Who You Wanted Me To Be Ch 02

I was grateful the house was empty when I got home, and in my bathroom, I carefully examined myself in the mirror for signs I was different, changed. It wasn't a case of having gotten away with my 'infidelity', my afternoon of motel sex was mostly at my husband's urging anyway, but the signs of it were evident. Changing out of my clothes, I noticed my panties were agreeably trashed, copiously stained with the drying evidence of our fucking. Confirmation of my afternoon of lust was everywhere I looked; bruises on my hips and ass, tears in my dress, cum stains on my stockings - I quickly abandoned any idea of cleaning up. And that included myself. Sure, I thought about showering but I really didn't want to lose the feeling, that freshly fucked feeling, the sense that the whole of my body was now feeling irreparably changed, rearranged. My cunt hummed with satisfaction and while my felt ass felt sore, it also felt strange and weirdly lubricated. I knew I was farting out bubbles of sperm, in fact, I felt that gobs of semen must still be flowing freely from both my holes. Exhausted, I changed into sweatpants and an oversized tee shirt and braced myself for the evening with my family.

When the kids came home I busied myself preparing dinner avoiding all but the usual chit-chat. And when my husband came in, one look told me that he was bursting with questions. I wondered if he had been jerking off in the office restrooms all afternoon. He could only raise his eyes questioning, and I was relieved I couldn't tell him. I wasn't actually sure what to tell him or even if I needed to, and I took refuge in laying out dinner for the kids to ignore him.

"So, how was it?" he finally asked, when we were alone before bed.

I didn't want to lie to him. It would have been easier to say that it had been terrible, never to be repeated, or that I had lost my nerve at the last minute and backed out. I was still his faithful wife, still his. Instead, I said.

"It was good. It felt like what I actually needed."

"And you used protection, the condoms I brought for you to use?"

"No, there wasn't time. I wanted him so badly, and I think I wanted him bareback -- I think it was important somehow that wanted to feel another man's sperm in me, not yours" And it was the truth. Now that it had happened, I realized that I needed my neglected and famished fuck-hole regularly filled with sperm, and a lot of it, from as many different men as I wanted. I could see he was weighing this information and I was trying to gauge his reaction.

"What happens now?" he asked eventually.

"I'm not sure what you mean. Do you mean you want to fuck me in some bizarre reclaiming of your wife ritual?

"No, not that. I didn't mean that," he mumbled but his eyes were betraying him.

"Or do you want to eat me out? Is that what you're saying? Are you turned on?"

"I don't know, I'm not sure," he said. I felt almost sorry for him, but something inside of me told me not to give in.

"Why don't you just jerk off in the shower? You'll feel much better."

"Could I do it here?" He was almost pleading.

"What are you asking me?"

"Can I do it in front of you, while you tell me what happened?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, do you?"

"But you understand that I have to know," he implored. "You've got to tell me. I think I have a right...." And then he stopped.

"A right?" I repeated slowly. "You tell me how much you want me to fuck other men, practically beg me, then tell me you have a right to question me about everything that went on - is that it?" Something was happening. Something I hadn't bargained on, and something I knew he hadn't bargained on happening. It was to do with power. It had shifted somehow, the whole dynamic of our marriage had shifted by just this one act of infidelity, this one afternoon of illicit fucking. I understood then, right then, that we could never go back. We could never erase what had happened to me that afternoon, and although I wasn't sure what the future held for us, I didn't want to. I liked this new order. I liked the whole fucking power of it.

"Yes. No -- fuck, I don't know. I've never had this happen to me before. To us before."

"If I tell you, do you think you can take it?"

He nodded and I could feel his shame, his humiliation and it was surprising how much that actually turned me on. So, I told him, leaving nothing out. Explaining in detail how he made me feel, how his cock pleasured me, how he paid me, saying I was such a fantastic fuck. It didn't take long before I knew he was close. I batted his cock away from my face.

"I don't want cum on the bedsheets," I chided.

"No, I promise" he gasped, "Fuck, I want to go down on you so badly."

"Are you sure about that? I've just told you that the second time he came in my ass?" And that tipped him over the edge, he promptly exploded. For all the drama and the groaning, it was a pitiful weak squirt of pale liquid that barely covered his hand.

It wasn't revenge. My husband had done nothing to hurt me, although I've since almost hoped that he might take some of the blame for whatever came next. But it was an act of spite, to shut him up, to respond to his dare. It started as vindictiveness. It ended up becoming addictively empowering.

After he showered off, he came to bed, silently, and before I slept, I became aware of cum still leaking out of my ass into the bed sheets as my husband cried the other side of the bed. I felt bad about it, sure, but I couldn't help but smile.