First-Time Cuckold

by Vivi King

  At the same time my husband would be deciding whether he wanted me back at all.

  But now the opportunity had arisen for real, instead of welcoming me into his apartment, his life and his bed, Tony was behaving very strangely, making excuses to avoid seeing me and even standing me up on the one occasion he had agreed to meet. He wasn’t even answering his phone now or responding to messages.

  In the face of all the evidence, I still stupidly held onto the belief that, once his daughter Hannah had gone back to University, he would call me, tell me he still loved me and welcome me into his apartment, his bed and his life.

  The self-delusion was extraordinary.

  In contrast, my husband Pete had stuck to his plan, moved into the Duty Consultant’s rooms at the hospital and hadn’t made any contact with me at all since leaving the house the previous Sunday. I had seen his car in the Consultants’ Car Park and I suspected he had spent at least some time on Thursday evening with Julie, my closest friend and Tony’s wife.

  Otherwise I hadn’t set eyes on him and had no idea what he had been doing and now I would not see even this little of his life because on Friday afternoon he had flown to Geneva to take part in a week-long conference in his medical specialism. It was an event I had once attended with him; a week in which a great deal of hard work was done during the day and a large amount of bed- swapping took place afterwards.

  If he wanted, my good looking, successful husband would have no problem finding someone to fill

  the place in his bed I that his unfaithful wife was now denied.

  Unused to jealousy, the thought of my husband with another woman in any circumstances was intensely and increasingly painful. His absence from my life went far beyond his mere physical presence; we had been apart many times when one of other of us was away for work but there had always been the knowledge that we missed and wanted each other.

  Being apart from him because he couldn’t put up with the humiliation of my repeated betrayals, couldn’t even stand being in the same house as his cheating wife and needed to decide whether he could now live with me at all was an agony all on its own and increasingly hard to bear.

  Whatever I decided, the decision was out of my hands. For months I had enjoyed having both men in my life; now it looked like I might end up with neither. With another whole week of supposed freedom, there seemed nothing I could do but wait for one or both men to make their choice.

  As if this wasn’t bad enough, Julie had called me on Friday asking if we could meet up.

  Despite her having been my closest friend, I hadn’t returned her call. This was partly because I was angry that her husband Tony had seen her earlier in the week while avoiding seeing me, partly because she had apparently gone out to dinner with my husband on Thursday night and partly because I had ignored her pleas and done nothing to help her and Tony get back together again.

  But mostly it was because the young man who had fucked me so comprehensively on Thursday was the same young man Julie’s yearlong affair had been with; the affair that had made her husband walk out on her. Julie and my names metaphorically appeared above each other on Darren’s bedpost; I wasn’t ready for the complications all this brought to our already-complicated relationship.

  She had called me on Saturday morning too and left several increasingly urgent text and voice messages but I had ignored them all.

  So, as I prepared myself for a desperately needed evening with the girls, far from being the wild, romantic fuck-fest I had expected, with one unexpected but spectacularly enjoyable exception, my first week of freedom had been spent almost entirely alone so having Claire’s party to look forward to was a godsend.

  ***

  It was my friend’s fifty-third birthday and the girls in our social group were having dinner in a smart restaurant together to celebrate. Under previous circumstances we would have been a table of eight

  but with Julie still persona-non-grata there were only seven of us that Saturday night; the Magnificent seven as Claire christened us.

  The first bottle of Prosecco had barely filled our glasses so a second and third had been promptly ordered. After my lonely week it felt wonderful to be in a noisy, friendly group again and I took maximum advantage of the opportunity to gossip, eat things I shouldn’t eat and drink much more than was good for me.

  As usual, after a few rounds of the bottle the conversation turned obliquely to sex; with our husbands in general and about Julie and Tony in particular. There was much good natured complaining about our various spouses either demanding too much or providing too little in the bed department.

  I kept quiet as much as possible without appearing prudish; there were too many booby traps in my sex life to let down my guard.

  By the time the coffees and over-sweet liqueurs had arrived the two divorced girls amongst us had graduated onto the lack of eligible men in our town and from there to which of our husbands they found most attractive.

  To my considerable surprise, Pete and Tony featured high up on both their lists. Tony in particular was deemed to need a great deal of personal attention to comfort him following Julie’s appalling behaviour; support both girls said they would be happy to provide. Julie herself was discussed with a mix of contempt, admiration and a good degree of envy.

  My husband Pete was universally praised for being both good looking and a warm, caring man. There was much ribald speculation about what he must be like in bed – which I took care not to encourage - after which I was voted the luckiest girl at the table.

  A toast was drunk to both of us. I had to blink back the tears; fortunately everyone misread the reasons behind my reddening eyes.

  I was still one of the more sober members of the group by the time we bundled into taxis and headed into the city aiming to hit a club for a few hours’ dancing. Before my affair I would have avoided sweaty nightclubs like the plague, especially on ’Grab a Granny’ night as this particular evening had been named by the younger male clientele who laughed at groups of middle aged women like us.

  We danced until after one o’clock. Interestingly, all of us were approached during the evening by men much younger than ourselves. After my one night stand with Darren and with no wedding ring on my finger - I had lied to my friends about having it made larger - I was in great danger of accepting

  but there was a limit even to my insanity.

  Just before two o’clock I arrived home by taxi to a dark, empty house, alone, drunk and missing my husband very badly indeed.

  My vibrator made another visit to my bed but its batteries gave up the ghost and I cried myself to sleep unsatisfied.

  ***

  I rose late the next morning with a rare hangover. After downing a full pint of water and two cups of strong coffee I tried to make plans for another lonely day. Going to the gym with my head throbbing was unthinkable so I dressed in scruffy leggings and an old shirt and chose the go-to option of housework.

  A couple of hours later everything had been washed, ironed, cleaned or tidied. I wasn’t in the mood to meet anyone so had yet more coffee and wondered what to do next.

  Then it hit me; there could hardly be a better opportunity to work on my writing so, with a fresh mug of coffee in one hand and my mobile phone in the other, I went into the study to work out my frustrations through the characters in my stories as only an author can.

  Remembering the events of the previous week, I placed a folded towel on the seat cushion beneath me in case of ‘arousal accidents’.

  To my delight, the words seemed to simply pour from me and onto the screen and chapters began to form quickly in my mind. While I enjoyed writing the sex scenes, it was the whole surrounding story that actually physically turned me on; the seduction not just the fornication; the chase not just the kill.

  I loved to explore the intricacies of relationships too; the deceptions and secrets, the traps and manipulations as if by giving my characters wicked motivations and loose morals I could make my own misjudgements and mistakes s
eem less unacceptable.

  I had reached the most crucial part of a very intimate sex scene, my leggings and towel distinctly damp when I heard the doorbell ring. I sat back, puzzled; I wasn’t expecting visitors anytime, let alone on a Sunday afternoon. It rang again; whoever was outside the door was clearly not just going to disappear.

  Both I and the central female character in my story were in an advanced state of arousal so this

  interruption could not have been more ill-timed. The effect on me had been so powerful that I was even contemplating paying my hidden vibrator a brief visit so it was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned the on screen fornication, padded barefoot into the hallway and opened the front door.

  “Jules!” I exclaimed in surprise.

  “Hello Penny!”

  To my astonishment, there on the threshold stood the woman who had been my closest friend. Dressed in tight jeans, boots and a close-fitting red top over which she had draped a quilted jacket, her petite body and blonde hair looked very pretty and attractive indeed.

  In my scruffy clothes I felt outclassed but it was the serious look on her face that grabbed my attention.

  “Can I come in?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course.”

  My invitation was instinctive; I was not at all sure how I felt about the woman I had been so close to for so many years. As far as I knew, in consecutive nights this currently-unattached, highly sexed female had in some as yet undiscovered way been with both the men who were supposed to be in my life.

  With my own jealousy-crazed eyes I had seen her leave Tony’s apartment late on Wednesday evening and I had strong grounds to suspect she had driven off with my husband in his Porsche the evening after.

  My attitude was one of suspicion, wariness and a distinct coolness towards my former confidante but I tried to bluff it out, pretending all was normal.

  From her body language and the hesitant way she spoke, I could tell Julie was having similar issues as we walked through to the kitchen. She shed her jacket and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar while I moved towards the kettle. On the surface it looked like hundreds of our encounters over the last twenty years but underneath we both knew it was nothing of the sort.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “I’d rather have a glass of something stronger,” she smiled. “I feel like I need it today.”

  I took two wine glasses from the cupboard, opened the fridge door, filled them with cold Sauvignon Blanc and handed one to Julie who raised it towards me.

  “Cheers?” she asked.

  “Cheers!” I replied but there was little enthusiasm in either of our voices.

  “How are the kids?” I asked.

  “Fine. Hannah’s having a few issues but otherwise they’re both doing well. How are your three?”

  “The boys are fine. Izzy’s had a few boyfriend problems but she’s happy again now.”

  I wouldn’t have shared the nature of my daughter’s boyfriend problems even in the olden days. Some things have to remain between a mother and daughter.

  “Is Pete okay?” she asked.

  I knew Julie well; from the overly casual tone of her voice and the fact that I suspected she had been with him only days ago, I could tell she was testing the water before moving on to a more significant subject. I gave a bland, non-committal answer.

  “He’s in Geneva. At the conference.”

  There was a brief silence while both of us wondered how to proceed. Long sips of wine were taken. I wasn’t going to be the one to take the first step; after all, Julie had come to my house to see me, knowing that my husband was away. The silence went on a long time before Julie finally steeled herself and began the conversation that was to change my life.

  “People like to make judgements,” she said quietly, apparently a-propos of nothing. “They think they don’t, but they do; all the time.”

  I was sure my friend was right but didn’t see where she was going with this.

  “Take me and Tony for example. People think he’s a poor, mistreated husband and I’m a cheating slut.”

  I made to protest but she held up her hand to stop me.

  “Don’t try and be nice, Penny. If my own children think I’m a slut then why shouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t everyone? I’ve made no attempt to hide it, have I?”

  That was certainly true. At least she had been honest and open about her cheating which was a lot more than I had been.

  “The thing is, no-one knows what goes on behind closed doors. No-one knows what another marriage is really like. You’re my closest friend and I care about you so, if you’ll let me, I think it’s really important that I tell you one or two things.”

  “O-kay,” I said slowly and hesitatingly.

  This sounded serious; more so when Julie emptied the bottle into our glasses and took another long sip.

  “The truth is,” she took a deep breath. “The truth Penny, is that Tony has cheated on me throughout our marriage.”

  I gasped.

  “I know. It’s a shock isn’t it? You thought I was the ‘bad guy’ for going off with Darren, didn’t you?”

  She was right and I wasn’t the only one to think this way. Her year-long but recently ended affair with her Personal Trainer had been the talk of our social group – the whole Sports Club in fact.

  “Well, I’ve known about Tony’s ‘bits on the side’ for longer than we’ve known you and Pete. He’s always had a wandering eye and I know you’ve experienced his WHT for yourself.”

  I raised an eyebrow. WHT had stood for Wandering Hand Trouble when I was at school. I hadn’t heard the phrase used since I had left University but I did know about Tony’s straying hands very well indeed as this narrative has amply demonstrated.

  “Most of our friends know; he uses it as a kind of smokescreen,” she continued. “Because he seems to try it on clumsily with every woman, we all think he’s not serious; that it’s ‘just Tony’s way’.” She leaned closer. “But I can tell you Penny, he’s very serious indeed and if he ever thinks he can follow through and go further, he does.” She laughed hollowly. “It’s surprising how successful he’s been over the years.”

  “Jules I had no idea,” I told her honestly, my heart sinking.

  “I was a loyal wife and I love my family,” she told me. “For years I found it easier just to pretend it wasn’t happening and get on with life without thinking about it. Pathetic isn’t it?”

  I wasn’t in a position to comment so I simply said I was sorry.

  “I’m not after sympathy,” she smiled. “If I chose to be the poor little woman with the cheating husband; that was my affair.” she added.

  “So what changed?” I asked, still bewildered.

  “Oh, so many things,” Julie replied with a sigh. “Perhaps I’d just had enough. I suppose the final straw was when Chris and Helen split up.”

  Chris and Helen had been friends of theirs; a pleasant if unremarkable couple I had met several times at Julie and Tony’s house. They had separated eighteen months ago and were now divorcing.

  “You mean Tony...” I began, aghast.

  Julie nodded.

  “He’d been fucking Helen for six months on and off. He didn’t think I knew.”

  “Was there a big bust-up?”

  “Not really. Helen just left. Chris never found out who she’d been sleeping with but I knew it was time to leave.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I’d threatened to leave him many times; I actually did leave him twice but I hadn’t planned it properly. Each time he managed to convince me that he’d reformed, that there would be no more ‘other women’. You know how persuasive he can be.”

  I did indeed know, but if Julie didn’t know about my own affair with her husband, I wasn’t going to tell her.

  “This time I knew I had to do something big; burn my bridges so there could be no going back. I

  didn’t want everyone to think of me as a slut but I knew if I didn’t do
something dramatic and public, he’d talk me back into our one-sided marriage again.”

  “So you let Darren seduce you?” I stated rather than asked. Julie chuckled.

  “Darren is a sweetheart but you’ve met him. He’s got a great body and he’s fantastic in bed but he’s no dangerous Casanova. If anything, I seduced him.”

  Although this agreed completely with my own experience of Darren’s seductive powers, I still stared at my friend in amazement. To think that after as many years of marriage as mine, my closest friend had actually gone out to deliberately cheat on her husband.

  “Only one other person in the world knows what I’m telling you now and I’m only telling you because of the position you and Pete are in. I care about you.”

  This took me back with a jolt. What did Julie know about me and Pete? I couldn’t ask for more without giving things away so I just shut up and listened.

  “Tony’s affairs tend to follow a pattern,” she continued. “First, he almost always goes for tall, leggy brunettes,” she said, giving me a meaningful look that worried me. “I suppose it’s because I’m short and blonde and he likes a change.”

  So far I fitted into the pattern.

  “He usually prefers married women. I reckon he thinks they have more to lose and so are more likely to keep secrets and let things stay physical.”

  That too fitted well with his selection of me.

  “So if his wandering hands open a chink in a married woman’s armour he moves in fast before she realises what’s going on. If he can get her into a seriously compromising position quickly she’s much more likely to let him go all the way. It’s a sort of sexual blitzkrieg. I’ve seen it happen, Penny. Tony doesn’t know but I’ve seen it.”

  To my horror, this described his first successful assault on my fidelity perfectly. By failing to remove his hands from my buttocks that first afternoon I had shown him a point of weakness and he had capitalised on it mercilessly. Fondling had quickly led to kissing, the journey from kissing to groping and fingering had been swift too. Once his hands had secured their place inside my knickers he was home and dry; there was no way the encounter could have ended with anything but full on sex and in