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| For a moment I thought maybe it hadn’t really happened. I thought
maybe it had all been some vivid dream that seemed real, like
dreams sometimes do. But I could smell him; I could smell him
on the sheets, on Jamie’s pillow. And the bedroom was just as
we had left it last night; evidence everywhere of what had happened,
the video camera still aimed at our bed, Jamie’s ruined panties
on the floor, the scattered stains on carpet, too many to count.
And I realized fully, suddenly, in a way I hadn’t last night,
that I no longer had a marriage in which my wife had fucked only
me; and for the slightest of instants I felt the familiar pang
of uncertainty creep back, like it had last night when Jamie first
went down on him, telling him, between starving mouthfuls of cock,
how much she loved it. And he was telling her, between gasps,
how beautiful she was and how good of a cocksucker she was. And
it almost felt like regret when I watched her gaze up at him,
into his eyes, like a child wanting praise, and she showed it
to him, opening her mouth to let him see his semen pooled on her
cupped tongue before swallowing it. And for one panicked moment,
I knew this was a mistake. And I had felt suddenly frightened.
But I didn’t feel regret. Because we had promised each other:
No regret. No matter what. Last night Jamie told me, “You know, if we were smart, we’d just forget this. We turn around and go back home and forget all about this. These things never end well. You know that.” Jamie had inhaled the last of her cigarette and cracked the window, the wind rushing in cold and loud, and flicked the butt outside before sealing the window again. We were almost to the restaurant, where he would be waiting for us, where we would go over the ground rules one last time, where we would make sure he knew the safe word. “Fantasies never translate well to the real world. Expectations don’t get met. Or expectations get exceeded and someone likes it too much. Then someone gets jealous. Feelings get hurt. Bad things.” She was right. But it didn’t matter. And a day earlier she had said, “Let’s say we go through with it. Let’s say he’s nice and good-looking and we both like him. And let’s say we all agree and he’s willing to play by our rules. And we go through with it.” I had nodded to it all. “What if it’s the worst experience of our entire lives? What if we hate ourselves for doing it? What if we hate each other?” I had thought of all these possibilities but I let her go on. “Or worse. What if we love it? I mean fucking love it. What if it’s everything both of us have dreamed it would be? What then? Itch scratched?” Jamie had let what she was saying sink in. “Or is it better that it’s a fantasy? Could it be that the anticipation is always sweeter than the fulfillment, that the fantasy is always better than the real thing?” It was a good point. They were all good points. But it didn’t matter. “I just want to see you fuck another man. And then I can get on with my life.” On our way upstairs to our bedroom last night Jamie had whispered to me, so he couldn’t hear, “I want everything tonight. Everything we’ve ever fantasized about. Everything we’ve never been in the right place or the right time or the right frame of mind to do. I want it to happen tonight.” And she got it. He and I fucked Jamie the entire night and never tried the same thing twice. I did my best to choreograph and direct us through the variations and different positions, locations, and arrangements. We fucked Jamie’s mouth, her cunt, her ass. We used her in tandem, Jamie on her hands and knees sucking my cock, him fucking her from behind, punching his cock into her again and again, making her bounce back and forth between us, Jamie needing only to keep her lips closed around my cock and his thrusts would push her mouth up and down my shaft. Jamie asked us to fuck her at the same time, and I lay flat on my back on the floor, Jamie on top of me, riding me, calling for him to fuck her ass while I fucked her cunt. For an instant, she seemed to be in pain, but only for an instant, and I watched Jamie's face as he entered her, watched her expression transform as he slid into her. It seemed as if he was forcing the air out of her, a long, low moan emanating endlessly from deep in her chest, growing louder as he filled her completely. Over her shoulder Jamie growled at him, fucking back against him, meeting his thrusts halfway, spreading her legs apart and I awkwardly thrust my hips upward, penetrating her in syncopation with him, my rhythm slightly off, sometimes entering just as he withdrew, sometimes entering simultaneously, out cocks pushing against one another, wrestling for space inside of Jamie's body as she gasped for air like a drowning fish, begging us to stop and then begging us not to, begging for more, desperate for more. But now he was gone. He left as soon as we had asked him to, just like we made him promise to. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it wasn’t, that Jamie came back to bed at the same time I awoke. We didn’t say anything at first; instead we just lay there in our bed, like we did most mornings, acting as if everything was perfectly normal. As if our marriage hadn’t been fundamentally and irrevocably altered forever. She was still naked. We were silent for a long time until, abruptly, I asked her, “Was it what you wanted?” “I think so. Yes.” Then I said, “What was it like, fucking him?” “I don’t know. It was–” Jamie began, but then, “I don’t know.” “Tell me,” I said. “It’s okay.” “It was like fucking. I don’t know.” And then she said, “Maybe I should do three now.” She gave me that little wink of hers that means she’s either joking or she’s being dead serious, I can never tell which. “Would you?” “I don’t know. Maybe. He told me the gene for red hair is recessive,” Jamie said, changing the subject almost without me noticing. “He said it was rare to see a…how’d he put it?” “’Truly beautiful’.” “Truly beautiful redhead. He said the gene is recessive not just to dark hair, but to blonde hair, too. And that since neither of my parents were redheads, they only had a one-in-four shot of having a redheaded kid.” I remembered everything he had said, but let her tell me anyhow before I asked, “Was it different?” “Was what different?” “Fucking him.” “Of course it was different.” “Did you like sucking his dick?” “Call it a cock,” Jamie said. “Did you like sucking his cock?” Jamie pretended to not know before saying, “Yes.” She was smiling again. “I could feel both of you inside me. I could feel both of your cocks, pushing against each other, pushing against that wall, that membrane. And I was scared for a minute that it might rip; that you and he might actually, physically rip me open.” Jamie was breathing heavily. “And the thought of that turned me on so badly. I just kept thinking, ‘Yes, yes, rip me, rip me open.’ I wanted to just fucking faint, just pass out right there between both of you and just lie there and let you fuck me to death. Just lie there and listen to the two of you panting my name; and smell you cocks and your sweat and let you just fucking rip me open.” Jamie stopped to catch her breath, and then almost giggled. “I was screaming in his ear. We were so loud. I was scared at first that Old Lady Walters next door was going to hear us. And then I kinda wanted her to hear us.” As Jamie talked I remembered the sounds we made, how loud we were, our grunts and groans echoing through our house, punctuated by Jamie’s squeals. I remembered how, from time to time, we would all fall suddenly quiet for just an instant before resuming, the eye of a noisy storm, when only our labored breathing and the slapping together of our sweaty flesh could be heard. I remembered how rough he was with Jamie, much more so than I had ever dared be, and how she struggled to keep her mouth on my cock as he fucked her. And how I awkwardly fucked at her open mouth, missing more often than not, and how she didn’t even realize at first that she had made me come, coughing as she ejected my spurting cock form her mouth, gagging as she spilled a mouthful of semen onto the carpet of our bedroom. “Do you like being called a whore?” I asked. “I don’t…no.” “You liked it last night.” “Last night, I didn’t…I didn’t want to be some silly, stupid, suburban wife. I wanted to forget all that. Just for a little while. If for just one night, I wanted to be something else. Something different. I wanted to be something dirty.” There was a familiar fluttering in my stomach, and for a moment I thought it was jealousy. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” “Yes.” But it wasn’t jealousy. Bio: P.S. Haven was raised on comic books, Star Wars and his dad’s Playboy collection, all of which he still enjoys to this day. His work has been published at Clean Sheets and Peacock Blue as well as in Taboo: Forbidden Fantasies for Couples to be published by Cleis Press and edited by Violet Blue. Haven peddles his smut from deep in the Bible Belt, where he lives with his wife and daughter. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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