I am a terrible friend.
I covet my best friend’s husband.
The rumors say that men talk about sex all the time with each other. I nailed this girl last night. She was such a hot piece of ass. Men have nothing on women. We get specific, and not just on the macro, but the micro level.
I close my eyes and picture you naked. Because of Karen’s detailed descriptions, I know the exact shade of brown of your nipples, erect after my teeth torment them. The shape of the birthmark I’ll skim as my fingers trail up your inner thigh. Your ass tensing when my nails bite into your skin when I suck your uncut cock. Yes, I know all about your intact foreskin.
She didn’t want to try that. Or that. She asks me, “Why is he such a freak in bed?” A drumbeat pounds in my clit as I picture bending over your desk, bottle of lube next to my hip in invitation. My skin would be bruised from the cane she threw out while you were on a business trip and blamed on the cleaner. Rope could abrade my skin as you make the knots tighter.
You and Karen have been fighting.
Glee hides beneath a mask of concern.
You’re a neat freak and she’s a slob. I could’ve told you that. We shared a dorm room for four years and I bore witness to the empty soda cans built into a castle next to her laptop. Was the overflowing laundry basket full of dirty clothes or clean? Only a sniff–ew–could tell. Would you pick these fights if you were happier?
She’s a miser and you like to splurge. Would you lick fifty year old Glenfiddich off my breasts? Finger me in Antoines on a whirlwind trip to New Orleans? Will we sixty-nine on Pratesi sheets?
Karen confessed that she’s scared of what you might do at a strip club when wining and dining your clients. If I wore a wig and called myself Sapphire, would you recognize me? What happens in the champagne lounge stays in the champagne lounge, after all.
How often do married couples have sex? According to Karen, once every two or three weeks. My pussy grows slick as I picture relieving your aching blue balls.
Do my encouraging words to her ring hollow?
Can she hear the cunning Jezebel writhing beneath my angelic, supportive exterior?
Karen’s sobbing as she accuses you of infidelity are music to my ears. I comfort her as I contemplate whether the slide of your hand from my waist over my ass in the bar last week was an accident or invitation.
I am an envoy from Karen to broker peace, but in truth I am a defector. Just look at the Agent Provocateur hidden beneath my innocent jeans and t-shirt. We sit in the coffee shop to discuss a cessessation in hostilities, but you don’t want reconciliation. You want freedom.
You want me.
I shed my good girl skin.
Your soon-to-be-ex-wife evaporates from our minds as I slip into your lap. Our lips finally meet. You’re everything Karen said you were and more. One kiss and I burn for the next. Your fingers electrify the skin along the v of my top, hooking into the fabric so you can peer down my shirt to see the sinfully red lingerie waiting for you.
Karen is a ball of misery on my couch, so we go to your house. Her house.
I betray my best friend in her own bed. We fuck under an ostentatiously large wedding photo hanging above your bed. I am standing next to your wife, staring at you rather than the photographer. The desire in my eyes is evident even then–how did she never see it? In the moment before orgasm, I think I see my maid-of-honor self wink at our entwined bodies.
I am reborn as a slut in the spray of your ejaculation.
A decades-long friendship will shatter for the privilege of being your temporary plaything.
Holes form in my integrity, eager for you to penetrate them as you’ve done in every orifice of my body. Your thorough spanking may have drawn tears from my eyes, but they were born of pleasure, not penance. The accusations and hate leveled at us from our friends will form the soundtrack of scandal we fuck to.
Will I spin a lie about my carnal betrayal? Or will I tell her all? After all that’s what women do. We leave no detail left behind. The echoes of our moans in the shower. The scratches my nails left in the finish of your dining room table. I should take a photo of her expression when I reveal your identity.
Serves her right.
I saw you first.