The Asshole 12

[Hey readers, so here's another chapter people who don't want Jess to cheat won't like. To be honest, if you're reading this to get off, maybe don't. Last chapter ended with her dissociating during sex. This chapter is worse. Originally, this story was going to be an ugly bastard type story, but it ended up going some place darker than UB stories usually go. For those of you who crave a sweeter version of this story, Good News! Once I take this to its conclusion, I hope to write The Asshole: Sugar Cut, a version in which Mexico is a place where Chuy and Jess learn to live their fantasies in a healthy way and the eventual cheating is more inline with the things in previous chapters. But this tale needs to go deeper into Jess's fall before it concludes. This chapter is not for people who think all women who cheat are evil whores. If you thought Jess enjoyed the sex or even believed she had agency to avoid cheating in the last chapter, I suggest moving on to another story that better meets your desires.]

[Jess]

Maryam, I know it's absurd to write an apology to you for cancelling appointments in this journal. But it's because I promised myself to stop lying to you. Like, actually tell you all the stuff I've been putting in this journal. And show you this.

That's a good thing, right? And I'm going to keep that promise to myself. I remember how much it helped to make promises to myself about self-care and then deliver on them. I didn't forget. But I can't face telling you the truth. Or part of the truth. If I go to a session, I'll lie, and I'd probably lie badly because I can't think about anything helpful. In my head, I imagine myself pacing around your office, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the entire office is nothing more than a smoke cloud. Don't worry, I didn't take up smoking. But that image from some movie feels right.

So here's the deal. For now, I'll tell the truth here. But you can't ask any questions about things I leave out, okay? If I'm going to be honest, you can't ask questions. Just tell me I'm not a horrible person. Well, I'd know that was a lie. Just tell me... I don't know. You're such a good therapist, you solved my work problem while I was telling you a dozen lies a session. Take the things I write here and fix me.

So back to my telling this terrible story. After we whatever that was. Fucked, I guess. Cheated? Definitely cheated. Betrayed Chuy. After that, and after I hated myself and everything else, I tried to stop. I sincerely tried.

In my head, I'm pacing with the cigarette again like I'm a woman in a police station, trying to tell them that, yes, a horrific crime happened and they must believe her or somebody else will die. Maryam, you have to believe me, okay? I know there's no reason to after I've told you how I lie all the time, but I tried! I really, really tried. I swore off touching the Asshole, swore off teasing, swore off any conversation beyond, no and thanks for the barbecue. But that is probably obvious. Of course I did that. I'm a fucking evil whore, not Timur the Conqueror or something. But I went farther.

I swore off masturbating and bondage.

I couldn't tell Chuy the truth. I wouldn't be fair to hurt him like that. I had to solve this problem on my own, and the only way to do that was to make sure the only person I was sexual with was him.

[Chuy]

The only way forward is ahead. It's something my dad told me when I was in high school after I got a B and convinced myself I'd never be an engineer (yes, I planned on being a civil engineer since I was eleven and found out it was a job; it was a little more glamorous in my young head). I've tried to live that philosophy ever since. I've sometimes been sad when things didn't go the way I wanted, but I kept my eyes on what I could do to move forward. Then this fucked up job happened, and I wondered if I needed to slam on the brakes.

To start, I hated this project. I didn't like it initially, but at the start, it felt like it was doing some good. The best and most obvious solution was to reroute the highway a quarter mile west and put in an overpass. Politically, it meant shutting down the highway for a year and the fucking car dependent NIMBYs would riot, so that was out, but we had a good backup. Plus, the technical challenges were enjoyable. It wasn't exactly cutting-edge work, but it was innovative. Then the idiots at the state DOT came in and thought what the world needs is more big ass trucks plowing into people so morons who drive giant trucks as passenger vehicles can prove their manhood by running over children. Which meant more lanes that do nothing to relieve long-term congestion, but kills the light rail systems use potential. My path forward had always been accepting that no matter how fucked up the project was, less than ideal was at least a step in the right direction. But then they expanded it and I'm working with the Koreans at all hours, never seeing my wife, who won't admit it but is obviously in a state crisis.

The thing about Jess is that during her last crisis, the worse it got, the more she pretended everything was fine. She's convincing, too. I almost believed her. But she was too excited about the new product line. As she danced about, showing me the new pieces, she was more focused on teasing me than the technical qualities. I'm sure anyone hearing me complain about this would say Pobrecito Chuy, but this wasn't Jess. I mean, this was Jess, in the sense that she loves to tease and flirt with me and the clothes are really sexy. But she was giggling like she was drunk and went back and forth between technical details and being... How do I explain how childish she was acting? There was something unsettling about her pitching her voice up and being cutesy. She's a small woman with small breasts. Her playing young isn't sexy. Which doesn't mean we didn't have sex. My wife is so fucking sexy and she knows how to tease, she knows what to shake and what to move. It wasn't long before I was caught up in it. And the more we fucked, the more she wanted, but...

... I don't think she was getting off. I asked, and she said she wasn't faking it. We've always had good communication in bed, and she's told me when she needed some extra help to get over the line or when she wasn't going to come. It didn't happen, but when it did, she didn't feel the need to lie to me. Afterwards, though, I couldn't shake the feeling it was all a performance. I mean... okay, there was this point where she teased doing anal. We've never tried for obvious reasons, but she told me, "What if your little slut wants something new?" while rubbing my cock against her ass.

"What new?"

She giggled and didn't answer.

"Does my little slut want it in the ass?"

She giggled again and turned around to give me a blow job. She went all out, taking me in as much as she'd ever done and really working on my balls. I got lost in how good it was. This was new for her and maybe in the back of my head somewhere, I wondered where she'd learned to do this. In my head, I thanked Gabby before Jess's tongue slid down from my balls to tap my asshole. Jesus, that felt so good, my brain shut down.

After four orgasms, I was spent. It wasn't just that my balls were dry; it was all the hours, all the bad food, all the stress from work, and all the worry about Jess hit me. I wanted to finish Jess off and went to go down on her, but she pulled me up to cuddle.

I was half asleep when she started to masturbate. She wasn't going for a quick good night cum. Even with her back to me and her trying to keep her movements small, I could tell she was engaging with a fantasy she was drawing out. I rolled over partly to hide that my cock was getting hard, but mostly so she could do what she needed to do without feeling inhibited. Or was it to see what she was doing? Dark thoughts had started to creep in, thoughts about what was going on with my wife's mental health. Her earlier giggles haunted me even as her soft moans tempted me to try for more. The your slut wife and giggles juxtaposed in uncomfortable ways and memories of her struggles in her last job came back.

I drifted into weird dreams about giant trucks running over model trains, crushing little plastic people over parking lot pavement. Yeah, my dreams can be a bit obvious at times. The track suddenly jumped like it was on a wave, and I half-woke, realizing Jess had slipped out of bed. The bathroom door opened and closed and I started to go back to sleep when I heard a slap and Jess's hoarse whisper, "Yeah, punish your bitch."

She was obviously trying to be quiet, but little slaps and interjections like, "oh, God, take your whore," "fuck me, fuck your bitch, harder, fuck this whore harder," slipped through the night. I wanted to get up and join her. I wanted to be the person she was fantasizing about. It felt like it would violate something private. Why did she need this? Should I have fucked her ass when she pressed my cock between her cheeks? Before we married, she told me she liked anal sometimes and we've played a few times with toys, but accepted we'd have to work up it and it was never something either of us got into enough to keep at it. Or maybe it was just that the idea didn't do anything for me. Did I miss her signs? Was I taking our communication for granted and assuming everything was good for her? But I asked! I fucking asked all the time about what she wanted. Fucking Gabby. I thought we'd both found out things about ourselves and sexuality with her, and that we'd opened up with each other even more than before.

Fuck. Jess revealed her submissive side and her joy at playing the whore. I'd seen how much she liked surrendering and being called names. She'd tried to get me to spank her and I couldn't. I still couldn't. And she was in the bathroom, getting off without me.

I needed to talk to her. I needed to push past this new giggle shit and have a real conversation about everything. But I let her come back to bed at 5:17 am without a word. And when my watch vibrated on my wrist 43 minutes later, notifying me of a text from my boss, I let her sleep as I got up to read it and get ready for work. Twelve minutes later, I was dressed and pulling out of the garage, my mind caught between what the fuck was going on with Jess, the new details we'd learned from a soil report that came in from a lab in Switzerland a few hours before, and my seething resentment at the entire world for making this fucking project a thing that existed.

[Jess]

It didn't matter what I did, the thoughts of giving in kept growing more frequent and louder. The more I had sex with Chuy, the worse it got. The first night, I failed entirely. I was feeling almost sick with worry. I've never done many drugs, but I felt like I was on what I assume a terrible acid or ketamine trip would be like. I was desperate to hide how I felt and kept giggling. I could tell Chuy knew I was off, which made me worry more, and the more I worried, the more I was certain I had to keep him focused on getting off so he wouldn't realize what I'd done. Yes, Maryam, I know that's broken brain thinking. This whole story is broken brain thinking. Sometimes I wonder if I'm in an institution like my mom and this is all some kind of super fucked up Freudian hallucination. If it is, could you please adjust the straight jacket so I feel more bound? Sorry. I know that's not true. I was avoiding this. The point is, I was really trying. Trying hard to connect with Chuy, trying hard to keep my sexual energy 100% focused on my husband, trying to keep my word. I kept going to the point that I knew he wanted to stop and cuddle, but I couldn't. Stopping would lead to a conversation and I knew if I opened my mouth, truths would come out I couldn't bear to reveal. But I couldn't get off. I got close a few times. Chuy knows my body so well, but I wanted to be punished, humiliated and abused. So I kept fucking him until he was completely fucked out. Thank God he was too exhausted to talk at that point. He knew something was wrong. He's so perceptive. If it hadn't been for his work being so demanding, even after four hours of constant sex, he'd pull me against me, protecting me from the world with his gentle strength, and ask me what's wrong. He'd be so kind and gentle and supportive. And I'd given in to needing that and told him the truth. At which point it would all go away because he'd know who he really married. He's strong enough to forgive, but that same strength means he won't stay in a relationship with somebody as toxic as me once he discovers how evil I am.

The whole time, I was desperate to come. Not just come, but have a mind-shattering orgasm. Fuck, I wanted something literally mind-shattering. Something so intense, it would destroy every thought I ever had. I couldn't get there with my husband. I couldn't get there with the one person who truly loves me, who cares for me, who offers me forgiveness until it becomes poison to him. So played with myself, playing with how much loathing I could pile up on myself in my head, until he drifted off. And then I went to the bathroom and imagined the Asshole using his bitch. I came so easily in the darkness. I'd always been a whore. My body tempted men, I tempted them. Only a worthless slut would act like me. Only a cheap bitch would come on her Daddy's cock and want more.

That night I dreamed of my mom. She never had a head in my dreams. Never mind. Let's not talk about that. She's dead. Children lose their parents and they get on with life.

When I woke up, I wanted to crush myself with one of those pavement roller things, the huge ones that flatten highways. I imagined myself pressed into a freeway, cars rolling over my two-dimensional ReVolution's clad body, rubber and road grit slowly eroding me away. I had to stop. No more masturbation. No more thoughts of being used.

I had so much work to do, but my hand would drift from my keyboard to trace a cuff around my wrist or neck as I squirmed in my chair, imaging Asshole pulling my clothes off and taking me. I cut myself making dinner because I was fantasizing about him using me in the living room and didn't pay enough attention to the knife. As I dressed, I'd wrap my bra straps around my wrists, or try to tangle my ankle in my panties to feel constrained.

When I wasn't fantasizing about giving in to the asshole, I'd crawl into bed and lay there, numb.

I chewed my nails--Chuy noticed that, even though he didn't get home until after 10 pm. He asked if I was alright. I could sense how much he wanted to talk about the night before. He knew, Maryam. Not about how toxic and fucking manipulative an evil I am. Anyone who knew that would have sent a letter from his lawyer or something, not started a conversation. But he knew I was faking it the night before. He knew something was wrong. I deflected, asking him about work. He knew I was doing it and kept trying to turn the conversation back to how I was doing, but I won that war. Well, we both lost the war, but I won the battle. We cuddled that night. It was so hard. I needed to come. I needed him to fuck me into a coma, but I knew I had to pretend that I wasn't a toxic cheating bitch with a psychotic need for abusive sex. And I managed to get through the night without masturbating. I woke him with a blowjob and had him come all over my tits as I fingered myself to a little come. He knew it was fucked up sex, not connecting sex, but he had to get to work. Conversation and solo masturbation avoided.

That night I had another little come from making love. It didn't annihilate me like I wanted, but I did give me a little oxytocin rush. I felt good most of the day, proud of myself for feeling so loving towards my husband and in control, even as the next day was a nightmare, where corrupting thoughts kept pushing me to go across the street to let the asshole use me.

Maryam, I even left the house the next Friday. I took an Uber, a $120 Uber because we live in the middle of nowhere, to a coffee shop so I wouldn't be home when the asshole dropped off the barbecue. I couldn't afford $240 a week just to avoid him. I couldn't bring myself to tell Chuy that we weren't getting that amazing smoked meat because I was afraid I'd let the asshole fuck me if I was there for it.

Saturday and Sunday were hard because Chuy had to work all day--7 am to 9 pm on Saturday and a leisurely 9 am to 8 pm on Sunday. I was massively behind on my work and could focus a bit in the mornings, but by the time afternoons rolled around, my head was back in our bedroom, teasing the asshole and begging him to put it in me.

I was on the verge of masturbating when Chuy came home Sunday night. He looked terrible. His whole body looked like it was melting. His gaze avoided me even as he picked me up in a hug and held me for minutes. We didn't speak or look at each other as we drove 20 minutes to a half-way decent Italian place. The whole time I chewed on my lip, wanting to ask him what the matter was. His eyes would glance over to me and my clenching, chewed-nail fingers and then turn back to the road, face pale.

He knew.

It was a Chuy thing to do to manage a conflict by putting us in some place where we couldn't yell. Someplace we'd have to keep the conversation at speaking levels so our bodies didn't get all fight or flight. I watched the cars around us, streaks of red and white in the dark ex-urban night as my heart raced. It was good he knew. I'd let him divorce me and have the house. I'd even pay for my share until we could sell it. I tried thinking about how I could help him find a good woman to love so he could move on. I wasn't really in the car. It was just a body moving along the road, the roar of tires on pavement at speed filling its ears. I thought I would be okay. In high school, I was caught masturbating in the bathroom by the star volleyball player. She was fantastic--not quite Olympics good, but close--and gorgeous and popular. I heard somebody come in, but I was close and couldn't stop. I needed it so bad. She sat in the stall next to me. I can still picture her aquamarine and pink shoes. "You're such a slut. Jessing off every fucking day. It's disgusting."

I couldn't stop. I wasn't making hardly any sound, but she knew I didn't.

"You're still jessing, aren't you?"

It didn't take me long to come, the humiliation of it somehow making my orgasm more intense. Afterwards, I sat still, but kept caressing myself. I was going to masturbate again once she left, but she sat there. "I'm not leaving until you do, slut."

So I cleaned up and walked out of the stall. We both went to the sink. I looked up at her through the mirror. She smirked at me. "We all know what you do in there, Jess. You're so disgusting."

I started to get headaches after that and...

Well, the point is I got through it. Maybe it was only her who knew. It happened two more times, and both times I couldn't stop myself even as I couldn't imagine anything worse in life. But I got through it.

I told myself I could get through it.

But Chuy didn't know. Not yet. He had to go to Korea. We talked about it like the main problem was logistics, but the subtext was that Chuy knew I was collapsing and I knew he knew, but we couldn't talk about it. We always talked about things. It was back to the worst days of my old job, but worse. He did ask if I'd seen you. He knew I needed help. Honestly, I think it wasn't just me who was losing it. Even at our worst, when my work problems were making us both crazy, he never looked so stressed. He's so easygoing, but this was gnawing at him.

Wednesday morning, two days later, I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee as the sun streamed in through the windows, along with a cool breeze that brought the smell of freshly cut grass, and I smiled. I thought, It was a mistake, but it wasn't really cheating, was it? A blowjob, but no penetration, no kissing. I didn't hate myself in that moment. I kept praising myself for my restraint. For how well I'd managed, no matter how much my thoughts begged me to give in. I can put this behind me. I'll ignore the asshole until he gets the message and then tell Chuy we can't do things with him anymore. He'll understand. I had a fucking smile on my face, Maryam! I fucking believed that shit. Not for long, but for a few hours I tricked myself into thinking I wasn't a worthless whore. I told myself 9 days of not masturbating meant that I was in control. Honestly, I actually believed I could get past this. I am such a good fucking liar.

My whole fucking marriage has been a lie. An evil trick I played on Chuy. I knew better. Before Mom died, I learned...

That's not an opening to talk about that shit.

The point isn't then. It's that I knew, and then I let myself off the hook. I let myself believe I could be...

I won't make that mistake again. I'm not and will never be somebody anyone should love or trust or even like.

I don't have my bike here, so I went for a walk. It didn't turn my mind off. Nothing does. I'd use sleeping pills, but I'm afraid to buy any. I'm afraid to have a drink because I don't think I'd stop. I don't want to write this next part. I should just leave it at what I put in my letter to Chuy: I had an affair with the asshole. And that's true. But it lets me off the hook.

That next Friday, I hadn't had an orgasm since Sunday. Fuck, that is why I can't write this. "I hadn't had an orgasm since Sunday." Since Sunday. As if going four fucking days without a come is some kind of international humanitarian crisis that cannot be ignored. Hello, UN? Can you send a peacekeeping force to my pussy? Anyway, you've probably already figured out I'm a revolting human being, so I'll get on with it.

No orgasms for four full days with Jess's body equals uncontrollable desires, and a constant barrage of insanely horny thoughts. But I told myself like the lying bitch I am that I'd go to the door when the asshole brings over the barbecue, say thank you, take the meat, and close the door before he had a chance to even open his mouth. Instead, he didn't ring the doorbell. A UPS driver did with four packages I had to sign for. So when he came over as the driver was getting in her truck, I was trying to balance the packages, each awkwardly the wrong size for a good stack. Seriously, I ruined my marriage and life because of fucking boxes that didn't stack. And that I'm a revolting slut. But that's getting ahead of my fall.

So he says he can help and I stumble around trying to say no, but he opens the door and takes the tray of 'cue inside.

I freeze, thinking about whether I should stay outside until he comes out or just go in and shoo him away. Mistake number however_many_seconds_I've_been_alive and I opt to shoo him out. I put the boxes down on the little bench we have by the front door and go into the kitchen.

"Thanks Asshole. I'll see you next Friday." Then I sweep my arm towards the door, to make it clear I'm not going to talk with him.

"You've gotta taste this first and let me know what you think. I tried a new rub with ghost peppers. My own invention. I think the heat is perfect, but I won't know until you lick my meat if it's too spicy."

"Jesus fuck, Asshole. Are you incapable of speaking like a normal human?"

He laughed. "Not with you around. You look amazing, Jess. But honestly, just take a taste and let me know if it's too hot or not spicy enough."

Even if I didn't tell you what was going to happen, I'm sure you could guess that I sighed and gave in. Because it always ends this way. I say no, he says oh, come on, and then I do it. He'd made rib tips this time, so I took one and touched my tongue to it, worried that my mouth would catch on fire. It wasn't too hot, so I took a nibble of the meat. And fuck me, but it was amazing. So I said, "Yeah, the heat's fine." Just like that: kind of cold and definitely not inviting.

Then I finished the tip and grabbed another while I waited for him to get the message and leave. Instead, he wiped the sauce I got on my lip off with his thumb. And that went right to my cunt.

I pushed his hand away. "Okay, games over, Asshole. Leave." My voice was full of resolve and authority. I wouldn't let him do his normal shit with me.

He picked up a piece and took a bite. "I just want to have a few. I didn't save any for me and this came out so good." Then he handed me another piece.

And so it went. Me trying to be stern and him deflecting my every move. And each time he was a controlling jerk, I got a little hornier, and he knew it. Daddy understood me. He knew I had to be pushed, that I wanted to be pushed. So he pushed. Pushed a tip into my mouth and fucked it back and forth between my lips. Pulled on my lip with his thumb. Turned me around and pulled my arms behind my back.

I complained. That was my role. Good girls have to complain to make it fun for Daddy. So I did until he spanked me.

...

I'm fucking pacing again, thinking I'm that woman with a cigarette in the interrogation room. Obviously, he fucked me after that.

...

Pushed me over, fingered my drenched cunt through my skirt and panties, then pulled them down and pushed his cock into me as I said, "stop."

...

I said stop. But...

...

Now I'm smoking for real. In a hotel room, which you're not allowed to smoke it. They fucking make me cough.

Yeah. I'm avoiding this. Here it is, Maryam. I came the second he put his cock in me. That's who I am. A fucking whore. And I didn't try to make him stop after that. I let him fuck me until he pulled out and came all over my ass. And I cleaned him up and let him take me upstairs. And I told him where my bondage stuff was and let him tie me up and fuck me again. And then I asked to be on top. I fucking asked, Maryam. I asked for it. And Chuy was out of town, so when he came over the next day and told me to get on my knees, I complained but did it. I sucked him off with my front door open, imagining the people from the Syrian restaurant seeing me cheat on my husband, and it got me off. And I fucked him again and again. He tied me up so good. He fucked my ass. He fucked my mouth. He fucked my cunt. If he'd fit, I'd have let him fuck my nostrils and ears.

Because that's what I do. When Daddy wants to fuck, little Jessie fucks. The first time Daddy fucked me, I didn't want to, and I cried even as he told me how much Mom wanted me to, how she needed me to take her place. It took a while before Daddy got me to come, but I did. Had my first real orgasm on Daddy's cock. I hated him for fucking me until I needed to come more than I needed to hate. So I slept in his bed and I learned to be his wife and I came home and greeted him with blowjobs. And most of all, I loved it when he held me down or tied me up. That's who I am. I'm a whore who loves it. So that's what I did.

I hate cigarettes.

That's what I did, Maryam.

To Chuy.

That's what I did.

The rest of it wasn't boring, and it wasn't the same. It was a perpetual fall to the worse. Asshole understood me and my needs. He pushed the boundaries and made me beg for more humiliation and pain. He found out about the W H O R E collar and had me wear it constantly. He took me to some dive bar pool hall, dressed like a whore, bent me over a pool table, and fucked me with a dozen men watching me beg for it. He even had me pierce my nipples.

He loved that. He fucked me on the way home from the piercing studio and talked about me getting inked next.

That was too far. I gave him a blow job in the street between our houses and went in alone. I looked in the mirror, his come splattered on my chin and nose. As I stared at my face, it started to disappear. My whole head did. I was looking at fuck meat. Brainless, worthless fuck meat, rotten to the core.

I stopped sleeping and instead wrote endless letters to Chuy. I tried to call you, but I'd hang up before completing the digits. Finally, I settled on this:

Dear Chuy,

I'm not here because if I were, you'd try to convince me I'm not as terrible as I know I am. I'm a chronic liar. I haven't been honest with anyone since I was twelve. And I cheated on you.

Forget about me. Move on as soon as you can. I'm not worth any of the feelings you've had for me. Don't make yourself suffer by thinking you should have done anything differently. Everything was my fault and innate to who I am. It was only a matter of time before I showed my true nature.

I'll pay half to mortgage as long as I can or until you can sell the house. You shouldn't be stuck with it.

I am sorry, but don't let that confuse you into thinking you should forgive me. Don't unless you have to for you.

You're the best person I'll ever know.

I love you, but please don't love me back.

Jess.

I'm sure it's horrible and selfish. I don't know how to make it be different. I lied to him about not being able to meet him at the airport when he got home from Korea and made sure I was gone before he arrived home.