Not Becoming a Slut Wife – Jessie

I’ve read many stories about men discovering their wives were less than faithful. After twenty years of marriage they find that wifey has the moral scruples of an alley cat. She invariably claims to love only him. She never deprived him of anything. It was only sex with the other men. Etc, etc, ad nausea. I’ve often wondered: why didn’t she tell him in advance? Why didn’t he know in advance anyway that his future partner preferred her sex wholesale and he could only offer retail?

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I met Jessie in my second year of college – at a fraternity party, it was. Off in a corner someplace there were five or six of us playing some dumb-ass drinking game. Don’t ask what game it was. It was just some stupid excuse to get shit-faced as quickly as possible.

Jessie wandered into the party late. Don’t know if she came with a brother or if she just crashed the thing. She asked if she could join the game, so five or six became six or seven.

I didn’t know her. Heck I’d never seen her before to the best of my knowledge. But she was interesting to me. Not a great looker. Average; almost any guy would say she was average. At least until you looked into her eyes.

A deep look into those baby blues were enough to convince you that this was a woman who loved to fuck. Look again and you realize that it is you that she wants to fuck. Well, maybe the other couple of guys playing the game thought that she wanted to fuck them. But I knew that her ‘fuck-me’ look was just for me.

Heck, I was young, dumb, and full of cum. If I knew then what I know now, I would have figured out that ‘the look’ was essentially an open invitation to any and all people sitting there, regardless of race, color, creed, gender, or sexual orientation. Jessie was an equal opportunity fuckee.

After several rounds of the game, during which I consumed more than my share of that piss-flavored beer they always used to tap at our fraternity parties, I finally cut Jessie off from the pack with the aid of a (phony) slight stumble, during which I put my arm around her waist to ‘steady’ myself, and at the same time turned Jessie away from the group of six or seven, pulling her adroitly into a corner where there were now only two.

“Wow”, she said. “You did that so well I was almost convinced that you really were starting to fall down. I give you a 9.5, but the East German judge gave you a 4.0, she thinks you suck.”

I was drunk enough to raise my eyebrows. “The East German judge would be correct. But only with the right girl.”

Her eyes flashed with something. Amusement? Lust? I wasn’t exactly in the state to judge such nuances. Christ, I’m not sure she was in the state to exhibit such nuances.

Her eyes sent some sort of signal. My eyes received the signal. I hadn’t the foggiest notion what that signal represented. Maybe the rest of me was clueless, but my dick seemed to get the picture pretty quickly. Of its own accord it quickly inflated and pointed directly in the direction of Jessie, as if it were saying ‘GO FORTH AND OCCUPY!’

It being a fraternity party, I was dressed in a starched white long-sleeved oxford shirt, a paisley tie with a Windsor knot, and my all white, Fruit of the Loom undies. When my dick announced its intentions, Jessie got the picture immediately.

‘My dick to her eyes’ communication had the wonderful advantage of cutting out the middle man. All of those messy words: the flirty talk, the slightly blue innuendos, the veiled suggestions, the begging; all of those verbal things designed to prolong the agony were bypassed just by Jessie watching my dick display its growing interest.

I was too drunk to be embarrassed. I saw her looking at my dick. She saw me see her looking at my dick. I raised my eyebrows slightly while kind of hunching my shoulders in a kind of question: well? I saw her shudder just a bit, then her head tilted slightly forward. I had my answer.

I reached out and took her hand. I slowly pulled her towards the stairs leading to the living quarters in the house, through the dancers, the drunken sots weaving to a music of their own, past the bat cave, uh, house mother’s room. When I got to the stairs I pulled harder, moved faster. Soon we were dashing up the stairs. I flung open the door, pulled her down the hallway to Room 6;that was my room, Room 6.

I slid the door open. Thank God my roommate was not there, nor was any of the sundry brothers and pledges who didn’t live in the house but sometimes absconded with a bedroom for nefarious purposes of their own. The playing field was clear.

I pulled her in, closing and locking the door behind her. Then all hell broke loose. Jessie was tearing off her clothes like a madwoman. I couldn’t untie that fucking Windsor knot. I was able to loosen it enough to take the shirt off with the tie still on by wriggling my head through the narrow loop. I slipped out of my trusty Fruit Of the Looms almost fast enough to gain a tie with Jessie in the sprint to my bed.

My hands explored her body, but not gently. I was too drunk to massage her, caress her, feel her, work her up. Mostly I was interested in the state of her pussy. Wet, not wet? Ready, not ready? (It had better be fuckin’ ready!) Judge not lest ye be judged, dear reader! I was dead drunk and horny. I ask you, who is sensitive under those circumstances?

And anyway, my instincts were right on the mark. She was as drunk and as horny as I was. We didn’t have to waste time on that boring old foreplay shit. My dick searched for and found the entrance to little miss Jessie’s holy of holies and dove right in.

Oh yeah! That snug, warm, wet, cunt: I decided to name it Ruffles, cause it surely had ridges.

As I bottomed out the first time, Jessie seemed to be achieving what we in polite circles refer to as a climax. Now I’ve been with more than a few (but less than a lot of) girls before. And I’ve been extremely happy just to have them cum at all. Assuming they did cum at all and were not just pretending so that I could get off of them and they could go to sleep. Yes, it’s true: my psyche is a steaming swamp of insecurity.

Anyway, I’d never had someone cum on the first stroke before. And while with every other girl I’ve been with, the orgasm was the finish line, with Jessie that orgasm was like the starting gun. AND THEY’RE OFF!

Jessie wasn’t beautiful by any criteria: average face, mousy hair, rather slim body with no outstanding protuberances. But she exuded sex. Nine out of ten men would walk past more beautiful women just for a shot at Jess. And it all came into play when she fucked.

God what a fuck! Maybe it was the beer (almost certainly it was the beer), but in spite of her wonderful hands that roamed freely, her marvelous skin that seemed electric to the touch, her clingy, clasping glove of a pussy; yes despite all of this, somehow I was able to hang on. Somehow I was able to pound her and pound her and pound her. I was able to fuck her until she was begging for mercy. Christ, of course it was the beer.

Jessie slipped from orgasm to orgasm, each one more extreme, more vocal than the last. Suddenly she was screaming!

“Fuck me! Oh, God, fuck me! Fuck me you fucker! God I’m gonna cum again. I’m CUMMING, Christ I’m CUMMING”!, and other such outrageous but stimulating nonsense. I’m telling you, that evening with Jessie cemented my reputation. At the end I injected her with a load of extremely agitated sperm about equal to the volume of liquid in the Suez Canal. Or maybe a teaspoon full. Somewhere in between, maybe.

We finally emerged from the room in a disheveled state of disrepair and staggered down the steps. When we reached the first floor I realized that the whole room was totally silent. Suddenly there was an explosion of cheers as my fraternity brothers voiced their admiration. The president of the house walked up to me, solemnly shook my hand and said, “You are my hero.”

Looking back on one’s life, there are probably only one or two occasions when one has done something truly extraordinary. For some people it never happens. But when it happens, when that desperation shot falls into the hoop in front of the crazed home crowd with the league title on the line, when against all logic the head cheerleader agrees to go to the prom with you even though you are one of the biggest dorks in the school, when one of those rare magical moments occur; well, for a short period of time you are a god. I was a god! I was the god of sex.

Jessie made a pretty good impression on me that night. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know her name was Jessie till I walked her back to her dorm room. She had hardly said anything at all to me, come to that. She had said a few words to me just before I took her upstairs, then I had heard a bunch of phrases that generally went something like: ‘fuck me you fucker’ and variations thereof.

Still, I liked her. I liked her enough that I wanted to continue to fuck her as often as I could until she got tired of me or until I died of fucking. I was sure those were the only possible outcomes of our relationship. But I was okay with that. I just wanted to knock off as many pieces of ass that Jess would allow me until the inevitable end of things, whatever that might be.

I knew it would come to an end eventually. I just didn’t expect it to take two years.

We had been dating kinda, sorta, exclusively for two years now. By that I mean that Saturday night was always reserved for each other. I’d call her or she’d call me and we’d ask, “What are we doing Saturday night?” It wasn’t, “Are you available on Saturday?” We were understood to be Saturday partners.

It was the rest of the week that we weren’t exclusive. I had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy with Jessie. I really didn’t want to know about her love-life beyond me. I figured that we remained on an even keel by dating once-a-week.

We didn’t have sex once-a-week, though. It was always at least two times, sometimes three. But those two or three times were encompassed in one continuous time period.

I didn’t see her on a Tuesday for a quickie or to take her to McDonald’s. I didn’t see her on Thursday to go to the movies and/or knock off a quickie. I didn’t go to church with her on Sunday morning and then have a leisurely Sunday afternoon fuck.

Saturday was our day.

How did I feel about her? I loved her. We had long, interesting conversations between bouts of sex. She made me laugh. To me she was beautiful in that plain, ‘I love to fuck’ way. It’s a very attractive trait for a woman to have, loving to fuck. When I get married, it’s one of the primary traits I’m going to look for in a wife.

So, I loved her. We got along good out of bed. She loved to fuck. I want to marry a girl that loves to fuck. Ergo, I was going to ask Jessie to marry me, right?

Wrong.

Jessie loved to fuck too much for my tastes. One might say, “It’s impossible for a woman to love to fuck too much.” And one would be incorrect.

It was always my feeling that the act of fucking was what Jessie really liked, what was really important to her. The actual person who was slipping the wood to her was of lesser concern.

I don’t mean she didn’t pay attention to my needs when we fucked. I just mean that I suspected she wasn’t too particular about who she was fucking. I’m pretty sure that she wanted that person to have a dick. But maybe a strap-on would do just fine for Jessie. I didn’t know. I didn’t care, really.

It wasn’t my concern. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

I made no promises to her. I asked no promises of her. We didn’t have some kind of exclusivity clause in our contract. We didn’t have a contract. I didn’t give her my fraternity pin (though she kinda hinted that she’d like to have it). She wasn’t wearing a ring.

She was mine and I was hers; on Saturday night. That was our contract.

And so it came to pass that on a cold wintry Saturday night several weeks before Christmas break, Jessie came unto me and dropped her bombshell. Well, she didn’t literally come unto me. She came. Then she came a few more times. Then I came. And that’s when she dropped her bombshell.

“Honey”, she said. “We need to talk.”

I must have looked as dumb as I felt. “Talk”, I asked dimly. “About what?”

I had a suspicion that the other shoe, that had been firmly suspended in mid-air for a long, long time, was about to drop.

“You”, she said. “Me. I want to talk about you and me.”

I had no choice but to be oblique. This is a conversation I had been hoping to avoid until we got a lot closer to our graduation. I like getting laid two or three times every Saturday! Who needs to muddy the waters with talk?

“What do you mean, you and me?” As if I didn’t know.

“Honey, it’s time for me to start thinking long-term. If I had my choice, I’d prefer to think long-term with you.”

She appeared a bit trepidacious, as if she were afraid of my reaction to a touchy subject. Heck, she had every right to be trepidacious. I was trepidacious, too.

There didn’t seem to be any way around it. We might as well get it off our plate. Maybe Saturdays weren’t a total lost cause.

“Jessie, tell me what you are thinking. Then we’ll talk about it.”

Jessie took a deep breath. And then she began:

“Baby, we only meet on Saturdays. I suppose you’ve been wondering what it is that I do the rest of the time?”

Don’t ask. Don’t tell. I didn’t particularly want to know what she did the rest of the time. I had a pretty good theory, but preferred it to remain in the theoretical stage. What was I supposed to do? I shrugged my shoulders, indicating that I wasn’t very excited about learning this. She chose to ignore my indifference.

“Baby, I’m sure you know by now, I like sex. I like it so much that I could do it all day long, only taking breaks to eat enough to get my strength up for the next round. I like sex.”

So tell me something I don’t already know! “Jessie”, I said. “I know how much you like sex. I’ve known it from the day I met you. It’s okay with me that you like sex. I like sex, too.”

“Baby, I’m afraid you don’t appreciate the depth of my commitment to sex. We make love a few times every Saturday, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. You push all my buttons, baby. No one has ever been able to make love to me like you do.”

I knew what was coming. I set the stage. “Thanks Jess. Somehow I get the feeling that there is a ‘but’ coming up.”

She looked a tag guilty but intrepidly dove back into the verbal waters. “But… You give me quality. You give me really good quality. But I’ve got to be honest with you baby. I need quantity as well. I need to get laid every day. Every day isn’t enough, really. If I can arrange to get laid several times a day, that will keep me on an even keel. That way I’m not needy and wanting and messing up the seat in my English class with certain female fluids.”

“Crap, Jessie that is an image I didn’t need.”

“But I need to be honest with you baby. I could never not tell you the truth.”

“Hey, Jess. We’ve gone a couple of years without my knowing the truth. Why do you feel the need for this confession today?”

“Yes, baby. But our relationship has always been informal. I know you weren’t ready to be tied down, so I never pressured us to be anything more than what we have been. But baby, it’s getting late. We’re seniors. You’ve never even met my parents. I was hoping you could come to my house for Christmas. I was hoping that we could talk about moving our relationship to the next level. Maybe we should even be thinking about marriage.”

I looked down to see if I had pissed my pants.

I hate it when I’m right.

I knew the answer to my next question, but I had to ask it anyway. It’s a matter of form.

“If we expanded our relationship, how would that affect your other encounters?” I thought ‘encounters’ was a pretty classy way to say ‘fucks’.

She rushed ahead. “The more you give me, baby, the less I’m going to need on the side. I can only take one cock at a time, after all.” She looked confused and then guilty.

“Well, I usually can only take one cock at a time. Maybe a few times a week I take more than one cock at a time; sometimes consecutively and sometimes simultaneously. But that only happens maybe on Sundays and sometimes on Wednesdays if I can cut my afternoon classes. Those times wouldn’t put any dent into our relationship. Honest baby.

“And you know, baby, those other guys and girls, they don’t mean anything to me. They give me what I need and I forget about them. It’s only sex, baby. You are my guy.”

Damn, I knew she was making it with girls. That’s something I’d like to see. But I guess that is a pipedream.

“Jessie, we have a problem here. The problem is I was born to that portion of the animal kingdom that has evolved a spine. Call me a male chauvinist pig. Call me unreasonable. Call it stupid male ego. But I don’t share.”

She looked stricken. “But baby it isn’t sharing! It’s just something that I have an overabundance of: pussy. I promise to give you all the pussy any man could ever want. Any time, any way; if you can get it up, I will take it. I promise you will never hear ‘not tonight, I’ve got a headache’ from me, baby. From a man’s point of view, I don’t think there is any more pussy than that. And anyway, how would it differ from now? You’ve been sharing for two years. How is this any different?”

I shock my head sadly. “Jess, we haven’t been in a committed relationship. I never demanded fidelity because I knew you were incapable of it. That’s why I didn’t pin you; that’s why I didn’t ask you to marry me. I know you love me. You know I love you. But a committed relationship between the two of us is doomed from the start. It just won’t work.”

Jessie started to cry. I guess she had real hope that I would buy into a committed relationship with a slut. I never gave any indication that I would, so I don’t know why she thought that. I mean, I love the chick, but I’m not crazy!

But I had a solution already in mind. I had a contingency plan already in place in case Jessie started to get serious about me.

I put my arm around her and hugged her to my chest. She continued to cry for a little bit, but I’m not sure this wasn’t all part of some elaborate act to see if she could achieve through tears what she couldn’t achieve using words. Woman can all fall back on that if they have to.

“Jessie, don’t cry! It will be alright. It’s just that I am incapable of living the kind of lifestyle that you require from a man. You need to find a person who likes that kind of lifestyle. Be assured that such men (and I use the term guardedly) do exist. In fact, I know a guy who would be perfect for you.”

Jess wiped away some of the tears. “You do? How could you? How could any man be willing to share me with dozens of men a week?”

“Dozens”, I asked? ‘Dozens’ I said to myself? Wow. Jessie is even a bigger slut that I thought she was.

She nodded almost pridefully. “Dozens” she acknowledged. “But I swear to you, baby, I’ve only done more than a hundred in a week once or twice. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of whore.”

No, I wouldn’t think that. “More than a hundred? How could you fuck more than a hundred men in a week?”

She looked smug. “Well one week I had two gang bangs with about thirty guys each. I’m not sure really because I wasn’t counting that closely after a while. Some of them might have slipped back for seconds or thirds. And of course that same week I did the football team. I refused to be a stuck-up bitch and only do the varsity. So I did the JV team, the trainers, the coaches, and all of the cheerleaders, too.”

“I’m glad you aren’t stuck-up, Jessie. That just wouldn’t be right.” Christ what a slut!

“Yes, baby. That’s how I felt about it too. But you were saying that you knew someone who wants a girl with my particular qualifications? What’s he like. Is he some dweeb, or is he a nice guy?”

“Jessie, he’s very nice. He just has this little thing. He likes his women to be promiscuous. If he found someone like you, Jess, he’d go nuts.

“And you know, Jessie, he likes cream pies.”

“Cream pies”, she asked?

“Yes cream pies. He likes to go down on girls who have just been fucked by other men.”

Here eyes lit up. “Oooh, kinky!”

“So what do you think, Jess? Should I introduce you to this guy?”

“What’s his name, baby?”

“Bob. His name is Bob.”

She frowned. “That doesn’t sound very exciting. Bob? Not Rob; Robbie; Roberto? That would make him sound so much sexier.”

“Sorry Jessie. His name is just plain Bob.”