Every man in the gallery has his eyes on my wife. Not that I blame them. It's not that she's so incredibly beautiful. Her intelligent features are slightly irregular. Her breasts are small by the standards of many. Still, somehow, wherever she moves, she's meshed in electricity, surrounded by an attracting field that draw their eyes and aligns other parts of their bodies to her patterns of force.
Her smile is sudden lightning, throwing the room into relief. In her brief scarlet dress, she cruises from one knot of people to the next, arching an eyebrow, laying a slender hand on someone's shoulder, whispering pseudosecrets in someone else's ear. When she is with them, they feel obscurely blessed, bathed in her energy. When she passes on to the next cluster of art lovers, critics and wannabees, they are bereft. The room goes gray despite the shockingly vivid paintings on the walls
I don't mind. I love to watch her flirtatious progress through the crowd. It's entertaining. It's exciting.
I'm never really comfortable at her art gatherings, anyway. I am invisible to these ever-so-stylish folk, in my chinos and sport shirt and athletic shoes. They don't care that I've made fortunes for my company and myself, creating software that will change the world. To them, that is not "creating".
So I watch, sipping my wine, content to follow Julia with my eyes, secure in the knowledge that she chose me over all the intense, leather-jacketed bohemians who surround her. Sometimes, I allow myself to imagine her with them: with that muscular, dreadlocked fellow whose ebony fingers are clasping her wrist, or that pale, ethereal young man who is gazing at her with such palpable longing as she hands him a plastic glass of chianti. I feel myself harden, picturing her sharp features contorted in a grimace of ecstasy as she rides them, imagining her moans as they plow her from the rear. Then she looks up, locks her gaze on mine from across the room, and I am the one who feels blessed, even as my cock swells to pain inside my pants.
She is sensitive, my Julia. She understands. Later that night, as she sits astride me, gripping me with her taut thighs, she shakes her dark hair out of her eyes, and smiles down at me.
"You didn't mind, did you?"
"Mind what," I grunt, arching up and into her.
"My flirting tonight. My playing with all those men who want me."
"Of course not, darling. In fact, I love to see how they melt in your presence. I love to see your power."
"So it wouldn't bother you if I had an occasional adventure? Just for fun? Colin - you know, the big black guy who does the Warholesque cartoons - was awfully persuasive this evening..."
"Oh, Julia," I groan as she squeezes me with her inner muscles. I can't say anything more. I'm embarrassed by my own twisted desires. But as we stroke together toward a glorious common climax, I can't help imagining her slight, graceful body battered by a huge black cock. As I come, my eyes shut tight, I see the dark man's semen dribbling from her red-painted lips. And in that heightened state of awareness, I feel her thoughts -- I know that she is sharing these images with me. The intensity of this connection, this concordance of vision, is overwhelming.
Coming home from work the next evening, I unlock the townhouse door to hear laughter. There's her voice, low, melodious, seductive, and another voice that I don't recognize. It could be anyone, I tell myself, but my heart is pounding as I enter the living room.
"Hi, honey," I say and then blush at the banality of my greeting.
She is sitting on the couch. He's sitting very close to her, the blond man from the opening last night. He looks as uncomfortable as I feel. There's a telltale bulge in the groin of his corduroy trousers.
Julia looks up and holds my gaze. Her eyes are pools of liquid fire. "George, darling. Come in. This is Jonathan. Did you meet last night? No? Jonathan is one of our most promising young artists." Her delicate fingers stroke the young man's thigh, in a gesture that appears unconcious. "Very promising indeed. I asked him by so that we could have a heart-to-heart talk." She smiles that electric smile. "About his career."
I put down my briefcase and hold out my hand. "Hello, Jonathan. It's a pleasure.” He takes my hand briefly, nods vaguely, but can't seem to put a sentence together.
He's very young. Julia's forty and looks ten years younger. This poor innocent couldn't be more than twenty five.
I see now that he's not as frail as he seemed last evening. Under his pullover, he's lithe and muscular. He has the body of a wrestler, slender and wiry. But his face reminds me of an Renaissance angel, with his pale skin, soulful blue eyes, and full lips.
"George, would you be a dear and get us a refill?" Julia holds out her wine glass to me. Jon's is on the table. It strikes me that Julia is quite dressed up: that black velveteen suit that fits her body like a second skin, taupe stockings and heels, a red silk scarf at the her throat, lipstick and nail polish to match. She probably had a meeting with some of her investors, I think. I steal a glance at the length of thigh revealed by her short skirt. Poor Jon, I think, heading to the refrigerator for more Pinot Grigio.
"Get yourself a glass, too," she calls. I do.
I return, juggling three full goblets, to find them in the throes of a deep kiss. She has pulled his sweater off over his head. She strokes his muscular white back as her tongue probes his mouth. There's a knot in my throat as I watch, simultaneously horrified and aroused. She's a Siamese cat with a particularly tender mouse between her paws.
She breaks the kiss briefly. "Go get one fo the dining room chairs, George, and bring it in here." The audience assembles, I think, following her instructions. I sit, knowing that this is what she intends. She smiles approvingly when she sees that I'm settled.
Julia holds up her glass for a toast. We can't help but do the same, Jon and me. The light glints on her scarlet nail enamel. She smiles, intelligent, cruel, irresistible. "To us," she murmurs, and then sips her wine with a sensuality that melts me and causes her young swain to literally tremble.
"Now, George," she says, placing her glass on the coffee table. "Do you trust me?"
"Of course, Julia," I say, but to be honest, she's scaring me with her intensity.
"Well, then..." She hikes up her skirt and begins peeling off one of her stockings. Helpless, transfixed, Jonathan and I follow her with our eyes. She has the arches of a ballet dancer, feet that anyone would ache to kiss. Before long both her legs are bare.
I am startled when she stands, crouches in front of my chair, and begins to tie my ankle to the chair leg with her hose.
"What the hell...?"
"Didn't you say you trusted me?"
"Well, yes, but -- "
"Be quiet, then. Unless you want me to gag you."
That shuts me up. Because I realize that she'd do it, though she's never threatened me with anything like that before. Jonathan's eyes are wide. His lips are pressed together firmly, as if to resist another onslaught from my wife's tongue. Between his thighs, there's a swelling of impressive proportions.
In moments my legs are bound. Next Julia unknots her scarf. "Hands behind you," she commands. As soon as I obey, she wraps the silk around my wrists and ties it firmly.
What am I doing here, trussed to the chair like some slave in a sleazy porn flick? I'm embarrassed and a bit annoyed, but Julia's energy crackles through the air. The hair on my arms stands on end. And my cock is harder than it's ever been, despite my humiliating position.
Maybe she hears my thoughts. Or maybe she is just pursuing her own designs. She reaches down, unbuttons my trousers and unzips my fly. My erection springs out, bobbing and pointing obscenely toward the ceiling. I groan, grateful for the release, mortified by the circumstances. Jonathan swallows hard.
Julia purses her lips briefly around the tip of my aching organ. I strain forward, to no avail. "Thought you might need some air," she says flirtatiously. "Now be a good boy, be quiet, and watch."
She turns back to Jonathan, seeming to ignore me. One slow button at a time, she unfastens that velvet suit jacket. When she shrugs it off her shoulders, I see that she's naked underneath. Her nipples are plum-colored, the size of almonds. Kneeling in front of the couch, she feeds them to Jonathan. He takes them eagerly, sucking hard until she groans, and I groan, licking my lips, wanting to taste her myself, wanting to look away, wanting to see more.
After a long while she stands again and slides that short, tight skirt over her slim hips. Jonathan and I inhale simultaneously at the sight of her curly black bush. Her musk fills the air around us. She moves closer to the couch and spreads her thighs wide. "Want me?" she asks the young man. Without waiting for a response, she straddles his face and settles her pussy on that Botticelli mouth of his.
Yes, I want to scream, I want you, I want you to send him away, I want you for myself. But I'm silent, eyes glued to the scene before me. The only sound is the slurp of his tongue in my wife's snatch, and a good deal of heavy breathing.
It goes on forever. She arches her slim back, her buttocks tightening as she slams her pelvis against his lips. She whimpers. She screams. She ignores me as she takes her pleasure from her youthful lover. It's agony and it's ectasy.
Silently I beg her for some acknowledgment, some attention. Instead she kneels again, her back still toward me, pulls his down his pants, and engulfs his enormous young prick in her mouth.
I groan. No one pays any attention. At first he slides in and out slowly, savoring her, but soon he's pumping hard. He is lost in the sensations, her tongue, her teeth, her heat, her power. She reaches under his naked ass with one hand, and he gives a muffled squeak. My heart sinks and my cock threatens to explode as I understand that she has slipped a slender finger into his anus. The intimacy of that gesture crushes me, even as I imagine such an invasion of my self.
Jonathan is writhing now, twisting, slamming his cock into her face. I twist too, straining against my bonds, but it's no use. I can't reach her. I can't reach myself. My prick is huge and purple, heavy with come, alien, dangerous. I'd do anything to have her touch it, with the merest tip of her finger. It would be enough.
Jonathan lets out a choked yell and pushes his hips forward. Julia leans forward, taking all he has to give. Finally he slumps back on the sofa, and at last, Julia turns to me.
She is smiling. Her lips are shiny with lust and white with Jonathan's come. "How was that, darling?" she asks. Without waiting for an answer, she kisses me deeply. Her lover's seed is bitter and intoxicating. She smears it all over my face. I think that I will die of desire and shame. I try to brush my aching penis against her warm skin but she deftly moves away.
"Not yet, dear. Later. Right now, Jonathan and I are going upstairs. I'm sure that he will be hard again before long." (Glancing at the young man, I see that his prick is already swelling) "And I have several very hungry holes that need filling."
"But -- what about me, Julia?" I don't even try to keep the pain out of my voice.
"You stay down here, darling. Where you won't cause any trouble. Don't worry, I'll leave the bedroom door wide open. You'll be able to hear everything."
I groan and close my eyes as she takes Jonathan's hand and leads him upstairs. Yet even lost in my torment, I marvel at Julia's ingenuity. She understands that the pictures my mind will paint of her and her lover will be even more terrible and arousing than the reality.
She pauses on the stair, looking back over the shoulder as she cups Jon's shapely buttock with one palm. "Good night, darling." She smiles that two hundred megaton smile. "I love you."
She flicks off the light, leaving me in the dark. All the better to watch the awful, irresistible, unescapable scenes that play themselves out in my mind, accompanied by the soundtrack of their moans, screams, and endearments. My cock throbs angrily, hungrily, yearning for her touch. But I am alone, alone with my fantasies and the feral cries of my wife and her lover.
I wake in the wan light of dawn, covered with my own semen. My hands are numb. My eyes are crusted shut with tears. How could she, I wonder. The pain is as sharp as ever.
The merest sound draws my attention to the stairs. It's Julia, slender, waifish, her make-up worn off, her eyes shiny with lust. "Good morning, darling," she whispers as she loosens my bonds. "Did you have a good night?"
I bury my face in her hair, which is fragrant with musk and come. There's nothing I can say.