"He's a fucking monster! An asshole of seismic proportions. What the hell are you thinking, Lindsay?"
I'm not usually so reserved in my views, but we were at work.
"It's a misunderstanding," her vacant, glazed expression as she curls her disheveled hair tells me precisely what Conor did to convince her.
"Right. There's some other reason you found soaked purple panties in his briefcase. Is Conor finding himself Lin? Discovering his inner cunt?"
"Hey, language over there," the gelatinous office supervisor proffers.
"I'm in no mood, Brian. So go stick an eggplant up your ass and get stuffed. Grown-ups are talking."
I pull Lindsay into my office and close the door. "Babe, talk to me. We've been friends since the flood. Lindsay and Sharon battle together against class action lawsuits, men, and the world. Why? After everything that bucktooth fuck has done."
A glow radiates from her smile.
"I'm pregnant."
...............................................
Well, a day from hell and no mistake. I'm not a gifted actress, so pretending to be happy for my angelic best friend took all my self-control. She'll be the perfect mom. Sweet, wise, and continually improving the lives around her. That fucker doesn't deserve her, and as I think about the violet panties he'd slipped off my legs twenty-six hours ago, I come to the only real conclusion.
Neither do I.
I've never been a quote-unquote decent human being. Hell, it's why I'm the best lawyer in the firm. But I had limits, once. You know nothing illegal, dangerous, or involving my best friend's husband. The fucking basics.
"She's got to know," I say to an empty room. "Today."
I pick up the phone but realize once I hear that delighted "Sharon-berry," I won't be able to finish. An email! That's it. Fuck. Not personal enough. A recorded video message is the closest I can manage to do it in person.
"Cowards way out for the win," I reply to the silent picture of Lindsey. Ironically enough, in her wedding dress.
It takes me only a few moments to type out what I'm going to say. Print. Give it a once-over—concise and contrite, perfect.
I arrange video conferences worldwide, so I've got my set up how I like it. The camera is far enough back so you can see the edge of my 27,000-dollar mahogany desk with plenty of room behind me.
"Let's do this," I hit the button and see myself reflected. God, I'm ravenous. Silk hair atop flawless skin, light brown eyes, and a killer ensemble. This 3K and change Alexander McQueen dark blue blazer fits over a Dulche and Gabbana cream fluid silk tie-neck blouse, which all professionally covers breasts and a body my University Physics professor sweetly coined "marriage-destroying." That bastard was right about everything.
The worst part of my nature is wondering if one can blame Conner for cheating on that stick of a wife when I'm in the room.
"Jesus Christ, Sharon. Trying to buy a special place in hell," I hit record, appalled at my thoughts and am left only with the moment.
"Lindsey." Good, that sounds serious and sincere. "Please watch this entire video. It won't be easy. This is the hardest call I've ever made. I'm sending this via message because it is impossible to tell you in person. I'm ashamed, but you deserve better-
"Kinda weak opening, counselor," his rasp causes me to freeze. I pray this is a simple psychotic break but no such luck. Connor Walsh leans against the door. Full silver hair slicked back, a trimmed mustache straddles a cocky little smirk, and baggy professorial clothing conceals a willowy but taut body. Oh, and in his right hand, he fingers my used purple underwear. Fuck I can already feel my thighs rubbing together.
"Thought I'd return these, Sharon. Not my size."
"Well, speak of the devil," I let it keep recording. As long as the camera's on, I won't do anything unforgivable.
"Ya know, the sisters used to refer to me as Lucifer," he steps toward me, and muscle memory kicks in. The Gabbana feels like it's strangling me, and I know from experience that I'm staining the inside of my slacks. "Particularly Eustance. She delighted in comparing me to the great corrupter. Eased the guilt, I suspect. People love blaming others for their pleasures. Don't you agree?
"I know it takes two," I say. "But it still has to end, and I'm ending it."
"My, we are in a self-righteous mood today, aren't we?" He's against the desk and drops the panties in front of me. "Didn't feel inclined to take responsibility last night, did ya."
"Don't bore me, Connor. We both know that Lindsey doesn't deserve your shit."
"Our shit, love," his hand on the desk as he steps into the view of the screen. "Remember? Taking ownership of your actions. Let me see-"
He's behind me, arms on either side. His head is resting on my shoulder, lips diabolically close to mine. His fingers dance over the back of my hand before taking the note.
"This won't do at all, love." He kisses behind my ear, and I moan. "There's no real accountability of your sins."
My body is such a selfish twat. No consideration of anything beyond the need to consume. Linsday is a lifelong friend, but fuck her. She doesn't arch my back with a caress, coax obscene noises from my throat, or trigger this torturous rhythmic agony. My body knows what he's capable of, and instinct directs my movement. Breasts rest atop the desk pressing sweetly down, my weight now supported. Conner rolls the chair aside and stands behind me. His fingers strum below my ass while his thumb explores the crevice between. His other palm slips under the silk blouse, slowly pulling them from my Saroel pants while my muscles dance under his skin.
"Confession is good for the soul, Sharon-Berry," I see our two faces digitally recreated in high definition on the plasma screen. He embodies a cruel sensuous certainty, while I can't recognize the wild, desperate creature with hooded eyes biting her lip. His digital upper arm shifts slightly, and unseen fingers slide over my pants and press against my mound.
"Fuck off, you miserable... ahh... that's it right there... Shit! Go sit on a serrated... Jesus... knife and..." I try to stay on message, but instead, I spread my legs and beg... "do it already, you cunt licker."
"Earn it," the tip of his tongue traces the outline of my ear. "Tell Lin about our original sin."
I reach out to click off the recording, but his fingers wrap around my wrist. The pressure against my core slows, and I start to thrust, anything to push me over the edge. If I can cum, I'll be able to think, or fight, or suck his cock, whatever occurs to me.
"What were you wearing," he brings my middle finger to his lips and bites. "It'll set the scene."
"An Off-Shoulder Lace Short-Sleeve Mermaid Dress in a Playful Purple Satin," the company's description burned into my memory.
It was my maid of honor gown.
" Heaven forbid! But you had been drinking at least, right?" he sucks my finger to the knuckle before pushing my hand down towards the burning wet core. The silk kisses our skin traveling over my body. Fingers slide past the elastic, under my panties, and into my soaked pussy. "I took advantage of you, didn't I love?"
"No," I gasp. My treacherous fingers start pumping the moment they hit snatch. It's hard to breathe. Connor holds me so tight even my cramping index finger only provides a Sisyphean pleasure. The promise of ecstasy close enough to drive me mad. "It wasn't you!"
"What do you mean?" Each word is punctuated with a kiss and nibble at my neck. "Tell her, love. Lindsey deserves to know."
"Connor was outside smoking. I could smell the whisky. I was thirsty. You'd made me promise not to drink, Lindsay."
"Cause you might cause a scene," Connor says, releasing the pressure on my body. Free, my wrist starts pistoning. I know the computer picks up that wet slapping sound. Recorded for the ages.
"I only wanted a little nip. You weren't an easy bride. Fucking hell, you were the reigning queen bitch. What kind of controlling sow doesn't let her best friend have a swig at a wedding? After everything I'd done for you. But you never fucking listen."
I've wanted to say this for years. Feelings pour out of me the closer I get to salvation. Words of cruelty, but right now, I mean every syllable.
"I warned you about Connor, Lin-"
The man of the hour is on one knee, slipping off my Jimmy Choos.
"He's a snake. Incapable of going a day without fucking you over."
He bites my inner thigh.
"Miserable fucking bastard. Didn't take me long at all."
My pants pool at my feet, and Connor tosses them aside. He squeezes my ass and delivers a sharp little slap. The sound is faithfully preserved. Then he pulls my underwear aside and licks clean his saturated fingers.
"Connor's good-looking, Lindsay; I see why you wanted him. But marriage? It's that religious background of yours. Sex has got to mean something. Bullshit! Somehow if you're thinking about his eyes when you set your rabbit humming, it's love. Fuck! It's not love, Lindsey-"
He pushes my fingers aside, and his tongue now slides up and down my folds. His long thin hands squeeze and lift my ass, so I'm slightly off-balance—my weight against his mouth. Every lick causes my legs to twitch as the growing sweet pressure steals my oxygen, and pleasure begins to blind me. I've got to finish.
"Not love- just fucking. I asked for a little sip from his flask. Make the day go by faster. I was pissed. I'll admit that, Lindsey. But I knew the moment he traced his lips with his tongue it was on. He asked what I'd do for a sip. So I told him, I never sip; I gulp. And I did you puritanical pumped up, princess!
He's picked up speed, the infamous tongue overwhelming my clit, sending wave after wave of electric bliss. His hands are between my legs as well, the thumb inside me hooked, caressing, intensifying my craving for his thick, bent cock.
My voice cracks.
"I sucked him off in front of the cross, bitch! I unbuttoned that ridiculous old-fashioned suit, lifted my dress so it wouldn't get dirty, and swallowed all seven and some inches. Licked it from tip to balls. He's got a musk, doesn't he girlfriend? Recognize that scent anywhere."
Speaking of smell, my own stings the back of my nostrils as he pushes two more fingers inside me—my tongue curls in my mouth. The sweet sliding excitement drips as my body opens and the urgency mounts.
"His cock hit the back of my throat like a spear. But I'm a pro, Lindsay. Are you? Nah. Which is why he let me practice. Let me cup his balls, deepthroat that shaft, and suck. Have you heard Connor swear in another language? I did when he jizzed down my throat, salty, burning; he's got gallons to spare, doesn't he? And it's so good. So... filling. Fuck!"
I climax. It's a long lingering rush that promises more. He stands, setting himself behind me again, kicking my legs further apart.
"That's nothing, though, Sharon," I hear the zipper before his cock suddenly rests between my legs. He gropes my breast and squeezes until I moan. "Tell her where and when it really happened."
"The bridal sweet," I whisper into the desk. Connor pulls my hair, forcing me to view my treacherous features.
"Where? Talk right into the camera, love. Speak in a clear voice."
I do. I'm shocked at the easy viciousness of my tone.
"The Bridal sweet. I paid for it, so why not. I needed a break. Putting out fires, dealing with your drunk uncle, listening to you whine about the wedding, gossiping with your useless dull sisters. You weren't using it yet. And I found him there."
"Use names, Sharon. When you entered the bridal sweet, who did you see? Make sure my wife is clear."
"Your husband. Sitting back with a glass of whisky, staring out the window. We could see the party from there, Lin."
His thick head is at my entrance now. My fingers work to tear open this absurdly expensive blouse so he can work my nipples. His hands know how to break down my humanity. If I was beautiful before, fully dressed, and in control, now I'm ravenous. An erotic, pornographic savage goddess captured on video. My lipstick smeared down my chin, an ample breast freed from a cup, and my hair sticking to my face. I push against him, so my dripping, starved pussy can consume every inch. I squeal as his cock slides inside, replacing all sensations with a pulsing magnetic hum.
"I saw you dancing, Lindsey, in your white Vera Wang as I took his glass and tasted. He was right next to me, watching you spin. And I said..."
"You gonna pay me back?" Connor reminisces and thrusts fucking away the last of my patience. Wave after wave of building ecstatic pressure, my stomach pushed against the solid wooden frame of my desk, knocking the air from my lungs. Still, my voice rings clear.
"He pushed me against the glass, spread my cunt, ate me out until I stained the glass, Lin. God, his tongue moves fast, in and out-"
Connor's thrusting picks up speed as I talk. His curved cock hooks left, so it's like my body is being held open, letting every drop fall to the floor. His pants must have gone down cause when I reach back to touch his ass and try to pull him for a deeper, faster, harder fucking, my fingers feel the flexing cords of muscle.
"But foreplay isn't my thing, girlfriend. You know that. Remember you used to call me Slutty Sharon. G.O.D...FUCK. You had no idea, did you? Cock is my king. Connor picked me up and carried me like a bride to the mattress. Did he do the same thing for you... LINDSAY!!?"
I squeal her name as I cum, shaking uncontrollably. I'd of crashed to the floor if it weren't for his iron hands and the desk. My nails scare the mahogany finish. My face looks ridiculous on the monitor.
Connor doesn't stop. He simply adjusts and doubles the fury. My senses are assaulted; I'm overwhelmed. All I feel is that shaft burn through this orgasm and move towards the next. Every inch of my skin is a nerve; when he adjusts his hands on my body, I still feel where those palms had been but a millisecond before, burned into my flesh. It feels like I'm enveloped by pressure, by pleasure, cocooned in ecstasy. But I have to keep going, or he'll stop.
"He looked so grateful, Lindsey. Like, finally, he'd get some decent ass. He pulled off his shirt, and I bit his tiny little nipple as he rushed to take off his pants. His skin tastes so fucking good-
I cum again.
"He...lifted my legs... stood between them... God fucking shit, oh my God, Connor, don't you dare...
Again...
"Fucking stop!"
His voice echoes everywhere.
"Finish the story."
"I stained the sheets, Lindsey. Do you forgive me? He was there... yes! Connor was there, holding my feet, and he... god, it's good. Great. Fucking Glorious. He's there, his suit jacket hanging off him. Silver hair is covered in sweat, and he's plunging into me. Always a maid, never a bride, but the groom still fucks the same. Isn't that right?"
A new orgasm is forming—Meaner, bigger, with a fury that will kill us both. Connor's breath is harsh; he knows this is the end. My eyes are closed, and I can't see our gorgeous wicked faces.
"On your bed that night and again the next day. His meeting after your honeymoon was with me. We've fucked with you sleeping in the next room, Lindsey. I bit into your throw pillow while he fucked me. Fucked me in your office. He fucked me. Fuck. Me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. FUCK ME! FUCK!!
The orgasm makes its final assault, and I scream as my body convulses. The desk shakes, and I knock Connor off me, whose spunk launches into the air, hitting my back and hair as he tumbles to the ground. Without him, I fall further onto the desk. The aftershocks pulse through me in waves. Pleasure so sharp I could describe it as pain.
A moment passes before I can open my eyes to see myself staring back. Is this who I am? Here lies Sharon Montgomery, Esquire, a lady of fortune who took what she wanted no matter what. The oldest childhood friend to Lindsey Walsh was found collapsed, stained with jizz, and still shaking from the orgasms of Mr. Connor Walsh. She was then twenty-nine years old. May God have mercy on her soul.
Little death, my ass.
"Well, love. I think we can safely say that take is ruined." Connor's voice comes from somewhere below me. I try to move, but my legs are done with such nonsense.
"These pangs of regret of yours are a serious aphrodisiac and no mistake. You fuck like a fiend when you feel like shit about it."
I sense him above me, looking at the computer. I hear a click.
"Recording stopped, love. Jesus Christ, you look hot there. I'm sending myself a copy. Done. It's sweet you remember our first time. Don't let this bother you, Sharon-Berry. We're as God made us."
He brings the chair back to my desk and deposits me there. I'm still looking at my frozen features on the screen. Those glazed green eyes saturated with satisfaction—no regret defiles them.
He's already at my door, slicking that sterling silver hair in place.
"Connor," my voice is strained.
"Yeah, love," his smile is gentle. I return it.
"Excellent try. But no dice," My finger clicks. "Sent."
He looks confused for a moment. He's not dumb, just unused to losing. Fear starts to cloud his features.
"Wanna try to work your charm with her now," I find my lips grinning. "Cause I think this one will be hard to explain."
He runs. I hear his footsteps echo in the hallway. I can picture his face of full desperation, pleading, and terrified in front of a now-stone Lindsey. The image is clear as H.D. Sure, there's a price, but I've never felt so satisfied.
I lean my head back, sigh, close my eyes, and wait for tomorrow.
