Breaking Up Is Hard To Do - A Jake and Ethan Story

I woke up groggily with the familiar feel of my man Jake's hairy, well-muscled jock body moving in my arms and the familiar feel of him shoving himself back onto my raging morning hardon. It was probably his loud grunt that transmuted into a moan when he roughly impaled himself on me that awakened me as this wasn't something I was unused to.

"You horny bitch," I growled in his ear, beginning to pump his fuckhole.

"YOUR horny bitch," he grunted, still adjusting to the invasion of his fuckchannel.

He was hot outside and in - he was always a heat generator when he slept, which suited me fine, as I'd always been a cold sleeper but hated to admit it, even to myself. His cunt was still soaked from a gargantuan load I'd dumped in him late last night when I'd gotten in after a week away on a business trip, and it added to the pleasure of his TIGHT fuckmuscles working my cock, making it feel like my cock was churning hot molten cheese. Okay, maybe cheese wasn't the best analogy!

I was thinking too much, so I shoved Jake over onto his stomach and went with him, on him, never pulling out. My thrusts were harder and deeper this way, and he clawed the bed and yelled, "OH FUCK YEESSSSSSSSSS!"

Hands planted on Jake's wide, well-developed shoulders, my back was arched, and I was DRILLING Jake's cunt, bottoming out and grinding myself into him. I pulled out as hard as I slammed in, each thrust bringing a cry from him that ended in a loan but curtailed moan. He was thrusting back into me, his arms extended and hands now flat against the headboard to brace himself.

Just when Jake was getting loud enough to signal that he was close to cumming my eye was caught by his phone flashing on the table by his side of the bed. When I looked over, to my great surprise, it was a photo coming into Jake's phone . . . a photo of a very widely-gaping, lube-slicked asshole.

"OH FUCK YESSSSS JUST LIKE THATTTTTTTTT!" he growled.

Fortunately my cock wasn't distracted by what I saw on Jake's phone, and my balls were fueling my hips' thrusts without missing a stroke, despite my thoughts swirling.

When I got in the night before I'd taken a car service from the airport. I'd texted Jake when we touched down, and it had been close to an hour before he replied. Then he hadn't been home long when I got there - the house was still stuffy from the day - and he was getting out of the shower.

As my hips increased the pace of my thrusts to where they were angry stabs, my burgeoning suspicions fueled my aggressive fucking, not distracting me. Jake was loving it, working back into my thrusts harder, needier for it.

And then another text - this one actual text. Thank God for my decision to have my eyes done - it had been a tough decision, since two of my friends who had their eyes lasered both had terrible complications - because I could read the text on the screen when it flashed up.
 still feeling you - will be walking funny all day - can't wait for Monday

I was suddenly enraged, and I pushed Jake's face into the matress HARD with my hand on the back of his sweaty bedhead, braced myself better, and really slammed my fuckpole into him even harder, faster. "That's what you want, isn't it, you fucking slut?" I spat down at him. And then, for good measure, I really spit, a glob landing in the hair at the base of his hairline below where I was holding him.

"OHFUCK OH FUCKING FUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!" he cried into the bedsheets.

I felt his fuckchannel spasming around my cock, his body bucking under me, and I knew I'd fucked Jake's load out of him. Nothing like a brutal fuck and some filthy talk to take him over the edge, the fucking cheating slut! To my dismay, though, my own balls were boiling over, and I felt my body begin to electrify, no matter my building anger . . . and hurt.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA," I cried, as my own body snapped and began to pump, from my nuts, and I felt my first blast gushing through the length of me and into Jake. I couldn't stop myself. I just pumped and pumped, more relief and counterpoint to my week's frustration despite our rather energetic fuck last night.

"Awww, FUCK that was amazing!" Jake panted. THAT snapped me out of it, and I yanked myself out of him and was on my feet. "What the-"

I whirled around and SMACKED him HARD on the ass. "Check your phone, you cheating whore!" I spat and headed to the bathroom, tears in my eyes and my chest tight. I would NOT let him see me, God dammit!

"Ethan, wait. ETHAN!" he was crying out.

I snapped the lock on the bathroom door and then opened the tap in the shower. I slumped against the wall, my chest now heaving.

"Ethan, please," Jake called through the locked door, jiggling the handle and then rapping on the door with the broad palms of his hands. "Ethan, it's not what you think."

Well, that was like a hard SLAP. Nothing like being played for a fool. "Just leave me the fuck alone, Jake," I called, stepping into the shower. I knew exactly what it was.

Standing under the icy cold spray - I'd deliberately only turned on the cold only, to punish myself - my mind catalogued events that, at the time, hadn't meant anything but now took on new meaning. As I did, the picture came into focus . . . unfortunately. It's probably a good thing that I'd set the shower to ice cold, given the time I spent, ultimately sitting on the tiled shower floor, shivering and then crying.

I finally got myself up in the still-icy winter water and washed myself clean of Jake, at least physically. My arms, legs, everything in between and even my thoughts felt slow, heavy. I knew what was coming - all of it. There would be drama, both with Jake and with my friends, with our mutual friends and with family on both sides. Simply resolving to be adult about it would change very little. There would be uncomfortable silences, innuendos and inappropriate questions from my associates and clients. And most of all, there would be the press.

My husband - GodDAMN the state of California getting its act together and legalizing marriage for all! - being named MVP of the World Series three months before revived the press's manic interest in the first active major league player to have ever come out. We'd gotten through the first shit-storm on the wings of our euphoric lust and what I thought then was our almost obsessive, growing love for each other, letting the crazy swirl around us but focusing on each other and nothing else. The spots were still showing up - interviews or requests for them, blog entries aplenty, the occasional rag's reporter following, photographing or interrupting a dinner or movie or walk with our dog in the park.

Fortunately neither of our careers had suffered during the hurricane of publicity and unwanted attention. Did that make us publicity whores? Hardly! It just made us two men who could compartmentalize and who - at least I thought this was the case - sought solace in each other when the going got rough. March to October he was on the road more than he was home. At any given time I worked cases that had clients in other states and required a lot of travel to research and prepare. Jake won baseball games. I won cases.

I found myself at a stop again, having washed everything, I vaguely remembered, the icy cold water still streaming over me, feeling nothing . . . physically. Yeah, it was going to be tough. Complicated and tough. I slammed off the tap and stepped out, grabbing one of the oversized fluffy gray towels we'd picked out together. Right then it felt like sandpaper, and I wished we had something else in the bathroom, something that wasn't HIS; even one of the gym's crappy, thin, frayed towels would have been better.

Wrapping the damp towel around my waist I didn't bother brushing my teeth. The shower was to wash Jake off me, and I'd done that. Now I just needed to get the fuck out of there.

When I opened the door, I found Jake sitting on the floor, falling into the bathroom because he'd had his back to the door. He was getting up as I stepped around him. Not looking at him, in the corner of my vision I could see he'd been crying and looked awful. I hoped I could freeze that memory of him looking like that and will his every moment to be that miserable for quite a while.

Jake grabbed at my leg. "Ethan, PLEEEEEEEEEEEEASE, just listen to me," he begged.

I kept walking and went to our closet. "No, Jake," I said behind me calmly as I walked into the extravagant space. "YOU listen," I called out. "I'm going out. I'll call you later to see if you've found a place or checked into a hotel. If you have, I'll come home. If you haven't, I'll check into a hotel. On Monday one of us will file for divorce."

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeth," he whined, but I cut him off.

I whirled, furious. "FUCK YOU, JAKE!" I yelled. I advanced on him menacingly, though absurdly, since I was naked and no match for his size or his bigger muscle. "FUCK YOU!" I spat, almost nose to nose with him, punching my left index finger into his marble-hard pec. The feel of his fur on my finger spawned a frisson of something needy in my balls . . . and that stopped any further words from germinating in my brain.

"Ethan, please. I just want to-" He'd reached out and tried to touch my arms, but I shrugged free of his grip violently, backing up a couple of steps.

"NO!" I shouted, as if I was telling a rapist to stop, more to my own feelings of desire for him than anything. "You will NEVER touch me again. NEVER! YOU did this, Jake. We're DONE!" We stood there, me glaring at him, him looking miserable. He looked about a tenth as miserable as I felt. "Now leave me the fuck in peace to dress and get out of here so I don't have to look at you," I told him, with more resignation than determination.

That last made his face go from miserable to blank, as if he hadn't contemplated that he wouldn't have a way to make a pitch . . . or to make an excuse, more like it.

"Can I say one thing?" he asked quietly.

"Of course. But just to ensure you don't misunderstand, you CAN say something. But you've already made my mind up for me by giving me more information than I wish I had, by allowing me to have that information." Nice jab, Warner, I thought.

That stopped him, and for a moment I thought I saw anger brewing. Anger I could deal with; certainly I had plenty inside, ready to match any he could loose. Finally, when I was about to turn and dress, he spoke. Very softly, and with an earnestness that I knew to be truth, he said, "It was just sex, Eth. It started as a blowjob and went too far. But it was just sex. It meant nothing, means nothing. WE mean EVERYthing, Eth."

The thing that kept me from reacting was that it was clear he really did mean it, maybe even believed it. I could have taken apart his testimony with four questions and ensured a guilty verdict from any jury in the land. "If you're done with what you wanted to say," I replied without emotion, equally quietly, "I'd like to get dressed . . . alone . . . and go."

I didn't realize Jake had been tensed, as if ready to vault or pounce until, hearing what I said, his body went slack, and his face fell to dejection. I turned away and went to the drawer and got some well-contoured AC trunks and pulled them on, making sure I adjusted my - if I do say so myself - ample endowment and just went on dressing. At some point he left the threshold to the closet. I didn't see him again as I left.

Leaving our building as if it was any other day, any other errand, I found myself on Ocean Avenue without a plan. I pulled over a few blocks down, around the corner on Sunset where even if Jake was out on our building-width west-facing terrace he couldn't see me.

My brain had gone back to that pace again - slow and heavy, my thoughts more like sludge than a stream. I just looked ahead, eastbound on Sunset, traffic, pedestrians, a dog. Our beloved spaniel had died a few months before, making one less complication in Jake's and my breakup . . . leaving me one less friend to take solace in.

FUCK THIS! I suddenly raged, though only in my head. Outwardly I just pounded the steering wheel decisively. I threw the car back into gear and peeled away from the curb, but I cut my speed to match traffic in less than a block. I drove straight to my building in Century City, mercifully a light drive in the early Saturday morning traffic flow.

I carded myself in - from the underground garage to the elevator to the entrance to my firm's lobby and then into my office - and slammed down in my desk chair. I didn't want to be here. GODDAMN HIM! I raged, swiping my phone savagely off the side of my desk with my arm.

That did NOTHING for me. I hadn't even enjoyed clatter and possible destruction. I had to laugh; otherwise I would just be tragic, right?

I thought about typing an email to my partner who ran our dissolution practice - that's what we Californians call divorce - but I could do that any time. It was a simple communication:
I want to initiate dissolution of my marriage. Please file ASAP.
In California, land of community property and the no-fault divorce, that's all it took. The firm had all my financial records, so there was nothing else to say or add. It's really no wonder there was such a high divorce rate; it was easy, certainly easier than working at something that wasn't going well.

Was that what I was doing? Taking the easy way out? I hadn't even talked to Jake. Had I never been tempted? Well, not like him, certainly. After all, I wasn't a hot, hunky pro sports star. I didn't have men, women and anything in between drooling all over me like he did. There had been a couple though, and one of them wasn't quite the easy rejection, was it. But I HAD rejected the temptation, hadn't I? I hadn't let the guy blow me . . . I hadn't done ANYthing! UNlike Jake had last night. Or how many fucking nights . . . or days . . . or times . . . or different men . . . when I wasn't around?

Slamming the chair back and sending it rolling wildly when I abruptly got to my feet I stomped into my office's private bathroom. I got out of my jeans and t-shirt and got into gym clothes from my closet, grabbed a hand towel to use for a sweat towel and headed down to the gym in our building.

I was halfway through the almost-deserted office - there were one or two eager-to-impress associates about now who hadn't been there before when I walked through - when I had a thought. It was one of those thoughts lawyers have about cases that the people involved usually don't; I wondered if that was a good sign as far as me coping with my situation or a bad one. I turned and went to my assistant's office.

I found what I was looking for in the "in case of" cabinet, using the key he kept hidden, but not from me. I took out one of the spare iPhones and went into my office. As I walked I powered the phone up, surprised - but not really surprised, knowing my anal-retentive assistant - that it didn't need a charge to respond right away. I plugged it in anyway, and then I set to initiating it as a restore from Jake's iCloud backup. Sneaky, I know, but it might come in handy to prove whereabouts and messages if things got contentious, nasty.

I suddenly realized I had no idea IF things would get nasty. I didn't think there was any reason they should, given that we were both intelligent and level-headed - well, if we excuse Jake's slutting around on the best husband in the world! But as my partner who handles our divorce practice often says, any intent for an amicable divorce is someone deluding him or herself. That settled into the pit of my stomach like another among many rocks.

Not wanting to let myself get caught up in that whirlpool of self-pity or anger, I quickly made sure the iPhone was restoring and headed out. I turned abruptly at the door to my office and went back for my gym towel, and then I was really on my way to sweat out some frustration.

The building my firm's Los Angeles headquarters is located in is one of those security fortresses. There is no "retail space" accessible from outside the building, so the gym is for tenants who have security cards to get in - only. It's a perk, and not all the companies in the building contribute to the cost of maintaining it, so they and their employees don't have access. We do. We encourage use of it by our employees.

On the way down in the elevator I knew exactly what I'd do first. After a brief warm-up, I was headed for the heavy bag that had recently been added, and I was going to pummel the living shit out of it!

That's what I did, and did, and did . . . until I was so sweaty and so exhausted and so full of burn and pain that it was pervasive, wiping all my thoughts, all the swirling vapors of everything about Jake and me, from my head. I ended winded, drenched, spent and standing leaning against the bag, our weights in counterbalance to each other, the bag, my opponent, and me.

I was startled by a bottle of cold water - I saw it was dripping with sweat, like me - in my peripheral vision and then tuned into awareness of a deep voice connected, I surmised in that instant, to the hairy arm holding the water. I straightened with difficulty, then parried the bag when it swung against me. "Careful there," the voice now registered clearly for me.

I turned to see him, and I took the water bottle, enjoying the feel of the cold wetness against my hot palm. He was taller than I, very built as was obvious in a tank top that showed off his massive shoulders and muscular, corded, dark-furred forearms. His corded neck led to a handsome, fully-bearded face with bright eyes that showed more interest and promise than was good for me right then. "Thanks," I managed, uncapping the bottle and pulling a long swig from it.

"Haven't seen you here before," he threw out, unoriginally. I laughed at that, which seemed to give him no pause at all. "I'm Gerald Burton," he said, putting out a hand with big, thick, long fingers.

My thoughts, of course, went the wrong place looking at those fingers, feeling the strength of his grip and the warmth of him. "Ethan Warner. I work in the building," I added unnecessarily, given I was there in the building gym.

"I can't believe that. I'm sure I would have seen a guy who looks like you before," he said unabashedly, surprising me. It must have shown. "Hey, nothing meant, just a compliment," he added, taking a step back as if I would punch him.

His step back was hindered by my grip on his hand, holding the handshake, keeping him close. "How often do you get a black eye when you use that line on a straight guy?"

"Hardly ever," he answered with assurance and a smirk, stepping back in. "Usually it's when I compliment the wrong gay man, and his boyfriend or husband decks me." He looked pointedly at my ring. Funny I hadn't taken it off before I left home, chucked it down the drain in the shower or something. Stupid idea - it wouldn't have passed the drain grate. "Anyway," he continued, "I'm Joey Pellone."

I felt him grip my hand tighter, and I felt it elsewhere, a new rush of heat through me as he looked me squarely in the eyes. There was no missing the invitation. And there was no ignoring my own swirling emotions, most of them sending signals to my balls and dick, some coherent enough to say in my head WHY NOT? JAKE CHEATED ON YOU, SO SHOW HIM!

Joey's smirk remained, and he seemed to be waiting me out. I finally let go of his hand, more like dropping a hot potato, unintentionally. That made the smirk go to a full grin, and I was now the one to take a step back. "Well," he said with obvious satisfaction. "At least I know you thought about it."

I did. And I was. I found myself looking around, then back at him, now regarding me more quizzically. "Oh, we're alone here," he told me. "I'm usually here this time on Saturday mornings, and I rarely see anyone." Before I could think of something to say, he added, "I guess today was just my lucky day . . . or might be yet, I should say."

"Not here," I stammered, surprised that was what had emerged from my mouth among the many thoughts, protests, regrets and, obviously, desires.

"Your office or mine?" he posed bluntly.

"Uhhhhhh," I stammered.

He laughed heartily and smacked my shoulder. The flash of heat from his touch, even through my soaked t-shirt sleeve, almost made my eyes roll back - it was enough to stop his laugh and make his gaze intense. "I was kidding about our offices."

"Whew," I mugged relief, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.

"Unless, of course . . . " he taunted me.

This time I laughed. "Hey if your office is where you want to go . . . "

He backed off, putting up his hands in surrender. "No, I think I'll pass on that. I actually live here in the Towers."

"Alone?"

"Fortunately."

He gave me the unit number, and I told him I had to go up and get my keys and would be there shortly. He countered by stepping in and, with his nose barely a hair's width from my skin, inhaling deeply at the base of my neck. "Or, we could jog over there and replenish this amazing sweat you have going there," he suggested, his breath hot against my neck, my cock straining in my gym shorts. When he added a long swipe up the artery along my neck, my body more than shivered, it spasmed.

"OH FUCK YES. Let's just go."

Halfway up Avenue of the Stars my brain overtook my cock and pushed the more recreational thoughts to the background. WHAT THE FUCK was I doing? A HOOKUP? Just like that?

YEAH! Why the FUCK not? I'm single again - or just about to be. And his ass is FINE, bouncing in those gym shorts of his. So are his muscular arms and shoulders, wide down to a narrow waist in a tight V. OH HELL YES.

We hit his building, and he carded us in. I'd never been to the Towers before, but I'd driven by them plenty of times, could just see them out the corner of my office window if I looked south instead of west toward the ocean where my gaze usually took me. We caught a couple of looks on our way to the elevator . . . a semi-hot guy who seemed to have trouble choosing which of us to ogle, and an older matron who obviously wasn't a connoisseur of sweaty men judging by her turned-up nose.

We were alone in the elevator, and Joey turned to me, leaning against the wall of the elevator, rubbing his crotch and then rubbing up his abs, pulling up his shirt, displaying a dark-furred washboard. All the while he grinned at me.

FUCKING HOT!

But once again, my brain horned in on my cock's thoughts. IT'S THE FUCKING ELEVATOR IN HIS BUILDING. SERIOUSLY?

It's fucking HOT! my cock weighed in. HE'S fucking hot!

My cock was almost fully hard, straining in my shorts. Joey's leer, looking down, was filthy . . . and . . . perfect.

It was lucky that the elevator got to our floor - which, when I quickly glanced at the display showed it was the 21st - not bad! - otherwise I might have done something which would have given the building security a show on the elevator camera that they weren't ready for. Oddly, as we followed the hall I found myself comparing this iconic building to my own top-floor loft condo in Santa Monica's Waverly. I hadn't seen the unit, but I was already awed, just being four times as far from the ground, forgetting that Century City is on a hill besides.

The loft that Jake had turned it from a possession to a home. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING? I asked myself suddenly, lagging behind Joey. I'm hooking up? My view was of Joey's amazingly well-shaped ass, and my cock said, FUCK YES you're hooking up! Why the FUCK not?

I was passing into Joey's condo then, following him, my head full of conflict. Both heads in conflict, actually. Yet my feet kept moving ahead, inside, following Joey, as he determinedly walked through the apartment leading the way.

Leading the way through a strange man's strange apartment . . . when my husband was who knows where . . .

YOUR CHEATING, LYING husband! my cock reminded me. HE'D already be naked with that stud there in front of you. Just LOOK at that ASS. It was a mighty fine ass. And it was part of a mighty fine looking stud.

Joey turned abruptly after entering a nicely sized bedroom, and he faced me with a look of total desire. "Seems like it took longer to get in here than it took to get here from the office building," he said, a little self-consciously. The self-conscious smile was an enhancement, another aspect, to his handsome-featured face.

I advanced on Joey. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward me. "Get naked!" I ordered.

He stopped, hesistated only a moment then took a stance, squaring himself, facing me, almost close enough for me to smell his sweat . . . which was heady. Then, very slowly, he pulled his tank top up and over his head. First my breath caught when I saw his big shoulders rippling and rolling, also his forearms and biceps, so defined, ripped and corded, also undulating. Then that dark-furred washboard of his abs, from his narrow waist where his dark fur promised to descend to the growing bulge in his workout shorts, and then he furred slabs of pecs, large, dark nipples appearing to dance in rolling motions as his torso moved with the shirt coming over his head, finally coming to rest in the view of his naked torso. Then he was kicking off his sneakers and thumbing down, from inside his waistband, his workout shorts and what I saw were compression briefs underneath, slowly, teasingly exposing the length of his very thick, long, veiny cock. When his head popped free it was enormous, angry purple, a wide, blunt helmet that was as formidable as my own . . . which was saying something indeed. I enjoyed again the sight of every muscle in his upper body in motion as he pushed his shorts down and then farther down his legs as he bent over, finally gaping at his developed quads as he stepped free of the shorts. To cap the performance, he held my gaze for a moment after straightening again, standing there facing me with his big hardon determinedly forward as if to indict me, then he turned slowly so his back was to me, and he bent over slowly, his feet wide apart, and pulled first one of his gym socks off, then the other, his hairy, perfectly-sculpted ass fully on display, his hole winking to me, beckoning me. Again slowly, he finally straightened, his broad back muscles all in motion, then he turned to face me, his hands resting on his hips, as if he was preparing to unbuckle his Adonis belt.

"Your turn," broke my reverie, and I actually started when he said it to me.

Without thinking more - after all, any blood previously in my brain was now filling my very hard, raging fuckbone - I followed his lead and began by pulling my t-shirt over my head and casting it aside. I knew I didn't have the body Joey did, but he seemed to appreciate my lean-muscled torso, at least based on the way his tongue slipped across his upper lip, his mouth only slightly opened. Then I toed off my shoes as I pushed down my workout shorts, pulling them out to get them free of my hardon, which surged forward and bounced in its freedom, pointing straight at Joey. His eyes widened, fixed on my huge horsecock. Then, after admiring it, obviously desiring it, he sunk to his knees, as if in reverence of it.

Joey's face was inches from my cock. I stood, waiting, the inane thought in my head that the expansive view of the city in the haze from his bedroom was nothing like ours - like mine and Jake's - from our condo overlooking the ocean. NO, MY CONDO, my inner voice reminded me. Mine before Jake, before my life changed, before everything went vivid and exciting and comfortable and great. BEFORE I WAS PLAYED FOR A FOOL AND CHEATED ON, my head reminded me, with whatever blood-deprived brainpower was there. Or maybe it was my heart, angry and hurt, abetting my brain to remind me.

I forced my focus to the hunky Italian on his knees before me. Just there, on his knees, facing my cock but doing nothing. What the fuck was that about anyway? Permission. It dawned on me that Joey was waiting for permission. Submissive. Hands behind his back, holding position. Docile. Jake would never wait, never not take what he wanted. Jake would take ME and make me take him if I wasn't already. And if I was, he'd take me right back, and we'd be a fireball of lust, together.

EXCEPT WHEN HE'S BURNING THAT FIREBALL WITH ANOTHER GUY!

"SUCK IT!" I ordered.

Joey's response was immediate, and a moan of excitement accompanied his leaning forward, the first lick of his tongue, gently, on the underside of my broad, flared head, up over my piss slit, sucking in my precum that had been accumulating there. Then he very gently engulfed my head with his lips and still lightly swirled his tongue around my head. Gently. Too gently. Jake would have taken my shaft in the firm grip of one hand, taken my big, full, hanging balls in an even firmer grip with his others, and he'd be eating my bone like it was his first meal after a fast.

I put my hands on Joey's sweaty hair, immediately startled by the unpleasant feel of some goo in it. Something like wax, maybe. I'd given up product in my hair shortly after Jake and I had become addicted to one another, before we were a couple but after we were fucking often. He sweat and showered for his job - workouts, practices, play - and when I'd asked him about it, he looked suddenly stricken and asked me if I didn't like his hair. In fact, I loved it. The short, dark blondish hair on his head and everywhere else on his body felt like something soft and comforting and welcoming and manly. I didn't even know what the dark fur on Joey's body felt like other than his gooey hair, which felt like I'd need to wash my hands before I felt the rest or it would become tacky and snarled because of the goo.

Joey was still lightly - annoyingly! - swirling his tongue over my cockhead, lips on the flare of it, only that much in him. I realized he was waiting for me to pull him down farther. Jesus!

With my hands in his gooey hair, I pulled Joey farther onto my cock, pushing my hips forward at the same time. He moaned, a higher moan than before, as I did. It wasn't a hot, manly moan; it was the moan of a bitch, ambiguous as to pleasure or reluctant submission. JUST FUCK THIS BITCH'S FACE AND MAKE HIM EAT YOUR SEED! was my cock's message. So I did.

I began fucking Joey's face, pulling out until his lips were again back at my head, then thrusting into his mouth until I was jammed at the back of his throat. He gagged - hard - when I pushed farther, but I kept on fucking his face and shoving harder against his throat every time. His gags went to sputters and gasps around my cock as I increased my demands, starting to buck and struggle a little when I pushed harder and penetrated his throat the first time and pulled out again. YEAH, THAT'S WHAT A SUBMISSIVE LITTLE COCKSUCKER IS MADE FOR!

Forcing myself was unnecessary; I was shoving my cock into his throat a few inches with each thrust, despite his near-convulsions before I'd pull it out again. My hips were being controlled by my needy nuts and eager cock. This wasn't me, I thought suddenly and briefly. And that wasn't Jake, the only man I wanted to service me, the only man I wanted to service. Yet my cock and nuts took no notice, and my hips continued to thrust. I noticed also I had Joey's gooey hair knotted in my fingers, a death grip on his head.

WHY THE FUCK WAS I HERE? I suddenly got angry. With myself, with Jake, certainly; but I was also angry with this hunk of a man who was really a pussy bitch. He was a terrible cocksucker, and he didn't know how to handle a big cock like mine. In fact, he wasn't really enjoying being used like I was using him.

WHO GIVES A FUCK? BLAST YOUR NUT AND . . .

I was fucking his face furiously, taking out my aggressions, his moans now squeals. His hands were planted on my thighs, pushing back when I shoved my raging cock down his throat. But even his grip on my thighs and force of his pushback was somehow unmanly, like a girl fighting a rapist. That just pissed me off more, and I skull-fucked that bitch hard and fast and mercilessly, ignoring the squeals and pushback and convulsions as his body struggled for air.

When I got close he was struggling constantly. I suspect it's because my fuckrod gets so much thicker right before I cum and my head becomes close to the size of a tennis ball, accounting for the even wider flange and flare of my head. I fucked his face HARDER and felt my nuts tightening as my heart heaved and ached. But I pushed on - literally - and when I was just there, I planted myself in his throat, shoving his face HARD into my sweaty pubes, feeling his nose jammed against me and began unloading in him.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" I screamed, more in frustration than release. My nuts pumped. Joey gagged and struggled, his screams muffled, his throat gulping. I felt tears on my cheeks.

I suddenly realized Joey's struggling was becoming weaker, his moaning or screaming almost mute now. I'd certainly stopped my unloading, and I pushed him off me hard and fast, feeling him even limper in my grasp than he'd been while I used his mouth.

Joey slumped back, gasped a little and then gasped in a huge breath. I saw his face was bluish. JESUS! I'd almost suffocated the bitch!

Getting my fingers out of his hair brought a grimace to his face - that goo stuck and make it difficult - and when I was finally free he slumped back and then fell onto his side on the floor. Before I could even form the thought to wonder what the fuck I'd done to him, he gasped out, "That . . . was fu . . . king . . . great." I looked down at him, laying there, and then something caught my eye. As I looked nearer, I saw cum on the floor and followed it to my socks and legs. The bitch had cum at some point from the rough treatment I'd given him.

My stomach lurched, full of revulsion. I had no idea if it was he or if it was my own actions, but I was disgusted. My cock was going limp, my dregs dripping everywhere as I hurriedly got into my workout shorts and shoes and grabbed my shirt and headed for his door, not caring one bit that my cumdregs were showing on my shorts and his cum was splattered all over my legs.

"HEY WAIT," he weakly called behind me, and I heard sounds to indicate he was struggling to his feet. "You don't have to go. You can fuck me." I sped up my pace to the door. "You can use me like that anytime, stud," he called as I got his complicated locks open on his door - funny to have so many locks on the door in a secure building like this, I thought, and I hadn't noticed them before when we got there - and didn't even go to the elevator for fear he'd follow me.

I saw the EXIT sign with its arrow pointing to what I hoped would be the stairwell door and crashed through the door, indeed finding the stairs. YOU'RE ON THE 21ST FLOOR GENIUS, my brain chided me as I headed down, fast and careless, stumbling twice on the painted cement stairs and catching myself by slamming off the pipe rail, both times before I even got to 20.

My tears were flowing now - full force. I hadn't felt that since my brother had died, killed in a stupid war for ungrateful people half a world away from me and my family. As I stumbled and fell and found my footing barely over and over, I descended, all the while feeling my heart breaking for my brother . . . and for myself.

Somehow I got to the ground level and burst out into the hazy sunshine with only minor scrapes and ankle twists. And then I was running - not jogging but running full out - around the building, hoping I was going toward an exit to Avenue of the Stars, momentarily relieved when I found it and then full-out again, back toward my building.

I'd had to go back up to my office because my security key was all I had with me. I'd grabbed my phone and keys and hurried back down, taking only passing notice that a couple of others in the firm were there and had seen me run in and out, only one having called to me to see if everything was okay as I ran out again. Racing out of the garage I burned rubber on the Avenue and suddenly realized I needed to get a grip. Mercifully the light at Santa Monica was red, so I had a moment to collect myself. It was then that I took some breaths, took stock and knew what I'd do, not just where I was going.

When I got to my building and into the garage, my suspicion was confirmed. Jake's ridiculous Ferrari was still there. Ridiculous because he was so big, and it was so tight to get into. But he loved that car. And, sadly, I loved him . . . more than anything.

I got to my loft atop the building and found Jake, who'd obviously been miserable, suddenly now looking surprised and hopeful, yet wary as I burst into the condo. I stalked up to him until I was standing right in front of him where he sat on the big, tufted-leather ottoman as big as a table that I'd first laughed at my decorator when he'd bought it . . . and then laughed again after Jake and I discovered its amazing use as a fuckstation, as we called it. Him on all fours, perfect height, both of us with the vast view of the ocean if we were cognizant of anything but our fucking.

Jake was sitting there on the ottoman, hunched over, his big, broad shoulders slumped as he leaned on his arms on his muscular legs.  There was his big travel bag beside him, and had been crying. It was obvious from his puffy, red eyes. He looked up at me pathetically. Suddenly though I saw his reaction, his face changing to alertness, processing. He'd smelled the sex on me. He slowly turned his gaze back, lowered his head, breathing in deeply, leaning in, inhaling, then looking up at me.

I was ashamed. I was full of regret and remorse for having done it. It was such a tacky thing to do, so tawdry and so totally unworthy of my mournful sorrow for what Jake had done to us. But when I looked down, Jake was grinning up at me.

The immediate thought I had was to SLAP him HARD. What the fuck, anyway? Jesus how could he have done that to us and then, now, be smirking because he knew I'd been with someone else. Both of those enraged me, and I think he knew that, too, looking up at me. "Do it!" he said simply, the grin gone.

"I already did!" I shouted down at him.

"No, I know that. And I know we're not even. So do what you have to . . . to me." He paused, his look intense, pleading. "Punch me, kick me or slap me around," he pleaded. And then, "Just don't leave me," he finished in a small voice like I'd only heard once, when he'd been injured badly and was afraid his career would be over. "HIT ME!" he screamed up at me.

I wanted to. God knows I wanted to make him hurt like he'd hurt me. But I didn't hit. He was the scrapper; I was the thinker. We were in many ways our yin and yang yet also very much the same in others. I pulled him to his feet, and he looked down at me, steeled for a punch. "Can we fix this?" I heard myself ask, not at all what I'd expected I'd say, none of the wrath or catharsis I had intended.

His tears were rolling down both cheeks as he stood there facing me pitifully. "I don't know, Eth," he choked out. And then he was sobbing, and I had him in my arms. "I just know I couldn't leave without doing something to show you that this is the only life I want - you're my whole life, Eth. But I didn't know what to do. I couldn't think of what to do. I just was sitting here, paralyzed, knowing that if I left my world would go dark. I'm so sorry, Eth. It's never happened before. And I promise I'll never do it again. I love you, Ethan, more than anything in the world. You've changed my whole life - you've given me a life - and please, babe, PLEASE know I'll spend the rest of our lives making up for what I did. I'm so very sorry."

It couldn't be this easy. Could it? I held the man I love in my arms as he cried, and then I was crying, too. The pain was deep and sharp; but I was the only place I could ever hope to find solace. That was the truth of it. And as long as that was the truth, this was where we both had to be. So I hoped we could fix it . . . for both of us.

* * * * * A little over five months later * * * * *

The announcer was calling the lineup on opening day. Before he even called Jake's name, the stadium went wild. "And now last year's World Series MVP, our own -" The rest of his announcement, Jake's name, was drowned out by everyone in the stands going nuts. Sitting behind home plate, with the other spouses and girlfriends and, yes, even one boyfriend, several of the women tousled my hair or hugged me from behind and my sides, one enthusiastic wife reached back to pat me and got a handful of my crotch by accident. She looked stricken . . . then appreciative, and she gave me a wink.

Jake and I had put that bad Saturday morning behind us. We even had a few laughs about how lousy the men were we'd had sex with. "Well, you SAW the pic he texted me, Eth. I mean, trust me - that hole wasn't newly stretched!" Poor guy.

A few weeks afterward I'd finally built up the courage to ask Jake if it had been about topping. We'd fallen into a pattern, a mold really, where I topped and Jake bottomed. It was difficult for me to broach the subject of anything potentially not perfect about our sex together - for me it was perfect. Jake was an energetic and always-willing partner, often the initiator and aggressor - he just had always wanted me to fuck him. Jake confessed that he'd fucked the guy because he wanted it and because no way he would have let the guy fuck him - that was for US, he told me. And I could tell from his teary eyes that he meant it.

After we'd talked it through, I'd gotten him to fuck me . . . there on that ottoman which had seen so much action with me doing the fucking, to make that OURS too, completely, both the flipping and another christening of the ottoman.  But I could tell for him he really wanted me to be inside him despite giving it his all - he really fucked the daylights out of me, actually, and I was seeing stars before it was over . . . but it really wasn't quite right. Then since then we'd laughed about that, too. We were laughing before we got to our bathroom to shower up . . . well, he was laughing more than me, laughing at me limping my sore, thrash-fucked ass down the hall.

We laugh a lot, like we always have.

Jake's first swing caught the fastball perfectly, and he knocked it into the outfield bleachers about halfway up. I, along with everyone else, was on my feet screaming and pumping my fist in the air, hugging and getting hugged by bouncing breasts all around me, high-fiving everyone around, tears embarrassingly running down my face . . . but I wasn't embarrassed at all. When Jake was about two-thirds of the way from third to home he looked right at me and blew me a kiss with both hands then did an airborne fist-pump and crossed the plate. He blew me another kiss as he turned toward the dugout, before he went out of view below.

And then I was laughing like a hysterical fool, laughing through my tears, as I clapped for my husband . . . and for our life together.