Brett

 

I wanted to fuck my wife like he had, but I didn’t know where to fucking start.

I could slap and grind with an edge of roughness, calling her my dirty little bitch as she grinned back at me over her shoulder. But it wasn’t like he did it. Wasn’t even close.

Maybe I didn’t have it in me. Maybe that kind of inhuman prowess was the result of some tantric guru sex teachings – that and the boulder-weight chip on his shoulder. Maybe he really was on little blue pills, or had some medical condition making jizzing impossible. Maybe that’s why he paid for it with such fucking delight, just so his conquests would think him a God.

Fuck really knows, but still I kept pushing Grace to give me the same slutty doe-eyed rapture she’d given that sonofabitch, and still she kept on seeking what I wasn’t able to give her.

I slammed her body every night that week once her tight little holes were up to it. I fucked her ass like a man possessed, holding her face down into the pillow as I called her my dirty little slut. I fingered her sweet pussy with four fingers instead of my usual two, and all she did was hiss and spit and say it hurt too much to take it.

She took it for him though. Begged him fucking for it, in fact.

I started jerking myself off in the shower every morning to ease the spitting tension in my gut. I’d slip that rusty bolt into place and work my dick hard, thoughts jammed full of the Grace I’d seen open wide for him.

That Grace wasn’t my Grace, but I wanted her. Needed her. Craved her with every drop of cum in my balls.

My Grace still smiled sweetly and helped me on the breakfast run. She still laughed with guests every evening and snuggled up to me in bed at night. She still took every pounding on offer, whimpering for more in a voice that almost rang true. Almost.

The first real grin I got from my wife was when the advert for the chef position I’d phoned into the local paper appeared in print and I opened up the job page in front of her.

“You really think we should do it?” she said, eyes bright at the thought of a new hotel adventure.

I didn’t think we should do it. Not even close. Not with a looming competitor opening in two short months, able to staff their place with ten chefs for every one of ours if they so wanted.

“I think we should do whatever you want for this place,” I told her, and I wasn’t lying.

“It could be great for us,” she said. “A reputation for good food can spread for miles. We could be rammed to the ceiling with bookings on the back of a perfect steak.”

And so they came calling. Chefs and trainees and people applying for any old job they thought they could get their hands on. Spotty teens and grumpy old men. Women whose experience didn’t exceed their weekly Sunday roast and packed lunches but had always fancied making a good trifle.

Grace sighed after the tenth shitty interview in a row, opening a bottle of house red at just past lunchtime and cursing the pool of wannabes in our ten-mile radius.

“Maybe we should sell up and go back to the city,” she said after taking a glug. “Maybe we really are doomed in running this place.”

I shook my head. “We’ll do alright. It only takes one person walking in through that door with the right set of skills, and this whole venture could flip on its head.”

Her eyes widened on mine as I said it, and I knew she was thinking about him. Heath. The sonofabitch with his set of skills who’d flipped our whole fucking life on its head.

“Forget about him,” I barked, and she dropped her mouth open in feigned ignorance.

“Jesus, Brett, I wasn’t. I’ve barely given him a second thought since he left.”

How I fucking glared at her as she dropped her eyes and dicked about with some glasses from the dishwasher. I could see the bloom on her cheeks, smarting hard at my observation. I’d felt her in bed at night, rubbing that horny little clit after I’d fucked her senseless, no doubt thinking of that prick and his superior skillset every time she thought I was out for the count in dreamland.

“You need to stop this,” she told me with a voice full of prickles. “Every time I think for a single fucking second, you think I’m thinking about him.”

“Because you are,” I snapped.

“Because you are,” she snapped back. “You’re the one who has the fucking problem with him, Brett, not me.”

It was her choice of words that got me going, more than the flash of guilt in her eyes.

“No,” I grunted. “You haven’t got a problem with him, have you? You fucking loved it, Grace. You’d have him back all over again in a heartbeat, only next time you wouldn’t need fucking paying.”

It was when she launched the wine bottle across the bar top that I knew I’d pushed it way too fucking hard. It crashed into the nearest table, glugging red all over the upholstered seats underneath as the shards glittered like ice on the woodwork.

It looked like blood. Arterial bleeding as we both stood staring, dumbstruck at the veins of disgust still pulsing dark between us.

She went for it first, but I headed her off at the hatch, taking the dustpan and cloth from her before she’d got the chance to dive under.

“I’ll do it,” I told her. “It was my dick move that set you off.”

She joined me anyway, picking up the big shards with careful fingers as I dabbed up the worst of the spill.

“I know you jerk off in the bathroom,” she whispered. “I hear the bolt click every morning and press my ear to the door. You think about him, don’t you?”

“No more than you think about him when you think I’m asleep,” I countered, but she sighed out loud.

“We’re both guilty of thinking about that night,” she said. “Maybe we should be talking about it rather than brushing it under the carpet and hoping life has a chance of returning to normal.”

I hated the twist of fear as it sliced my insides. “We are returning to normal,” I argued. “It’s just a little slower a process than I was hoping for.”

“We need to experiment,” she said. “You and me, and whatever crazy shit we conjure up with our dirty money. If we can’t beat him, join him, hey?”

I didn’t follow at first, not until she bit her lip and spelled it out for me.

“He had a whole arsenal, Brett. Toys and gadgets and goddamn sheeting. Surely we can spice it up like he did? Make some memories of our own?”

It was a thread of hope, and one I grabbed hold of with everything I was worth.

My smile was eager, just as hers was relieved when I nodded my head. “Alright,” I said. “Let’s place an order. If it’s good enough for that sonofabitch, it’ll be good enough for us.”

And so it started.

Me, Grace and a tablet full of sex store browser tabs that evening in the bedroom. Racking up a cartful of purchases that asshole paid for with his dirty money.

I was grinning as we clicked confirm on the checkout, pulling my pretty wife close and landing a hungry kiss on her sweet mouth. She was waiting, squirming out of her nightdress before we’d even had the ping of the confirmation email, begging me to fuck her in some semblance of similarity to how she’d asked him to do the same.

This time I fucked her like me. Brett Foster, the man who’d loved her forever.

And she was my Grace, the woman who’d cracked apart for another man but still loved me in the aftermath.

But there, in the heavy breaths of two people dreaming of a dirty future, I caught my first glimpse of the minx he’d shown me inside her, bucking for dick and straining for more, eyes glinting with need as I jammed my fingers in her hungry asshole with her pussy plugged tight with my dick.

“Two at once,” I grunted. “I’m gonna give you two at once when those big fucking dildos arrive.”

Her climax was enough to milk me dry to the fucking bone, spurting cum into that sopping wet pussy until my balls were aching with the strain.

“That’s what you think about?” I grunted as I flopped down beside her, but this time there was no anger in it, just a genuine curiosity.

Her shrug was a pathetic excuse for an answer, so I kept quiet until she granted me more.

“I think about what would have happened without that stupid red line being there,” she admitted. “I think about what would have happened if he’d been serious about me taking both of you in one.”

I fought my initial revulsion at the thought of his balls slapping mine.

“You’d have liked that? To have me there along with him?”

Her laugh was genuine, even through the endorphins. “Is that a serious question? Of course I’d have liked you there along with him. You’re the one I want, he was just a bonus.”

A bonus, not an unfortunate requirement. Her natural choice of words said it all.

“We’ll start with toys,” I said, reeling at my own natural choice of words.

“Start with?” she asked, her voice full of shock as she shifted to stare at me eye to eye. “You really think we’ll ever do something with another person?”

I should’ve said no, fuck that. Fuck Thomas Heath and other guys and sharing that pretty cunt with anyone else in the next hundred years.

But I didn’t.

Of course I didn’t.

Seeing my wife looking like she had on that bed while that prick worked her ragged was all I’d ever dreamed of, even if I hadn’t known it. I couldn’t undo what I’d seen, what I felt. What she’d felt.

Pretending it was nothing was going nowhere.

Ignoring the repercussions of one crazy evening was heading towards certain doom.

“I don’t know,” I said. “What I do know is that there’s a whole world of weird kinky sex we’ve never explored. I think it’s time we broadened our horizons. It’s not just that smug-faced cunt Heath that can get his wacko groove on, you know. Some of us just haven’t shown it yet.”

“I love you, Brett Foster,” she said. “Always.”

As I did her, only I didn’t get chance to tell her so that evening.

Her mouth was already pressed to mine as she climbed aboard for round two.