Devin wanted me down on my knees on the hard tile, wearing nothing but my panties. I was more than happy to comply, even while feeling guilty about my wife Sandra. Devin was her boyfriend, after all. We were in the kitchen. The vacuum cleaner sat idle in the middle of the livingroom, its motor probably still warm. It was a Saturday, about ten-thirty in the morning.
Despite the early hour, Devin had shown up drunk—inebriated at any rate—and I wondered if he’d been up all night. He looked disheveled, unfocused.
“What’s up?” I’d asked at the front door, having hastily pulled on trousers. My shaved chest was bare. “You know Sandra’s up at her mother’s.”
Devin had already barged past me, as if he owned the place. “I know that!” he snapped. “You got a beer?”
Of course I had beer for Devin. We kept a 12-pack of Heineken bottles in the fridge just for him. Sandra and I drink wine, or in my case sometimes light beer. I dislike Germanic beers, the metallic taste. I popped the cap on a cold, green bottle and brought it to Devin, who’d seated himself on counter’s end stool. He drank, without thanking me. Then looked me up and down in my colorful bikini briefs and even more colorful beach shoes—my usual housecleaning attire—and said: “Is Sandra cheating on me?”
This was rich! My wife’s lover asking the man he was cuckolding if his—my—wife was cheating on him!
“What are you talking about?” I frowned.
“Is she really up at her mother’s?”
“Yes. I talked to her last night.”
“Then how do you know where she is?”
“Where else would she be? She’s at her mother’s, Devin. The woman just had hip replacement surgery…”
“Why the weekend?”
I presumed he meant by this, Why did she choose to go up on the weekend? Uh…Duh-uh! “Because it’s the weekend? She has a job? She works five days a week?”
“She could’ve taken time off.”
“She didn’t have any vacation time left, Devin. She used the last of it up on that cruise you guys took.” Without me, I might have added. To Cancun.
“The weekend is OUR time together,” Devin said sourly. Or should I say poutingly? He pushed his empty bottle toward me and I, reluctantly, got him another. Now, it seemed, I was his bartender.
“Well, she had to go up,” I told Devin. “It’s her mother.”
“But she’s not seeing anybody else?”
“When would she have time to see anybody else?”
“You would know?”
This made me stop and think. “I think so. Sandra’s always been promiscuous but…one kaçak iddaa guy at a time, y’know? You’re the latest,” I added, as if to rub it in.
“She’s a little slut.”
“That’s not nice, is it?”
I watched Devin take another swig and said, “At any rate she won’t be back till probably Monday, late.”
“Oh. My country…,” Devin mumbled. He used to be in the army. He liked to talk about his service. Went on and on about it. He’d been stationed in Germany at one point, and it was there he developed his liking for German beers. Heineken in a pinch. Once he’d asked me, in front of Sandra, if I knew anything about Germany. I almost burst out laughing. “Well prior to 1946,” I said, watching a smile break out on Sandra’s face, “I know quite a lot!”
Devin didn’t get the joke. He sat there stone-faced. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
If you don’t know…, I thought. “Forget it.” Come to think of it Devin had been drunk that day too. Sandra didn’t like it if I drank too much, but with Devin she didn’t seem to mind. He was only around on weekends, a day, a day and a half, and most importantly it didn’t seem to affect his performance in bed. He’s a real Mensch, as Sandra liked to say.
Now, months later, Devin gave me that up-and-down look again. “You always dress like this?” he asked, with a sneer.
No, just when you’re around, I started to say. “When I’m cleaning house,” my actual reply.
Devin laughed. One short note of contempt. “You do the housework…”
“Well, when Sandra’s away…” Actually, when she was away or not away. Always.
“And when I’m over.”
I conceded the point—with a nod.
“You do it just to fuck with me don’t you?” Devin alleged, his tone turning, well, nastier.
“Why would I want to fuck with you?”
“Prancing around in your little fairy panties…”
“I don’t prance.”
“Well…you know what I mean. Showing off your junk.” Emphasis on junk.
I looked down at myself. Looked up. Swallowed. “I’m not showing anything off.”
“Like you can hide anything? In those?” he pointed. “You should be on a gay beach somewhere.”
Funny Devin would say that. Because that was one of the options I’d considered for today. With my wife out of the picture, finish cleaning early then drive to the beach. And, yes, show off in my colorful bikini briefs. Maybe I’d meet someone…
But the forecast was for heavy cloud cover by midday, followed by a likelihood of rain. So indoors I would remain—though kaçak bahis still in my silky, bulgy, microfiber panties.
“I got a week’s load, y’know,” Devin abruptly declared, “thanks to your fuckin’ wife.”
“And you’re not helping matters any…”
What had I done? I was just standing there, playing bartender!
“I don’t know whether to beat your ass,” Devin threatened, “or fuck it.”
I swallowed again. Had my wife’s boyfriend just threatened me with violence—that or gay sex? I stood there wide-eyed, at a loss for words, as Devin slid off his stool and immediately began unbuckling his pants.
“I gotta get it from someone…,” he said, exposing his thick, half-erect cock to me. “You suck?”
“Hope you’re better at it than your wife. You like it?”
I did. I wanted it. It had been a long time. I was eager.
It was humiliating, doing it here, like this, but I liked the feeling, the implied submissiveness. I wanted to kneel.
It was here, now, that I dropped to my knees on the hard tile, and took Devin’s salty cock into my mouth.
It was several hours and many Heinekens later that my cell rang, Sandra’s pretty, middle-aged face popping up on the screen. Devin lounged (or dozed) on the sofa, watching TV, his week’s sweet load warming my belly. He seemed relieved, while I felt both fulfilled and proud of myself, having successfully played the role of surrogate girlfriend. In the immediate aftermath of his release, with me still kneeling before him, wiping my chin, Devin had resentfully grumbled, “I shoulda peed on you.”
“With that hard-on you had?” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t think so. Maybe later. If you stick around,” I added hopefully. “I’ll get you another beer, hon,” I ventured, while struggling to my feet. I noted that Devin didn’t correct me. Slap me down verbally for calling him an affectionate name. Fresh beer pee, in my long-ago, pre-Sandra days, was the best. Though I feared Heineken, if it came to it, would produce a metallic aroma. Steely. An innocuous light beer, a lager, would have been much preferable.
“Do you know that the word lager, in German, means both camp and a style of beer?” I said, as I uncapped another Heineken and handed it to my sex partner. Who looked at me blankly, as if I’d just tried to explain something about quantum mechanics. Curiously, right after the blowjob, Devin had kicked off not only his trousers and briefs but removed his top as well. He sat bulkily naked on the stool now, in socks, quiet, illegal bahis drinking. Sated. Perhaps disgusted with himself, drinking away the same-sex guilt.
A few hours later, as I say, I picked up my phone and said, “Hi, hon. How’s mom?”
There was a pause at the other end. “What are you talking about? I’m with Justin.”
“That’s great news! Glad she’s on the mend! Guess what? Our friend Devin’s here!”
Another pause. “What the fuck is he doing there?”
“Forgot you were gonna be away this weekend.”
“That’s ridiculous! I just talked to him Thursday! He knew full well I’d be…”
“Well, he’s missing you, I guess,” I filled in.
“He’s history. Get him out of there.”
“Uh…can’t do that, darling.”
“Is that…Sandra?” Devin having at last roused himself. “Lemme talk to her.”
I pulled the phone away and said to Devin, in a loud whisper, “Her phone’s just about out of juice.”
“I was talking to Devin.”
“Well tell him to get the hell out of our house! What’s he want?”
“Let me talk to her.” Devin was advancing, unsteadily. But I held up a hand, as if a traffic cop.
“Can’t. Her battery’s dying. What, dear? Well I’m glad she’s doing better. Gotta go? Give her my best. Bye!” I summarily concluded.
“Forgot to plug her phone in, I guess,” I shrugged at Devin. “She’s always doing that.”
Devin resumed his flat-footed advance. He was walking like an unsteady, overweight old man. His thick cock was dangling. He made a motion with his right hand as if to brush me aside, even though I was not in his way. “I gotta pee,” he announced.
“On me?” I asked brightly. It was a submissive, pantywaist, cuckold’s dream. What could be better than first getting on your knees to suck the cum out of your wife’s lover’s big cock, then having him empty his full-to-bursting bladder on you?
Devin had stopped. “Where?”
“In the shower. I’ll sit on the floor and you stand over me? I’ll take off my panties and…,” I said, already reaching for the thin waistband. The microfiber pattern consisted of slashes of bright color. Swirls. They might have been abstract flowers; they might not have been.
“No,” Devin pointed, downward. “I want…I want to pee on you in your panties. I want to pee on your panties. I…Then I want you to suck my cock again. Afterwards.”
It seemed my lover had it all planned out. Spur of the moment or not. Shrugging, happily, I preceded him down the hallway to the guest bathroom, and a shower stall that was barely big enough for two.
As for my panties, which were not inexpensive by the way, it was OK. It was just pee-pee, after all. We would shower afterwards.
It would all wash out in the end, right?