Behind His Back Read online

  But regardless of why I wear the kinky sport socks, all I care about right now is how hot they look when I pull them down my shins to my ankles, where I leave them bunched up like Jennifer Beals’s leg warmers in Flashdance before kicking them off.

  Next to go are the black Lululemon yoga shorts that have taken on a religious quality for me. I think back to that shameful first day when I showed up in baggy sweats. It was probably for the best, though, because despite being what most girls would consider skinny, I know now that I was just “skinny fat,” which basically means I had no muscle tone—just a thin, unformed sheath of subcutaneous bodyfat between my skin and my bones. Forget the baggy sweats—my former body is what really makes me shudder.

  I feel silly for saying it, but after a year of working my ass off at Rev Fitness, my body is my favorite thing about myself. I used to revel in literature and poetry and artsy films, but now those pleasures pale in comparison to peeling off my little black shorts after a workout and twisting around to see my newly molded ass in the mirror. I could stare at it all day, the way new mothers talk about gazing for hours at their milk-scented newborns. It’s become a serious addiction—I’m my own personal creeper, my ass’s biggest fan.

  Staring at my plump, hard ass makes me feel sorry for all the women doing yoga and living-room cardio and ordering Brazilian butt-lift workout DVDs while watching television at two in the morning. Because not only is that crap never going to make a difference in how their asses look, but it’s actually going to convince them that nothing works. Which is a shame, because a year ago I had no ass, and regular squatting with a heavy barbell on my back has given me two taut scoops of a backside that wouldn’t look out of place in a rap video. After all that lifting, I’m even starting to develop the coveted “gluteal fold”—a line of butt cleavage beneath each firm cheek that separates the curvature of my glutes from the toned hamstrings beneath them.

  In the mirror I assess the fold of each cheek, flexing and releasing to make sure I’m getting just the right amount of jiggle. With each contraction, my ass visibly stiffens and raises, like someone just called its name in a crowded room. Before long, I’ll be able to rest a shot glass on top of it.

  When I tire of overarching my back and switching from side to side to view my ass from every possible angle, I turn back to the front and flex my burgeoning abs. They’re nothing crazy yet, but they’re getting there. Not too shrink-wrapped or vascular like a man’s abs can get, but definitely more pronounced than the two vertical shadows that pass for abs on the cover of Women’s Health every month. Because those aren’t abs, and those women aren’t fit. They look like they couldn’t do a proper pushup, much less deadlift their own bodyweight.

  My burgeoning abs are something different. To be honest, they would have terrified me back before I started training. They don’t have deep, masculine cuts or the vascularity I see when the male warriors at Rev ditch their sweaty shirts mid-workout, but when I flex just right in the proper lighting, I can see horizontal lines that delineate my very own fledgling six pack.

  This is not my beautiful, strong body.

  Getting out of my stiff, soaking sports bra is a challenge, and my flailing-armed routine of peeling it over my head is anything but sexy. But once I pull it past my ponytail, I’m jolted with a reminder that, in the days before Rev, my body wasn’t all bad. Back before I had a showpiece ass that could snap a nun’s yardstick, before my shoulders had defined little caps of muscle, when my backfat sagged over the waist of my jeans and my only definition came from my shoulder blades protruding through the skin of my back like jagged, useless wings, I had a half-decent rack. A sweet pair of tits, you might say, though I’d have never used a word like that back then. Something about lifting weights and getting strong strengthens every part of you, I guess. You walk differently. You look people in the eye and tell them when they’re wrong. And you find yourself using dirty words like cock and pussy and fuck like you were raised in a locker room.

  “Nice tits,” I tell myself, staring at them in the mirror before hand-cupping them up again to give my abs another glance.

  This ritual makes me feel as though I’m still a teenager exploring my developing body. Only now I can do it without embarrassment or shame or the horror of crashing tits-first into adulthood. Now when I peel off my sticky sportswear, I feel supremely confident and sexy. Which is a good thing, because David will be home soon, and undressing in front of the mirror is getting me all worked up. I’m dying to be fucked.

  I suppose this silly post-workout routine makes me the exact opposite of every woman ever. The only shame is that along with this new appreciation for my body comes the desire to use it for more than just lifting weights and dressing in tasteful cardigans every day. When I started lifting weights and seeing these changes in the mirror, something else changed in me too. In college, when everyone around me was awash in hormones and exploring their sexuality without worrying about watchful parents, sex was the last of my priorities. Likely because most of the sex I had was so damn terrible. Not that there’s been a huge surge in quality since David and I got married, but what’s changed is the type of sex I’m suddenly craving. I once wanted boys to adore me, but these days I just want to be fucked mercilessly up against a wall. It’s like some kind of slutty switch has flipped in my brain.

  Which brings me to the chair.

  In the corner of my closet is an upholstered armchair, done up in an off-white to match the walls. At first it was just for decoration—something to fill the large, lavish space—and it quickly became covered in a permanent pile of tried-on-but-rejected clothes. But shortly after I started performing this silly ritual, I cleaned the chair off, and I’ve managed to keep it tidy. I did this under the guise of trying to be organized, but deep down I knew my intentions were more carnal. I did it because while I’m removing my wet clothes, I like to fantasize that someone’s sitting in the chair, watching me, admiring me, and telling me what to take off next.

  I tried to be good about it at first by imagining David in the chair. But that fantasy would always end with him checking an email on his iPhone or dozing off with his mouth open. Sadly, there’s a real-life precedent for those thoughts, because David’s fallen asleep more than once with me on top. Besides, he’s never been the type to tell me to undress.

  So when my husband started failing the chair audition, I needed a substitute. It could easily have been any of the shirtless warriors at Rev, but then I’d be fantasizing about someone specific—someone I knew, and maybe even someone I occasionally innocently flirted with. And that would be cheating, wouldn’t it?

  Not willing to imagine anyone else in David’s seat, I’ve settled on an inchoate amalgam of men, a faceless admirer and commander with the forearms of a lifter and the voice of someone who’s in absolute control. A made-up man I can handle. It’s when he becomes real that I’ll need to start worrying.

  But no time for that now. I’m still smelly from the workout, and I need to shower before David gets home. I want to be ready.

  As I soap up the body I just spent twenty minutes admiring, it takes all of my willpower not to touch myself. If he were gone for another night, I’d be under the sheets writhing against one of my toys right now. But I’m still hopeful that this homecoming will finally be the time that David walks through the door and ravages me. History would suggest otherwise, but a girl can dream.

  I step out of the shower and run a soft towel along my limbs and midsection, and my body tingles as I apply a generous layer of L’Occitane body oil to my moist skin. My mind wanders into a fantasy of me on my hands and knees on the bathmat, with David kneeling in front of me in his boxer briefs. He’s pouring the oil along my back toward my rear, where he lets a steady stream run down my ass and along the backs of my firm thighs. He sets the bottle down on the tile floor and then massages the oil into each cheek. Slowly working closer to the center, he traces a delicate circle around the rim of my asshole and then reaches down towards my puss
y, where he caresses my lips and then inserts two firm fingers.

  With his other hand, he lifts my chin so that I'm looking up into his eyes.

  “Take me out,” he says.

  I obey, reaching a hand to tug his waistband down along the swollen girth of his tightly packaged cock. I do this slowly, building the suspense like I’m winding a jack-in-the-box, knowing that when I reach his tip, the full length of his cock will spring out to startle me.

  His cock jumps from the stretchy cotton and bounces stiffly in front of my face. I stare at it, watching it pulse, and then return my eyes to David’s for my next command.

  “Put me in your mouth,” he says.

  I return my eyes to his cock and lick my lips as I bring my mouth toward it. But just as my wet tongue makes contact with his tip, I shift my eyes upward again, and the face I see is no longer David’s. When I look up, the man whose cock I just tasted is the faceless man from the chair.

  And the scary thing is, seeing that faceless man makes me more eager than ever to devour the cock that’s suspended in front of me.

  I snap out of the reverie when I hear the front door close downstairs. David’s home earlier than I expected, and I’m relieved that I reserved my pent-up sexual energy for him.

  I hastily finish rubbing the oil into my legs and head back into the bedroom, where I retrieve a fresh gray robe from the closet. I was hoping to don something more jaw-dropping for his return, but this is no ordinary robe. Purchased online from Fräulein, a lingerie brand that’s become one of my new body-pampering obsessions—and a major devourer of my time—it’s short enough to offer a teasing peek of my ass, and it’s made to be worn open in front, nearly hanging off my shoulders to expose the inner sides of my tits.

  With my hair still wet, I tie the robe loosely around my waist and then descend the stairs, half exposed, to greet my husband.

  Still dripping and feeling utterly fuckable, I give him a fuck-me stare the moment I see him from the staircase. He’s on his way to the kitchen, but I catch him in the hall and jump into his arms, wrapping my strong legs around him. My enthusiasm catches him off guard, sending him stumbling backward into the wall, but he holds me tightly by the bare flesh of my thighs. He’s wearing a sharply cut gray suit that’s wrinkled from the long flight, and I’m eager to tear it off of him.

  “Hello, darling,” he says with a tired smile. It’s a pet name we started exchanging when we were young, silly students, because we thought it poked fun at the old-timey, perfect romance that no one our age could ever have. Little did we know that our love story would become the perfect artifact we thought we were mocking—the handsome hubby with the lucrative job, the gorgeous home in the trendy neighborhood, and the lingerie-obsessed wife who diligently maintains her body for him. All that’s missing is the steamy sex, and my skimpy robe and I are aiming to fix that right now.

  I pepper his salty neck with quick kisses, and he dips his head to catch my lips with his as I’m switching from one side to the other. It’s a tender kiss, but I can sense how tired he is.

  “What else can I kiss?” I ask him, leaning back and tracing an index finger down the buttons of his dress shirt.

  “I wasn’t done with your lips,” he says, smiling and then pressing his mouth against mine. His simple, heartfelt kiss is sadly void of any sexual charge, and when my exploratory tongue reaches out for more, he pulls his head back.

  “But you know what I’d really like right now? To take off these shoes and have a good glass of wine,” he says. “That flight was hellish.”

  I exhale, trying to hide the extent of my disappointment. All of the tension that’s been percolating in me since the timer started on this morning’s workout recedes. But not fully—just down to a deeper place where I can temporarily ignore it.

  I loosen my grip, and he sets me down. “I was just hoping we could have a little fun,” I say. “It’s been too long.” I lean back and grasp the lapels of my robe, threatening to spread them farther and reveal more of myself to him.

  “God damn it, Faith,” he says. I try not to look hurt by his sudden bolt of anger, but it catches me off guard. Is it so wrong that I want to fuck my husband after nearly a week away from him?

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he says, turning sweet again. “That flight was a nightmare, and I’m just really zonked.” He caresses my cheek. “You understand, right?”

  I nod but say nothing. Of course I understand. But what I understand is that he’s more than tired—he’s as frustrated as I am, but for different reasons. I might be dying to be fucked, but I’m worried that every time I come on to him, every time I wear my little robe or get dolled up in a new lingerie set, he sinks deeper into the notion that he’s not cutting it as a man.

  “Grab a beer,” I say. “I’ll join you on the couch in a minute.” I loosen the uneven knot of his tie and carefully coax the strands apart. His top button beneath it is already open, and I fight the urge to unfasten the rest of them.

  He shows me a tired imitation of his winning smile, and I watch from the bottom of the stairs as he plucks a bottle of craft beer out of the stainless steel fridge and pries off the cap. He takes a long pull on the bottle and then sleepwalks into the living room without giving me another glance.

  I wrap his tie around my fist like a prize fighter wrapping her hands, and then I climb the stairs alone. Already, a plot is taking shape in my head. If he wants to come home and collapse on the couch, fine. It’s all his. But so am I, and I’m going to be sitting on top of him, riding his cock whether he wants it or not. I just need to make sure that, regardless of what he wants, his cock is on my side. And I know exactly how to make that happen.

  Back in the closet, there’s a shelf of perfect white boxes waiting for me. Each is wrapped in a thick black ribbon, which is one of my favorite parts of my habit. When you buy something from most sites, it comes housed in a clunky cardboard box. You tear it open with a steak knife and dig past the bubble wrap or packing peanuts, and you’ll find your crumpled purchase wrapped in a receipt—a record of your shameful late-night spree. But Fräulein offers a more personal experience. When your Fräulein package arrives in its pristine white box bound by a thick black ribbon, it’s so pretty that you can hardly bear to open it. The first time I received one, I set it on the duvet and admired it for a solid three minutes. And when I finally untied the ribbon and removed the lid, I found my kinky undergarments nestled in a white satin bag that was too nice to throw away. I now have a drawer full of them.

  But whereas the satin bags require just one drawer, my Fräulein collection has an entire stack of them. Deep in the closet, I open the top one. With the pads of my fingertips I paw at my neatly organized bras. Not your average JC Penny, wear-to-work-and-hide-under-a-sweater bras, but elaborate, artful gems filigreed with lace and perfectly structured to make whatever they hold command attention. Each is part of a matching set—mostly panties at the start of my habit, and then thongs when I became more adventurous—along with the occasional complement of garters and stockings that I spent sleepless nights poring over on Fräulein’s site before making a purchase. And aside from the personal fashion shows I give myself in front of the closet mirror, each set has gone hopelessly unused.

  Until tonight, damn it.

  I didn’t know which set I was going to put on when I came back upstairs, but one spoke to me as soon as I opened the drawer. A periwinkle blue demicup that puts my tits perfectly on display and matching low-cut boy shorts that blend satin along my waist with transparent lace along my cheeks. The bottoms alone make me feel like I have the ass of an eighteen-year-old gymnast. Besprent throughout the blue lace are tiny blossoms of vibrant orange and white that gently pop like distant fireworks in a foggy sky.

  It’s the girliest, most delicate thing I own, and juxtaposed with my newly forged physique, it gives my athletic frame a softness that I imagine David must miss.

  I retrieve a badger-hair shaving brush from a tiny wooden box on my dresser and app
ly a thin coating of honey dust to my pussy before slowly pulling the panties up along my legs. Even if David doesn’t eat me out tonight, even if he doesn’t so much as taste me, I want to know it’s there.

  Before putting on the bra, I stand again in the mirror, looking at my body in nothing but panties. Honestly, how could he not want to fuck me right now?

  For a final touch, I pull on white silk stockings that extend halfway up my thighs. I look at the full package in the mirror, and I can feel my wetness mingling with the honey dust.

  This is not my piping-hot, designer-lingerie-clad body waiting to be fucked.

  I reach a timid hand down the front of my panties and trace my middle finger along my wet lips. Then, staring into my own eyes, I slowly bring it to my tongue and taste what I want him to taste.

  I creep down the stairs, and from the bottom step I can see the back of his head. ESPN highlight reels on our sixty-inch flatscreen bathe our living room in flickering blue light.

  Not too long ago, I took pride in being the girlfriend who would sit with David and his buddies and pretend to pay attention to whatever was transpiring on the field or rink or court. But back then I wanted to be perfect. Right now I just want to be fucked.

  I approach him from behind and put my right hand against his cheek. He leans his head into it to nuzzle my wrist and then turns to kiss my palm. No matter how tired he his, he can still be so sweet. Too bad sweetness isn’t enough.

  From his cheek, I move my hand down to his neck, where I massage his tightly wound knots. He sighs as I move to his traps and then the right side of his chest.

  “Faith,” he says.

  The hint of hesitation in his voice doesn’t deter me. I slowly forge a path downward along his midsection toward my prize.