Corruption of a Geek Goddess Pt. 8

Author’s Note:  This will be the penultimate chapter — I can’t completely rule out a side story or alternate ending at some point, but Corruption of a Geek Goddess really will conclude with Part 9, and Part 9 will come out in a few weeks.

This chapter is a shorter one, taking us from Chelsea’s momentous first night away with Dylan, up until right before the wedding.  The first third is the end of the couple’s illicit weekend getaway; the middle third is a fraught, frantic sex scene; and the final third directly sets up the climax.  Lots of angst & soul-searching from Chelsea in this one, finally coming to terms with just how far above her head the water has become.

All character & events are fictional.

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Chelsea

Ooph.  I guess I went a little overboard that first night at the resort, huh?

I didn’t realize it at first.  No siree, I woke up the next day feeling like a million bucks.  We’re in love, yay!  It feels so good to say it out loud!  And, gosh, Dylan has depths I never imagined, and it’s so unbelievably gratifying to be so important to someone so amazing.  Yada yada yada.  If I felt any kind of concern at all, it was just about Mark and how I might have to talk to him about maybe, sorta thinking about seeing Dylan some more after the wedding.  But even that I’d successfully pushed to the back of my mind.  I mean, between me & Mark & Dylan, it’s all just love and good feelings all-around, right?  It’ll work itself out.

So, Dylan & I had another great day at the resort.  I won’t bore you with the details, but it was perfectly wonderful and romantic, in a clichéd sort of way: the photogenic young couple relishing new love in a magical paradise, blah blah blah.  (No, but seriously, it was really awesome.)  We made love a couple more times, and afterwards I even felt close enough to him to have a real conversation about my difficulties with our apparently-ongoing relationship: how, even if I intend to talk to Mark about keeping it going, I don’t know that I won’t feel differently or lose my nerve or hate myself.  For once Dylan acted the gentleman, validating everything I said without pressuring me to do things his way.  “You’ll know what’s best when the time comes,” he told me, “I trust you.”

Things got more complicated (for me, at least) the next afternoon, Sunday.  Dylan & I were just chilling on the beach for a long while.  We chatted, we sunbathed, we watched the ocean.  And, yes, we also buried our noses in our phones to waste time scrolling social media — into every Elysian paradise a little screen-time must fall.  We were both doing it, but especially Dylan, and he seemed to be doing it “harder” than I was.  More focused, I mean, and actually typing stuff.  I didn’t ask him what he was up to (because, hell, we both make a living off the internet), but I was a little curious/miffed about what could be so interesting that it drags his focus away from *me* for 10 seconds.  (I know it’s silly, but I’m only human.)

Anyway, we’d been lying around in the sand for more than an hour when Dylan announced that he was gonna get in some laps with a swim in the ocean, and would I care to join him?  Haha.  Yeah, no, I didn’t come to this 18-star resort to do exercise.  All you, Daddy; go do your cardio.

Now for those of you who still, even at this late stage in the story, have yet to pick up on this important fact, let me say it out loud: I’m not perfect.  I sometimes — sometimes — do things that are impulsive, or emotional, or selfish.  The kinds of things where your id just takes over without asking and you’re not strong enough to feel bad about it until the next day.  (If you say you never have those moments, then, first: bully for you, bitch.  And, second: lies make Baby Jesus cry.)

And so it was that, as I watched Dylan jog across the sand towards to the surf, I spied the cell phone he’d so carelessly dropped onto his towel.  Face up.  Unlocked.  I saw my hand drift out all on its own, then caught myself and pulled back halfway.  You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t, you know you shouldn’t.  None of your business, Chelsea.  He’s been so amazing this weekend, and he’s treating you to this gazillion-dollar trip, and you know you’ll hate yourself for it by the time he gets back, so just turn away, close your eyes, and—OH MY GOD IT’S ABOUT TO LOCK ITSELF GRAB IT GRAB IT GRAB ITTTT…

I grabbed it.

It didn’t take long to find what I must’ve been worried about: my surprisingly sensitive & devoted boyfriend was being kind of a fuckboy.  A really successful fuckboy, it seemed, but still.  All across his socials he was macking on Instagram models, sliding into DMs, flirting with his best-looking fans, etc.  Maybe he’d slowed down with that stuff the past month or two, I don’t know, but he sure hadn’t stopped.  And, yeah, he was also messaging at least one girl in the past hour, while he was lying right next to me.  Hrrm.  I put the phone down back where I’d found it.

I felt retroactively justified in snooping.  I mean, he was all, ‘oh, my darling Peach, let’s have this weekend just for you & me, let’s pretend there’s no one else and it’s just us’ and on and on and on.  Well, gee, I ghosted my fiancé for that little fantasy, but I guess Dylan wasn’t pretending along with me, huh?  It stung.

But then I felt silly for feeling hurt.  Because, ok, his doing this right now is kinda skeezy after all that stuff he said the first night.  But mostly it just hurt THAT he was talking to someone else, not WHEN he was talking to them.  Which is nuts, since I’m marrying someone else in a week.  And it’s not like I didn’t already know who this man is — he’s a player.  It was profoundly dippy of me to let the thought seep into my head that, in at least some ways, I might get to have Dylan all to myself.  I know he likes me and all, but I’ll never be so all-fired important to him emotionally, or romantically.  The best I could hope for is to be his dearest concubine.  Most favored among the harem.  Side-Bitch #1A.

And, shit … maybe that’s enough?  Even right then, lying there on the beach with my hurt widdle feelings, I wasn’t totally ruling out the possibility of seeing Dylan in the future.  I’d have to talk it over with Mark, of course.  More importantly, Dylan would have to know Dylan’s role, and so would I.  Even if I did decide to be one of his hot little hoes rushing over to get pounded out on a regular basis — and even if I am sort of in love with him in some silly way — then he’d need to be just a well-functioning part of my healthy & stable marriage, and not some kind of sexual Galactus, devouring my emotional world for his nourishment (like he sometimes has tended to do).  And, I mean, why should that be impossible?  Maybe I’m just thinking with my clit here, but if everyone’s on the same page and he knows that I know that he’s still out there laying pipe all over town, but still he gets to own my body for a few hours at a time every now and then … well, why shouldn’t he take that deal?  We’re all adults here.

 I don’t know.  Maybe.

Before Dylan got back from his swim, I fired off a text to poor Mark — gosh, for some strange reason, now I was feeling guilty.  The text was nothing crazy, no real teasing or confessions.  Just apologizing for not getting back to him sooner, confirming my ETA for the next day, and reminding him that I love him very, very much.  I do, you know.

Anyway, Dylan & I finished out the weekend.  I think he could tell that something had changed, but it wasn’t a big deal; we still had a beautiful time.  I didn’t act like I was mad at him, because I wasn’t … just kinda peeved at myself.

Monday morning we checked out and Dylan drove me home.  On the drive back we listened to music, joked around, and teased each other about the naughty fun we’d had; we were in a good mood.  One thing we didn’t do was bring up the elephant in the car: the fact that this was supposedly our swan song, the end of our affair.  Over and done, expired, tutto finito — now we’re just platonic friends with a spicy past, in theory.

I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t know quite what to say or think.  Dylan, I assume, didn’t bring it up because he assumed I didn’t want it to be the end, and we’d pick back after my honeymoon.  And he might be right.  I dunno.  But there was no way we could avoid the topic forever.

We pulled up outside my house and Dylan put the car in park.  We turned to look at each other and savored a touching silence.  He offered a warm, wistful and knowing smile, and I did the same, we stared at each other and acknowledged with our eyes everything we’d been through together.  He took my hand in his and squeezed, and I could feel my emotions bubbling up inside again.  He tilted his head in such an adorable way, paused, then slowly leaned towards me.  I met him halfway and we shared a kiss over the center console that was soft & tender, wet, and overflowing with meaning — it lasted a long time. When the kiss finally broke, we each looked at each other sheepishly and broke into tiny little chuckles.

It was a special moment.

“So…” Dylan finally said.

“Ha, yeah: so.”

“I’m really glad we got have this weekend together.  You don’t know how much it means to me.  How much you mean to me.”  Damn him: when he said that, I believed it.

“No … I do know.  I feel the same way.”

“You know I meant what I said, right?”

“What?”

“I’m in love with you, Chelsea.  I really am.”

“I know, Dylan … and I’m in love with you.”  I believed that, too, god help me.

“So … this isn’t the end, right?  It can’t be.  You’ll talk to Mark.  No rush, just let me know how it goes. Let me know if I can help.”

“Um…”  I wasn’t remotely prepared to make any final decisions about my future in that car.  “Let me think about it, ok?  It’s a lot.”

“Of course, of course.  I get it.  Take all the time you need.”  He smiled, doing a pretty lousy job of hiding his confidence.  I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do, but he thought he did.  “My precious Princess, my Peach…”

“Oh, wait.”  He’d just reminded me of something I’d promised myself I would do.  “Before I go, can you hold on to something for me?”

“Of course.”

Without trying to make a big thing of it, I slipped off the Princess Peach bracelet he’d given me months ago — my constant companion, the totem of my twisted commitment to the dominant male who’d taken control of me, body & soul, one piece at a time.

“Here.”  I handed it to him, and after a beat he took it.  He tried to play it cool, but I knew I surprised him.

“Oh.  Are you sure you … I mean, it’s yours.  I want you to have it.”

“I know.  But it’s an important week, and then the wedding, and Mark’s been … I don’t know, I want to make sure he feels comfortable right now.  Just, while I figure stuff out, hang on to this, ok?”

“Gotcha.”  He nodded sagely.  We shared one more quick kiss, said our (temporary?) goodbyes, then I got out and made the short walk back to my home.  Mark lit up when I walked in — he was happy to see me.

Dylan

Chelsea texted me the next day around 1:00 in the afternoon.  I already knew exactly what was coming.

“Shit! I forgot my engagement ring! Please please PLEASE tell me you have it!”

Of course I had it.  She’d kept her ring off all weekend at the resort like a good girl, didn’t even give it a second thought.  I’d tucked it away that first night to keep it out of sight so she wouldn’t get distracted and I had it in my pocket for the drive home.  I had it planned out: I’d wait until the last second just before she opened the car door to leave, then I’d stop her and be all, ‘Um, aren’t you forgetting something?’  We’d have a cute little moment, we’d chuckle, she’d realize how simple it is for her to forget about stuff like her ring (and her fiancé), and I’m kinda the good guy for saving the day.  Would’ve been sweet.

But yeah, that plan went out the window when she gave back the Peach bracelet I got her.  If she has to soothe Mark’s ego by not flashing that thing in his face for a few days, sure, I get that.  But to actually give it back?  Even if it’s temporary that feels like a slap in the face, so I wasn’t in a favor-doing mood.  And there’s sure as shit no way she’s gonna give back my bracelet and trade it in for his ring.  Nuh-uh.  Fuck that.  If she wants her engagement ring back, she’ll need to ask.

“hang on, let me look,” I told her.  I let her sweat it out for two minutes then continued.  “oh shit, your in luck. I found it in my bag. totally forgot about that.”

“OH MY GOD, thank you! But listen, are you doing anything? I hate to ask, but could you please come drop it off? Like, right now? Mark will be back soon and I don’t want him to notice it’s gone.”

“sure thing, peach. on my way.”

Half an hour later I texted her I was outside and she opened the door to find me holding up my hand with her engagement ring on the tip of my index finger.

“OHHH thank god,” she gushed, grabbing the ring.  “Thank you so much!  You saved my life.”  She gave me big bear hug in thanks.  It lasted a few seconds.

“Nah, happy to help, Peach.  Mark’s still not back?  Where’d he go?”

“No, not yet.  Family’s starting to trickle in for the wedding so he went to do stuff with his aunt and cousin.  He said he’ll be back in like, uh, 45 minutes.”

“Oh, cool, so you still got time.  Hey, can I come in for a glass of water real quick?”  She actually stopped to think about it for a hot second.  But after I just bailed her out like this, there’s no way she could say no.

“Um … yeah.  Yeah, of course.  Come in.”

Chelsea

I can’t believe I let him fuck me.  Cannot.  Fucking.  Believe it.

It happened fast.  He came in all friendly.  We stood in the kitchen while he sipped his water, chatting and joking like we always do.  And flirting, of course: he told me again how pretty I looked, how our weekend at the resort gave me a glow.  I turned to the window to point out a wasp’s nest hanging off the eave on the side of our house.  While I was talking he came up from behind and wrapped his arms around me.  I stumbled, but tried to keep up the small talk.  He kissed my cheek, then leaned down and planted his lips on my neck.  It felt nice.  But that was not a good thing.

“Ohhh … fuck, Dylan, we can’t…”  He kept on kissing and licking my neck, nibbling my ear lobe.  His hand snaked under my shirt and started rubbing my belly.  I whimpered.  “Really, we have to stop.  They … unh … they could walk in any time…”

“Still 40 minutes,” he reminded me.  “Come on, one for the road.  We’ll be quick.”

“Stop, he could be early…”

“No, he won’t be.  He’s busy with family.  And Mark’s always late.  And we’ll be so quick.”  I was about to tell him that Mark is not always late, but that’s when Dylan’s other hand slipped under my waistband and started rubbing the outside of my flash-flooding pussy.  I moaned.  He kept talking at me.

“Come on, Peach.  Who knows, this could be the last chance we ever get.  I need to be inside of you one more time.  You feel how hard this cock is, pressing up against your ass?  That’s for you." He slipped two fingers up inside of me, curling them inwards and hitting my g-spot. "It belongs here, and you know it.  You’re so fucking sexy … I need to take you in your bed again.  Need to give you one more load.  You hear me?  I need to cum, Chelsea … deep … inside … you.”

“Oh god … oh fuck … don’t do this to me now…”

“Stop it, you know you want to.  Fuck, it’ll be so naughty, having to sneak it in right before he comes home … doing it right under his nose.  Be naughty for me, Peach.  Be my bad girl, like we both know you are…”

I closed my eyes, couldn’t make myself speak.   Couldn’t push him off me.  His fingers were strumming my wet clit, and with every word he slipped into my ear I wanted it more and more.  Oh god.  Why am I like this?

“Just do it, Peach.  Give me a kiss.  Give me a kiss and I’ll drag you to your bed.  I’ll give what you really want and you’ll feel so good.  Come on, you know you’re gonna say yes eventually… and the longer you wait, the riskier it gets. Tick … tock … tick … tock…”

“Unnhh!” I groaned — half in anger, and half in brain-melting need.  It was an awful feeling and I wanted out of it, and there was one sure fix pressed up hard against my ass.  I knew it was so unbelievably stupid & reckless and I absolutely shouldn’t.  But I also knew by now that my willpower had all the strength of wet toilet paper around Dylan, and I guess I decided that he was right about one thing: if we were gonna do it anyway, it was much better to start right away.

So I kissed him, just like he told me to.  Shit.

“Goddammit fine,” I said after the kiss.  “Yes.  But it needs to be FAST, ok?? Really fast.”

“Of course, Peach.  Now let’s go get you what you need.”

Dylan took hold of my arm and marched me back to the bedroom.  With every step it felt scarier and more unreal.  But also more exciting, because Dylan was right about one more thing: the danger was a turn-on.  It was as electric as it was horrifying.

So when we got to the bedroom, we were frantic.  Or, anyway, I was frantic — Dylan seemed annoyingly happy to move at a relaxed pace.  I tore my clothes off, desperate to get him out of here in time, and just as desperate to get him inside of me.  That left me standing stark naked in just my ankle socks while Dylan was still casually undoing his shirt buttons and watching me with an impish, self-satisfied smirk.

“Come on, let’s go.  Hurry up,” I told him.

“I’m trying,” he said with mock-innocence in his voice.  “Maybe you could do it faster…”

What an asshole.  If I’d been thinking clearly I would have told him to get the fuck out, or kneed him in the balls or something, I don’t know.  But I wasn’t thinking clearly.  I was intensely scared and wretchedly horny, so I attacked his clothes in a frenzy, ripping open his shirt, dropping to my knees before him and frantically undoing his pants, shoving him backwards onto the mattress and tugging his pants & underwear down, wrenching off his shoes along the way.  I looked up at his naked body now lying on my bed.  If Dylan was moving slowly, his dick sure wasn’t: it was already rock hard, throbbing, standing upright.  I saw it and felt my mouth water — righteous anger was rapidly being replaced by primal, degenerate lust.

I couldn’t afford to wait any longer, and neither could my pussy.  I clambered up over Dylan’s body, took my place in the center of the mattress, and spread my legs for him; he lazily moved into position with that same amused look on his face.  There was no time to lose, the stakes for me were obscenely high, and now my body wanted it so much it hurt … so of course Dylan stopped to toy with me.  Kneeling between my thighs, his rigid cock poised at the gates of my leaky willing hole, he took his shaft in his hand and brought his cockhead right up to my womanhood, nestled it in my opening, but declined to go further.  Instead he inched back, rubbed himself up & down the burning-hot lips of my pussy, coating them in his precum; he dragged it up and circled my clit, grinding against it and sending tiny jolts of electricity shooting up to behind my eyes; he dragged it back down and started to push in soooo slowly, getting almost his whole cockhead inside me before cruelly withdrawing it once again.  I slammed my fist down on the mattress in frustration, as hard as I could.

“Dylan!”  My hips were grinding all on their own now, desperately seeking out his manhood, his gift — begging the alpha-male between my thighs to please, for the love of god, mate with me like nature intended.  “Stop it!  I told you, there’s no time…”

“Oh, ha, is that it?  You’re worried about the time?”

“Yes!”

“Ohhh, ok … You know, I guess you’re right.  It’s too risky.  Maybe I should just go…”

His cock lost contact with my pussy entirely and he made like he was getting up, shuffling backwards on his knees.  He made it about two inches before my legs flew up and wrapped around his backside, gripping him tight to stop him from withdrawing — I did NOT tell them to do that.  Four million years of evolution were pressing down on me, and my body was calling the shots now.

“What is it, Princess?” he asked, not even trying to disguise the wicked glee from his voice.  I was beside myself.  Out of my fucking mind.  I grabbed the pillow next to me, pressed it hard against my face, and screamed.  When I flung it aside I could see in Dylan’s eyes how amusing he found all this.  But there was no time for me to be offended: I knew what he wanted, and I would give it to him.

“Pleeease,” I hissed.  “I need it now, asshole.  Hurry…”

“Tsk.  That’s no way to talk to someone who just did you a huge favor … thank Daddy for bringing back your engagement ring first.”

“Thank you for bringing back my ring, Daddy…”

“And you’ll talk to Mark about us, yes?  You want to keep seeing me, right?”

“Fuck, YES, you know I do.  I’ll talk to him, ok??  Please, Daddy.  Please…”

“Okay, good … that’s a good girl.”  He got back into position, seated his cockhead in the entrance to my hungry pussy, then paused one last time.   His face softened for a moment and he reached down to stroke his thumb against my cheek.  “I really do love you, Peach.  Now…”  He straightened up, took a firm grip of my thighs, drew in a deep breath … then slammed his entire cock into me with one vicious thrust.

“AhhhhHHAAIIIYYYYE!”  I let out that startled scream and my whole body shuddered with pleasure.  There was a shock of pain, but it felt so good to get what I’d needed — to know I’d just been fucking claimed.  It felt like becoming whole.

Dylan finally stopped screwing around.  No more teasing, no more denial, no more tempting fate and acting like the clock didn’t matter.  Just immediate and vigorous fucking, Dylan’s bloated cock slamming into my pussy, owning me, taking me over from the inside one thrust at a time.  The wet, slapping smack of his hard, muscled body crashing into my soft, feminine thighs rang out like gunshots, filling my home — filling Mark’s home — with the sounds of wanton adultery.

Out of shame, and the fear of being caught, I tried at first to hold back my whorish moans.  But it was hopeless.  Within a minute or two I was moaning, wailing, screaming.  Begging Daddy to fuck me, use me and destroy me, when I was even able to form words.  I heard the noises I was making and, somewhere in the back of my mind, I imagined Mark (and his delightful aunt, and his 19-year old cousin) opening our front door, totally unawares, and being bombarded with noises that could only mean one thing.  God, that would pretty much be it, right?  No more marriage, no more Mark.  Just an infamous, fallen woman now doomed (or blessed) to live as a young jock’s slut for as long as he cares to keep her.

“Ohhh myyy GOD!” I shouted when that image hit me.  It was horrifying, it was vile, it was despicable … and it made me cum like an atom bomb.  I’m sorry, but it did.  Ugh.  My whole body seized & shook; a loud, animal grunting sound bellowed forth, followed by a high-pitched squeal; my eyes slammed shut, flew open, saw white.  Then, I literally passed out.  He’d put me to sleep, fucked me into unconsciousness.

I came to a few seconds later, dazed, to see the most triumphal shit-eating grin in history on Dylan’s face.  My body was super sensitive and my clit was on fire, but he kept going, still churning up my insides and making me go crazy with pleasure & agony.  I started to hyperventilate and my hands began flailing up at him, weakly batting against his chest to plead for a moment’s respite.  No dice – Dylan just clamped his strong hands around my wrists and continued to fuck me without breaking stride.

“No stopping,” he said.  “Gotta hurry, remember?”  I moaned and whimpered helplessly, barely able to comprehend his words.  “Fuck, Chelsea … I’m about to cum.  You want me to cum for you?”

“Uh-huh … uh-huh…”  I nodded weakly.

“Where should I cum, Chelsea?  Where do you want it?”

“Cum … c-cum, Dylan…”

“Where?!”

“Unh!  In … inside!  Cum inside m-meeeee!”

“Good girl.”

Dylan wrapped his arms around my thighs and hoisted them skyward so my feet rested on his shoulders, then leaned forward, folding me almost in half, and started pile-driving into me from above.  I felt his hot breath on my face and heard his masculine grunts in my ears, while his shaft raked across my clit and the tip of his cock pried open the deepest parts of me.  I was so close to cumming again, and I had no say in the matter.  Right as I was on the brink, Dylan’s body tensed up, and he roared.

“AAARRGHH!! Fuck!”  He pressed into me as deep and hard as he could while he held me in place; at the gates of my womb I could feel his cockhead swell, and twitch, and then flood me with his essence.  Over and over, spurt after spurt, each one joined by a booming sigh from his lips.  “Ohhh yeah … take it … take it … ahhh … remember this, Peach … remember this…”

For better or worse, I think I always will.  The feel of being inseminated once more in my own marital bed triggered a second orgasm.  Waves of pleasure coursed through my body and then flooded my brain, making it seem as if all was right with the world even though it very much was not.  Dylan, finally recovered, leaned down and kissed me — I wrapped my arms around his neck and returned the kiss, passionately.

Finally, somehow, we were done.  I managed to look at the clock and saw we’d been in bed for a mere 15 world-shattering minutes.  Dylan saw it and, all games and power-plays aside, knew he really did have to make a hasty escape.  He got up and started quickly dressing, leaving me a dazed, fucked-out mess lying on top of my bed.  I knew somehow I needed to get moving, but I doubted I could even stand, let alone walk.

Once he was done getting dressed, Dylan took my hand and helped me to stand up on wobbly legs.  My disorientation was fading, but slowly.

“Come on, Peach.  You’re gonna take a shower now, ok?  Shower.  It’ll wake you up.”

He walked me to the bathroom door where he gave me one last, surprisingly tender kiss.  When he saw that I seemed to be snapping out of the haze and could take care of myself, he said how amazing I am, how this meant a lot to him, and told me again that he loves me.  And that he’ll see me soon.  He smiled, squeezed my hand, then left.  He went out the back door.

Mark and his family, it turns out, actually were late getting back — I had a whole hour to recuperate after Dylan left, thank god.  I’d taken the dumbest risk of my whole life, and gotten away with it.

***

So, I’m in deep shit, huh?

Let me explain.  For a brief moment, I was completely enamored with Dylan, and sincerely attracted the idea of having on ongoing relationship where he was a major part of both my sex life and my romantic life — I was in the bag for him. Then I wised up (a little) when I saw his DMs with the Insta-hoes, and figured that I probably would try to reach some sort of understanding with Mark so Dylan could still be a sometimes-part of my (our) sex life, even though wanting more than that was a flight of fancy; I thought maybe I could keep him as my pussy-destroying fuck-buddy and no more.

But now I think I was kidding myself.  Our frantic, taboo, and cataclysmically-stupid fuck in my own bedroom at a time when Mark and his family might have walked in on us just proves that, doesn’t it?  Because, Dylan knew the risks, he knew what the consequences could have been.  Even if he was absolutely, 100% bound & determined to throw a fuck into me right then … he could’ve dragged me out to his car!  Or a motel, or his apartment, or anywhere except the one place where Mark getting home early leads to utter catastrophe.  But, no: he wanted the cheap, naughty thrill railing me in my own bed at the worst possible time, and he was willing to risk everything — MY everything, not his — to make it happen.  Holy shit, that’s bad.

See, it really proves that, whatever my intentions, and however mind-blowing & life-affirming the sexual relationship is, going on with Dylan in any form has to be a bad idea.  Because, even if I talked to Mark and he would be ok with it in theory, Dylan would never be able to stick to his role.  He’d never allow Mark to feel safe and respected, because he just won’t stop pushing boundaries, and can’t resist taking more than what’s offered.  Eventually he would go too far (like he just did at my house), Mark would feel anxious and miserable and betrayed, and then my shiny new marriage would implode into an angsty ball of fiery shit.  I just can’t trust Dylan to be respectful.

But … I can’t trust myself either, can I?  I can see that now.  (I learn slow, but I do learn.)  I’m helpless around him.  I can tell Dylan ‘No,’ but he’s going to keep coming.  And he’s going to get what he wants.  I’ll give in, convince myself that it’s not as bad as all that, and maybe even convince Mark, too.  But before long I’ll cross a really, really bad line, and then we’re right back to my marriage collapsing into a supermassive black hole that devours all light & joy forever and forever.

I need help.  I need a solution.  Because, right now, I can only see two possible futures.  In one, I train Mark to be a REALLY pathetic kind of cuckold through sheer tyranny of will, so that he’s conditioned to roll over and accept every indignity Dylan throws at him with a smile and a sad little hard-on — but I don’t think I’d respect him if that happened.  It would be like a fake marriage.  The other future I see is one where I try & fail to break things off with Dylan, then I try & fail to get him to respect boundaries and let my marriage work, and then I get sucked into the torment nexus of shame & divorce, leave Mark emotionally crippled for life, and accept that I’m quite simply a bad person.  And it will all be my fault.

Fuck.  I don’t see a way around it.  It’s like … it’s like Dylan has won.  Game Over.  I’m down to my last life and Princess Peach is destined to just live in Bowser’s castle forever as his tragic but oh-so-willing sex slave.

I don’t mean to downplay my own responsibility here, but the man is a curse — a pleasure curse, like heroin, but a curse all the same — and I don’t how I’m going to get myself clear of it when I’m clearly so powerless to deny him.

My god.  It doesn’t feel real.

Mark

My god.  It doesn’t feel real.

In just a few days from now, I’m going to be married.  Like, a married man, a real grown-up.  “Hello, sir.  Very pleased to meet you.  I’m Mark, and this is **MY WIFE**, Chelsea.  Say, did you see what the markets did today?  Golly, my hedge fund sure took a beating!  Which is a thing that happens to me, because I am a serious adult person.  Mortgage.  Interest rates.  Glass-Steagall.  And so forth.”

Anyway, I’ve got this huge life-changing event coming up, and we’re of course super busy with wedding & family stuff, but I still find myself mostly in a great mood and not just an anxious bundle of nerves — say, 20% terrified, 80% excited.  I suppose that means I’m marrying the right person, huh?

On the Thursday before the wedding we had a happy little family gathering for Chelsea’s side.  Most of her family is local, here in the SoCal area, and some of the rest have already trickled in for the big day, so they piggybacked on our wedding and took the opportunity throw a little engagement party for Chelsea’s Mom.

Yes, Chelsea’s mother is also getting (re)married, a later-in-life romance that everyone finds downright heart-warming: she’s amicably divorced for a while now, pushing 60, but she met this adorable widower on some hookup app for Jewish seniors, and now they’re tying the knot two months from now.  (If Chelsea was a typical Bridezilla she’d be offended that Mom was stealing her spotlight, but instead she’s just tickled by the idea of beating her own mother to the altar.)

Anyway, we’re doing Mom’s engagement party as a picnic at the local park.  I’m actually looking forward to it.  You see, it’s embarrassing to admit this, but … I love my in-laws.  That whole extended family has the healthiest, happiest dynamic I think I’ve ever seen, it’s nuts — it makes perfect sense that they’d turn out someone like Chelsea.

So yeah, a family picnic.  We’ll have a Dabba-Doo time.

Chelsea

I went into Mom’s engagement garden party sporting a bright yellow sundress and a black pall of anxiety about my future.  Fun!  Calling off the wedding is out of the question at this point, so I’m locked into that: I’ll be saying my vows to the man I love in just a couple days.

But I’ll be saying the vows under false pretenses.  I can promise to love Mark, no problem there.  But honoring & obeying?  Those don’t seem to be in the cards.  Dylan’s going to keep coming, I know it — and I’m going to keep folding, despite my best intentions.  And that leaves me with either carrying on a sleazy affair behind Mark’s back until we inevitably get caught, or convincing Mark to let me keep going with my lover and maybe breaking his heart at the start of our marriage, then hoping in vain for the best.  Of the two, the latter option seemed preferable.

I was thinking about how & when to have that conversation and dreading it with every fiber of my being.  But even worse than that was the near bone-deep certainty that it wouldn’t work out in the end.  That, in the end, my obsession with Dylan would wreck my marriage.  I wanted to fight it, but more and more I felt myself almost resigned to winding up with Dylan — or whatever fraction of him I could make my own.  He had won, and in some fashion or another I’d wind up as his.  It was a ways off, possibly years, but I could see the whole path laid out so clearly.  And it was bumming me out.

So I’m at the party — on this glorious sunny day, my loving family frolicking around me on the grass, a joyous celebration of life and love — and I’m just sitting on the periphery, a forced smile on my lips, wallowing in my secret melancholy.  I watch my relatives joking and laughing, everyone’s so happy.   I watch my mother, hanging off the arm of her new beau with a genuine 1,000-watt smile on her face.  My Dad even showed up, at his ex-wife’s engagement party, and he was mingling in good cheer along with everyone else.  (Mom & Dad’s marriage didn’t work out in the end, but they sure nailed that divorce.)  I watched my sister Talia, social butterfly, life of the party as always — oh! to be as carefree as her.

And I watched Mark.  He pitched in and helped get everything set up.  He joked with my aunt and some of the cousins, telling stories and cracking them up.  He had a nice long chat with Mom and her fiancé, and you could tell he wasn’t just being polite, going through the motions of some familial obligation.  When my cousin’s teenaged kids seemed bored he went out of his way to include them, then engaged them in an extended debate about video games.  And with the little kids, he was kind of amazing: wrangling them, playing stupid games, kicking a ball around.  Eventually he walked over to me with my 5-year old nephew on his shoulders.

“Hey Chelz, Benny wanted to ask you something.  Isn’t that right, Benny?”

“Yeah!”

“Ok, go ahead.”

“Um, can you pweeease come play with us, Aunt Chelsea?”

“Yeah,” Mark added, “come play with us, Aunt Chelsea!”

It was too cute.  I let him take my hand and lead me off to go play silly kids’ games.  I admit, we had fun.  It snapped me out of my funk.

***

Watching Mark in action brought things into focus for me.

You see, I’ve been quietly spiraling inside.  I’d begun to come to terms with the truth about my situation with Mark and Dylan.  The sad fact is that I’m in love with both them, albeit in very different ways and for very different reasons.  And that love has consequences.  When I’m by myself I might have very definite ideas about what would be best & what I should want, and I might resolve that I’m going to change my behavior starting NOW, Chelsea … but, in the end, the man I’m with at any given moment is the one I want most.

I’m just not going to be able to say no to Dylan any time soon, and he’s not going to stop coming for me.  I’d accepted that fact, which means I’d also accepted I wouldn’t be living my life in Happily-Ever-After Land.  No sir, I’d be building a cottage in the Forrest of Degenerate Compromise, a place where I carry on a sinful affair with a man who’s possessive, and dominant, and has zero respect for boundaries.  And if I’m lucky, I’ll have my husband’s half-hearted consent.

I thought a lot about what that will mean for me.  It’s incredibly exciting, yes, and it makes me feel sexy and desired and alive like nothing else ever has or will.  That part remains alluring: whatever else I might think about Dylan, I still ache for the man, still want him.  And I like him, I like spending time with him, even with his clothes on; he makes me feel good.  But then I think about our last time together, with Dylan bluffing his way into my home and hijacking my brain into needing a fuck at the worst possible time.  He’s reckless, and careless with my well-being.  He’s immature, even younger than his years.  And he’s selfish: I’m sure he likes me and wishes me well, but in the end his desires come first, and he has no problem exploiting my weakness in order to see them fulfilled.  Christ.  If I‘m being honest, that fucked-up dynamic is part of the appeal.  But it’s a shitty long-term plan, right?  When I thought about that, I despaired of my very chance for happiness if I kept seeing him … and yet I knew that’s exactly what would happen.  All that’s left, I’d decided, was damage control.

But then I saw Mark at the party.  I saw how naturally he fit in, how much my family adores him (and he them), and what an amazing father he’s going to be.  That whole afternoon was a perfect microcosm of one possible future for me: happy, supportive, loving, joyous.   It’s the future I’d assumed that I had coming, the one filled with the things I always thought were most important in life.

And I still wanted that future, even more than I’d realized.

I could do it, I could have it, there had to be a way.  The picnic gave me a moment of clarity.  I didn’t have to meekly submit to Dylan’s plan for my life.  No, there was a path out for me.  I still had no idea what that path was, and time was running short, but I was suddenly determined to find it.

Me, Mark, our marriage, my future … it’s worth fighting for.  It is.  I told myself I would figure something out.  All I need is the absolute conviction to act.  I know I’ve failed at this again and again, but maybe I only need to summon the will one final, decisive time.  The will to do whatever’s necessary — to figure out the cost and then resolve to pay it, no matter how dear.  There’s no other choice.  I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.  I have to.

I just need a plan.

…

It came to me that very night.

Just before bed, Mark & I were curled up on the couch in front of the TV, enjoying our last quiet night at home before the wedding craziness starts for real with tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner.  We were both feeling happy & in love, still blissed-out from all the wholesome wonderfulness with my family at the park … so, naturally, what I asked Mark to put on was a gruesome horror movie.

It was The Ring, the 2002 American remake of the J-Horror classic.  I saw it right after it came out when I was WAY too young, and it fucked me up something good — seriously, I couldn’t even watch Powerpuff Girls for like two months because I felt like Buttercup was going to crawl through the TV screen and leave a mangled horror-corpse for my poor mother to find.  And even all these years later the mere thought of that movie still makes me twitch.  So then why did I see that particular movie on Netflix and have to watch it, on that night of all nights?  No idea.  Ask the Freudians.

Anyway, we’re watching the movie and I’m really enjoying it; it’s scary, but maybe my real life is even scarier right now and it helped take my mind off it.  Mark’s got a comforting arm around his squeamish girlfriend in the grand tradition of boyfriends since time immemorial.  That’s only reaffirming my commitment to finding a way clear of Dylan, and I’m sort of idly ruminating on that while watching the movie’s climax.  And then we get to the end, the very last scene … and it just hit me: all of a sudden, I knew exactly what I had to do to save my marriage, to save Mark, to save myself.  I knew what it might cost, but I didn’t flinch.

This will work.  It has to.

Okay.  I’m ready to get married.

_______________*_______________

Thanks for reading! If you liked the story, if you have any thoughts, please let me know by voting or commenting — whether it's a thoughtful critique or a simple "good job," comments from readers are extremely important and sincerely appreciated. I take feedback on my stories seriously, and I try to respond to questions & ideas in the comments.

Part 9, the conclusion to the whole series, is very nearly finished.  It’s much longer than this, 27k words and counting, and most of that is in the bedroom — it’ll be the longest sex scene I’ve ever written, topping the 10k-word extravaganza that caps Part 2 of this series.

Questions for discussion: Who thinks they know what Chelsea’s final plan is at the end?  Is it stupidly obvious, or totally inscrutable?  Or, hopefully, somewheres in between?  I’m honestly curious.  (But, as a courtesy, please be leery of posting spoilers in the comments if you’re almost certain that you know the answer.)  Whatever her plan might be, Chelsea seems both confident & determined … so, is it going to work?  I mean, yes, obviously she’s having sex with Dylan at least one more time, but can she execute her plan and make sure that that’s the end?  And, last call: are you Team Dylan?  Team Mark?  Or Team Healthy Compromise?