Authors: David McManus
About ten later minutes, I heard her cry out, “Oh God” and listened joyously as she reached orgasm.
I got on top of her quickly afterwards, thinking confident thoughts, praying to the patron saint of stamina.
As soon as I slid inside her, my dick was again in over-excited mode. I took it slow, trying to distract myself, like I wasn’t there. I started thinking of Yankee scores from the prior week … Yanks 7, Orioles 2, Orioles 3, Yanks 1. I had been watching the clock on Ashley’s nightstand from when I went inside her. 10:42 had become 10:44. 10:45 had become 10:46. I thought of an auctioneer with his megaphone … “10:46! Do I hear 10:47?”
But Ashley’s pussy just felt so good, and when I heard her moan “Oh yeah,” there were only so many mental acrobats I could do. I pulled out suddenly to try and hold it, but it was too late. I went back inside her and came within seconds. I thought of Jim Murta cumming up inside her and gave it an extra umph at the end.
“That was good,” Ashley said, holding me as I lay on top of her, both of us naked.
It was good
, I thought, as I told her “I love you so much.”
We pulled up the covers and she rested her head on my chest and within minutes I could tell she was sleeping.
It was a huge improvement ... I had gone a solid three to four minutes. I wasn’t back to my pre-rumor self, but hell, I was on my way.
I felt relaxed and euphoric. She was my wife, we had just made love, and she was naked, sleeping ever so peacefully beside me.
“How did the presentation go?” I asked Ashley when she called that afternoon.
“Really great, I got lots of compliments—a relief
that’s
over.”
“Do you want to get drinks and celebrate tonight?”
“I would love to,” she said, “but I’m already committed to see a movie with Jen.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“But I’m not leaving for Candlewood Lake until Saturday now. You’re around Friday night, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, “what are you thinking?”
“They’re having a happy hour this Friday. Would you be up for going?”
“What? A work happy hour of yours?”
“Yeah, it’s casual, very informal, but it’s at Old Bridge and I know you like that outside area they have.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “I think I can swing that, this Friday, yeah, sure, sounds good.”
Was she fucking kidding me?
Ashley had just invited me to face people who all knew the rumor. To them, I was the clueless husband bumbling outside while one of their colleagues fucked his wife. And now Ashley wanted me to show up and socialize with them.
Hell, there was a good chance Jim Murta would be there. I might have to say hello, make pleasantries, even shake hands with that self-satisfied, cocky prick—in front of everyone, no less.
How could she possibly think I’d be “up for going?”
I had thought she was asking if I were free on Friday, because she wanted the two of us to do something. Instead she gets me to say I’m free, only to drop the happy hour A-bomb.
She was throwing me to the lions. Could she not see how incredibly embarrassing and humiliating this would be? I’d be the sap, chump husband on display for everyone’s amusement.
They all knew what happened that Monday, a week and a half before me. And they probably knew a lot more details. Craig had probably only given me the condensed version and hadn’t the heart to offer up everything he heard.
Wouldn’t Jim have blabbed about what was going on when Tamara relegated me to the upstairs bathroom? Wouldn’t that be part of the full rumor? Had Ashley let on to Mr. “Just Bigger OK” Jim Murta that she was particularly impressed with the size of his cock? Might she have added it was a lot bigger than she was used to? If she had, wouldn’t Jim have included that juicy detail when he blabbed? I’d show up as Ashley’s smaller-dicked chump husband—the guy who bumbled around outside while his own wife’s pussy was being seeded by another man’s larger cock in a ratty little bathroom.
Could Ashley not realize how incredibly mortifying that would be? Did she want to humiliate me? Did she not know how much she humiliated me that night? Did she want to add insult to injury? Or was she just incredibly clueless to how I was feeling?
Where was the, “I understand if it’s awkward and you don’t want to go?”.
Well, I had no intention of going. Not freaking happening.
I said “Yes” because I had been put on the spot.
A last-minute excuse was going to sound more believable. And I quickly agreed, like it was no big thing, to make my eleventh hour rain-check sound that much more believable.
I was going to have to have unanticipated extra work Friday night.
When I got back home that night, I went online, into the “My Wife” chat room.
I decided to be more specific in the scroll. I typed, “My wife cheated and it’s royally messed with my head.”
Soon, others were publically writing back, “What happened Dave?”
I hesitated about opening up further, but after a few more comments asking for an explanation, I typed, “My wife had sex with a co-worker at a party I was at.”
“Tell us about it Dave,” I read in the scroll. It struck me then that being on the public stage—even if the twenty-five people reading it were anonymous strangers—was a little reckless.
Then the instant messages started: “NYC here” or “Can I see a pic of her?”
I read one that said, “It does mess with one’s head, doesn’t it? Tony, 45M, Baltimore.”
I figured he might have something to offer, some insight or perspective, so I replied, “Yeah, has been a colossal mind-f*ck to say the least.”
He asked me to tell him the story and kept replying “Wow” as I relayed the details of the last month.
“And then today,” I said, “my wife invited me to a work happy hour of hers.”
“Is the guy who fucked your wife going to be there?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“How do you feel about going, knowing everyone there knows what happened?”
“Well that’s the thing,” I said, “I can’t handle that. It would be just too humiliating. I think about having to shake hands with the guy or having to look him in the eye. I told my wife I would go, but I’m going to back out at the last minute. Tell her I suddenly have to work late.”
“Wait a second,” he replied, “so you told your wife today you were going, but you’re planning to be a no-show?”
“Yes, it would be just too much humble pie to eat.”
“So you’re just going to let your wife eat all that humble pie instead?”
“Huh?” I replied, “What do you mean?”
“How is your wife going to feel showing up without her husband?”
“She’s gone to plenty of happy hours without me.”
“But this is the first since the party right? Since this rumor started?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“And she invited you for a reason. She wants you there. She’s probably told people you’re going. She wants you by her side, to show everyone that you still love and support her. And when you don’t show up, she’s going to be embarrassed. And others will gossip about how you stood your wife up. You want to do that to her?”
“I don’t think she will feel stood up or embarrassed,” I said. “I just don’t think she realized how embarrassing it would be for me.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he replied, “You don’t think the rumor was embarrassing for her? Being gossiped about like that. She has to go into work every day and put on a smile and say hello to these people who all know what she did. And you can’t suck it up, and face the embarrassment she’s faced, for a measly few hours.”
“It’s just too humiliating,” I typed.
“So be humiliated for an evening. Don’t you see? It’s a test of your love and devotion. You have to go and provide solidarity, to show all the talkers that you’re 100% percent behind your wife, that you support her. And yes, even go up and shake hands and be polite to the guy who fucked her.”
“I just picture the smug self-satisfaction he would have, shaking hands with me,” I replied.
“No, the smug satisfaction should be all yours, because she’s your wife and she goes home to you.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” I said.
“No more thought. She invited you, and you said you would go. So swallow your pride, put your tail behind your legs, and show up at the party with your wife. And make sure to stand beside her and hold her hand a lot, especially when meeting the guy who fucked her. You should be a walking billboard for your love and devotion to her.”
“I would just feel so awkward and foolish, like they’d be laughing behind my back.”
“You want them laughing behind your wife’s back when you don’t show? And what do you think they’ll think of you, being too scared to show? Too intimidated to be in the same room with the guy who fucked your wife.”
“I understand,” I typed.
“If you understand then say it.”
“Say what?” I typed.
“I want you to tell me that you’re gonna go, and that there’ll be no excuses from you. Tell me that no matter how humiliating it may be, you’re going to be a good little hubby and hold hands with your wife, and be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked your wife.”
“OK,” I typed.
“OK, what? Tell me you’re going to the happy hour and you’re going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked your wife.”
“Fine,” I replied, humoring him, typing back, “I’m going to the happy hour and I’ll be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Between now and the party, I want you to repeat that to yourself and let the words really sink in. Now repeat it back to me.”
“I’m going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife.”
“That a boy. And I’ve put you in my contacts and I’m going to message you after the party and you’re going to give me all the details of how the happy hour went, right?”
“OK,” I typed.
“Now let’s see a photo of this wife of yours. And send me one of the two of you together as well.”
“I don’t have any on this computer, sorry.”
“Don’t lie to me, show her to me.”
“It’s my work laptop; I really don’t.”
“But you have some on your home computer, right?”
“Sure.”
“OK,” he typed back, “and next time, you are going to send me some photos, and you’re going to give me all the details about that happy hour, OK?”
“OK,” I replied, just to assuage him, “I have to go now.”
“First, repeat what I told you back to me.”
“I’m going to be polite to the guy who fucked my wife.”
“And cordial.”
“And cordial,” I typed, “I really have to go.”
I thought about what the guy had just said about Ashley being left holding the bag if I didn’t show. It was true that Ashley had suffered a huge indignity as well. Jim Murta blabbing had been a major “fuck you” to her as well. I had the luxury of not having to see them. But she had to work with these people and put on a brave face every single day—in meetings, presentations, going up the elevator, walking down the hallways.
Perhaps Ashley was feeling just as out on the moon. And maybe it was important to her that I go. Perhaps she wanted me showing her friends that I did support her and that our marriage was as strong as ever.
But good God, how I could possibly show my face at that event?
I decided to start dropping hints tomorrow about a big project to try and get a better read from her. I’d see which way she leaned by how she responded, either something like “No problem, I understand if you can’t,” or “It’s really important to me that you come.”
Then I thought of what the guy had messaged me at the end. His attitude had changed as our conversation progressed from helpful to almost badgering, like he was rubbing it in a little.
Perhaps his efforts to show me Ashley’s perspective were sincere, but by insisting that I tell him the details afterwards, he appeared to be taking some enjoyment from my predicament.
And his demand to see photos felt like some kind of weird power assertion.
Then I thought, The guy was trying to fuck with me.
He probably got off on getting me to repeat twice back to him, “I’m going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife.”
I thought of him ordering me to repeat those words before I went to the happy hour. What a crazy thing that would be. I’d feel reduced before even showing up.
Jesus, that guy was trying to fuck with my head.