Marcia Writes a Porn Story Pt. 02

Literotic asexstories – Marcia Writes a Porn Story Pt. 02 by Peter_Cleveland,Peter_Cleveland
Marcia Writes a Porn Story

by Peter_Cleveland

Second of Two Parts

Marcia has changed. Phil fights back. Love wins.

* * * * *

For readers’ convenience, this story is published in two parts. It’s best understood as a single story, though–like a play in two acts. For best results, read Part 1 first.

A reminder: No character in this story is offered as a model of wisdom and good behavior for readers to imitate. Every character has flaws and makes mistakes. I’ve tried to make the characters–not exemplary–but interesting, plausible, and fairly representative of the different social backgrounds from which they come.

The story so far:

Marcia (a young English professor) and Phil (an auto mechanic) have lived together in a committed relationship for seven years. One day, looking for some staples, Phil finds an odd thumb drive hidden inside a box of Swinglines in Marcia’s desk. The drive contains a few completed porn stories and one that someone has just begun to write. All the stories have female main characters who are cheating on their husband or partner. In two of the tales–one completed story and the new, incomplete one–the unfaithful heroine is extremely similar to Marcia, right down to the little tattoo of a rose on her bottom acquired on a trip to Chicago. Phil is sure that Marcia wrote these stories about cheating women. And they look like fact more than fiction.

Phil resolves to keep a sharp eye on his partner, document what she is doing, keep track of the new story as it develops–and confront her as soon as he has enough evidence of her misbehavior. Talking about the situation at the Spruce Tavern–when they’re not ogling the busty waitress, Liz–best friend Jake tries to discourage Phil from sneaking around and playing detective. Better to calmly talk things over with Marcia now, he advises. But Phil is determined to get the goods on her first.

Then Phil discovers first-hand that Marcia is now more adventurous in bed than she ever had been.

Marcia’s unfinished story stops when the unfaithful main character (Martina, engaged to Bill) is on the brink of enjoying a threesome in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with a distinguished Harvard professor named Raoul DeJesus and his beautiful wife Sandrine. Then in real life, during Spring Break, Marcia goes to Cambridge to do some library research. She arranges to stay for several days at the home of a couple she knows: a distinguished Harvard professor named Ralph DePaul and his beautiful partner Sandrine.

After a couple of days in Cambridge, during a video chat, Marcia tells Phil of an enjoyable time the three of them had, naked in her hosts’ hot tub. Marcia admits to some touching and kissing in the tub (and Ralph did have an orgasm) but feels she’s done nothing wrong. Phil–already angry at what he sees in the stories and now even angrier–explodes. The chat ends, Phil yanks off the “commitment ring” he wears, and he storms over to the Spruce Tavern.

* * * * * 1

The Spruce was pretty deserted, even for a Tuesday night at 11:15. Three older guys were at the bar, engrossed in some basketball game on TV. I didn’t care about the game, and it didn’t look like I’d get into any interesting conversations at the bar, so I plopped down at a table near the back. Only one other table was occupied, and the three people there were packing up to go.

A minute later Liz came over to take my order. She must have been wearing a sturdier bra tonight: she was jiggling less and also showing less skin than usual. She left and soon returned with my draft Molson.

“The place is dead tonight,” she observed. “I’ve been pretty much just killing time until my shift is up. Are you in the mood for a little company?”

“I’d be delighted to have you join me, Liz,” I said. “Can I get you a drink?”

She smiled. “A little role reversal? Thanks, but I can’t while I’m supposedly working. Maybe afterwards.”

We chatted for a bit. I told her my name. I was surprised to find that, though she was clearly no college professor–unlike certain other women I’m acquainted with–she was actually kind of smart and sharp and interesting–despite the dyed blonde hair and the cleavage. She still wasn’t exactly my type, but I could imagine having her as a friend.

After some more chitchat, she went to the bar and brought me another draft, this one “on the house.” She also surprised me with a question. “Your lady friend out of town tonight?”

“Am I that obviously ‘spoken for’?”

She smiled. “No, you’re fine. Last couple times I saw you here, you were wearing a ring that looked like it meant something.”

“You’re really observant. I’m impressed.”

“A girl has to be, Phil. For safety, and also if she wants to earn enough to live on…. Are there troubles on the domestic front?”

“You could definitely say that.”

“Bummer,” she said. My left hand was on the table. She briefly placed her hand over mine. “I know how that feels, believe me. It’s no fun at all.”

The conversation was starting to take an odd turn.

“It’s a hard time for me too,” she added. “Both romantically and of course financially. I’ve got bills sitting on top of more bills sitting on top of shut-off threats. You can imagine the amount of tips I’m bringing home tonight…. Sometimes I meet someone, a customer maybe, and we kind of hit it off, and we’re each able to give the other some of what we need, you know?”

Am I being solicited? I thought.

“Liz, you know I’m in a relationship.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “But you’re only human. We’re all only human, right? I get off at twelve. If you’re interested, we could hang out a little after that. Maybe go to another bar. Maybe go back to my place? Especially if maybe you feel you could be generous a little bit?”

I thought of Marcia, naked in the hot tub–and doubtless other places–with her new boyfriend and girlfriend. Talk about “only human.” Giving each other orgasms in the hot tub. The three of them are probably sharing a bed right now. Her pals are showering her with affection, helping her deal with her upset from that stressful conversation she just had with her angry cuckolded partner. They’re probably doing a daisy chain on the bed now. Marcia is sucking Ralph’s big cock; Sandrine is eating Marcia’s pussy; Ralph is eating Sandrine. Marcia takes his dick out of her mouth long enough to say, “Fuck me now, Ralph. Either hole. I’ve been practicing anal for you.”

Part of my mind was saying, Don’t do this: you’re going to regret it. And another part of it was saying, Fuck that bitch Marcia. Are you going to just lie down and take that shit, or are you going to stand up and let her know two can play this game?

Fight fire with fire.

“Sure, Liz.” I said. “I’d love to spend some time with you tonight.”

Liz smiled and squeezed my hand. “It’s ten-of,” she said. I have to go do some accounts, then I’m out of here at midnight. We shouldn’t leave together. Meet me down the block, by the CVS, at 5 or 10 after 12. I live just around the corner from there.” She rose.

“Great,” I said.

Liz gave me a quick kiss as she went back to work. “See you soon.” she said.

I left a good tip and rose, surprised at how unsteady my legs were. I guess I drank more tonight than I realized. I hoped the cold night air would set things right.

Between the tavern and the CVS was a bank office. I stopped and got some cash from the 24-hour ATM machine.

* * * * * 2

What can I say? It’s not an escapade I’m particularly proud of. Liz turned out to be a nice person, and she tried to make me feel like we were close friends with benefits, not a hooker and a john. I couldn’t help liking her even more–and couldn’t help being aware that I was having sex with her for the wrong reasons.

The naked big breasts with their big pink areolas and little nipples were exciting for the first five minutes. Then they were just a part of my partner’s body. It was an attractive body, overall. Above the waist Liz was softer and more pliant everywhere than Marcia. Her ass and legs were firm, though–probably from hours a day of standing and walking. I found her body a turn-on especially because it was different from the female body I was used to.

Surprisingly, Liz wanted to perform the one intimate act that they tell me hookers will not do: kissing. Overall, Liz was a fun and enjoyable bedmate, and her skills at cocksucking were first-rate. I returned the favor–as always, enjoying the wonderful scent and taste of an aroused young woman, and marvelling at how wet Liz quickly became. She supplied the condom for our fuck. I put all my reservations aside and, despite the alcohol in my bloodstream, entered her easily and assertively. Take that, Marcia! I thought. After a few extremely pleasant minutes, we both came–unless Liz was faking, but it looked good to me. All the while, neither of us had said a word about money. Afterwards she asked me to spend the night.

It would have been a perfectly lovely encounter, except for two items. First, I was cheating on my partner, at least arguably. True, Marcia and I were not married, and I don’t think we had ever made a formal vow of sexual exclusiveness. But still…. And the second item: I was having sex with Liz mainly to prove a point. And what was the point? “If Marcia can do it, then I can do it too,” I guess. But who was I proving it to? Probably only myself. Not a great reason to have sex with someone. To make matters worse, I kept hearing my mother saying, “Two wrongs don’t make a right!”

But at least I had gotten revenge on that cheating bitch I was living with, right? And revenge is sweet. Actually it isn’t. The revenge part of my sex with Liz just left me feeling hollow inside. And when it comes to cheating, I knew I had just abandoned the moral high ground. In an odd sense, I felt I had sort of betrayed not only Marcia but Liz too.

Liz and I, naked and satisfied at least sexually, drifted off to sleep together, cuddling in her double bed.

My bladder woke me at 3:30. I rose, kissed Liz’s shoulder, and covered her up. After using the toilet I quietly dressed then went into the kitchen area, where a nightlight glowed. On the counter I found a couple ballpoint pens and a pad of large Post-Its. I scribbled my thanks for a lovely night.

I had no idea what the going rate for a prostitute might be–or if prostitute was even the right word for Liz. In any case, my wallet held a finite amount of cash. Under the Post-It pad I placed nine of the ten 20s the ATM had dispensed, figuring that was more than I could afford but probably less than she deserved–a decent compromise, I guess. I couldn’t re-latch the deadbolt when I left, but the door’s other lock, spring-loaded, would keep her safe enough through the morning. I hoped it wouldn’t wake her as it latched.

Before I left, though, I moved again to the bedroom doorway for another look at Liz, her sleeping form dimly lit by the streetlamp outside. She looked pretty, sweet, vulnerable, and even somewhat innocent. She had treated me with nothing but affection, honesty, and trust. I realized that, though the two of us would never be a couple, I did actually like her and care about her.

You could see her as, essentially, a nice, decent, young human being struggling–and doing her best–to navigate a tough world. Or you could condemn her as just a “skank” and a “whore”…

Just as, last night, pretty much, I had condemned Marcia.

If Liz broke some moral code–and I’m not even sure that she did–she did it for the sake of food, clothing, and shelter. If Marcia broke some moral code–which I guess is at least debatable–she did it for affection, maybe even love. I did it to bolster my ego and to take revenge on the woman I live with. Of the three of us, I know which one comes out looking the worst in this comparison.

As I walked up Main Street back to my car, I could hear again Jake’s advice in my imagination. Even if Marcia did fuck the guy, is that so absolutely, totally unforgivable? Why? She’s only human… and humans make mistakes and exercise bad judgment from time to time. Haven’t you ever done anything that someone else needed to forgive?

Later that day, Wednesday, Marcia and I texted each other, and she called me in the evening. We both kept the tone civil though somewhat guarded. Marcia wanted to stay another day and return on Friday. She said she needed to go through some materials in Boston, at the Massachusetts Historical Society. Did she have other reasons for staying another day? Who knows? She could be telling the truth. This time I held my tongue.

“Sure honey,” I said. “I’ll miss you. I hope you can find what you need in Boston.” We ended the call on a cordial note.

Afterwards, her words from Tuesday’s video chat came back to me. When I come home, she had said, we can sit down together and be with each other and talk face-to-face. If any apologies are called for, we can make them then, and then kiss and make up, I hope.

She had been right. That would have made more sense than having a blowup on-screen, 100 miles apart… and then finding someone else to fuck. Maybe we both owed the other an apology.

* * * * * 3

Friday, home from the shop around five, I found a folded sheet of paper taped to the storm door. The handwritten note said, “Darling, if you follow these suggestions you will probably not regret it. Please proceed directly to the bathroom. There, use the toilet, shower, dry yourself, and brush your teeth. Shave or not, as you please. Then, leaving your towel behind, proceed to the bedroom.”

I considered having a beer first just to assert my authority but decided not to tempt fate. Besides, my curiosity was aroused, among other parts of my body. I complied with the instructions. Twenty minutes later (I did shave) I strode into the bedroom.

I found the two of them in bed together–both apparently naked, sitting up, chests exposed, the top sheet pulled over their legs. Marcia, looking nervous, held out her arms to me. I went to her and gave her a kiss.

“Welcome home, honey,” I said. “I’ve missed you.” Then I grasped her companion’s extended hand. “Hello, Sandrine,” I said. “It’s good to meet you.” As I was in my own bedroom, I felt no apology for my semi-erect dick was called for.

“Thank you for being so kind, Phil,” she replied. She and Marcia moved towards the edges of the bed. Then Marcia pushed away the top sheet, and Sandrine patted the open space between the two of them. “Come join us, if you will.” Both women moved down onto their backs.

Marcia was right: Sandrine was indeed a “knockout,” from her elegantly styled black hair to those piercing green eyes, pretty lips, beautifully shaped C-cup breasts, slim hips, and long, shapely legs. Her fingernails were unpainted; her toenails and lips wore the same shade of dark red. I preferred Marcia’s curly triangle to Sandrine’s bare pubic mound, but I must say Sandrine did have the prominent labia needed to make the naked-pussy look work well. I couldn’t help wondering what it must be like to go down on her. By this point I was pretty sure Marcia could tell me–but perhaps I would find out more directly. I climbed into bed between them.

Marcia and I rolled onto our sides and brought the fronts of our bodies together. Her body felt wonderful against mine, as always. In fact, everything felt surprisingly beautiful and normal, despite the third person in our bed–who was now snuggling the front of her body against the back of mine. As Marcia and I kissed gently, her hand caressing my head and shoulder blades, Sandrine caressed the side of my thigh.

Sandrine broke the silence. “Phil, Marcia and I have talked a lot, in advance, about what is happening right here and now. We both believe that what is happening–the three of us in bed like this and starting a conversation like this–will not change anything in any of the relationships involved here. But what is happening now will probably accelerate changes already underway…. Are you okay about continuing?”

I looked at Marcia. Her eyes mutely said, “Please?”

“Okay,” I said to Sandrine. “Let’s.”

Marcia kissed me deeply on the lips, her tongue entering my mouth. She found my hand and moved it to her breast. I fondled it. Sandrine squeezed my thigh. “Thank you, Phil,” she said.

She brought her hand between Marcia and me, running it over my chest, across my cock and balls, and along the front of my thigh. “Now you and I have done everything together that Marcia and Ralph have done together. Except kiss and soak in a tub.”

I turned and kissed her, to which she responded warmly. She held those green eyes on mine and smiled. “That was the perfect response, Phil. Can we all take that to mean that you no longer feel Marcia has been unfaithful to you?”

Liz’s soft, naked breasts popped into my mind. I stole a glance at Marcia, who was biting her lip. I almost replied with a blanket “No, she hasn’t been unfaithful,” but I caught myself. “Not with Ralph, I guess.”

“Okay,” she said. “Fair enough.”

“Look at me, Phil,” Marcia said. I turned to her again. Sandrine touched my shoulder. Marcia held me tight, kissed my lips, and then spoke. “Phil, I love you more than I have loved any other man. More than I have loved any other person, my parents possibly excepted. We are partners and mates, and I don’t want that to change. Like, you and me… let’s see if we can keep this permanent, you know?”

“Okay,” I said cautiously.

“Okay, you perceive that something’s up… and you’re right…. Believe me, I’m not the first girl to come back from Spring Break a different person than when she left. Though admittedly, most of the others tend to be about 19, say, so I guess I’m a bit of a late bloomer.”

“You got drunk at a wet T-shirt contest and fucked a dozen frat boys?” I teased.

“No,” she said. “Only Sandrine. And I wasn’t drunk.”

“You turned into a bisexual.”

“No. I finally realized–and accepted–that I am bisexual. I have always been. Sandrine and Ralph picked up on that right away, over a year ago, at the MLA in Chicago. I didn’t realize it… fully… or at least I finally stopped denying it… just this week.” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “Phil, I don’t want to lose you. I do love you. I want you to still love me. I want us to stay together.”

“And you also love Sandrine?” I suggested.

“Yes. Yes I do. Not as deeply as I love you… not at the moment… but it’s real, Phil…. Please don’t reject me because of that… and please don’t force me to choose between you. Believe me, my love for Sandrine doesn’t reduce my love for you in the slightest. It only increases it.”

Sandrine caressed my chest again. “Believe her, Phil. That’s how it does work. Marcia isn’t my first. I know how things work. Love just begets more love. Ralph and I love each other deeply. You and Marcia love each other deeply. Marcia and I are a new love. It’s beautiful. So far, everybody wins, nobody loses, everybody benefits. Please don’t fuck things up. At least give it a try. Give it six months, and see if your life is happier or sadder. It will be happier, trust me…. Think, too, about whether causing Marcia totally unnecessary pain and loss will make your relationship with her better or will seriously damage it.”

My head was spinning from trying to process all of this unfamiliar perspective. Then Marcia joined in, and the spinning got faster. “Darling,” she said, “seven years ago we made a serious commitment to each other. As far as I’m concerned, everything still stands. I never promised that you would be the only person I would ever care about for the rest of my life, and I never asked you to promise that to me. I would never promise that to anyone, even in marriage. I hope you can see the difference between fidelity and total monopoly rights to my body, mind, and soul.”

“You can stop, Marcia,” I replied. “I understand what you are saying.”

Her tone softened. “If I were having an affair with Ralph,” she said, “I could understand your having some trouble incorporating that into your idea of a committed relationship. Though I hope you’d at least try. But isn’t my love for a woman easier to accept? Can you see that as complementing my love for you, not competing with it? Anyway, love isn’t like a cake–the more people you share it with, the smaller everyone’s portion gets. It’s the opposite, in fact. It’s not even exactly the same kind of love, the love I feel for you and my love for Sandrine. It’s like, same genus but different species…. I need both…. I need both of you. Obviously, I wish I could have told you this seven or eight years ago. I didn’t know it myself, honestly.”

“Love is fine,” I said, “at least theoretically. But you’re also talking about having multiple sex partners.”

“If it makes a difference,” she said, “the past eight or nine years, nobody’s penis has been inside me except yours. But getting back to Sandrine and me…. You men are always claiming you can have sex without love. I never heard of a man who was content to have love without sex. Try it some time: see how you like it. And speaking of multiple sex partners, did any man ever see that as a problem when he was the one with two partners? In fact, isn’t that the number one fantasy of every man in America? Himself and two attractive bisexual women, all friendly and naked in bed together? Look around this room! I mean… are you actually complaining?”

She paused for a couple of seconds, as though making up her mind about something. Then she resumed. “And speaking of men with multiple sex partners…”

“Marcia!” Sandrine interrupted. But it was too late. I could read Marcia’s face. Somehow, she knew.

“Yes?” I said. “Speaking of men with multiple sex partners? What about people like that?”

“Do you love her?”

“Who?”

“The barmaid.”

“Waitress,” I corrected. “No, I don’t love her. Some genuine affection, yes. Feelings of friendship, even some admiration, yes.”

“And now afterwards, do you love me any less?”

“No,” I said. “If anything, I love and appreciate you more.”

“I told you so.”

“Yes. You and Sandrine both did, just now. And you’re probably right. May I ask how you came to know of my more recent sins?”

“Sometimes that box of tampons you were sure you had just doesn’t exist. Sometimes a lady has to make a late-night dash to the CVS. Sometimes, coming out, she sees people on the street she recognizes. This is a small town.”

“Who is she?” I inquired.

“A friend. Who shall remain nameless. I’m sure you planned to tell me about this escapade eventually. Perhaps you expect me to forgive you?”

“I hope you will,” I replied.

“I will. I do. I’m not happy it happened in the least, but I forgive you. I love you. We had a big blowup Tuesday night over my supposed transgressions, especially with Ralph. You focused on the wrong suspect, but you were sort of right in general. Afterwards you reacted … imprudently, let’s say. Okay, so you’re only human. Humans sometimes do rash things and sometimes regret them later. Both love and commitment require the ability to forgive on occasion.”

“You’re sounding just like Jake,” I observed.

“A guy can learn a lot, and pretty quickly, living with Jenny Bernardi,” she replied, rather cryptically. “Now, do you think you can forgive me, for loving Sandrine in addition to you?”

I suspected this was a trick question. But it didn’t matter. The right answer was the one I was inclined to give anyway.

“I guess there’s nothing that needs to be forgiven there,” I said. “Do you promise always to love me?”

“I promise to try my hardest always to love you and try my hardest to keep our relationship working. Is that close enough?” she asked.

“Okay, that’s close enough,” I said, brushing away a couple of her tears and kissing her lips. “What would you say to that six-month trial period Sandrine suggested?”

“I’d say, ‘I agree.’ And I forgive you for having sex with my lover,” she added.

That startled me. “Liz… the waitress… is your lover?” I asked.

“No, silly. Sandrine is.”

“It’s sort of a limited-use hall pass, I guess,” Sandrine said to me. “Hold onto it. We may need it in the future. But I think your next sex partner should be Marcia. Like maybe now?”

“Yes,” said Marcia. “I think so too.”

“Would you two like some privacy?” Sandrine offered.

“No, you’re fine,” Marcia and I said together.

* * * * * 4

Marcia rolled onto her back, rolling me on top of her. Her right hand went onto my ass, her left hand to the back of my head, pulling me into her kiss. I managed to insert a hand onto her vulva, rubbing and caressing everything down there. She whimpered softly, moistening, and increased the force of her kissing.

I was highly aroused already–probably all the more so for Sandrine’s beautiful, quiet presence in our bed. Perhaps I had a streak of exhibitionism I hadn’t been aware of? Sandrine seems to have a knack for bringing out the hidden kinks in people. We weren’t exactly having a threesome… but we weren’t exactly not having one, either, especially as Sandrine would occasionally run her hand over my back or the back of my thighs. Just the thought of her beautiful face and body–which were right here, next to me–was arousing. So was the soft, wet, and also beautiful body of Marcia, underneath me.

I was so turned on, I was delaying inserting my now very erect cock into Marcia, knowing that I wouldn’t last long afterwards. For several reasons–probably including showing Sandrine that no one could replace me–I wanted Marcia to have an outstanding experience. As Marcia and I kissed, I caressed her body with one hand and with almost every other part of my body that I could move against hers. My other hand concentrated on her clitoris and parts nearby. Soon Marcia was as aroused as I had ever seen her.

An orgasm came, a small one, which she enjoyed but which left her perhaps even more aroused than she had been before–a quirk in her sexual response that I had seen before. The next one would be a big one. I kept doing what I had been doing. Sandrine’s hands were now alternating between my body and Marcia’s, just gently rubbing and caressing.

A couple minutes later, Marcia was close to exploding and was ready to pull out the stops. “Goddammit, Phil, fuck me! Fuck me!” she nearly shouted, grabbing my dick and pretty much shoving it into her vagina. I hoped she got her timing right, as only seconds lay between now and my orgasm.

She had. She started coming, strongly and loudly, on about my third stroke. I came, also strongly and loudly, on about the fifth. Afterwards we just collapsed, lying side by side as I worked to regain my breath. A couple tears were slowly moving down Marcia’s cheeks, but her lips held a little smile. “I love you, Phil,” she whispered. “So much.”

“I love you too, Marcia,” I said. “Always.”

Meanwhile Sandrine, now lying prone on the other side of me, had her arm across Marcia and me, hugging us both. At first this annoyed me: this woman was intruding on an intimate private moment my partner and I were sharing. After a minute it stopped bothering me. After a minute and a half I welcomed the gesture and touched her too.

About the time the aftersex glow had dimmed and our blown minds were reassembling themselves, Sandrine made a polite request. “Phil, would you feel okay about swapping places with me for a few minutes so Marcia and I can touch too?… Also, it would be great if you didn’t leave but stayed here with us.”

Marcia’s eyes lit up. I could tell she wanted me to say yes.

“Okay, Sandrine,” I said. “Let me just duck into the bathroom for a minute.”

Sandrine put her hand on my cheek and gave my lips a quick kiss. “Cool,” she said. “We can start without you.”

Returning, I found the two women lying down, necking, their arms and legs intertwined. I found a convenient space on the bed next to Marcia, and I sat, running a hand over some nearby skin–I think Sandrine’s thigh and Marcia’s bottom. Marcia sat up, put her arms around my neck, kissed my lips, and smiled. Then she lay down again and returned to kissing and caressing Sandrine. Soon each had a hand between her partner’s legs.

Drained from my big orgasm, I knew sexual arousal was a dim possibility. But the sight of two very attractive women making love with each other was… if not arousing… still perfectly lovely. Beautiful. I watched in fascination. Also beautiful were the sight and sounds of Sandrine’s orgasm–and the happy expression on Marcia’s face as it happened.

Afterwards, Sandrine whispered something in Marcia’s ear. Marcia smiled and nodded, rolling onto her back, spreading her thighs and bending her knees as Sandrine moved her head and body down and into position. As Sandrine licked her lover’s pussy, Marcia’s eyes held mine. She reached and held my hand then silently mouthed, “I love you.” She moved my hand to her breast, released it, then brought her hand down to Sandrine’s head, gently touching her hair.

From years of experience, I knew the best ways to fondle Marcia’s breasts during cunnilingus, so I did what I knew she would enjoy. Meanwhile, below, Sandrine seemed to be doing all the right things for Marcia with her tongue, lips, and both hands. She was a fast learner–as I guess you’d expect of a full professor at a good state university.

Having spent many happy hours with my head between Marcia’s legs, I felt an odd connection to Sandrine. I knew exactly the sensory experiences she was receiving: the smells, the tastes, the geography of Marcia’s pussy as it appears to the tongue, when the lubrication flows more and when it flows less, the arc of the clitoris’s changing sensitivity and changing size, the feel of that curly pubic hair against one’s nose and upper lip. Then I realized I was wrong. Part of Sandrine’s experience down there I had never shared: extracting and swallowing a man’s semen from Marcia’s vagina. Sorry, Sandrine: you’ll have to work that one out on your own.

Not that Sandrine showed any sign of needing my advice and assistance in the least.

As her climax approached, Marcia took my hands from her breasts, closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and focused on the moment. Her body convulsed as she came. For several seconds, Marcia was somewhere in the vicinity of seventh heaven. I was impressed but, oddly, I felt neither threatened nor jealous. Just happy for her.

Afterwards, the three of us lay down again. Marcia, in the middle, rolled onto her tummy. I put an arm across both women. “You two are beautiful together,” I said.

Sandrine smiled. “As are you and Marcia,” she replied. “Incidentally, directly or indirectly, you have inseminated both Marcia and me tonight. That’s an interesting bond the three of us have, don’t you think?” She leaned across Marcia and gave me a kiss. “You actually don’t taste bad at all. Does he, Marcia?”

Marcia smiled. “I’ve had worse,” she said. Then she reached out an arm on each side to hold Sandrine and me both. “At this particular moment in time,” she announced, “I am feeling so happy.”

* * * * * 5

Afterwards, Marcia and Sandrine showered together. I was invited, but I actually wanted a little time to myself to let the events of the day–the week–settle a bit before I said or did anything else. As time was short, we decided to finish up the leftover pizza in the fridge–the remains of my dinner yesterday. Afterwards Marcia would drive Sandrine to Hartford to catch the 8:14 train to Boston. Marcia and I scheduled a serious chat together for 2 o’clock tomorrow afternoon. At 7:30 tonight I kissed Sandrine goodby–by now, kissing Sandrine was starting to feel almost normal–and Marcia whisked her off to Union Station. I grabbed a beer, plopped onto the sofa, and made another attempt to make sense of my life.

I was still pondering at nine, when Marcia returned, yanked down my pants, clamped her mouth around my dick for a minute, then climbed on top of me and gave me a serious fucking–my second of the evening. “That’s for being you,” she said. Which made about as much sense as anything else today, but by now I didn’t have the mental capacity to argue. By now there was nothing to be done except brush my teeth, plop into bed, and–lulled by the lovely scents of Marcia and Sandrine all over the sheets–drift into a deep and pleasant sleep.

* * * * * 6

Saturday at two found us on our living room sofa, wine glasses in hand, bottle of California white on the coffee table. We were dressed casually, both of us in sweatpants and T-shirt. Marcia had suggested going to the Spruce Tavern, but I vetoed that venue. Adding additional complications to a situation already too complicated was just asking for trouble.

I was feeling poetic, I guess, so I began, “Who is this girl that I now find in my bed every morning… and when did she move in? And what ever became of the lady who lived here before her?”

Marcia smiled. “I guess I have changed a bit, haven’t I? And it’s not all Sandrine’s fault. If ‘fault’ is even the right word here. Do you like the new me?”

“I’m sure I’ll like you plenty, once I get to know you a little. What happened?”

“It started at the MLA convention in Chicago,” she began. “Or rather, when I should have been at the convention but was playing hooky with some friends. This was… a year and four months ago.”

“Chicago, where you first met Ralph and Sandrine, where you got that tattoo,” I added.

“That was the place. That was… well, ‘the start of my second sexual awakening’ sounds too dramatic, but it was something like that. Anyway, I was with two old friends from graduate school in this somewhat dingy little bar downtown. Ginny had just gotten tenure at University of Maine at Orono–so of course we had to drink to celebrate that. Letitia is still at Swarthmore, doing well there. After awhile, not surprisingly, the conversation turned to sex, and I really got an earful.”

“What did they say?” I prompted.

“I knew Ginny was no virgin, but after a couple of drinks she started getting really candid. Sex with steady boyfriends, of course–everybody does that. But also affairs with married men, sex with women, a couple of threesomes, an occasional fuck with a totally inappropriate man just for the thrill of it…. Then Letitia comes in with how she’s starting to enjoy anal sex and how much her partner loves it, and so on. And I’m sitting there, feeling like a little novice in a convent or something. I mean, I enjoy sex with the man in my life, but I guess both my skill-set and my experience are pretty limited, huh? Or were.

“When I confessed my tame sex life, neither of them could believe it. They both advised that that’s not the way to hold onto a man or–more importantly–to have any fun yourself. They really got down to specifics, too. For instance, somehow the topic of swallowing semen came up, and the word I kept hearing was ‘always.’ Though I’m not sure if you liked it or not when I finally did it for you. You certainly were cranky afterwards.

“Anyway,” she continued, “then Ginny tells us she’s also been writing porn stories! She said it was lots of fun–and therapy for the stress of going up for tenure. I read her stories later. Of course they’re well written… and quite wild. I decided it might be fun to try it myself, actually. Anyway, the three of us talked some more and drank some more, and then we left while we still could walk.”

I just couldn’t keep silent any longer about what I knew. I had to get her to admit the truth. I pounced.

“I found the secret thumb drive you hid in the staple box,” I said. “I needed some staples. I know what you were up to in Chicago, some of it, anyway. I want you to tell me the rest. Then we’ll move on to Boston and Cambridge. Let’s start with this guy Jimmy Rose, in Chicago.”

“Who’s Jimmy Rose?” she asked, all innocence.

I wanted to slap her but, fortunately, held off. “‘Who’s Jimmy Rose?’ The guy with the big black dick you liked so much. The tattoo artist… the guy who possessed you and then left his trademark on your ass to prove it. You wrote about him at length.”

“Oh…. In ‘A Rose for Emily’? That’s not my story: that’s Ginny’s. By “Virginia S. Fox,” right? That’s her pen name. She wrote it right after she got back to Orono. Pretty sexy story, don’t you think? I already told you how the three of us got tattooed together after we left the bar, to celebrate our friendship. Is that so hard to believe? ‘Emily’ isn’t about me: it’s Ginny’s own fantasies. So far as I know, none of us had sex with the tattoo artist–though he was good looking and he was Black, just like in the story. I forget his name. I couldn’t say how big his dick was.”

“But you could say how big Ralph’s is.”

“Yes. Now I can.”

“We’ll get back to that. But if you didn’t write the ‘Virginia S. Fox’ stories, why are they on your thumb drive, in your word processor format?”

“I couldn’t stand the ads all over every page on ErotiClit. I copied and pasted the text into Microsoft Word.”

Okay, that one sounded reasonably believable. But I wasn’t through yet.

“What else happened in Chicago?” I pressed.

“After our tattoos, Ginny went back to the convention. Letitia took me to this little lingerie shop she knew of, a couple blocks away. I bought a bra and panty set you haven’t seen yet. I loved the proprietress. She was, like, mid-60s, gray hair, dressed in conservative but expensive clothes, sensible shoes. A pearl necklace, matching earrings. Letitia told her what we needed, and without batting an eyelash she takes us over to this display case full of sex toys, and she starts showing us vibrators and vibrating balls and dildos for both openings, and fancy lubricants and butt plugs and things. And both she and Letitia are handing things to me and explaining how to use them and how to integrate them into sex with your partner.

“I knew my partner was disappointed in my narrow tastes in sex, and now I knew that both Ginny and Letitia were far ahead of me on that score, so I resolved to learn some new tricks.”

“Like threesomes with Ralph and Sandrine?”

“No,” she said. “Like anal sex with you. I bought some equipment at the store to help prepare me for it.”

I broke in. “You told me you, Ralph, and Sandrine hooked up in Chicago….”

“We met in Chicago, and we liked one another. Sandrine and I turned out to be giving papers on the same panel. We hit it off right away. Ralph was in the audience at the presentation. Afterwards they invited me to join them for dinner. We had a great time. Some impressive flirting ensued, but nothing beyond that. Except that Sandrine kissed me, and I felt something go click inside me, and I kissed her back… but it was months later before I had a grasp of what was happening in me. Sandrine and Ralph understood long before I did. Now I understand too. I’m hoping you will soon. Understand and accept. Understand and welcome.”

“You wrote that unfinished story about Martina and Raoul and Sandrine?”

“Yes, that one’s mine. It’s still a work in progress. Do you like it?”

“The men’s room scene needs work.”

“I know.”

“There’s a lot of sex described–and a lot more promised–between Martina and Raoul–that is, you and Ralph.”

Marcia refilled our wine glasses and took a couple sips from hers.”Phil, stories are fiction,” she lectured, setting down the glass. “They’re a mix of memories and fantasies and daydreams and what-ifs and pure invention. All the characters are fictitious. That includes the narrator. That’s what’s so fun about writing fiction–imagining plausible alternative realities.

“Could a schoolteacher get the hots for a man like Ralph and cheat on her fiancé with him? You betcha! That doesn’t mean that I want to do it myself. Though it would be interesting to see what a really big dick felt like in me. Sandrine says the whole concept is over-rated, though. Anyway, I like your body just fine. Ralph is a brilliant, good-looking, and very nice man, but I’m not longing to go to bed with him.

“Another thing about writing fiction,” she went on. “It helps a writer get in touch with her own thoughts and feelings. I haven’t worked out the plot of the story at all. I discover what happens next as I’m in the process of writing it. Reading over what I’ve written, I get a better sense of how my own mind is working and what my own thoughts are. For example: I didn’t plan the story this way, but now I can see that it starts with a young woman’s lust for a man and then gradually shifts to her lust and love for the man’s wife. That was a surprise! Hmmmmm… what could my mind be trying to tell me? You’ve read the story, right?”

I scowled. “You don’t sound at all upset, or even surprised, that I discovered your secret thumb drive in the staple box. And that I read everything on it.”

“Of course I wanted you to find and read it, lover,” she replied. “I myself didn’t understand everything that the story meant, but I knew it had some deep connections to myself. If I had understood the connections back then, I would have just told you what I had realized, but I wasn’t able to do that. But I did want to share with you at least some rough sense of what was happening within me. So I shared my story with you. I’m sorry I didn’t think to delete Ginny’s stories from the drive, and you got them confused with mine.

“You shared your story with me?” I objected.

Marcia looked into my eyes and smiled.

“Who do you think took all the staples out of the stapler on your desk?” she asked, as innocently as she could manage.

Quicker than you’d think possible, I undid the slipknot at her waist, put her over my knee, and tugged down her sweatpants and panties. I had never, ever spanked her, but somehow that seemed the perfect step to take at this moment. Marcia squealed and squirmed and said, “Don’t you dare!” but somehow didn’t seem completely outraged at what was about to happen.

Before the first slap could land, I stayed my hand, struck by the beauty of her pale, soft bottom. With thumb and forefinger I spread her buttocks and admired also her lovely little starburst of an asshole. An alternative to spanking came to mind. I realized that Marcia had stopped squirming. I touched the area gently with a fingertip.

“Yes,” she said. “Just let me grab the lube and some Kleenex… and a towel for the sofa.”

I decided to trust her and let her up. She pulled up her pants and retied them. “Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” And she scampered up to the bedroom.

In less than a minute she was back. Dropping the supplies on the coffee table, she climbed into my lap and kissed me.

“Is this scene going to be in the story?” I asked.

“I think, in the story, what happens next is going to be much closer to rape. And Martina’s going to call off their engagement right afterwards and never see him again. The reality is going to be quite the opposite… I hope.”

“It will be,” I promised. Marcia stripped and resumed kissing me.

* * * * * 7

Construction was booming again, and Jake was working most Saturdays. A month passed before the two of us could get together. We met at the Spruce Tavern on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The last time we had spoken I had just discovered the thumb drive. Now Jake quietly sipped his beer as I brought him up to date on developments since then. Until I finished, he spoke only when he wanted some point or other clarified.

“So,” I concluded, “does that make me a cuckold?”

“Man,” he said, “what century does that term come from?”

“I know,” I said. “But lots of people still think like that. I’m a cuck; Ralph’s a cuck; Marcia and Sandrine are just cheating whores… and lezbos, to boot. Let’s not even mention Liz.”

“When it comes to relationships, some people have a pretty limited vocabulary,” Jake offered. “Sounds like you and the two ladies are a beautiful polyamorous throuple, which I hear is all the rage these days. Speaking more broadly, you’re all a shining example of ENM–ethical non-monogamy. Or, in old-fashioned terms, you have a well-designed and well-functioning open marriage–except technically you’re not married. Everyone involved knows about and consents to everything that’s happening, right?”

“I’d say so.”

“And are you feeling that Marcia is giving you less love, less attention, less of herself than when you were exclusive?”

“So far, no. Probably the opposite. And she’s happier.”

“Problem solved,” said Jake. “I’ll send you my bill in the morning.”

“Of course,” I added, “we’re just a month into the six-month trial we agreed to. After that, then what? I decide I can’t do this, and I leave Marcia? I decide I can’t do this, and Marcia gives up Sandrine and then resents me for the rest of her life? Marcia and Sandrine run off together? Ralph joins in, and our cozy threesome turns into a foursome, with Marcia fucking everybody? The mind boggles at all the possibilities.”

“How about, after six months, you all opt for ‘more of the same’? By which point, everything you’re doing will seem completely normal.”

“A strong possibility,” I conceded. “Then maybe, if life gets too boring, I’ll allow myself to fall in love with Sandrine, too, just to add further complication to everyone’s life. She’s already told me she likes me and that our relationship doesn’t necessarily have to stay platonic forever–provided all four of us are on-board with the changes. But for now, the situation is already complicated enough for my tastes. So at the moment, Sandrine is just a friend. And my partner’s lover, of course.”

Our table belonged to another waitress, but Liz stopped to greet us. Surprisingly, she greeted not only me but Jake too by first name. I wondered if Jake had an interesting story I hadn’t heard yet. Liz glanced at the ring on my left hand. “Things are going better at home,” she stated.

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks in part to you.”

She smiled. “Always glad to help. How did I manage to do it this time?”

“By being your sweet self. By helping me see that revenge doesn’t accomplish anything. By teaching me something about removing the beam from my own eye before complaining about the mote in someone else’s eye. Obviously the guy who came up with that one must have been a carpenter, like Jake.”

“Always wear eye protection,” Jake advised.

“Saving troubled relationships my specialty,” Liz declared. “Don’t hesitate to call if I can help in the future.” She smiled once more, taking in both of us. “Bye, Jake, Phil. Good to see you both again.” And she was off.

Jake and I drained our mugs.

“Phil, about what happens when that trial period ends?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you should stop worrying. Everybody seems to be doing fine.”

* * * * * Afterword

Here our two-part story ends–the story of Marcia’s adventures as a porn writer and the changes in several lives this new hobby helped set off. Of course, another story has just begun: Marcia and Phil Try Polyamory. Perhaps we should give everybody three years then check in on them again? In any case, I thank you for reading the first story. Your votes and comments are appreciated. — Peter