Behind His Back (15 page)

“
I
know
you hate this stuff, but I appreciate you coming,” David says as he helps me out of the cab. “This is a big night for the company.” The long red dress I’m wearing is so tight that every step is a chore, so I’m grateful to have his arm. I’m coping with the assumption that the trophy wives I’m about to meet will be blessed with surgically perfect bodies, so I might have gone a little too far in selecting something that reveals the curves of my ass.

“I don’t mind,” I say, but I’m barely there. Some large media conglomerate just paid an ungodly amount of money to buy the tech startup David works for, and we’ve been invited out to schmooze with the new executive team. And of course, the event is at Lotus, which is making it difficult to stop thinking about the scandalous things I did upstairs with Hunter and Miss Sassy Pants. As David whisks me past the lounge where Anika carried out Hunter’s instructions, I entertain a silly fantasy that he’s sitting in his loft, eating takeout on his couch and watching the video we made.

Then again, he’s probably making a different video with some other woman who’s even younger than Jessica and has a better ass than me.

David guides me toward an elaborate conference room featuring a massive indoor waterfall. About thirty men are glad-handing each other and making small talk, holding glasses of expensive Scotch and wearing dark suits with thick ties. Most of them are a couple of decades older than David, though the women who stand dutifully beside them, pretending to take an interest in whatever business they’re discussing, look young. Some don’t look much older than me, but that doesn’t stop them from giving me the stink eye when they see me. A lot of things can pique a woman’s jealousy—designer handbags, lustrous hair, exclusive ZIP codes—but nothing makes us boil like seeing another woman with lower bodyfat and a higher ass.

“Welcome to corporate America,” David whispers sarcastically in my ear. “I’ll try to make this as painless as possible for you.” I smile to convey my thanks.

Aside from the distracting text messages he seems to be sending every time he leaves my side to fetch drinks from the bar, David behaves like a doting gentlemen. Every introduction, every handshake, every gleam in his eye when he calls me his wife in front of his new colleagues, is a piercing reminder of how sweet my husband is. And nowhere is this more evident than in the jealous glares of the trophy wives scattered around the room in their elaborate gowns. They’re so fancy—so clearly smacking of wealth—that any one of them could have been buying tonight’s ensemble at Holt Renfrew when I passed through the store to suck Hunter’s cock in the Fräulein dressing room. I’d feel silly in my off-the-rack gown if I wasn’t certain that my body is the best one in the room. Nearly every woman here is naturally skinny, but their exposed limbs all share the same saggy, sallow skin that comes from too many lemon-juice cleanses and a misinformed fear of lifting weights. They’re also in various stages of dead-faced Botox dependence, and many have made the jump from injections to the scalpel, which gives a few of them the appearance of perpetually surprised lizards.

As David guides me around the room from group to group, the wives devour him with their eyes. Their graying husbands are so old and self-involved that they don’t even notice. Viewing my husband through the eyes of these attention-starved woman, I see him as more than vanilla sex with a soft cock. He’s tall, polite, and handsome with a gracious smile that puts anyone at ease. It makes me feel shitty for all the crazy things I’ve been doing behind his back, and I compensate by sucking back long, greedy sips of my wine a little too quickly.

While the women are drinking David in, I feel the eyes of the rich old men penetrating every part of me. There’s something sinister in their gaze, and it might have something to do with the way they don’t try to hide it. When I catch one of them staring at me, they don’t look abruptly away or pretend to look past me the way other men do. They stare right into my eyes—or at my tits and ass—as though I’m their property to look upon. They’re probably members of some aristocratic sex cult, where they bring a new partner into their ranks and then sacrifice his wife to their covert carnal rituals. Every time one of them eyeballs me, I imagine he’s assessing me for a strange ceremony where he and his associates will wear masks and take turns fucking me.

It should be gross, but the thought turns my cheeks as red as my dress.

David introduces me to the company’s CFO, a tall lantern-jawed man with a completely shorn head that’s an obvious preemptive attack against his retreating hair line. He’s old, somewhere in his fifties, but he’s built like a tank. He has a bit of a gut, which I’m sure looks a lot worse when it’s not sequestered in a tailored power suit, but he looks strong enough to get away with it. He shakes my hand with a thick fist that looks larger than a toaster when he wraps it around mine, and he glares at me with the burning eyes of a natural-born predator. I can tell instantly by his ballsy stare that he wants to fuck me. If these men really are part of some secret cult of wealthy perverts, he’s probably their leader. His wife, a nervous, thin woman in a black dress, can tell too, and the dirty look she gives me is drowned out by a weary acceptance. Her bleached-blonde hair is pulled smartly back to accentuate her alarmingly visible collar bones. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t broken her.

The sex-cult leader starts bullishly blabbing with David about the next quarter’s fiscal targets while I pretend that I’m not examining his crotch and estimating the size of his cock. It’s probably pendulous and weathered like the trunk of a tired elephant. Suddenly, I feel four fingers touch the bare skin of my back. It’s somewhere between a tap and a caress, and it would be grounds for an HR complaint if this were an office instead of a snazzy soiree at Lotus. I turn around to see my assailant, expecting to find that one of David’s new corporate overlords has had too many fingers of whisky and decided to get handy. Instead, I’m greeted by a runty brunette with a pixie cut and big blue eyes that are mostly unaided by makeup.

“Oh my God. I love your back,” she says. “You’ve got it going on.”

“Thanks,” I say. I take a subtle step back from her to avoid further groping.

I can’t think of a time that I’ve seen a woman look more awkward in a dress. It’s a hue between violet and blue—a color that’s impossible to match, and I’m guessing by her scuffed white pumps that she didn’t even try. She likely chose the dress because it bares her shoulders, which are nicely toned. She’s nowhere near as fit as me, but she can definitely do a push-up or two. I’ve seen her type before. They get divorced, and then they get way too into fitness—not that I should talk—to get back at their philandering husbands for squandering their joint savings on younger women whose tits still bounce when their bottoms are spanked. But instead of lifting weights or doing something useful with their time, they buy a three-thousand-dollar bike and decide they’re going to do a triathlon. They start training like a fiend, and they spend the first six months losing fat and seeing new, exciting lines in their abdomen. Then they spend the rest of their obsession looking increasingly stringy and suffering from adrenal fatigue.

“What do you do to get arms like that?” She reaches out and grips my bicep, forcing me to reconsider my assumption about her recent divorce. Based on the way she’s staring at me, there’s a good chance this woman was never married to a man.

Is this what happens after you eat out another woman in a three way? Can lesbians sense that you’ve been between a girl’s legs? Does the scent of Jessica linger on my tongue every time I speak? I resign myself to a lifetime of being hit on by women who want my toned arms wrapped around them. Then a man, younger than the others and wearing a cheaper suit, approaches us.

“I see you’ve made a new friend,” he says to her. He glares at me like I’m the quarterback of a rival school’s football team. Then he grasps her arm, pries it off of me, and drags her to a table, where they sit and dig back into an argument that they’ve probably been sustaining over the duration of their iffy relationship.

David pokes my ribs and leans in toward my ear. “I think she liked you.”

“I think she wanted to do more than
like
me,” I say. I smile and then stick my tongue out and pretend I’m licking an imaginary pussy. It’s a vulgar gesture—and maybe it’s too much of a clue that I’ve recently had some real-life pussy-licking practice—but I’m sure Mr. Elephant Cock won’t complain about seeing my tongue.

David laughs—the first time I’ve heard him laugh in months—and it reminds me of how much we used to joke around. Back when we were younger and he was articling at his first law firm, a ritzy occasion like this would have been fodder for us to poke fun at everyone in the room. We’d have come up with a nickname for every plastic surgery victim and swinging dick who staggered by, and we’d sit at a table and snicker at them while getting drunk off their free booze. Maybe if I play my cards right, tonight could be a return to that kind of closeness.

Or maybe not. My hopes of a rekindled connection are dashed when his phone buzzes from inside his jacket. Overcome with irritation, he pulls his arm from the small of my back and rifles through his pocket to retrieve it. He looks at me with a worried expression and raises a stiff index finger to silence me as he answers it.

“What is it now?” he says while pacing briskly away from me. Should I be weirded out? Any time he’s received a call over the past year, I just assumed it was someone from work, because work is all he seems to do anymore. But isn’t everyone he works with here tonight?

A terrifying thought occurs to me: what if he’s on to my sexual shenanigans and he’s hired a private eye to snap pics of my compromising behavior. Or worse, what if he knows everything, and he’s preemptively hired a divorce lawyer?

No, I tell myself. He’d never do that. Not sweet, gentle David. At the first sign of marital distress, he’d sit down with me and hash out our troubles. He’d find us the city’s best therapist and beg me to go with him. He’d work to preserve our perfect little life, no matter how brutally I’ve abused it. That’s just David. He’s a good boy, and I’m a bad girl. That’s just the way it is now.

Feeling suddenly reassured, I look at my husband. He’s still on the phone, dealing with what I’m now certain is a boring work-related issue, so I decide to grab another drink and find a seat by myself. The suited men turn away from their conversations to stare at me as I make my way to the bar, and the thought of each of them mentally fucking me lights a fire between my thighs. Not that I’d fuck any of these gold-ring geezers of course. If I’m going to be a cheat, I’ll do my best to save it for Hunter.

Seated alone with my glass of wine, I stare around the room at all the fake conversations. I don’t understand how David can function in this world. Is that why he’s too exhausted to fuck whenever he gets home? I’ve been here for half an hour and I’m ready to throw in the towel. If I spend any longer in this room, all I’ll want to do is go home and put on comfortable pyjamas and sit in front of the television with a pint of Chunky Monkey, and that’s the opposite of everything I want out of life right now.

I decide I need to be somewhere else, and pronto. And I don’t mean sitting on my couch—I mean riding on Hunter’s cock. Wherever he is, I need to find him. I just need to get his attention. Inspiration arrives quickly, courtesy of the wine that I’m devouring, and I grab my purse and b-line for the restroom.

It’s empty when I enter, and it’s a calming oasis compared to the babbling of the executives. At the end of a long row of large, dark-stained bamboo doors, there’s a wall-length waterfall trickling a tranquil sheet down to a bed of carefully placed pebbles. I pick a spacious stall near the end, close to the waterfall, and I latch the door behind me. There’s a hook on the back of the door, and I hang my purse on it. I pull my phone out of my purse and, after a quick inspection to make sure the tank is immaculate, I set it on the back of the toilet so that the camera is facing me, and I start recording a video. Then I shimmy my dress up past my hips and bend over, showing my ass to the camera. I tug my thong down my thighs so that the flimsy fabric is suspended just beneath my ass. Satisfied that the room is still silent, I reach between my legs and begin rubbing my already-wet pussy while fantasizing that Hunter is standing behind me, unzipping his pants and pulling out his thick, throbbing cock. I want him to fuck me in this stall. I want him to tear my panties off and punish my ass. I want him to pick me up and hold me against the door while he pumps his white, hot cum into me, and then I want him to drop me, sweaty and satisfied, onto the cool tiles beneath us.

My fantasy soon switches from Hunter violating me behind the safety of the stall door to thoughts of him propping me up against the sink on the other side. In my twisted vision, startled women walk in, always in pairs like they’re still in high school, to fix their makeup and dish about their latest renovations, and they quickly dash out when they catch us in the act. They pretend to be put off, but I know the truth. I know they’re jealous of my hard little ass getting pounded by a man who can fuck any ass he wants.

I’m close to cumming when my mind switches gears again. We’re still fucking in the restroom, and I’m still gripping the sink for dear life while getting pummelled from behind, but now we’re in the men’s room. And instead of darting away like their frightened wives, the executives who catch us congregate and watch, unafraid to stare at the slut they’ve discovered where no good girl would go. The thought of those wealthy men watching, wishing they were the ones fucking me, waiting to be next, pushes me to the brink, and I start to whimper as powerful waves of pleasure wash over me. My knees buckle and I rattle the door while trying to steady myself. Then, when I finally catch my breath, I hear the restroom door shut, and I know immediately that I’m not alone.

“Oh my God,” I hear a woman say in a hushed tone. I freeze, still bent over with wet fingers pressed against my pussy, and listen. The door closes again, and just like in my fantasy, they’re gone. I should probably be embarrassed, but all I feel is a strange sense of accomplishment.