15 - Cuckqueaned by my Fabulous Friend from College #3
“The thought of you with her was terrifying and exhilarating,” I said. My voice was steadier than I expected. “I’m here to face my fears. If you’re willing.”
Ben held my gaze for a long moment. Then he turned to Raquelle, who was watching us both with that calm, knowing smile.
“You have a room here?” he asked.
“I do.” She picked up her drink—something clear, ordered in quick French that had made the bartender smile. “Excellent view.”
Ben didn’t laugh. He looked back at me, searching my face. “Can we go up and talk about this? Just … talk?”
“Of course,” I said.
Raquelle signed her tab and stood. “The view really is good. Even if that’s all you came to see.”
The elevator was quiet. Ben stood between us, his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight. Raquelle pressed the button for the fifteenth floor and leaned against the wall, perfectly relaxed.
Ben looked at me. “You’re serious about this.”
I wrapped my arm around his. “Yeah, I definitely am.”
He didn’t say anything else. I watched the numbers climb and tried to remember how to breathe.
The room was nicer than anywhere Ben and I had ever stayed. King bed, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city spread out below like a promise. Raquelle closed the door behind us and walked over to Ben.
She touched his shoulders, ran her hands down his arms. “This is supposed to be fun,” she said softly. “If it stops being that way, we can stop.”
Ben looked at me one more time. I nodded.
He turned back to Raquelle. “Okay.”
Ben looked back at me. “So, are you going to—”
“Your wife is going to watch,” Raquelle said. Her hands were still on his arms. “For now.”
I found the armchair by the window and sat down. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Raquelle turned Ben to face her. She was shorter than him, even in heels, but somehow, she seemed to look down at him. She unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Then the next. Then the next.
“Have you thought about me?” she asked, working her way down. “From time to time?”
Ben’s shirt fell open. She pushed it off his shoulders and ran her palms across his chest—the same chest I’d slept against for seven years. Her dark hands against his skin.
She reached behind herself and unzipped her dress. It slid down her body and pooled at her feet. Black lace underneath. Her body was exactly what I’d imagined—long, lean, curves in all the right places.
Ben’s hands went to her waist, her hips, exploring. “Yes,” he said. “Every now and again.”
She started to undo his belt. “Even though you’re married?” She looked at me, smiling, as she stripped the leather through the loops. The sound it made—that particular whisper of leather against fabric—sent something through me.
Ben stumbled over his words. He looked at me. I looked back at him, and whatever he saw on my face wasn’t unhappiness.
“It’s okay,” I said.
He turned back to Raquelle. “Yeah. I’ve thought about you sometimes. When I was with my wife.”
“Good.” She slid his pants down.
I realized Raquelle wasn’t just enjoying Ben. She was enjoying whatever I was going through. She was going to take my husband and was getting turned on by making me watch.
I couldn’t blame her. Sitting there in that chair, I realized how powerful I’d feel in her position—being the one someone’s spouse couldn’t stop thinking about, the one who got to have what someone else could only watch.
Ben stepped out of his pants. He was hard already—visibly, obviously hard. Raquelle wrapped her hand around him and stroked slowly, looking at me over— his shoulder.
“Your husband is very responsive,” she said. “I remember that about him.”
She led him to the bed. Sat on the edge, then lay back, her dark hair spreading across the white sheets. The contrast was striking—her skin against the cotton, the black lace of her bra and underwear against all that white. She looked like something out of a painting.
Ben stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. Then he kneeled. He hooked his fingers in her underwear and slid them down her legs. She lifted her hips to help, and then she was bare from the waist down. He kissed the inside of her knee. Then higher. Then higher still.
When his mouth found her, Raquelle’s back arched off the bed. But her eyes stayed on me.
I realized that, in the bar, in the elevator, at first in the room … Ben had kept looking at me. Checking in. Making sure I was okay. He’d stopped completely now. He’d all but forgotten I was there.
I couldn’t blame him. Raquelle was sexier than me in every way I knew how to appraise.
I watched my husband eat out another woman. Watched his head move between her thighs, watched her fingers curl in the sheets, watched her chest rise and fall faster and faster. And the whole time, she kept looking at me. Making sure I saw everything.
“He’s good at this,” she said, her voice breathy. “Did you know he was this good?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My thighs were pressed together so tight they ached.
She came with a shudder, her hand gripping Ben’s hair, a stream of French falling from her lips that I didn’t understand but felt in my stomach, anyway. He kept going until she pushed his head away, laughing, saying something about needing a moment.
Then she sat up, pushed Ben onto his back, and crawled over him. Her bra came off somewhere in the movement—I didn’t even see her unhook it—and then her breasts were bare, dark nipples brushing against his chest as she kissed him.
She worked her way down his body. Slowly. Taking her time. When she reached his cock, she looked at me again.
“I told you about this part,” she said. “At coffee.”
She took him in her mouth.
Ben groaned—a sound I knew, but different somehow.
Deeper. Less controlled. His hands fisted in the sheets as Raquelle worked him with her mouth, her hand, her tongue.
She knew what she was doing. She’d done this before, with him, in a hotel room in Paris while I was probably shelving books in Ohio.
I watched her head bob. Watched his hips lift off the bed. Watched her dark hand wrapped around the base of him, stroking in rhythm with her mouth.
Raquelle pulled off with a wet sound and stroked Ben lazily. She looked over at me in my chair.
“I can’t help but wonder,” she said. “Were you jealous of me getting Ben’s attention just now? Or were you jealous of Ben getting to taste me?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Both, I wanted to say. Both, and I don’t know which is worse.
Raquelle read it on my face. She shifted on the bed, spreading her legs, still wet from Ben’s mouth.
“Come here, Nora.”
My legs were shaking when I stood. I crossed the room on unsteady feet and stopped at the edge of the bed.
“I can tell you want to touch yourself,” Raquelle said. “But you want permission.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.
“Here’s the rule.” She smiled. “You can only touch yourself when you’re servicing me or Ben. Understand?”
I nodded again.
She pointed down at herself. “Get to work, then.”
I climbed onto the bed. My hands were trembling. I’d never done this before—never been this close to another woman’s body, never even let myself imagine it clearly. But I’d been imagining it since coffee, since she’d described what Ben had done to her in Paris.
I lowered my mouth to her.
The taste was different than I expected. Not bad—just different. Salt and musk and something sweeter underneath. I licked tentatively, unsure of myself, and Raquelle’s hand came to rest on the back of my head.
“Slower,” she said. “Use your tongue flat at first. Like—yes, like that.”
My hand slid between my own legs. The relief was immediate, almost painful.
I followed her instructions. Slower. Flatter.
Then pointed, circling. She told me when I was doing it right—little sounds, small adjustments of her hips, fingers tightening in my hair.
I learned her the way I’d learned everything else in my life: by paying attention, by following directions, by wanting to get it right.
Somewhere above me, I heard Ben groan. I glanced up without lifting my mouth and saw Raquelle’s hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly while I worked between her legs. All three of us connected.
“Right there,” she breathed. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”
She came with my mouth on her, her thighs clamping around my head, her voice breaking into French again. I kept going until she pushed me away, gasping, laughing.
“Good girl,” she said, stroking my hair. “Very good.”
Raquelle caught her breath then looked at Ben. He was still hard, almost painfully so, his hand wrapped around himself.
“Stay close,” Raquelle said to me. She positioned herself on her hands and knees, facing the headboard. “I want you to see this.”
Ben moved behind her. I shifted to the side of the bed, my face level with where they were about to connect. Inches away.
He pushed into her slowly. I watched it happen—watched my husband’s cock disappear into another woman, watched her body open to take him, heard the sound she made when he bottomed out. The wet sound of it. The way her back arched.