Read Part 1 – Click Here!
Read Part 2…
The next day was a blur and I arrived home late after a work event. I found my wife fast asleep when I entered the bedroom around midnight. As I slipped into bed next to her, she stirred briefly, reaching back to stroke my thigh, then rolled over to sleep again.
Part of me wanted to slide over to her, to grab her breasts, push my fingers between her legs, to kiss her and fuck her. I knew that she was going to go on the date the next night. This might be my final opportunity to…I don’t know, show her what I was capable of, I guess. But then, she had plenty of years experience of what I had and could offer. And she’d married me, knowing that. And had stayed with me, and loved me. She’d told me that. But she clearly wanted something else. She’d told me that too.
So where did that leave me? How the hell was I going to deal with saying goodbye to her tomorrow morning? She hadn’t reached back to grab my dick, had she? Or to see if I was hard. Just a little pat and then off to sleep again. Would it be like that with someone she really wanted? With the guy she was going to see the next day?
I must have dropped off while I was rolling these thoughts round my mind, torturing myself. When I awoke in the morning, she had gone.
Leaning over to check my phone, I saw it was just past 7am. Early for her to leave. There was a text from her.
“Had to leave early and you were spark out. Have a good day, will talk later xxx”
I figured that she’d left to avoid a scene, so I wouldn’t get that awkward, agonising sense of waving her off, knowing what would happen to her later. Part of me felt relieved. Another part felt cheated.
A thought occurred to me – maybe she was going to back out? Had she packed her sexy ‘date’ clothes?
I scrambled out of bed to check in her tights drawer – no stockings to be seen. The next drawer, her knicker drawer – only everyday knickers in there, not the gorgeous new lacy pair I’d seen a couple of nights before. Bra drawer – no black push-up bra. I opened the wardrobe – the green dress had gone. And no sign either of the brown suede boots – the ‘brown cows’ – either.
Fuck. This meant there was every reason to think she’d left the house with the outfit she’d shown me, and which had driven me so wild.
Another thought hit me – that time, the night before last, might have been the last time I’d had sex with her before he did. The next time I touched her, it would be following another guy, the guy whose body, whose cock, she’d shown me on her iPad.
I blushed at the contrast between the man whose pictured she’d show me – strong, virile, athletic, confident – and me, heart pounding, standing there in my boxers, a limp-dicked loser, frantically and pathetically rooting through his wife’s knickers and bras and tights, looking for evidence that she was dressing up to turn another man on. No wonder she wanted to try someone different.
How I got through that day at work, I don’t know. I sent her a few texts, just to ask her how her day was going, but heard nothing until 7pm. I’d just got through the door, to the empty flat, when my phone pinged:
“Hi. Sorry I couldn’t talk today. So busy. Am in taxi to the bar. I love you so much. Spk later x”
I hurried to reply:
“Ok. Take care. Call me if you need to. Xxx”
What else could I say? “Enjoy getting fucked by a bigger, better man” would have been a bit odd. As would “What the fuck am I doing letting you sleep with another guy?”, which was the other thought zooming round my brain.
Half an hour later, her reply arrived
“OK. Don’t worry. Just got here, will txt u later x”
The ‘call’ had already become a text. Or rather a ‘txt’. I had visions of her hurrying her texting, abbreviating me to ‘u’, as she arrived at the bar. Maybe hoping to nip into the loo to fix her make-up and have a pee before he arrived. Again, my mind raced. Maybe she’d be putting more lipstick on, checking herself in the mirror. Maybe she’d take her knickers off before he arrived. Or maybe they’d come off later.
Now I really felt cheated, I hadn’t seen her before she went out. But I knew from the night before what she’d be wearing. And how she’d smell and feel. And she’d also have that sparkle, the glint in her eye, the nervous energy that women have when they’re meeting someone they truly find attractive. A lover, not a friend, or a partner. And she’d be wet.
My mind raced but the next few hours dragged. I tried to distract myself with TV, tried to jerk off to some porn – cuckold porn, naturally – but the buzz wasn’t there. Maybe my own nervous energy was short-circuiting things. Maybe I just couldn’t get hard enough. What had she said, when she’d blurted out ‘Are you in yet?’ a few years ago? ‘It was more a hardness issue than a size issue, honestly.’ Yeah, sure. Both, more like.
I longed to text her, to find out what was happening. But I knew that would either freak her out or piss her off, and neither were going to help me, or her. Finally, at half past eleven, the phone pinged with another message:
My mind raced. What the hell did that mean? Was she coming back? What did ‘nice’ mean in this context?
A few seconds later, another ping:
“Sorry, sent too soon. Had nice night, going back for nightcap. Don’t wait up. All good. Love u xxxxx”
‘All good’. A surge of jealousy and anger rose through me at the flippancy. A ‘nightcap’? Did she think I was a child? I was most certainly not ‘all good’, sitting there, not even able to wank off, while my wife was…well, who knows what she was doing? Being fingered? Being fucked? Sucking his cock? Images of her licking his balls entered my mind, then of her on her back, taking him inside her. It felt unreal, insane – I was here, she was maybe twenty miles away. But the gap between us was immense. She was in demand, desired, being fucked. I was home, alone.
I waited for another update, but none came. I must have dropped off to sleep eventually, maybe around 3am. But only after hours of staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine what tomorrow, and the rest of my marriage, even my life, would be like.
The next morning was Saturday and I was woken just after 10am by a text message arriving:
“Hi, am on my way home. See you around 11 x”
That hour was the longest hour I’ve ever lived. I burned time by taking a shower, going to the shop to buy croissants and a coffee. Queueing at the deli, I saw couples, in their twenties, thirties, forties. Holding hands, some ignoring each other, or tending to their kids. Attractive women of all ages, with professional, handsome men. How many of them had ever had my fantasy? How many had ever lived it, like I was living it now? I felt a wave of self-loathing break over me. What kind of man had I become that I’d let this happen? I crossed the road to buy a newspaper, then headed back home. I had to be there when she got back.
After twenty minutes, sitting at the living room table, I heard a key turn in the lock. The door opened and standing there was my wife. Wearing the dress and the heels and the stockings that she’d shown me a couple of days before.
I moved to the doorway, a few feet away.
“Hi. You OK?”
She stepped inside the flat and dropped her handbag onto the floor, and leaned down to take her shoes off. Three or four inches shorter, she instantly seemed more vulnerable. I noticed a small ladder in one of her stockings, on the inside of her right calf.
A dozen thoughts swam thought my mind. Part of me thought she’d say nothing happened – but she’d have said that last night, surely? Standing there, not saying anything, that meant something had happened. So, she’d fucked him, had she? How many times? Had she sucked his cock? My mind reeled, but I kept quiet.
She slid over the floor towards me, a little tentatively. I sensed her vulnerability. To push her away or be awkward or angry now would be cruel. I let her put her hand onto my neck, and as she did, I reached out and put my arm onto her waist, pulling her towards me. She leant in and kissed my neck.
‘It’s so good to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” she breathed.
“Of course I’d be here.”
A pause, then I felt tears on my neck, and a sob.
“I’m so sorry.”
Then more racking sobs. She turned her head away and held me tightly, like I was some oversized teddy bear, for comfort. I could feel that she wasn’t wearing her bra.
We must have stayed there for about five minutes. All I could do was hold her. I could smell her perfume on her hair. She smelled wonderful. Eventually, she raised her head and sniffed, and looked up at me. Her mascara had smudged. She looked adorable.
“Can we sit down?”
We made our way through to the living room and sat on the sofa.
“If you’re going to ask me about it, do it now, ” she said, in a low, steady voice, as she wiped her eyes. “I don’t want this hanging over me.”
Again, that familiar lurch in the stomach. I knew that I had to ask, and I knew I was going to hear something I probably didn’t want to hear, and that I’d never forget. But I did have to ask. I took a deep breath.
“OK, what happened? Are you OK? You can tell me.”
It was her turn to take a deep breath.
“Well…I met him, we had a few drinks, probably too many and we went back to his.”
She paused. I couldn’t meet her eyes, and after a few seconds, she pressed on.
“And I slept with him. Once last night, and once this morning. So there. You can get on with hating me now.” There was something in her voice I couldn’t quite define. Bitterness? Fear? Anger?
For me, after all the build-up, the months of fantasising, and the weeks of teasing and planning and fear and anticipation, here it was, the truth. My wife had fucked another guy. Twice. So, the first time must have been worth repeating? As soon as the thought entered my head, it was out of my mouth.
‘Twice?” I looked at her now, and she raised her head to meet my gaze.
She swallowed hard.
“Yes. The first time was crap, I was drunk and nervous, I had to ask him to stop. He did. He was a perfect gentleman, he was only inside me for a few seconds. We spent the night asleep, not even touching. Then this morning…”
‘Only inside me for a few seconds’. That was it. He’d fucked her. I lost it.
“Better was it? The second time?” I couldn’t resist baiting her. Sympathy for the crying girl who had stood in the hallway earlier had been replaced by something approaching contempt. I felt my jealousy, my pain, my self-loathing rise in my throat.
She closed her eyes and threw her head back. I thought I saw a love bite on the side of her neck.
“Always this. Always the jealousy. The fucking insecurity.”
She sat forward and looked at me. Time stood still.
“Yes, it was. This morning, it was really good. I enjoyed it. And that was why I was so upset earlier. I felt guilty for enjoying sex with someone who wasn’t you. But yes, it was really good, OK?”
I closed my eyes and leaned back on the sofa, running my hands through my hair. Hearing this was like being punched, repeatedly. It hurt. But I’d come this far. I had to know more.
“Tell me, what you did”, I said, eyes still closed. “I’m not mad, but I need to know. Tell me everything.”
And she did.
“He started touching me, touching my tits, kissing my neck, and I saw this nice guy, lying there next to me, who wanted me and I just thought, ‘You know what, David will never believe I didn’t fuck him, so what the hell?’, and that was it. I grabbed his cock” – my tummy flipped hard at this, and I felt my dick twitch involuntarily – “and he was hard, rock-hard.”
I opened my eyes and saw my wife, staring at me. She was blushing. After a second or two, she went on.
“And I just thought, ‘I fucking want that’. So I sucked him off then he fucked me. For an hour or more. Every fucking position. On my back, me on top, from behind, the lot. And he was fucking great. Fucking big and fucking hard and fucking great. And he treated me like a princess.”
I stared back. She was boasting of fucking someone else and loving it. We’d finally got to it, she’d done it, been done by someone else. Properly satisfied.
“And yes, I fucking loved it. There. It was fucking good, OK? Now you know.”
I still needed to know more. Much more.
“And did you cum?”
She shook her head, slowly, and smiled. I felt like a boy, way out of his depth, in the presence of a grown woman.
“Did I cum? Did I cum? Of course I came! I came fucking loads. And not through oral either. He didn’t go down on me at all. He just fucked me.”
‘Not through oral either’ That hurt. That was how I made her cum. With my tongue, not my dick. The implication was clear – he didn’t need to go down on her to make her cum. He was a real man.
My dick was now achingly stiff. I felt like I wanted to grab it and squeeze it, to soothe my anxiety, like a nervous little boy. Still, I had to ask more questions.
“And did he cum? On you? In you? I need to know.”
She stared at me with incredulity.
“You think he fucked me for an hour and I didn’t make him cum? Of course he fucking came!”
She got up and moved to stand in front of me, hands on her hips. Her dress had risen up, and I saw another ladder, higher up her stockings. I wondered whether his hand had made that, as she rode him. Had he fucked her in those stockings? Was there spunk on them? Oh, Jesus Christ, was his spunk in her still, now?
“He came inside me. Deep. From behind. Loads. You satisfied now?”
I was reeling. My dick was sticking more or less straight up in my trousers. My heart was racing. I gazed up at my wife, standing in front of me.
She seemed calm, relieved to have passed her story on, a think smile on her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. But her breathing was uneven, and her cheeks were still flushed. I realised, that telling me her account of her night with Karl had turned her on.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am, thank you,” I stuttered. I reached out for her and she moved towards me. I grabbed her bottom and pulled her towards me. I nuzzled into her tummy, wrapping my arms round her, as she held my head in her hands.
“I love you so much and I’m just glad you’re OK and I don’t hate you. I’m just glad you’re OK.” The words tumbled out from me. I held her so tight. I could hear her heart beating, strong and fast, through her dress. She stroked my hair and bent to kiss the top of my head.
“Take me to bed,” she murmured. “Take me to bed.”
She felt warm and soft and alive and hungry for me. Crazy though it seemed, this woman, my wife, who just a few hours before had been fucking another man, needed me. I stood up and she led me slowly into the bedroom. I saw more ladders on the back of her stockings.
Before I knew it I had her up against the wardrobe, kissing gently and tenderly, but passionately. I was holding her face and kissing it, her lips, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, raining kisses over her. Her hands were in my hair, on my hips. I was hard, so hard, but time seemed to stand still as we kissed, lovingly, over and over.
I reached around to the back of her green dress and felt for the zip, easing it down. She seemed to hesitate for a second, then stepped out of it. There she stood, no bra, just wearing her black lacy knickers and her black stockings. Her nipples were red and erect. They looked sore, and I could see clearly now she had two small love-bites just above her breastbone and one on the side of her left breast, and a bruise on her right thigh. He treated me like a princess, she had said. She looked like she’d been mauled.
I stepped back to take in the sight of her. Her hair looked a little bedraggled and her earlier tears had smudged her mascara. She looked like a woman who was turned on, vulnerable, guilty, defiant, needy. All of those things. She looked like a woman who had just been fucked. Just not by me.
I drew her back to me and kissed her again. That maddening thought occurred to me again – maybe she has his spunk inside her still? It filled me a mixture of anger, lust and desperate shame. I had to know. I gently stroked her tummy and eased my fingers into the top of her knickers, all the time kissing her neck – the neck which he had put love bites onto a few hours before.
She quickly reached down to grab my hand.
“Wait,” she whispered, an edge of panic in her voice. “I need a shower. Like, now…before…”
This told me what I needed to know. She didn’t want me to touch her because his cum was still inside her. His cum, in my wife.
This was the moment. I could draw back, revolted, and wreck everything. Sure, I could let her shower. But that would be to reinforce the shame she felt, like she had to purge herself of sin before coming back to me.
Paradoxically, I realised, I had to be a man about this. I had been fully complicit in another man taking my wife, and fucking her. It had been my idea. Maybe there was a sense in which she was doing it for me, as well as herself? I’d kissed her, held her, hadn’t I? Told her I loved her? There was no going back.
“No, you don’t. You’re mine just as you are now,” I murmured in her ear, slipping my hand into the top of her knickers. “You’re always mine.”
Somehow, I felt her face redden.
“Oh, God” she gasped. She reached both hands down and whipped her knickers down, stepped out of them and fell back onto the bed.
I could wait no longer. Rather than joining her on the bed, I knelt down on the floor and eased her legs apart.
“Oh God, no, David, please…” She seemed both upset and turned on. Her legs were splayed wide as she lay back on the bed. She put her hands over her face, I guessed in shame. We both knew what I could see.
Porn can sometimes give a false sense of what a recently fucked pussy looks like. Hers looked pink and puffy, as if it had been slapped around. It looked sweaty, dirty somehow. Beaten, even. She was clean shaven, apart from a strip above her pussy – she’d clearly done that for him, as it hadn’t been like that the night before.
And the smell. I’d always loved how my wife’s pussy smelled. The first time we’d gone to bed together, years before, the smell of her had stayed with me all day on my hands and face,and it drew me back to her. Warm, ripe, like cut grass, I used to say. She smelled just the same today, but sweatier, muskier, darker and danker somehow. Maybe that was him, his male aroma, his sweat, his pheromones.
Part of me wanted to…I don’t know, cry? Run? Rage at her for the state she was in, and that I was in. But I was also filled with a desire to reassure her, to love her, to make it right even if I couldn’t reverse it. And this might sound crazy, but I wanted to make her pussy feel better, to look after it, to love it as I loved her. It was mine too.
I began slowly kissing the insides of her thighs, alternating left and right as I kissed upwards. Then gently, so gently, I placed my tongue against her slit.
“Oh, oh God, oh God” she whispered. “Oh God, David, I’m so sorry”.
“Shhhh” I replied, quietly. “Don’t be. I love you”.
At this, she hitched her knees up and further apart, totally exposing herself to me . Her lips opened slightly and just hung there. All I could see now was a sore, wet, fucked cunt. My wife’s sore, wet, fucked cunt. I leaned forward and softly kissed her outer labia. She jumped and gasped but didn’t pull away. Slowly, I pushed my tongue into her, gently probing and licking, up and down her lips.
And I tasted her. As always, she tasted sweet but a little different this time. Saltier? Tangier? That was it. His cum was in my mouth now. In my mouth and in my wife. The thought made my mind reel. The utter humiliation of it. Licking another man from my wife’s pussy. Yet my wife was here, with me, wanting me, loving me, clearly conflicted herself about what she had done, what we had done, what I had let her do. This was my mess and I had to clean it up.
I licked her again, inside her pussy and up, and flicked her clit with my tongue.
“Ahh, ahh, no, too much, too much” she gasped.
I bowed my head and bent myself to the task of cleaning her, lapping away inside and out, down to her asshole, up and around her labia, inside and between her folds, everywhere. Patiently kissing and licking, slowly, gently. All the time, she was moaned softly. Her hands moved down from her face to my head, stroking my hair.
All the time I was kissing her, showing her that it was OK, that she could come back to me after being with him and still be loved, be cherished. I was lost in her, her juices and his smeared over my face.
“In me. In me.” That was what she used to say after I had gone down on her in the past, when she had cum and wanted me to fuck her, and now she was saying it again. At first, it felt wrong to stop licking her without her cumming. I hadn’t even tried to get her off.
Then I remembered that she had already cum earlier that morning. A surge of envy hit me. He’d done what I couldn’t do, that I had to use my tongue for. He’d made her cum with his cock.
I stood up and quickly took my t-shirt, trousers and boxers off. My wife gazed up at me – that same gaze I’d seen before, a mixture of love, admiration and worry, for me and for her.
“Quickly, in me, please!” she urged, as she wriggled up the bed. I felt like she was scared that if we waited, the spell would be broken and that we’d fall back into recrimination and jealousy.
I knelt on the bed, positioned myself between her legs and grabbed my stiff dick, pulling my foreskin back, squeezing the blood into the head, so I’d be as big as possible. For the first time I was struck by the idea that fucking her would never be the same again. I’d always be compared to Karl. But, you know, she’d had bigger guys before me, and that hadn’t stopped us getting together, getting married. And here she was, begging me to fuck her.
I leaned forward and felt my dick enter her. She gasped, not so much at the size but at the fact that her tender lips were being penetrated again. I looked down at her and she nodded for me to continue. Inside she felt tight, tender. I pressed on gently til I was all the way in her, my full five and half inches. He’d been deeper, maybe two or three inches deeper earlier. There were places he had touched that I would never reach. But she had all of me now.
She pulled me forwards to kiss me.
“Please fuck me, please cum inside me, please, she implored.
I didn’t need telling twice. Gently, I cupped her bottom in my hands and started to thrust, a sure-fire way for me to cum quickly, and a position she liked. Our go-to position to get me off.
“That’s it, that’s lovely” she whispered, stroking the back of my head with one hand and pulling me into her with another.
I’d read stories of men hammering their wives after they’d come back from being fucked, trying to reclaim them somehow, maybe trying to punish them for straying, or to prove they were bigger, better men, better lovers than the other guy. This wasn’t like that at all. I knew she was sore. I didn’t want to to hurt her or punish her, but I did want to put my cum inside her, inside the pussy I’d cleaned with my tongue.
I fucked her steadily, in a swift but regular rhythm, my eyes closed, focusing on the sensation of being inside her, thinking of what I was doing ,what she had done and what she had had inside her. The laddered stockings, the love bites, the sore pussy, the way he must have treated her, how she must have enjoyed it. The shame of it scourged me.
Within a minute or two, I felt my balls began to tighten as I approached the most emotionally intense orgasm of my life.
“I’m going to cum”
She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Please, please cum, cum in me. I love you, I love you…”
That was it. My orgasm hit me like a wave and I fell forwards, grinding my face into the bed as wave after wave of it rolled through me. I felt her grabbing at my hips as I thrust into her. Spurt after spurt of my cum shot into her. She wriggled under me, and I grabbed her bottom hard, forcing myself into her soft depths.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she whispered, over and over again as my climax subsided.
I rolled off her, spent, onto my back, and she moved across to lie with her head on my chest.
“I love you. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me,” she whispered.
As I started to fall asleep, I kissed her hair and I heard myself say, “Don’t worry. I never will.”
To be continued…