If Only It Had Stayed In Vegas Part 3 The Girls at the Party
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If Only It Had Stayed In Vegas, Part 2: Before The Party. free porn video
In the last chapter, we left Helen sitting at her dresser, readying herself for Marcus's party. Martin comes into the bedroom, stands watching his wife for a moment before saying:
"Erika says tonight will be special."
"Special? Everything is special as far is Erika is concerned. What does she have in store for us tonight: tumbling midgets, hoops of fire?
"She says she wants to get to know us better, for us to become friends. You especially, Helen."
"She actually said that, did she, that she wanted to be my friend? "
"She's taken a shine to you, is always asking about you."
Erika's eyes are etched onto Helen's mind, how they studied her as her husband relentlessly fucked her. She'd seen a bottomless hunger burning there. Just recalling it chills her to the core. As she remembers Vegas she grows ashamed.
"What do you mean, she's 'taken a shine' to me?"
"You know... thinks you're cute."
"For fuck's sake, Martin, I'm not a bloody kitten. Please explain it to me."
"Don't act stupid, Helen. You know exactly what I mean. God!"
"So your fucking boss fancies me? Is that what you're saying?"
"What if she does?"
"Good luck to her — that's what I think because she's oh-so-not getting into my knickers."
"You could play along, just a little."
"I don't think that woman would appreciate me leading her up the garden path, do you, Martin? Haven't you seen the way she looks at me?"
"That's just Erika getting the measure of you, that's all."
"More like undressing me with her eyes."
"Does it really matter if she fancies you? What's important is making a good impression."
"Good impression? That's all I ever hear. How does your future depend on me making a good impression? For fuck's sake, Martin, grow some balls and just do your job — and do it well. That's all it takes." Yet she knows only too well how much his future does depend on her.
"Just for tonight, try to be nice to her."
"Is that all? Okay, I can do nice."
"Don't be obtuse. I mean, nice."
"You really are a piece of work, Martin. Do you know that — pimping me out to your boss? Jesus! How long have you two been making plans for me?
"No one's been making plans for anyone. That's a ridiculous thing to say."
"You don't get an idea like that from nowhere. Tell me what's been said!
"A throwaway remark of Erika's."
"Such as?"
"She said that a with a woman like you at my side, the possibilities are limitless."
"I'm sure there must be a law against this kind of thing."
"What kind of thing?"
"Making a person's position in a company dependent on the sexual favours of their partner."
"I wouldn't mind..."
"— You wouldn't mind what?"
"You know — you and Erika together. I've always wanted to see you with another woman."
"What makes you think she'd let you watch?"
"You could tell me about it after. It'd be as good as, in a way."
"But your boss, Martin. Really?"
They are silent, neither looking at the other. And then she turns to him wanting to catch him off-guard: "And what if it were Uri. How would you feel if it was him who wanted to fuck me? Would you still want to watch?"
He flinches but says nothing. How much does he know? Was that night in Vegas all some sick set-up, all planned out before they had even left England? Perhaps this is the moment for some truth. But the thought of Martin knowing terrifies her. And so she says nothing.
The love she feels for him is an ache that is with her all day, every day. She wonders if to feel so deeply for another person is healthy. After all, she and Martin have been together for over four years, married for two. And yet their passion for each other is as intense and volatile as during their courtship. It makes her smile to think they've not yet settled into that disappointed tolerance she's seen so many other couples accept as a relationship.
Late night conversations with her female friends over glasses of wine have only confirmed the unease about the depth of her feelings for him. They, her married friends, seem to have settled into bland work-a-day partnerships. All passion long ago squandered, they now enjoy sex lives of uninspired mediocrity. But not Helen, forever a lovesick girl who can't get enough of her husband.
She's always known she'd do anything he asked. Now it was becoming a certainty she would have to let Erika Chorinka make love to her. Before Vegas, he'd been banging on about a threesome. She'd indulged him at first, saying she might like to, that she found some girls sexy. Now she realises how stupid she'd been. If she'd not indulged him, this wouldn't be happening. Now she wishes she'd told him the truth: that the thought of making love to another woman leaves her cold.
Saying those things never failed to turn him on, and she would feel ashamed at how easily the make-believe words would come to her, how glibly she could speak them. After telling him how she would like to go down on one of her friends, he would fuck her, fuck her like she were his captive and he some wild barbarian. Sometimes she could even make herself believe it might not be so wrong with a girl, that it might be quite lovely. In her thoughts, the women and girls she kissed and touched were ill-defined, amorphous creatures, but when she looked at actual girls in the world, she just couldn't raise any enthusiasm. The actuality of their femininity was insurmountably unappealing.
She doesn't know how she is going to get through tonight. The nagging fear that Erika might make a move on her is an itch she can't leave alone. Those breasts of Erika's! God, she might have to touch them, taste them. How would she be able to? Get a grip, Helen. If it does come to that, it'll be okay. Just go through the motions, that's all you have to do. Remember: you're only doing this for him, to make him happy. It will be worth it.
Martin is in the shower. She can hear him singing, the sound of his voice reassuring her. Rarely does he sing with such gusto! Why can't she alone make him this happy?
Sitting quietly in front of the dresser mirror in just her underwear, applying makeup, she hears him enter the room, looks behind herself in the mirror and sees him stood behind her, a towel around his waist, his hair still dripping. His reflection in the mirror calms her nerves: his broad chest and reassuringly muscled arms, those well-defined biceps have always promised her safety.
But she cannot help remembering Uri's muscular arms, and how she had felt contained by them, circumscribed, In them, her place in had been determined, made unassailable. Just thinking of him sends a thrill of intense desire shooting to her cunt. Now she realises Martin is no longer quite the safe harbour she had imagined him to be.
But she and Martin have shared so much, and it would make her so happy right now if he'd only say, 'Hey, darling, what if we forget about Erika and just the two of us make a night of it?' Then he would reach over and take her breasts in his hands, and she would lean back and rest herself against his body, her refuge.
"What are you wearing?" he asks.
"What do you think Erika would like me in?"
"Dun-know. Probably what I'd like you in."
"Go on, surprise me."
"That little dress: the one you bought in Paris. You never wear it."
"It was a mistake. Too short."
"And sheer hose. You know the sort. The invisible ones without the reinforced parts. I would love to see Erika stroking your legs. You have the best legs, Helen. You do know how gorgeous you are, don't you?" he says, now starting to dress.
Yes, she knows she's beautiful, looks young for twenty-four, her girlish features compounded by her tiny frame, but It annoys her how she often has problems buying alcohol. Her friends all say she should be happy they ask, that time will soon take its toll. All the same, it still pisses Helen off. She wants to be more like Erika Chorinka, someone who people respect, a woman with authority, a person who makes things happen — like tonight is happening.
Yes, she would so much prefer to be Erika rather than the eye candy receptionist at Messrs Mueller and Co, Solicitors. Her degree in psychology now seems a pointless waste of three years.
At school, she'd been bullied by Martha Smedley and her clique of trendy girls and ignored by the boys, but then, her sixteenth year, blossoming as if a fairy godmother had waved her wand. It had taken Helen two years to adjust her new state. But even now she has to think hard and look in a mirror to know just how gorgeous she is.
She feels the fear rising again and washing over her: Oh, god, why did I agree? He could resign and got a new job. He is so talented, another company would snap him up. And if he really loved me, that is what he would do. Selfish, that's him; like all men.
Her thoughts turn again to the coming party. It will be like Vegas all over again. She just knows it will. What will be expected of her: Erika will want me to go down on her. She is sure the taste of another woman's pussy will make her wretch. She shudders.
Snapping out of her reveries, she asks, "Do you really think she'll like the hooker look then, Martin?"
"You won't look like a hooker, Helen. And anyway, I don't think Erika will be interested in what you're wearing."
"My God, you have no idea. Women are always interested in each other's clothes."
"Whatever. You know what I like; wear the dress for me then." He finishes drying himself, puts on a robe and starts towards the door. "I'm going down to the garden for a fag."
When he's gone, she reaches into her bottom drawer and pulls out a new pack of pantyhose. Martin brought them for her weeks ago, said they cost him twenty pounds. He has this fetish that leaves her cold. Twenty pounds for a pair of tights! The wrapping crackles as she tears at it.
She steps into new skins, pulling a sheath of nylon over each ankle, then on up to her knees, conscious now of her nails. She stands, easing the soft mesh tightly to her waist and wriggling as she does so. Spreading her legs a little, she adjusts the elasticated waistband and straightens the seem that cuts into the gusset of her thong while looking in the mirror, running her palms over her flat belly and down each thigh.
Now her dress. She's forgotten just how little of it there is. Wearing it, she feels exposed and vulnerable, blatantly sexual. Now she is thankful to have nylon covering the exposed flesh of her hight thighs. Erika will despise me for wearing something so obvious. Shoes, jewellery and perfume follow.
She looks in the mirror: slut!
Downstairs, she pours a large vodka and lime, empties the glass and immediately pours another. Sipping now. Her nerves are steadier — partly because of the drink but more so because she's come to terms with what she might be asked to do.
She wonders how Erika sees her and why Martin doesn't seem surprised by her interest in his wife. They must have talked; there's more than he's letting on. Erika has come to rely on Martin more just lately, and he always speaks glowingly of her. They seem close, and she wonders just how close.
Martin once told her, "Unless you've been with her day after day like I have, you can't comprehend the depths of her drive, her intelligence, her gusto for life. When she sees something beautiful that touches her inside, that she knows is right for her, she lets nothing get in her way. You can see it in the way she dresses, the cars she drives.
Martin is back from his smoke, sees her with a drink. "Helen, please go easy. You'll be no good to anyone if you keep knocking them back like that."
"This is only my second. And besides, you're someone to talk."
"I don't want tears tonight."
Fuck you!
When she drinks, her neediness multiplies in proportion to the alcohol consumed. She is drinking more often these days; three, sometimes four nights a week.
"Stand up and let me look at you," he says. Dutifully, she gets to her feet and gives him a twirl. "God, Helen, I'm hard. Come here."
She goes to him, and he kisses her. His tongue feels too large inside her mouth. His hands are under the hem of her short dress caressing the silky micro-weave, taut over the curve of her buttocks. He presses his hips against her and she feels his cock straining for her inside his trousers, hard against her belly,
"Is it too late to phone and cancel?" She whispers.
"What the fuck!"
Abruptly he disentangles from her clinging arms, begins to move away. But she takes his hands in hers and pleads with her eyes as she talks. "Listen, Martin: think how nice it would be, just the two of us. I might let you... You know? That thing I let you do last year when we were in Paris. You know how I hate it, how much it hurts me, but if you call Erika and tell her something has come up, that I'm unwell, I'll let you do it. And I might let you again some other time."
The thought of this rare treat leaves him speechless. He looks for trickery in her eyes but sees only desperation. "Perhaps we could let Erika watch us?" he says.
"Don't be so disgusting!"
She has played her best hand. Now that Martin wants to incorporate it into some improbable ménage à trois, all hope of avoiding what she dreads has emptied away. She lets go of his hands and goes over to the vodka bottle and pours another measure.
"God, Helen, if you fuck up with your drinking I'll never forgive you."
"Its always you, isn't it! What about how I feel, what I want?"
"You said you'd love to go with another girl."
"It was only bedroom talk. Just make-believe. I knew how much the thought of it turns you on. I never dreamed you'd think I'd actually do it — especially not with her."
"Erika asked if you were..."
"— She asked you, did she! Oh, wonderful. You never said she actually asked. How did that go, eh? 'Oh, Martin, while I've got you, I wonder if your pretty little wife would mind coming over to ours one night. I'd so love to use my new dildo on her.' Is that it Martin? Is that how it went?"
He laughs, and she hates him for it. "Not quite. Anyway, there's no more to be said. The cab will be here any minute. You promised, and you're going to keep your promise." He goes towards the hall, but then turns to face her again. "Oh, I nearly forgot. I have something for you. It's upstairs.
"What is it?"
"A surprise. You'd best come upstairs and get it."
Upstairs she sits at the dresser with her back to the mirror, watching him while he goes to his wardrobe. He opens the doors, stoops and retrieves a small package.
"What is it?" Helen asks, curiosity undermining her resentment.
"A gift from Erika and Uri."
He comes to her, carrying a small item in his hand. Her eyes widen when she sees the beautiful plush casing that could only hold a necklace.
He opens the box and holds it out as an offering. She is speechless, just stares and stares at the glitter of diamonds and precious stones.
"Do you like it?" he asks. "Erika said it belonged to one of the Romanov Princesses."
She is unbelieving, can hardly comprehend the beauty of the object being offered up to her. "What am I supposed to do with something like this? It must be worth thousands of pounds,"
"That's what I said, but Erika just waved her hand and said it was only a trinket, and that Uri insisted you were to have it."
The implications of such a gift are scrambling her rationality. She looks up at her husband and asks, "Doesn't it bother you that they are giving me such a gift."
"Why should it bother me? We can sell it later. Just think... Aren't you going to try it on? Erika wants you to wear it for the party. Take your pearls off, turn around and I'll fasten it for you." She waits while he fumbles with the fastening. He is nervous; she had not realised. "There! It looks fabulous on you."
As she stares at the necklace around her neck, a stark, cold thought comes to her. She remembers a documentary about the Czar and his family, how they were murdered — shot and bayoneted by revolutionaries in a basement. The jewels had been concealed in the corsetry of the four daughters, acting as body armour to prolong their ordeal and the terror of the execution.
She reaches behind herself to undo the fastening, wants to be rid of the filthy thing.
In a flash, he has her hand in his fist. "Don't! You'll spoil everything.
"What kind of man are you?" She looks into his eyes, uncomprehending. "Don't you love me any more? Am I just a ticket?"
He does not answer. She turns from him and looks again at her reflection in the mirror, runs her fingers over the precious stones. She sees how the necklace has transformed her into the glamorous woman she always hoped she might one day become. So what if Erika wants to make love to her. She realises she cannot afford the luxury of morality. Perhaps sex with another woman is an acquired taste — like asparagus, or oysters.
Martin watches his wife as she sits deep in thought. Outside a car horn sounds. "The taxi," he says. "Are you ready?"
She stands and goes downstairs. In the hall, she asks, "Help me on with my coat, would you, please, Martin."
To be continued >>>>>>
Dani
- 13.01.2023
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- Reluctance
