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9
Malcolm
Sometimes life sneaks up on us unexpectedly, and that’s exactly what happened to me with Leslie. One day, she was just a girl I saw a picture of. Sassy, nude and lovely, of course, but nothing that was going to disrupt my everyday life. Just a girl to have fun with.
But somehow, in these intervening months, everything’s changed. I think about her all the time, even when she’s only five feet away. I’ll catch her eye as she reads a book while I peruse the newspaper, and soon, we’re tumbling into bed once more.
Plus, she’s changed me a lot. Before Leslie, weekends were never something I looked forward to because my life was blah. Sure, I went out to the best restaurants and partied at the most exclusive clubs with beautiful women swarming about, but it didn’t mean anything. Now, nothing makes me happier than spending time with the curvy girl and making her laugh. We could be doing nothing, and I’d be content.
Speaking of which, my girl is currently enjoying the cool water of the dunk pool outside. I take a seat in the living room with my coffee, facing the long row of windows that abut the terrace and merely watch her splashing about. She’s absolutely gorgeous in a tiny bikini that leaves little to the imagination, and I’m half-inclined to join her in the water before making her gasp.
“Come on, Malcolm!” she cries, catching sight of me through the windows. “The water’s warm!”
You know what? She’s right. What am I doing, sitting here by myself when there’s a luscious woman beckoning? Jumping up, I head to the bedroom to change. I grab the first pair of swim trunks I find and quickly struggle into them before grabbing a couple towels. But then, a phone goes off and I groan. Fuck, it better not be work.
I try to ignore it, but the beeps are insistent, and it’s coming from the drawer by Leslie’s side of the bed. Fuck, it sounds like she’s being text bombed, and I sigh. Dropping the towels on the mattress, I stalk to the bedside table and jerk open the drawer, ready to turn the damn thing off.
Sure enough, the phone’s buzzing crazily and I seize the sleek black rectangle with a vengeance. But then, an image catches my eye and I squint. What the fuck is this? To my surprises, even more images pop up, and pain clutches my chest because they show a man who’s very naked and aroused. His pecker’s nothing to write home about, but it’s clear he’s ready given his bulging veins and dripping tip.
Not only that, but there’s a woman playing with him as he assumes all sorts of revealing positions. In one, he’s bent over grabbing his ankles, showing his dark star from the back. A woman’s hand is poised right over his hole, ready to penetrate. Then in the next photo, her finger actually is in his hole, stirring around, as her other hand grips his shaft tightly.
I rub my eyes, trying to block these images from my mind. Who the fuck is this, and why are these photos on Leslie’s phone? Then my eyes flick open and see that the sender is “Ronald.”
I pause, unable to breathe. Ronald, as in Ronald Putnam, her ex? Has Leslie been talking to him? Are those her hands in the photos? It can’t be, but at that moment, another image pops up, and this time, Ronald’s face is evident. He’s lying back with his legs spread and kicked up in the air, showing us his stiff pecker and asshole again. This time, the unseen woman’s got two fingers buried his back end, and judging from the ecstasy on his face, he loves it. Sure enough, the next photo is a climax shot, with Ronald splashing all over his chest and abs as the woman tunnels her entire fist into his pale white ass. It’s a tight fit and he’s screaming with mixed pain and pleasure as his rectum is stretched beyond comprehension.
Nausea churns in my stomach. Why the fuck is Leslie engaging in these obscene acts with her ex? I had no idea she was even talking to Ronald, much less doing dirty deeds with him. Yet it’s got to be her, so what next?
My throat closes as pain stabs me in the chest. Just last night, Leslie and I were talking about fisting. Granted, we were discussing the potential of me fisting her, and not the other way around, but somehow, this photo hits too close to home. It’s on topic, and my stomach churns.
I know I should put her phone down. I should walk away and talk to my girlfriend about what I’ve seen. This has to be some kind of prank or misunderstanding, and nothing more. Hell, maybe someone transposed the digits of her phone number, and these photos aren’t even meant for her. But then, the cell dings again, and the screen lights up like a Christmas tree. This time it isn’t even a photo. It’s a text from Ronald.
