Chapter 3
I woke up Sunday morning and felt like a haze had lifted. I had been in a frenzy since Friday night and I probably ruined my life in the process. I took a leisurely shower, letting the hot water rinse the filth and degradation from my body.
I carefully folded the clothes that I had worn out and as I stepped out, wearing the simple clothes I purchased at Walmart, I headed home.
I didn't know what would be waiting there.
I parked in front of the house and sat there trying to get the nerve up to go in. I don't know how long I sat there. I think I was hoping he would see me and come out and start the fight or whatever was going to happen right there so I wouldn't have to initiate everything. I knew it was going to be brutal.
We had been married for 5 years and had been happy. I don't know what happened that night. Sure, sex at home had been a little mundane. Boring even at times. But who doesn't go through those patches.
Most women don't just go off acting like a whore in front of their husbands because they are a little bored. Why had I done that?
No answer came to mind.
But then the front door opened and Jon stepped out onto the front steps. He stood there, arms crossed, looking at me, almost daring me it seemed to get out of the car.
I realized that I still loved him. He had always been a good husband and whatever had happened this weekend had been a one time occurrence, probably fueled by alcohol, rebelliousness and a little female mid life crisis.
He stood there, arms folded across his chest, almost daring me to get out of the car. But I did.
I approached him and he didn't move at first. When he did, he moved closer to the edge of the steps, blocking the way past without a word. I turned sideways and squeezed past him and he stood there motionless but he did let me pass.
I went in and sat on the sofa, immediately seeing the ghosts of black me fucking me in my mind. I shook the thought away to focus on Jesse. I was watching the door as he came through, anger on his face and obviously at a loss for words.
He bypassed me and went into the kitchen. I heard the fridge open and the tinkling of a spoon in a cup. He came back with a cup of coffee. There was none for me. That would have never happened before this past weekend.
I defiantly got up and went to get myself a cup. As I re-entered the living room, he was still just sitting there, mug to his lips, in a near trance-like state.
He was obviously not going to speak first.
"I'm sorry." I began simply. "I don't know what I was thinking or how that happened."
His coffee mu, held in both hands, went to his lips and he took a slow sip looking intently at me the whole time.
After a pregnant pause that seemed to stretch on interminably, he finally spoke.
When he did speak, the words came in a flood. We talked for hours about our lives, the love we had shared, the future we had planned and the more we talked the more like a whore I felt. After he made it clear that he would forgive me and start again I knew that he was the man I had always assumed he was.
He was a gentle, kind soul who loved deeply. He had capacity for caring and forgiveness and he had a gentle nature. It took most of the day, but we had an uneasy but amicable reconciliation.
He never even asked why I had done it or if I enjoyed it or if I wanted to do it again. He simply forgave me.
That's the man he was.
And suddenly, in one day he made it all feel like it was a distant memory that we had overcome. I felt loved and trusted. I felt that we were on a good foundation. I had promised it would never happen again and I had promised my undying faithfulness to him.
We spent the day together doing married couple things; lunch, tv, curl up on the sofa and watch TV. I fell asleep with my head against his shoulder.
I dreamt. I dreamt of black guys, a lot of black guys, fucking me. In my dream, it was not a couple of guys. It was a room full of guys taking turns with me, not ever asking for my permission to do anything or asking or even caring what I liked. They just used me to get off.
And in my dream, I loved it.
But, I woke up. I woke up and I was lying on the couch with my husband. I was lying with the man who loved me enough to forgive me my infidelities and indiscretions. I was lying with the man who had never been anything but good to me. Yet I was dreaming about a random group of stranger using my body as a sexual object.
And my pussy was dripping wet.
I snuggled in next to my husband and rubbed my face against his neck and shoulder and down into his armpit. I licked his armpit lovingly.
He stirred.
"MMM, what are you doing?" he asked groggily.
"Fuck me." I whispered, albeit forcefully, into his ear.
"What?" he asked, perking up a little bit.
But he still did not move.
So, I got up and slid my pants and underwear off and climbed up so my knees were on either side of his head and I lowered my dripping cunt to his sleeping mouth. As he finally awoke, my pussy lowered onto his lips.
