Wives with Benefits: Volume One (12 page)

I gave her a serious look of my own, though mine were not quite so powerful as hers. Said: “Fine. You do that.”

4

The tension between us each night, as we waited for Daryl’s time at Marissa’s company to run out, was palpable. 

That last week in particular, it probably didn’t help that it was her time of the month, so we refrained from any real lovemaking. 

“I don’t want to talk about it until he’s left the firm,” was her fairly clear line whenever I tried to broach the subject. It was plain to me that she was thinking about it as much as I was, though. When would it happen? How would it happen? Could it actually happen at all?

Marissa didn’t seem to be in any rush. But while we didn’t discuss it, she would keep on teasing me, telling me things like how she occasionally had lunch with him, something she’d never done before this whole possibility of being with him had come up.

She’d drop in little details, like how his new office would still be close enough for them to see each other for lunch whenever they felt like it. Or, how thanks to his new job, he’d managed to get an apartment a couple blocks from West North Ave that was on her way home from work, and not actually very far from our place.

In bed, we might not have sex, but she’d wind me up as we were settling down ready for sleep by reading her little quotes from Cosmo or Vogue or whatever else adorned her bedside.

“It says this comprehensive new study proves the assumption that women are biologically programmed to be monogamous is a myth…”

“Is that right?”

“…and women’s sexual desires are actually a lot more wild than men’s.”

Or:

“So apparently for a woman to have regular sex with more than one man actually makes her likely to live longer…”

“Seriously?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Is that regular sex with more than one man separately, or more than one man at the same time?”

“I’m not sure, actually. It doesn’t really say. Maybe they need more research on that. I wonder where I could sign up…”

The teasing got so regular, though, I think I adjusted. I was able to relax, let the feverish excitement sink in over the possibility of my Marissa actually crossing the line to toy with the idea of liberating her sweet sexuality with her intern. That buzz was ever-present, I just managed to cope so it did not actively disrupt my life.

Even by Daryl’s last day at Marissa’s firm, I was wondering what her strategy might be — firstly, if she would really go for this, or if she’d been merely teasing me about it, and secondly whether she would pursue a long, slow seduction or go for a quick explosive fling.

That day, I knew she’d be home late, that they were all going out to dinner to celebrate Daryl’s final day and his new job. 

Getting home from my own office as usual, around 7pm, I found myself knocking around our townhouse hoping that Marissa might be flirting with him, and that she’d have some quiet moment during dinner to arrange a first date with him, or whichever way she was going to continue to see him once he was no longer bound by the firm’s sexual harassment policy.

At 9pm, she sent me a text to let me know they were all hitting a bar after dinner, and that she’d probably be home later than she’d thought.

That was fine. I felt my heart rate picking up a little, hoping that a little alcohol in her system would definitely spur on the coquette inside her, that it would make the prospect of her arranging something with Daryl more likely. 

Then at 11pm, she sent me a text saying:

>Everyone else has gone home because they’re all worried it’s a weeknight, but I think Daryl should get a proper send-off. Staying out for a few more drinks.

My heart thumping against my chest, I sent a text back saying: 

>Stay out as long as you want, honey. Have fun, you know I approve xxx

I paused before I hit the “send” button — it was one thing to talk about this fantasy amongst ourselves, and maybe tease her about allowing her to sleep with other guys, but quite another to be giving her a clear signal while she was actually out in a bar alone with someone she couldn’t stop thinking about — and affected by alcohol, too.

But I was all ablaze, adrenalin flooding my system, and I was even semi-hard as I finally pressed that button, giving her the go-ahead.

I assumed she would have a little fun flirting with the guy, and when they were ready to go, they might even swap phone numbers so they could talk about meeting up again.

An hour later, after some considerable palpitations for myself, I received her next text message: 

>Are you sure you’re really okay with this, sweetie?

It gave me quite a shock. At that point I’d been lying up in bed, watching CNN, but not really being able to focus on many of the stories. Yet despite feeling the cold tendrils of fear now snaking their way around my chest, I was also fizzing with excitement — and as soon as that text came in, I was hard once again.

What did she mean? Was she asking me if it was okay that she was out late at night alone with her handsome ex-intern? Or was she hinting that they were already doing something, asking whether I was okay that things were beginning to happen between them?

Oh, but the thought of her being unable to hold her sexual cravings back, of her pupils dilating, her cheeks flushing, her nipples stiffening, her pussy dripping at the inappropriate attention of a man who was not her husband… it was irresistible.

I replied:

>Of course I’m really okay with it, honey, I love that you’re having a little naughty fun. Just wish I could be there to see it. Did anything happen already?

I sat and waited for her come-back. I was in two minds as to what I hoped had actually happened: part of me seriously wished that she’d already done something — maybe she’d snuck out with him for a quickie in a nearby park, or the stall of the restroom or something. The other part of me wanted desperately to witness any real crossing of the line, to be there with her to see how turned on she was by the whole thing.

>He kissed me, and I told him again I’m married. He asked if I talked to you about this, that he thought maybe I had, which was why I was allowed to stay out this late with him.

I prompted her with a text asking what she’d said to that.

>I said I’d told you everything, and you like the idea of me being naughty with him or whoever. I guess I’m just not absolutely certain this is what you really want.

I felt like if I didn’t calm down just then, I might have a stroke or something. Deep breaths, that was the key, deep breaths. 

I replied: 

>If it’s what YOU really want, then it’s what I really want. Just make sure if anything happens, you use protection.

Jesus. Had I really just advised my wife to use a condom when she fucked another man?

It was electrifying.

Then she responded: 

>If anything happens, I want you to be with me 

Well, that both calmed me down and yet also fired up the thrill factor in a new way. She really did seem to be serious about this — but from what she said, if she took that step over the boundary from fantasy into reality, she wanted me there.

I think that reassured me about just how important I was to her, and our marriage.

It was a little unlike her to be even going this far, I had to admit, but I liked it.

I sent something back to her along the lines of great, sounds good to me, have fun my darling. Then I was actually able, thanks to her promise not to leave me out, to settle down and slip off to sleep.

It was much later — I’m not entirely sure what time — that I was shaken from my sleep to find Marissa there,  still in her business clothes, an urgent expression on her face.

“Hey, honey…” I said, sleepy as hell, “you have fun?”

She looked at me, her eyes sharp, sober. “He’s here,” she said, holding up a box of condoms they must have purchased on the way home.

Jesus.

5

I was quite suddenly fully awake at that. I heard the sound of the shower running in our en suite — and it appeared that someone was in there, it wasn’t just an empty shower stall with the water pattering down on the tiles.

I felt butterflies stirred up in my stomach, my heart begin to shiver. 

My cock rock hard underneath the bedsheets.

“You brought him home?” I asked, my conservative brain instantly reaching for explanations, that they were both too drunk to drive, but it would be way too expensive for Daryl to take a taxi all the way out to his home.

“I want him,” she said, fire in her eyes.

“And I get to see?” 

I didn’t question her want, I shared it. Even though it was the middle of the night, the middle of the week. God, how many chances did a guy get for this to happen?

She looked gorgeous in her business attire, her pupils enlarged by alcohol, her pale cheeks flushed gentle pink. I wanted to see her excited, I wanted to see her aroused, I wanted to see her fulfilling her desires, using a guy for sex. I wanted to see it all from a different perspective to anything I’d ever experienced before.

But at the same time, I was suddenly terrified about what might happen.

“He’s okay with it,” she said. 

“He’s in the shower?”

“He is,” she smiled, a mischievous, hesitant yet lust-filled smile that turned me on like nothing else.

She took off her jacket, and I couldn’t help but gape at how she’d unfastened the top few buttons of her white shirt to reveal her cleavage to her new admirer and even a hint of her white lace bra. 

“You’re really ready for this?” I asked.

She nodded. “The question should be, are you really ready for this?”

I had to smile, and conceal the raging storm inside my chest. “Totally ready.”

She smiled back, stroked her hair back behind her ear, pointing out to me that she’d taken it down at some point in the evening, no doubt as she got more comfortable with her suitor.

She moved her legs, the soft sound of nylon rubbing against nylon as she stirred, leading my eyes to her shapely thighs and that skirt, which seemed shorter than I remembered her even owning. Chosen specially for Daryl’s last day, perhaps.

“You know, you can stop this at any point.”

“I know.”

“Should we choose a safe word?”

“Sure.”

“Whistle,” she said. “Say the word ‘whistle’, and everything stops.”

“Okay.”

“Then maybe Daryl goes home, or maybe we keep playing, only not going so far.”

“Sounds good.” 

I heard the shower being turned off, and had to consciously keep myself from getting too shaken up. 

The thing was, I wanted this, and yet it caused me jealousy, and some discomfort therein. I flipped between the two sides of my dichotomy, one moment desperate for this to happen, the next scared stiff at just what might take place, and what would happen once it was all over.

I had never quite been able to explain to Marissa the fact that I somehow enjoyed those feelings of jealousy, insecurity — that it made me feel alive like some kind of extreme sport. So I had to hide those particular symptoms as this was finally unfolding.

“Where do you want me to be?” I asked her. 

“Where?”

“Well, you guys need some time alone to get… acquainted…? Do you want me to hide in the bathroom, to sit on the chair, to be on the floor in the corner?”

She heard the quiet click and grind as the bathroom doorknob began to turn, and suddenly sent me an alarmed look: this was really happening. 

“Where would you feel most comfortable?” she asked me, and I could tell she was trying to downplay her emotions, her feelings, just like me.

“On the chair, I guess,” I said. 

The door opened, and out stepped a young man with short dark blond hair, handsome face and powerful frame, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs and a boyish, even triumphant grin.

He was handsome, and I could get that a woman with a thing for Zack Gilbert might go for a guy like this. He was certainly younger than Marissa, just out of college in fact. Taller than me, larger than me, and much more athletic. The bulges of his muscles, the lines of his washboard stomach, to me he seemed straight from the pages of a superhero comic book. Marissa’s very own Aqualad.

He was so strikingly fit that I could easily see that in day-to-day life, he might be cocky. And yet here, now, he was clearly confident but certainly not unpleasant.

And to top it all, his briefs suggested something sizable lurking between his legs.

I caught Marissa’s sapphire eyes running over his contours, and checking out his package — and I caught the little awkward blush response that gave the game away about how she felt about it all.

“Uh… Daryl, this is Alec.”