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Part 15
The invitation came via a casual text from John, the handsome man from her political science seminar. ‘A few of us are hitting The Rusty Nail tonight. You should come.’ Dawn showed the phone to Ben, who was meticulously arranging books on their new living room shelf. She watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he slid the heavy volumes into place.
“John from class,” she said, her voice light and airy. “And some of his friends. It’s Saturday. It might be fun.”
The Rusty Nail was everything the name promised: dim, loud, and smelling of decades of spilled beer. It was packed, a mass of sweaty bodies under the glow of neon beer signs. John was easy to spot, his charisma creating a congregation around him at a central table. He introduced his girlfriend, Lora, a sweet-faced woman who made a point of keeping one hand perpetually on his arm, and his cousin, Eric, who was visiting from out of town.
Eric was… a surprise. Where John was all sharp angles oozing with confidence, Eric was softer, both in physique and presence. He had a kind, almost sad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was an outsider at the table, just like she was. The story came out in bits and pieces between shouted conversations: he’d flown in to surprise his long-distance girlfriend, a student here, only to find her in bed with her study partner.
“An upgrade, I guess,” Eric said self-deprecatingly with a shrug that was meant to be casual but was weighed down with humiliation. Dawn’s initial thought – I can see why she looked elsewhere – was quickly smothered by a wave of genuine pity. He was a loser, but he was a hurt loser.
She made it her mission to pull him out of his funk. She leaned in close to hear him over the music, her knee brushing against his under the sticky table. She laughed at his awkward jokes, her hand resting on his forearm in a gesture that was supposed to look like it was casual, but she knew he experienced as a spark in the hazy bar. She was showering him with the attention his girlfriend had denied him, and he was soaking it up like the desert soaks the rain.
His eyes locked onto hers. The noise of the bar seemed to fade in the background. Eric’s gaze dropped to her lips, and she didn’t look away. She gave him a slow, deliberate smile.
He was the one who moved first, a clumsy, beer-fueled lunge. But she met him halfway. The kiss was sloppy, desperate on his part. His tongue tasted of the cheap lager they were all drinking. His hand came up to cup her breast through her thin cotton shirt. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of drunken need.
“Dude,” John drawled, his voice cutting through the noise of the bar as his sharp eyes flicked to Dawn and Eric. His lips curled into a half-smirk, both amused and incredulous. Lora, his girlfriend, looked away quickly, her cheeks flushed.
Dawn felt the weight of their stares, but she didn’t pull away from Eric. Instead, she angled herself closer, her hand still resting on his forearm, her knee pressing into his with intent, her breast pushing into his palm. She gave him a slow, knowing smile, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, “Come back to my place.”
Eric froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes searched hers. But then he shook his head, his expression filling with regret. “I can’t,” he murmured disappointingly. “My flight… I have to go.”
Dawn leaned back just enough to study his face, her smile softening but not fading. She could see the conflict in him, the way he was torn between the unexpected allure of her attention and the obligation hanging over him. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze.
A plan, delicious but just a bit wicked, crystallized in her mind. Even though Ben won’t experience it, Eric deserves some positive memories of his visit. The thought brought flare of heat low in her belly.
“Come with me,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him from the booth. She threw a quick “Bathroom!” to a bemused John and a wide-eyed Lora, not waiting for a response.
The single restroom was thankfully empty, a tiny, tiled closet that reeked of antiseptic. She locked the door with a loud click that felt like a clapperboard signaling the start of a scene. The florescent light overhead mercilessly highlighting the panic in Eric’s eyes.
“What are we – ” he began, but she silenced him with another kiss, her hands going to the hem of her shirt. In one fluid motion, she pulled it over her head, standing before him in just her jeans and a simple lace bra. His breath caught in his chest. He stared, dumbfounded, at her smooth skin and the generous curve of her breasts.
“A proper goodbye,” she teased. She didn’t wait for permission. She unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops. She pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough, and then she sank to her knees on the cold and dirty floor.
She took him into her mouth, and he cried out, a strangled sound of shock and pleasure. His hands fumbled for the tank behind him for support. She worked him with intensity. Although she enjoyed it, it wasn’t about her pleasure. It was about giving this sad, discarded man a memory that would eclipse the humiliation of the day. A memory he’ll cherish until the day he dies.
She felt him tense, his thighs trembling. A choked warning escaped his lips. She pulled away, continuing with her hands. She kept her rhythm steady until, with a guttural moan, he climaxed. Hot streaks spilled over her breasts, some of it hitting her chin.
For a moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the buzz of the neon lights. He looked down at her, his expression a mix of awe, confusion, and gratitude. Dawn held his gaze as she gently cleaned him with her mouth, a final act of service that left him shuddering. Then she rose. She pulled her shirt back on, the fabric sticking slightly to the wet traces on her chest.
He dressed quickly, avoiding her eyes, a blush creeping up his neck. “Thank you… I… I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Dawn,” she said softly, unlocking the door. “Have a safe flight.”
He left her then, disappearing into the crowd toward the exit, toward the airport. Dawn smoothed down her shirt, took a deep breath that still carried his scent, and walked back to the table.
John raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as Dawn returned to the table. The group erupted into drunken cheers, clinking their glasses and whooping in approval. The energy was electric, fueled by alcohol and the unmistakable thrill of her absence and reappearance.
Lora’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she leaned forward, her voice a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Dawn, is that… stains on your shirt?” she asked, her eyes darting to the faint marks that clung to the fabric. Dawn glanced down, feigning surprise, but the smirk playing on her lips gave her away.
The table erupted into laughter, the sound wild and uncontained. Someone shouted, “Eric’s a lucky man!” while another slurred, “Tell us everything!” John, the ringleader, waggled his phone in the air. “He just texted saying he had to run for his Uber, and to say bye to everyone. Bet he’s not thinking about his ex anymore,” he teased, his voice dripping with innuendo that felt subtle to his drunk mind.
Dawn chuckled softly, smoothing her shirt with deliberate nonchalance. She didn’t need to say a word – the look in her eyes and the faint smirk on her lips were answer enough. The group erupted into another round of cheers, raising their glasses to toast the night’s unexpected excitement.
Dawn took a long sip of her forgotten drink, the melted ice turning it into little more that flavored water. A slow, secret thought came to her. She leaned into the conversation, Eric’s spendings drying on her skin beneath the thin cotton, a hidden trophy for a husband who would enjoy discovering it later.
Part 16
The key turned in the lock with a clumsy scrape, and the apartment door swung open to reveal Dawn, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. She swayed with a tipsy grace as she stepped inside and kicked the door closed behind her. The air around her carried the sweet scent of cheap beer and the sharper aroma of a night out.
Ben looked up from the sofa, a book resting in his lap. His heart gave a familiar, painful bump at the sight of her – the messy hair, the smudged eyeliner, the flushed cheeks. She was beautiful, and she was his, and yet she was never entirely his.
She didn’t say a word. Her fingers clumsily went to the hem of her shirt. In a few drunken attempts, she pulled the soft cotton over her head, letting it fall to the floor besides her. She stood before him in just her jeans and the simple lace bra, her breasts clear in the light of their living room.
And there, across the smooth, inviting slope of her breasts, above the lace, were the stains. Dried, flaking, unmistakable.
A surprised sound caught in Ben’s throat. His eyes were locked on the evidence, his mind already conjuring the image of a stranger’s release on her skin. Dawn stepped forward, her movements difficult in her state. She cupped his face, her touch surprisingly gentle, and guided him forward, pressing his cheek against her chest, right into the warmth of her cleavage, right where the scent was strongest.
It was a complex mix of smells. Her sweat, a stranger’s cologne, beer and smoke, and beneath it all – the sharp, biological truth of another man’s pleasure.
“Is it…?” Ben’s voice was muffled against her skin, “what I think it is?”
Dawn’s fingers carded through his hair, not quite tenderly, but possessively. “Yes,” she breathed, and the single word was thick with liquor and a thrilling pride. “It’s another man’s cum.”
She held him there for a long moment, letting the reality of it sink into him, seep into his pores. Then, she pushed him back just enough to look into his eyes. Her own were glazed with alcohol and a predatory spark. “Lick it off.”
A tremor ran through him. This was new, and he wanted nothing more than to rise to the occasion. He leaned in, his tongue tentative at first, tracing a path along the delicate line of her collarbone. The dry residue flaked easily and melted on his tongue. The taste was salty, slightly bitter, and surprisingly foreign. He’d tasted his own cum before, and maybe this was similar, but the heavy meaning behind it made it a completely new experience. It was the most intimate violation he had ever known, and it made his own cock twitch painfully against the confine of his jeans.
He worked slowly, meticulously, his tongue lapping at her skin, cleaning her. Enjoying both the experience and the touch of her breasts. Each swipe was an act of submission, a cleansing ritual that only further defiled him. He could feel her heartbeat under his lips, steady and strong, a contrast to the frantic pounding in his own chest. When he was done, her skin was clean, shining with his saliva. She now smelled only of herself and him. The remains of the other man were no longer on her. They were inside him.
She took his hand with a firm grip and led him to their bedroom. She unbuttoned her jeans, removing them completely, and then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, peeling them down as well. She didn’t seduce him. She presented herself. Falling back onto the bed, she spread her legs and looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Come here,” she commanded, her voice drunk and sleepy.
He obeyed, crawling onto the bed, his body thrumming with the mix of shame and arousal he loved so much. She guided his head down, pressing his face into the heat between her legs. The scent here was all her, musky and sweet and familiar, but in his mind, he imagined he could detect traces of another man.
She began to rock her hips gently against his mouth, her hands fisting in his hair. “You like that, don’t you?” she murmured, her words slightly slurred, only partly making sense. “You like tasting another man on me. You’re getting his leftovers. You’re putting his cum inside me now, you know? You licked his cum off and you’re now pushing it into me. You like putting another man’s cum in me?”
A moan of assent was torn from him, almost against his will. The vibration against her clit made her gasp. Her hips bucked harder.
“You don’t even know who it was,” she teased, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Could have been a stranger from the bar. Could be that quiet guy who sits next to you in your Econ lecture. What’s his name? Maybe it was his load you just licked off my tits.” She giggled drunkenly. “From now on, whenever you see anyone on campus… anyone at all… I want you to look at them and wonder…was it him?* Did I eat his cum from my wife’s boobs? Did I put his cum into my wife?”*
The image exploded in Ben’s mind – all the anonymous male faces around campus, each one a potential contender. The humiliation was a white-hot brand in his heart. The arousal was a tidal wave on his sex. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue plunging deeper into her, trying it push the cum even further in.
The thought, the filthy poetry of it, and how Ben reacted to it, tipped Dawn over the edge. Her body went rigid, a sharp gasp catching in her throat before a long moan shuddered out of her. Her thighs clamped around his head, holding him in place as she pulsed around his tongue, her orgasm rolling through her in intense waves.
When her grip finally loosened, he came up for air, his face wet, his eyes pleading. He was painfully hard, his own need a screaming ache in his gut. He moved to kiss her, to share the taste of her climax, to seek some small fraction of relief for himself.
Dawn pushed him away, her arm landing on his chest with a soft thud. She rolled onto her side, turning her back to him, already snuggling into the pillow. “No,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “I already made one man come tonight. You can take care of yourself.”
Within moments, her breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of sleep. Ben lay beside her, achingly erect, the taste of her and the memory of that unknown man still on his tongue, the cruel, hot, echo of her words ringing in his ears. He was drowning in it, and he had never been more aroused.
The following Monday, the buzz of student chatter filled the hallway outside the lecture hall. Ben was fumbling with the zip on his backpack, his mind a thousand miles away, still trapped in the bedroom, when a soft voice spoke beside him.
“Ben?”
He turned. Lora stood there, wringing her hands slightly, her expression a mixture of concern and awkwardness. “Hi. I, uh… I saw Dawn at The Rusty Nail on Friday. With that guy.”
Ben’s blood ran cold, then hot. He said nothing, just waited.
“It was pretty… public,” Lora continued, her cheeks reddening. “The way they were, and then when she came back… well, everyone saw. I just… I wanted to make sure it was okay? I assumed, because it was so out in the open, that you guys had an arrangement. But I wanted to hear it from you. She… Lee cheated on you, right there in front of everyone.”
Ben took a deep breath, the air feeling thin. He met Lora’s worried gaze and mustered a strained smile. “She didn’t cheat. We’re…”
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