Behind His Back (16 page)

I pull up my panties and tug my dress back down, and then stop the video and creep out to the sink to wash up and straighten my hair. Once I’m presentable, I text the video to Hunter with the words “I need to be fucked.”

I push send and then wait a moment longer before heading back out into the fray. But as I sit there, I feel a sense of unease creep slowly over me. A terrifying debate unfolds in my head.

Did I just?

No. There’s no fucking way.

Oh God.

I think I might have.

My phone can’t spring to life quickly enough as I jab the home button and open my Messenger app.

Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck
!

Instead of sending my dirty little creation to my new friend, I stupidly sent it to the last person I texted. I sent it to my husband.

I retreat to the stall and start to sweat. My perfect little dream world, in which I can pretend to be the adoring, happy wife with the enviable magazine job, starts to swirl and crumble and slip through my fingers. God damn it, I think I’m having a panic attack.

Why can’t you take back a text? You can erase almost anything else. If you regret an email you sent, you can figure out a person’s password. If you do it at work, you can bribe the IT person with a candy bar or maybe show him your tits. If it’s a letter, you can break into their home before they open it—or at least light the mailbox on fire. There are always options, but not with a text. And certainly not when it’s a video of me rubbing my pussy in a bathroom stall.

I apply the brakes for a second and try to be rational. I didn’t send it to a total stranger. I don’t have to worry about it showing up online—I think. It wasn’t my boss. Or my dad. I sent it to a man who’s seen me do dirty things before—maybe just not in that format. If things were better between David and me, maybe I’d be sending him naughty texts like that all the time. This could be a lot worse, right?

No, it couldn’t.

Because he’s already suspicious. I’m sure of it. And he’s not off somewhere on a business trip, leaving me with a few days to plan some kind of fix—or at least to pack up my shit and sleep on Cassie’s couch. He’s out there, surrounded by his colleagues, waiting for me. And I have to go and face him.

I leave the stall and check myself in the mirror. I’m deathly pale and visibly drunk. Hold on—I can use that. Maybe that’s all this is. Just me getting too tipsy and doing something dirty for my husband that the sober me would never think of. I’ve been getting more aggressive with him lately, and if I can get him to believe I did it all for him, I might be in the clear.

I take a breath and grip the sink—a familiar position—as I prepare to face him. When I reemerge, I scan the room and see him sitting alone at a table staring at his phone. He looks up and sees me, and his face asks a thousand questions that I can’t answer. It’s the face of a scolded puppy, or a child who’s just been told by a cruel older cousin that Santa’s a scam.

It’s show time. I stumble toward him, trying not to look too much like my drunkenness is an affectation.

He doesn’t get up or pull out a chair for me. He just stares down at his phone.

“How many drinks have you had?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I think they’re affecting me really weirdly.”

He looks at me with compassion. Does he think I’m a lush? Is he worried that one of these horny old sex-cult executives drugged me? He seems to be buying it, so I double down. I put my hand on his thigh, close enough to his cock so that there’s no confusing my carnal intentions, and I lean in to whisper in his ear. “Take me home so I can swallow your cock.”

It’s the first time in forever that David has shown genuine enthusiasm about one of my advances. Is he just eager to get out of this corporate circle jerk, or did my accidental text really turn him on? As we climb into a cab to grope each other like horny teenagers, I wonder whether this is our chance to become the horny, fuck-happy couple I need us to be.

I
wake
up to the smell of sizzling bacon, and I know exactly what it means: David’s preparing my favorite breakfast. Pastured bacon from Whole Foods, full-fat sheep’s milk yogurt with fresh raspberries, and almond-flour muffins from a gluten-free bakery that I’ve become addicted to. Way back when I was skinny-fat and weak, a healthy breakfast meant low-fat yogurt, a thimble of egg whites scrambled in a soy-based cooking spray, and whole-wheat toast with margarine.

Puke. At least I have that part of my life figured out.

Sadly, I also know why he’s cooking me breakfast, and it’s not to commemorate any carnal acrobatics from last night. If anything, he’s trying to make up for another lackluster performance. Let’s just say this isn’t celebratory bacon.

Things might have gotten hot and heavy in the cab, but they quickly fizzled when we got home. The scene plays through my mind like a trailer for a PG-rated movie. I tried pulling him into the kitchen, but he wanted to head up to our bedroom. Always the bedroom. Always on the bed. Would it kill him to tug my panties down from behind and fuck me on the stairs just once?

Once I got him on the bed and stripped him down, a familiar scene unfolded. I sucked his limp cock until it was hard enough to fuck me, and he climbed on me and carried out his duties, finishing quickly and rolling off to turn his back and sleep.

There was one new development, though, in that he apologized before dozing off. He told me he had too much on his mind.

And now I’m left to wonder what that meant. Was it more work? Maybe the call that distracted him while I got naughty in the bathroom last night? Or is he still suspicious about the video I accidentally texted him?

Even though I’m on shaky ground and I need to be careful, I’m still not satisfied. And as much as I’m craving that bacon, I have a deeper itch. I decide that, one way or another, I’ll find a way to connect with Hunter today.

Before heading downstairs, I hastily apply makeup and a pinch of my Fräulein perfume, and then I sheathe my ass in a pair of tight gray stretch pants and squeeze my tits into a pink push-up bra. I skip the shirt and throw on a tight, sporty zip-up that hugs my torso with black stretchy fabric that makes me feel like a superhero. I’m not too concerned with clothes today—I won’t be wearing them for long.

When I get downstairs, he’s forking the thick pieces of bacon from our cast-iron pan to a bed of paper towels on a plate.

“You’re so sweet,” I say. “But I promised Cassie I’d meet her for breakfast.”

It scares me how easily these lies are flowing out of me.

“That’s okay,” he says, but I can tell he’s crestfallen. It breaks my heart, but it’s not enough to stop my devious plans.

He holds out a juicy strip. “Want an appetizer before you go?”

The smell—a succulent blend of umami and salt and sweet—overtakes me, and I step toward him. “You know I can’t say no to bacon.”

He holds it high, like he’s expecting me to grasp it in my mouth, but I reach for it with my hand instead. I chew it slowly and let out a little moan. He might not be able to make me cum, but he fries up a mean strip of pig.

“I was really hoping we could have a sit-down breakfast together,” he says. “I feel as though we have some stuff to discuss.”

“I know,” I say. But do I know? The talk he wants us to have could range anywhere from his potential erectile dysfunction to his knowledge of me fucking other men. Oh shit. Does he have a disease that’s stressing him out and making him soft? Is it cancer? Has he been visiting some distant specialist every week and telling me he’s away on business to keep me from worrying? Am I cheating on a dying man?

“Can we save it till later?” I ask. If I’m caught—if my secret world is about to be exposed, cutting me off from Hunter and the dirty girl I’ve become—then I want one last hurrah. It’s not like fucking Hunter one more time will make me any worse of a wife, right?

I take another strip of bacon off the plate as a sign of good faith. Whatever he has to say, I’ll listen. Just not this morning. Not when all I can think about is Hunter’s hard cock.

“Okay, Faith,” he says. “Later then.”

“Later,” I say, and I slip a third strip between my lips and wrap it around my tongue before dashing out the door.

I still have the taste of bacon in my mouth when I arrive at Hunter’s building, so I dig through my purse for gum. I come up empty, but fuck it—any man who’s put off by the taste of bacon when he kisses a girl isn’t a real man.

I know that Hunter spends most Saturday mornings at a nearby indoor rock-climbing wall, so I don’t bother buzzing up, and I don’t text him to let him know I’m waiting. This time I have other plans.

When I enter the industrial-chic lobby, the building’s young concierge is at his desk, and I’m relieved that he recognizes me. Aside from making my crazy little plan possible, it gives me a feeling of permanence in Hunter’s life.

“Hello, Miss,” he says, revealing a hint of a Spanish accent.

Then again, I know I’m not the only girl he says hello to.

“He’s not in this morning,” he says.

“I know,” I say. “I’m planning a surprise birthday party for him, and I need to get his place ready.” Shit. I should probably have brought some balloons to back up my story.

“Do you think you could let me in?” I ask.

“No, Miss. I cannot.” He has soft, sad puppy dog eyes. It’s killing him to disappoint me.

“Are you sure?” I ask, stepping toward him.

“I’m very sorry, Miss,” he says. He’s starting to break. I can feel it.

“But you know me,” I say. “You and I go way back.” I’m close enough now to make him uncomfortable. He can barely make eye contact.

“I know, but—”

He falls silent when I pinch my top’s zipper and start tugging it slowly open, revealing my pushed-up tits beneath.

“You were saying?”

He still can’t finish. He swallows his saliva with an audible gulp.

I lean over his desk and tug my zipper down farther, giving him a full view of my pink bra. My tits are poised to bounce out of it, right into his face, when I realize there’s a camera above me. It should chasten me and snap me back to my senses, but instead it just makes me want to go further. I haven’t exactly thought this through, so I don’t know what comes next. Will I have to take off my bra and show him my tits? Should I pull his head in towards me and force him to motorboat me? He’s cute, but I’m not going to fuck him, no matter how slutty I’ve become.

“Okay, okay,” he says, saving me from further deliberation. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Thanks,” I say cheerily, as though we’ve just finished a simple business transaction. I zip up while he fishes for the key to Hunter’s loft in a cabinet beneath his desk.

Hunter’s place is as immaculate as I remember it, and I’m about to start searching through his closets and drawers when it dawns on me how batshit crazy I’m acting. Breaking into a guy’s place and going through his stuff is exactly the kind of stalker behavior that sends men running for the hills.

I set myself straight with a quick pep talk.
This is about sex, dummy
.
You’re just here to fuck him, not to go through his credit card statements
.

Back on track, I hastily undress and head to his bedroom, leaving a breadcrumb trail of my clothes so he doesn’t have a heart attack when he finally finds me. It occurs to me, once I’m naked on his plain white duvet, that he might not arrive alone. Maybe he climbs with a partner. It could even be a woman. The thought of another woman climbing the fake rock wall with him, watching him in action, his forearms popping and twitching as he reaches for the holds, makes me burn with jealousy. But even if he brings her back here, I won’t be deterred. I’ll fuck them both.

I’m wondering whether I should start warming myself up when I see a MacBook open on the floor beside his low bed. I’m determined not to be a crazy stalker bitch, but I can’t help myself. Lying naked on my belly across his bed, I press the space bar, and the screen illuminates. It was just asleep, and it doesn’t prompt me for a password.

Naturally, his desktop background is one of his black-and-white pictures of a perfect ass. But my eyes are drawn to the corner of the screen, where there’s a folder called “Current Projects.”

I double click it, and it opens a list of about twenty files that are all named after women—just first names, no other details. I click the first one, “Alyssa.”

A video window pops open on the screen. Behind the triangular play button is a still image of a woman on her knees with a cock in her mouth. It’s filmed from the man’s perspective, and I can safely assume that the man is hunter.

I start playing it, and I watch Hunter gather her long blonde hair with one hand and hold it in a makeshift ponytail behind her head while she sucks him off, deeply and slowly. Through the tinny speakers I can hear her groaning loudly and excitedly, as though sucking his cock is the only thing in the world that gets her off.

She’s good. Not as good as me, I think, but good enough that I should be jealous. Given that I’m acting like a crazy girlfriend who breaks into a man’s condo and goes through his laptop’s homemade porn stash, I should be livid. I should feel like he’s cheating on me the way I’m cheating on David. But for some reason it doesn’t bother me. Watching a hot, strange blonde woman taste my current favorite cock just turns me on. I stare at the screen, admiring her technique and feeling myself get wet.

Hunter’s guiding her to her feet, practically lifting her by her hair, when I realize that my name might be in the list. I hastily shut the video player and scan for my file, and there it is: “Faith,” one of the many women he’s fucked and filmed since he started whatever project this is.

I’m one of the women he deemed good enough to keep.

I click on my file and a familiar scene pops onto the screen. I see a still of myself tied up by Anika on the Lotus bed, waiting to be eaten and fucked by Miss Sassy Pants and Hunter. I start the video and watch myself, squirming and afraid, constricted by the smooth white ropes.

It’s so hot that I can’t help myself. I tuck my knees under me to prop my ass up in the air, and I start rubbing my pussy as I lean over the bed and watch Miss Sassy Pants crawl toward me on the screen.

If Hunter doesn’t come home soon, I’ll have no choice but to finish myself off without him. But that won’t stop me from tearing his cock out of his pants and sucking every last drop out of him.

I’m absolutely drenched when I hear his heavy door creak open. For a second I consider letting him catch me on his computer. Maybe he’d be turned on by the sight of me touching myself to a video of him fucking me. But my better judgement takes hold, and I quickly close the video player and shut his MacBook lid. Then it’s just me, wet and naked and waiting for him.

I hear him drop his bag and walk straight to the bedroom. It occurs to me that, though he now knows there’s an uninvited woman in his home, he might not know it’s me. The trail of sportswear would usually be enough of a clue, but given that he photographs ass models for a living—and probably fucks most of them on the side—my tight gray stretch pants could belong to anyone.

My heart’s thumping like mad as I hear him approach his bedroom door. And then he’s there, standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging open. He’s wearing a faded black T-shirt that has just the right amount of tightness around his lats and pecs, and an old, worn-in pair of jeans that look like they’re ready to be tugged down his hips over the hump of his muscular ass. I immediately zero in on his forearm muscles. After a morning of climbing, they’re bulging like the ridges on a topographical map.

Before he can even ask how I got in or what the fuck I’m doing in his bed, I’m on my feet, padding toward him across the hardwood like a silent jungle predator.

My brain runs through a series of scenarios. Even though we’ve fucked a handful of times, I still barely know Hunter. He could be hiding any number of secrets from me, and he strikes me as a man who takes his privacy seriously. Technically, I’m trespassing, which means he could use force against me. This is America, after all. He could restrain me, hurt me, even pull a gun on me. All of this should scare the hell out of me, but the thought of him holding a gun to my head and fucking me, as sick as it sounds, just makes my mouth water for his cock.

This is not my twisted Angelina Jolie–esque gun-fucking fetish.

His mouth is still hanging open when I drop to my knees in front of him and yank open his jeans with perfect precision. I’m like an athlete in the zone who doesn’t see the players on the opposing team or the rowdy fans cheering on the sidelines. My narrow world contains nothing but his gorgeous cock and my yearning mouth, and there isn’t a force in the universe that could stop me from wrapping my wet lips around him.

He’s already half hard when I pull him out of his white cotton boxer briefs, and he stiffens quickly as I take my first lick along his underside. He tastes salty and sweet. Even better than the bacon I left at home. His mouth’s still hanging open when I finally envelop him to feel his final spurts of growth. Against my tongue I can feel his rapid pulse through his tight, smooth skin, and it’s heaven knowing that I’m able to make his heart race.

Once I’ve sucked him to his full, spectacular firmness, I push him back against the wall beside his bedroom door and proceed to give him the wettest, sloppiest, most violently enthusiastic blow job I can muster. I take him deep within my throat with rhythmic bobs of my head while saliva sneaks through the seal of my lips around his slippery shaft, and he groans like a purring lion as he guides my head with his strong, controlling hands.

His cock is rigid as steel. It’s dripping sweet hints of precum onto my tongue when I give him one last trip down my throat. Then I pull my mouth away. He kicks off his jeans and pulls his shirt off while I look up at him with eyes that are starting to sprout tearful trails of mascara. I take his hand in mine and guide him out to the main area of his loft, toward the large window we fucked in front of that first night. Then I guide his grip toward my throat, where it belongs.