Chapter 3: The First Taste
The plastic sheet crackled under my bare thighs, a cold, alien sound in the quiet room. I lay back, the rough plywood wall scraping my shoulder blades, my swollen belly a pale dome in the slanted light. The air smelled of sawdust and my own sharp sweat. Nathan hadn’t moved from the doorway, a broad silhouette against the brighter living room. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable. Daryl stood by the mattress, blinking behind his glasses, looking from me to Nathan and back again, like a man waiting for a traffic signal to change.
It was up to me. This was my offering, my grotesque prayer.
My fingers went to the hem of my dress, the soft maternity cotton I’d put on that morning hoping Jason might notice. He hadn’t. I pulled it up and over my head, the movement clumsy, my arms tangling for a moment. The air hit my skin, raising goosebumps. I wasn’t wearing a bra. My breasts were heavy, the veins blue and prominent, the nipples dark and already hard from fear and a sickening thrill. I let the dress fall to the floor.
Daryl made a small, choked sound in his throat.
I kept my eyes on Nathan. “You promised,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “The video stays buried.”
“It does,” he said, simply. No sermon. No judgment. Just a flat statement of fact.
I nodded, then looked at Daryl. His face was flushed. He wasn’t a predator like Nathan; he was a man caught in a current too strong to fight. I saw the conflict in the tight line of his jaw, the way his hands clenched and unclenched. He loved Olivia. He was a good man. And he was here, in this room, because of me and my filthy secret.
“Daryl,” I said, softening my tone. “It’s okay.” It was a lie, and we both knew it. Nothing was okay. But the need was a physical ache, a hollowed-out yearning that drowned the guilt. I lay back on the plastic, the cold seeping into my skin. I spread my legs, the movement awkward with the weight of my pregnancy. The intimacy was brutal, clinical. An exhibition. My pussy, exposed, swollen, glistening slightly already.
Nathan moved then. He walked to the side of the mattress, his movements deliberate. He didn’t undress. He just looked down at me, his pastor’s eyes cataloging every stretch mark, every tremble. “You asked for this,” he reminded me, his voice low. “You need it.”
“I do,” I breathed, the confession fanning the heat in my core.
He glanced at Daryl. “Well? She’s waiting.”
Daryl swallowed hard. He looked at me, at my spread body, and something in him surrendered. He knelt on the floor beside the mattress, the denim of his jeans rough against my thigh. He leaned in, his breath warm on my inner leg. I flinched, then forced myself to relax, to lean into the shame.
His tongue touched me first, a tentative, flat stroke along my slit.
A jolt went through me, electric and devastating. I gasped, my head thudding back against the wall. It had been so long. Jason’s rushed, dutiful touches were nothing like this focused, wet heat. Daryl’s tongue traced circles around my clit, avoiding the center, and I whimpered, my hips lifting off the plastic involuntarily.
“Don’t be gentle,” I heard myself beg, the words vile and perfect. “Please.”
Nathan knelt at my feet. He took my ankles in his strong hands, his grip firm, almost punishing. He pushed my legs wider, spreading me open for Daryl’s view, for his own. The vulnerability was absolute. I was pinned, displayed.
Daryl took the invitation. His mouth closed over my clit, his tongue lashing it directly.
“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, the obscenity ripped from some deep, untouched place inside me. My back arched. My hands scrabbled at the crinkling plastic. Daryl ate me like a starving man, his nose buried in my curls, his glasses pressing into my pubic bone. The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, animal. I could feel his stubble scraping my tender flesh.
Nathan watched, his fingers tracing my shins, a disturbingly gentle contrast to the raw, sucking hunger between my legs. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. “Look at her. She’s desperate for it. She’s been empty for so long.”
His words were gasoline on the fire. They stripped away the last pretense. I wasn’t Sarah, the pious wife. I was a vessel, filled with a craving so profound it blotted out God, marriage, everything.
“Don’t stop,” I chanted, my voice high and broken. “I need to cum. Make me cum like in that fucking video. Please, Daryl, make me fucking cum!”
My plea unleashed something in him. One of his hands came up, his fingers plunging into me while his mouth worked my clit. He fucked me with his fingers, curling them, hitting a spot inside that made my vision blur. The double sensation, the rough invasion and the relentless sucking, tore a scream from my throat. It wasn’t a scream of pleasure, not yet. It was a scream of release, of pent-up months of loneliness and touch-starvation shattering.
The orgasm, when it came, was a convulsive, shuddering tsunami. It ripped through my pregnant body with a violence that terrified me. I shook, my legs trembling in Nathan’s iron grip, my cries dissolving into wordless sobs. Daryl kept licking, gentler now, drinking me in as I pulsed around his fingers, draining every last spasm.
When it finally ebbed, I was a wreck. Sweat soaked my hairline. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I felt eviscerated, gloriously empty.
Nathan let go of my ankles. I heard his belt buckle clink.
Daryl pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing ragged. He looked dazed, guilty, utterly spent.
But Nathan was just beginning. He undid his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down in one motion. His cock sprung out, thick and already fully hard, the head flushed a dark red. He wasn’t gentle. He positioned himself over me, one hand braced on the wall beside my head, the other guiding himself to my entrance, which was slick and swollen from Daryl’s mouth and my orgasm.
“You said you wanted to be tried out,” Nathan said, his voice husky. “Test the bed.”
Before I could respond, he drove into me in one brutal, deep thrust.
I cried out, the fullness a shocking, breathtaking stretch. He was bigger than Jason, bigger than Dr. Taylor’s fingers. He filled the aching hollow Daryl’s mouth had created, and then kept going, pressing against my cervix, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain.
“Oh God,” I whimpered, the name a blasphemy now.
“God’s not here,” Nathan grunted, pulling back and slamming into me again. The plastic shrieked beneath us. “Just you. And your needs.”
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust jolting my body, making my tits shake. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back, anchoring myself to the fury of it. This wasn’t love. It was a transaction. A defilement. And I loved it. I met his thrusts, lifting my hips, taking him deeper.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered, his breath hot on my neck. “Show Daryl how a slut cums.”
My hand flew to my clit, still hypersensitive from Daryl’s tongue. I circled it, the friction sharp and too much, but I didn’t stop. I looked past Nathan’s shoulder. Daryl was still kneeling there, his jeans tented, watching us with a horrified, rapt fascination. Our eyes locked. I saw the shame in his, and it only made me hotter.
“Fuck me!” I screamed at Nathan, my fingernails scraping his shoulders through his shirt. “Fuck your best friend’s pregnant wife! Fuck her like the whore she is!”
Nathan’s rhythm faltered for a second, shocked by my filth. Then a groan tore from his chest, and he fucked me harder, his hips pistoning. The bed frame slammed against the wall with every drive, a loud, rhythmic banging that would surely be heard throughout the empty apartment.
I was hurtling toward another climax, a deeper, darker one. The coil tightened in my gut, fueled by the raw obscenity of it all—Nathan’s betrayal, Daryl’s watching eyes, my own debasement.
“I’ve never… I want to try…” I panted, the words tumbling out amidst the slapping of flesh. “Anal. I’ve never had it.”
Nathan slowed, pulling almost all the way out of my wet, aching pussy. He looked down at me, his face sheened with sweat, his eyes blazing. “You want that?”
“Yes.” It was a hiss.
He withdrew completely. I felt suddenly, terribly empty. He nodded at Daryl. “Lube. My bag. By the door.”
Daryl moved like a sleepwalker. He returned with a small bottle. Nathan took it, squeezing a clear gel onto his fingers. He rubbed it around my asshole, the intrusion cold and strange. I held my breath, pushing back against the pressure.
“Easy,” he murmured, but it wasn’t tenderness. It was instruction.
He positioned himself again, the blunt head of his cock nudging against that tight, virgin ring of muscle. He pushed. It burned, a fierce, stretching burn that made me cry out.
“Relax,” Nathan commanded, his voice guttural. He pushed harder, a relentless, gradual invasion. I whimpered, the pain sharp, a bright line of fire. Then, with a final, brutal shove, he was in, buried to the hilt in my ass.
The air left my lungs. The feeling was overwhelming, a consuming fullness that left no room for thought. He began to move, slow at first, then faster, each stroke a shockwave of intense, illicit pleasure-pain. I was split open, claimed in a way I’d never been.
“Look at her take it,” Nathan growled to Daryl, his thrusts becoming ragged. “Look at this holy, pregnant wife taking a cock in her ass.”
I came then, a silent, seizing orgasm that clenched every muscle in my body. My vision whited out. I felt Nathan pulse inside me, felt the hot rush of his release filling that forbidden channel. He collapsed on top of me, his weight crushing, his breath hot in my ear.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the reek of sex and plastic. Then Nathan pulled out of me with a soft, wet sound. I felt a trickle of his cum seep out, down my thigh. He stood, pulling up his jeans, buckling his belt. He looked down at me, a mess on the mattress, and there was no victory in his face. Just a cool, calculated satisfaction.
Daryl was still staring, his face pale.
I slowly pushed myself up on my elbows. The room smelled of us. My body felt used, gloriously wrecked. The silence was thicker than before, heavy with what we’d done.
Nathan picked up my dress from the floor. He tossed it onto the mattress beside me. “The video,” he said, his voice back to its normal, calm timbre, “is safe with us.” He turned and walked out of the bedroom, his footsteps echoing down the short hall.
I looked at Daryl. He couldn’t meet my eyes. He stood up, adjusted himself in his jeans, and without a word, he followed Nathan out.
I was alone. The plastic under me was torn, wet. The proof of my sin was leaking onto it. In the quiet, the reality crashed down. Jason would be home soon. I had to clean up. I had to pretend.
But as I sat there, my hands trembling on the cool, sticky plastic, one truth blazed brighter than the shame: for the first time in my life, I had come. Not once. But twice. And the man who had promised to love me forever had never even come close.