Chapter 5: Unexpected Propositions!

The past few days have been business as usual

One new development has been introducing a bit more risqué banter into my sex life with Emma. It’s pretty tame stuff, but seems to really rev our engines and has led to a definite uptick in bedroom action. I’m certainly not complaining - every couple has their thing, and if some mildly dirty talk means more nookie with my gorgeous wife, I’m all for it.

We’ve also been hanging out with Marcus regularly, often having him over for dinner and drinks. I’ve started teasing Emma a little in front of him, making subtle innuendos that go right over his head while she blushes and shushes me. I get a kick out of goading her like that, I can’t lie. There’s just something about her flustered fluster that does it for me.

Tonight, I’m heading over to Marcus’ to invite him for another dinner. When I get to his door, I’m surprised to find it already cracked open. Frowning, I step inside and glance around - no sign of him.

“Oh! Fuck! Fuck me...”

I freeze, torn between shock and amusement. Marcus is a single guy, and a pretty reserved one at that. I had no idea he was seeing anyone, let alone bringing her back to his place.

Good for him.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I find myself creeping down the hall towards the telltale moans and grunts. As I near the bedroom door, the sounds reach a fever pitch. Pulse pounding, I gather my courage and sneak a peek around the frame.

My jaw hits the floor. There’s Marcus - buck naked, muscles rippling, absolutely railing a woman from behind. She’s on her hands and knees, head thrown back, tits bouncing as he pistons into her. Holy shit.

For a wild second, my mind flashes to Emma’s gym story, her breathless description of his sizeable bulge. Hearing those pleasure-soaked screams, I can sure as hell believe it.

But then, as I squint closer, my stomach drops. I recognize that face. Oh no. Oh god no.

It’s Rhonda. Our neighbor Chris’s wife, Emma’s friend Rhonda. What the actual fuck?

I feel my heart sink for Chris even as my treacherous dick perks up. This is all kinds of wrong.

“Ahgawwddd...”

Marcus’ ripped body pistoned powerfully, each thrust rocking Rhonda’s entire frame. It was really something to behold. My head spun, trying to reconcile this scene with the Marcus I knew - the stand-up guy, always willing to help out in the neighborhood, respected by everyone.

Yet here he was...

But as disappointed as I am, I can’t deny the raw animal sexuality of the scene. The contrast of his dark skin against her milky curves, the sheer size of him dwarfing her little body ... it’s intense.

Erotic.

Rhonda is clearly loving every second, moaning like a cat in heat as Marcus rails her. Her pert tits jiggle almost comically with every thrust, the wet slap of their bodies colliding obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet house.

Suddenly, a new light source catches my eye - a phone screen, glowing from the corner. I squint, then feel my eyes bug out of my head.

It’s Chris. Naked, slowly stroking his hard cock ... while filming his wife getting plowed by another man.

What in the ever loving fuck is happening right now?

I’m pretty sure I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone. Or maybe I’m hallucinating. Dreaming. I subtly pinch my thigh - nope, feels real enough.

Reeling, I start backing away slowly, desperate to escape before I’m noticed. My brain feels like scrambled eggs, fried extra crispy. I genuinely cannot process the bombshells that were just dropped on me.

Marcus and Rhonda. Rhonda and Chris. What?

I manage to slip out the front door undetected, easing it shut with a barely audible click.

I make my way back home in a daze, mind reeling from what I just witnessed.

As I step inside, Emma calls out from the kitchen, “Is Marcus coming over for dinner?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” I respond distractedly, shrugging off my jacket.

“Okay,” she replies, going about her evening routine.

I head straight for the bathroom, needing to wash off the weirdness of the day. As the hot spray beats down on my shoulders, I try to process everything. Chris and Rhonda - I’ve interacted with them so many times, and never once got the vibe that they were into ... that. And Marcus, Jesus. I never would have pegged him for the type to sleep with a buddy’s wife, let alone while said buddy watches.

My head is still spinning as Emma and I have dinner and eventually turn in for the night. I toss and turn, mind churning over the revelations. Eventually, I drift off into a fitful sleep ... and find myself right back in Marcus’ hallway.

Once again, I hear the telltale moans and grunts of vigorous sex. Once again, I creep closer, morbid curiosity pulling me in like a magnet. I peek around the doorframe, seeing the same scene - Marcus’ powerful dark body driving into the woman beneath him, her cries of pleasure filling the room.

But as my gaze travels up her sweat-slicked back, my blood turns to ice in my veins. Because the face I see, contorted in ecstasy ... is Emma’s.

I jolt awake with a strangled gasp, heart jackhammering against my ribs. Beside me, Emma stirs, voice thick with sleep. “What is it, honey?”

It takes a few shaky breaths before I can respond. “Nothing, baby. Just a weird dream. Go back to sleep.”

She mumbles something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the covers. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm my racing pulse.

What the fuck was that about?

Morning eventually comes, sunlight slanting through the blinds and chasing away the shadows of the night. I roll over, seeking Emma’s warmth ... but her side of the bed is empty.

A different kind of adrenaline spike hits me then as realization clicks into place. She’s at the gym.

With Marcus.

I’m up and out of bed like a shot, a strange panic clawing at my throat as I take in the evidence - her pajamas tossed over the chair, her gym bag missing from its usual spot. It’s the same gut-churning dread I felt in the early days of starting my company, that sensation of free fall and oh fuck what now.

I pace the bedroom, running agitated hands through my hair. I could just ... go down there. Check on her. But then I forcibly stop that train of thought. This is Emma. I trust her implicitly. And Marcus, for all the weirdness of last night, is a stand-up guy. He would never betray me like that.

Right?

Fuck, why am I even spiraling like this? So I accidentally perved on my neighbors engaging in some kinky shit, so what? That has absolutely zero bearing on my marriage, on Emma’s loyalty and character. I know this.

I repeat it like a mantra as I make coffee with shaking hands, as I compulsively check my phone for texts, as I wear a groove in the living room carpet.

When the front door finally opens, I nearly jump out of my skin. Emma trudges in, face flushed and hair escaping its messy bun. She looks exhausted ... but oddly radiant. Satisfied.

“Good workout?” I aim for casual and miss by a mile.

She groans dramatically, dropping her bag by the door. “Marcus is a fucking drill sergeant. He keeps saying it’ll get easier, but I think that’s bullshit.”

The sound of our neighbor’s name on her lips hits differently now, a sour little twist in my gut. I swallow hard. “I mean, he’s supposed to push you, right? No pain, no gain?”

Emma snorts, stretching her arms overhead with a wince. “Maybe so, but I’m pretty sure he’s secretly trying to kill me.”

She flops onto the couch with a put-upon sigh. I try not to notice the way her tank top rides up, exposing a strip of toned stomach. The sheen of sweat on her collarbones. The flush on her chest.

After a minute, she levers herself up with a groan, heading inside. I don’t even realize I’m staring at her ass until she pauses and looks back at me with a knowing smirk.

“Enjoying the view?” she teases, putting a little extra sway in her hips.

I just bet Marcus enjoyed the fucking view, a traitorous voice hisses in my head. I tell it firmly to shut the hell up.

“I always am,” I quip back with a wink.

“Well, wanna come join me in the shower and enjoy it up close?”

I hesitate, the thought of her naked and wet sending conflicting jolts of arousal and anxiety through me.

“Uh, no, not right now. You go ahead, I’ll just ... finish my coffee.”

Her face falls a little and I feel bad.

“Your loss,” she shrugs, disappearing into the bedroom.

A moment later, I hear the hiss of the shower starting up.

Sighing, I slump onto the couch and pull out my phone, desperate for a distraction. I scroll mindlessly through tweets and memes, but none of it really registers. My brain feels like a hamster on a wheel, thoughts racing round and round.

I can’t stop thinking about the handful of times Emma and I have brought up Marcus in our dirty talk. It was always mild, playful teasing that somehow managed to get us both revved up like crazy. Our sex life has honestly never been hotter. At the time, I was totally on board - but now, in light of last night...

Unbidden, my mind conjures up images of Marcus guiding Emma through her workouts, his big hands skimming over her sweat-slicked skin. Even that tame mental picture sends a swarm of something hot and squirmy through my gut. I feel a tingle across my scalp, in my groin. Glancing down, I’m horrified to see my cock starting to thicken in my sweats.

Shame crashes over me in a wave. I look around wildly, as if there might be someone in the living room waiting to point and laugh. Like I’m a middle school kid caught daydreaming about the hot teacher.

Fuck.

I lurch to my feet, tossing my phone aside. “No,” I mutter to myself. “Just ... no.”

In the bedroom, I can hear Emma humming softly beneath the spray of the shower. I pause by the door, hand on the knob as I debate joining her after all. Maybe I can wash away this weird energy, lose myself in her perfect body...

But then the pitch of her voice changes, snaring my attention. I freeze, ears straining. Was that...?

“Uh ... Aghh...” The unmistakable sound of Emma’s moan filters through the door, almost drowned out by the rush of water. “Ngh...”

My heart kicks into overdrive. I know those noises, I’ve caused those noises countless times. Is she...?

Holding my breath, I press my ear to the wood, listening hard. There - filtering through the white noise of the pipes, the faint cadence of Emma’s heavy breathing, coming in short, rhythmic bursts.

Oh fuck. Oh shit fuck damn.

She’s getting herself off in there.

My cock surges to full hardness, straining against my fly. I close my eyes, picturing her under the spray - water coursing over her curves, one hand between her legs, the other tugging at a pert nipple. Cheeks flushed, head thrown back, little panting moans escaping her parted lips...

What is she thinking about? Her workouts? Marcus?

The jealousy hits like a punch to the gut. But right on its heels is something darker. Hungrier. Something that makes me want to shove a hand into my pants and stroke myself.

Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me?

In my distraction, I accidentally bump the dresser, sending a vase tumbling. It hits the floor with a crash that may as well be a gunshot.

The sounds from the bathroom immediately cease. I’m frozen in place, face burning with mortification. Fuck fuck fuck.

After a moment, the shower shuts off. Panicked, I scramble away from the door as quietly as possible, not daring to breathe until I’m on the other side of the room.

By the time Emma emerges in a billow of steam, wrapped in a towel and glowing, I’m propped rigidly against the headboard, trying to act natural.

She takes in the shattered vase with a raised brow.

“Babe. Seriously?”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I uh. Tripped.”

She sighs and goes to get dressed, seemingly unaware of my inner turmoil. I keep my eyes trained at ceiling, not trusting myself to look at her and not picture ... things.

“You sure you’re okay?” Emma asks a minute later, perching on the edge of the bed to pull on her shoes. “You seem kind of out of it.”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” I assure her too quickly. “Just uh, didn’t sleep great. Still waking up.”

“Well, I made extra coffee. I’ve got to run or I’ll be late.”

Leaning over, she pecks me on the lips, the clean scent of her bodywash wafting over me. “Love you. Try not to break any more of stuff today, yeah?”

“Love you too,” I return weakly as she heads out. “Have a good day.”

The second the front door closes behind her, I exhale shakily and palm myself through my sweats. I’m harder than fucking steel and leaking like a faucet, Jesus.

I think guiltily of Emma in the shower, biting her lip to keep quiet as she fingers herself. I imagine it’s not her own slick digits pumping into her cunt, but Marcus’ thick dark ones. Splitting her open, curling to find that sweet spot, making her squirm and clench and beg...

“Fuck,” I groan, shoving my pants down and taking myself firmly in hand. It only takes a half dozen rough strokes before I’m coming like a fucking geyser, painting my chest and fist in long ropey spurts.

For a few blissful seconds, my mind is blank and buzzing with orgasmic static. But then the shame and confusion and anxiety come crashing back in, leaving me shaky and hollowed out.

The hell.

“Hey boss,” Sheila’s voice jolts me out of my daze. I blink up at her, disoriented. “What happened to you today?”

“What?”

She puts a hand on her hip, giving me a look. “I’ve been calling your name for like, ever. Where’s your head at?”

I glance around, realizing I’m at my desk, piles of untouched paperwork strewn about. Shit. “Oh, uh, sorry. Just got lost in thought I guess. What did you need?”

Sheila relays some work-related message that barely penetrates the fog in my brain. I make vague noises of assent until she leaves, then slump back in my chair with a heavy sigh.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, my mind a million miles away. By the time I’m riding the elevator up to my apartment that evening, I feel wrung out and jittery, like I’ve mainlined too much caffeine.

The doors slide open and I startle badly, because there’s Marcus, grinning.

“Mike!” he greets jovially, eyeing my rumpled suit. “Looking sharp. Big meeting today?”

“Uh, yeah, something like that,” I mutter, stepping in beside him. The air suddenly feels too thick, charged with something I don’t want to examine.

Marcus, oblivious, chatters away as we ascend. Something about a game next week, did I see the highlights from last night, we should grab a beer and catch up. I make noncommittal noises, shoulders hunching up to my ears.

I practically bolt out of the elevator when we reach my floor, tossing a distracted “Sounds good, talk to you later” over my shoulder. I’m sure it looks rude as hell, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Emma is in the kitchen when I get in, stirring a pot of something fragrant. “Hey babe,” she calls. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

I grunt in acknowledgment and beeline for the shower, desperate to wash off the day. But even the hot spray can’t unknot the tension in my muscles, the churn of emotions in my gut.

That night, sleep is elusive and restless. My dreams are a jumble of sweat-slicked skin and grasping hands, flashes of Emma’s ecstatic face, Marcus’ dark bulk moving over her. I wake up gasping, disoriented, painfully hard. Emma makes a sleepy noise of concern beside me, but I slip out of bed before she can reach for me.

In the living room, I pour myself a stiff drink with shaking hands, trying to banish the sense memory of dream-Emma’s breathy moans. The bourbon burns going down, but it settles my nerves a little. Grounds me.

The next few days are more of the same - me stumbling through in a distracted haze, avoiding Marcus like the plague, guiltily jerking off to twisted fantasies when Emma is out. She’s still going to the gym regularly, often jumping me as soon as she gets home, high on endorphins and eager for my hands on her.

I mean, the sex is fantastic, don’t get me wrong. But there’s this niggling worm of doubt, of jealous confusion that I can’t quite shake. It taints every kiss, every touch. I find myself wondering if she’s thinking of him. If she wishes it was his fingers insider her, his cock splitting her open...

I know, logically, that I could just ask her to stop working out with him. That she would, without hesitation, if she knew how it was fucking with my head. But some stubborn, masochistic part of me refuses. I don’t want to be that guy. The insecure, controlling husband. It’s not a good look.

So I suck it up and stew in silence. I dodge Marcus’ attempts to make plans, ignore the wounded confusion that flickers over his face every time I brush him off. I tell myself it’s no big deal. That I’m not being a shitty friend, a shitty person.

Weeks pass like this, an endless feedback loop of lust and shame and fear. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Losing myself.

Then one night, as we’re getting ready for bed, Emma flops dramatically on the mattress with a groan. “Ugh, I’m dreading the gym tomorrow.”

“What? I thought you were Miss Fitness now. It’s been months.”

She pouts at me, nose scrunched adorably. “I know, but it still sucks. I’ll never get used to the torture.”