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Message-ID: <36465asstr$1021255802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: sandia@texas.net
Subject: {ASSM} "Fallen," by Sandia  M(M)F   Cheat
Date: Sun, 12 May 2002 22:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


This story is intended to defile the youth, corrupt the innocent, and bring a 
plague of rats down upon your houses.  If you don't want to read this kind of 
story, stop reading now.

It has some hanky, some panky, and a bit of spanky too, but mostly it's about a 
man whose wife is cheating on him, and the strange way her outside relationship 
works itself into in her marriage.  There's also some naughty words.

YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

If you're still here, thank you.  If you like this story, please write me.  I 
love to hear from folks.  

Sandia.
sandia@texas.net


Fallen 					Part I

"Michael," she said, "We didn't have sex."  Her gaze shifted to somewhere over 
my right shoulder.  "Not really."  

"Not really?"  I stared at her.  I was standing in my own living room, a 
crumpled note clenched in my hand, asking my wife a question I couldn't believe 
I had to ask.

She stared back at me, and I watched a debate go on behind her eyes.

"You have to understand," she said.  "I did it for us..." Her voice trailed off, 
and then she found it again.  "For the baby."

I glanced at my wife's belly.  She was pregnant, though not showing yet.  "For 
the baby?"  I realized my voice was rising.

"Michael, please," she said.  "Don't be like that."  

I started to turn away from her, not knowing where to go.  "It's not the same," 
she insisted from behind me.  She continued.  "It's not the same as - with you -
 with us."

That's what got to me.  "With me," I thought, "It's not the same with me."  I 
stood there, trying to get a grip on things.  I felt like I was floating out in 
the room somewhere, looking down on me.  

"Michael."  She was standing next to me.  I could feel her blouse brush against 
my arm, her small breasts beneath the fabric.  She touched my wrist.  I could 
hear her breathing.  

"Michael, please," she said.  "Look at me."  Her eyes were bloodshot, wet.  She 
looked at me pleadingly.

"I don't enjoy this," she said.  "I didn't enjoy - it."

"Don't enjoy it?"  I was mocking her now, my voice two octaves above its usual 
tone.

"Michael!"  She inhaled, and then repeated herself.  "I did it - for us."  She 
paused, looking.  Then, in a different tone of voice:  "Michael, there was no 
promotion." 

I looked at her.  "You blew him, didn't you?"  

She was staring at me, her lips slightly parted.  Her face began to flush.  She 
started to say something, to reproach me maybe, when suddenly I pushed her, 
hard away from me.  She stumbled, tripped and fell, tearing her skirt in the 
process.

I was standing over her, fists clenched.  I'd started toward her without 
thinking, not knowing what I was about to do.  She lay on the carpet, head 
bowed.  I couldn't see her face, but I could tell she was crying for real, 
now.  "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm so, so sorry."

I stood over her, clenching and unclenching my fists, wondering what to do.    

"Michael, I never wanted you to know.  I never wanted it."

I was struggling with myself, feeling like a stranger, an alien living in 
someone else's body.  "You said," she said.  I could barely make out her 
words.  "You said... we couldn't make it work."  She looked up at me.  "You said."

I shook my head.  She rose awkwardly to her hands and knees.  

"I never wanted to hurt you," she said.  "You know... how much I love you."  She 
clasped my knees, pressing her face against me.  "Please don't go."  She held 
me like that while I tried to convince myself to turn away, to leave.  My body 
was betraying me.    

"Michael," she said.  She held me for a moment, wiping her tears against my 
jeans.  "I can... I can make it up to you."  

She wasn't wearing much make-up, but what she had had run all down her face.  
Her hair was a tangled mess.  Her eyes were bright.  

Misreading my face, she brought her hands up to my waist.  "I can," she said.  
I could see her tongue touch her lower lip as she fingered the clasp of my 
jeans.  She'd stopped crying now.

"I don't know why," she said, "I wouldn't before."  She glanced up at me.  "I 
guess I was embarrassed.  And after..." She unhooked the clasp and pulled.  "I 
guess I was afraid you'd wonder."

My cock was swaying lewdly in front of her face, but she didn't shy away from 
it.  She turned her face to it.  I touched her cheeks, her eyelids.  "I know," 
she said, "this is something you've always wanted me to do."  She glanced up, 
and then she started kissing me.  She kissed her way from the bottom to the 
top, and then swallowed my head, and started sucking gently.  

I'd never been in her mouth before.  I have to say it was wonderful: soft, 
moist, warm.  Standing there like that, with the afternoon sun streaming in 
through the living room windows, watching my wife go down on me, I had that 
sensation again, like I was standing in another man's place.

"Wait.  I don't want you to finish here."  She held me firmly by my cock, and 
wiped away a viscous, glistening strand from her face.  She looked out the 
window, where the sun was setting.  "Let's go into the bedroom."

Once she was sure I wasn't going to cum, she released me.  She shed her torn 
skirt and blouse on the way to the bedroom, and then paused at the doorway, 
smiling over her shoulder.

"C'mon," she said.  I followed.

She had me lie down on my back, and then she climbed on top of me.  She kissed 
my ear, and neck, and throat.  "Michael," she whispered, "Do you want to cum in 
my mouth, or in my pussy?"  I groaned.  I wanted to cum in her mouth.  She 
knelt between my legs and started on me again.  Every once in a while she would 
stop, and grip me with her hand again, like she had before, to prevent me from 
coming.

Soon I couldn't stand it anymore.  I was begging her to let me cum.  "Please 
don't stop!"  

She gripped me fiercely, and put her finger to her lips.  "Shh."  She was 
wearing a powder blue bra I'd given her for her birthday.  She watched me, 
breathing.  

Finally she let go, climbed on top of me, and sank herself on me in one long 
fluid motion.  She flung her head back, and was going down again when I started 
to cum.  It seemed to go on and on, but through the whole time I watched her.  
Her mouth open, her eyes closed, she twisted her hips on me, forcing me up into 
her as far as I would go.  

Afterwards, I was exhausted.  I didn't want to think anymore.  I lied beside 
her, with her cheek pressed against my arm.  After a little while, I reached 
for her, but she turned away.  

"Michael," she said, "Do you believe me?"  I turned my head. 

Finally, she asked again.  "Michael?"

I shut my eyes. 

She got up, heading for the bathroom.  

"Maria!" I said.  "How long?"

She paused.  "Not long," she said.  She shut the door.

"Maria!"

I went to the door, and knocked.  She wouldn't answer.

I banged on the door.  It was locked.  "Maria!"  I heard water running.

"I'm brushing my teeth," she said.  "Wait for me."

I leaned against the door.

I heard the toilet lid.  "Do you think I like this?  I don't like this, 
Michael!"  It sounded like she was crying.

"Maria, we need to talk."  After a moment, I heard the toilet flush.

"I'm taking a shower, Michael.  I'll be out in a minute."

I went and sat down on the bed.

She came of the bathroom maybe fifteen minutes later.  She had on two towels, 
one wrapped around her middle, the other around her hair.  She smiled 
tremulously.  "Michael, this isn't easy for me," she said.  I made a face at 
her.  She knelt down, putting her hand on mine.  She bent her head.  "I know 
it's not easy for you either."  Water was dripping onto my lap.  She was not 
quite dry.  She looked up.  All the makeup was gone.  Her face was clean.  "Can 
you forgive me?"  What I said next was the absolute truth.

"Maria, I love you more than anything."  She smiled, and hugged me.  I was 
feeling bad already.  She held me, nuzzling my face.

"Michael," she said, whispering, "You know I didn't finish before."

"Maria..."

"I know, I know," she said.  "We will later, I promise.  But."  She loosened 
her towel.  She licked her lips.  "I'm really, really ready."  I was surprised 
at myself.  I was hard again already.

There were things I was going to say, demands I was going to make.

She put her hand on my chest, and gently pushed me back.  She climbed on top of 
me, her hair dripping around my face.  She kissed me.  

There was no sign she'd been crying.  

She kissed me again.  

"I was thinking about you in the shower," she said.  She let the towel fall 
open.  Water was dripping down onto my belly.  She continued to kiss me.  She 
reached downward, stroking me.  "I can see you're ready too."  I could taste 
the peppermint from the toothpaste she'd used inside my mouth.  She kissed me 
hard and longingly.

She fucked me from on top again, like she had before.  I watched her, bouncing 
up and down on me.  Before I could cum, though, she stopped, and leaned down on 
me.  "Michael," she asked, "could you - could you do something for me?"  She 
brushed her cheek against mine.  "Could you eat me?"  She'd never asked that 
before, though I would have.  I would have been happy to.

She climbed off, and straddled my head, gripping the bedpost.  

She was wet, from the shower, and from herself.  She smelled like scented soap, 
and like sex.  Her curls were glistening wet.  Little beads of water were 
forming there.  It took us a little while to find our rhythm.  She gave 
directions.  "No," she said, and, "Yes, like that."  She moved around on top of 
me, and I found the place she liked.  

When she came, she cried out.  "Oh yes!  Oh yes, Michael, oh, God, yes!"

Afterwards I asked her if she'd liked it.  She stroked my chest.  "Yes, 
Michael, more than you could know.  Thank you."  I smiled.

That night I had a dream.  In my dream I was standing in the hallway leading to 
John's office.  I was standing there alone, but I knew that they were in 
there.  I was by the door.  It was a heavy wooden door, I knew that from when I 
worked there, and I stood there, listening.  I couldn't hear anything.  The 
handle on the door was steel.  I was expecting, I think, an electric shock when 
I touched it.  Instead, I had the sensation like I was falling.  I touched it, 
and it began to turn.  I watched it turning, and then the door slid silently 
open, slowly.  First she was on her knees in front of him.  He was leaning 
against his desk, his trousers around his ankles.  She was licking him, and in 
my dream, his cock was huge.  She didn't look at me.  Then she was lying on the 
desk.  She was wearing a whore's outfit; black stockings, a black corset that 
stopped below her breasts.  I could see her pussy clearly.  Then he was pushing 
inside her, his cock disappearing into her cunt.  She turned her face to me, 
her lips smeared with his cum.  "Oh, yes!" she moaned, "Oh God, yes!"

Around three am, I woke up, and looked over at my wife.  She was sleeping on 
her back, her face turned to one side, breathing lightly.  She was wearing a 
light satin nightie.  I could see her nipples pushing up against the dress.  I 
pulled away the covers, examining her body.  The hem of her dress just followed 
the declivity between her legs.  Her lips moved.  I wondered if she was talking 
in her sleep.  There was a breeze coming through the windows. 

When I touched her there, she sighed, and turned her head.  When I lifted her 
hem, I saw her lips move.  When I examined her, I marveled at how beautiful she 
was.  She said something, indistinguishable, in her sleep, and I lifted her 
legs apart, positioning myself between them.  Still she did not wake.  Only 
when I entered her did she cry out.  I entered her fully and completely, 
stopping only when I touched the very bottom.  On the third stroke, I stopped, 
and holding her face in my hands.  "You didn't fuck him, did you?"  

Her eyes glittered.  I think I may have been hurting her.  

"No, Michael," she said.  "Only you."

On the fourth stroke, she wrapped her legs around me, and began to moan.


In the morning, in the kitchen, she wore a light summer housedress.  I watched 
her making breakfast over coffee and a glass of juice.  In the morning light, I 
could clearly see her figure through the thin cotton print.  She reached, to 
get the box of sugar high up in the cupboard, and the hem rose well up on her 
hips.  

"Did you talk to Maynard?" she asked.  I nodded, and then grunted yes, and she 
started talking about doctors.  She was excited about seeing a "real" one, she 
said.

One the way out the door, she stopped me, and rose on tippy - toe to kiss me.  
I put my arm around her.  "I love you," she said.  "You better," I said.  It 
was an old joke between us.  I waved to our neighbor on my way out to the car.

"Michael," she had said, "I liked what you did to me last night."  She had 
smiled.  I had smiled back.


That afternoon I sat at my desk.  Honestly, there wasn't a lot of work to do.  
I should have stayed home with Maria.  At about three, my sister called.  She'd 
broken up with her latest girlfriend.  She was worried she'd never have a 
baby.  She was thirty-one, the same age as my wife.  

I told her about Maria.  When I was done, she said nothing for a while.  Then 
she sighed.  "I don't know what to tell you, Mike," she said.  "She is right 
about one thing, though.  This doesn't change her.  Sex is not the same as 
love."

After I hung up, I stared at my desk for a while.  Then I signed a check to the 
IRS and went home.

Maria wasn't there.  It was a little after four.  She hadn't said anything 
about going anywhere.  I watched a game on TV, with the sound on mute.  I 
couldn't really concentrate.  

When she came in, she was holding a couple bags of groceries.  "Where were you?"

"I went shopping," she said, holding up the groceries.  She put them 
down.  "Michael, what's wrong?"

I looked at my watch.  "You were gone two hours."

She motioned toward the car.  "I bought some clothes."

I sat down, staring back at the TV.

"Michael, you believe me, don't you?"  She sat down across my lap, putting her 
hands around my neck.  It didn't take long, I admit.  I looked at her, into her 
blue-green eyes.  We made love on the chair.  She didn't even put away the 
groceries first.


On Thursday I picked up Maria's car at work.  Her purse was crammed behind the 
seat, and I picked it up.  At the bottom I found a condom - the cheap kind, 
like we'd used when we first got married.  "Exp. 2002," it said.  

I kept the appointment, but nearly wrecked on the way to the mechanic.  A man 
in a BMW came within inches of hitting me.  I don't think I even saw the 
light.  

Afterwards, I idled outside the building where my wife worked, waiting to pick 
her up for lunch.  I gripped the package in my fist, against the steering 
wheel.  The slippery, eel-like condom squished inside my fingers.  When she 
approached, I noticed the dress she was wearing; one of the new ones she had 
bought.  When she climbed in, I did not look at her.  "Michael?" she asked, 
turning toward me.  

"You said," I said, and then I caught myself.  I held up the package, so she 
could see it.  

"Michael!" she said.  She caught the package out of my hand.  "I told you - I'm 
not fucking him."  I hadn't heard her using that kind of language 
before.  "People can see us here."  I put the car in gear.  

"Michael," she said, "I thought we had an agreement."  I tried to concentrate 
on the traffic.  I didn't want to kill us both.  "Where are we going?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know how long that was there," she said, after a moment.  Then: "No, 
Michael, I'll tell you the truth.  I put that there because I thought we'd use 
condoms, but we don't."  She exhaled.  "Now you know."  

I gripped the steering wheel.  My mind was filling with images I didn't want.

"Pull over here," she said.  We were in a seedy part of downtown, near a broken-
down hotel.

"Oh, Michael," she said, "I know how hard this is for you.  I know."  She'd 
shifted in her seat so she was completely facing me, leaning toward me, talking 
quietly.  The front of her blouse had opened so I could see down it.  I could 
see her naked breasts.  

"Tell me more about it."

She turned away.  "We see each other once a day," she said.  At one o'clock.  
After lunch."  I gritted my teeth.  "In his office."  I shifted in my seat.  I 
was very uncomfortable.

"Michael," she said, turning back toward me, touching me.  "This doesn't change 
anything.  It doesn't."  She glanced down.  "This sort of turns you on, doesn't 
it?"  

I shook my head, as she dropped her hand to my lap.  "Do you want to do it in 
here, or in there?"  I thought about the money in my wallet.  Without waiting 
for an answer, she began to unzip my pants.

While she did me there, in the parking lot of a seedy hotel, I thought about 
the situation.  My wife, my lovely wife, was going down on me in public.  An 
old man, wearing a flannel shirt in the searing heat, and dark glasses, 
shambled by on the sidewalk, led by what may have been a seeing eye dog.  I 
swallowed when I started to come, and tried to keep from crying out.  She sat 
up, licking her lips.  "Did anybody see?"  I shook my head.  She had swallowed 
nearly everything.  She touched her chin, where a little had leaked out.  She 
glanced at the clock.  "You have to take me back, now," she said.  "I have to 
brush my teeth."

"You keep a toothbrush at the office?"

She nodded, not looking at me.

Before I dropped her off, I asked her, "He doesn't know I know, does he?"  She 
smiled gently.

"I wouldn't do that," she said.  She kissed my cheek.  I stopped the car.

"I liked that," she said, as she got out.  "I liked it a lot."  She smiled and 
blew a kiss before she shut the door.  There was a bounce to her step I hadn't 
seen before.  


It took me only a few days to go down to Maria's office.  It was a little after 
one.

Nina, the floor receptionist, smiled when she saw me, but a look crossed her 
face when I told her what I wanted.  "She's in a meeting..." she said.  I quickly 
told her that I'd wait.  I kept one eye on the hallway, and the other on Nina.  
A little after a quarter after one, she got up, and put down her phone.  "I'm 
going to take my lunch break," she said.  She came over and leaned down.  "If 
you want to talk," she said quietly, "call."

I wanted to ask if she was the one who'd sent the note, but she was already 
gone.  

It took another fifteen minutes.  During that time I got up and went all the 
way down the hallway, like I had in my dream.  I didn't open the door, 
however.  Instead I went back down the hallway and sat back down.  She came out 
at one thirty one.

She turned back, toward the room, facing the sunlight streaming out.  She 
looked like she was listening to something being said.  She stood there a 
moment, and I studied her.  I swear I could see the slipperiness on her lips.  
She wore the glasses she sometimes wore at work and the sunlight glinted off 
the lenses.  Her back of her hair was mussed.  When she turned and headed down 
the hallway I saw her slip showing underneath her skirt.


When I confronted her that evening, she put her hands on her hips and glared at 
me.  When I glared back, though, she dropped her hands and looked down.  She 
turned around, facing the kitchen sink.  She said something I couldn't 
hear.  "What?" I asked.

"He takes pictures of me," she said.  "I didn't tell you before because I 
thought you'd be jealous."

I advanced toward her, and she hunched her shoulders.  "Don't hit me," she 
said.  It was a stupid comment.  I'd never hit her in my life.  I shook my 
head.  

"When did it start?" I asked.

She slumped a little more.  "Not long," she said.  "Not long ago."  She'd put 
her hair back up, I noticed.  A few strands curled along the nape of her neck, 
and along the curve of her shoulder.  

She turned around, keeping her face averted.  She gripped the edge of the 
counter.  "Just pictures," she said.  

"Just pictures?"

"I didn't let him touch me."  She lifted one hand from the counter.  "He said," 
she said, "He said I had to do it."

I really did feel like hitting her then.  I actually raised my hand.  She shied 
away, turning her face, and shrinking even further back.  "Maria," I said, and 
then again more gently.  I touched her shoulder.  "Maria."

"I didn't tell you," she said, "because I knew it'd be like this."  She reached 
her hand out to me, and then found my belt.  "I didn't want to hurt you."

We stared at each other for a long moment.  Finally I turned away.

"Michael?" she said.

"Maria, your slip is showing."

She said nothing for a moment.  Then I heard her laugh.  "Oh my God," she 
said.  "All day?"

I turned around and looked at her.  Her face was crimson.  I fingered her 
blouse.  One of the buttons was misaligned.  She punched me in the 
shoulder.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

I shrugged my shoulders, and she put her hands around my neck.  "This thing" 
she said, "it's just temporary, an arrangement."  She leaned into me.  "You," 
she said, "You can have me anytime you like."

"Anytime?"

She smiled.  "Anytime, anywhere, any place."  She kissed my shoulder.  

"Any way."  When I kissed her, I tasted peppermint.  "Michael," she said, "I'll 
tell you anything you want to know."


Three days later, Maria's voice rang out from the bedroom when I came into the 
house.  I'd forgotten she'd been to the hospital.  "Honey," she called out, "we 
have pictures!"

She'd left her bag lying on the table in the living room.  The top of the bag 
had fallen open, and some of her things were spilling out.  There was a 
hairbrush and a compact.  There was also a stack of cards, black squares with 
white borders.

"Honey," she said, "Look."  She handed me a series of grainy black and white 
images; she'd had her first sonogram.  I saw her glance down where I was 
looking as she handed them to me.  I examined them smilingly as she pointed out 
the little body parts.

"Wait," she said, "There's more."  She started to turn, reaching down for her 
purse, but I stopped her.  

"What are these?" I asked, picking up the cards.  

 "Michael," she said.

"What are they?"  She blocked my hand, crossing my arm with hers.

"Don't look at that."

We stared at each other a moment, but I took her arm in my other hand and 
squeezed, dropping the sonograms to the floor.  "Michael," she said, "Don't."  
She paused, staring at me.  "I told you about them."  

I gently moved her arm away.  

"Don't get mad, ok?" she asked, still staring up at me.

The first one showed her just standing there, in front of the windows in John's 
room.  She wore her conservative Dior business suit, the one I gotten her in 
New York.  She was standing casually, partly turned away but facing the 
camera.  You'd think it might be a candid shot.  She wore her gold rimmed 
glasses.  "When did he take these?" I asked.  She said nothing, but 
shrugged.  "A couple days ago."  She started to turn away, but stopped when she 
felt the pressure from my hand.  "Do I have to stand here?" she asked.  I let 
go, but she didn't move away.  "Do you have to?"

I studied the picture.  She looked good.  Her hair was neatly put up, and the 
suit still fit her perfectly.  Her glasses gave her a look of professional 
competence.  You'd never guess she was an entry-level worker.

In the next one she'd taken off her glasses and let down her hair.  She was 
smiling.  I glanced up at her.  "Are they all like this?"  She shook her head.

In the third one, she was looking down, unbuttoning her blouse.  A lacy white 
teddy was showing underneath.  She put her hand up, covering the picture, but 
when I looked at her, she quickly put it down again.  "You don't have to look 
at these," she said.  

I shook my head and turned to the fourth.  She was mostly naked now, wearing 
only her stockings, bra and panties, and high-heeled shoes.  I felt my face 
begin to flush.  She was leaning up against the windows, giving the cameraman a 
kind of sultry smirk.  I glanced up at her.  "You look like you're enjoying 
this," I said.  She shook her head, staring down at the photo.

In the next one, she was lying on her back on the sofa.  Her right leg was 
lifted onto the sofa's back, the heel of her left foot was on the floor.  The 
camera angle was from between her legs.  Her eyelashes hid her eyes, though she 
appeared to be looking at the camera.  Her right hand was in her underwear; her 
left clasped a heart-shaped necklace around her neck.  Her necklace and her 
wedding and engagement rings reflected light.  I'd given her the necklace for 
mother's day.  "Proud of that?"

I turned the picture so she could see.  She flushed more deeply, but lifted her 
eyes to mine.  

"You?"

I turned the picture back.

The next photo showed her from behind, completely naked.  She was leaning 
forward, with her hands pressed against the window, legs apart.  She wore only 
shoes and stockings.  The light from the window filtered through her pussy hair.

The next one was the same, except in this one, she was looking back over her 
shoulder, smiling.

I grimaced.  I didn't want to admit it, least of all to her, but I was in 
pain.  I needed to adjust myself.  I glanced at her.  She was smiling.  "Whatsa 
matter?"  She held my eyes a moment, and then glanced down.  

"It's a natural..." I spluttered, "reaction."  Finally I gave in.

"You like them, don't you?" she asked, touching the photo of herself.

"Yes and no," I said.

"It's okay," she said, looking up at me.  She turned a little redder, and 
looked back down.  "So do I."

I started to turn to the next one.  I saw she'd turned to face the camera now.  
But she caught my chin in her finger.  "Michael," she said, "I don't want you 
to look at any more right now."  She grinned, one corner of her mouth turned 
up.  "I want to... take care of your little problem first."

I gave in again.  I was beginning to feel like a real slut.

In bed, she would only tell me the pictures got much worse.  "And he only gave 
me some of them," she said.  "He still has the rest."


End Part I.         
Sandia.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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