I woke still lying on my back. She was fast asleep, facing away from me, her ass pressed against my hip. I could feel the warmth of her body through the fabric, and my cock began to awaken. Thinking back to the night before, I reached under my shirt, running my fingers across my abdomen. The crusty dried cum confirmed that she had used me as a rag to clean her hand after drooling on my cock and stroking me to orgasm.
She let out a soft moan and shifted slightly. Her ass rubbed against me, round and firm. I wondered about the men who she had exposed it to, the places it had been. In another man’s bedroom, naked against his bedsheets. Bent over a kitchen counter. Perched on the edge of a hot tub. Lying on a shirt in a hidden meadow on a morning run.
I considered rolling over and waking her. My cock was raging. The heat of her body, the touch of her backside, and the images flashing in my mind had my mouth dry and my heart pounding. I glanced over and confirmed that she was sound asleep, no doubt dreaming of the pounding she had taken the previous morning. Whether out of consideration or timidity, I reluctantly rose, gently so as not to disturb her, and walked downstairs.
I took my coffee onto the back patio and settled in. Morning was breaking on a beautiful day. The birds of spring heralded its dawn. Taking a sip, I began to sort it all out.
My first thought was of my fierce, enduring love for my wife. The revelation of yesterday would put that to the test. I pondered her actions, sought to understand her motives, and kept coming back to one truth. I still loved her, and that love stood undiminished.
That might seem strange, but what kept me tethered to that feeling was my wish that she be happy and fulfilled. Something was clear of which I had heretofore been blissfully unaware, and that was that I had married a someone for whom convention would never be enough. I considered what had led her down this path. The first thought, of course, was my own inadequacy. Were I a better, more complete lover, she would never have felt the need to stray.
But then I thought of the texts I’d read. Her motivation didn’t appear to be about me at all; rather, it was about a fire burning within her that she had tried to control. I recalled our best sexual experiences – rabid, animalistic, raw fucking that left her quivering uncontrollably. With the knowledge I had gained, I considered that she may have been playing out fantasies during these sessions, and I allowed that she might have been present with someone other than me, her husband, during those episodes. Nonetheless, I had served as the physical manifestation of whatever fantasies drove her, and one cannot fake the look in her eyes as she fixed them on mine and exploded in orgasmic bliss.
Or the tender way she had kissed me afterward, the soft way she ran her fingers through my hair, the genuine way she would whisper “I love you” so softly in my ear, as if to say, thank you for indulging me, for not probing, nor suspecting, and in that way allowing me to be who I really am.
Still, she had betrayed me, not once but multiple times, with many partners. She continued to do so and had no apparent intention of stopping. The cruelty of that wasn’t lost on me. She could have chosen another path, raising the subject of hotwifing with me. I searched back and couldn’t recall any conversation that had even brushed on that subject. She could have made me, her loving and committed husband, her partner in this. There would have been risk in that, of course; that I would be frightened, offended, hurt, thereby damaging our relationship, perhaps fatally.
It could have turned out differently, though. I might have embraced it over time, taking our relationship to a level not achieved by most ordinary couples. I would have become a partner in her sexual adventure, supporting her freedom and celebrating her fulfillment, while being fulfilled myself by being married to a strong, independent, and highly desirable woman.
But she hadn’t chosen that path, confronting me with a reality that I would now need to manage.
The options before me were like tree branches. I could confront her and ask her to stop. That would pit her sexual needs against her love for me and her desire not to hurt me. I could confront her and leave. I didn’t want to do that; my love and need for her were too strong. I could offer to open our marriage and play the beta on whatever terms she dictated – present or absent, her trysts disclosed or kept to herself.
There was another branch – say and do nothing. I would accept her deceptions, tolerate her infidelity. I would have to figure out how to manage the silent suffering while enjoying the intense arousal that accompanied it. I realized that trying to do so might drive me mad.
I poured another cup and returned to my seat. The sun was over the shrubs that formed a privacy hedge in our backyard. I closed my eyes and felt its warmth on my body as I continued to discern. Gradually, but with firm resolution, I came to a decision.
I would say nothing. I would accept the role of silent, secret cuckold. There would be neither abject humiliation nor loving gratitude. My reclaiming her, when it happened, would be incomplete, an act known only to me and therefore not real. When we were apart, I would always experience the anguish of wondering if she was with someone else, but I would also feel the thrill when she returned home, often flushed and well-fucked, lit up with the glow that only allowing a fire to burn brightly can impart.
I loved her so much that I wanted this for her. And I appreciated, in a way, that she hadn’t confronted me with this either. It could have been selfishness, of course – she wanting to have it all, both me and her secret life. Or it could have been guilt, she not wanting to bring it out into the open between us. Or perhaps it was simply that she didn’t want to hurt me and felt she could continue to manage and compartmentalize her life.
I concluded it was the last of these. Maybe that was rationalization on my part, but I gradually came to firmly embrace it as the truth.
Getting used to his new reality and managing my emotions within it would be hard. A feeling of mildly sad peace came over me. I closed my eyes and let out a deep sigh.
As if on cue, I heard footsteps, followed by hands laid gently on my shoulders. A kiss on the top of my head followed by a soft, “Good morning, love.”
She walked around to stand in front of me, clad in a bathrobe. Backlit by the rising sun, she looked radiant, a beautiful, sexy woman. Her auburn tresses fell to her shoulders; she was the picture of erotic beauty.
Her robe fell open to reveal her naked body, and my heart skipped a beat as she straddled me, grinding against my hardening cock. Even through the fabric of my sleepwear, I could feel that she was soaking wet. She leaned forward and kissed me, gently at first and then crushing her mouth against mine, our tongues probing and dancing.
She continued to kiss me passionately, running her fingers across my cheeks and through my hair. Our breathing became deeper, and moans escaped each of us.
Breaking off the kissing suddenly, she took my face in her hands, stared deeply into my eyes, and said, “We need to finish what I started last night.”
She reached down and pulled my cock free through the fly and began to rub the tip up and down her dripping slit and across her engorged clit. The sensation was incredible, and my cock pulsed with anticipation. She was in control, and I accepted that.
“Fuck, this such a tease,” she breathed. “Your cock feels so good rubbing against my clit.”
Her rubbing became faster, and she pressed me against her more firmly. I sensed she was near orgasm, and the feeling of skin on skin was driving me to the edge as well. I had surrendered, unsure whether she would put me inside her or not. That, and the feeling of her lips coating me in wetness, were almost too much for me to take.
I didn’t want to cum before she did, and summoned all my might to fight it off as she climaxed hard. Her stomach tightened, her back arched, thrusting her small breasts capped with pointed nipples forward. Her head was thrown back, and she let out a small yell as her legs quivered against mine.
I leaned forward and took one of those nipples in my mouth, then the other, alternating back and forth. Her hands clasped the back of my head and pulled me in closer, almost crushing me against her chest, as another small climax rocked her body.
She let me go and reached back down for my cock, placing it again at her entrance. My chest was tight, and every nerve ending was alive as she rubbed my engorged purple head up and down her lips.
And then she lowered herself onto me with agonizing slowness. I felt her walls envelop me and her slick juices coat me inch by glorious inch until she was pressed all the way down and I was completely bottomed out.
At that moment, she let out a huge sigh and kissed me like I hadn’t been kissed in a long time. We remained like that, me still and hard inside her, enjoying the feeling of our coupling, and then slowly, she raised herself off me until only the tip was inside her.
She sank back down, quicker this time, and began to fuck me. Her pussy, that I now know had accepted others, sought them out and opened in violation of her marital vow, was fucking me. I lay still and let her have her way with me.
It didn’t take long. I watched her long, lean body move up and down, marveling at its tautness and perfect proportions, a vessel of carnal sin so carefully sculpted and maintained to make her highly desirable to random strangers. I exploded then, shooting cum upward into her body until I was empty, and it was leaking out and pooling at the base of my cock, marking her, in my mind alone and for this moment only, as mine.
