Filthy Dirty Normal, Volume 3 Read online

“I’m going to come,” she said. “Already. I’m coming already.”

  Tony increased the speed of his tongue.

  “Ooooh God…” she moaned. Then she said it louder, and a few heads turned, and they stayed turned, mildly interested. And then, for the fifth time that afternoon, she came, and this time it went deep and she thought that this orgasm might actually scratch her itch. Her pussy clenched. Her clit sent jolts of pleasure through its roots inside of her. Her hips bucked into him. Her juices flowed, wetting the couch.

  When it was over, after she’d come slowly down from her climax, Tony reached beside her and picked up the towel he’d used to clean himself. He used it to wipe away her excess wetness. He did the same to his face, and then he stood and nodded.

  “Great, great scene, Amanda. I’m looking forward to … ahem … working with you again.”

  “Me too,” she said. But that was all she could say. She leaned back on the couch, breathing heavily.

  Tony wrapped himself in his robe, then walked off to talk with whoever it was with her juices still on his lips.

  Amanda should stand. She should pull on her own robe, collect her things, and head home for a shower.

  But instead, she continued to lie on the couch, naked, with her legs spread, with her pussy dripping and with Tony’s cum still in her hair while grips disassembled the set around her.

  Caught Her Masturbating

  Sam stood on the front porch, his hand on the iron railing, his briefcase standing upright at his feet. He took a moment to close his eyes and tell himself that things always worked out for the best, then picked up the briefcase and pushed the door open.

  The house was quiet. Justin was at school, and Jen was probably upstairs. Sam couldn’t hear the TV and couldn’t hear her moving around, but her car was in the driveway, so he knew she was back from the meeting she’d been complaining about this morning.

  She was probably in her office, writing. Of course she’d be writing. This was Jen, after all. Jen was obsessive about her work during work hours. She said that if she worked really hard while her men were away at the office and school, she could justify not working at all in the evenings or on weekends.

  Sam’s heart pounded with the burden he was bearing. He thought: I should walk upstairs and tell her right now. Right NOW.

  Yes. Definitely. He should walk upstairs and tell his wife that he’d been laid off. Postponing would only make things worse, and it’s not like he could hide it. It was the middle of the day. He normally worked until at least 4:30, usually 5. Jen would wonder why he was home, and he’d have to tell her. She’d be a little nervous at first, but knowing Jen, she’d bounce right back. She’d come up with ten different ideas for how to make money by dinnertime. And if worse came to worst, she could even pick up a few of those ad copy jobs she hated and swore she was done with forever, but that paid rather nicely.

  Then, if Sam was very lucky, Jen would see how upset he was, take him into the bedroom, and offer to make it all better.

  Sam smirked to himself. That’d be the day. Not only was Jen not very sexually forward, but it was also smack in the middle of her work day. She’d never permit herself to take the time for any shenanigans, as delicious as they’d be for both of them.

  Maybe he shouldn’t talk to her now, after all. If she wouldn’t take time for sex, why would she want to take time for bad news? And what’s more, if he talked to her now, it’d break her concentration. Jen hated having her conversation broken. She worked with headphones on to block out room and yard noise, and on the rare occasions she worked while Sam or Justin were around, she told them not to interrupt her unless the house was on fire.

  In fact, Sam thought, she almost certainly didn’t even know that he was home, thanks to the headphones. That meant he hadn’t broken her concentration yet. So why should he interrupt her now? It would be downright rude.

  Sam looked at the clock. It was noon. She had to take a lunch break at some point, right? His news could wait until then.

  Sam set his briefcase on the table, wondering if he’d ever need it again. Then he slipped off his jacket and tie, kicked off his shiny black shoes, and sat down on the couch. He didn’t want to turn on the TV, because that might alert Jen to his presence. He didn’t want to alert her to his presence. It would distract her.

  Sam picked up a magazine and began to read.

  Five minutes passed. Ten minutes.

  After twenty minutes, Sam decided that the only thing worse than having to tell your wife that you’d lost your job was having to tell your wife you’d lost your job after procrastinating for hours. Hiding as he was, Sam felt like a sneak in his own house. He could pretend that he hadn’t gone upstairs yet because he was being courteous, but he knew the real reason he hadn’t gone up yet … and so would Jen.

  Sam sighed and rose from the couch. Now was the time.

  Sam walked through the dining room, then began slowly to climb the stairs. His mind was already rehearsing ways to reframe his layoff as a good, freedom-granting event.

  Now I can start that business I’ve been wanting to start!

  Just think how much time I’ll be able spend with you and Justin now!

  But when he reached the top of the stairs and started toward Jen’s office, the only thing he could imagine himself saying was a plain, unvarnished fact: They let me go. I’ll get my last paycheck in two weeks.

  Jen’s office door was open. Sam took a deep breath and turned to walk in, so that he could get on with breaking her concentration.

  Then he stopped.

  Jen’s back was to the door, and she seemed intently focused on the screen of her computer. She was wearing her headphones — giant black things that completely covered her ears, because she’d said that earbuds didn’t do the job well enough.

  But what was on the screen of her computer wasn’t the in-progress text of an article. It was a video of some sort. And what was more, Jen’s fingers weren’t on the keyboard. They were in front of her, apparently on her lap.

  Sam walked past Jen’s office, into their bedroom. He didn’t know why he did it, but he felt suddenly sure that if he were to walk forward and tap Jen on the shoulder to tell her that he was home, it would be much more poorly received than usual because he wouldn’t be interrupting her work. He’d be interrupting… what, exactly?

  Why had he walked past her office? So she’d been watching a video. Why had that made his heart beat faster?

  Sam walked back down the hall — slowly this time. He walked on the tips of his socked toes, even though he knew that Jen would never hear him with her giant headphones on. He wondered at his own behavior. He wasn’t sneaking for his own benefit, but for hers. But why?

  He paused at the door of her office, peeking just his head in to look. And then, he realized why he’d reacted strangely. He realized why he’d walked by without stopping to announce his presence.

  On the screen of Jen’s computer was a girl in her early twenties, sitting naked in a rolling office chair, wearing what looked like a Mardi Gras mask. As Sam watched, a man walked into frame wearing only a shirt. The girl grabbed his penis, and …

  Sam ducked away, feeling his face turn red.

  Porn. She was watching porn.

  Sam wasn’t sure how to feel. There was so much wrong with the situation. For one, Jen didn’t like porn. Sam knew; he’d tried. Jen was an ambitious entrepreneurial career woman who doubled as the world’s greatest mother to their ten-year-old son. She could be hot between the sheets — lord knew, she still had the body for it — but sex had always been so compartmentalized. Jen had to be in “sex mode” to think about sex. It never sneaked up on her. It never surprised her. The idea that she’d ever feel compelled to watch porn — and on her own, nonetheless — was so foreign to Sam as to be unbelievable.

  She couldn’t be watching porn. Not in any normal way, anyway. She was probably writing an article, and whatever was on the screen must be relevant to some recent news event or some growi
ng pop phenomenon. Or maybe Jen was working on her novel. Maybe one of her characters was a porn star, and this was research.

  Sam heard how ridiculous the rationalizations sounded in his own head. But as ridiculous as the rationalizations were, they squared better with his view of reality than the notion of his sensible, level-headed, sexy-but-seldom-sexual 39-year-old wife watching porn for pleasure.

  Feeling very much like he shouldn’t, Sam peeked back into the room. Jen’s hands were still not on the keyboard, but now he could see where they were. One hand sat lazily on her upper thigh. The other was up the front of her shirt.

  On the screen, the guy was standing next to the girl in the chair. The girl was sucking him off.

  While Sam watched, the hand on Jen’s leg went up to her belly, which the arm under her shirt had left exposed. The fingers of the errant hand traced lazy loops on her skin, then began to probe at the waistband of her jeans.

  Sam started to pull his head back again, but something stopped him. That something was a movement of Jen’s other hand. Some part of his mind knew exactly what was coming next before it happened, and — he hated to admit — he very much wanted to see it.

  Jen’s hands came together at the top of her jeans. She leaned back slightly, her body just in view and her head still fixated on the screen. She unbuttoned her jeans, then pulled the zipper to expose the top of the white panties Sam had watched her put on this morning. Her fingers ran along the top of the panties. Then she relaxed back into the chair, and slid her right hand under the waistband.

  All of a sudden, Sam’s heartbeat was so loud and so insistent that he thought the whole neighborhood must be able to hear it. His head felt swimmy and woozy. He pulled his head away, a distant sense of morality winning a temporary battle with an exploding sense of lust. He’d already sprung to full attention inside of his boxers, his whole body tingling with a sense of intense, almost unbearable forbidden possibilities.

  Jen didn’t watch porn.

  Jen didn’t masturbate; she’d told him repeatedly, and she tended to be honest about such things.

  And perhaps most importantly, Jen was never struck by lust in the way that causes a person to drop what they’re doing and satiate their need. This sort of thing just didn’t fit into her schedule. Sam had made it abundantly clear that anytime she felt a need, day or night, she need only grab ahold of him and take what she wanted. He’d eagerly waited for her to do it — to feel a burning desire and to take a bout of lust out on him — but she never had. He was always the one who started the ball rolling. The idea that she was taking time on her own to do it was …

  Not offensive.

  Not off-putting.

  Sam found the phrase he was looking for: It was fucking hot.

  The idea that Jen would take matters into her own hands from time to time was incredibly, deliciously motherfucking smoking hot. Sam wasn’t offended that she wasn’t coming to him for gratification. Instead, he just wished she’d been comfortable enough to … to what? To share this with him? The idea was absurd, but it was exactly what he was thinking. His cock was at full attention, so swollen and so tight that it felt like it might rip open … and more than anything, as ridiculous as it seemed, he wanted in on this.

  He looked around the corner. Jen’s hand was now almost entirely into her panties. He could see a bump in the cotton rise and fall, indicating a finger that was moving in and out. While he’d been thinking around the corner, she seemed to have unhooked her bra and had pulled it off, presumably through her sleeve as was her signature move. Her other hand was far enough up her shirt that he could actually see the swell of her breast, and from time to time as her hand moved, he could see her nipple.

  Seeing that nipple, Sam felt as if he might explode in his pants. The intensity the situation was crazy — and unreasonably arousing, really. This was his wife. He saw her naked every day. They had sex once or twice a week. Several times, both before and after they’d gotten married, he’d licked hot fudge off of the nipple that was so exciting to him now. Nothing about simply seeing her naked breasts now should thrill him this much, but that’s exactly what it was doing.

  He’d seen her over and over again, yes — but never when she didn’t know he was watching. Never in moments that were this private.

  Sam’s hand fell to the crotch of his pants. He wouldn’t allow himself to do anything too crazy out here in the hallway, watching his wife get herself off, because that would be a creepy deal-breaker if he got caught. But he could meander. He could tickle.

  A thought occurred to him. It was an unrealistic, porn-fueled thought. Specifically, he wondered if he could walk into the room, show Jen the tent in his pants, and turn this little peep show into a live sex show.

  But as soon as the idea occurred to him, he dismissed it. If Jen knew he’d seen her, her bubble of lust would collapse into embarrassment. She wouldn’t suddenly seize his cock and beg to have it inside of her; she’d close up and dodge him for days.

  On Jen’s computer screen, the guy was sitting in the chair (he was wearing an Obama mask — what the hell?) and the girl was lowering herself onto him, both of them facing the camera. Jen’s head was unmoving, fixated on the action. The hand in her panties began to move up and down more briskly. Then she pulled the other hand out from under her shirt and used it to pull her panties up, into a tent. Sam watched her head tilt as her eyes left the screen and looked down between her own legs, watching her fingers rub and stroke.

  Jen’s chair swiveled. Her profile came into view, and Sam flinched back. But then he saw that her eyes were closed, so he gave himself another moment to watch as her mouth came open in a moan.

  He ducked back. His heart was like a tympani, and the polite voice in his head was even more insistently telling him that this was private, and that he shouldn’t be watching.

  But that’s why it’s so hot, he thought.

  Already he was trying to think of ways to get Jen into bed without tipping his hand when this was all over. Although, wasn’t there something pressing he’d come up here to discuss with her that was supposed to be more important? He couldn’t remember.

  From around the corner, Sam heard noises that had to be the casters on Jen’s chair. Then he heard the squeak of the chair’s back. She was getting up.

  Sam had two thoughts, each of which totally countermanded the other. The first was that he had to hide, lest he get caught watching and send her into unfathomable embarrassment. The other was excitement, because the deeply male part of his mind imagined that the only reason she’d get up at this particular moment would be to fetch a sex toy that she’d been hiding from him. He could almost see it — either smooth and silver, or made of heavy, shiny rubber.

  The thought of Jen — responsible, by-the-books Jen — sliding either one of those toys inside herself was enough to make Sam’s head explode.

  He ducked into the bathroom. Too late, he realized that a third reason she might get up might be to pee.

  Shit.

  He closed his eyes and waited, his heart beating in his temples like blasts from a shotgun.

  But Jen didn’t come out of the office at all. Instead, from where Sam was in the bathroom, he heard the chair creak and the casters roll again, and after a few minutes, he found the nerve to peek back into the office.

  What he saw almost made him come in his pants.

  Jen had stood from the chair because she’d wanted to pull down her pants. Both her jeans and the white pair of panties were in a pool at her ankles. Her knees were spread wide. She’d slouched further down in the chair, the blushing pink mound of her mons visible from the doorway. She had both hands between her legs. The left hand seemed to be holding her outer lips open, while the right made a rolling, almost scratching motion over her clit. Her attention was on the screen of the computer, her focus intense. He could see her head of long brown hair shaking with concentration as her fingers worked.

  Onscreen, the action seemed to be reaching an apex. The gir
l had seated herself facing forward on the guy’s lap, using her legs to slide herself up and down on his cock. Jen seemed to know that the final act was coming. She was working fast, driving herself to the edge quickly, so that she’d get there in time.

  Sam wondered if Jen would moan when she came — if she felt the moment was private enough for her usual orgasmic noises to be safe. The thought made a shiver run through Sam’s body, and he had to fight back a spontaneous, hands-free orgasm of his own.

  Jen’s fingers worked faster. She’d swiveled the chair slightly, obliging him with a better view from the doorway. Everything other than her fingers was perfectly still. Even without seeing much of her face, Sam knew that her eyes were closed. He’d seen this hundreds of times before, whenever he went down on her. Just before coming, Jen seemed to require all of her concentration — something that fascinated Sam, who as a man would be able to get the job done if a nun were knocking on the door.

  The movements of the fingers between her legs became focused. She was making intense up and down motions with all four of them, in short strokes. Her head rolled to one side, then to the other, allowing him to see her face. His wife’s beautiful face, which Sam felt was at its most beautiful when an orgasm overtook her. Sam didn’t bother to shy back. She’d never see him in this moment. She wasn’t even here anymore. She was wholly and completely somewhere else.

  Then Jen came, and when she did, she did moan — and loud. Her mouth came open. Her head rolled, her eyes closed, her stomach clenched, and the sound that came out of her was something Sam hadn’t heard since the last time they’d sent Justin off to her parents’ house for the weekend. Jen seldom allowed herself this much freedom — or, Sam thought, maybe she did it all the time. For all he knew, what he was seeing was an everyday occurrence. The thought was intoxicating. Seeing Jen be so sexual — so overtaken by need that had to be fulfilled — was almost more than he could take.

  As Jen spasmed in the chair — her feet tapping on the plastic chair mat, the hand between her legs now pressing more than stroking, her vocalizations still coming in heavy exhales and scant moans — the only thought on Sam’s mind was that he was now the one who needed attention. And sure, he could run off somewhere and take care of it himself, but right now he wanted nothing more than to have Jen’s … her everything on him. He wanted to lick her nipples and fondle her breasts; he wanted her to rub her wet pussy across his cock; he wanted her mouth on him; he wanted to slide inside of her and nibble on her neck.