After a smoothie and a change of clothes, I head to the gym. There’s no class right now, but I know Chad will be there. I’m worried that his last lapse in professional etiquette will change his open-door policy, but I’m willing to find out.

Just inside of the door is a small steel counter, with its exposed welded edges letting everyone who enters know that this is no place for the luxuries of paint. Chad’s sitting behind it, and the curved brim of his ball cap sits low on his face. It’s hiding his eyes, but I can tell he’s transfixed by whatever his laptop is displaying.

“What’s up, Faith?” he says. He scrambles with the trackpad like he’s closing a window, which means he was probably watching porn. I have half a mind to peek over the counter to see if his cock is out. If he’s stroking himself all alone in the gym, maybe he could use a hand.

“Hey,” I say. “I was hoping I could stop in for some squats.”

“Sure thing,” he says. “Let me know if you need a spot.”

He’s all business now. Which is unfortunate, because the thought of Chad standing behind me while I bend under the bar—hopefully with a hard-on from whatever was just on his laptop—is beyond hot.

I’m wearing a loose tee over a sports bra and my favorite yoga shorts, which are also my smallest—a tiny swath of neon pink Lycra that barely stretches across my sculpted ass. As I walk over to the indoor rowers for a brief warmup, I bemoan the lack of mirrors on the wall. I wish I could see whether he’s covertly checking out my ass.

After a low-intensity row, I stand and make a show of pulling off my tee. The sports bra beneath it is an understated black, but it’s low cut and it presses my tits together for a hint of cleavage. That feature makes it pretty useless as an athletic bra, but it suits my current purposes just fine. I should feel bad about the way I’m shamelessly displaying myself for Chad, but it’s distracting me from my jealous thoughts about the women on Hunter’s table. It might be a petty and pointless way of getting back at Hunter for sharing his perfect cock with other women, but what’s the harm?

The power cage is fastened to a battered hardwood platform at the back corner of the gym, and I head over and do a few practice sets of squats with an empty barbell on my back. There’s a thirty-five-pound women’s training bar on the rack, but I always use one of the men’s forty-five pound bars out of principle. Between sets I sneak glances at Chad, whose eyes quickly dart back to his computer screen every time I look. Knowing that his eyes are on me when I’m not looking, I squat deeper and push my ass back farther with each rep. I might as well be squatting in stilettos like the scantily clad fitness models in those ridiculous supplement ads I see whenever I flip through men’s fitness magazines. If he’s watching porn when he’s pretending not to look at me, I want him to picture me in it.

I progressively work up to a respectable weight, starting with the dinky ten-pound plates and then trading them for the twenty-fives for a few reps at ninety-five pounds—my one-time max. From there I jump to the forty-five pounders for a set at one hundred and thirty-five, and around the fifth rep my form starts getting shaky. I fake a faint grunt as I re-rack the barbell in the cage’s steel J-cups, and like a trained dog he trots across the rubber floor to offer his assistance.

“Going heavy today,” he says. “I like it.”

“Thanks for the spot,” I say.

He positions himself behind me like he’s a quarterback waiting for me to snap him the ball. I remember seeing two of the Rev warriors hit heavy squats after one of my sessions, and the way they spotted each other—the spotter standing behind the lifter with the crooks of his elbows cradling the lifter’s armpits while they lowered and raised their bodies in unison—looked so blatantly homoerotic that Nicole and I still laugh about it sometimes. But Chad’s a little more hesitant to get close than he would be with one of the bros. He’s either wary of being sued, or he’s still at half-mast from the porn he was probably watching, so once I place the bar on my back and lift it off the rack, I take an extra step back to close the gap.

Like a good trainer, he hooks his arms under mine, and I can hear his breathing quicken when his wrists graze the sides of my tits. At either side of me I can see his forearms, which are so braided with thick strands of muscle that they look like the ropes that anchor ocean liners. With my feet sturdy on the platform, I push my ass backward, brushing against the synthetic fabric of his shorts as his body follows mine down into a deep squat. When I’m satisfied that my hips are beneath my knees, I push up out of the bottom, deliberately grazing his crotch on my way up.

This time there’s no denying it: his cock is hard, and it wants out.

I lower the barbell back into the J-cups and then duck my head out from under it so that the bar’s sitting in front of my chest. With my hands still gripping it, I turn my head to give him a knowing look.

“Sorry,” he says, taking a step back.

“About what?” I say, toying with him as though I don’t know.

“Nothing,” he says. He lowers the brim of his cap even farther, but he can’t hide his blushing cheeks.

Oh God. He’s genuinely embarrassed, and it’s adorable. I turn to fully face him, and I look down at his shorts, which are sporting an obvious tent pole.

“About that?” I say.

He’s caught, and he knows it.

I could string him along, toying with is ego and watching his face get redder, but I’ve got other plans. I step toward him to reach my index finger up under the hem of his untucked t-shirt and hook it over the stretchy waistband of his shorts. My knuckle brushes against his abs, which are as hard as his cock.

He recoils a little, but I don’t let go. I playfully extend the elastic and wag it back and forth like I’m going to let go and snap it against his hips.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I say. Cassie would be so proud of me right now.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with a smile. He’s finally playing along. I was starting to worry that he didn’t have a sense of humor, which would be a huge turn-off, no matter how sinewy and thick his muscular forearms might be.

His smile is all the cue I need to reach my hand fully into his boxer briefs and grab his cock like I’m a coked-up bridesmaid on ladies’ night. This time he doesn’t pull back. He hardens in my hand, and while I can already tell that he’s not packing anything close to Hunter size-wise, I’m eager to give him some air and watch him grow.

“He seems a little constrained in there,” I say. “Mind if I take him out?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” he says.

“Good then. Lose the shirt.”

He obeys, pulling his shirt off past his thick lats, which spread out from his ribcage like the hood of a cobra when he raises his arms. He knocks his hat off in the process, and he tosses the cotton tee onto the platform to join it.

I’ve seen Chad topless a hundred times at Rev—ditching your shirt when you get sweaty is just part of the culture here. But his buff upper body takes on a new beauty up close, especially with his stiff cock in my hand. I trace my index finger along the ridge in the middle of his six-pack and squeeze one of his pecs, which is even harder than my ass after that last set of squats.

I want him to step in and kiss my wet, waiting mouth, but he’s clearly not a first-move kind of guy. To spur him along, I pull him into me by his waistband and turn my chin up to him. Our lips lock, and suddenly his hands are all over me, grabbing my ass and tugging my hair and yanking down the top of my tight sports bra. It’s thrilling at first, but there’s a clumsiness and a lack of chemistry in his groping. I’d expect more coordination from a man who can snatch three hundred pounds over his head, but he’s like a wound-up puppy, frantically licking whatever flesh is exposed to him.

His slobbering excitement is so intense that I turn away. I grip the racked barbell to steady myself while he wraps himself around me, and he continues gripping my tits and kissing my neck while pressing his hard cock into my ass.

When I can’t take any more, I tell him to fuck me.

My frustration fades when he tugs down my little shorts, exposing my ass. He rubs my wet pussy with a hand that’s uncomfortably calloused from years of lifting, and then he pulls down his shorts and slides his cock against me.

“Fuck me,” I say sternly. I’m in no mood for his clumsy attempts to tease me. I’m here for one reason, and that’s to nurture the slutty seeds that Hunter has planted.

Chad obeys, and when he finally thrusts inside of me in quick, spastic bursts, something feels off. He’s not as big as Hunter—or David, for that matter—but another piece of the puzzle is missing. Something in his frantic rhythm or in the way he grips my hips just doesn’t feel right. He’s fucking me good and hard, just as Hunter did, but I realize while he’s pounding me that being fucked hard by a hard man isn’t enough—I need to be controlled. I want to be at the mercy of a man who’s relentlessly punishing me, not at the helm.

After a few minutes of fucking, I push him back with my ass and then pull away from his cock. I turn toward him, and I stifle a laugh at the sight of him standing there, naked down to his lifting shoes and shorts, which are draped around his ankles. His body is phenomenal. He looks like an anatomical chart, with the V-taper of his wide lats and narrow waist conspiring with the devil-horn lines beneath his abs to direct my eyes to his cock. He’s still hard, but his cock is beginning to flag and point toward the platform.

Does he know that he’s not pleasing me?

The thought of him getting soft ignites a competitive fire in me, and I decide to rectify the matter.

“Lose the shorts,” I say, and he kicks them off as I peel off my tight sports bra, letting my tits fall out of it one by one.

“You like these tits?” I say.

He nods his head, and I drop to my knees.

“Do they make your cock nice and hard?”

He nods again.

“What’s that?” I say. “I didn’t fucking hear you.”

Good God, when did I become a drill sergeant?

“They make me so fucking hard,” he says.

“Good,” I say. “I want you to cum on them.” I lift his pulsing cock and lick along the bottom of his shaft, tasting myself along every inch. When I reach the tip, I give it a few strokes with my hand and then plunge it into my mouth, bobbing deep and bringing my lips all the way to the stubble of his trimmed pubic hair. He compensates for his lack of length by placing his hands on his ass and trying to thrust his hips out, as if that would make him seem bigger.

I pull my mouth off of him, letting drool dribble down my chin, and then squeeze his wet cock in my fist and stroke it in furious, quick bursts.

“Are you going to cum for me? Are you going to cum on these tits?”

“Oh fuck yes,” he says, and he reaches down to grab them and pinch my nipples. I arch my back to give him better access to them, but I tire of his fumbling fingers and I take him back into my mouth. Intent on finishing him off as quickly as possible, I hold his muscular ass in my hands and suck him off at a reckless, sloppy pace while he moans above me. Within thirty seconds I feel his cock start to pulse, and I remove him from my mouth and jerk him off onto my chest. He squirts four flimsy white ropes onto my tits, and then I drop his cock and sit back on my heels. If he were Hunter, I’d be licking him clean right now. I’d be sucking every last drop out of him. But he isn’t Hunter. He’s just a clumsy sportfuck with an incredible body and an unimpressive cock that he never fully learned how to use.