Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Mark kissed the top of his wife’s generous hip roll. Then his lips moved down to the fleshy valley of her waist.
He wanted Kara so badly he actually considered lubing up and penetrating her while she slept. Her body lay before him in bed’s center semi-fetal, like a pale comma on the dark surface. He could penetrate her from behind, or attempt to. But he could imagine how that would go over.
His lips kissed back up to her hip, and then downward over left cheek’s plump curve as his hand stroked her thigh, upwards from the knee. So much bare flesh! So much to want, to need, to love! He wanted to spread her cheeks and kiss her hole.
Kara flinched. But whether the motion was voluntary or reflexive, it—her prone body—sent Mark an unmistakable message: Bug off! He sighed. Backed off the bed to the floor and stood, looking down. It was the old story. Same chapter, different verse. Kara was not his to have, not tonight.
Mark glanced at the bedside clock. It was barely eight p.m. Christ! Three hours ago he’d picked Kara up at the airport following yet another business trip. This one to Phoenix, for the better part of a week. Ever since her promotion, and elevation to a hefty six-figure salary, Kara spent more time on the road than at home. Mark sensed some of it was voluntary. She spoke often, and warmly, about her co-VP of marketing, a guy named Brett. Or Britt. She also joked about the air miles she was accumulating. Paris next spring?
Once back from the airport Kara had downed two Jameson’s on the rocks—she’d started drinking Scotch—on an empty stomach and declared herself, after showering first, ready for bed. She was exhausted. On top of her twice-delayed flights was the loss of time, traveling west to east. Plus, she claimed, she’d hardly slept “a wink” the past two nights.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
A shrug. “You know I don’t sleep well when I travel. Strange rooms…”
Mark noted the plural. She’d spent the whole week at the same convention hotel. Perhaps it signaled something, perhaps not.
Now Mark walked in heavily muted light to the side of the dresser, where Kara’s suitcase, unpacked, lay open. She traveled so frequently that one of those fold-up luggage stands remained a permanent fixture in their bedroom now, as if this were just another hotel stop on the itinerary. To the right of the suitcase, on dresser’s edge, lay Kara’s carryon bag, also unzipped. Mark reached in and—quietly—extracted Kara’s laptop. Then he left the master bedroom.
Mark was no stranger to its smaller companion down the hall, one of their two—three now that Brittany was away at college—spare bedrooms. Increasingly he found himself banished here, especially on nights, like this one, when Kara was back from a long trip. Mark understood, to a degree. His wife needed some peace and quiet, she wanted to be left alone. Their desires were at opposite ends of the spectrum: Mark hungered for overdue sex; Kara for beylikdüzü escort her own soft bed, and the deep sleep it would bring.
Mark set himself up, bedside lamp on, against a stack of headboard pillows. He liked this room. The bed was over against the only window, a large one that, drapes back, looked down on his front lawn and the peaceful neighborhood street beyond. Suburban tranquility. The master bedroom was cavernous; this one intimate. A refuge where, at least, when banished, he could freely masturbate. Something he certainly couldn’t get away with while lying beside Kara’s disinterested body.
Mark propped the laptop screen against this thighs, while the keyboard rested on his belly. He’d put on some weight of late. Too many beers, too much processed food. Too little exercise. He had to do something about that, the telltale of being virtually wifeless. Alone. Lonely.
The laptop requested—demanded—a passcode. Mark guessed at it, their daughter’s name—wrong. He added her DOB to the end on his second try. Wrong again. He shortened the numerals to the last two of Brittany’s birthdate.
Presto! The stars of the small, rectangular firmament propped against his thighs came to life—a blue-screen desktop overcrowded with colorful icons and bland folders. One of the folders, down in the lower righthand corner among others, was named “Private.” Mark shook his head as he clicked on it.
His wife might be devious in some aspects of her private life; but she was all-too transparent in her cyber life. On the other hand Mark wasn’t being quite fair. This was his business, or at least his company’s business—cyber security. Or, more to the point, breaking through the virtual walls of other company’s, or country’s, security. Kara’s company was an international munitions conglomerate based out of Charlottesville. Or was it Shanghai? At any rate, it never eluded Mark’s sense of irony that some of his wife’s best customers were targets of his own “company’s” scrutiny, and action plans.
Inside Kara’s “private” folder were several subfolders. Most were innocent enough. “Recipes”—Kara considered herself something of a gourmet. Likewise “Memorable Wines.” There was a “Britt’s Stuff” folder, though, perhaps tellingly, none titled “Mark’s Stuff.” “Vacation pics” also populated the list, though what interested Mark were the three jpegs titled Brett 1, 2 and 3. And the subfolder at the very bottom of the row titled “Thoughts.”
Mark clicked on “Brett 1.”
It appeared to be a selfie. Although what was not in dispute was the fact that it was a photo of a man’s erect cock. He had a big one all right, Brett did. Circumcised, about seven inches, curved when hard, uniformly thick. Dark bedding bush. Mark stared at the thing thinking: Who says women don’t like dick pics? Was this his come-on to her? Or, more likely, something jokey, after-the-fact? “Remember this?” Or, “Waiting for you, beylikdüzü eve gelen escort next trip. Fly United, baby!”
“Brett 2” was no selfie. Or if it was it was taken courtesy of his camera’s timer. It showed a handsome, confident man in his early thirties stretched out on a bed—a hotel room bed—head propped against some pillows, hands behind his head, smiling, naked. Dark hair, lots of it. A body that, while not slender, was lean. Linebacker’s build, or just shy of it. Although his feet were out of frame, Brett’s ankles appeared to be crossed. His cock, though not erect, was engorged. It lay crosswise on his belly, ready, reaching nearly to his navel. This photo served as invitation: “Come jump on me! Go for a ride!”
Face it, Mark told himself: Your wife’s lover is a handsome young man with a beautiful body. And a cock to match. What forty-year-old (41 actually, not 39 as she insisted) woman, or man for that matter, wouldn’t be flattered by his attentions, his offerings? What amazed was that, since the affair began, Kara had put on weight. A little, but noticeable. Did Brett like his women on the plump side, some meat on their bones? Rubenesque, albeit smoothly so? Taut—no sags or folds. Just…a woman’s modern flesh, lots of it? A motherly smothering?
was banal. It had been taken by Kara, obviously, over dinner at what appeared to be a hotel restaurant. Lead-crystal wine glasses, chardonnay. Empty plates. Pre-appetizers. Brett smiling—no, grinning, elbow on table’s edge, fist supporting a cheek. Blue eyes! Black hair, blue eyes. Wow! Focused entirely on Kara—or on her smartphone at least. Did the look, the expression, convey love or something less? Something less, Mark decided. Probably they had just fucked in his hotel room and then dressed and come down for an intimate dinner. Kara said, “Hold still. I want to take your picture.” Then Brett posed. The handsome look—it bordered on a smirk, come to think of it. “Let’s eat, get drunk. Then go upstairs and I’ll fuck you again.”
Kara would have smiled, plump cherub cheeks. Dimples.
“I’m worse’n bad, my dear,” the VP of marketing for international munitions sales might have said, or implied. It was all in the picture. There! Look at it!
Mark clicked on the “Thoughts” subfolder, the hard-on in his pants making laptop’s keyboard base less, well, stable. It rocked, as if on the fulcrum of a see-saw.
The top, the latest entry had today’s date. Kara had probably written it on the plane, first class, sleepless. It read:
“Great five days, or should I say nights, with B. He’s amazing! Never ceases to please. How many times did we fuck? A dozen? I lost track. (Probably more like ten) Amazing! One night somebody [sic] next room actually complained about the noise! Hope it wasn’t somebody with Zone Perfect [Kara’s munitions company]! But who cares??!! Fuck ’em! Losers!
“I beylikdüzü masöz escort no longer feel bad about M. Guilty. I [sic] had more orgasms with B. in a few months then [sic] with M. in twenty years! This is bliss! I never experienced it before like this. I’m not in love, I’m sibling [sic] in bliss! Is that a state?
“B. fucked me so many times this week I’m sore, in pain. Think he tore me like that guy in Singapore that time, few years ago? Have to go see my OBGYN, take a look. Hot soaks? Epson [sic] salts? Useless dumbass M. can run the bath. Hes [sic] always willing. I shouldn’t complain. Great to have an oblivious (?) submissive husband around to do the chores, etc.
“Maybe I should tell him, out of courtesy? B. thinks so. Tell him, how can he not no [sic]?” I agree, sort of. But when to brake [sic] the news? And how? My co-VP and I have been fucking our brains out? Why do you think I travel so often? He’s married, two kids. Just a fling. But a fling were [sic] going to continue indefinitely. He satisfies me in bed, what can I say? Makes me feel young again. Likes me [sic] way I am, which is more than you ever do. Gaining weight? So are you asshole! Fucks my brains out. Never been happier in my life…
“Maybe (?) this is [sic] ideal situation, marriage-wise. Needy, submissive hubby who’ll do anything for me…endless [sic] needy lover sexwise who [sic] cant [sic] get enough of me. Loves my body! I so can’t wait for him again. Boston, next month? Can’t wait that long! Oh B. how I need you, long for you! Already miss your cock (it’s only been 15 fucking hours!).
“Memo to self: Can’t let Britt get wind of this. She’d freek [sic] out! Luvs her daddy. I do too, in a way. Just can’t get enough of B.!
“If I confessed to M.and Britt isna’t [sic] around (at school) maybe I could start fucking B. at the house. Twice a week when not traveling?? Fuck him when M. isn’t home or leaves or whatever…
“I think [I] need to confess. Come out with it. Maybe tonight when home? Make M. swear to keep it secret, our secret. BRITT MUST NOT NO [sic]! Absolute. What’s so bad about a wife/mother fucking a friend for comfort/pleasure? (Unbelievably [sic] pleasure.) I toss it back in [sic] forth. They just announced our plane is in a holding pattern, oh Gawd! I’m drunk! Now what?
“My fear is if Britt finds out about my infidelites [sic] with dad [?] she’ll go nuclear and tell M. about our excursions together on that cruise. I don’t know. I guess it was all innocent stuff? Mother and daughter? It was the last orgasm I had before B. entered my life, suddenly. Unexpectedly.
“What if Britt spilled the beans to dad? Fuck! I can hear her now, typical immature idealist college student. ‘If you think that’s bad, her and some guy, think again…’
“It’s a conundrum. If I don’t tell M. about the affair…it comes [sic] kind of a joke. If I do and it leaks out to Britt, then she might betry [sic] me out of spite to dad. Then I’m screwed (literally). He founds [sic] out about our mother-daughter encounter—OK lesbian—incest! OMG! I’m screwed!
“Oh thank God the plain [sic] is in [its] landing pattern. Finally. Safe journeys. Thanks [sic] God for booze!” Mark read, while stroking his cock beneath the source.
He could not wait to read on…
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32