DITW 10-12: Devil's Hour

The photo was lurid. It was shocking.

Corner to corner again, taking up the entire screen, 1920 x 1080, Full HD, pure erotic, unambiguous Kimmy flesh. The flesh no one saw. The sensitive, nerve ending sensual flesh high up under her skirt. Even covered by a bikini bottom. Skin in the colour of honey or cream caramel. The curve of her leg evident in the garish over-lighting, the flesh tone obliterated to a pale yellowy-white. What raced his heart and exploded his sour lust were the darker tones of flesh. The browner tones of russet, the expanse of private skin where the surface was pockmarked by tiny humps. Hair follicles. The places where his wife groomed. And god, oh fucking god, one thin black curl entering from off-frame; one of Kimmy’s pubic hairs.

He groaned with pure, hurting bewilderment. Someone in the world who wasn’t Josh Waters had taken a photo of Kimmy’s pussy.

He touched the edge of the screen, stroked the pad of his thumb along a hurtful section of pixelated pain. The skin here showed browner, but also somehow blossomed a blushing pinkish hue. And the flesh here—he swallowed with difficulty—the flesh here was smooth as glass; no bumps, no blemishes, no follicles. Points and little archipelagoes of pure shimmering white glowed here. Glowed from wetness. Reflected back to the camera nothing but white. These were sex membranes. The flesh of her pussy.

A small squeaky prepubescent voice from his high school anatomy class whispered the phrase labia majora. Whatever the term, no one should have a photo of this part of Kimmy. He dropped the phone to his chest and collapsed back in the couch. He opened and closed his hands, the fingers stiff and icy cold now.

The whole thing was impossible. He looked around the room, like he would come out of some spell and find he’d only drifted off to dreamland. Or nightmare land.

He whispered curses of disbelief, getting up, throwing his disgusting phone into a couch cushion, then standing there with handfuls of his hair like a man on the verge of insanity. What the fuck?

Then he was going down the hall, headed to the bedroom, opening the door and peeking in. Kimmy still slept, curled up in bed on her side and lit in nighttime lunar blue. Sleep of the innocent. She looked at peace, and seeing her that way warmed his heart. Instead of rage, instead of infidelity-fueled madness, he felt sympathy. He felt sorry for her.

He wanted to comfort her.

Now a sick and greasy compunction seized him. His badness, his dirty fantasies had pushed his wife into dark territory.

How had it come to this?

Not once had he ever wanted Kimmy to sleep with Devlin, and yet, after the taunts began, he drew closer and closer to admitting something that he wasn’t even guilty of. He was being punished for a crime he hadn’t even wanted to commit. It was like Devlin had organized a heist and roped him into manning the getaway car, sitting outside with the alarms ringing and cursing himself for ever being talked into it, and now in the aftermath he was heading off to do five-to-ten maximum security in Millhaven. And Devlin walked away with all the cash.

He leaned on the wall outside the bedroom door and breathed into his hands. He’d never asked for it, never desired it, but to say he wasn’t guilty was the ameliorating phrase of his legal defense. Because seeing a photo of Kimmy’s pussy had him aching hard. His cock throbbed, his breath came in slow, tight squeezes. His heart raced. His mind raced. He wanted to rush back to his phone and look at the photo again. He wanted an orgasm.

This had to be a joke. It had to be a prank.

Devlin was a bully. A tormentor of the grandest scale.

Right now, he’s laughing at you.

This is funny to him.

Devlin Stone could have any woman he wanted; he only wants Kimmy to fuck with you. And why? Because it amuses him.

Get your shit together.

Now he headed back to the couch and retrieved his phone. He looked at the photo again, this time with his jaw tight and hard, his brow lowered like he was Jason Statham, fighting against the mighty erotic pull of the photo’s lurid coloring, the pure suggestion implicit in its sending. He looked through it, looked past it.

It was fake. It had to be. All the events leading here were a caper, not a heist. Devlin wasn’t stealing Kimmy, that wasn’t the prize, Devlin was chasing the extreme, psychopathic amusement he achieved in taunting other men. Men he thought lesser than him. That was how he built his ego. That was how Devlin Stone got his jollies.

He chewed his cheek, worried a canine over his lower lip.

Then he was stalking the hallway again, headed back to the bedroom with a brand new purpose, phone in hand.

Is that Kimmy’s knee or not? Is it her pussy? Did Devlin find some photo online that he was sure looked like it could be Kimmy’s? How would he know what Kimmy’s pussy looked like?

A guess?

Then he could picture that neanderthal googling “Asian pussy,” laughing to himself at how easy it was to trick a meek man eager to always believe the worst.

Now he was slipping into the bedroom, knowing this was a terrible idea, but he was a man on a mission.

Kimmy slept facing the window, the moon painting her in pale shades of blue. He crept to the edge of the bed, mind racing, knowing he should have an excuse prepared if she woke up and caught him, but not having the time to pause and suss one out.

Kimmy made it easy for him, on her side, one leg straight, top leg bent, knee forward and near the edge of the bedding. He peeled the comforter back, then the sheet, eyes darting from the knee to her face, wary of any fluttering of her eyelashes. She still slept. She still slept, and he’d bared her knee.

He opened the first photo again and moved the image around so the knee took up the majority of his phone’s screen. He moved the screen in close proximity to his wife’s knee for a surreptitious side-by-side comparison.

It was ridiculous. What he was doing was ridiculous.

The moonlight wasn’t strong enough to illuminate every detail of her knee. It looked like her knee. It looked exactly like her knee, but a midnight comparison was a waste of time. When he’d first seen the photo, he knew right away it was Kimmy’s knee. Then he’d tricked his brain into thinking it was only a timid picture of his wife’s leg made to look more salacious than it was. Now he saw it wasn’t timid at all. It was the real deal, and now his brain sought any way to back pedal out of this terrifying scenario.

For a long, enduring moment of awful time, true defeat weighed on his shoulders, seeking to press him right down on the ground. What kept him alive and fighting on his feet was brutal lechery.

A strong urge seized him now to take that knee and spread it to the other side, open his wife’s legs and then push her panties aside. Yeah, she’d wake up and protest and demand to know what the hell he was doing, but in this case he could tell her with shimmering paladin virtue that if she knew what was best for her, she would spread those legs and let him examine her pussy. And guilty Kimmy would let him. She’d open her legs and cry and look up at the ceiling as her husband confirmed she had a lover who took a photograph of her most private space.

He stood panting bedside like a sex maniac, with his lips sucked between his teeth, huffing raunchy breaths, looking at Kimmy’s thigh and fighting the urge to actually do it. He stepped back, retreated across the room, never removing his eyes from Kimmy’s bare beautiful knee, sexy, sinewy grace and fine bone perfection.

His cock twitched and spasmed and his breaths came in sobbing chugs. He hid in the bathroom and locked the door.

There was no way and no where to escape the torture. It chased him even when his eyes were closed. How could he sleep, how could he breathe, how could he fucking exist like this?

Why had he ever engaged with Devlin Stone?

He texted in return.

Josh: This could be anybody. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.

Then he sat down on the tile floor, hugging his phone to his chest, hoping to god no one ever got back to him, that he’d chased Devlin away. And yet he found comfort and maybe even strange excitement knowing this wasn’t the end, that Devlin would text back, and Devlin would prove it further. Prove it with something a magnitude more damaging to his fragile psyche.

He lit his screen up again and looked at the second photo. The worst one. Looked at that slick expanse of skin right next to her vagina and he thought of Devlin seeing it. Thought of Devlin Stone getting such a juicy view of Josh’s wife’s perfect pussy. And why was Kimmy so wet? Had he fucked her? Maybe the rest of the photo would show her sagging hole and puffy, just-fucked labia, and a copious flow of Devlin’s thick white semen crawling down to Kimmy’s tiny asshole.

“Fuck,” he hissed and shut his screen black, looking up at the familiar ceiling of his master bathroom.

The curiosity provoked more unwanted images, coming in a flood now. He did nothing to stem the flow, just let them spurt like arterial blood, like his life was ebbing from him. Devlin fingering Kimmy’s pussy, his big aggressive hand between her legs, his large fingers, his big knuckles, masculine veins and black hair. Fucking Kimmy’s pussy against Kimmy’s better judgment, two or three fingers plunging hard and fast, slick sounds of over-lubrication, her wet pussy teeming around his vile intrusion. Kimmy gasping, crying, hating how a man she despised could give her pleasure she’d never imagined before. . . . Oh, fuck. Squirting. Kimmy letting go because Devlin’s mastery over her supple sex membranes proved too much. Tinkling high, pattering over Devlin’s expensive suit, hollering out with her voice tightened by endless shame as an unwanted orgasm tore through her. Finger-fucking her pussy, then after she’d come, shoving one big wet finger in her anus and pushing her through a crazy anal orgasm, riding it right on top of her first orgasm like a monster truck, making Kimmy wild and sex-crazed and out of her mind with passion. Devlin not washing his hand, Devlin getting Josh to smell his finger, smell his own wife’s pussy and ass on her boss’s fingers while her boss’s friends snickered behind his back. A little-dick chump whose wife got some grade-A extramarital fucking on her lunches. Devlin telling his friends how Josh’s wife was a squirter. Rumble requesting the Asian stripper at the club, rubbing it in Josh’s face and they’d all joke about it later.

His cock ached like never before, but when he put his hand down and cupped it over the fabric, he recoiled with disgust.

He couldn’t touch himself. He wouldn’t masturbate to this. To do so would be evil, would be careless or even uncaring. Unloving. Jerking off to his wife’s subjugated objectification, to her violation, would mean he hated her. And he didn’t hate her. For some reason, he swore he might love her now more than ever before.

Now he just tightened his thighs and his stomach, rocking his butt on the floor, trying to coax the orgasm closer but without touching himself. Everything below his belly button felt inflated to bursting—but like a balloon that just won’t pop, like trying to blow up a hot water bottle by huffing into it.

He curled into the shape of a question mark, his body twisted in sexual agony. His shorts were wet with pre-come and he could feel an unending slithering of wet sexual excitement from his urethra. His legs shuddered, and he whimpered a small sound of frustrated pain.

When his phone chimed again, he bobbled it, the sound jolting him out of his torment with a sudden jolt of electric thrill. The chime could mean so much. So much more. He almost hoped it was the worst thing imaginable, something that would end the questioning. The questioning uncertainty could kill him. It could break his heart or race it into cataclysm.

A photo of Devlin fucking her. A photo of Devlin’s fingers stuffed into Kimmy’s tight pussy, her labia hugging for dear life, glistening wet with forbidden pleasure. A pornographic panorama: Kimmy’s thighs spread wide as he’d seen them, only she’s on her back on Devlin’s chest, and in this picture you could see Devlin’s giant wrist-thick cock inside Kimmy’s pussy, stretching it and filling it like no other man could ever do—especially not her husband.

He bucked and shuddered this time, and the orgasm almost seized him, but slipped away again like a taunting wood fairy, teasing him, but disappearing into the brush like a hesitant sneeze.

He opened his phone to see another text. A response to his rejection.

It could be anyone, but you know it’s Kimmy. You’re not stupid. How could you not recognize her? If you want to see the whole picture, then meet me.

He whimpered again and bit his own knuckle, writhing in sexual torsion on his bathroom floor. But at last, with shaking hands, he responded to the text.

Josh: When?