by Vivi King
“He’s flirty with all the girls.” I protested aloud in an attempt to distract my thoughts.
Pete rolled onto his side facing me, his fingers toying with my sensitive, still firm nipples then stroking my belly on their way down to the dark triangle below. His fingertips tangled themselves in my knotted, sparse pubic hair before tracing the outline of my swollen, sensitive, still-unsatisfied lips. Instinctively I pressed my knees together as if to restrict his access, then changed my mind and let my thighs part slightly. I felt his fingers brush over my swollen clit.
There was a long pause before he carried on, his voice quiet and reassuring.
“It would be OK, you know,” he whispered, his fingers gently parting my outer lips.
“What would be OK?” I asked disingenuously, knowing full well what he meant but enjoying his delicate finger work below.
“If you found someone you might actually want to fuck for real!”
I didn’t reply. Instead, I just closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on his hands and my body’s increasing response. His fingertips were working their expert way into my slit, stroking my still- aroused body up and down.
“As long as you told me all about it; maybe even let me help out.”
I still didn’t respond. Pete’s fingers found my clit. I felt its hood being raised and a single stroke underneath its sensitive shaft. I shuddered with pleasure.
“Mmmm! Don’t stop!” I murmured but Pete waited, his fingers stilled, then repeated:
“I said it would be OK if you wanted to fuck another man...” he began again.
“I heard what you said, Pete!” I snapped, interrupting him abruptly, the erotic magic now well and truly broken. “Don’t let’s go over it all again. Can’t we just enjoy the fantasy? Please! You’re getting weird now!”
There was yet another long pause.
“You didn’t cum tonight though, did you?” he asked, confidently, resuming his stroking between my thighs.
“I enjoyed it, Pete. Really I did,” I protested, trying to relax again and enjoy the sensation building again between my thighs despite my anger.
“When did I last make you cum?” he asked, his stroking growing more confident and considerably more pleasurable. “A month ago? Longer? You’re so good at faking it, I can’t always tell.”
My lips remained closed but it was true. When the fantasies had started I had climaxed so freely and easily that I hadn’t had to fake it for months and months, but now I hadn’t made it for – what was it – three months? No, much longer!
“Did you enjoy it tonight? Really, I mean,” he continued, his fingers now entering my sticky passage.
“Mmmm... it was great...” I lied, forcing a smile so false even my post-climactic husband could see through it.
“Penny, I’m sorry...” he began, his hand now stationary, two fingers within my messy vagina. I snuggled up to him and put a finger on his lips as his fingers slipped from me.
“Tonight was for you. We’ll have one for me next time,” I reassured him.
“Promise me you’ll at least think about it,” he asked, almost begging. I raised my eyebrow suspiciously.
“You’re really serious? This isn’t just part of the game?”
“I’m serious. If I can’t give you what you need in bed then I want us to find someone who can.”
I couldn’t think what to say, but he carried on.
“I’m not asking you to let me sleep with other women too. Really I’m not. It’s all about you.”
There was more silence from me but again he had hit my suspicion spot-on. That was exactly what I had suspected the first time he had raised the idea all those months ago. There was no way I would even consider becoming a ‘swinger’ - I had no desire to see Pete with another woman. None at all!
“Will you at least consider it? Come on Pen, just think about it,” he pleaded. “It seems to turn you on when we’re...”
“Okay! Okay! I’ll think about it!” My voice was almost a yell, cutting off his protestations mid sentence. “But I’m not saying I’ll do anything with anyone, understand?”
Alongside me, my husband beamed with pleasure.
“That’s all I ask, darling. You never know, you might think it’s a good idea after all.”
We lay side by side in silence, Peter looking a little pleased with himself; my head full of contradictory emotions. Whatever I told myself about cheating being unthinkable, the idea of having really great sex again was very attractive. But I’d never really cheated on my husband; despite the ‘near-misses’ all
those years ago I was still a faithful wife.
But was it actually cheating if Pete wanted me to do it? And why on earth would he want me to cheat on him?
“How about you let me finish you off right now, like we used to?” my husband suddenly whispered, planting a line of kisses down the middle of my tummy and blessedly breaking my anxious train of thought. His breath was warm and soft on my skin and as his face closed in on the dark triangle between my thighs, he murmured. “I haven’t done this for ages. It always used to do the trick.”
I felt his hot mouth against the soft skin of my upper thighs; his fingers probed deeply into my sticky vagina once again and I realized what he intended to do.
“Pete, No! Don’t! I’m not clean down there. We’ve just... and I’m all sticky. Ohhhhh! Ohhhh Godddd!”
My head fell back helplessly onto the bed sheets, my thighs parting automatically as my husband’s mouth closed on my engorged vulva. Moving between my knees, his head fell between my upper thighs, his fingers gently parted my outer lips and his hot breath fell onto my warm, messy core.
My eyes closed, all my senses focussed between my thighs as Pete’s tongue flicked expertly first along one puffy inner lip, then the other before diving into the dark, welcoming passage in between.
“Pete, don’t,” I protested weakly. “I’m all... Ohhhhh!”
The glow in my belly that had flickered feebly during our sex now began to grow strongly as his tongue slowly and thoroughly explored every soft, moist, semen-covered part of my vulva, finishing with a long, slow upwards stroke across the underside of my clitoris.
“Ohhh, Jeeezzz! Ohhh, Pete! Please! I’m not... Ohhhh, don’t stop!”
My voice sounded slurry and incoherent, my chest now tightening with the force of what I suddenly realized could be a real, massive orgasm, my first in months; IF he kept on doing these amazing things to me!
“You’re full of cum, Pen!”
Pressed against my vulva, my husband’s voice was muffled. I gasped softly as his fingers deftly slid back the hood of my rather over-sized clitoris and the very tip of his tongue danced around its swollen nub making my chest tighten.
“But I’m all messy,” I protested to no effect.
For a full minute or more, I felt his tongue circling my clit, over and under, round and round, making it swell until it felt like it would burst.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” My words were slurred by arousal.
“So much cum in you, Penny!”
He paused and I felt his hot breath on my inner thigh again.
“What if it wasn’t my cum inside you?”
His voice was low, harsh and barely audible over my labored breathing. His tongue dabbed roughly at my clit between every broken phrase, my head spinning madly as my climax began to build and build like a massive wave rising high over my helpless body.
“What if you’d just been fucked by someone else? What if it was HIS cum inside you?”
A long finger entered my gaping vagina, curling upwards towards my G-spot as his tongue laid waste to my engorged clit. The wave of impending orgasm crested over me and began to break. My body went into spasm, my legs closing involuntarily on my husband’s head then falling wide apart.
“OhhhmmmyyyyyGooodddd!”
I thrust my fingers into his hair, grabbing it roughly as his hands slid under my buttocks and raised my messy vulva to his face. His ac
tive tongue worked overtime now, on, around and underneath the hood of my hugely swollen, sensitive clit as his fingers dived deep into my vagina leaving me overwhelmed and completely helpless.
“What if it was HIS cum in your belly? HIS cum in your cunt?”
Pete’s muffled voice was harder now, wildly aroused, almost threatening - and I loved it! I felt more fingers entering my vagina, how many I couldn’t tell. I felt them stretching me tightly; twisting and turning within me as if exploring; seeking a special place while still his amazing tongue worked its magic on my clitoris – now so swollen and aroused it was painful.
“What if it was his cum I was licking out of you? His sperm dripping from you? What if he knocked you up, Penny? What if his sperm made a baby in your belly?”
I dimly felt that a line had just been crossed but was too far gone to understand, the pleasure and pain now completely fuddling my mind as a second, stronger wave of orgasm washed over me.
“Oh, yes! OH GOD, YES!” I wailed, exhausted from my first wave of orgasm but desperate for more, as if to make up for lost time.
Pete was relentless, working his fingers and tongue within me with a skill I had all but forgotten he possessed.
“Oh, Jesus! Oh, my fucking Goddddd!”
It was my voice I heard, but twisted and distorted by lust as my husband’s fingers finally located my g- spot and worked their magic inside my body. A final massive tidal wave of orgasmic heat began to roll over me, drowning me in its intensity.
“Cum for me Penny!” Pete hissed triumphantly.
All semblance of control left me; my eyes lost focus, I felt my thighs close hard against the sides of his head, my back arched, my fingers gripped and pulled his hair and within seconds a very real, very intense, very-much-needed orgasm washed over me like a mighty hot wave, rippling outwards from deep between my thighs, making my whole body tremble in his hands.
“That’s my girl,” he hissed, his fingers and tongue still working on my body. “Cum for me! Cum for HIM! Cum like HE makes you cum!”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh!”
The voice I heard was barely recognizable as my own as for the first time in over a year I had an earth-moving, mind-shattering orgasm that left me exhausted, panting and afterwards capable only of sleep.
But as I came wildly and noisily in our marital bed, overwhelmed by lust, totally abandoned to my own pleasure, it wasn’t my husband Peter’s face I pictured, contorted, inches above mine, filling my anxious, greedy body with his hot, sticky seed!
And as my body flexed and convulsed; my husband’s mouth and hands a frenzy of activity between my thighs, neither of us had any idea what the future held in store.
Or what we, a happily married, middle-aged professional couple would soon become.
2
The kitchen was bright with sunshine that Sunday morning as I checked the laptop screen one last time before taking a deep breath and anxiously clicking on the ‘submit’ button. There was a pause, the cursor span in little circles and then the ‘thank you’ message appeared.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It was done; the fruit of two weeks’ work would, I hoped, soon be published and after that my new online friends would increase in number helping me further along the journey I had so recently undertaken.
If I had known then how far that journey would take me and my husband Pete, or how quickly we might get there I might not have been so free with my writing and sharing my emotions.
But at that moment I had no idea – and the first few steps had certainly been fun.
***
After my fuddled mind had adjusted to the extraordinary realization that my attractive husband of twenty years was actually serious about watching me having sex with other men, my next thought was that I had to learn a lot more about what I could only consider a very strange and unnatural fetish.
Shared fantasies were one thing; actually having sex with another man; actually cheating on my husband for the first time since our marriage was another thing altogether. At the time I had no real thought of doing what he had asked but I loved my husband very much and wanted to understand what strange thing was happening to him to make him want this.
After all, men do have midlife crises, don’t they?
I had expected the idea to revolt as well as shock me - after all, it’s not the sort of proposal you expect from someone you have been married to for so long – but to my surprise I found myself more curious than repelled and thought about it at first in an oddly detached, almost scientific rather than a passionate or lustful way.
I had always been dimly aware of the ‘swinging’ scene and over the years had seen many TV programs in which wife-swapping had featured, though more in comedy than in drama. Indeed at least one village not far from us had a reputation for this sort of thing dating back to the 1960’s but in my naiveté I hadn’t really imagined that it was still going on.
I had had even less idea that it involved the affluent, professional classes to which my husband Peter and I belonged at least as much, if not more than ‘those kind of ’ families living on the ‘problem’ estates.
I had so much to learn.
I suppose Pete and I had lived fairly sheltered lives. From School we had both gone on to University in the Midlands where he had studied Medicine, I had studied Biological Sciences and we had met through mutual friends in the hospital.
Pete was and still is slim, handsome and athletic. Neither tall nor short and these days somewhat thin on top of his head, nonetheless he is still fit, confident and attractive, not least to me.
I’m as tall as my husband to the inch – taller when I’m in heels - with dark eyes and dark brown hair (most of the time). I’m still slim and fit though I have to work hard to stay that way, and have always had very small boobs, even when feeding our two kids.
Our eldest, now in his mid-twenties, lives and works in London and our two younger children were away at University at that time so Pete and I had been living the life of a couple again for nearly a year before these events took place. It had, I must confess, been a lot of fun being a couple again with evenings out, evenings in, weekends away and, of course, a great deal more sex thanks to vastly improved privacy.
Pete’s vasectomy some years ago had helped too, removing the need to worry about my long term use of the pill. Neither of us liked condoms and my menopause was only beginning so some form of protection was still needed.
We have both prospered in our careers too. Pete is a Consultant at a major hospital in the city near where we live. I work in a senior role in a medical-related field in a city nearby but I’d better keep the
details of that to myself or it would be far too easy for a persistent reader to work out who we are!
But back to Pete’s astonishing proposition.
As a trained researcher, my first instinct was to find out much more about what I had originally considered an exciting fetish, but definitely one for the fantasy zone alone. The idea of turning that fantasy into reality was both frightening and exciting at the same time but not something I was taking seriously. If I’m honest, the idea of my own husband not just accepting me being unfaithful but actually trying to persuade me to have sex with other men though unthinkable in practice was highly arousing in principle.
But there was no doubt Pete was sincere about it. This was something I found deeply unsettling and at first my number one concern was for my husband’s mental health.
My first port of call for research was of course the anonymous internet so, with feelings of misgivings, I trawled the net for some time, looking for anything remotely scientific about a man’s desire to allow or even watch his wife having sex with another man – the desire to become a Cuckold.
There was plenty of porn of course, much of it badly written and entirely unbelievable, but there were a few genuine studies out there too which I analyzed assiduously. I even joined a forum or two under false male names and tentatively joined in a few threads, but soon discovered most pa
rticipants were either frauds or fantasists or both.
Overall I learned a number of things that both worried and reassured me:
That cuckoldry was a surprisingly common fetish in the western world, affecting perhaps a fifth of men in the USA in some form. One report suggested up to half of all American men had at least fantasized about their partner being with another man. British men couldn’t be all that different, I reasoned, rather shocked.
That it is a form of masochism – I hadn’t imagined that - in which the pain of a wife’s infidelity was offset against powerful feelings of arousal and, in widely varying degrees, a desire to be humiliated.
My athletic, attractive husband, a masochist? Who would have thought it?
Even stranger, I learned that deliberate cuckoldry is most common among educated, affluent middle class couples. This would certainly describe Peter and me. Wow!
I also learned to my surprise that it is not the same as a desire to ‘swing’ – there was not necessarily
any need for the cuckold husband to have a reciprocal right to have sex with other women. Again this fitted in well with all Pete had said to me.
Maybe it wasn’t so strange a fetish...? Maybe he didn’t need therapy after all.
There were plenty of videos too, most of them obviously fake, but after a while I stumbled on a good few that appeared to be genuine. These I watched with fascination when I was alone in the house or early in the morning while Pete slept upstairs.
Despite their universally low quality, in many cases I could feel the real, genuine enjoyment being experienced by all the participants. To my considerable surprise, the identity of the ‘bull’ in these encounters seemed almost irrelevant; he was often just ‘a cock’, usually a black cock but not necessarily a huge one. He didn’t even need to be handsome and was often quite overweight!
What was more surprising was that the ‘bull’ appeared to get less pleasure from having sex with another man’s wife than either the unfaithful wife or even her cuckolded husband got out of the event.
