First Steps To Being A Cuckold



The thought of not being big enough for my wife had driven me mad for the last year.

Ever since she had asked me if I was ‘in yet’, during a night of pretty drunken sex.

After a few days of sulking, she’d finally asked me what was wrong and I’d told her.

‘Look, if you want bigger, that’s fine, at leaast just let me know.’

She looked terrified, clearly hurting at the idea she’d hurt me.

‘No, no, of course not.’ She kissed me urgently.

‘It was just the angle was wrong. And you were a bit soft, because of the booze. I love you, I love what we do in bed, you’re a lovely size, a good size. Really.’

I let it go, allowed myself to be reassured.

We got over it.

I’m pretty realistic.

I know that most if not all girls I’ve slept with have had more than my five inch by four inch dick.

Including my wife.

But the subject had been broached.

Six months later, after another drunken sex session, my tongue loosened by alcohol, lust and adrenalin, it came out.

‘Look. I know you say I’m fine, size-wise.’

She turned to look at me.

‘You are, you are! I just came, didn’t I?’, she said, wriggling up the bed to lie next to me.

She seemed desperate for me to feel OK, to feel reassured.

‘Yes. But look…’ I could hear the blood pumping in my ears. ‘Just…’

She was looking at me, trying to work out what I was going to say next.

I wasn’t sure myself.

‘Just…if you ever wanted to get something bigger, that’s fine by me.’

The penny dropped, then hung in mid-air.

She wrinkled her brow, puzzled.

‘What, a toy? A dildo?’

Oh God, I was going to have to spell it out.

My head swam.

I was in too far to back out now, though.

‘Sure, a toy, fine, sure, if you want. But if you want another guy…a bigger guy, that’s fine too. Just let me know about it. Please don’t cheat.’

Her eyes grew wide like saucers.’You want me to…fuck another guy?’

She couldn’t have sounded more incredulous.

‘I’m not saying I want you to’, I replied. ‘But, look, if you wanted to, you know, someone different, bigger, I don’t know, I’d be OK with it. Just don’t cheat on me, I’d hate that.’

I could see her trying to compute what I’d said.

We were both drunk, which made it eaier to talk, but harder to understand.

‘Is this…do you want to sleep with someone else?’

‘No, this is about you. I want you to feel OK, to feel good. Not like you’re missing out.’

She rolled over, away from me.

‘OK. Look, I need to sleep now.’

Oh God, I thought. I’ve blown it now.

I moved over to kiss her shoulder.

‘Look, I’m sorry, please don’t be freaked out. It’s just…I want you to be happy, to feel good, and I don’t think I do that.’

She reached over without moving, and stroked my arm.

‘OK, it’s fine. I hear what you’re saying. Don’t worry. You’re wonderful. But let’s sleep now.’

Within minutes, she was snoring, fast asleep.

I dropped off shortly afterwards.

The next day, I woke to find she’d left and gone to the gym.

When we saw each other at lunchtime, she was fine – loving, close, touchy-feely, chatty.

I hadn’t offended her, that was clear.

But it didn’t feel like the right time to press it, to either apologise or to ask again.

That lasted a week.

The following Saturday morning, we woke late and atfer the usual preliminaries, she climbed on top of me.

I loved my wife riding me.

Her golden hair fellover her face, her large boobs swayed in front of my face.

She’d let me play with her clit, the only way she ever came with me inside her, and she’d already cum.

Now she was riding me hard.

She had ample hips, slightly thick thighs.

It always felt like I wasn’t filling her, or even making much impact.

The thought made me feel inadequate and horny at the same time.

She lowered her head to kiss the crook of my neck. It drove me wild.

I grabbed her hips and pulled her onto my dick, thrusting myself into her wetness as hard as I could.

‘Is this how you imagine me with another man? With someone else?’, she whispered.

I could hardly believe my ears.

‘Yes, yes’, I gasped. ‘Like this, or on your back, or from behind, loads of ways. Every way.’

She burrowed deeper into my neck, riding me hard.

‘Good, because it’s going to happen. I want it to happen.’

At this, I couldn’t hold back, and started to cum.

She moved her mouth to my ear and bit and licked it, hard, making me writhe with pleasure.

She knew I loved my ears being bitten.

It made me feel taken and small.

‘It’s going to happen, it’s going to happen’, she whispered, over and over again, as I came inside her.

A little later, our lovemaking over, we were lying next to each other, on our backs, staring at the ceiling.

The silence was becoming oppressive.

We both knew something had been said that couldn’t easily be ignored.

I took a deep breath and rolled over to look at her.

‘So, you’re, er, you’re going to do it?’

There was a long pause, as she rolled over to look me in the eye.

She looked serious, staring at me for several seconds, as if to gauge my mood.

Finally, she spoke.

‘Yes. I’d like to. But only if you’re OK with it. Really OK. I mean, totally OK. No changing your mind, or panicking and backing out. If you’re not OK, you have to be honest with me.’

She looked deadly serious now.

This was it, my chance to make it happen or to back out.

I jumped.

‘I am 1000% OK with it and I will love you regardless of what happens.’

A smile broke out over her face, a mixture of admiration, love and bemusement.

Again, she looked at me for what seemed like an age, searching in my face for any sign that I was bluffing.

‘OK, it’s happening, no going back.’

She leaned over to kiss my forehead.

And with that, her phone rang, her best friend calling for a chat.

‘Hi V, how are you? No, I’m not busy…’

She leapt up from the bed and wandered into the kitchen.

And that was that.

‘I think I’ve found him.’

These were the words I’d dreaded and longed to hear for two weeks.

She had declined my offer of helping her find the guy she was going to sleep with and told me that she had it in hand.

Still, I was taken aback by the fact she’d actually done it.

Another boundary broken.

‘Er, can I ask about him?’

‘Sure, she replied, brightly.

I was suddenly struck by how pretty she was.

‘Is he…local?’

She laughed. ‘Yeah, he lives next door! No, only joking, he’s out in ________. So, you’re not likely to see him in Tesco.’

Again, that look – patient, kind.

My mind went blank. I had a thousand questions but they all seemed to jam my brain up.

Seeing my confusion, she carried on, speaking slowly, taking time over every word.

‘He’s 30. He’s single… and he’s a banker.’

I’m 43, so he’s younger and richer than me. Fuck.

In fact, younger than her, she’s 41.

‘And he’s called Karl.’


A few seconds passed.

‘And I’m seeing him next weekend.’

I still didn’t know how to ask what I really wanted to know.

I needed her to tell me, but I couldn’t ask.

So I sat there, dumbly staring at my wife.

A long pause.

She cocked her head on one side.

‘Isn’t there anything else you want to know?’

The smile was a little slyer this time.

She wasn’t going to make it easy for me.

‘Yes…is he, er, good-looking? Tall?’

She tossed her head back and laughed.

‘I wondered when we were going to get to this! Yes, he’s nice looking,’ she replied.

Silence. I had no idea what to say.

‘And he’s tall, six-two, and he’s fit. In the pictures, anyway.’

So, six inches taller than me.

And she had pictures. Right.

Another pause.

I had literally nothing to say.

She smiled again, a bright smile, as if she’d just won a prize and was bringing me the good news.

Which, in a way, I guess she was.

‘So, you know…lucky me!’

A lovely smile now, like she was a mother speaking patiently to her child.

I frowned.

She rubbed my cheek.

She could see this was hard for me.

‘Are you really OK with this?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I’m fine’, I stammered. ‘Honestly. I am. It’s all a bit new, very new’ – I felt myself blushing bright crimson – ‘but, really, honestly, I’m good.’

She got up from the table, and leaned over to kiss my neck.

‘That’s good, really good. Thank you so much’, she whispered.

Then she stood up and pouted a little.

‘But isn’t there anything else you want to know? About him?’, she asked, staring right at me.

This was it, she was going to make me ask her.

I could feel myself blushing, and I couldn’t meet her eyes.

‘Er…is he big?’

‘What do you mean?’, she asked, coyly.

She was enjoying this.

‘This guy. Karl.’

Once more, the sweet look.

‘What do you mean? Say what you mean, sweetheart.’

‘I mean…is he big? Is his dick big?’

How I got those words out, I will never know.

Now it was her turn to blush a little. And to smile, that patient, kind smile once more.

She spoke slowly again.

‘Yes. He sent me some pictures of it. He’s got an eight inch cock. So, yes, It’s long. And it’s thick. Like, *this* thick’ – she held her fingers apart as if describing a pretty girth cucumber.

Way thicker than me.

My head started to spin and my throat went dry.

‘So, to answer your question – Yes. He has a long and thick cock.’

Big smile now.

‘So, you know…winner!’

She was beaming now.

‘Right, OK. OK’, I stammered. I tried to look normal, as I came to terms with what I’d just heard.

‘And one more thing.’ She stood up and leaned in to whisper in my ear.

‘He’s black.’

And with that, she kissed the top of my head, picked up her phone and walked into the garden to call one of her friends.

I sat there for quite a while.

“What’s wrong?”

It had been a few days since our last chat about Karl. I’d been distracted, even upset, by what my wife had said. Not about any one thing – though being told she was planning to meet up with a younger, richer, taller, better hung guy made my tummy flip over when I thought about it. Nor about the fact he was black. It was more than everything about him seemed different to me, and that worried me.

“Is it about him? Karl?” My wife wasn’t going to let this lie. She reached across the sofa, where we’d curled up to watch TV, and touched my arm.

“Look, it’s just that, you know…you seem to have gone for an upgrade in every area,” I confessed. “That feels a bit hard to take, you know?” I figured that I had little to lose by being honest. It had got me this far, after all.

My wife frowned and scooted along the sofa to be and nuzzled into my neck. She knew this was the best way to distract me, I love my neck being kissed.

“Look, silly,” she began, kissing just below my ear lobe, making my head spin gently. “I love you in every way. You get that, don’t you?”

She leaned back to check my reaction. I was frowning too, trying to make sense of the emotions running through me.

“I do. I’m just worried. That you’ll experience him and…” – I looked her in the eye – “that’ll be that for us.”

She shook her head and got up to stand in front of me. She was wearing a white strappy vest top, which squeezed her boobs together, with no bra, and dark blue cotton pyjamas, which hugged her hips.

“Look”, she started again, a note of irritation entering her voice. “You started this. You asked me if I was satisfied. I said I was. We could have left it there. But you pressed. And you asked me if I wanted to try something else. You said you’d be OK with it. So, I said ‘yes’.”

She spun round, to look out of the window, to the houses across the street.

“I mean…who wouldn’t? The chance to just…have some fun? With someone else?”

“OK, I’m sorry”, I stammered. “It’s fine. It’s just…” I couldn’t find the words. A pause followed.

She knelt down by me, and looked me straight in the eye.

“I’m not going to keep having this conversation. You said it was fine and I have put myself right in the firing line with you now.” I could tell she was upset, her cheeks had gone pink and her eyes darted from side to side. I said nothing.

“He’s younger than you, big deal. He’s taller. Who cares? I don’t give a toss about his job, he was just by far the nicest guy who replied to my advert, for God’s sake. Some of the guys…Jesus!”

I’d not seen her ad, nor asked to see it. I nodded, to show I understood.

“I know this isn’t about him being black, you’re better than that. And I only told you about it to wind you up. It’s not about any of that, is it?” I shook my head, dumbly.

She stood up again, right in front of me, and put her hands on her hips.

“So, I think it’s about his size, isn’t it? Or yours?”

I looked down for what seemed an age. I couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Sweetheart?” I looked up. She was smiling, kindly now. The irritation seemed to have passed.

She squatted down in front of me, and put her hands on my knees.

“You need to get a few things into your head. Properly. Number one,” she reached for my crotch and put a hand on where my flaccid cock was sitting in my shorts, “I love what this can do for me. That’s not going to change. But number two…” – I tensed.

“Number two is that you asked me if I’d like to try something different, something bigger. And, you know? I would. That’s not a crime.”

I nodded again. My mouth was dry, if I knew what to say, I’d not have had a chance of getting the words out.

“I mean, ” her eyes grew wide, “who ever heard of someone cheating with someone with a smaller cock?”

I could see the point, and smiled sheepishly.

“Imagine if he was a carbon copy of you, “she continued. “That would be something worth worrying about. He’s different, in loads of ways. He seems nice, which is, you know, very important for what we plan to do together” – my heart skipped a beat – “but, apart from that…” she searched for the phrase for a second – “it’s just a trip. An excursion. And one you wanted me to take. So, can you work with me on it? Please? And, you know, trust me?”

She smiled, and ran her hands through her blonde tousled hair. I nodded. I was relieved at the breaking of the tension, pleased to hear reassuring words from my wife, who I was slightly surprised to learn was becoming more and more attractive to me. And just a bit worried by talk of a ‘plan’. But you can’t have everything, right?

“Right, good.” She leaned in to kiss me, and slid her hands up onto my crotch.

“Now, let me show you what I think of this guy.”

And with that, she began unbuttoning my cargo shorts. I let her slip them off and over my bare feet. My dick had started to harden and was poking up through my blue cotton boxers.

“Time to get these off too”, she whispered, and pulled them down and off.

By now my dick was stiff as a pencil, poking straight up. I’m uncircumcised, but my foreskin had rolled itself back. My balls were tight and I was at full size, just over five inches, and about as thick as ever, maybe four and a half inches at the widest point of the head.

“If you ever, ever worry about what I think of you” – she grabbed my dick in one hand – “or this little fellow…just remember this.” And with that, she bowed her head and took me in her mouth. After thirty seconds of gentle, sucking and licking, I couldn’t hold back. Normally – well, on the infrequent occasions on which

I got a blow job from her these days, maybe once every three months or so – she’d pull her head back and away if I got close to cumming, but this time, as I got ready to blow, she stayed in place, lips wrapped tightly around my dick.

My climax hit me, and I threw my head back, and felt four or five powerful shots pump out into her mouth.

“Jesus, fuck, God…”

As the orgasm subsided, I looked down at her. She raised her head, letting my rapidly deflating dick fall from her mouth. She swallowed, a big swallow, winced, then beamed a big smile, looking me in the eye.

“That never tastes good. But do you feel better now?”

“M-Much, much. Thank you.” I stammered.

“Good boy,” she replied, as she stood up. She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

“And I’ll be doing that for him soon, you know that don’t you?”, she whispered.

“I know”, I replied. My heart felt as if it would burst.

Another kiss, this time on the top of my head. She lingered for a second, murmuring into my hair.

“Good boy. Thank you. Love you.”

“Thank you, love you too,” I whispered back.

And with that, she left the room, leaving me to dress myself.

“We’ve set a date.”

I looked at my wife across the table. We’d popped out for dinner to a local restaurant on Friday night, her idea, after a long week at work. A bottle of wine in, and we’d both loosened up a little. It took me a second to realise what she meant. As ever when this subject came up, I blushed. I felt my heart rate quicken and my tummy flip over.

“When?” I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Next Friday. He’s free, I’m free, and we figured we might as well get on with things.” She held my gaze. I just stared back. My pretence at a nonchalance wasn’t going well.

“For God’s sake,” she muttered. “How many times are we going to have this? It was your idea.” The alcohol really had loosened her up. “You said, ‘see someone else if you feel like something new’. Your fucking idea. And I get the wounded puppy act every time I tell you about it. Would it better if I didn’t tell you?”

Her eyes were flashing now. She was looking flushed, partly from the booze, partly through genuine irritation, and, I think, a little bafflement. She seemed hurt.

“OK, I’m sorry,” I replied, trying to look relaxed. “It was my idea, and I’m OK with it.”

“Yeah, sure you are!”

“Really, I am.” Well, I was OK with it in a sense. It did turn me on, in abstract. But it also made me wildly insecure whenever it came up in real life. That tension was real. Yet I knew I couldn’t stop this from happening, their date, without triggering a huge row. And, anyway, a big part of me didn’t want to.

“OK.” She reached across the table to hold my hand, smiling. “It’s just dinner and drinks.”

Something about this made me see red. Maybe it was the wine. “Right, so you’re telling me that this guy, Karl, isn’t going to try something after you’ve both had a few?”

“Who knows, maybe he will?” my wife replied sharply, pulling her hand back across the table. She was clearly pissed off now. “And maybe it won’t just be him trying something? Maybe I will.”

She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m going home. You need to get with this. I will not keep having this conversation. It’s fucking pathetic.” And with that, she downed what was left of her wine and stalked off. The other diners, mainly professional couples like us, in their 30s and 40s, looked on. If only they knew what the row was about, I thought.

I watched her leave. She was wearing a white halter top, no bra, tight black trousers which accentuated her her broad hips. As she picked her way angrily through the other diners in the restaurant, her wavy blonde hair swinging around her shoulders, I was hit by two pangs. One was of jealousy, the idea another guy would be dining with her a week from now. And one of something approaching panic – from the idea that I might be stopping something she wanted – and, frankly, that I wanted, too.

Cuckold porn had become the mainstay of my secret fantasy life for several years. I jerked off to it whenever I could, didn’t I? I thought about it when I was on my own, on the train, at work, falling asleep, even – especially – when fucking my wife. She was now about to go on a date a guy she found attractive, in response to my invitation. A ‘hot guy’, a ‘ride’, to use the phrases her and her friends used when they talked about men they fancied. And she was telling me about it, trying to keep me on board. Jeez. It was time for me to grow a set of balls. To be a man about the fact that another man was going to take my wife out. And maybe more.

I tossed £80 in notes onto the dinner table to cover the bill and headed off after her, catching her halfway home. “OK”, I said breathlessly. “I mean it, it’s OK. I’m OK with this. Please believe me. I’m sorry.”

She looked at me with a level gaze. She’d clearly calmed down. “I hope so, because I’m excited by it and I’m amazed by your willingness to let me do this. It’s an amazing gift, really.”

I leaned in to kiss her and she reciprocated. A warm, wet, slow kiss than seemed to go on for ever. She moved to nibble my ear lobe. “Come on, let’s get you home,” she teased.

We were home and into the bedroom in a matter of minutes, and I was lying on our bed, in my boxers, waiting for my wife to emerge from the ensuite bathroom. I heard the toilet flush and the door open and she appeared. Normally, my wife didn’t like me seeing her without many clothes on. Too conscious of her tummy, her thighs, her boobs. There was always something to worry about, it seemed.

Now she stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, legs slightly apart, wearing just her black lace panties.

“Those – off,” she said, signalling to me to remove my boxers. I wriggled out of them, embarrassed myself now at my average-at-best erection – maybe just over five inches.

She looked down at it, and I thought I saw a flicker of a smile cross her face. The usual routine would now be for her to lie down next to me while I went down on her, bringing her off with my tongue and fingers before she let me fuck her and cum inside her in missionary position. It was how we’d normally had sex for years. The tried and tested way.

Instead, she walked to the side of the bed, and bent her head down to kiss me. Then she stood up, knelt on the bed and swung her right leg over me, so she was squatting over my face, facing towards my feet.

Slowly, she moved from squatting to kneeling, pulling her panties to one side, bringing her pussy onto my mouth, her asshole on my nose. She smelled musky, sweaty, hot, after a long day at the office and a night out. She smelled gorgeous. I craned my neck to let my tongue reach her clit. As I did, she started moving back and forth, riding my face.

“Eat me. Do it” she urged and I felt her soft hair fall over my belly as she braced her arms either side of my legs. My dick twitched, in anticipation. Nothing. I kept eating her, she kept riding my face, gasping, moaning. I pushed my pelvis upwards. Still, nothing touched my stiff prick, apart from her hair. No kiss on it, not even a hand. I was fucking fresh air.

Still I kept licking her pussy, moving my head from side to side, lapping and lashing her clit in the way I knew she liked. “Ahhh, ah-aah-ah, uuhhhhh,” she moaned, as she reached her climax. I kept licking away, increasingly aware that only one of us was getting off. My dick was hard but was getting nothing, twitching and bouncing, ignored by her.

“God, yes, God, Jesussss!” Her climax hit her, she leaned back and bucked back and forth, smearing her juices all over my face. It lasted for maybe half a minute before she climbed off and lay beside me.

“OK”, she purred into my ear. “Your turn.” She wrapped her index finger and thumb around my dick, just below its head, and started stroking.

“You’re going to cum now, and I’m going tell you about next Friday with Karl” she whispered, nibbling my ear and neck, driving me wild.

“Yes please,” I whispered back. This was it, the moment, I told her I was really, truly OK with her seeing Karl. And not just OK with it, but desperate for it to happen. There was no going back after this.

“I’m going to dress up, I’m going to look hot,” she whispered. “I’m going to go out to see him, I’m going to be so turned on. I’m going to drink with him and flirt with him.”

Up and down, her finger and thumb stroked, firmly and incessantly.

“I’m going to flirt, and he’s going to touch me and he’s going to kiss me.” I closed my eyes, her tongue in my ear, her words in my brain and her finger and thumb around my dick, while all the time the strong scent of her sweaty pussy and ass on my face filled my nostrils.

“He’s going to undress me and take my knickers down. And you’re going to love it, aren’t you?”

“God, yes, I am, I’m going to love it,” I replied. I felt lost, as if I was falling. Up and down her finger and thumb went, teasing my dick, keeping me rock hard.

“Me being there, him lusting after me, me wanting him.” That tripped a switch for me. This was her reading my mind, telling me she knew it turned me on, so how could I object? But also telling me it turned her on too.

“Because I will. I’ll want him. I want him to touch me and kiss me. I want to suck his cock. I want him to fuck me. I want him to fuck me with his big cock. I want his big fucking cock.”

That was too much. My balls tightened and my dick, as hard as it had ever been, shot jet after jet of cum over my chest, as she milked it expertly.

“I want him to fuck me, I want him to fuck me,” she whispered, as the waves of my orgasm subsided. I turned to kiss her, my mind in a daze. Her lips met mine and she kissed me hungrily, biting my tongue, tasting herself from just a few moments ago.

“I know”, I replied, gently. “I want him to fuck you too.”

A Rubicon had definitely been crossed that night. I’d admitted that I wanted her to fuck someone else. She’d even jerked me off while she taunted me about it. But the next day, it was as if we had retraced our steps. We were close, affectionate, but maybe a little embarrassed. Neither of us brought it up.

It was Wednesday evening before we got to spend any quality time with each other. After a hard day at work, I’d got home, changed out of my suit and opened a bottle of wine. My wife had joined me when she got in from work an hour later and by 9pm, we had started on a second as we told each other about our respective days. My tongue loosened, I took a deep breath and broached the subject.

“So…this Friday night.”

She smiled, narrowing her eyes slightly.

“Yes? What about it?”

“It’s, er, on, is it? Going ahead?”

She leaned across to pick up the bottle and poured herself another large glass of wine.

“Yes, it is.”

A pause as she took a mouthful. I could see her blushing, whether due to the topic or the alcohol, it was hard to tell.

“And I know that that’s OK now, after last Friday. So we don’t have to have ‘that’ talk again,” she said, smiling but looking me straight in the eye.

“No, no, we’re fine”, I stammered. Having started the conversation, I was now at a loss about where to take it. My mind had gone blank. She sensed as much, and carried on.

“I’m meeting him at 8, so I’ll go straight from work, I can get changed there.”

I suddenly had visions of her leaving her workplace, a secondary school, dressed for a night on the town.

“Hang on, what will you be wearing?”

Her eyes widened and a look of incredulity broke across her face.

“You cheeky beggar! What’s it got to do with you?”

I realised my mistake and backtracked immediately.

“Nothing, nothing, ignore me.” I was now blushing more than her. This was getting to be a habit.

She took another long drink and looked at me long and hard.

“You know, if I was you, I wouldn’t be worrying about what I was going to wear.” Her voice carried a note of defiance. “I mean, I’m going on a date on Friday. Aren’t you curious about anything else?”

“Like what?” I could tell I was on thin ice and I simply didn’t know what to say for the best, while she seemed to be getting bolder.

“Like…I mean…you haven’t asked to see what he looks like. The guy I’m meeting! Aren’t you curious?”

There was a glint in her eye now, and I didn’t like where the conversation was heading. But at the same time, my heart was beating hard and fast, and my tummy was flipping over.

She flipped open her iPad.

“I mean, I can show you. It’s dead easy. Look.”

I gulped, but tried, as ever, to sound nonchalant.

“Sure, fine.”

After a few seconds of swiping and typing, she turned the screen round.

“There – that’s him.”

She pointed to a picture on her screen of a very light-skinned mixed race guy. He looked about 30, wearing a white shirt, smiling. It looked like it had been taken in a bar. He seemed like a nice guy, pleasantly attractive, rather than some kind of male model. I was secretly relieved.

“Right. Er, thanks. I’m not sure what I’m meant to say to that.”

For some reason, this seemed to irritate her.

“OK, there are some other shots here somewhere.”

A few more clicks and swipes, and she turned the screen around to me again.

“Look at these.”

Now there was a shot of the same guy with his shirt off, lying on a bed. Same nice smile, a slim, smooth torso. Lightly muscled but no bodybuilder. Still, there was no doubt he kept in shape.

“Right, OK, yep, I see that one.”

She paused.

“Why don’t you swipe on?”

As I reached out to the screen, I had a horrible feeling that I might be getting into deeper waters than I’d anticipated. I swiped left and the same picture, or one very similar to it, appeared. She moved her chair so she could see the screen too.

“Again. Swipe it again.”

I did so, and the screen changed to a headless body shot of the guy – Karl – lying on his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of white boxers. The same toned torso, and slim but strong thighs.


“And again, keep going.”

I swiped left once more and my heart almost stopped. The next picture, was another shot of Karl’s torso. But this time, his hand was in shot, gripping what looked like a fairly substantial penis through his boxers. I hadn’t been ready for that.

Instinctively, I swiped again. This time he wasn’t wearing boxers. There was his cock. It looked more or less erect. Not some porn-star monster but big enough, maybe seven inches, thick and heavily veined. A proper cock. The kind of cock you really wouldn’t want your wife or girlfriend’s last boyfriend to have had. And way bigger than me.

I stood up from the table. “For fuck’s sake! What the fuck?”

I could feel my legs trembling, my face red with embarrassment and jealousy.

“Now, look, you were the one who started with the questions, so don’t get shitty with me when you see something you don’t like,” she replied, clearly angry.

“‘What are you wearing? Where are you going?'” she added, in a high-pitched, sing-song voice.

“I didn’t ask where you were fucking going,” I protested.

“Well, if you must know, we’re going to the Hotel du Vin in xxxxxxxxxx. Got a problem with that, have we?”

I was trapped. Part of me wanted to hurl the iPad – and the wine, and my wife, for that matter – against the wall, if not through it. But I knew that this was all part of it, the rollercoaster that hundreds of guy who blogged about cuckolding, the majority of them wanking fantasists, no doubt, had written about. Besides, I’d confessed that it had turned me on last weekend. I’d cum for her when we talked about it. She’d sat on my face, cum all over it, and then jerked me off, telling me about what I’d just seen. I’d got so turned on, I’d spunked all over myself. I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

I sat down again and took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. “No, I don’t have a problem with it. Just don’t mock me, OK? I’m not the one going on a date, am I? I’m the one who’s trying to be OK with his wife doing it.” I poured myself another glass of wine and drank half of it, closing my eyes The alcohol made my mind swim a little. I could feel my anger, if not my jealousy, start to recede.

“OK, OK, I didn’t mean to mock you. I’m sorry. But you have to get this. I can’t do the whole guilt and emotion thing every time. This is new for me too, you know…and if you must know, I’ll be wearing my green dress and the brown cows. Hardly femme fatale stuff.”

Her green dress was one of my favourite outfits. Belted at the waist, it came down to just above her knee. She normally wore it with her brown suede knee-length boots – which we’d always called ‘brown cows’, for some reason – and opaque tights. Those tights. We used to joke that I had a bit of a fetish for them.

“And my favourite opaque tights?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood for a second.

She gave me a look which managed to be kind, patient and slightly pitying all at once.

“Sweetheart…I don’t think it’s going to be a ‘tights’ sort of night.”

She paused.

“The thing is…Jesus, look, I’m fucking nervous as hell about this. I know it…turns you on, I guess, and I know you’re also conflicted about it. Clearly, you are, hugely.”

I nodded.

“Well, guess what? I am too. I’m excited and I feel hugely lucky that I’m getting to do it at all, but I’m nervous. So, I need to dress up a bit. I need to feel sexy to make sure I don’t freak out, and to make sure I actually go to meet him at all. So, no, not the tights. I’ll be wearing stockings.”

My head swam and this time it wasn’t the wine. I imagined the same hand I’d seen in the picture reaching up my wife’s green dress, moving over her stocking tops, into her knickers. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips, then drew back.

“Show me. Show me what you’ll be wearing.”

She stared at me for a second.

“OK. Stay here.”

She made her way down the corridor into the bedroom, and I heard the sound of drawers and cupboards opening and closing. I poured the last of the wine into my glass, swirled it round a few times and downed it in one. What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound, no turning back.

“OK, come now,” she called from the bedroom. I walked down the corridor and stepped through the door, expecting to see her standing there in her green dress. Instead, there was my wife, hands on hips, in black sheer stockings held up by suspenders, lacy black knickers with white lace frills around the top and a half-cup black bra. The bra pushed her large, round breasts together and up, while the frilly, scalloped edge of the knickers accentuated her broad hips.

“This is what I’ll be wearing under my dress,” she said, her voice wavering a little. “What do you think?”

“Jesus Christ. You look fucking incredible. I mean, you always look gorgeous, but, Jesus. Is that all new? I’ve never-”

She cut me off by walking to me and kissing me on the lips.

“Yes. All of it, it’s all new. Agent Provocateur. Now, lick me. Now. Please.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I dropped to my knees and carefully eased her new knickers over her hips and off. I felt her hands grab my hair and pull my face into her crotch. She was already wet. I stuck my tongue into her pussy, down between her labia and found her clit. Holding her bottom, I worked my tongue up and down, flicking her as I knew she liked it.

“God, yes, lick me. Lick me there. Lick what he’s going to get, lick it.” There I was, kneeling before my wife, being told to lick her pussy before she gave it to another man. The sheer obscenity of that thought made me work more frantically, more obediently. I craned my neck up, my tongue working furiously, breathing in the heady scent of her cunt. As I did, I felt my erection straining uncomfortably against my jeans, hard as a bullet.

“Fuck, yes, fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop…urrgggh, uh-uh-urrgggh. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck…” Her hands grabbed my hair and ground my face into her pussy as she rode it through her climax, before collapsing on her back onto the bed.

“Jesus Christ. Fuck me. Fuck me now.” I stripped naked and was on top of her in a matter of seconds. My stiff prick slipped inside her pussy without the slightest resistance. She was as hot and wet as I could ever remember. I pushed her thighs up towards her chest and fucked her as hard as I could, acutely aware of her slickness, the total lack of friction I felt, her words gnawing away at my mind – ‘Lick what he’s going to get’.

I saw the picture of his large cock in his boxers before my eyes. More images flashed through my mind – her stockings and suspenders, her green dress on the floor, her black knickers pulled to one side, his fingers inside her, her kneeling before him, sucking him off, kissing his balls, him doing her from behind, pulling her hair, fucking her hard, making her cum.

I buried my face in her neck, and held her bottom with both hands as I humped faster and faster. “I’m sorry, I’m going to cum”, I whispered hoarsely in her ear.

“Good. Cum inside me, cum inside me now”, she urged.

I spurted my load as deep into her pussy as I ever had. My orgasm seemed to go on and on, and I felt her grab at my hips, pulling me into her.

As the waves of climax subsided, I rolled off her and she leaned in towards me, nuzzling into my neck.

“You are fucking amazing,” she whispered, once we’d caught our breath.

“I’ve never had any complaints. Not written ones, anyway.”

“Well, you’ve ruined these stockings. I’ll have to buy some new ones.”

And with that. she got up to go to the loo, turning the bedroom light off as she went. I closed my eyes and started to drift off into a post-orgasmic doze. As I did, the thought crossed my mind that the next man to cum inside my wife would not be me.

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:

“Had nice”

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?”

“Yes, thanks.”

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.

“OK, OK.”

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.”

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