Behind His Back (3 page)

Shit, I think to myself. His cock is as tired as he is.

It almost makes me feel bad for harassing him like this, but I’m not asking for fireworks here—just a hard cock in response to the hard body I’ve put so much effort into.

I greet his tip with my tongue and scoop him up past my lips, and I’m reminded of how exquisite it feels to have a man harden in my mouth. I think back again to when Jason asked me to wake him up with a blowjob on his birthday, and I felt his limp dick swell into a rigid python while I wetly coaxed it.

David’s cock isn’t nearly as responsive as I remember Jason’s being, but quickening pulses on its underside tell me that, at least physically, he’s into this. He lets out a low moan and slides his hips toward me along the sofa cushion, giving me more leverage to work with.

When his cock is good and hard, I pull my wet mouth off of it with a loud smack and admire my handiwork. He’s never been one to reach my cervix, but he more than makes up for it in thickness. As I grip him and jerk him off in front of my open mouth, I think of the thick, smooth PVC pipes we use to practice our lifting technique at Rev.

“Hold my head down,” I say, staring him in the eye and stroking him. Making him hard has lit a fire in me.

“What? Faith, you know I’m not crazy about—”

“Just fucking hold me down on your cock,” I say, and I plunge back down to suck him deeper.

His hands remain at either side of his hips on the cushion, so I angrily grab one of them and slap it onto the back of my head.

“And pull my fucking hair,” I say as I come up for air.

I give him my mouth again, struggling to go deeper. I want to gag on him. I want him to force his cock so deep down my throat that tears draw lines of mascara down my cheeks.

Finally, I feel his hand close around a fistful of my hair and press mildly down in rhythm with my bobbing head. But it’s a weak shadow of what I need. What kind of man doesn’t want to fuck his wife’s face until her eyes water?

This is not my handsome, successful, too-sensitive-to-stimulate-his-wife’s-gag-reflex husband.

Frustrated with his lack of aggression but still wet and eager, I stand up and hastily unclasp my bra. The cups cling to my pert tits until I pull the bra off and whip it at the wall. I give him my most primal, animalistic stare as I edge toward him and place my knees on the couch, straddling him. I pull his head into my tits, and he takes one of my stiffening nipples into his mouth and gives it a few perfunctory swirls with his tongue. It’s effort, at least, but I’m worried that he’ll never be as rough as I need him to be. I push his torso back against the couch and then reach down and pull the crotch of my panties to one side. My middle finger disappears between my folds, and it’s glistening when I pull it out. I show it to him and then suck my finger hard. It’s sweet from the honey dust.

“Jesus Christ,” he says.

“You want some too?” I say.

I rub my pussy and then reinsert my middle finger, letting out a long moan. It’s nearly dripping when I pull it out and wave it in front of his face.

“Suck,” I say.

He looks hurt, like he doesn’t know the ravenous woman who’s straddling him, but he acquiesces and reaches his head forward to taste me.

“Good boy,” I say. I sit back on his cock, reaching behind me to guide him between my slippery lips. It’s been so long that the fullness surprises me, and I gasp as my cheeks slide down to his pelvis.

“Oh fuck yes,” I say, breathing heavily.

David says nothing, but he grips my ass as I grind on his cock. For a few fleeting seconds I think I might actually get the fucking I’m after, but the fantasy fades when he fails to shift gears and take control. I grind harder and faster, squealing with physical elation and mental frustration, and when I realize he’s in no mood to take charge, I take matters into my own hands and climb off. I lie on my back beside him and spread my legs.

“Fuck me,” I say.

He stares at me like I asked for directions in a foreign tongue.

“Let’s take it upstairs,” he finally says. Either he wants more room to maneuver, or he just wants to lie down.

“Fine,” I say. I take his weakly pulsing cock into my hand and guide him up the staircase, giving him a show of my hard little ass. If he likes what he sees, I might even let him fuck it—a thought I’ve never entertained before.

Clearly the view doesn’t do it for him, because he’s softer by the time we reach the bedroom. To rectify his receding hard-on, I sit on the edge of our bed and pull him toward me. I take his cock in my mouth and pump away with my head as he drops his pants and unbuttons his dress shirt. I break the suction, stretching strings of saliva between my lips and his cock, and lie back on the bed.

“Why don’t you climb up here and fuck my mouth?” I say.

“Faith, this isn’t really—look, let’s just do this like normal people, okay?”

Like normal people? What does that even mean? Like Ross and Rachel from
Friends
? Like a couple of robots going through the motions? Am I some kind of demented slut for wanting the man I married to be a little rough with me?

“Whatever. Just do what you want,” I say.

He clumsily kicks his pants away from his feet and climbs aboard the S.S. Unsatisfied for a sterile bout of unfulfilling missionary sex. Despite my efforts to wrap my legs around him and quicken his thrusts or pull him deeper by digging my heels into his lower back, he maintains a plodding pace. After a few minutes of mindless pumping, I resort to watching my own tits bounce out of boredom. If he were fucking me harder, I’d find that imagery hot. But with David setting the speed, it’s like watching a pair of sea sponges sway in a tropical current. If I weren’t so frustrated, I might fall asleep.

After I’ve given up and my eyes have started to glaze over, David cums in three short bursts that, based on his muffled moans, give him the same amount of pleasure as a soggy microwaved pizza. I’ve made more of a ruckus trying to squeeze my quads into skinny jeans. We exchange looks of relief—partly because he finished and partly because the ordeal is over—and he slumps off of me to lie next to my body and breathe heavily like he just finished a workout at Rev.

“That was nice,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, still huffing.

I head to the bathroom to clean up, and when I return to bed he’s beneath the duvet, sleeping silently with his mouth half open.

At least he tried. I suddenly feel guilty for forcing my libido on him after his gruelling flight. I run my fingers through his thick hair, telling him telepathically that he’s going to lose it if he keeps letting himself get so stressed out.

My mind churns as I crawl into bed beside him, and I start wondering whether the sexual pressure I’m putting on him is causing his stress—and whether that same stress is killing his cravings. What’s worse, though, is that it might not stress him out at all. Maybe he’s just one of those people who’s perfectly fine living without sex.

The thought terrifies me. Because I don’t think I could ever feel that way.

I
look
up at Nicole in my office doorway, and she pretends to blow her brains out with her hand. She’s smiling as she does it. I look back down at the Matrix’s greasy, dandruff-speckled hair, and he doesn’t notice a thing. He’s sitting at my desk, fidgeting with my iMac. I’m behind him, leaning against the windowsill. Beside me are two Tupperware containers—one with four hard-boiled eggs, another with a handful of almonds—and a black Venti Starbucks coffee.

Between sips, I’m squeezing my glutes in alternating bursts against the ledge. Whatever material the sill is made of, I want my ass to be harder than it.

“Is there a rational reason why you’ve got so many files saved to your desktop?” he asks in his Asperger’s monotone.

I tell him file organization isn’t my bag, and he harrumphs in disapproval.

Fuck the Matrix. Our company has only one IT person, so we all have to put up with him, but fuck him just the same.

The Matrix’s real name is—is it Chris? Something with a C anyway, and Nicole gave him the nickname based on the framed movie poster in his foul-smelling office—and because whenever he opens his mouth he sounds like he’s speaking in code. I don’t think he’s aware of the moniker, but he’d probably take it as a compliment. It’s pretty easy to peg the Matrix as a guy who never got laid in college. He’s fat, unfashionably bespectacled, and completely void of social grace. And he’s spent most of his life filling his sizeable head with technical knowledge that he can lord over all of the women who refuse to fuck him.

“I don’t know how you can eat that for breakfast,” Nicole tells me. “How do you live without bagels? It’s like spreading cream cheese on an orgasm.” Nicole is a master of speaking her mind as though no one else is listening. The Matrix nearly jumps out of my chair when she says
orgasm
.

“And why are bagels verboten?” he asks, his voice full of snark. He needs to regain his composure by putting someone down.

“Because I’m avoiding gluten,” I say. I realize my mistake by the second syllable. I’ve fallen right into his trap.

He’s so excited by my clumsy setup that he spins in my chair to face me. “Can you even tell me what gluten is?” he says.

I can, as a matter of fact, but Nicole comes to my rescue before I can shut him down.

“It’s a toxin or something,” she says.

“Ha!” he snorts, spinning back around to face her. “A toxin!” I’m almost certain that he’s brewing a tiny erection.

“Gluten is a sticky, pernicious protein found in the gliadin family of grains,” I say before he can take his tirade any further. “It’s been linked to intestinal leakage and a host of other autoimmune issues. And based on how sweaty you are when you waddle out of the men’s room every morning, I’m guessing it’s something you should look into.”

Holy fuck. Did I just manage to out-science him while calling him fat and poking fun at his bowel movements in one fell swoop? I’ve blown past devolving into a frat boy and become a straight-up high school bully. And it feels kind of good.

The Matrix stammers for a comeback, but all he comes up with is a sarcastic “Very funny.” He mashes his fat fingers agitatedly against my keyboard and tells me I’m all set, and then he trundles out of my office, avoiding eye contact with Nicole as he passes her.

“Where the actual fuck did that come from?” Nicole asks once he’s out of earshot. She’s giddy in the glow of my victory.

“No idea,” I say, though I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that I could now kick the Matrix’s ass—or at least squat more than him. Not that it would be much of a feat.

Before we can fully analyze the exchange, Sophie, a skinny editorial intern with a penchant for ill-fitting cardigans, pops her head in beside Nicole to remind us we’re due for a meeting in the Serenity room.

“Fuck,” we both say.

In any other workplace, the Serenity room would be a plain-old meeting room. Its only serene characteristic is the orchid in the center of the table. The room’s nauseating name is a testament to the New Age bent of Cecelia, our sole HR person, who spent last summer in Nepal. And the fact that intern Sophie is the only one who actually calls the room by its proper name is a testament to her greenness and eagerness to please everyone.

I stare at intern Sophie from across the table while we wait for everyone else to arrive. She’s barely old enough to order a cosmo, much less read
Cosmo
. I wonder whether her sexual experiences differ from mine when I was her age. Does she know what it’s like to beg a tired lover to fuck her? Or does every young stud she beds pound her relentlessly into a quivering ball of flesh in the crook of her pink futon?

I picture a flip-haired twenty-year-old with broad shoulders and a narrow waist pummelling her bony pelvis into a bongwater-stained mattress, squeezing his swim-team glutes with each sweaty thrust. He pulls his long cock out of her, and I’m right there on my hands and knees beside them, ready to devour it. He shows me a pearly smile and then grabs the back of my head to pull my wet mouth closer. And right when I’m about to taste his throbbing tip, I’m jerked rudely out of the reverie.

“Okay. Are we ready to start then?” a strange man says.

I’ve never seen him before. He’s standing at the head of the table, projecting his laptop onto the screen behind him. Five or six more of my coworkers, including our publisher, Pamela, are seated around me, and one of them has dimmed the lights.

I didn’t notice any of this happen. Do I need medication or something?

“Right, Pamela’s asked me to present the latest mockups for your site redesign,” he says. “So I thought we could run through some of them today and get a few ideas finalized. I really think our designers have outdone themselves with some of these concepts.”

Good lord, he’s hot. He can’t possibly be a designer—he must be a project manager, or maybe the sales guy who landed his firm the job. While he runs through his slides, lobbing jargony terms like
responsive design
,
social integration
, and
platform agnostic
at us, everyone else at the table listens politely and nods their heads while I assess his body like he’s on all fours on a table at a dog show.

He’s wearing slim, dark jeans and a trim navy sports jacket. His brown leather shoes have showy blond soles, and his white dress shirt has one too many buttons rakishly undone. He’s fit. Not buffed out like the warriors at Rev, but in a slim, does-a-lot-of-pushups way that suggests he wouldn’t tire too quickly in bed. And he’s got just enough stubble to leave rug burns on my inner thighs.

He could easily be on the cover of
GQ
.

Once upon a time I’d have pictured us on a date at a nice restaurant. I’d think about the just-dangerous-enough black dress I’d wear, and I’d imagine myself walking gracefully on his arm in sexy heels. I’d see him ordering the perfect wine and not feeling the need to condescendingly explain it to me. Then I’d see us strolling through Hampshire Park by the waterfront, where he’d offer me his sport jacket to fend off the breeze. He’d wait until just the right moment to kiss me, and his mouth would taste like an After Eight mint.

But right now I’m just picturing myself sucking his cock so rigorously that my eyes water. What the hell is wrong with me?

I look at Nicole, who’s sitting across from me. She smiles at me and raises her hand like she’s clearing her throat, only she mimes a subtle blowjob with her fist. Does every woman at the table want to suck his cock?

For the rest of the meeting, I dip in and out of lewd fantasies of intern Sophie and I kneeling in front of our sharply dressed presenter, unbuckling his tasteful jeans and taking turns slurping on his sloppy, wet cock.

When the meeting’s done, the presenter, whose name I never even paid attention to, gathers his laptop and leaves, and I head back to my office. After picturing myself performing oral sex on a nameless man, I’m in no mood to perform a substantive edit on the knitting article I’ve been prepping, so naturally I go on Fräulein’s website.

When I hit the homepage, it occurs to me that I could get fired for doing this at work. I try to estimate the amount of time I spend browsing Fräulein and a few other lingerie sites from work every day, and it probably adds up to about an hour.

Why did I have to insult the one person who can spy on my web history?

I’m distracted from my fears when I see a patent-leather getup in one of the homepage’s rotator slides. It’s called the romp suit, and it must be a new addition, because I’d remember something like this. It’s nothing more than an amalgam of thin leather straps, starting from a collar around the model’s neck, crisscrossing around her tits without covering them, and then connecting in another criss-cross right above her crotch. Every fuckable part of the model is exposed, which means this is now porn. I’m looking at porn at work.

I stare at the romp suit and wonder whether I could pull it off. I’d certainly do better than their mop handle of a model, who has the chest of a thirteen-year-old boy and no discernible ass. There was a time when impossibly skinny models intimidated me and made me feel bad about myself. It’s funny how adding a little muscle tone changes all of that. Now I just feel sorry for them because they’re weak. I could fuck her with a strap-on and crack her pelvis in half.

But confidence aside, everything I’ve bought from Fräulein has been soft and lacy—still skimpy and hot and imminently peel-off-able, but certainly nothing as edgy as the romp suit. David’s dick would probably retract into his groin like a threatened gopher if he saw me in that. And for some reason, something about the thought of scaring my husband with my leather-bound body turns me on.

This is not my depraved, slutty subconscious.

Narrowing in on the model’s tiny, puckered nipples, I think about all the times I’ve come close to watching porn at work over the past year. I’ve read that some men do it regularly, and I decide to figure out their secrets for hiding it. Now that I’ve crossed that bridge and had a naked woman on my screen, I’m ready for the next level.