Quean for a Day 1

I want him to make me a quean, and I want to watch while he does it.

We have a strong marriage because we’re open to each other’s needs and we communicate. That means if either I or my husband want something new in bed, like a different position, or bringing in toys, or even exploring a kink, we’ll discuss it — without judgment — and if we’re both interested then we’ll try it, at least once.

Sometimes only once.

I read too much, that’s my problem; that’s how it started. I found an article, and I followed some links, and I fell down a rabbit hole into a whole new world. And I wondered…

I’ve just sent him the original article, with the fateful words, “Would you consider this?”

He reads through it in silence, apart from one brief clarification about the headline: “Is this pronounced ‘queen’?”

“I think so, yes.”

“But spelled with an A?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s a white lie. I do know: a quean is a disreputable woman. I want him to make me a quean, and I want to watch while he does it.

When he’s finished reading, he nods slowly. “Okay, I’ll think about this. I’m not immediately opposed to trying it, if it’s something you’re interested in. But who with?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Perhaps I was afraid he’d say no, or maybe I subconsciously wanted him to, because right now the third person in my fantasy is formless, more of an idea than an actual woman. She certainly doesn’t have a name. “I don’t… Could you look for someone? After all, it’s you who has to like her.”

He was quiet for the rest of the evening, and now we’ve gone to bed he’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, looking at me. Silently.

Eventually I ask. “What?!”

“Are you certain this is something you want?”

“You staring at me? It’s not at the top of my wish list.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do know, but I don’t know if I’m certain. “I think so. I think we should try it, at least. Maybe just once, but I do want to try. Do you?”

“Perhaps. But this is so far beyond anything we’ve done before. This isn’t a bit of roleplay, or furry handcuffs, or fucking in a field under a picnic blanket. This is serious. So, help me decide. I want you to visualise the scenario. Imagine me with another woman. Imagine it all, from beginning to end: see everything, feel everything. Don’t touch yourself — I don’t want to watch you masturbate to your latest fantasy, not right now— just close your eyes and visualise.”

So I do… at least, I try. It’s hard to start. I don’t know who the other woman is. Probably she’s a sex worker he’s paid to help explore my fantasy, but she has no identity, only a vague feminine form. It’s a form that is recognisably not mine: curvy, with large breasts and one of those taut, round, squat-thot bottoms he likes.

He probably wanted me to begin by imagining her arrival and his seduction, but she’s a sex worker, so it’s not like he loves her; they’re not in a relationship, it’s just fucking. That’s why she’s already naked and bent over the dining table, legs apart, hands gripping the far edge. From where I’m lying, on the couch, I can see her perfectly waxed pussy. It’s prettier than mine: pink and neat and symmetrical.

And then my view is blocked by his head, because he’s kneeling behind her to eat her out, enthusiastically. Would he do that for a sex worker? So maybe she’s not a sex worker. She might be a Tinder hook-up, some slut with no boundaries who’s happy to fuck a married man, happy to shame his wife by doing something she’s too shy to enjoy. Someone who’s getting off on my humiliation… like I want to.

His face is buried between her thighs. All I can see of the action is his head slowly nodding as his tongue shifts focus back and forth. She’s appreciating the attention, her murmured yeses growing louder when he reaches up to knead those impressive butt cheeks, his thumbs digging into the crack of her arse.

When he stands I can see her pussy again, slick with cyprine and saliva now. She couldn’t be wetter, but he reaches for a bottle of lube sitting on the table. He’s going to fuck her arse. We’ve only tried anal once, and it was uncomfortable for me so we haven’t done it again. Maybe she is a sex worker then: he’s paid her to give him what I won’t. And he wants me to see it, to see how much pleasure it gives him, to see how I disappoint him.

He pulls her hips up so she’s on tiptoe, and my eyes are glued to his arse as he pushes gently into her. Her satisfied, “Mm-hmm,” says this isn’t uncomfortable for her. More than that: she’s enjoying it. Soft mews and gasps float back across the table with every slow, steady stroke.

Her right arm is moving; she’s sliding it under her body. She’s touching herself. I want to do the same, but he said I shouldn’t, I should only imagine. So I imagine touching myself. I imagine giving up on shame, on worrying about who or what the other woman is, on any vestige of dignity, on everything except pleasure. In my mind my husband is fucking someone else, and I’m fucking myself, my legs spread wide, one foot up on the couch back, two fingers deep in my pussy, my thumb rubbing my clit in time with his movements.

The only sounds are the wet squelches every time he thrusts, and her gasps of pleasure, like she’s building to an orgasm. And why shouldn’t she? Anal doesn’t sound like that in porn, no matter how much lube they use. He isn’t fucking her arse. He isn’t fucking her at all; he’s making love to her. She’s not a sex worker, or a hook-up, she’s his girlfriend. His mistress. He knows exactly what she likes, and he wants her to have it. He fucks her because I’m not good enough for him. I’m only good enough to watch.

She’s getting louder now, squeaking her rhythmic affirmation, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and I’m keeping pace with her, biting my lip so I don’t cry out and compound my shame by letting her hear my thoughts, the lying drumbeat of, “No, no, no!”

Then she screams one final, “Fuck, yes!” followed by a whispered, “Oh, Ben! I love…” and I don’t know if she says ‘you’ or ‘your cock’, and it doesn’t matter because he stops suddenly, then thrusts twice, hard, ending deep inside her. His buttocks clench. He’s made his lover come, now her spasming around his cock has tipped him over the edge.

He steps away, and I can see her thighs still trembling, and her pussy pulsing, and my husband’s cum dripping out of her and onto the carpet, and I’ll need to clean that stain later but right now I’m rubbing frantically, trying to reach my own orgasm before this ends.

He turns and walks over to me, bringing his flaccid cock — still sticky with their sex — inches from my face. He says, “Clean me up, baby,” and I lean forward…

…and it’s too much, if I don’t stop now he will see me touch myself.

I open my eyes. “Okay. I’m finished.”

He’s smiling. It’s an approving smile, I think, because it gets wider when he reaches between my legs and runs two fingers between my lips. He shows me his hand like I might not know I’m dripping, but I’m glad he does because I want to complete my fantasy, if only symbolically.

I prop myself up on my side and suck his fingers clean.

When I’m done, his smile is gone, replaced with caring concern. “You really want this, don’t you?”

“Yes! Just the thought of it is awful and humiliating and hot as fuck.”

“It might not be like your fantasy.”

“I know. But perhaps it will be. Give me this, just once, and I’ll give you anal whenever you want.”

“Christ, Livia, it’s not a trade-off! If we both want this, and if we can find someone to help, then I’m okay with trying it. There’s no ‘price’, and even if there was I wouldn’t accept payment in reluctant anal sex. But I do need to know what happens afterwards.”

“That night? Nothing. You just take me to bed, hold me, stroke my hair, and tell me that I’m still loved. But in the morning…”

I push on his shoulder so he lies flat. “In the morning I show you that you’re still loved.”

I sit up, and straddle him. Pressing my heat against his rapidly stiffening cock, I offer him reassurance. “In the morning, I make you mine again.”

I lift my hips, and his erection, and he fills me.

Quean for a Day continues in part 2 with an awkward revelation.

More from Marsha

Another tale by Marie A. Rebelle