Corruption of a Geek Goddess Pt. 07

Author's Note: Wow, it's been a long time between chapters, huh? I hit a bit of a rough patch over here in real life, and so I've had some personal issues that always seemed to get in the way more than I expected. Many apologies to all, and a big thank you to anyone who sent messages in my absence — those really helped.

Anyway, the good news is that I've been grinding away at the conclusion to Geek Goddess this whole time, and now the entire series is very nearly completed. After much deliberation, I've decided to release it in three installments which will come out in quick succession.

This is Part 7 here, taking us to Chelsea's weekend getaway with Dylan — some folks didn't care for the darker turn that Part 6 took and the whole Cody thing; I honestly think those readers will appreciate this one more. In two weeks I'll upload Part 8, which is a shorter chapter covering the week in between the getaway and the wedding. And then 2-3 weeks after that, it'll be the big finale (and its big, big sex scene).

Since it's been so long, a brief recap of where we left off seems like a good idea: Mark & Chelsea are popular video game YouTubers, soon to be married, and their new friend Dylan is an extremely attractive fitness influencer. He seduced Chelsea a couple times, at which point she came clean to Mark — it turns out they both get off on voyeur/cuckold kinks, so they decide to let it happen. They agreed on some ground rules, including a hard & fast end date for the affair: once they're married, it's back to monogamy.

Now it's two weeks until the wedding. After her bachelorette party last night, Chelsea was seduced/manipulated into having a drunken, illicit romp with Nora (her married neighbor) and Cody (Dylan's frat-bro friend and Nora's adulterous affair partner). It's left her feeling guilty over her continuing betrayal of Mark, and scared for her future if she continues down this path. In a week's time, she has a weekend getaway with Dylan planned. It's supposed to be a last-hurrah for the two of them before the timer runs out and they have to stop seeing each other... but Dylan, of course, has other plans.

_______________*_______________

Mark

"Mark, honey... I was bad."

Chelsea and I were spooning on the couch the day after her bachelorette party. She'd already told me about the party itself, a whole day of doing fun things around town. Now she was about to tell me about the after-party at Nora's house. Somehow, I wasn't worried.

"Well," I told her, "you're bad an awful lot lately. We kinda both are. Isn't that the point?"

"I guess. Um, I... um..."

"Come on, it's alright: how bad could it be? Out with it, woman."

"... I fucked Cody."

We lay there in silence for an endless 10 seconds, then we both went and sat up at the same exact time — clearly this was more of a face-to-face conversation.

"Ok," I said. "Wow. What happened?"

"You're not mad?"

"I don't know yet. Disoriented, I guess. Just tell me."

And so she told me. At first haltingly, remorsefully, but slowly building up steam as she went until by the end her voice was filled with perverse wonder and a hint of lust (along with the shame). She told me about getting back late, just her & Nora, a little stoned and a lot drunk. About Nora insisting she come over to her place for a nightcap, with Cody secretly lying in wait. The two of them flanking her on the couch and having her watch their sex tape. Inching in, touching her, kissing her, seducing her, convincing her to stay. About Nora dominating her, hypnotizing her, posing her like a doll and presenting her to her frat-bro lover. And then Cody carrying her off to the bedroom like a caveman. And then, and then, and then...

By the end I was numb — numb and erect, because I'm a sick fuck, but mostly just lost at sea. I didn't know if I was supposed to be mad at her, or concerned for her, or aroused, or what. I just stared at the wall, feeling like I was floating in zero-g. Chelsea eventually had to call me back to reality.

"Babe... say something." Her lips were pursed, her brow furrowed, and her knees were drawn up against her chest like a shield. If nothing else I give her points for courage, because she was clearly afraid of my reaction.

And of course that made sense, because I should've been upset... but somehow I would disappoint her. A stray thought occurred and it made me chuckle once, and then smile, and then break into deranged laughter — a maniacal giggle-fit.

"What? What is it??" Chelsea whined. "Babe, stop! WHAT?! It's not funny!" she said, as she gave me a hard shove against the shoulder.

"HAHAHAeheh... I'm sorry, I'm sorry... wait..." I had to force the words out in between laughs; she just looked at me with anxious eyes until I got myself under control. "Okay... ok, I'm sorry, It's just... oh man. It's just that something suddenly occurred to me, and... I don't know. I had to laugh."

"Okay... w-what was it?"

"What I thought was: we're not exactly crushing it with those rules we had at the start. Ha!" She pouted and slumped her shoulders before responding.

"Alright, yes. That's... I mean... shit. I know, ok?" Chelsea somehow still did not see the humor in all this. She broke eye contact and stared at the floor.

"I mean, haha: 'rules.' Let's see, what was there? Only once a week. No sleepovers. No 'date' dates, just sex. No secrets. Hmmm... I wanted condoms, but I let that one go without a fight... although it probably wouldn't have made any difference, right honey? And, of course: just Dylan and nobody else! Oh man, I did NOT see us blowing that one, haha..."

And I went right on giggling, having a grand old time there on the couch — my bride-to-be, oddly, did not care for this one bit.

"Stop it!! I'm SORRY, ok Mark?! Just don't laugh at me..."

"I'm not, hahaha... I'm really not laughing at you. It's ok, Chelz. Or, I don't know, maybe it's horrible? But if so, it's like so horrible it circles back around and there's no choice but to laugh. It's just nuts."

"Come on, babe, seriously: are you alright?"

"Yeah," I told her, "I think I am. If we've gone off the rails it's partly my fault; I had lots of chances to hit the brakes. Now we're almost done anyway — maybe I just want to enjoy the ride, throw my hands in the air and stop trying to control things, you know?"

Chelsea sat and looked at me for what felt like a long time. Then: "For real? You do NOT mean that. Like, what, we should go balls-to-the-wall crazy? No rules, no limits, just your girlfriend going around town being a dirty slut for anyone who wants to use her, and poor little Mark just has to deal with it? Is that what you're telling me?"

Full disclosure: a part of me felt a warm little tingle when she laid out that nasty scenario. I'm... not proud. But I'm also not crazy.

"No, that's not what I'm telling you. What I'm really saying is: I suck at playing the cop! Clearly. So, maybe it's your turn. If you say that you're worried about things spiraling out of control—"

"I am."

"Right," I told her. "Me too. But if you're worried about that, then you need to police yourself. Stop focusing on what you can admit to me, what I'll forgive, or what you'll get away with. It's seems like... ok. I think you think that I know how much is too much, which then means you're actually ok to do anything so long as I don't yell, 'STOP.' Well, I don't know. Wish I did, but I don't. So now I'm thinking... yeah. Maybe for these next couple weeks, it's all your responsibility to decide what's okay and what isn't."

There was another long silence while Chelsea glared at me dubiously.

"Ugh. I can't decide if my boyfriend's being super chill & understanding about everything, or if this is just some next-level passive-aggression shit. It still feels like you're mad at me."

"No, I'm really not." I smiled and held her hand to try and show that I meant it. "Numb, maybe, but that's all. These things you get up to... if you still like them, and if you're always honest with me, and if you're still mine at the end of this... then I can only be so upset." Chelsea's skeptical expression softened slightly, and I felt safe to go on. "And so, with all that in mind, I guess that brings us to an obvious question: Chelsea my love, in all honesty, do you think YOU want to go back and play with Cody & Nora again?"

"No," she said right away. "Yeah, definitely no. One, they straight-up used me, treated me like an object —in a mean way. And, two, in the end, I liked it. And both of those are problems! I'm scared I won't be able to control the situation, and I don't trust them with having the control instead. I'm scared of what they'd make me do. And also, um... well, to be perfectly honest... I don't think Dylan would like it. And Dylan, he's kinda... for right now, he's... um..."

"What, he's the boss of you?"

"Yes. Well, no babe," she said as she looked down at the floor, "He's the boss of us. Sorry."

"Fuck..." Chelsea looked back up to find me a little flushed, shifting in my seat, and breathing heavy. By now she'd seen this show often enough to know what was up with her boyfriend. She smiled and rolled her eyes.

"Oh my god, babe! For real? That's all it takes?"

"Stop, haha, don't judge me... for all we know my dumb little kink is the only reason you're getting off so easy today. Because, I guess, in spite of everything it is still a turn-on..."

"Oh, baby baby! I don't mean to tease." Chelsea leaned over to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before resting her forehead against mine. "I think your whole deal is cute. Like, endearing. Really. It's just that..." — her hand snaked down from my shoulder before landing on my crotch, where she took hold of the rapidly-hardening lump there — "... y-y-y-yep! You do seem to like it when I give you bad news. When I rub it right in your cute little face..."

"No. I mean, yeah, but that's not exactly what I'm talking about here. I'm trying to say tha—"

She cut me off mid-sentence. "Shhh, shhh. That's fine, sweetie. But for sure there's a part of you that just loves it..." — she dropped her voice to a throaty whisper and squeezed my now throbbing dick, hard — "... even if it is just a *little* part."

"Fuck, Chelz..." I let go an unmanly whine, and Chelsea giggled like a schoolgirl at a slumber party.

"Oh, honey! You're too easy. I'm just playing your game. I still love you always, don't forget that. Do you still love me?" I nodded. "Prove it..."

Yes, ma'am. I hit her with a powerful kiss, holding her tight and being more assertive than I had with her in a while. Right away we were into a passionate make-out session with roaming hands and happy little moans from the both of us. After a minute I lurched forward and pushed Chelsea onto her back, with me right on top between her legs and my tongue jammed down her throat, drawing a stifled yelp from her. A minute more and my hands were sliding up under her shirt then flinging it up & off. My lips found her neck and I quickly made my way down to tweak & nip & suck on her perfect fleshy tits; she let me worship her body, just sighing and running her fingers through my hair.

God damn, did I ever want her right then. Even in the middle of the afternoon wearing her boring old house clothes, Chelsea was soft and cooing and devastatingly sexy, pure liquid lust beneath me on the couch, and every impulse in my monkey brain needed for her to be mine. I was drawn south to her shorts, where I hooked the waistband and started them down her smooth legs — she gave a thoughtful 'hmmm' but let me continue, and then I was staring right at her naked womanhood.

Of course, by this point in the relationship I'm intimately familiar with Chelsea's pussy — every bump & every fold, every mood. And so I could tell right away just by looking: that jock-meathead who's boning our next door neighbor had given my fiancée a real workout last night. Just that slight puffiness and redness right in front of my face, it was like reading tea leaves, and instantly I could see the whole sordid affair in my mind's-eye. I held my breath and stared for a few seconds before my hand inched forwards on its own to make contact.

Whatever else she was, she was already getting a little bit wet. But as soon as I began rubbing the outside of her mound Chelsea shifted her butt backwards on the couch and quietly whimpered.

"Are you, you know, kinda sore?" I asked; she nodded with a knowing smile. "I'll... I'll be gentle." And I was. Using my fingers didn't last long because I could tell there was a little discomfort, so I dove down to tend to her with my tongue.

She liked that better. No more tiny groans of discomfort, but rather relieved and happy sighs, and as I worked she ran her nails approvingly across my scalp. I stared up from between her legs while I serviced her, drawn like a magnet to the sight of my beautiful girlfriend. Chelsea, for her part, kept her eyes closed the whole time with this beatific smile spread across her face. I could taste more and more of her nectar as I went, and eventually her dreamy sighs turned into words.

"Ahhhh... that's good, that's very good... ohhh I do love you, babe, love coming home to you... you soothe that kitty for me so well... you're such a good, good boyfriend..."

She started to come to life sexually; her hips began a pleasured writhing against my face as her pussy began to almost leak onto my tongue, and her distant smile oh-so-slowly morphed into a naughty one, a wicked smirk — I knew I was literally watching Chelsea's kinky, devious side rising up to smother her guilt and uncertainty.

"Mmm-ha..." She opened one eye to look down at me. "Sooo... can you still taste him?" I paused and gulped hard, then slowly shook my head. With a look of faux-regret she said, "Aww, that's too bad, sweetie. I bet you would've enjoyed that. So sorry..." and then her grip tightened on my hair and pulled me back into her crotch. I heard her giggle from above.

"Ahhh, feeling better already," she cooed. Taking my cue from that, I added a finger, carefully sliding it in while looking for her reaction. Chelsea moaned and wriggled her hips; I guess she liked it. Inside she was snug, slippery, and hot. Inviting. Soreness abated, shame forgotten, she seemed like she was into it.

And like I said, I wanted her. When it all became too much I sat up and pulled off my shirt, then started working on my pants, half-frenzied. Chelsea lay there and watched, observing me with an arched eyebrow and a sly smile that I returned. Neither of us said a thing as I finished stripping. I was feeling hopeful & happy. But then I tried to move into position between her legs and ran into a roadblock.

"Whoa, babe! Whoa," she laughed, and I looked down to find her foot planted on my chest, holding me back. "Easy there, tiger. Just what do you think you're doing, hmm?"

"Ohh, I think you know." I looked at her suggestively and took her foot in my hands, rubbing it and planting little kisses while I kept on playing the romantic. "Dear lord, Chelz, you might just be the sexiest woman alive. Especially when you're so, um... excited. I always want you, but right this second, I need you. Fuck, just look at you..."

Chelsea giggled. "Oh my, babe! Maybe I'm not the one who's so, 'um, excited...'"

"Oh yeah," I said. "And I mean, fun is fun, but we agreed on that one-time exception or Hall Pass or whatever before the wedding... and I have to have you right now. It's gotta be time, right?"

Chelsea was smiling up at me, delighted by my lust and still plenty turned on herself. Sensing clear skies I gave her warm, wet slit another rub and then pushed her leg aside and leaned forward to get myself into position.

I was half into outer space. During the recent craziness with Dylan I'd forgotten how much I liked making love — you know, actual intercourse — with my fiancée. It's always hard to transcribe abstract thought into the precise, accurate words, but for the sake of the historical record I think I should give it a shot. I'd say that, right at that moment, what was going through my head was something like: oh fuck oh fuck Mark fucking do it yesyesYES that pussy's so fucking wet fucking FINALLY let's go let's go let's fucking DO IT.

Ahem. I was into it, is my point. Full steam ahead. And then Chelsea threw up a roadblock (again) and the happy/horny vinyl record playing in my head skipped & scratched: my loving girlfriend had slammed her damn thighs shut just as I was about to get in between them. Access denied.

"Wait," she said.

"What?"

"Aren't we forgetting something?" I had to think for a second before remembering.

"Oh, right! Sorry, got carried away. You stay right there, I'll grab a condom. Or, maybe we should just move to the bedroom?"

"Um, yeah, we could move to the bedroom. But what I meant was..." Chelsea stopped and looked away. "Honey, we don't have the Hall Pass."

"Wait, what are you... it was your idea in the first place. And you said Dylan was fine with it."

"Honey, what Dylan agreed to wasn't that you & I could fuck before the wedding: it was just that I'd be allowed to have sex, one time, with someone who isn't him. So, um... I kinda used up the Hall Pass last night?" Stunned Pikachu Face from me, and a full-on 'grimacing' emoji from Chelsea. "I'm sorry babe, really. I absolutely, 100% meant that to be for us. Things just... got away from me last night. But, we can still do other stuff..." she added, hopefully.

Jesus Christ. Between the whiplash and my bonkers arousal, I was flat-out discombobulated. Could Chelsea be lying about the whole thing, and last night was actually the plan all along? (No. No, she wouldn't do me like that. Impossible.) Did Dylan put his friend up to seducing my fiancée as some kind of twisted power play? (Hmm: somewhat less impossible.) But whatever the case, even as the guy playing the role of a pussy-whipped cuckold, I was too horny to just roll over and say 'okay, dear.'

"Wow, alright," I told her. "Whatever. Let's do it anyway."

"Um, no."

"No?"

"Sorry babe, but I don't think I can. I mean, Dylan wasn't exactly into the 'Hall Pass' idea in the first place, you know? He was just doing me a favor, and it took some convincing. I've already got to tell him about this Cody thing and I don't know how he'll react. I can't also tell him I went back on the deal and had sex with you after fucking his own friend."

"Well, sure. I can understand that. So we just won't tell him then." Seemed simple enough to me. I grinned, leaned forward, and tried to nudge her legs back open.

"Honey!" she cried as she clenched those legs back shut, locking me out once again. "I made a promise."

"Are you serious?" I asked, forcing a thin smile. I tried to keep it light and hide the agitation from my face and my voice, as if everything was copacetic. (Spoiler: I failed. "Ironic detachment" is hard to pull off when you're hard as a rock and the girl you're meant to marry seemingly gives it up to any guy *except* you.)

"Yes babe, I'm serious. Here, sit up." Chelsea sat up too and knelt sideways on the couch, facing me. Her hand was lightly caressing my face while hers shone through with warmth, affection, and a touch of playfulness. "Okay, I know you feel frustrated right now. And: ugh! I so, so hate seeing that. I mean it. But look of it this way: what's the reason you're frustrated?"

"The reason? Are you kidding? Because I want to—"

"Exactly! Because you're turned on. And why-yyy did you get turned on in the first place? Because of this! Because I made one tiny comment about you not being in charge for now, and it got you so wound up you were even gonna skip the condom — very naughty, by the way."

"Ok, so...?"

"So, lover-boy," Chelsea cooed as she snuggled up next to me, pressing her naked flesh against mine and dropping her hand to my crotch, "you just got through telling me it's my responsibility to decide how far is too far. And if I'm the one who's responsible, then I say we're gonna keep to the deal I made with Dylan — that deal said you got one last shot to fuck your girlfriend before she's your wife... and I'm afraid you missed it."

As if to emphasize the point, she gave my balls a healthy squeeze at the end there — not quite hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to get my attention. As if to underscore exactly who was in charge of what. (Chelsea loaded up on Drama & English Lit courses in college; so, along with my balls, she has a good handle on the use of symbolism.)

"Holy shit," I grunted, already not entirely hating this. "You're really gonna play it that way?"

"Oh sweetie, baby baby, love of my life... shut up now." Her hand unclenched from around my scrotum and moved up to my penis, her nails oh-so-softly running up & down the shaft in a delicious torture. "Don't pretend like you don't love this. Being totally at my mercy, in more ways than one. Feeling powerless. Being denied again and again and again, but hearing all the about the big, strong men who can take what they want from your cute little girlfriend."

"Unh..." Chelsea nipped at my earlobe while I suffered through this beautiful agony and my hips started grinding and my cock was twitching wildly. I felt her hot breath tickle the inside of my ear as she whispered hard, sexy truths with her lips pressed against me.

"Come now, babe, I don't know why you're even complaining in the first place. I mean, I think we both know... being my frustrated little cuck is exactly what you wanted."

"Fuck... please..." Now I was shamelessly humping the air, desperate for more contact with her hand, her nails, anything.

"Oh, it's 'please' now? Hmmm..." She let me dangle there in silence for another 10 undignified seconds, relishing in the control she could exert with even the faintest of touches from her fingernails, and nothing else. "Tell me you trust me."

"I trust you, Chelsea, I do." She rewarded me by cutting it out with that nail shit and actually wrapping her hand around my dick while continuing the up & down pumping motion — only very, very slowly.

"Good! That's good, baby. See how nice things can be when you do what I say?"

Eyes closed and breathing heavy, I nodded quickly. And while Chelsea had one hand sliding up and down my cock, the other held my head, idly playing with my hair. I could almost feel myself surrendering to her right there on the couch, feel the fight leaving my body, feel myself succumbing to her tender caresses and her vicious taunts. If I could have that, it seemed... what else do I really need?

What can I say? She makes me weak.

"And I love that you trust me," Chelsea continued. "I love that you think it's a good idea to give up even more responsibility. Brilliant move, ha. But no, really it's just good judgment; you're such a smart guy. Because, you're right: there's no point in anything else. You never could control what I did, because you never really wanted to — the will just isn't there, I'm afraid."

She was toying with my emotions and my body at the same time. As she talked she'd plant little kisses on my cheek, my neck, even my lips, little signs of warmth & affection for her beleaguered boyfriend. Her hand kept up the manipulation of my rock-hard dick, but languidly, keeping me close to but never at the edge; any time I got too close she'd abandon my penis to fondle my balls, my taint, my thigh, leaving me in erotic limbo. After five minutes of this I was merely one giant ball of blissed-out need — completely at her mercy, putty in her hands.

"Mmmm... yes indeed, you're the most amazing fiancé ever, you're so good to me. And I just need one more thing from you, ok? Just one. Are you listening?"

"Yes," I managed to croak out.

"Good, good. So, I know I have your acceptance, and that's such a beautiful gift. But what I want from you now — what I need — is your forgiveness. Can you give me that, honey? Are you strong enough? Please, babe, tell me you forgive me. Forgive me for breaking every one of our rules, for hiding things, for making all of this happen in the first place without even asking first... forgive me for using my Hall Pass to fuck Cody, for making you wait... for always coming home leaking another man's cum and never, never yours... and for... for becoming Dylan's girlfriend..."

"Jeeesus Christ..." Even in the depths of my carnal haze, that last one broke through and hit hard.

"It's ok, babe. Just say you forgive me, for everything... everything I've done... everything I will do. A clean slate for us, baby." Chelsea shoved me backwards so I was lying on the couch then flopped down on her stomach right between my legs, face to face with my angry red dick, and looked up at me with big doe eyes swimming in innocence. She brought her lips right up to my flesh, somehow not touching, then blew warm air against the underside of my cockhead from a centimeter away; I felt tiny drops of moisture against my skin and it drove me insane. "Please, baby, I NEED your forgiveness. Just tell me you forgive me and... I'll kiss it. Say you forgive me and, who knows, I might even lose control and climb aboard... maybe..."

So brazen, so fucked up. But so effective. I was going out of my damn mind right there in our living room, suffering under (and delighting in) everything Chelsea was doing & saying to me, and now she presented me with a door, where sanity (and relief) was just on the other side if only I would walk through. And anyway, what difference could it make? It's part of a game, has to be — no way could she hold me to a statement extracted under this kind of duress.

I took Chelsea's offer with barely a second's hesitation.

"Y-yes... fuck... ok, yes. You're forgiven, honey. I love you — oh god I really love you..."

"Good." Chelsea was staring up at me with a warm, satisfied smile; she nodded ever so slightly. "I love you, too." She gave my cockhead just the quickest & lightest of chaste kisses, a mere peck, then pulled right back and looked at me with a mischievous expression that said, 'Haha, sucker! I told you I'd kiss it: that's all you get!' She waited a beat, then winked at me. Then she dove forward and positively inhaled my dick.

Ah, bliss! Chelsea's warm, wet mouth engulfed me in a very slow, very loving, and very wet blowjob while her hands fondled my balls and worked the base of my shaft. Her eyes stayed locked onto mine, staring into my fucking soul and watching my psychic disintegration from two feet away, looking totally self-assured. Asserting dominance, doing nothing to hide the fact that my cock was in her mouth not because she was serving it, but because it was controlling me.

Or perhaps she was just gauging my reaction, checking to see how I really felt about her, about absolution. If so she probably got an eyeful, because that blowjob was some kind of unearthly catharsis for me. At least in that moment, my forgiveness was absolutely real. Yes, yes, whatever she wants, she's done no wrong. It was such a relief to let all my anxiety and judgment float away. Later on reality would creep back in, but even then I would remember that feeling of total serenity on the couch, and how I got there.

It was heavenly. Chelsea's tongue slithered around me and the sexy moans coming from her throat vibrated in the most delicious way, and she quite simply looked like sex incarnate slurping away at my cock. She was keeping to a deliberate pace, trying to make it last for me before I tipped over and blasted into her mouth, I figured. But then she stopped, pulled off of my dick and looked at it, then up at my face, then back to my dick. Behind her eyes I could see a horny girl lost in thought, coming to a decision.

"Well, you have been very good for me," she purred, "I guess maybe you deserve a treat."

She began slowly crawling up my body. Along the way she kissed my stomach, my chest, my neck, before her lips met mine and shared a romantic embrace. She was lying on top of me, between my spread legs, and my dick was pressed hard against her stomach and the top of her vulva — oh my god, it's so close. My uber-sensitive shaft could actually feel the heat & the moisture radiating out from her enflamed sex.

By now it was pretty ingrained that I'd just let her take the lead at times like this, but in this moment biology trumped everything: as we kissed, I found my hips grinding against her, all on their own, and slowly inching lower and lower and lower, positioning myself to at long last get back inside my fiancée. Chelsea could no doubt tell what I was up to. And she was going to let it happen, thank god. So close.

My cock made it past her mons and popped up to glide across her clit and her lips. Dear god was she wet — I could practically feel my cockhead glistening with her juices from just the one pass. I groaned and went right for it; I slid back down to get in position and grabbed her hips, trying to hold her in place as I mounted her from below. My tip made contact with her dripping inner lips, nestled in the cleft of her opening — so, so close — and just as I applied the first hint of pressure... Chelsea jumped.

"Oh! Not so fast," she chirped. I groaned again, this time in frustration, but she hovered just out of my reach, an inch away from paradise. "I said you deserve a cookie, not the whole bag. Just trust me, babe."

Any response I might've had was cut off when she kissed me again. Meanwhile she reached her hand back and, with one finger, pushed back against the top of my cockhead until my dick was pointing straight up. Only then did she slide her body back down, until the topside of my shaft was pressed flat against her vulva. I felt her naked thighs close up around my dick, enveloping it from all sides; she crossed her ankles, locking her feet to apply maximum leverage and squeezing her legs tightly together so that they had a stranglehold on my rigid, jilted manhood.

So, so close... and yet so far. I was locked in, literally as close as I could be, rubbing against my ultimate goal, but still totally denied; Chelsea had it firmly under her control without even looking at it or touching it with her hands. She began clenching & unclenching her naked thighs and gliding them up & down ever so slightly, compressing and massaging the length of my shaft with the most powerful muscles in her body. Fucking wild, man. And the sensation only got more outrageous as Chelsea's pussy went to work. Something about all this must have gotten to her, because she was VERY turned on. Her already wet pussy seemed like it was almost gushing as she ground it against my hard dick, coating me in her lubrication before it spread all over the inside of her thighs, a hot slippery mess that made me leak precum like a fountain — it felt like a swamp pressing in against my cock.

The erotic insanity of the whole thing was heightened by the manifest deprivation of it all. With a handjob or a blowjob it might be possible to just enjoy the sensation and the intimacy and forget about everything else for a second. But now the denial was inescapable because, the entire time, my dick is being pressed up against the needy, receptive pussy that I can't have; it's like Chelsea was shoving my face up against the glass. I mean, if she wanted, she could tilt her hips and have me buried gloriously to the hilt inside her in two seconds flat — but, she did not want. This was a whole new kind of torture.

And Chelsea, that saucy bitch, knew full well what she was doing. As she crushed/caressed my dick with her thighs, she would kiss my lips, stick her tongue down my throat, suck on my neck, nibble on my ear lobe — and also stoke the kinky side of me that was absolutely loving this.

"Oh-hooo, yes babe," she cooed from right above me, nose to nose. "You're liking this, aren't you? Yeah you are. This is such a good place for you..." She sighed, wiggling her thighs and tightening their grip, then moaned in wicked pleasure. "Don't worry, one day soon you'll be allowed back inside... but for now, Dylan will keep it nice and warm for you..." She buried her head in my neck and, in a throaty whisper right by my ear, said: "... unless maybe you're just keeping it warm for him."

"Unh..." That last bit drew a groan from me. Jesus. Surrendering to the moment my hands grabbed onto her shoulders and held on tight, signaling my complete abandon and also my looming climax. Chelsea responded appropriately: vigorously clenching & unclenching & twisting around my swaddled dick; speeding the undulation of her hips, jacking me off with her firm, fleshy thighs; raking her pussy and her clit against the top of my shaft; and, of course, pressing her lips to my ear to push my fragile psyche over the edge with a harsh whisper.

"Yessss, do it! Do it, Mark: pop your little cuck load on my thighs... that's all you get, that's all you deserve. Hurry up! My kitty's thirsty again... we need to get you off so I can go get her filled up by a real man... cum... cum... cum for me... waste it on my fucking thighs like a—"

That's as far as she got: I interrupted her by wailing shamelessly as my hips strained up against her — one last futile, instinctive effort by my body to get inside her and plant my seed. Of course I didn't make it, instead pasting her inner-thighs and adding a healthy load of cum to the wet sloppy disaster area between her legs. Chelsea's head popped up as I did so. She stared down at me with a look of startled joy, her face contorted, mouth hanging open in a twisted grin; a quick tremor rocked her whole body atop mine, like a quick little climax had taken her by surprise.

Our eyes locked as we each slowly relaxed and came back down to Earth. She began to laugh (in a wholesome way I mean; not, like, diabolically) and I gladly joined her.

"Too much?" Chelsea asked. "Too mean?"

"No, not too mean, apparently. Fucked up, but incredible. I had fun."

"Ok, but would you tell me if it WAS too mean?"

"Of course I would... eventually."

Her hands took hold of both sides of my face and she drifted down for a kiss — it was warm, loving, passionate (again, not domineering or ironic in the least, totally unlike the sadistic castrating bitch from two minutes ago) and it melted my heart in my chest. I loved this woman, and in that moment I was sure she loved me too.

Once that was done she plopped down beside me, snuggled up against my side with her head resting on my shoulder and her leg draped over mine. Neither of us bothered to clean up the sweat and bodily fluids oozing all over everything. (We REALLY need to Scotchgard this couch.) The two of us lay there, looking at each other, murmuring words of love and giving each other little kisses and caresses, each of us content to bask in the oxytocin surplus while we came down from our kinky high.

Once I'd recovered enough for vaguely rational thought, I ventured a question.

"So, um," I asked, "backing up a second: seriously, my love... what ARE you gonna do about Nora & Cody? You can be honest with me, ok? Really, you're in charge. I just want to know. Do you think there's a chance that you'll want to play with them again?" I could see her consider the idea anew, but she was surprisingly decisive. She thought about it for all of three seconds while slowly shaking her head from side to side.

"No," she said, "I really don't. It's such a fucking disaster waiting to happen, and... wait, hold on. Are you asking again because, deep down, you want me to do it?"

"I just want you to do whatever you want to do." She glared at me, unsatisfied with my bullshit, wishy-washy answer. "Okay, okay: no, I don't like the idea. It sounds like a bad scene, if I get a vote."

"Babe! Of course you get a vote... for whatever that's worth, ha. But yes, I meant what I said, and you're right — it's a bad scene. It's, like, scary-scary, not sexy-scary. I want to steer clear."

"Good." We quietly canoodled for a moment until I felt the need to break the silence with a joke-that's-not-a-joke. "So then... do you really think you can be solely responsible for what happens the next couple weeks without completely blowing up our lives, our relationship, and our marriage?"

"We'll see." She shrugged, rolled her eyes, and smiled her impish smile. "Am I really forgiven?"

"We'll see."

I heard a deep exhale from Chelsea as she closed her eyes. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and pulled herself up against me, hugging me tight with her forehead pressed up against my cheek.

"Bastard," she whispered dreamily.

We fell asleep in each other's arms, riotously content, utterly in love.

Chelsea

Okay. Now that the wedding is around the corner and we're getting to the point where there might be real stakes to acting like a sadistic hussy, I think that a tiny bit of perspective is starting to seep into my brain. Finally.

You see, it's starting to dawn on me that every little thing that's happened since that first night I took Dylan to bed — since that first day we met him for lunch, honestly — has combined to warp my sense of self, pervert my values, jumble my priorities, confuse my loyalties, remake me as a person, and generally just to throw my entire goddamn life ass-over-teakettle. And it's actually frickin' nuts how much I'm not exaggerating. It was a gradual, months-long process, but it was scarily potent.

But now, in just the last week, since the night I said 'fuck everything' and gave myself to Cody, it seems like my dream-world has evaporated, sanity has been restored, and I can once again feel solid ground beneath my feet. Or, I don't know — we're getting there, at least. It's been one hell of a week, is my point.

And how exactly did this happen? Thinking about it now, it makes the most sense to me when I look at about five distinct events, coming in quick succession — four or five milestones on my journey back to sanity. Let's begin!

***

Okay, Milestone #1. It started the very same day as the whole 'No Hall Pass For You' convo with Mark. After the (surprisingly intense) thigh-job, we shared a blissful, naked nap on the couch, cleaned ourselves up and had a late lunch, and then I got myself ready to go see Dylan. I had to tell him about the thing with Cody (if he didn't already know) and see how he took it. Obviously, I told myself, he'll be cool about it. We agreed on the Hall Pass and I'd held up my end, right? And besides, he'd spent months training me to be a devious, irresponsible slut — it's not like he could pitch a fit just because I'd gone and behaved like one. In fact, he'd probably be proud of me in some fucked up way. I had nothing to worry about.

Ah-hahaha... I'm just kidding. Can you imagine that I might ever be so naïve? Yeah, Dylan was less than thrilled.

I walked in. We kissed. We stood in the kitchen and shared a drink. He asked me about my bachelorette party. I told him. 'Wait, hold on, you did what??' I told him again. I added that when Mark tried to have sex with me afterwards I turned him down, hoping it would mollify him. No dice; he could give two shits about that part. He glared at me for a long few seconds and then dug his phone out of his pocket.

"Son of a..." He opened up his messages with Cody to reread (as I later learned) the cryptic texts about me he'd received earlier. "Gimme one sec," Dylan said as he put the phone to his ear, walked into the next room and closed the door. God damn, girl: you know some real shit's going down if a 23-year old places a literal, honest-to-goodness phone call to a friend in this day & age. I stood there awkwardly in the kitchen — two minutes, three minutes, four — listening to their mostly-indecipherable tête-à-tête. It sounded pretty tense at first ('Are you for real, dude?!' and 'How would you like it if [something something]...'), but then it seemed to calm down. Finally Dylan came back.

"Okay, all good," he said as he walked up to me.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Just a little misunderstanding. Caught me by surprise, that's all."

Dylan was acting all nonchalant, but I could tell the whole thing bugged him. He did his best to put up a good front, but he seemed preoccupied, and even a little unsure of himself. (And wow is that ever a first). The naughty things he said felt a little less 'playfully in command' and a little more 'peeved and trying to hide it.' I mean, a lot of Dylan's dirty talk with me is pretty venomous, but this was the wrong type of venom, like there was some actual malice lurking below the surface.

And because Dylan was distracted during our date, I was too, trying to pinpoint the precise nature of his problem. Of course some of it was just your standard-issue macho Bro Code bullshit: Dude, you don't try to get with the same girl your bro got with, bro. Whatever; that's boring.

Less boring was when I realized that, on some level, Dylan sees Cody as a threat, a challenger... in a way that implies he DOESN'T see Mark as any kind of threat, regardless of the fact he's supposed to lose me to him entirely a couple weeks from now. Which maybe makes sense, in a way? Because I noticed one big difference between Mark & Dylan: unlike my fiancé, my young boyfriend is NOT excited by the thought of my fucking other men. Whatever's happening, Mark can always be soothed by (or at least distracted with) tales of my naughty deeds as someone else's slut. He enjoys that stuff, even when he thinks he shouldn't. So I just assumed that Dylan would also get some kind of charge out of it, and I thought telling him some of the details of my fucked-up night with Cody & Nora would get him over his anxiety, help him have a little fun with what happened.

But, nope! He didn't want to hear about it, even though there's been another guy in the picture this whole time and Dylan's known all the details.

I think I understand. You see, Dylan doesn't mind if I play with Mark — or live with Mark, or even get married to Mark — because a cuck is never a threat. If he ever gets out of line, Dylan instinctively assumes that all he has to do is growl at him and Mark will (metaphorically) roll over and present his rear end in submission. You don't worry about that guy if that's the way you see him. But what if it's not that guy, but instead another aggressive wannabe-Alpha who moves in on your female when your back is turned? That's not amusing, and it's certainly not sexy; it's just aggravating. What if my female decides she wants to mate with the new guy instead? My primacy within the tribe will be called into question!

Of course this is some kind of S-Tier Bullshit Neanderthal worldview. Like, ugh, don't even get me started on that or I'll have to dig up my old Gender Studies term papers (and no one wants that). It's laughable, really. Pathetic. Except, you know... occasionally it feels like my stupid primate brain might kinda-sorta look at things the same way? Sometimes. Rarely, I mean. A tiny bit. It's really nothing. I think.

Annnny-way. The point is, the news about Cody/Nora put Dylan a little on edge, which put me a little on edge. For the first time ever our time together felt ever-so-slightly uncomfortable, and I didn't want that from him. But there still was something coming up that I did want, so I decided I'd skip to the end. During the next awkward pause, I simply dropped to my knees in front of him and reached out for his crotch.

"Daddy, please..." I whined while looking up at him with my begging-est, most coquettish eyes. He looked at me for a second, then gave a tiny chuckle, smirked, and nodded.

"You may."

"Thank you, Daddy," I told him, and that was sincere. I was so glad to finish the 'unspoken tension' portion of our evening and commence with the 'fucked into oblivion' module. And anyway, I figured, this is exactly what he needed to chill him out.

Except I don't think it did. Not really, not deep down.

He let me pull his cock out and seemed pleased with where we were headed. It was already semi-hard for me, as meaty and virile as ever, and when I slipped it into my mouth and wrapped my tongue around it Dylan hummed in satisfaction, then quickly became hard as steel between my lips while I lovingly groped his balls. It seemed like he was feeling better already.

After a couple minutes of worshipping on my knees, I shifted my glance so we could look right at each other while I sucked. I often do that with him; I just love the unspoken dynamics at play in each other's eyes, that mixture of dominance, submission, and affection. But this time, as he stared into my eyes, an unusual expression took over his face: a certain hardness of the chin, a narrowing of the eyes, a look of what might be called determination. Within 30 seconds he grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulled me off his cock, and started walking. Not yanking or going fast so it would be painful, but not waiting for me either — like a dog owner taking his obedient bitch for a walk. I had to crawl on my hands & knees to keep up. (Ok, I didn't hate it.)

When we got to the bedroom he took me by the arm and tossed me face-down onto the mattress. A hard crack across my ass startled me and drew a loud, "Yeee-OWW!" I doubt he'd ever spanked me that hard. "Fuck, that really hurt..." If he was concerned that he might've used too much force, he didn't show it.

"You've been naughty," he said evenly. "Naughty whores get punished." Then he flipped me over and stripped me from the waist down, tearing my panties in the process. His hand went to my vulva where it found a hot, slippery mess, and then there was that look on his face again. "Yeah, of course. Can't even help yourself, can you? You just always need it so bad now. You're hopeless, Peach." Then he jammed two fingers into my pussy, roughly, and brought me straight to my first orgasm with surgical efficiency.

That set the tone for the evening. We've had tons of rough sex, even degrading sex, but this felt different. It had a harder edge to it. Everything was just a little bit harsher, a little more brusque and a little less playful, all with a steely glint in Dylan's eyes that was as subtle as it was ominous, speaking volumes about what was going on beneath the surface. I wasn't his 'good little slut' tonight; I was a wanton 'whore.' He fucked me in missionary, pinching my nipples hard and using them to pull my breasts up away from my body, then slapping the side of my tits while his hips hammered away. He fucked me from behind and spanked me some more, leaving angry red handprints all over my cheeks; with just saliva for lube he put one finger in my butt and then a second. "Should I just go ahead and fuck that ass for you?" Delirious, I managed to shake my head no. "Why not? You know you'd love it in the end." Then he spanked me again and started attacking my clit as he fucked me.

It went on like that for I don't know how long — pulling my body this way and that, moving me into different positions, grabbing and tugging and biting and striking at will, talking down to me and using some harsh language, and all the time going at me hard. Superficially it might not seem all that different from the way he usually fucks me, but psychologically, it was. It's one thing to be "punished" by a lover who's in no way mad and is merely playing a game. It's something altogether different to be punished by someone who's actually upset about something, but tries to hide it. So my mind was in turmoil during this whole scene; it was, honestly, a little scary.

But that's only when my mind could even function, because my body loved it. Or rather, my body was forced to love it. Because the other thing that was different was Dylan's approach to getting me off: he just went straight for it, relentlessly, the entire time. There was none of the usual teasing, no toying with me, no slow build up, no getting me to the brink and then backing off to draw out the suspense, and no giving me a moment to recover once I did climax. Instead, he seemed laser-focused on a mission to get me off as fast and as hard and as many times as possible, just ripping one orgasm after another after another out of me, seemingly at will. He was punishing me with ecstasy, taunting me with how much of a slut he's made me, how much mastery over my body I've allowed him to acquire. He wasn't cruelly using my body for his pleasure. I almost wish he had. Rather, he was using my pleasure to prove a point — to me, if not to himself.

It ended with him crouching above my head, grunting, his hot cum splattering all over my face and hair, dripping off my chin. I might have wondered why he didn't fill up my pussy like usual, but a second later he had his phone in his hand, taking a full body snapshot of the fucked-out wreck of a woman he had lying on his bed. Disoriented, slack-jawed, glassy-eyed, hair a mess, red and sweaty all over, legs splayed, raw & swollen pussy, love bites and hand prints all over — a cum facial was just the coup de grâce, his icing on the cake (so to speak). It was a hell of a photo.

And he immediately put it to use. Dylan plopped down beside me (leaving me to grab my own tissues from the bedside table — a gentleman would help you clean the sticky genetic disaster area he left all over your face) and opened the messenger app. I craned my neck and watched over his shoulder as he put together a text to Mark. He attached the pic and my eyes bugged out seeing it for the first time. Then he tapped out his caption:

"that's quite the whore you want to marry! btw, I heard about Cody and all that. turns out she's desperate to get fucked by anyone as long as he's not a fag like you. LOL! pretty pathetic, dude ????"

He knew I was watching and he still wrote that. I don't know what reaction he expected from me, but the one he got was not good.

"What the fuck, Dylan?! Don't send that!" I shot my hand out and snatched the phone away just before he could hit Send; I shook my head in dismay as I deleted the message. "Jesus..."

I know exactly what that was about, by the way. 'Displaced aggression' is the technical term; the informal vernacular would be something like 'shit rolls downhill.' Basically, he's annoyed or embarrassed, and he's pissed at me & Cody, two people he has to play nice with. So how does he make himself feel better? By being mean to someone below him, who has to just take it. Classy.

"Haha, what's the big deal?" He thought it was funny that I was throwing a fit. "You know I tease him like that. And besides, he loves that shit."

"No, not like that. It's too much and you know it."

"Alright, alright... look at Ms. Sensitive over here. Sorry."

I didn't stay the night. I told Dylan that we were recording for a video early tomorrow and I had to get some sleep. (It happened to be true, not that that had ever stopped me before.) Instead we hung out in bed for a bit and shared a (rather naughty) shower, then I got myself together and headed out. Standing in the doorway for our goodbye kiss, Dylan at least knew enough to apologize for the text he tried to send to Mark. I don't know if he 100% meant it (probably not), and he didn't feel the need to say anything about fucking me like a whore who owed him money (although even I didn't know what to say about that after cumming seventeen billion times). But I wasn't about to start a conversation about those things — psychoanalyzing our relationship is not what I want from Dylan.

So, yeah: not sticking around for that shit. As much as I adore my young lover, as obsessed and infatuated as I still am with my Daddy, he'll just have to work through his issues about the Cody thing on his own.

I left him to deal with that without me and I started the drive back home. I'd made that trip dozens of times by now, but this one felt weird. There was just something eerie about the drive home, something I couldn't quite put my finger on, and it was bugging the hell out of me. Halfway to home it dawned on me what it was: traffic. For the first time in forever, I'd left Dylan's place early enough to hit the end of rush hour traffic.

***

So that was Dylan. Milestone #2 happened the following day, and it had to do with Mark.

It started simply enough. Middle of the afternoon, Mark & I were taking a break from recording, just chillin'. He went to the kitchen to fix us a snack, and since he was taking care of lunch I decided to haul the garbage and recycling out to the curb. So I step out the front door, garbage bags in hand, and what's the first thing I see? Why, it's my friendly neighbor Nora, of course! In her front yard, right by the fence-line, not three feet away from the path I'd walk to the bins. She was gardening, if you can believe that.

*Gulp*. Remember, at this point my bachelorette party had basically just happened. It had been, what, a day and a half? Thirty-six hours since the ambush, since Nora had seduced (coerced) me into becoming a (theoretically) willing fuck-puppet, delivering me to her adulterous young lover... and we hadn't talked at all since. How awkward! And for the life of me I couldn't remember what Emily Post said about this situation. I'd just have to wing it.

Ok, Chelsea: you can do this. Just put one foot in front of the other. I steeled myself and made my way to the trash bins. Nora looked up and nodded, watching me with a friendly smile as I passed. On the way back I should've ignored her: no eye contact, no nothing, just walk right past her and back to house like an ice-cold bitch. Sadly, I was just raised too well — I couldn't bring myself to be so unspeakably rude. So, as I was walking past, I gave her a half-hearted wave and a malnourished grin and chirped out a perfunctory...

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, girlfriend!" Big smile, very cheerful, real neighborly. She suckered me right in (again). I stopped to chat. We made bullshit small-talk for a minute before she brought up the dubiously-consensual elephant in the room: "So listen, how are you feeling after the party the other night? Sorry I didn't check in with you. I figured you'd need a day to recuperate."

"Yeah. Yeah, for sure. But I'm ok now, it's fine. Thanks. Anyway... it's kinda lunchtime, I should probably get b—"

"Because what I was thinking was, if you're feeling up to it, you should come over tonight. My stupid husband extended his trip again, he won't be back until tomorrow. I could use the company." She said it all innocent-like, as if we'd be eating popcorn and watching scary movies in our pajamas. But she also reached across the fence to rest her hand on my shoulder. Such a friendly gesture! No hidden meaning there, I'm sure.

"Thanks, no. I can't make it tonight, Mark & I have some stuff to, uh..."

"Sweetie, come on! I won't bite. You don't have to feel weird about what happened. We had fun, didn't we?"

No, you psycho bitch! That was totally fucked up and I hated it! Don't ever talk to me again! Yeah. that's what I wish I could've said. But the truth was more complicated than that, and my dumb ass couldn't lie to her for some reason.

"That's not the point," I offered, weakly. "It's just not a good idea, ok?"

"No, honey, that's exactly the point." Her hand on my shoulder pulled us closer together, and she started running her finger up and down the side of my neck. "Don't kid yourself — I was there, remember? You loved it so much. Really, it was... I mean, wow. It was sensational. I saw your face, saw it in your eyes, saw your whole body shaking. And the girl I saw that night... ohhh, Chelsea, you know that girl is going to want to come back in the end. So why make yourself wait? Come on... you were such a good girl for me before..."

So we're back to this. Only now I'm outside, in broad daylight, stone-cold sober, there's no sex tape playing in front of me to turn me on... and even so she was making me doubt myself a little.

"Nora, please, I just want—"

"And don't worry, Mark won't know anything, if that's the problem. Just pop over for a couple hours."

"I already told him all about it."

"You did? Hey, good for you guys! Well then if you don't want to come over, I can at least send him the videos I shot. I think he'd get a kick out of those, don't you? I mean, some of the things you said... Mmmm-Mmmm-Mmmm... very interesting stuff. But I think you want to stop by, right? Just pop over for a quick visit."

What... the... fuck??? Like, that WAS a threat, right? She still had a friendly smile like everything was ok... but not that friendly. I could see it behind her eyes, an assassin's glee. For my part, I just stood there dumbly with my mouth hanging open, head slowly turning side to side in addled disbelief. Not the most dynamic response but, hey: it was my first time being blackmailed.

Before I could gather my senses, I heard a door open off to my side; Nora turned her head and her face lit up as footsteps approached.

"Hey, look who it is! Hi, Mark! Perfect timing. Chelsea and I were just talking about maybe doing kind of a girls' night tonight at my house. You know, open a bottle of wine, gossip about our husbands, haha. What did we say, Chelsea, like seven o'clock?"

"Oh. Um..."

"Actually," Mark said, bailing me out, "I wanted to talk to Nora about something real quick. Honey, could you give us a second?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." That's what I said, but it was actually more like ohyeahsure, because I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there; I broke eye contact and speed-walked back to the house without a look back.

I'm honestly not sure what I would've said to Nora if not for Mark... so, let's just assume it would've been something totally badass and devastating. (Look, it could've happened that way, alright?) As for what Mark actually did say, I had to know, so once inside I parked myself next to the open window, out of sight, and eavesdropped.

"Hey, so listen, Nora. I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to ask you to give Chelsea her space for a while. Like, a lot of space. And maybe for a long while, you know?" He was so chill, so matter-of-fact about the whole thing, like he was reminding her to separate the recycling. Probably that's why she didn't take him seriously at first.

"Oh Mark, come on. I know you know about the thing after the party, but, whatever she may have told you, I promise she had a great time. Besides, we're neighbors, and Chelsea's a big girl who can make her own decisions. So, no offense, but it's not your place to—"

"Sure, sure, that's all fine. I'm not gonna argue with you. I just want you to know that the next time I hear about you talking to Chelsea, I'm telling Harry everything about Cody. Sound good?"

Whoa. He cut off Nora mid-sentence and threatened to nuke her whole family from orbit, but he acted like it was no big deal. Like, he didn't raise his voice, or even take his hands out his pockets. He was still acting, you know, neighborly. And I think that drove Nora a little more nuts.

"What?! You have NO right to... Mark, that is totally, um..."

"Oh, and: there are videos? We're deleting those right now. You have your phone on you?"

"Hey! That is NONE of your business. You say one WORD to my husband and... I mean, what, like you're Mr. Perfect?? EVERYONE is gonna know about your sick little — wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm calling Harry. Hold on just a sec, ok?"

"Mark! Don't even... you are NOT going to—"

"Hey, Harry!" I couldn't not look at this with my eyes; I peeked my head around, but of course the two of them were too busy to notice me lurking in the window. "Yeah, I'm good. You?... Great, great. Listen, I'm sorry to bother you, but there's something I have to..."

And here is where Nora lost the game of chicken — she threw her hands up and, in a panic, mouthed the words, Fine! Fine! Mark barely missed a beat: "... uh, I just wanted to ask if you could take in a package that's on our front step so it won't get stolen... Oh! Right, you're out of town. Sorry, totally forgot... yeah, I'll do that. Thanks anyway... Yeah, you too. Have a safe trip home... Ok, bye now."

Then, sure enough, Mark watched as Nora deleted the videos from her phone, and her phone's trash, and the cloud. She looked pissed off the whole time, but kept her mouth shut. Mark, on the other hand, was all sweetness & light. Very chipper. At the end he just smiled like nothing had happened and said, "Alrighty. Thanks, neighbor! Have a good one."

Ice fucking cold. Where did all that come from? Have I been dating Batman this whole time?!

Mark walked back in and I gave him a huge bear-hug; it took a minute for me to calm down enough to talk about it.

"Oh my god, babe," I told him. "It's like... oh my god. That was amazing! I mean, you weren't even scared."

"Um, no: actually I was terrified. Look at that, my hand is still shaking!" And it was.

"But you were actually gonna go through with it? Telling Harry, right there in front of her?"

"I don't know, I guess so. I didn't really think about it. I was pretty sure she'd back down. She's got a lot more to lose than we do, what with the kid and all." Yeah, like I said: ice cold.

Ten minutes later, while we were eating lunch, a thought occurred: "Hey, wait a second. I'm glad you stepped in and all, but whatever happened to me being the one in charge of what happens the rest of the way?"

Mark shrugged. "Hey, you're still in charge. You can still head over to Nora's tonight if you want. And I was gonna let you handle it, but then she said that shit about the videos and... I mean, of course I'm gonna step in. I love you, Chelz; you're my world. So, I'm sorry, but there's no WAY I could ever let her hold something like that over your head. Not an option."

Swoon. You see why I like this guy? But before I could tell him how much I love him, I remembered to feel guilty.

"Right. The videos. You weren't... worried? About what was on them?"

"No, not really. I assume it's just dirty talk, but if there's something I need to see or to hear, you'll tell me. I trust you."

Ooph. Now, my memory of that night is not exactly recorded in High Def, but the only thing I can think of on the videos that would be pants-shittingly terrifying if Mark saw them was when I maybe said something about possibly being probably just a little bit knocked up already.

I casually swiveled my head around, trying to remember where I hid that pregnancy test I bought.

***

But that very evening, Milestone #3 made finding the pregnancy test moot: I got my period. Hooray! I'm officially not carrying Dylan's bastard love-child! And considering what we've been up to lately... wow. You remember The Matrix? Look at me, dodging bullets here.

I'd been avoiding the possibility in my head so hard for so long that I hadn't even realized how stressed I was deep-down. But now: Ohhhhh yesss, Chelsea, that's the good stuff. Blessed relief.

There was the relief of feeling like I wasn't the World's Shittiest Slut of a Partner (even if I had to get very lucky to avoid the title). The relief of not being tied to Dylan and my addiction to him in an upsettingly tangible way. The relief of not having to come clean to Mark about how irresponsible I'd been, how profligate with his trust. Or, conversely, the relief of not having to take care of it on the sly, hiding a mortal sin from my fiancé on the eve of our wedding. I don't think I have to explain why this was great news.

But, because nothing about my whole Dylan situation can ever be simple, it wasn't just relief. There was also a hazy pall of regret shading everything, lurking just on the edge of my consciousness, leaking into my mind in a steady drip-drip-drip. All this time, more & more over the past few months, I've been indulging in intense kinky breeding roleplay with my virile young lover. So did I accidentally make that real for myself? Have I flipped a switch in my brain that says: Yes, Chelsea, we want to make a baby and it's not just a game? Or, maybe, was that switch on the whole time? And that's why it always shut my fucking lights out to get repeatedly bred by a genetically-perfect Superman like Dylan?

Ugh. I don't know, I don't know. But, whatever the reason, for the only time ever since my period first showed up as a woman, some meaningful chunk of me felt like it was a missed opportunity.

Now, Mark & I have always agreed we'd have children (or, at least, child) at some point in the indefinite future — but otherwise we never talked about it or thought about it in much detail. But now it was on my mind, so we did. That night before bed, we lazily dreamed on the possibilities. Boys or girls? Favorite names? How will we know when we're ready? Whose parents would flip out more? Expenses versus income? Ooh, could a pregnant YouTuber get more subscribers? Or would a fat Gamer Girl get fewer? And, wait, is this a good school district? Should we call up the best preschool in the city tomorrow and get Untitled Chelsea Baby Project added to the waitlist?

As we lay there, with Mark spooning me in our soon-to-be marital bed, sketching the outlines of an idyllic shared future in a thoughtful & loving way, a question began to take shape inside me. Maybe it was because all the emotional chaos of the past few months has left me flailing about for something concrete for us to hold onto. Maybe it was because watching his epic smackdown of our sketchy neighbor elevated his perceived suitability as a mate. (Honestly, it was pretty fucking sexy.) Or maybe it was because, after all the omissions and betrayals and half-truths and non-truths, I just felt I owed it to him. I really couldn't say. But at some point that question in me reached a critical mass and I couldn't force it back down any longer.

"H-hey, babe? Can I ask you something?"

"What's up, love?"

"Um, this is... listen. There's no wrong, uh, you know... I'm just curious. But I was wondering... how would you feel if, like... I mean, once we're married... what if I were to get pregnant, kind of... sooner, rather than later? Would that be awful? I'm sorry, weird question. I just... sorry."

I cringed, and hard — that was a horror show.

There was a little pause, time enough for the question to sink in, and for Mark to translate my garbled Chelsea-Speak into English. Then I felt his arms tighten around me, holding me closer, so close I could feel his heart thumping against my back.

"Oh, Chelsea," he sighed. "Don't you know I'd be so happy?"

I melted.

***

Now, this one is pathetic. I mean it, Milestone #4 = really pathetic. Are you ready? Ok, here goes: Chelsea made a couple of mildly sane decisions! It's so out of character, I know.

The first one was the next afternoon. Mark was off getting groceries while I sat at home with my (very sexy) period cramps. That's when I finally gathered the strength to look at that text message from an unknown number I got right after my bachelorette party. You remember, yes? The one I saw while I was sitting on my stoop after being defiled by Cody & Nora? You know, right at the end of Chapter 6.

(Yes, that's a 4th-wall break. Hello there! Are you enjoying the Tragedy of Chelsea, you freaking sadist? Uh-huh, I bet you are. But, that's ok. It could still turn out alright! And you're rooting for me, aren't you? Of course you are! I mean, what kind of monster would stay with me for 118,000 words of soul-destroying angst and still want anything other than a happy ending? Not you, gentle reader, not you. That's for sure.

Oh god. Oh god, exactly what kind of story am I in?? Please tell me you want a happy ending. You've got to help me — I've met the author he's extremely vain: if you tell him I deserve absolution I KNOW he'll listen. Clap! Clap for Tinker Bell!!!)

Anyway, I looked at the text message. Somewhere inside I knew what I'd find: it was a pic of me, at the club, on the dance floor, grinding up against a tall, muscular, handsome black man — I guess Jamez did catch my whole cell phone number after all. Attached was a message: 'hey girl, check it out. see how good we look together? I think you had an even better time on the floor than me, so we need to go dancing again. I know a great spot, u gonna love this place. hit me up.'

I saw the image and flashed back to that night and I felt a little rush of that excitement, that naughtiness. And just a week or two ago, when I was the version of Chelsea who wrapped both arms around every bad or wicked decision she could find, I would've answered. Probably something coy, noncommittal and mildly flirty, just keeping the lines of communication open to get a little charge. Or at least I would've kept the conversation on my phone. And thought about it from time to time, and waited for a random surge of poor judgment to arrive, and said 'fuck it,' and done something despicable.

But now I could see the bad places that might go, so I did the responsible thing: I blocked the number and then deleted the message. Huh. That wasn't so bad, was it? You can take the less naughty option from time to time, and it doesn't even hurt. I was unaccountably proud of myself.

The other blandly sane decision I made had to do with another text. I was chatting with Dylan and mentioned something about my wedding dress. That must've sparked something in him, because he got all hot for me to do something bad with it. First he wanted me to put it on and then make a video for him of me fingering myself. And then it was, no, actually what you're gonna do is you're gonna pack it up and take it with you on our weekend trip and I'm gonna fuck the bride in her pretty white dress. That sort of thing.

Leaving aside how stupid it would be to risk damaging the very expensive dress with for some extramarital shenanigans, I just didn't want to do that stuff. I understood why he thought it was a hot idea (and honestly, it was hot), but even assuming I could do something like send him the video safely, it just felt, I guess... disrespectful. I wanted to deny Daddy Dylan a sexual request, purely for the sake of safeguarding Mark's dignity. So weird, right?

I knew if tried to say No then Dylan would probably keep at it, and then I'd probably cave. So I made up a lie about how my sister was holding onto the dress and I wouldn't see it until the wedding day.

So, yeah. I deleted a text from a horny near-stranger, and I declined an opportunity to befoul my wedding dress, a symbol of my impending marriage and the physical manifestation of all that is good & pure inside me. Like I said, it's pretty pathetic that this qualifies as an achievement—not exactly the Labors of Hercules over here.

But it's a start.

***

Milestone #5 was a just a tad bit more dramatic: Nora's situation exploded when her affair with Cody came to light, blowing her world to smithereens. It was ugly. And for the record I had nothing to do with it, I swear, and neither did Mark.

It was a couple days after that wedding dress chat with Dylan, and just a couple days before he & I would head out for our planned weekend getaway. Middle of the day, I'm at home with Mark recording the voiceover for one of our next videos, and right in the middle he waves me off, tells me to cut. He's listening along with a headset, and the microphone seems to be picking up some kind of faint background noise. Sounds like shouting.

It was coming from next door. Harry & Nora were fighting, yelling loud enough to make it out of their house and into ours. Before long the fight spills into the front yard, Harry stomping out to the car carrying bags and Nora chasing after him, simultaneously angry and pleading. He threw some bags in the trunk and the fight continued for a while right there in the yard, in full view of all their nosy neighbors. Mark & I, of course, were the nosiest. We sat behind a window and actually cracked it open so we could eavesdrop more efficiently.

What we soon learned was that Harry had known about the affair for a while already, perhaps a couple weeks. That extended out-of-town trip he'd taken? The one that gave Nora the opportunity to have me naked on her bed after my bachelorette party? That trip was just an excuse to stash their son at his parents' place and get his ducks in a row in case it came to divorce.

I'm sure you can figure out why this might feel significant to me. Nora's situation isn't the same as mine — I mean, she was lying to her husband about everything! And I'm only lying about a few tiny, insignificant details, like my innermost feelings — but still. It was like a splash of cold water on a drunk's face: sobering. A reminder not to lose sight of what can happen when an extramarital affair gets out of control.

***

So that was my 'Return to Sanity' week. It feels like the spell has broken — I gained some badly-needed perspective on my situation and what I want. And also, for the first time, some perspective on Dylan. Like, yes, he's stupidly good-looking and he's incredibly charismatic & likable; that's all I've really let myself see to this point. But he's also young, and immature.

And, yes, he fucks me like an atom bomb and he has a way of totally owning my mind and soul with our cuckolding/breeding/domination games. But, at the end of the day, that game really is (*mostly) a game; Dylan only feels like my natural Lord & Master because he's so good at playing his part, and I'm so eager to fall into mine. It's a role I've been performing, like one of my old high school plays, and maybe I got a little carried away with the Method acting.

And as for Mark, well... I know I've been hedging my bets a little the past few months. I know I've kinda been playing him, taking advantage of his kink. Maybe even... manipulating him (ouch, that's an ugly word). A little bit. And all so I could do more (and more extreme) things with Dylan. And maybe even, subconsciously, so I could set up a scenario where I don't have to stop seeing him after the wedding if I don't want. But now that we're almost at the end, I'm finding that my commitment to my fiancé is sincere, whole-hearted. Finally, finally, finally... I think it might be over.

Which leaves only this weekend getaway with Dylan, and now I'm not even sure I should be going. I mean, I kinda do want to go, plus Dylan is all excited about it and I'd feel like shit if I bailed at the last second. I do still really like him, and really care about him. We've just grown so close, so of course I want to see him. But, on the other hand, it's that very closeness that's the problem, right? And spending the weekend alone with him might be like walking through a minefield on the way to the altar. But on the other other hand, if I can't even spend a couple days with him to say a proper goodbye, isn't that like admitting to myself that I'm powerless to help my attraction to Dylan, and I might as well call of my marriage right now just to save everyone the hassle? But then, but then, but then...

In the end, I just had to get out of my own head about the trip. You said you would go, you should go. It's fine. Except, maybe hoping he would bail me out, at the last minute I did give Mark the opportunity to keep me at home.

"You know," I said to him the night before the trip, "I don't have to go tomorrow, if you don't want. I mean, if you think it's better that I stay, I can stay."

"Oh. That's sweet of you, Chelz. But no, it's ok. I know you've been looking forward to it, and I'm fine. One last whirl, a proper farewell for our little adventure, all that good stuff. I mean, unless... do you not want to go?"

"No, it's not that..."

"Right. So, you should go. Have fun. Honestly, it kinda works out perfect since I'll be glued to the computer all weekend anyway." He was right: we've been hustling to bank a few new videos to release during our honeymoon. Now all that was left to do was like 30 hours of video editing for Mark in one big push, so I'd barely see him this weekend even if I stayed.

"That's true. So, you're sure then?"

"Totally: you have my blessing to be a bad girlfriend one last time before you're a good wife. Dylan can keep you entertained while I'm busy, and your pervy groom-to-be will enjoy imagining what you're getting up to all weekend. Maybe you guys tease me with a few pics or videos while you're gone, and I get a full sexy debrief when you get back... doesn't actually sound so bad to me." He was smiling, perfectly content with the plan.

Mark made it all sound so simple, so harmless. And, heck, he's probably right! It'll be fun, of course it will. And I tend to worry too much.

Okay. Weekend getaway with my lover. Big farewell. It's gonna be great.

Off I go.

Dylan

Fuckin' Cody, man.

Don't get me wrong, I love him, he's my friend and all, he's loads of fun. But the guy is most definitely a dick, and also kind of a dumbass. And like, a guy can be either one of those things and it's usually fine, but you stick 'em together and for sure that's a dude who's gonna cause you problems one day.

So Cody goes and uses his new favorite MILF to corner my drunk gamer girl princess when I'm not looking (which, hey, 10/10 for execution). He did it just for the lulz. Because he could, because it'd make him feel like hot shit. But he completely screwed up my whole process with Chelsea. She was totally down, I swear. I had her locked in. By the time she was on her honeymoon she would have already talked to Mark and got him to agree to her seeing me for as long as we want. But then that dipshit totally ambushes her and now she's spooked — I could sense it this whole week whenever we chatted, and I could see it in her face as soon as I picked her up for our big weekend. Now she's real iffy about our whole thing, probably totally determined to call us off once the trip ends, and who knows if I can even salvage the situation.

Btw, I was 100% going to get back at Cody by fucking Nora. But then Dumbass went and blew up that girl too, didn't he?

Fuckin' Cody.

Whatever, it's fine. So my job's a little harder this weekend. That's all.

***

Can I just say something, for the record, right at the start? I'm not the bad guy here.

I'm not trying to hurt Chelsea or mess up her life or nothing. Why in the world would I want that? I like her. I mean, I actually care about her. She's not just a fun girl and a hot fuck. Maybe that's how it started, but, come on. It's impossible to spend three months hanging out with that girl and not wind up a little bit in love. And Chelsea cares about me too. She & I have fun together and make each other happy. If we stop seeing each other, she'll miss it.

I'm not trying to hurt Mark, either. He's stuck in his head a little, like he thinks he's supposed to want us to stop playing together. But he totally gets off on our whole deal. Why do you think Chelsea's always had such an easy time getting him to go along with it? Because he wants to say yes, that's why. Even if he doesn't always know it.

So all I have to do is show Chelsea that she wants us to keep seeing each other, and then she'll remind Mark that he wants it too. It'll be fine, he probably won't lose her. He's just gonna have to share, that's all.

I went all out on the trip. I thought up lots of fun, low-key things we could do this weekend, but then I decided I didn't want to leave anything to chance. I'm trying to get something done, and so I'm gonna use whatever I have. And other than looks, muscles, height, charm, fashion sense, and friends, you know what I have more of than Mark? Money.

I booked us a spot at one of those uber-exclusive resorts that are hidden here & there in Southern California. Not quite the kind of place where Jeff Bezos goes for vacation, I guess, but definitely the kind of place where Jessica Chastain might. The kind of resort that's built for lovers, not families, and where you get your own little house sitting on your own private stretch of beach. The kind of place that doesn't seem to advertise, unless it's in magazines about private jet ownership. The kind of place with more masseuses and attendants per square meter than you've ever seen, except you don't actually see them because they're too well-trained to make eye contact with the guests. In other words, it's the kind of place that screams, 'This man spent a fuckton of money on me and made me feel like a Queen.'

To be perfectly honest, you know what I really had in mind when I booked this place? I wanted Chelsea to go home, get married, leave for her honeymoon, walk into whatever fancy resort they're staying at, and think, "Oh, well this isn't as nice as the place Dylan took me to." And then she might feel guilty for thinking it, because she's a good person and all, but she'll still remember.

Anyway, we had a perfectly pleasant drive up there, even though I could still feel that little bit of reluctance in her. But once we arrived, and she saw the house, and the beach, and the invisible servants and all the rest, I watched that tension slowly disappear from her face. This is gonna work.

We took advantage of the ridiculous opulence. We lay out on the beach, played in the surf; ate a 5-Star lunch delivered right to our patio; got his & hers massages. I rented a boat (more like a small yacht), and we went sailing. Chelsea laughed & laughed as we sped across the water. I had to snap a pic when she wasn't looking, because she was incredible: sprawled out on the sun-drenched deck in her bikini, wind whipping through her hair with a glass of champagne in her hand, looking like a GTA 5 loading screen. It was awesome. I sent the pic to Mark, but if things go according to plan it's the last time he'll hear from either one of us until Monday.

We watched the sunset in silence while lying on our little beach, listening to the waves lap against the shore. It was such a perfect moment. Then, just as the sun touched the horizon, I felt Chelsea's hand reach over and wrap around mine. 'Nice,' I thought again, 'this is going to work.'

Chelsea

Once the sun was down Dylan and I made our way to the resort's beachside restaurant for more cocktails and a light supper. It was this small, quiet little bistro that was so unassuming it was damn near rustic. So I was totally unprepared when my striped sea bass floating on a lemon butter reduction made me see frickin' stars — seriously, maybe the best thing I've ever eaten. Afterwards, while I walked back to our cottage hand-in-hand with Dylan, my brain was still buzzing with the sensuous delight of my meal.

Once we got back inside I felt a tiny bout of unease, of ambivalence. It had been such a perfect day and Dylan had been at his charming best, and we both knew that we were about to have sex. In one sense that was exactly what I wanted, of course, but I was still worried about his real feelings after the Cody fiasco, and about the harsh treatment I'd received from him the last time we'd been together. And I was worried I couldn't be fully present during sex with my lover/boyfriend/obsession, without losing sight of the need to end our affair once and for all afterwards.

But I pushed those feeling aside. Before long we found ourselves in bed, still clothed, lying on top the covers and lazily kissing & holding, soft little moans here & there escaping from my lips as we basked in the simple warmth of each other's bodies. It was really lovely. As usual, Dylan's raw magnetism and the promise of having his naked body inside of mine were helping me to forget my worries, at least for a while. I was on the verge of ripping off his shorts when he stopped kissing me and started talking.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Have I told you how happy I am that you decided to come away with me?"

"Ha, well of course I came, Daddy — I did promise, didn't I?"

"Yes you did, Peach — and you're a very good girl, always." It is embarrassing that that sort of thing still makes me blush with pride, isn't it? "But I thought you might not want to come after what happened last week. Damn, I'm sorry about how I handled that whole thing with Cody."

"Don't be silly, it's fine. I sprung it on you, that's all." Bah. Why was he spoiling the mood? I just wanted to forget that whole thing for a while. "Stop talking. Just be here with me. You didn't do anything wrong." He let me kiss him for few seconds before returning to the subject.

"It's nice of you to say, but we both know I got a little butt-hurt about it, and we both know I kinda took it out on you. That was shitty. I'm sorry."

"Dylan, it's fine. You're good. I mean, anyone would be a little—"

"No, hang on, I need to say something. Do you know I didn't even get it at first? I couldn't figure out why it made me so mad when you told me about Cody, to the point where I'd even be kind of a dick to you. But the other day I finally realized: it was panic."

"Panic?"

"Yeah, panic. It wasn't because I was jealous of Cody or anything. It was that it made me think about someone else, you know... someone else having you, which made me think about me NOT having you. It reminded me that you're really getting married soon, and how that's supposed to be it for us. It made me realize how much I don't want to lose you."

"Dylan. Listen..."

"I know, I know: we have to stop. But I need say this anyway. The thing is, you don't understand how weird this is for me. It's like... I've never actually cared about the end of a relationship before, ok? If something runs its course I'm always like, 'no worries, fun while it lasted,' and then I just call up some other girl. Maybe that makes me sound like a douche, but it's true.

"Except now, with you... fuck, man. I'm just hating it. I think about you all the time, especially lately. Wanting to be with you, scared of losing you. And scared that maybe... I don't know. Scared that I'm just some fuck-buddy, and I'm not really important to you at the end of the day."

"Dylan, hey, no. No, no, no." I could see this wasn't easy for him, could see the pain on his face. Against all logic, I felt guilty. I was the cause of that pain. I was the back-stabbing bitch, throwing away what we have. "You *are* important to me, okay? Whatever happens. Of course you are."

"Good. Because what I'm really trying to tell you is just... you're special. That's all. I just needed you to know, because I've been thinking about it a lot. I couldn't figure out why this was so hard for me — turns out it's because I've never had my heart broken, so I didn't get it. But now I guess I do, because it turns out... it turns out I love you, Chelsea." He paused for a second and looked off to the side in a totally adorable way; I bit my lip to keep from blurting out something stupid. "Yeah, wow. I love you. You know I've never actually said that to anyone before?"

"Oh, Dylan..."

"Anyway, I'll get out of the way after the wedding, alright? But I hope we can stay friends, because if I couldn't even see you anymore it's like... god, I don't know what I'd do with myself. I know you don't want to have to deal with this stuff. And I KNOW you don't feel the same way about me. It's ok, I get it. In fact I'm probably just screwing things up for you by getting all mushy like this. God damn it. I'm sorry, Chelsea, this was stupid. And I can't even seem to explain myself right. I had it straight in my head, but... ugh. I'm babbling like an idiot, making a fool of myself here, and you don't—"

"Dylan, shut up. Just... shut up." I cut him off mid-sentence, reaching my hand out to stop his lips from moving. I just couldn't stand to play pretend any longer, and I let myself say it: "Of course I'm in love with you, dummy."

God damn. I've been fighting those words for so long, haven't I? Oh yeah, Chelsea, it's no big deal. The spell is broken, you're over the man. Ha. Wishful thinking, bitch.

I mean, I'd have loved it if it were true — that would make things a whole lot simpler — and this morning I almost had myself convinced. But then I go and have simply the most sublime day with the most attractive, alluring man in the world, lying there with him (on the most comfortable, luxurious mattress I've ever felt) after eating the best meal I've ever had... and he's being so sweet & vulnerable, so loving. And that might be the one thing I wasn't prepared for. It's like, Dylan means fun and excitement and mind-blowing sex, but I didn't know he felt this way. I didn't even know he could feel this way. He's always so strong, so desirable, so confident. So aloof, like he glides above it all and everything's a game.

But now, seeing this man — THIS man — get flustered as he declares his love in a moment of tenderness... fuck. My defenses just crumbled.

I didn't want to fight anymore. Not now. I just wanted to love and to be loved. And to make love — so, so badly.

/**********/**********/

"Of course I'm in love with you, dummy."

Chelsea had been building up to that statement for months, fighting it in her mind, and now it was here. That simple, beautiful moment with her lover in a bed by the sea had finally pushed her over the edge. Dylan knew he was laying it on thick with the lovey-dovey routine. Not his preferred MO, but, whatever: that's what he had to do to win this one. Besides, it's not like he was lying, exactly. More like exaggerating, or spinning — putting the best face on the situation. Mere salesmanship, not deceit.

He probably would have replied to Chelsea's confession with something delightful & endearing, but he never got the chance: she lunged at him to seal their love with a kiss immediately. Dylan smiled to himself when he recognized the kiss for what it was. Do you, Dylan, take this woman to be your sinfully wedded partner, to fuck and to breed from this day forward...

Chelsea gave herself over, joyously shedding every thought except the man & the moment in front of her. She held his face in her hands tenderly, then wrapped them around the back of his head and neck to pull him in tighter; they drifted to his chest where they poked and grabbed aimlessly as if to convince herself that he was real. Dylan's hands returned the favor, patiently roaming over the ripe curves of the body being offered up before him; whenever his hand found a sensitive spot, or when hers grabbed ahold of something she liked, Chelsea whimpered into his mouth with giddy delight.

It was pure joy: romance & puppy love. Almost wholesome. But it couldn't be wholesome for long; Chelsea had to move things forward. Her sexual need began to assert itself, taking control of her body. It was matched only by her emotional need — the desire to consummate the relationship, to affirm their declarations of wicked love and to seal them in place in the only way that truly matters: with his hard cock fucking & owning his woman from the inside.

She found herself pawing at his chest, then drifting down to feel the meaty lump in his pants, then returning to clutch at his shirt and start trying to work it off over his head, driven to remove the flimsy barriers between their bodies. He helped her get his shirt off and she threw it across the room, at which point she fell forward and began licking & nuzzling his chest. She kissed it with eyes closed, reverentially; Dylan stroked her hair approvingly. As she adored his firm pecs with her mouth, she breathed in his scent, sparking waves of emotion and memory. It all felt so right. She looked up at his face with wide eyes to find him watching her.

"God, your face is so beautiful," he said. Chelsea smiled bashfully. "Now I want the rest of you. Come here." He pulled her back up to him and the pair resumed their soulful makeup session. Her clothes melted off — Dylan's hand crept under her top to take hold of her breast and she helped him by slipping it off entirely. When his hand then made a slow journey to her hip where he began to play at her bottoms, Chelsea's quickly followed to shove them down by the waistband; her legs kicked frantically to get them all the way off, leaving her bare before her lover. Dylan drank her in and smiled at his good fortune, confident in his final victory.

Taking the initiative, Chelsea pushed him down by the shoulders and flung herself on top of his body, straddling him; she stared into his eyes with a knowing smile and they enjoyed a brief silence as her hips slowly ground her naked crotch into the bulging weapon in his shorts.

"Mmmm," she hummed, "I think I might be even happier I came along than you are..."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh, yeah." In that moment it was true: it's not every day you fall in love. She was drunk on her adulterous romance; not just the sex, but something deeper, more meaningful. She loved Mark, she truly did. But that was old love — familiar, reliable. They'd been together for so long, most of her adult life. She'd forgotten what love was like when it was new.

"You really feel that way?" he asked. "You mean it?"

"Oh yes, Dylan. Daddy. I love you." The words sent tingly rush through her body. "And now..."

Chelsea brought her hands down to Dylan's shorts and popped the top button; she was dying to claim her man, and to be claimed by him. To become his. She scooched back so she could get to his zipper and uncover the instrument of her desire, but at that exact moment, her phone pinged with a text message. She leaned over and glanced at the screen on the bedside table.

"Ohh, it's Mark. Lemme just tease him a little with a pic..." She bent down and picked up her phone; before she could even see what Mark's message said, Dylan stopped her.

"Hey, Peach. Hold up a minute." She froze in her tracks and looked at him attentively. "Do you really have to do that?"

"Um... no? I guess not. You don't think I should?"

"I think it would be nice if we had this weekend just for us, you & me. Like, for now, no one else exists. No one else matters." His reached up and stroked her cheek; Chelsea furrowed her brow.

"Hmmm..."

"I need to know what that feels like before it's too late: you're mine, and I'm yours. No deadlines. No limitations. Just pretend with me, Peach. Haven't you ever wondered what that would be like? To be... more?"

Chelsea studied Dylan's seemingly sincere face below her. Holding his stare she slowly, imperceptibly at first, began nodding — the weight of admitting it brought her nearly to tears — as her hand glided down and dropped her phone on the side of the bed.

"Yes," she said simply, "I have." Dylan smiled.

"Good. Now don't give it another thought. Mark isn't gonna freak out or anything." Chelsea feigned confusion.

"Mark? Who's Mark?" She dropped down to lie atop him and kissed her man — for now, her only man. "It's ok. He might go a tiny bit crazy... but I bet he'll love it, the little perv." She gave him another soft, wet kiss. "Now don't say his name again."

Chelsea kissed her way down his smooth chest and abs until she got to his shorts. She looked up at him as she slowly slid down his zipper, grabbed his shorts and underwear by the waistband, and pulled them off for him; she saw his already-erect manhood and smiled, a warm glow spreading within her chest, along with a throbbing hunger in her pussy. She planted a tender kiss on his balls — one, then the other.

"Oh yes," she said with genuine gratitude. She began planting those little kisses up the length of his shaft, muttering as she went, "I love... every... part... of you... Dylan." And she fucking meant it. When she got to his cockhead she let her hot wet mouth engulf him, sliding down until he hit the back of her throat. A little drop of his precum smeared across her taste buds and it made her whole damn head tingle. Chelsea whimpered involuntarily. She gave him a slow, slippery blowjob, her tongue twirling around and caressing every inch and making Dylan groan before the heavenly sensation. But her goal wasn't to get him off; it wasn't sexual pleasure at all really. Now more than ever, she just wanted to commune with the glorious pillar of masculinity that had transformed her, brought out her true self. She wanted to express her love for it. For him.

And it was euphoric — Chelsea never knew she could be so happy sucking cock. But before long it wasn't enough. She could feel it in her bones: her body really did need him... and she really did love him. It wasn't just a game, some kind of sexy farce. Maybe things would be different on Monday, or maybe not, but who cares? Right now it was a profound devotion, a true & solemn fidelity. She needed his body; she needed the man; she needed the physical expression of all the feelings that had taken hold of her. She ached for it.

Chelsea worked her mouth up & off Dylan's cock leaving it dripping with saliva and precum, primed to slide right into her. She looked up into his eyes, not even trying to hide the burning need in her own — a tiny trickle of drool falling from the corner of her mouth only served to complete the picture of a desperate woman.

"Please," she begged, "make love to me." Dylan looked at her with adoring eyes, the very picture of beneficence. He nodded.

"Yes. I need you too, my love. Come here."

He reached out and took her by both hands, fingers interlaced; Chelsea crawled up on her knees until she was once again straddling him. Her sex, already dripping, now ground down upon Dylan's irresistible cock, and she naturally began sliding it back and forth, up and down along the length of the shaft.

For a brief moment her mind flashed back to the last time she was in this position, on the couch with Mark, grinding his prick against her vulva, desperate to be accepted. She rejected him then. She wouldn't reject Dylan, couldn't even conceive of such a thing. Once upon a time that thought would have made her feel guilt — spurning her chosen mate and welcoming the aggressive young challenger into her body. But no more, not tonight. Now she felt only calm, the inner-peace that comes from knowing you're exactly where you belong.

Her reverie was broken by Dylan's right hand: he'd unlocked his fingers from hers and was now running his thumb across her engagement ring, staring right at it as he did so. After a long 10 seconds he gripped the ring in his fingers and began slowly, gently twisting it off. The couple made eye contact again for a brief but weighty silence.

"It's just us, remember?" he asked. Chelsea bit her lip, vaguely concerned, struggling to remember why this might be important while her hips kept grinding on autopilot. Finally she nodded her approval.

"Yes, that's right... just us..."

"Exactly." Dylan worked the ring all the way off her finger and placed it on top of his wallet on the bedside table. "There, that's much better... now you're really mine."

She liked hearing that more than she should have. She liked it even more when his big, strong hand took hold of her ass and lifted her up into position. Chelsea drew in a deep breath and reached down with her left hand — naked ring finger and all — to take her man's pillar and aim it at her core. She nestled the head in her slick opening and let gravity start to bring her home.

"Ahhhh..."

She sighed as she felt the first blush of pressure against her insides, and her jaw dropped in bliss while an overwhelming sense of rightness washed over her. She bottomed out with her hips, swallowing his whole cock, once more enjoying that perfect fit she only ever got from being with Dylan: the swollen steel instrument that stretched her out and overwhelmed her senses but somehow caused no pain.

They locked eyes and shared an unspoken understanding; the clearly smitten Chelsea looked at her lover and began languidly rolling her hips. Dylan's hand glided up her side, stopping briefly to tease her nipple and send a jolt of tingly electricity to her head, then up to the side of her face where he held her by the cheek and ran a thumb back & forth across her lips. She playfully nipped at the digit, capturing it with her teeth and licking the tip.

"Mmmm," Chelsea hummed. A huge grin spread across her face, utter joy. In spite of herself she actually chuckled, suddenly hit by a giddy disbelief at the notion that life could be so wonderful. "Haha, oh lord... I am *so* happy right now, Dylan. You make me so happy..."

"Oh yeah?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm..."

"Same here. I guess that makes us a good team."

Chelsea fell forward to rest her soft body on Dylan's hard chest, kissed him soulfully on the lips, and started her hips on a slow & sensual grinding, massaging his cock. She buried her head in the crook of his neck, planting kisses there and tasting his body.

"I love you, Dylan," she whispered into his ear like a secret. "God damn it, I love you."

The words set off tiny explosion in her head on the way out, a little burst of pleasure that caused her to moan and to give his cock tight little hug. She kept a slow pace, her eyes closed, as Dylan held her with his arms and whispered sweet nothings in her ear: "you're so beautiful... I'm so glad we found each other... you really are a goddess, my goddess... you make me feel so good... I love you, Princess... I need you... I love you..."

For Chelsea it was hypnotic, with Dylan's tender cooing in one ear and the sound of waves crashing into the shore in the other, seeming to wash away her all her cares and old hang-ups. She existed in a trancelike state where everything is peace, and joy, and Dylan — his voice, his scent, his hard body and harder cock — training herself to associate this tender euphoria with someone other than Mark.

Dylan let her exist in that state for five full minutes, luxuriating in the soft power that her affection granted him. But, so used to setting the pace, he soon grew restless. With one hand holding her by her hair, locking her into a kiss, and the other wrapped tightly around her lower back, he rolled them over without warning. Chelsea chirped in surprise and found herself on her back in a submissive, receptive pose beneath her beloved young Daddy; it felt right. He laid into her with long, lustful strokes, keeping the mood soft & romantic. He could power-fuck her into oblivion anytime he wanted, but for right now he knew this was what she truly needed — and he relished the thought that this was one more thing he was taking from her fiancé.

They made love like that, face-to-face, inches apart. Chelsea was briefly lost in the pleasure, the physical sensations shooting out to every nerve ending. But when she opened her eyes she found something so much more compelling than the hard dick sawing into her: the person on top of her. Dylan's big brown eyes stared down into her own from point-blank range, and they were powerfully affecting; she gasped aloud. He bore a look of deep concentration, utterly focused on her. Not focused on her body, but her soul.

She was overcome, enraptured. She was dazzled by a possible, imaginary future. And she was primed like never before to see everything her romantic heart might dream of seeing in a lover's eyes. In his eyes she read true love, adoration, commitment, and all tinged with that priceless vulnerability she'd never imagined for him before now. She got lost in those eyes — in what they seemed to communicate, in the promise she imagined they held. In her head, on a level below conscious thought, she held an entire conversation with herself, and with the man she thought she saw.

Behind those striking brown eyes, Dylan watched. He saw the play of emotions behind Chelsea's own misty hazel orbs, the subtle transformation of the gorgeous, innocent girl he'd fucked so well and for so long that he had her rethinking her whole life story. It was intoxicating, the ego-boost. It made him feel 50-feet tall: he was the Messiah of wet pussy, the God of despoiling angels, perverting them to suit his purpose with his mighty rod, corrupting them from the inside out with each dose of heavenly cum he saw fit to pour into their wombs.

And yet even so, beneath the surface, he felt a slight apprehension — the fear that he wasn't truly in control. That, along the way, he'd tapped into something real. That maybe the stakes here were too high. That this silly little nerd-slut had knocked loose a piece of him he didn't want to lose. And that, just maybe, that's why his seduction had been so successful: she could see it in his eyes.

Nah. Couldn't be. He powered through it.

Their lovemaking continued, and Chelsea felt what Dylan hoped she'd feel... plus one thing more. She was staring adoringly up at him, lost in a haze, when his swelling erection began to tickle the gates of her womb in a more insistent way. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get her attention, to set her thoughts on a new path. She remembered what she was doing, the risks she'd been taking, and how lucky she'd just gotten with her cycle. An image began to flash in her mind and refused to leave — the image of a baby, of her baby, with big brown eyes that are unmistakably Dylan's.

"Oh my gaaawd," she moaned to herself, somewhere between existential horror and primal longing. She wanted to banish the thought, knew she should, but it was hopeless. Her body gave up the fight first: even as she reminded herself that this was pure sexual thoughtcrime, when that image hit her mind her legs spread wider, her hips upturned to offer a more receptive angle, and her pussy flooded to ease her mate's passage. Her body said 'Yes.' Her mind inevitably followed.

She knew her period had just ended and it was an unlikely time to get pregnant, and yet it had never felt so real, so possible, so unlike a mere kinky game she played. Would it really be so bad, Chelsea? What a beautiful, perfect baby he'd make in you. If he was your man he could do it for you... or what if you just let him, secretly, and didn't tell... or maybe Mark would be ok with it, he's let you do anything so far...

Dylan could see that something had changed in Chelsea. He was still keeping to his languid pace, but now his partner seemed preoccupied with something. "Hey," he said, "I love you."

Chelsea shut her eyes, nodded, swallowed hard. It was, whether Dylan knew it or not, exactly what she needed to hear.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I love you too." She sighed, opened her eyes again, looked at him with mild amazement. "Oh god I love you, I really love you."

The intensity of their lovemaking increased — a little faster, a little harder, a little more moving. Chelsea's hands started roaming over Dylan's body, holding his face, grabbing onto his strong arms, ranging down to pull on his thrusting buttocks. Her legs became restless in excitement, squeezing his hips, caressing his thighs, lifting high in the air.

And all the while their coupling was punctuated with declarations of love — some of his, but more of hers. It felt so good to say it, each utterance setting free a piece of her that had been held back, weighing her down. So they reveled in it, deliriously happy, forgetting everything else, repeating the words in endless variations and combinations... I love you... oh god I love you... I love you, too... Do you really love me?... I do, I really do... Oh my god, it feels like a miracle that you love me... Then it's a miracle... I love you, I love you forever...

With the needs of the heart fully satisfied, the needs of the body now took over. The tingle in the deepest parts of Chelsea's pussy became too powerful to ignore, her hips began throwing themselves at Dylan to meet his thrusts at just the right angle, her feet wrapped around his ass and spurred him to go just a little faster, just a little harder. Desperation crept into her moans as climax came on in a rush.

"Please... please... oh please..."

"Yes," Dylan instructed her, "you can cum now. Cum for me, Chelsea. Cum for me."

She obeyed, as always. A high-pitched whine squeaked out from the back of her throat and her whole body tensed up, hugging Dylan ever tighter to her body with her trembling arms and legs. It was a long one, an explosion of joy in her head more than just pleasure in her body.

"Ohhh yes," said a satisfied Dylan, "that's my good girl." Chelsea loved hearing it. With her mind still on fire she began planting little kisses on his lips, his cheek, his neck.

"Thank you," she whimpered. "Thank you, Daddy, thank you..." She could feel Dylan's body tensing up, his breath becoming ragged, his movements jerky — she knew the signs by now, knew what was coming. Long past the point of feeling guilty about being endlessly inseminated by this stud who'd claimed her, she spurred him on, viciously whispering into his ear: "Do it, do it... come on, do it... I want it, I need it... need to feel your cum inside me... please... do it, give it to me, fill up your pussy... it's yours, Dylan, it belongs to you... do it, fill me up, fill me up..."

Her words tipped him over the edge. He came with a shudder and a groan, telling her one more time: "Ohhhh-OHHHH-Peach, I LOVE you..."

His warm seed shot out into the deepest part of her, completing the act of love — bathing the ring of her cervix in his milky white semen, sliding down into her hungry womb. Chelsea felt it all happening and made no secret of how she felt about it.

"Cum in me!" she gasped. "Ohhh, cum inside me... yes... yes... inside, always inside me..." Her legs locked him in place, while her hips rolled from side to side, trying to help the very last sperm cell find its way home. "Thank you... thank you..." she repeated in a faraway voice.

When it was all over and they were still locked together, catching their breath, slowly coming back to Earth. Their eyes found each other and they began giggling in delight, transported by the special, secret thing they'd just shared. Dylan kissed her.

"Still love me?"

Chelsea nodded without having to think about it. "Oh, yes..."

They wound up spooning on the bed, blissed out, basking in the afterglow and feeling the closeness of each other's bodies seal their bond. Dylan's hand roamed over the front of Chelsea's body before settling atop her stomach, rubbing the spot where his seed could, someday, take root. For five heavenly minutes they stayed like that.

"Chelsea," he finally said.

"Hmm?"

"My Peach, my Princess..."

"Mmmmm... Daddy..."

"Chelsea." His voice dropped to a whisper: "I don't want to lose this."

"I know." She hesitated then, but just for a second. "Me neither."

"You should talk to Mark. Or, maybe, we could talk to him together. I think he'd understand..."

"No. I mean, yes, there should be a conversation, but just not like..." She trailed off, quietly sighed, and squeezed his hand for strength. "I don't know. I'll figure it out."

Dylan stopped pushing. For now, that was enough — he was confident that Chelsea would come around in the end and that he would get his way. No more words were needed. He just planted a soft kiss on the side of her neck and squeezed her tight to show his approval, his affection. To remind her that they were one.

It worked. A sublime warmth bloomed in Chelsea's gut and spread out to every part of her, and she let herself shed a solitary tear of joy. She felt Dylan's strong arms holding her, surrounding her, wrapping his large, muscled body around her soft and vulnerable form. She felt safe. She felt cared for, under his protection. She felt like she could finally let go.

Chelsea fell asleep in her lover's arms, riotously content, utterly in love.

_______________*_______________

Thanks for reading! As I said at the top, Part 8 is coming to Literotica in a couple weeks (it's up on the Patreon now) and the (truly) final chapter 2-3 weeks after that.

Shout-out to chapward, who messaged me (long after the start of this chapter was finished) saying how hot it would be if Chelsea teased Mark with a thigh-job — I liked the idea so much it made me mad I hadn't come up with it myself, and so I went back and rewrote that first Mark section to include it. Thanks to Granderman for giving my draft a final read, giving me a sanity check, and bucking me up when I needed it. Thanks again, in fact, to everyone who's left supportive messages during these not-entirely-untrying times of late. And thanks again to Nora, who (I should make clear) is so much nicer than the character who shares her name.

Questions for discussion: What did folks think about Chelsea's big 4th-wall break? Did you find it funny, or interesting, or did it just take you out of the story a little? Is there more to Dylan's affection for Chelsea than he admits to himself? Or, conversely, is there even *less* to it than he thinks, and he's just kidding himself that he's anything other than a shallow narcissist? Is there some way Chelsea could continue the relationship long-term without inviting disaster? If Chelsea decides it needs to end as planned, is she even capable of making that happen? And of course, now that we're near the end: who's going to "win"? (I think I know what happens, but strictly speaking the last page isn't written yet, and sometimes a story just grabs the wheel and starts driving itself.)