“The Edge… there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. “ -Hunter S. Thompson

Ferguson, Missouri, USA

“Come on, Kelly, you know I was just joking,” Jim told his wife.

“Nah, you dared me,” Kelly corrected him. “So now my honor is at stake,” she said mockingly. She adjusted what little of the dress she could, checked herself in the mirror one last time and marched downstairs. “You wanted your wife to show her body off to two strangers,” she warned him.

The two delivery men were just finishing up, collecting the boxes and straightening the washer and dryer in place. This was their last delivery of the night, so they werw anxious to leave and head home.

“Holy shiii…” one of them said as he caught sight of Kelly walking down the stairs.

“My husband said I was supposed to give you a tip,” she joked, trying to twist the knife on her husband. She sauntered over to the two, young, strapping men and teasingly traced her finger down the length of one of their biceps. “But I say, why stop at the tip?” Kelly was really pouring it on, trying to make her husband jealous while having a laugh. She expected the guys to appreciate the show, maybe get her riled up for her husband after they left.

“Oh hell, yeah,” the younger man said. He grabbed Kelly by the hips from behind. Before she could say or do anything, her skimpy dress was hiked up, revealing the surprise she had intended for her husband. “She ain’t even wearing panties,” the first man said to his boss. His fingers were quickly deep inside of her wet, aching pussy.

“Shit, let’s do this,” the older man said, dropping his pants and pulling out a thick, hardening cock.

The younger man’s cock was already inside of her, pounding away from behind as Kelly let the older man guide her head down to his waiting cock. The younger man came quickly, filling Kelly’s aching pussy with warm, sticky cum. The older man spun her around, taking his cock from her mouth and pushing it deep into her pussy.

As he spun her around, she was faced with a third man, the driver, who had come back to see what the delay was about. Kelly didn’t wait for him to react. She grabbed the third man’s zipper and pulled his cock into her mouth as the older man pounded away at her from behind.

Out of the corner of her eye, as she was stuffed with two strange cocks, Kelly sqw her husband at the top of the stairs. His shorts were down and a pool of his own cum was still dripping on the stairs from moments earlier. He was furiously pumping his cock again as the thee men below had their way with uis wife.

You think you’re getting away with something, and then it gets away with you. A little something you enjoy of an evening, that then becomes a daily staple, twice a day, three times, whenever you can, and then it’s dictating your life. A thousand signposts, each one flashing neon to let you know that you’re being taken for a ride by your own proclivities. 

It had started by dictating what she wore. Skirts, unless they were trousers that could easily pool around her ankles (not baggy though; he liked to see the curve). Thongs, or nothing at all. Minor misdemeanors landed her bent, face buried in her arms and back arched ever so slightly. She didn’t want to see like she wanted it. Such a scandalous idea couldn’t slip past the secrecy of her mind. 

And then it was not-so-minor misdemeanors. Nothing at all, really. The wrong kind of look, perhaps the tiniest infraction in protocol and syntax. If she didn’t call him the right title, if there wasn’t enough respect in her tone. He favoured a desk or some sort of support for her; that way he could get a proper swing in, and not have to feel hamstrung by a seated position. He liked to make her hurt. She liked to let him. 

He used to wait for her to heal before he took a hand back to her. He would watch the bruises fade like the saturation on a photograph in the sun, admiring the way her body pulled itself back together, regained its composure and shrugged off the blush in slow motion. It was half the fun, and he’d tell her as much. Until he stopped telling her, and instead kept it red, kept it fresh. Didn’t wanting her to get overripe. Didn’t want to see the purple go. 

She was enjoying it too much to complain, even though the pain had shifted from the sharpness of a fresh blow to the dull ache of something old and remembered. He was burying her in it, where before it had been a wash. Instead of feeling cleansed by the pain, now she was sullied by it. The edge was fading, and it was a dull knife he was taking to her. Then one day she said no. 

One day she said stop. 

His hand faltered, a shadow of confusion coming to his eyes. And then it slipped away, the drunk becoming sober, the addict looking in the mirror. She stood up, winced, and started to talk.

And he listened.