I F*cked My Client's Husband While She Watched

Never in my years of being a contractor for the Beverly Hills elite, had I ever experienced a situation like this.

Illustration by Jason Leviere (@mister_dashing)

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They were ideal clients. The husband was a successful workaholic with an endless income, and his wife was highly indecisive and always needed a project. One thing, however, remained constant: her expensive taste.

First, Sara wanted the countertops in Calacatta marble, with dramatic gold and gray veining. After we installed those, she said, “It was a little too Persian” and similar to the other houses in Beverly Hills. She wanted to be different. “I really wanna wow my guests,” she said. So we uninstalled those and went with undeniably gorgeous onyx countertops. She even thought so. However, guests accidentally scratched, etched, and stained the countertop due to onyx's softness and porosity. So we took those out and went with the more durable quartzite in this striking blue.

We had found a winner! But this was the process for everything in their house—the sinks, cabinets, bar station, etc.

My men and I spent four years solely working on her home. We made 15 million dollars in profit. (Yes, you read that correctly.) To celebrate the home’s completion, Sara wanted to take me out to dinner. I’m not one to usually fraternize with clients—to be fair, most have no desire to have a personal relationship with their contractor—but she insisted. And what? I was going to say no after all the money she threw at me?

Besides, I was excited to meet Farid. In all my years working as their contractor, I had never met the man, and she spoke so highly of her elusive husband. Sara seemingly wasn’t just tolerating him for the lifestyle, the way many women in her position were.

She picked Hayato, profusely apologizing that it had only two Michelin stars: “But somehow, there aren’t any three-star Michelin restaurants in all of Los Angeles! Wild, right?” I knew the $350 pre-fixed meal was chump change to them, and after working for her for four years, it was now chump change to me. Still, I appreciated the “splurge.”

I arrived five minutes early to see Sara and Farid waiting for the hostess to return. Sara always dressed exquisitely—designer dresses that were somehow both conservative and sexy—showing just the right amount of cleavage where it was still considered classy. A slit up the side of her dress, but not too high, revealing just how soft her tanned skin was. Tonight, she wore a long blue dress patterned identically to the quartzite countertops that showed off her curves.

As for Farid? I had expected a balding, heavyset man in an oversized, ill-fitting suit—the typical husband for Beverly Hills women. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. Farid, in his mid-40s, seemed to have stepped right out of Mad Men. Honestly, if Don Draper and Roger Sterling had a Persian son, it would be Farid. He sported a thick head of slicked-back black hair and big hazel eyes with golden flecks framed by bushy eyebrows. His lips had a well-defined shape with a fuller bottom, and his beard was meticulously trimmed, enhancing the contours of his face and accentuating his already pronounced jawline.

“Fred!” Sara shouted, giving me a big hug. “Do you like the dress? I had it specially designed for tonight’s celebration!”

“And you look even more stunning than the countertops!” I joked. She grinned, happy I got the reference.

“So here’s the man who’s been keeping my wife busy,” he said, voice slow and deep. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I hope good things,” I said with an awkward chuckle. I couldn’t understand Farid’s tone—was this playful banter or him sizing me up?

“No, not good things.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Great things!” he continued, smiling, and I knew I did not threaten this man. Which, of course, I shouldn’t, as I was gayer than a drag queen on a pride float. I always assumed people read me as such, but ever since coming out, people have continuously thought I’m straight, which I don’t understand. I’m not masculine. I’m well-groomed. I have impeccable taste. Just because I’m not queening out every second of every day doesn’t mean I don’t love a thick, uncut cock in my ass.

At the table, small talk ensued, and I was impressed by how down-to-earth the couple was. More impressive was how clearly in love they were with each other. Farid’s hand was either on Sara’s thigh or wrapped around her shoulder all night.

Of course, I had to ask how they met.

“We were childhood sweethearts,” Farid began.

“We started dating at twelve,” Sara interjected.

“Twelve, can you believe that?” Farid said.

“That was thirty-five years ago.” They were effortlessly switching off between sentences, telling the story together.

“I hope to one day meet someone and have a relationship like you two,” I said.

Sara blushed. “Stop! I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone. You are smart and successful and have incredible taste. Are you at least having fun in the meantime?”

I am a wealthy gay man in his late thirties living in West Hollywood. If by fun, she meant taking loads, then yes, I did have the occasional fun. I didn’t want to say that I couldn’t date for the past five years, as Sara would call me at all hours of the night to discuss some rare marble even I hadn’t heard of.

“Yes,” I replied. “I have the occasional fun.”

Farid scrutinized my face. For a second, I thought I had some soy sauce on my cheek, but it wasn’t that. He was evaluating, considering if his next words would be welcomed or shunned. “We like to have fun together, too,” he said slowly, deliberately. Then he grinned smugly.

I wasn’t sure if we were on the same page. If I was reading into something that wasn’t there, but then I felt the soft fabric of a sock against my bare ankle. Farid’s foot was going up my calf, past my knee, to my inner thigh. I had to stifle my surprise and keep my eyes from widening.

I looked at Sara, who now had the same devilish grin. Is this why they were so happy? So in love? Had they taken a page from the gay couples of Palm Springs’ handbook?

"I’m gay," I said, though for the first time in my life, I wished I were bi.

“Oh, honey, I know,” Sara said. “No one straight has that good of taste.”

“She just likes to watch,” Farid said. “Masturbate while I get fucked by a gorgeous man, though she may give me some kisses and stroke me while you fuck me.”

“Would that be okay?” she asked.

Once I picked my jaw off the floor, I quickly responded, “Yes. That would be more than okay.”

“They have my card on file,” Farid said coolly. “Let’s go.”

I was only halfway through my bento box. So, too, was Sara. Farid barely touched his, and now I knew why.

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We walked through the front door, adorned with Italian stained glass that I helped install. Sara was on my left, Farid on my right. Our footsteps echoed on the turquoise zellige tiles, each custom-made and imported from Morocco, laid by my team. We then passed the quartzite countertops (which, as you know, took us three tries to get right) on our way to their master bedroom.

I never questioned why they had an Alaskan King bed (nearly twice the area of a California King). I figured it symbolized wealth and luxury. Now, I realized there was a practical purpose.

I sat on the bed and took off everything except my briefs. Farid kicked off his loafers while Sara, using her husband’s shoulder to stabilize herself, took off her four-inch heels.

“I’ve wanted to watch you fuck my husband from the moment I first laid eyes on you,” she said, pulling the straps off her shoulders. Her dress fell to the ground, and underneath, she wore a lacy forest green bra and thong set, matching her eyes. Her nipples and landing strip were both visible through the lace.

I felt blood rush south, getting my cock plump. Maybe I am a little bi?

Farid slowly removed his coat and hung it in the closet. He unbuckled, rolled his belt, and placed it on the frosted glass shelf (which I had installed). He unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it in the hidden dirty hamper. His chest was a marvel. Thick, luscious hair, like a lion’s mane, narrowed to a thick, happy trail. He let his pants drop to the floor and stepped out of them, wearing dark green silk briefs matching his wife’s lingerie set.

He then dropped his briefs, revealing a beautiful soft penis that hung past his testicles.

“Turn around,” Sara commanded her husband. “Let him see what he’ll be fucking.”