Harry’s wife Anne was a staunch feminist. When she learned that Harry wanted her to cuckold him, she was adamant:
“Sure, I’ll cuckold you,” she said. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you watch. What do you think I am, your own personal porn star?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Harry replied, chastened. “I get it. I have no right to use you for my own prurient, voyeuristic satisfaction. You absolutely should cuckold me, though, because that’s what I want.”
“I understand,” she said. She was very intelligent. She held a doctoral degree in English and was at thirty-two the youngest tenured professor in the English Department at a prestigious university. “It’s masochism. You want to feel a pleasurable pain.”
“I suppose so,” said Harry. He wasn’t nearly as intelligent about ideas. He was good at figures though. He was a CPA and made a nice salary. He hadn’t thought of this cuckold fantasy as masochism. To him, it was a desire to experience even more of his beloved wife than he could while making love to her. If he were detached, and observing her making love, he felt that he could enjoy even more of her erotic powers. He tried to explain that to her.
“Yes, you want to possess me,” she explained. “All masochism has a sadistic component. But the main erotic charge will be the wrong that is done to you by me breaking our marriage vows. That’s the key. If I were just a female acquaintance, after all, there would be very little charge in watching me have sex. But since I’m contracted and obliged to you, as soon as I open my legs to another you have been violated, haven’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“So you see, there is a homoerotic component,” she deduced. “You want to be violated. Maybe you should just go out to a gay bar and have a strange man put his penis in your behind.”
“I don’t want that,” he assured her. “I have no desire for that.”
“Well, if all you want is for me to cheat on you, I can do that,” she assented.
Harry was overjoyed.
“I love you so much!” he cried.
“Well, we can just try it once, and see how it feels for me, and for you,” she said. “How’s that?”
“Awesome!” he said. And he embraced her. He had never been so attracted to her and grateful to have her as his wife, now that she had shown herself so understanding and willing to give him what he wanted. He made love to her with a passion that Anne found exciting, and she began to think that this crazy idea might not be so crazy. After six years of marriage, their sex life had become a bit monotonous, after all. She saw it as a way of spicing things up.
“Who will you cheat on me with?” Harry asked, after they finished and were lying there in a state of total exhaustion.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess the next guy who hits on me. How’s that?”
“Do guys hit on you a lot?” he asked her. She confessed that at those dreary literary events and so on that Harry, having no interest in books, refused to accompany her to, literary men often flirted with her. And also, for some reason, men often approached her at Whole Foods, where she would sometimes go after her yoga class. She theorized that her yoga pants showed her ass off in a way that invited attention. There were other opportunities as well. As Anne mentioned this one and that one who had flirted with her, it occurred to her that she had been missing out on a helluva lot of casual sex. But wasn’t that what marriage was — the sacrifice of casual sex for the greater good of partnership with your mate? As Anne thought it through, she concluded that she must not have had enough casual sex before marriage, because the idea of it did excite her.
“I only had sex with Nick in college,” she said to Harry, about her college boyfriend. “And then when I was in graduate school I was living with Mason, so I didn’t have any casual sex there. And then after I moved here I met you, so…I think I’ve deprived myself unnecessarily.”
“I agree,” said Harry, who had had quite a lot of partners and didn’t feel the need to have any more sex with anyone other than the lovely Anne. “So this will be good for both of us.”
“Maybe…” said Anne.
Still, she was hesitant. She realized that conventional morals and scruples were gnawing at her, despite the image she had of herself as being a freethinker.
“I’ll probably feel like a slut,” she admitted. “That’s just the way the patriarchy presents it. There’s no middle ground. I’m a good woman now. But if I went through with this idea — even though it was your idea to begin with — I will feel like the dirty one. I will wear the scarlet A. But I don’t really subscribe to the myths of patriarchy, so what do I care?”
“Exactly,” agreed Harry. “Fuck patriarchy. Go out and do whatever you want.”
Harry didn’t mind about not being able to watch. Because here’s the amazing thing — he was absolutely able to watch.
A few weeks after their discussion, Anne went to a bookstore to hear a famous author read from his work. Harry was hopeful this might be the night. And he was “watching” in his mind. He was picturing her at the reading, at the wine and cheese table afterwards, mingling with attractive and intelligent men. Laughing. Smiling. Then one of them asks if she wants to go out for a drink afterwards — there’s a nice wine bar nearby. She remembers their discussion, and immediately agrees. They go to the wine bar. She tells him that she is married but they have an open arrangement. She’s allowed to have other partners. This guy gets excited. He’s going to get laid by this hot intellectual. He puts his hand on her hand. She squeezes it.
That’s what he “saw”, anyway. And it was good. So good. Anne was absolutely right about the masochism. He felt a deep pain in his chest. A pain that hurt so good. It was like there was a sweet dart shot right in his heart. He lay back, languid, in a trance of cuckoldry. His wife was going astray. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Another dart hit his heart. He was on the verge of pure ecstasy now.
The clock hit midnight and she was still not home and had not texted. Another dart.
“Oh my god,” he sighed. He felt so good. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and yet it satisfied him in a way he could never have imagined. Sure, in his fantasy it had seemed like it would be nice. But in reality, it was much more than nice. It was more like an arrival.
He had come home.
This was his place, this was his truth. To be done wrong. Oh, it felt like he had come back to himself after a long, long absence. It was a feeling of honesty. Here he had been acting the part of a husband. When in reality he was…a cuckold.
One AM. Still no word from his wife. Harry began sighing in euphoric trance.
Two AM. Nothing.
Harry was stunned that it was actually happening. Who plays the lottery and actually thinks they will win? Harry never really believed she would go through with this. But lo and behold…
Jackpot!
The reality was a little different than what Harry had “watched” in his imagination. After the reading a bunch of them had gone together to a loud pub, not a romantic wine bar. She had some drinks and started getting hit on by a guy from the bar. She’d never been picked up at a bar before. This stranger was good-looking and fun. They danced a little and made out. He invited her back to his place. She went.
He took her right to the bedroom. There he began kissing her passionately and taking off her clothes. She felt so naked when he finally pulled off her panties and lay in the bed next to her. She hadn’t felt naked since she moved in with Harry and they became familiar with one another the way couples do. This was so unfamiliar. He praised her tits and her ass and her “sweet pussy”, as he called it, and tasted it. She came deeply. Then she saw his erect penis. She SAW it. She hadn’t seen Harry’s penis in years. It was just something that was there. But this penis, it was so VISIBLE. It was bigger than her husband’s. And standing straight up in the air. She wanted to put her mouth on it. She did.
The guy was going crazy as she sucked it with such enthusiasm. He later told her he’d never had such a good blow job and that it took all his power and determination not to cum. Luckily, he held off.
“I’m gong to fuck the hell out of you,” she said finally. She pushed him down on the sheets and got on top of him. She felt so powerful as his big penis entered her.
“Yeah baby,” she said. “That’s good. That’s so good.”
She felt like the man. For the first time in her life during sex she wasn’t the “pursued” or the “maiden deflowered.” She was the aggressor. She slammed down on his dick as though she were twerking him. She grabbed onto his shoulders and squeezed them tight as a maniacal look came in her eyes. She realized it was happening — the thing that almost never happened. She was having a vaginal orgasm. She screamed like crazy. The orgasm seemed to last forever. When it finished she fell down onto the bed and quickly got herself up onto all fours.
“Fuck me like this,” she ordered. He of course complied. He got behind her and started ramming her hard. She came again. Then she lay down on her back.
“Fuck me like this now,” she said. “And cum on my tits.”
He started fucking her and telling her how hot she was. She loved it. He kissed her deeply and fucked her deeply. Soon he was approaching orgasm and so was she. As he pulled out and shot a huge load on her tits, she reached down and finished herself with her hand on her clit, so they were cumming together.
They lay exhausted together. She fell asleep in his bed.
She woke to the first light in the window, and panicked, realizing that her husband would have been worried about her. She quickly texted. “So sorry, fell asleep at this guy’s house! Home soon.”
But before she could get up and get dressed, he had woken up and started kissing her again. Soon they were fucking again.
That was the best part, in that period between “Home soon” and her not being home soon at all. Harry was able to really “watch” the action. He surmised after about an hour what must be transpiring — his wife and her new lover were unable to tear themselves apart. They were fucking for the second time. So now he had been cuckolded twice. He was twice bit. He lay in the bed moaning even louder than he was moaning last night.
When she finally arrived home, at about noon, he ran to her and covered her with kisses, telling her how thankful he was and how grateful he was.
He could smell her lover all over her. On her neck, on her face, on her breasts. Everywhere. It was an alien smell…the smell of the other. It was like a manly soap. Maybe it was Irish Spring! Ha. And it was also a deep, cum-like smell. As he tore his wife’s blouse off he could smell it on her tits.
“He came on your tits, didn’t he!” he said.
“None of your business,” she retorted.
But he planted his face in her tits and breathed in deeply.
“Was it good?” was all he asked her.
“So good,” was all she replied.
And that was all he needed. Still in his jeans, pressing against her as he breathed in her cum-smelling tits, he ejaculated in his own pants. The tension that had been building up all night and now all morning was finally relieved. The cuck-gasm, as he now thought of it, was like nothing he had ever experienced. It was involuntary to the max. It was like the cum was being forced out of him by this unknown other male, by the desire to compete as a mate for his own wife.
He came and came, until there was a great puddle of cum dripping down the inside of his pant legs. He rolled off his wife and lay there panting.
“I love you,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she said.
“So what was his name?” he asked finally.
Then she realized something strange. She couldn’t remember this guy from the bar’s name. He must have told her, at the bar. But she was drunk. Wow. That really was it — anonymous sex. She wondered if he remembered her name. Then she remembered they had exchanged numbers. She checked her phone. There was a new contact.
“His name was Robert,” she said. “I remember now. Doesn’t matter. I won’t see him again.”
“Delete Contact?” said the message on her phone.
“Yes,” she said.
And pressed the button.
