It’s amazing how the human mind can compartmentalize.
On Tuesday I was back at work, with a full agenda. Weekly staff meeting. Lunch with a major donor. And all afternoon, annual performance reviews. I hate annual performance reviews. I’m still a little self-conscious about being younger than half of my staff; and being in the position of correcting them, reminding them of things they need to do better; not necessarily learning new skills, but just the freakin’ basics when and when not to “reply to all” on emails, or asking for help when a deadline loomed. Jesus, folks…
But in the moment, I was able to focus on these interactions, and put out of my mind the entire maelstrom of emotions and questions about the crazy weekend I had just endured, with my wife 200 miles away, fucking my father’s brains out.
And then in my five or ten minutes between meetings, i would slam back into obsessing about the games that my lovely wife was playing with me. Much as I had tried to avoid thinking about the whole pregnancy-risk thing (which she had started, damn it, I swear!), that was back on the front burner.
A month ago, when she had reminded me of her limits and told me, “I’m not going to tell you again,” I had taken that to mean that she wondered my fixation on her getting impregnated by my father was just too much, and that I should knock it off. Unless what she meant was, “Okay, hubby, I’m going to tease you until you beg me to stop.”
Her little game of leaving two weeks’ worth of unused birth-control pills in her nightstand for me to discover (while simultaneously taking the pills from next month’s pack) had told me that it was the latter.
The thing was… she had been there when I opened the drawer, to watch me react, to give me a momentary mocking “Oh My God!” expression, then to laugh, and to hug and hold me as my pulse rate came back down from 145.
I kept thinking, though… what if I had for some reason opened that drawer while she was gone? Found some little item of hers to put back its place; or an unopened condom that she had planned to use in one of our little role-playing games in the kitchen or the study? What if, at the moment I realized what I was looking at; gathered that it meant that she had stopped taking her birth control pills at the beginning of her cycle; and it had hit me that it was too late. TOO LATE!!!* The weekend was half over, and my father had already pumped four or five or six loads of his potent seed up inside her fertile womb?
And then I had to face the question: what would I have done if I had found those pills early Friday evening, while Michelle was still en route to my dad’s house? How would I have reacted, after the initial surprise and moment of terror? Would I have picked up my phone and frantically called her and begged her to stop, even turn around? (And if I had, would her mere words over the phone telling me it was a prank, without the visual evidence of the second pack and the reassuring embrace, have been enough to talk me off the ledge?)
I wondered back to the stormy late afternoon in an Atlanta hotel room several weeks ago, when I was away at a conference and she had informed me she was gonna go to my dad’s house to “help him paint his apartment.” How I had stared at my phone as the sky and the room darkened, and my presumption that it was all a tease slowly faded into a certainty that she really was on her way to my father’s bed, and I wondered about calling her and using my safe word and… just didn’t do it, just couldn’t do it.
That afternoon, my lack of a phone call, my lack of a safe word, had given her the green light to open her legs and let my father slip his thick sixty-year-old cock up inside her, definitively and irrevocably cuckolding me.
This wasn’t quite the same thing. I knew now that this whole little scene had been a stunt. And, at any rate, on Friday Michelle wouldn’t have known whether my failure to call her just meant that I hadn’t found her birth control pills, or it represented my tacit approval for her to go ahead and have unprotected sex with my dad while ovulating. This time, it really had just been a game, a trick, a performance where my reaction played no role in the outcome.
There would have been no way for her to have known what I was beginning to acknowledge: that there was a growing, metastasizing tumor within my psyche, that wanted it to happen.
Michelle and I spent the next two evenings just cuddling. It’s all the time been sort of a pattern for us; any time we’ve spent a weekend having some sort of sexual adventure and then reconnecting afterwards, she definitely needs some downtime, and I don’t mind it, either. I don’t believe any of that crap you read in stories about “her pussy needs time to recover;” I think it’s more a matter of her mind needing to relax after a few days of concentrated “performance.”
Our relaxed, affectionate, typical week was not a performance. It was a return to typical. It was what real life had been for us for a long time. Even after we had started playing the hotwifing game for real a couple of years ago, after years of fantasy role-playing, the week after one of her adventures had all the time been a reassuring reconnection. We were made for each other, she would tell me, from time to time. Our kinks were aligned. But our kinks did not define us.
Of course, none of her other liaisons had ever become such a fixation. So, while my outward self relaxed back into normality, in my private moments, my mind kept conjuring images of my wife’s ripe, flawless body writhing and undulating under my father’s thick, hairy, insistently thrusting torso…
None of her previous lovers had had this effect on me. I was troubled and jealous during the seduction phase and while they were together, but afterwards, they were just another notch on her bedpost, not my obsession.
Not the confident, aloof management consultant with the $400 haircut who first “demanded” that I wear condoms.
Not the chiseled, gifted cornerback for the Cincinnati Bengals who had winked at me as I sat in the corner while he put her ankles on his broad shoulders and folded her up like a deck chair underneath him.
Not the lanky dude with blonde dreadlocks in the tattoo parlor who had performed her clitoral hood piercing and advised that she abstain from sex while it healed, and who then smirked at me after she returned to him to “try it out,” to confirm that she was “good to go.”
No, the only man who had apparently taken up permanent residency in my head, and maybe in my wife’s vagina, was the graying, slightly overweight, outwardly gentle man who had raised me, who had made me; my first and perhaps ultimate authority figure, who my wife had said now owned her pussy.
Friday evening I was rinsing the dinner dishes, just planning on leaving them in the sink to soak, when she came up behind me and wrapped her arms her arms around me. I could feel that she was wearing just a simple short silk robe. I could smell that she had just taken a quick shower and was freshly lotioned.
“Let me finish up here,” she purred. “Why don’t you go take a shower and meet me in the bedroom?”
She didn’t have to ask me twice. Although, as I lathered up and rinsed off, I couldn’t help remembering that this was, according to her, how she had first seduced my father. I conjured the picture in my mind as I dried off and wrapped the towel around my waist, my erection already pushing its way against the terrycloth. My father, of course, had been oblivious and flaccid — for a moment, at least — on that fateful afternoon, as he had come out of the shower and seen his daughter-in-law reclining, naked and inviting, on his bed.
I came out of the bathroom fully expecting her to be in the same position she had once described to me as the pose she had struck that afternoon to offer herself to him… half-reclining against the headboard, arms spread out across the pillow shams, swiveled at the waist, one succulent thigh drawn up across the other one. As elegant as one can be while completely naked, and utterly irresistible. And my father had not resisted.
But she was still in her pink silk robe, sitting upright and cross-legged, and from all appearances not recreating a scene or thinking of anyone else at all.
“Is that for me?” she asked, playfully directing her gaze at the tent pole pushing the towel away from my crotch.
I grinned and dropped the towel. “Absolutely,” I replied, as my erection popped free and almost slapped my belly.
I got onto one knee on the bed and she reached out for me. Her hand was soft and warm as she encircled my shaft with it. With her other hand, she loosened the belt of her robe and the garment fell off of one shoulder, revealing a perfect breast and one half-dollar sized areola, a shade darker than her robe.
I put my other knee on the bed, leaned over her, and she fell back beneath me as I lowered myself, kissed her, felt her breasts against my chest, one bare, one still covered in silk. Her legs, already open, came up around me. My erection grazed against her neatly-trimmed triangle of pubic hair.
“Should I get a condom?” I heard myself asking. Like an idiot.
She paused for a moment and even bit her lip. It seemed to me that she was thinking about it.
Why was she thinking about it? Deciding whether my obsessive kink had spoiled her mood? Or remembering that what we were about to do was “against the rules?”
She didn’t really need my father’s permission to let me, to let her own husband, slide into her. I knew that the two of them had been playing a game with me, and that she was the one driving it. But even just the moment’s hesitation, the mere suggestion that she had suddenly remembered — that it was my father’s preference, no, his prerogative, that only he got to be inside her bareback, and that she had felt compelled to acquiesce to that requirement — made me swoon.
“I think it’s a good idea,” she said.
Moments later I was doubly enveloped — my cock encased in pale opaque latex, and inside the silken sleeve of my wife’s warm body — rocking gently together, her arms around me. She was sighing and mewing in pleasure or approval. Not a word of the delicious, wicked taunting that I had grown to expect and to crave.
That shit was all in my head, I told myself. It was a game that she was indulging me with, playing it because it was fun for her but mostly because she realized how much it drove me wild. She didn’t need it. I shouldn’t, either.
She pushed me up, and I situated myself upright on my knees, still buried inside her. I knew she liked this position, because my cock has a slight upward curve, and in this way I can stimulate her g-spot with every stroke.
I began to thrust in and out of her, fully aware of how this must feel to her, because I had made her cum in this position many times. It used to feel better for me, when I did it bareback, when the head and the entire length of my cock wasn’t numbed by a latex barrier. But the condom was probably the only thing keeping me from erupting in the first two minutes. And, I had to admit, the lessening of sensation in my genitals was nothing compared to the heightened arousal it was causing in my twisted brain.
She had reached down with her left hand to press down on her lower stomach, right above where my cock was nudging repeatedly against the ventral side of her vagina. Pushing the nerve endings of her g-spot down against the artificial surface coating the pulsing organ that was moving inside her. Her fingernails were freshly painted, I noticed, a lovely iridescent shade of coral. It registered with me that she had done that for me, and I felt a swell of pride and gratitude in my chest, even as the evil voice on my shoulder reminded me that she all the time did it these days for my father.
I remained transfixed at the sight of her hand pressing down on her undulating stomach. Her engagement diamond twinkled in the lamplight. I thought whether she wore it with my dad. I thought whether he preferred her with it or without it. The diamond I had scraped to give to her when I asked her to marry me, to be my one and only, to join me in holy matrimony so long as we both shall live. Did it make him uncomfortable to see it and think of it that way? Or did it just amuse him, increase the power he felt as he relished the pleasure he was taking with another man’s wife?
Or did she remove it altogether, eradicating me completely from the bed they shared?
Well, I think I knew the answer to that one. If she was in this position underneath my father right now, her delicately manicured hand would be pressing down not only on her taut stomach, but on the silver chain holding the key to my chastity cage.
If she was in this position underneath my father right now, her legs would be spread even more widely, around his ample stomach. Her soft bottom would be perched even higher on his stout thighs, tilting her pelvis up so that his turgid erection was dragging even more obviously against her g-spot.
I watched her hand pressing down, wondering if she could actually feel the smooth contour of my cock gliding back and forth inside her. I thought if, when she was in this position underneath my father, if she could feel him with her fingertips, feel him sheathing and unsheathing himself inside her, feel the pronounced ridge of his corona popping out from his retracting foreskin with every stroke to give her that extra measure of erotic internal massage?
Thank God for the condom, I wondered again; otherwise I would have lost it by now.
“Oh yeah,” Michelle was verbalizing, her voice half gasp, and half hiss. “That’s it. Right there. Right there.”
I leaned back to increase the angle, while maintaining my steady pace, and I tightened my grip on her hips. Her body felt exquisite under my touch… warm and soft, just the right amount of flesh yielding beneath my fingers, over the firmness of her core muscles that were beginning to clench in orgasm. I couldn’t help but think about my father noticing the same thing as she came for him. And how did his hands feel to her? Larger, or at least thicker; stronger, more insistent?
“Yes. Yes,” she moaned, clamping down on me, while I continued to push and pull through her with every thrust. “I’m cumming…”
Yes, I wondered, with satisfaction. She was cumming for me, cumming on my cock. It’s not like it was a novel concept; our lovemaking had never been inadequate. I tightened my grip on her and concentrated on my rhythm until I could feel the tension in her thighs relax, feel the aftershocks of her orgasm fade away. Only then did I maneuver my legs so I was no longer squatting; I stretched them out and leaned forward, holding myself up on my elbows, but covering her body now with mine while her legs came up around me. I could get so much deeper this way, and now I was gonna let my own orgasm overtake me.
We moved in unison, and I closed my eyes in bliss. But, as I felt myself moving past the point of no return, I couldn’t help myself. The vision inside my head was of my wife looking up into my father’s face, inches above hers, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his body shuddering; and as I felt my orgasm rocketing up my spine and into my shoulders and felt my cock pulsing inside the condom, I was overcome with the wondered of how much better it felt for him, and for her, when he planted his bare cock deeply inside her velvet caress and spurted his potent semen directly onto her unprotected cervix.
Which only made my orgasm that much more intense.
Afterwards, she snuggled up under my shoulder and played absent-mindedly with my smattering of chest hair.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
“I love you, too,” I replied. Then added, tentatively, “You were… quiet tonight.”
“Mmm,” she sighed. “I thought I got rather loud there at the end.”
“Well… yeah,” I agreed. “But before that, you weren’t…”
“Jabbering?” she chuckled.
I shrugged. “I love the way you talk during sex.”
“Good thing,” she said. “I normally can’t help myself.”
“Really?” I asked, rolling onto my side to look at her face to face. It felt like a candid admission, and it felt nice to be talking about sex with my wife without one of us being on the verge of an orgasm. “Hmm. I’ve always kind of thought it was… intentional. A skill.”
She laughed. “A skill?. Like, something I practice? No, really. Blurting dirty talk about our crazy fantasies has kind of become what’s natural for me. It’s almost like I have to concentrate on not talking shit.”
“Huh. That’s… interesting.” I cuddled her head against my chest and stroked her hair. I thought if, and why, she had been concentrating on not dirty-talking during our just-concluded lovemaking.
She was quiet. I didn’t sense there was another shoe about to drop. I didn’t sense she was playing any sort of game with me. She had just shared something rather revealing, being open and honest with me, without agenda.
I couldn’t quite return the favor. As she dozed off, I was trying to imagine what sort of dirty talk rolled mindlessly off her tongue when she was in bed with my father. “You own my pussy,” she had pretty much told me already, was one thing she had blurted out to him, inviting him to confirm it. What else?
“God, you’re so much bigger than my husband…”?
“So much better than your son…”?
“Take me… Make me yours… Make my husband a cuck…”?
“Cum for me, John… Cum inside me… Fill me up…”?
“Yes, yes, yes, John. Give it to me. Put your baby inside me…”
Saturday morning, my wife woke me up with coffee and a blowjob.
Apparently no condom was required for that, and since my cock was already completely engulfed in her mouth and marinating in her warm wet saliva by the time I was fully awake, I didn’t even entertain one of my stupid denial fetishes. I just rolled with it.
She had been awake long enough to go make coffee, obviously. She had even gotten dressed, more or less, in an oversized t-shirt… nothing seductive, the ultimate in Saturday morning casual.
But there was nothing casual about the way her right hand was gripping me at the root, holding me perpendicular, while her lips suctioned up and down my shaft and her tongue swirled around my swollen knob. When I gently placed one hand on the back of her head, just to touch her, not to guide her, she hummed her approval.
She had told me last night that not talking during sex took more discipline than just jabbering, but for this particular activity, her lips and tongue were otherwise occupied. And I was plenty satisfied to just lie back and enjoy it.
But, God help me, I couldn’t withstand closing my eyes and wondering whether she spent last weekend waking my father up like this. Wondering how different he felt in her mouth. Or tasted. How different his hand felt as it gathered up her blonde locks, forceful, demanding, entitled. And when those thoughts triggered my orgasm far more suddenly than I wanted, I couldn’t help wondering whether my father lasted longer, whether she enjoyed the challenge of coaxing his orgasm out him more than she did mine, whether his orgasm was more powerful than mine.
And then I was twitching and erupting in her mouth, while imagining that the viscous liquid that was coating the roof of her mouth and filling her cheeks was, in fact, my father’s; and wondering if she was imagining the same thing. Damn it.
She came up off of me, carefully closing her lips around my glans as she withdrew, then looked at me while trying to suppress a smile. She swallowed dramatically, and coughed a little, then laughed and stuck out her tongue at me.
“Good morning,” she said.
“It’s a good morning indeed,” I replied.