Reluctant Cuckold (17 page)

Staring at the photo was blinding.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, “you were about to get fucked, Ashley. You didn’t just kiss the guy. You were about to take office rumors to the stratosphere.”

I pulled up the photo of Ashley in a bikini—two days before Jim fucked her. I lined it up on my laptop beside the one of Ashley and Tamara at the party, and enlarged to full screen.

I stared at her tits in her bikini. Jim Murta would soon have them for himself. The top would be off, he’d be groping and sucking, watching them bounce as he fucked her.

I had brought Ashley to the party. I had paid for the vacation, delivered her to Jim, with her sun-kissed skin, looking relaxed and even more fuckable than usual.

Jim saw my wife’s bare tits and pussy—he saw the contrast of her tan against her ass and milky white tits.

Then I stared back at the photo of Ashley wearing the outfit he had fucked her in. And the post-fuck clothes she probably had to pick up off the bathroom floor and wear for the rest of the evening as Jim Murta’s semen slowly seeped out of her.

I stared at Ashley posing beside Tamara at the party. For Jim, the choice must have been a no-brainer.

Tamara’s super hot and all, I imagined him thinking, but I’m giving the newly married girl the royal Jim Murta treatment, while her husband waits oblivious outside as his wife’s marital vows go overboard.

Suddenly, eyes darting from one photo to the other, I came hard.

This was becoming all too familiar.

I wondered if I had mentally waded farther from land. With all these photos so accessible, I was flirting with something new. I could enlarge and align them. They were powerful stimuli.

I then wondered if photos from that night had been posted on some friend-sharing photo website, the link emailed around Ashley’s work. Were there any of me floating around? I remembered posing with Craig. One of the girls who lived there had taken it—had that been circulated? Were Ashley’s co-workers or Jim Murta’s sales buddies looking at it, saying “Look at that clueless dumbass doofus Dave, out on the roof, smiling, as his wife is inside being fucked”?

Suddenly I saw a 312 area code on my cell phone. It was Mark from last night. He was offering me a Yankees ticket to tonight’s game.

“Hell, yeah,” was my reaction.

He tried to describe where the seats were, but I said, “Just tell me where and when to meet you.”

After I showered and put my Yankees hat and jersey on, I still had a few minutes before having to leave. So I quickly went back to my laptop.

I went to an adult photo-sharing website and downloaded a close-up photo of a big, fat, erect cock. I lined it up beside Ashley in her bikini, smiling.

“This is what you were about to take, Ashley,” I said softly, “this is what you stared at. Those tits of yours are what he was looking at. You were about to bounce up and down on that fucking thing, without so much as a condom. You were gonna let that cock burst a full load of sperm up in you, and you didn’t care that I had knocked. You wanted to get fucked by it as our own bridesmaid fucking cheered you on. You let Jim Murta’s fat cock own your pussy. You let him humiliate me—giving you a big-cocked corporate fuck while clueless me was shooed the fuck away.”

I stared at the cock and then back to Ashley and came hard looking at her tits.

I met up with Mark in the Bronx an hour before game time. He was with his younger brother and his brother’s friend Franco—the guy who had scored the tickets.

They already had two pitchers of beer going. I hadn’t drunk beer from pitchers like that since I was twenty-five—roughly their age.

I made sure to pull Franco aside and quickly pay for my ticket. The way he was chugging the beer, I didn’t want him coming back, saying something like, “You know, I don’t think your brother’s friend paid me for the ticket.”

I took it easy on the beer. The Yankees were playing the Blue Jays. They had lost to them the night before. I wasn’t there to get drunk. I wanted to focus on the game.

Franco didn’t seem like a Yankees fan or even a baseball fan. I learned he had gotten the tickets from his uncle.

At least
I
was going to appreciate the ticket, even if I did have to listen to Franco blabber on about his recent trip to Brazil and how hot the girls are there.

Um yeah, Franco, I thought to myself, my mother in law was freaking born in São Paulo, my wife’s half-Brazilian.

I could tell Mark was bored by it all as well. But we were in a booth. There wasn’t much opportunity for one-on-one conversation.

The subject of the Yankees or what the game meant never even came up.

Finally, when Franco suggested one more pitcher, I said, “No. It’s twenty minutes till first pitch. I want to get to my seat.”

“OK, we can settle up,” Franco said, “but how about a pre-game shot of Jack all around?”

“I’m just into the game, man,” I said, “I don’t want to rush you guys. I’ll meet you inside.”

“Sorry Dave,” Mark said, once we passed through security, “I’ve never been to the new stadium. I wanted to leave as much as you did.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I replied, “it’s just if I’m coming out to see baseball, I want to see baseball.”

I knew the seats were good, but we were both like “hell yeah” when we were escorted to a box in the twelfth row by first base.

Mark’s brother and Franco stumbled into our row at the start of the third. The Yankees were already up 3-0.

They had an “oh, there’s a game going on” attitude as they showed up with their beers. I was grateful that Franco was sitting as far away as possible.

By the end of the seventh, the Yankees were up 7-1. That’s when Mark nudged me, and said, “Franco has the hiccups.”

“OK,” I said, “do you know who’s up batting for the Blue Jays?”

“I mean,” Mark said, “he has the hiccups and can’t get rid of them.”

I looked over at Franco and saw him hiccup.

“OK, so?” I said.

“He wants to leave.”

“So?”

“So, he’s pushing my brother to take off as well.”

“And?”

“Well, the game seems kind of done,” Mark said. “I’m in an awkward spot with my brother. I thought you and I could just grab a beer somewhere back in Manhattan and talk.”

“So when does Hiccup boy want to leave?”

“They want to go right now.”

“Freaking sacrilege,” I said.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“They want to leave right now?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, fine, let’s go.”

Franco was still hiccupping as we left him and Mark’s brother at the 125
^th
street Harlem station.

“Between you and me,” Mark said as we sipped gin martinis at an Upper West side bar, “I was kind of looking to get some perspective—relationship advice, I guess.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

Mark had gone to our wedding, but I didn’t know him well.

“There’s some turbulence going on right now between Camilla and me,” he said, “and I see how solid you and Ashley are. I was looking for your thoughts.”

That piqued my curiosity. I wondered what he was going to say. Had he learned Camilla was fucking another guy behind his back? Had he walked in on her having sex and witnessed another man’s cock going, balls deep, inside his girl—precious little Camilla?

“Sure,” I said, “what’s the turbulence?”

“Well, you know people wonder about us.”

“I didn’t, Mark. What do they wonder about?”

“Well, we’ve been dating for four years, and people think, ‘What’s wrong with Mark? Why hasn’t he slipped a ring on Camilla yet?’ ”

“Well it’s not their business. I mean, who cares what people think, right?”

I could tell he found that response unhelpful.

“I’m sorry,” I added, “are you just not ready for marriage? I mean is that the turbulence? She wants to and you don’t?”

“No, I want to, I’ve wanted to propose for six months, but she’s not sure.”

Had Mark learned sweet but horny Camilla was getting another man’s cock on the side? Was that it?

“Why is she not sure?” I asked.

“Because she wants to stay in Chicago and doesn’t want kids—at least right now—and she knows I want to move back to Jersey and start a family.”

“Oh,” I said, “Why not compromise? Why not try for a baby but stay in Chicago?”

I was being too flip; the martini had gotten to me.

“David, my company’s corporate headquarters are in Jersey. I’ve already turned down one job offer because of Camilla. They’re going to offer me another one there soon. I know that. If I turn that down, I can kiss any future promotion goodbye. I’ll be the dead-ender regional office guy.”

“What does Camilla do again? An event planner, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“And you make more money?”

“Yeah, a lot more.”

“OK, so decision made. You have to take that job offer when it comes. Lay off the pressure on kids for now. She can do event planning in Jersey just as easily.”

“But she has built all her contacts there.”

“To hell with her contacts. She can make new ones.”

“Yeah, but she loves Chicago and the idea of suburban Jersey living nauseates her.”

“So you promise her you’ll do weekends in the city. She went to school here, it’s not like she doesn’t have friends.”

“All I’m saying, Mark,” I continued, “is you need to explain to her that if you don’t take this, all that you’ve worked for is shot to shreds. She will understand that. And if she still doesn’t care, then leave her knowing that you and she weren’t ultimately meant to be.”

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s what I admire about you and Ashley.”

I choked slightly on my martini.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean you both seem so on the same page.”

“Yeah?” I said, “I wasn’t feeling that last night at karaoke.”

“Well at dinner, it seemed like you both have common purpose, and I envy that.”

“Oh man, Mark, no one’s relationship is perfect. I thought we’d be out in the suburbs now and starting to have kids ourselves. But Ashley wants to wait and enjoy our time now in the city. I had to compromise on that. It’s your career; she’s gotta compromise as well.”

Mark pulled out his cell phone, saying, “Hold on.”

The bartender asked if I wanted another. “Sure,” I said, “and one for my friend.”

“Just a Bud Light for me,” Mark said.

“They just got back,” he said to me. “They’re taking a cab over to meet us.”

“Huh?” I said as the bartender handed me my third martini.

“Camilla and Ashley.”

“It’s not even eleven.”

“They caught an earlier bus.”

Ten minutes later, they strolled on through in their shorts and tight tops.

“So how are you guys doing?” Ashley asked.

“Just bonding with my boy Mark,” I said.

“I can see that. How was the game?”

“A blowout,” Mark replied, “we left early.”

“We left,” I said, “because of Franco Hiccup-pottomus. Do you know why Franco Hiccup-pottumus made us all leave?”

“Franco’s the guy who had the tickets,” Mark explained.

“Because the Hiccup-pottomus had the hiccups,” I said, “and when Franco Hiccup-pottoumus has the hiccups, what do you think happens? Everyone has to leave.”

“Well, someone is mighty drunky drunky,” Ashley said. “How many of those have you had? Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

I kept quiet after that and just listened to them tell their stories of their day.

I remember saying, “I’m sorry” and “I love you” on the short cab ride home.

“I just had the strangest dream,” Ashley told me the following morning.

“How so?”

“I was on the beach and a lot of our friends were there. And I started wondering if there was any truth to the whole flapping-your-arms thing.”

“Flapping your arms?”

“Yeah,” she said, laughing and standing up, “you know, like to fly.”

“So I just started doing this,” she said, stretching her arms out and flapping them.

Looking at Ashley like that—in her bra and thong—gave me a boner.

“And suddenly,” she continued, “I was airborne, like a few feet at first, but then like twenty feet, thirty feet. I was like, ‘This flapping your arms stuff really works. Why didn’t I think to ever try this before?’ And everyone was pointing up, saying, ‘Look at Ashley—she’s flying.’ ”