Black Marks - Chapter 1

WES FAIRCHILD

I’m sat in my trailer at my pitch at the Sunday market. Outside the curved windows, the crowd is already thick with people milling around in the morning sun. Eager shoppers in short-sleeved shirts, one or two girls in little shorts or dresses. Showing off their legs like I’m always trying to persuade my wife to do.

I sigh. Today though, before I even slide the glass across and open for business, the first coffee I have to pour here is one for me. I overdid it last night when Amelia and I were out. We went to the bar down the road and had too many beers. Well, I had too many. It’s getting to be a habit. But at the moment I’ve got a lot on my mind.

I reach down under the counter and into the mini freezer for the ice and then drop a fistful into my cup. It’s too warm today for a hot drink. Even with the aircon in here.

The green light on the Gaggia signals the espresso is ready so I pour the dark fluid over the ice. It crackles and the rich aroma floods my nostrils. I’ll feel better once I’ve got some of this down me. There’s a small queue forming outside the windows now and I gesture ‘Two minutes’ at the line.

This wasn’t the dream when I started my own business. Working weekends on top of Monday to Friday. But the fact is, my turnover and profit projections are nowhere near what I planned. Nor where they need to be.

Let’s hope for a good day today. Me and Amelia could do with the cash.

I mix a little oat milk in with the coffee and ice, take a quick, cool mouthful, and then slide the windows apart on the line outside.

“Sorry about the delay folks,” I grin, “Now, what can I get you?”

The market is certainly busy. But with coffee sales, the mornings in particular need to be. If they’re not, then you’re playing catch-up all day.

But this business isn’t the only thing that’s not going the way I used to hope it would.

The first guy in line is a middle-aged man in a bright red baseball cap who orders vanilla lattes for him and his wife. I serve them on autopilot. My thoughts are dragged back again to last night in bed. To the latest disappointment.

When the first few customers are served and gone, I remember the boxes of fresh pastries and muffins I picked up from the wholesaler on the way here.

Shit. I should have made sure these were on display right away.

I rip open a box of each and place a few out on the countertop. I’ve probably missed some sales for them already. I only recently added the snack lines to my range in the hope of boosting my takings. I sell soft drinks now too for the same reason. But I’m sure most people don’t see any further than the word ‘Coffee’ written on the trailer. And if they don’t want that, then they don’t come to me.

Maybe I should have called the business something like ‘Coffee Plus’ and had that liveried on the side, not just my name and the word ‘Coffee.’

I serve another couple of customers - including one who takes two apple Danish - and then I peel the wrapping from around a chocolate muffin and stuff a fistful into my mouth. I sit back on the stool and peer out at the crowd, the stalls, and the sun. Close by are fruit and vegetable stalls, a real busy one selling honey, and another with tray upon tray of freshly laid eggs.

Every time I open up at events like these I’ll be hectic for several minutes until the initial demand dies down. Then after that, it comes and goes in waves. But whenever there’s a lull, that’s when I usually take a deep breath and brood about me and Amelia. Or about the business. About whether the idea for an independent coffee trailer was the right one. Or if I should have invested the money in a franchise like Amelia’s dad told us to.

But it’s still early days. Only my first year trading. I need to somehow make this trailer profitable before I can even think about more of them and any employees working for me. About making a real business of it.

I change the picture in my head to one of my strawberry-blonde wife again and how good she looked in the little red dress I persuaded her to wear when we went out last night. I bought it for her birthday. It’s not as short or revealing as I’d ideally have liked, but she’d never have worn it if it was. She still said it was ‘overkill for the local bar. But we can’t afford to go anywhere fancier at the moment. And a red dress on a pretty girl always gives off a kind of hot ‘sinful’ vibe.

Even if ‘sinful’ is the last thing anyone would ever call my Amelia.

She’s a modest girl. From a conservative family. I mean, the fact that she’s not all showy and not always posting shit on insta or whatever are some of the things that attracted me to her in the first place. As well as the rest of her personality. And of course her cuteness. But now, that same modesty is part of what frustrates me.

I know I’m miles away from her ever acting out my sexual fantasies with another guy. I don’t even suggest it for real anymore. Not after the way she reacted whenever I did. I’d never push it. I’ve done that before with an ex. I persuaded a girlfriend to kiss my buddy a few times and it didn’t end well.

I should never have told Amelia about that.

But my wife used to at least pretend. She’d talk dirty in bed with me about letting another guy touch her. Or we’d imagine her stroking someone else’s cock. Then she got ‘uncomfortable’ even talking like that. She even stopped answering in any detail when I’d ask questions about the rough stuff her ex used to like doing in bed too.

Although even if she was willing to do something with another guy, now that she works from home she barely ever meets any.

“Can I get a two-shot iced espresso?” a kid on the other side of the counter asks.

“Same for me dude,” the older guy with him says and scratches his beard.

“Pastries or muffins?” I ask the pair of them.

They take a chocolate muffin each and then head off into the swelling crowd with them and their drinks.

Sometimes I feel guilty for not being able to just get off all the time on simple straight sex between me and my wife. The kind of purely physical pleasure that’s enough for most guys with their wives or girlfriends. Instead, I’ve always got all these thoughts playing through my head every time I go near my wife.

I get another rush of customers and serve them, and then after I’ve finished wiping down the chrome worktops and topping up the display of snacks, I sit back and scroll my phone.

In my gallery, I check out the selfies of me and Amelia that I took on the walk to the bar last night. I ignore my own grinning face and untidy hair and focus instead on my slender, baby-blue-eyed wife. The light sprinkle of freckles on her high cheekbones and the little upturned nose on that pretty face. Her thick, shoulder-length blonde hair with a hint of warm red color threaded through it. Pert boobs in that fitted red dress.

Most guys would fight to keep other men away from a girl like her, never mind dream of inviting them onto her.

The thought agitates my dick in my pants.

“Got any bottled water?” a podgy guy with a serious sweat on asks from the other side of the counter.

“Cold one?” I ask and grab one from a fridge.

“I’ll take a cinnamon roll too,” he points at the pastries.

Beyond him and away to the right, maybe thirty feet from here, the crowds part a little and a white SUV slowly pulls a food trailer that’s painted in garish lime green, yellow, and bright red. A Mexican food stall.

Must be nice not having to get started until almost midday.

I serve a couple more customers then watch the SUV driver as he gets out of his vehicle, yawns, and stretches. With his shaggy red hair and baggy jeans I doubt anyone could look less Mexican if he tried. But what do I know? There’s someone else inside the SUV too by the look of it.

I deal with another rush of customers and then am sipping my coffee and daydreaming some more when a soft female voice breaks my train of thought.

I peer out and down at a sultry brunette with a large cleavage on show in a real low-cut black top. She’s got a little piece of paper in one hand and loud, lacquered fingernails.

“Hi,” I say and gaze at big brown eyes with thick eyeliner drawn around them and what looks like fake lashes.

“Me and my husband have the tacos and burritos stall,” she drawls then swivels and points back at the trailer, giving me a brief glimpse of her oversized butt in a tiny denim skirt. Bare thighs below that.

“Oh right,” I smile at her.

“So we were wondering if you’d want to swap while we’re here?” she looks right at me, “We give you lunch and nachos when you want them, and you keep us buzzing with caffeine?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I nod and beyond her now, the red-headed guy is inside his trailer, dressing the counter.

Is he using his wife to schmooz me? He probably gets her to dress that way to attract more customers too. Maybe he even gets off on her showing her tits and legs to everyone.

And she’s prepared to do it for him. For kicks?

My interpretation of this unknown couple’s situation and their motivations might be skewed because of my gloomy mood, but the comparison between me and my wife makes my gut sink.

“Great,” she says and gives me a lingering smile that unnerves me a little, “Here’s our menu,” she hands me the piece of paper.

“OK. I’ll take a look later,” I mumble.

“Can I get two cappuccinos meantime?” she asks, “No sugar.”

I make a little more small talk as I serve her and then as she swaggers away in heels and carefully carrying both drinks, I spot her glistening gold anklet.

Is she a real-life hotwife?

The question does nothing to brighten my mood.

By the time the day is done and I’ve towed the trailer back to the storage depot, washed it down (inside and out), then locked it away for the night and driven back home in our old Chevy Blazer SUV, it’s almost seven o’clock. Any jealousy about that couple with the Mexican food stall is replaced by weariness. I pull into our estate with the sun almost setting in the sky. Not for the first time I wish I’d considered the possibility that our landlord might not allow the trailer to be stored on our drive before I signed the rental agreement for our bungalow. Or that we’d read the contract’s small print more carefully. Life would be a whole lot simpler.

When I pull onto our street though, the landlord is the last thing on my mind.

There’s a young black dude with dreads standing in a sweatshirt on the sidewalk and facing our little front lawn. And you don’t normally see too many black people on our estate.

I peer through the window at him as I reach our drive. He’s tall and has a small white dog on a leash, maybe one of those Tamaskan wolfdog pups. It’s jumping up wagging its tail at my wife who’s crouched barefoot and petting it. She’s got her hair back in a ponytail and wearing her denim shorts. She’s laughing and stroking the dog and then she waves over at me.

I stop the car with my face burning. And not solely because a dog of our own is something else our fucking landlord won’t allow.

My agitation is due to the sight of my wife almost on her knees at the feet of some black dude.

That’s how desperate I am now? Getting off on some innocent animal petting?

I switch off the engine and climb out of the car. Amelia’s on her bare feet now. Her pert tits look good in her t-shirt though and I can’t help wondering whether the guy’s been admiring them. And her legs in her shorts.

Who the hell is he, though?

He gives me a beaming smile as I cross the drive to them. His dog tries to rush and greet me but it’s stopped by the taut leash.

“This is my husband, Wesley,” Amelia says and pecks my check, “Wes, this is Theo. His family just moved in down the street.”

“Number 6,” he says in a voice so deep that I imagine he’s got to be putting it on. He points up the road to where the big detached houses are, “the one with a two-foot chrome pyramid on the lawn outside.”

“Chrome pyramid?” I frown at him. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ve never been up that end of the street. There’s no through road there.

“Don’t ask,” he shakes his head. “Previous owner’s idea. My Dad’s getting rid of it.”

“Right,” I say and the guy is seriously tall. I mean, I’m six foot but he’s several inches bigger than me.

“And this little sweetie,” Amelia crouches again and the guy’s eyes follow her. The dog returns its attention to her too, “Is Coco,” she says.

“He’s cute,” I say and pat the top of the pooch’s head. “Look, I need the bathroom,” I say to Amelia, “And I want to shower before we eat. Nice to meet you, Theo,” I nod my head.

“I’ll be inside in a second Wes,” she says and stands again, “I’ll just collect my stuff,” she gestures at the little table and chair near the front door where her open laptop and her notepad are. The backyard gets no afternoon sun so she sits out front if she’s writing outdoors. She likes to weed the garden here sometimes too. Says it ‘helps her creativity’.

“You’re not a Brit?” Theo’s eyebrows rise as he looks at me.

“Nah. Just my wife. I’m a Jersey boy. Long story.”

“Cool,” he says, “Nice to meet you too.”

I head for the house and expect Amelia to be close behind. I pull a beer from the fridge and take it to the bedroom. I can’t help the way my head works. Or my balls. Innocent though it obviously was, there’s something hot about finding my wife like that with a strange guy when I get home. Even a guy like Theo. But I can’t pretend I ever imagined Amelia with a black dude before. I sip the beer and push my other hand down the front of my jeans.

I haven’t heard her come into the house so keeping my body behind the open curtain, I peer out through the window and toward the front garden.

Still there talking with him. But a lot of guys can’t get enough of a girl with a British accent.

The dog’s leash is pulled to the max as it sniffs away near the bright orange and yellow marigolds Amelia planted in the border a while back. But my wife looks deep in conversation with the guy.

That’s hot. I squeeze my thickening dick in my pants.

I stroke and something is exciting both about the fact that he’s so much taller and darker than my petite pale-skinned wife, and that they didn’t immediately part ways when I came inside.

I put my beer down on Amelia's dressing table then grab a fistful of tissues from there and return my eyes to the scene outside. I stroke faster.

But then Theo nods and says something else to my wife before pulling the dog away down the street.

Shit. I pull my hand out of my pants and grab my beer again.

After my shower, I find Amelia getting changed in our bedroom.

“You seemed to like the company of our new neighbor,” I grin and dry my back with one of the towels as she pulls her t-shirt over her head.

“I liked Coco’s company,” she laughs and shakes her strawberry-blonde hair free of her top. “Can I have one of the towels for the shower?”

“Yep,” I say and undo the one from around my waist. My semi-erect cock sways in front of her. “Well, I’m pretty sure Coco’s master liked the look of my wife,” I say and help her get her bra off. I plant a kiss on the tips of each pink nipple, then gently suck on one.

She lets out a little moan.

“I saw the way he looked at you,” I say and turn my attention to her neck. She always likes kisses on the side, around her ears.

“Mmm,” she murmurs when I kiss her there.

“I want you before you go in the shower,” I whisper.

She murmurs again and her fingers wrap around my tool.

“Let’s do it from behind,” I say in her ear. The way I’m feeling right now, I want to imagine that Theo guy thumping into her doggy style.

“I like to look at you when we make love,” she says and strokes me gently.

Why does the phrase ‘make love’ always somehow disappoint me?

Amelia takes my hand and leads me to our bed. She smiles then pulls back the mint green covers and then gets under them.

I follow her and when her arms reach for me I kiss her again. At the same time, I ease her panties down over her pale hips and ass. I touch between her legs, her tight little pussy.

“Mmm,” she moans and takes hold of my dick again. She’s damp between her legs, but not wet. She’d surely be wet if there was any attraction to that black guy.

But what did I expect? When did she ever say she found any black guy attractive?

Right now though, it’s all I have to work with. I caress her clit, circle it to tease her until she whimpers and she kisses me again. I ease two fingers into her. Wet now. But sometimes it all seems so ‘mechanical’. Predictable.

Much as I love her with all my heart.

“He must have enjoyed talking to you to have stopped by like that for so long,” I give the topic one last try then take my cock from her hand. I position it at her opening. Then I push hard into her. “Oh Ames,” I groan. “How long was he there with you before I got home?”

“Uhmm, not long,” she exhales in my face and her arms cling to me.

“I’ll bet he’ll walk that dog up and down outside two or three times a day now he knows you live here,” I groan, “Just in the hope of seeing you again.”

Even that would be hot to hear about. Unsuited though Theo might be as even a fantasy 'bull' for my wife.

“Uhh, he couldn’t,” she groans.

“Why do you say that?” I gasp and grind my hips, screw myself into her.

“He goes back to university on the east coast tomorrow.”

Great. When will I catch a break?

Author's Notes

Where do you think Wes goes from here in his pursuit to turn Amelia into a hotwife? Could there really be any opportunities with the new neighbors if Theo is hundreds of miles away at University?

Next week Amelia gets an invitation that leaves Wes excited. But is he just clutching at straws?

© 2024 Tinto Selvaggio. All rights reserved.

All sexually active characters portrayed in this ebook are consenting adults eighteen years of age or older. As a work of fiction, any similarities to any situations or persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.