Half Open Ch. 09 - Alan Fucks Mari Solo

Chapter 9: Alan Fucks Mari Solo

Alan drops by when Mat is out and fucks Mari. Mat finds out.

I come home and know right away something's off.

Mari is flushed and sweaty, and she smells--not bad, and not like perfume or lotion, but that deep, ripe scent that clings to her skin when she's been playing hard. I know that smell. My stomach knots with suspicion, a low hum of anticipation and dread threading through me as I pause in the doorway. I know it from experience. I know this feeling well--after Fletcher, after Alan in the bathroom. I pause in the doorway, letting it register.

She's in the kitchen in one of my old button-downs, hair damp around her ears, humming to herself, innocent. But I know better. Her bare feet move softly against the cool tile. Does her skin have that faint shimmer of dampness--of someone who's been thoroughly, intensely fucked?

I cross the room and put my arms around her. She leans in easily--a little too easily. Her body molds into mine the way it does when she's been softened up by sex.

I undo the top two buttons of the shirt. At the crook of her neck, just above the collarbone, I spot it: a dark, tender blossom.

"There's a hickey," I say, too calm.

She blinks, raises a hand to touch it. "I didn't know it was there."

"Come here," I say, tugging her toward the bathroom. I flip on the light and turn her to the mirror. "That," I point.

She bites her lip. Her eyes linger on the bruise like she can feel it blooming. I watch her watching herself. She looks caught--embarrassed, maybe, but not sorry. And it's that absence of apology that unsettles me even as it turns me on, like a dare she knows I won't walk away from. Her eyes don't flinch from mine in the mirror.

"I wonder how that got there," she muses.

"That's what I wonder."

"I love that Ricky Ricardo thing that you do. Say 'Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do.'"

"Okay, start 'splainin.'"

She squirms a little, turning her head like she wants to look at me directly instead of at our reflection. "Alan dropped by."

I feel it before I think it: Alan. That casual bastard. Always acts like he's borrowing sugar when he's helping himself to sex--with my wife.

"Did you and Alan..." I begin.

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she tilts her head and meets my eyes. "I wasn't planning on it," she says, squirming uncomfortably. "It just... happened."

"Just happened...?"

"Uh-huh."

"Without permission."

She nods slowly. "Freelancing."

I swallow. A wave of anger surges--but right behind it, something deeper, more complex. Arousal. Curiosity. Fear. The cocktail she knows how to mix in me, the cocktail I've experienced often enough to recognize.

"How was it?" I ask.

She tilts her head. "Do you really want to know?"

I hesitate. Then I nod.

She looks down, cheeks flushing deeper. "It just kind of happened."

"What kind of happened?"

She rolls her eyes but smiles. "He texted. I said I was around. He was already close by. I didn't know it would go that far."

"'That far.' How far is that, exactly?"

She hesitates. "We kissed in the kitchen. And then, you know how he is with me--all handsy, all over. I reached for his dick and it was like it leapt into my hand. It amazes me how hard he gets and how quickly. It's like a handle. I pulled his penis into the bedroom, and he followed right along behind it. I could feel my wetness. It didn't take much. He pushed me back on the bed and pulled off my shorts and panties."

"Did you say 'No, no unhand me you beast?'"

She rolls her eyes--like that might happen.

"He told me to pull up my top, like he did in the bathroom in the bar. But this time I did. He likes to look at my tits." The memory flares hot in my mind--jealousy and arousal twisting together as I picture it, unbidden: her arching back, her exposed breasts, Alan's hungry eyes. She adds "Alan likes looking at my tits. Men like looking at my tits."

"And you like showing off, showing off your tits."

"You know I do," she smiles roguishly at me in the mirror.

She goes on, "Then I spread my legs like in the bar, in the bathroom, and then he was in me. It just happened."

"You think that's an explanation?"

She steps back, folding her arms. "It's not an explanation. It's what happened."

"So is this going to be a thing now? Alan 'drops by' whenever he wants an easy piece of ass?"

Mari gives me a small shrug, then meets my eyes. "Now that he's fucked me in the bathroom, and had me with you in a threesome... I think he knows my not-so-secret secret--that I can be had, that I'm an easy lay. Men do that. Once they've had me, they figure they can again. Like they have the key to my treasure chest, my treasure box, my pleasure box, my pussy."

"And they're not wrong, are they."

She doesn't answer that. She just gives me a small smile--the kind that means she knows I'm both angry and aroused, truly mad--she drives me mad. The smile that makes my cock twitch despite the sour taste in my throat.

"I can see how this could become a problem," I say. "You don't really ever break up with anybody the way monogamists do. The friends-with-benefits list is just going to keep growing longer. You are a great piece of ass; nobody is going to want to stop fucking you once they start fucking you."

She laughs. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I'll have to talk to Alan," I say. "Figure out what his friend-with-privileges are. He's poaching when he could get a hunting license."

Impish smile: "What's his bag limit?"

"Smart ass," and I smack her bottom, not too hard, but enough to sting.

Mari tilts her head. "We could try something. Let's just say... he can fuck me solo, or with you in a threesome, whatever opportunity happens to come up. I like it both ways."

I look at her. Lamely, "I'm sure you do."

"I like the way he handles me." She takes my right hand in both of hers and looks at me earnestly. "He handles me so confidently, without hesitation. He knows he can have me. He knows he can have whatever he wants from me and he takes it. I put myself into his arms and lift my lips for him to kiss and then I feel his tongue thrust into my mouth. I feel his hand moving up the back of my naked thigh, up under my skirt, up to the edge of my panties, and then beneath my panties. He grips my ass firmly. Does it bother you how he treats me? Let me feel how much it bothers you." She holds my hand with one hand and reaches with the other for my throbbing cock.

"It really does bother you, doesn't it--hearing how comfortable he is--how freely he handles me. Whenever there's an opportunity, he gets all handsy. His hands are on my ass or up my shirt and his tongue is reaching for my tonsils. Not around people we know, but he's very forward with me when we're around people we don't know. Remember that time when we were in the casino and you were playing blackjack. Alan and I said we were going exploring. We found a corner and began exploring, intensely exploring, exploring each other's bodies. People looked at us askance as they walked past. My back was to them, so they could not see that his hand was deep in my panties, and his finger was deep in my pussy. We stopped a little short of what would provoke an intervention by security, but came pretty close. He takes whatever liberties he wants with me."

I say, "Well no wonder; it's not like you do anything to stop him."

Mari says, "It's more than that. I do everything I can to encourage him. I guess that's why he feels he can fuck me whenever he wants."

I recall Mari and me sitting side by side in a dark bar at a corner table with Alan sitting opposite us. She was braless, as she often is, her nipples visibly pressing through the flimsy material. We talked idly and sipped wine. I don't remember what we talked about. What I remember is her unbuttoning her blouse without comment or flourish and then opening it to expose her breasts. Alan looked without comment or expression. I looked at her, then at him, then back at her. She pulled her blouse closed then buttoned it.

She steps closer, pressing her body to mine, the shirt opening just enough to remind me what's underneath. Her nipples brush my chest through the thin material.

"I'll let you know next time," she says. "Or maybe I'll just leave a trail."

"A trail of what?"

"A trail of clues. Panties. Hickeys. Maybe a drop or two of semen on the bathroom floor."

I feel my throat tighten. The image forms vividly--her panties on the tile, the shadow of a hickey dark against her throat, the idea of a damp, unmistakable sign left behind. Fury flares in my chest, but so does arousal. She's flaunting it, and I hate how much I want her for it.

I don't know whether to be furious or hard. In fact, I'm both: burning and aching, a nerve lit at both ends. I feel the pulse of it building low, confusing and hot. She's testing me again. She always left-foots me, throws me off balance.

"Did he finish inside you?"

Her smile widens, slow and unapologetic. "He didn't ask permission. Men never do. Anyway, I'm a good sex trooper, always ready to do my duty. I figured you'd know anyway."

I exhale hard. "Clean up, and then come to bed. I'm not done with you."

She gives a little curtsy. "Yes, sir."

She walks past me toward the bedroom, hips swaying, and the faint trail of him still lingers in her wake.

"Stop. Come back. I want you dirty."

She turns and stands in front of me, comes to attention, clicks her naked heels, and says, "Dirty slut and sex trooper reporting for fuck duty, sir," and salutes.

She looks so ridiculous standing there at attention with her pretty little muff at my eye level that I have to laugh. "You're elite ops, the Delta Force of sex troopers."

Later in bed, she twirls little circles on my chest with her forefinger and asks, "Do you think sex is dirty?"

I say, "I don't know, what do you think?"

"It is if it's done right."

Mari's Diary

I thought about asking. I really did. But I also thought about getting caught.

That's more fun.

Busted. Found out. Outed. The theater of it. I like the idea of Mat finding me glowing--slick and smudged, evidence of someone, radiant with transgression. I want him to find the evidence on my skin like forensic truth. A bruise blooming under my collarbone, my thighs still humming. I can count on Alan for that--horn dog that he is. God bless him for it.

I wanted to know what it would feel like when it was just us--him and me. No permissions. No performance. No audience. Just want. Just the greedy friction of yes. I let it happen like it wasn't a decision at all, just inevitability.

Afterward, I told Alan to press his mouth to my neck and suck. Right where Mat would see it.

I didn't tell him why.

Freelancing. I guess I'm still figuring out the rules. But sometimes, breaking them is the only way I know how to find their edges.

Strings Attached

"I want to know what it is like for you to fuck Alan, what you are like when you fuck Alan. Who you become when you fuck Alan."

"You want to know? Really know?"

"Start by telling me what you like about fucking Alan, what you enjoy about it."

"He's desirable to me. I like his looks, his body, his humor, his playfulness, his carelessness, his roguishness. I like his muscularity and masculinity--strong, real, formed through sports and work, not buffed up in a gym. I like the way he engages me, teases me, plays with me. I like his appetites, his lust, his desire for me and my desire for him. I like the way he takes me, takes me in hand, uses me for his pleasure and lets me use him for my pleasure. He enjoys me. I enjoy him. We enjoy each other."

"Tell me about the person you are, the woman you are when you fuck Alan."

"You know what it's like some of the time because you've witnessed me fucking him."

"Yes, but I also want to know what it is like to be you at that moment. Your experience from the inside, your subjectivity."

"It's not always the same. I'm not always the same. I'm different with different lovers and I'm different with Alan on different occasions. "

"What was it like this last time, this last time when you two did it without me and without permission."

"He was very eager. He was already hard coming in the door. It's like he was frantic to get his dick in me. First he put me on my back on the bed and penetrated me. I wrapped my arms around his back and my legs around his hips and pulled him into me. I was relaxing into the rhythm of his pounding when he flipped me over and put me on top of him. Then he wanted me to turn over so he could take me doggy style. It's like he wanted to fuck me every possible way he could all at once. I could hardly relax into one position before he wanted to put me into another position. You know me. I can be very compliant to a lover's desires--a total whore. I became like that. I responded to his urgency by becoming urgent myself. I pulled him to me. I became eager, grasping, shoving. Is that what you want to know? That's what I became the last time I fucked Alan"

"Yes that's what I want to know. Tell me more. Tell me all of it."

"Words have limits, vocabulary has limits. Every mode of communication has limits. If we filmed it and you saw the film, you would still see only one aspect of my experience. Inside? The last time I fucked Alan I became an eager, pushy, greedy whore, lusting for him. That's what I was like."

"Have you thought about your role in Alan's life?"

"Yeah. I think about it."

"What do you think about it?"

"I'm his lover and his fuck buddy." Shrug. "I'm his backup fuck, his safety fuck. I'm his reliable fill-in. You know, like if he's not dating or is dating someone who isn't putting out, he can rely on me to fill in. I always put out for him. I see more of him if he's not involved with somebody. I'm his gap fuck--the girl who fills in the gap. I'm his easy, no-strings-attached, sure-thing piece of ass, a pleasure he can have at will--at whim."

"And Alan's role for you?"

"Hmm," thoughtful pause, "I haven't thought about that. Thank you for asking, directing me there. Alan is a practice partner, a sparring partner. I usually try things with you first, but then I try them out on him before I try them with other lovers."

She's on a roll now and goes on, "Imagine this: we go on a double date with Alan and a woman he just met--first date. After dinner, we drive her home and Alan kisses her good night and then gets in the back seat. I crawl over the seat back and join him in the back seat and fuck him while you drive. I walk him to the door of his place--dark porch, good night kiss--just like with his date except that I'm naked and dripping his cum down my thighs. I come back to the car and to you. I put my clothes under me so I don't drip on the seat. You drive us home. You rest your right hand on my left thigh an inch or two from my oozing crotch."

"Yes, I can imagine that, that role for you in Alan's life. Is it fun for you-- fucking him, I mean?"

"Fucking Alan? Oh yes! I like fucking both of you--each in your special way. But it's different."

"How's it different?"

"Hmm, let me think about that. You two handle my clit differently. You start out gentle and slow, more tickling than stroking. As I become aroused, you sense it and intensify your touch--stroke, and then stroke faster. When I really get going, you push harder, more firmly. You have an intuition about what I need--how fast, how slow, how soft, how hard. But Alan--he grabs my clit like an alligator bites, suddenly, rough, mauling my poor little clit. I have to rush to catch up or get run over. He takes my pussy like it's a beachhead and he's an invading army.

"With you, you're the virtuoso and I'm the violin. You stroke me carefully, almost delicately. You pluck my strings. You make my body play the most beautiful music. And it goes on and on, beautifully, lyrically.

"Alan is more like a rampant bull and I'm the field he charges over. He's bigger, heavier--I feel his bulk when he's on top of me. He's pushier, more urgent, more immediate, more demanding. With you we are often cheek to cheek or lips to lips. With him I find my nose nestled in his suprasternal notch. My thighs are farther apart to accommodate him. He makes more noise, breathes harder, like a bull snorting on top of a heifer. He gets caught up in wanting me and getting what he wants from me. I love feeling his intensity and determination in me. His face becomes tense, like he's in pain. Everything drives toward a climax, toward an orgasm, toward the moment he thrusts his thick dick into me as deep as he can and shoots into me like he wants to implant himself there."

Now we are both turned on, me by hearing her experience fucking another man and her by sharing it.

We're moving towards sex and I continue verbal foreplay: I ask one more playful question, a rhetorical question, because the answer is a given. "So I'm your only lover with strings attached," I say lightly, teasing, "That hardly seems fair."

I expected a playful reply, but she surprises me. She stops still to give the question her full consideration. "Strings? Yes you are the only one with strings attached. Because you are the only one I love. I care about my other lovers, but I care about you in a special way. I hold my other lovers, but I hold you closer. I care about you in a way that I don't want to lose you. I care about you in a way that defines me. You don't want to cut your strings, because they define you. And consider it the other way around. Perhaps I'm the one with a string attached. Imagine me as a kite. As long as you hold my string in your firm hand, I can fly, I can soar, I can swoop, I can play--and you find me delightful to behold. But if you let go, I would flutter, spin, spiral, and crash to the ground. I enjoyed promiscuity before I met you, but I enjoy adultery with you far more. You--our marriage--give me the anchor that makes it possible for me to fly in a graceful gyre."

As often happens to me, I'm dumbfounded by her thought. I have to think. It's almost enough to distract me from the erection that is desperate to release itself into her body, to explode into her body. But not too distracted--we proceed, tenderly, sweetly, to make love.

Later I think more about what she said.

* * *