The rising sun cast orange-red tendrils probing through the window, casting prism-like hues over the perfectly immaculate walls of my well-planned boudoir. The satiny comforter, still pristine and even, draped over our bodies, still perfectly in place. There was no passion in the night to twist and crumple the bedding; there hadn’t been in a long while. Chris was just my husband, so it wasn’t like I was missing out. On the rare occasion he gave in to my carnal needs, it was just a few pathetic pumps, always in the missionary position, perhaps a clumsy finger probing between my legs, masquerading as foreplay, a quick ejaculation just moments before I began to feel impassioned, followed by a quick, platonic peck on the lips, and, “night, love you, honey.”
Looking at him, still snoring in neanderthal rumblings, I felt something slightly more tender than my usual disdain and loathing. A modicum of tenderness warmed me, reminding me of the feelings I used to have towards him. Despite having no children, he had worked hard on attaining his “dad bod,” but some vestiges of his stunning, youthful body remained. As my condescending gaze moved southward, I noted that his cock was half-erect, outlined in the soft satin of my designer comforter.
Chris’ cock wasn’t as long as my gardener’s, not as thick as my personal trainer’s, and didn’t last as long as the delivery driver’s. It was, however, a cock within reach, and I was feeling horny. Even my oblivious, workaholic husband would do in a pinch.
Reaching under the three-hundred thread-count sheets, I fished his cock out of his boxers and began stroking it. He continued snoring vulgarly as I stroked it up slowly, feeling the throb of his pulse in my palm. Stiffening under my attentions, I felt it thicken and harden on my down stroke. His snores turned to moans as I increase tempo and pressure.
“Wake up, Chris. We haven’t had sex in so long. I need it.”
He moaned himself awake, smiling, then forced my hand away from his cock, the bastard.
“No time, honey,” he said as he yawned and stretched his way out of bed. “I need to pack. I leave tomorrow morning, so I can get to the conference early. I also need to get the grill ready for the party today, and we need to have everything exactly perfect for our guests.”
“Yes, another fucking cookout and barbecue. Who’s coming?”
I don’t know why I asked. It would more than likely be the same people as always. Chris and his buddies would drink themselves even more stupid than they already were, and I’d play the good wife, pretending to enjoy the company of the insignificant bitches they married. Then, the wives would leave, leaving the boys to drink themselves blind while they played cards, stunk up my house with cigars, and got far too loud for my liking.
“Josh, from work, and his wife Susan.”
“Okay, so ass-kisser and Brainless Flatty.”
“That’s not nice, Liz, even from you.”
“It’s not my fault that your friend is a spineless yes-man and his wife was blessed with neither gray matter nor tits.” He waved off my soothsaying.
“Ben and his wife, Sarah, will be coming.”
I remained silent, not surprised that arrogant fucktard and cunt wad would be coming.
He was still talking. “…and Rob and Cynthia, of course.”
“Of course Miss Molly Fake-tits has to show, wearing a low cut top or bikini, I’m sure.”
“Hey, I thought you liked Cindy.”
“No, you want me to like her because Rob’s your best friend. I just put up with her for you.”
“Whatever, just be nice for a change, please, Liz.”
“I wish I hadn’t blackmailed Jennifer into breaking up with you,” I mumbled under my breath.
“What’s that, honey?” he asked.
“I said, ‘OK, I love you.’”
It was true. I blackmailed his ex-girlfriend, my old roommate, into breaking up with him. It was one of my most perfect plans. He was young, handsome, showing the promise of an amazing future, and quite in love with Jennifer. Jennifer simply had what I deserved. I coerced a male friend, a suitor I kept in the friend zone in case he was useful, to seduce her during a drunken night of partying and then made Jennifer break it off with Chris. She was also served with an eviction notice the next day. Somehow the rent for the past three months hadn’t been paid, although I had receipts, clever forgeries.
I had done Jennifer a huge favor. Chris was a good husband on the surface. He kept me well-funded, catered to me as I deserve, and left me to my own devices. However, he was more like a roommate that snores next to me than a real husband, a real man. The sex became boring, then intermittent, finally dwindling to a few times each year. I think that Jennifer got the better part of the deal. Luckily, Chris’ work not only kept me in luxury but also kept him away for weeks at a time, so I needn’t suffer his presence.
I kept myself occupied by keeping up the appearance of marital bliss and affluence. The queen ruled her home with an iron fist. A professionally landscaped lawn, well-manicured garden, and the highest quality of everything gave me solace, as well as the cocks of the professional landscapers, the gardeners, the pool cleaners, and anyone else at my beck and call. Further solace and attention were found in cooking. I’m a damn fine cook, which is why we always host events at our spacious home rather than the hovels of Chris’ friends. I began submitting cooking videos online, and attained a decent following, with a surprising number of men subscribing to my channel. My kitchen is always immaculate, my designer phone cradle positioned to perfectly hold my newest version of the iPhone to record my culinary videos. Wearing sexy, classy clothes, I’d instruct the plebs on how to cook properly, gaining followers and worship.
But, Cindy, the undeserving bitch, had won the husband jackpot. Rob, my idiot husband’s best friend, was toned, handsome, witty, attentive, and charming. He was also reputed to be a fantastic lover. Rob was the handsome hottie of suburbia until he had a few drinks in him. When he gets some liquor in him, he is quite liberal with his appreciation of the female form and all things perverted. That’s how our little game began.
During a Fourth of July barbecue, a few years ago, I wore a beautiful designer sundress, all white and lacy. Because the damn maid hadn’t done the laundry, resulting in her termination upon her next visit, the only clean lingerie I had was a black pair of panties. After his fifth drink, Rob commented on how sexy it was seeing them under my sexy little dress.
His comments grew emboldened, continually more lewd, as the evening progressed. Enjoying my power over men, I drew out his comments. By the time he was deeply inebriated, he was slurring graphic descriptions of wanting to shoot his load over my panty-clad ass and taking me from behind. During our next outing, he pointedly ignored me until I had counted five whiskeys down his handsome gullet. On that day, I wore a similar dress, only much shorter and of a darker color. The game continued.
Creeping up behind him, bending forward, pressing my tits into his shoulder, I leaned into his ear and whispered, “No freebie this time, you’ll have to guess the color of my panties.”
Laughing, staring up at me with those deep, blue eyes of his, he asked, “What’s in it for me if I guess correctly?”
“You get to see them.”
Over summers and card nights, it became our regular game. I looked forward to it. I was getting the attention I deserved from somebody worthy. Chris, predictable as always, would drink himself blind, usually passing out in his chair until morning, and I’d crawl into my bed, gloriously alone, and finger myself over Rob’s attention.
When he guessed correctly, I’d tease him, toying with him until he was aroused, then scamper away as he looked on forlornly, usually fingering my throbbing clit over my panties before I pulled them off and stuffed them into my aching hole.
For this barbecue, I had a special designer dress, chosen just to tease him. With my husband leaving for his sales convention, that would give me ample opportunity to take our game to the next level. Cindy, even with fake thirty-six D-cups on her little frame, was no match for me. It was Rob I wanted and Rob I would have, for the entire week. He would be mine, powerless against me. I always get what I want, no matter what or how, but I wouldn’t need to. He was already my willing slave, he just needed to figure that out.
My dress was a spaghetti-strapped, backless affair of medium blue with a floral pattern in light pastels. My firm breasts jutted out enticingly from under the thin cotton. The waist tie caused my ass to stick out enough to cause any man to salivate, and the designer cut was perfect. Nice wedge sandals, giving my legs added enhancement, finished off my ensemble, except for a very special surprise for Rob underneath it all, something he’d never guess.
The barbecue went without a hitch; me playing amicable hostess to the substandard wives those idiots had chosen. My food was the crowning jewel; drinks flowed gratuitously. Cynthia had to shove her fake boobs into everyone’s faces, along with her fake blond hair and fake smile. Brainless Flatty, so proud of her ignorance, missed no opportunity to show it off.
Susan’s vapid comment of, “I don’t like seafood except for fish, lobster, oysters, and shrimp, plus pretty much everything on the menu at Red Lobster,” was an affront to logic. Her response to my husband’s comment “he’s just trying to get your goat,” won the intelligence-challenged award of the century. “I didn’t know you owned a goat,” was her mentally vacant reply.
As the day turned to evening, me barely tolerating their idiocy, I was approached by Rob’s wife, Cynthia, her fake boobs showing almost no bounce in her low-cut halter.
“I don’t like the way my husband is looking at you.” Her tone was venomous and accusatory.
“I missed the part where that was my problem,” my tone matched hers. “Perhaps he prefers a real woman to your fake tits, fake teeth, fake hair, and lack of personality. I can’t say that I blame you, though. If I weren’t woman enough to train my men, I’d act desperate and needy, too.”
Her face blanched, her eyes growing wide, welling up with tears. “You are one mean, manipulative bitch, do you know that? Do you care about anything or anyone other than yourself?”
“Not particularly, and thank you for the compliments.”
She stormed off, unable to handle the truth. I overheard her announcing that it was time to go. “We’re all leaving, are you coming, Rob?”
“No, baby,” he said, his voice slightly slurred by booze. “We’re going to play poker. You go on ahead.”
She “humphed” and gathered her much needed support-therapy group, the other wives. I watched as they left, hearing the blessed sounds of cars leaving the driveway. Finally, the hens had left the roost and I could play my games with Rob. He’d been leering at me all day, brushing against me whenever possible. Feeling randy, enjoying the heated wetness between my legs, I put my plan into action.
