My thoughts are a tangled mess. I don’t even know where to begin—so I guess I’ll just start at the center of the storm.
Last night, Claire and I had the most raw, vulnerable, and painfully honest conversation we’ve ever had in our twenty years together. And it wasn’t the usual pillow talk—that hazy, post-orgasmic fog where fantasies feel safe and disposable. This was real. This was sitting across from each other on the couch with our clothes on, hearts racing, walls crumbling. It was the kind of conversation that doesn’t fade with the morning sun.
Cuckolding had always lived in the shadows of our bedroom—dirty whispers, half-jokes, erotic hypotheticals. But when the sun was up and the laundry needed folding, it vanished. We never gave it space to breathe in the light of day. Until last night.
Claire said she wanted to talk. That phrase sends a chill down a husband’s spine, doesn’t it?
She looked nervous. Her eyes darted around the room, her lips parted like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should. And then she said it: “I’ve been lying to you… about what I want.”
That sentence hit like a car crash, but I didn’t flinch. I told her to go on. And she did.…
