15 - Cuckqueaned by my Fabulous Friend from College
FMF / Cuckquean / Interracial / Femdom / Cuckquean Cleanup
I saw Raquelle before she saw me. She was standing by Danielle’s kitchen island, holding a glass of wine like it was a prop in a photoshoot, laughing at something someone had said.
Her dark skin glowed against the white of her blouse, and her hair was longer than I remembered, falling past her shoulders in loose waves.
She looked exactly the same as she had in college—better, actually.
The kind of woman who got more beautiful as she got older, while the rest of us just got more tired.
“Holy shit,” I said, grabbing Ben’s arm. “That’s Raquelle.”
“Who?”
“Raquelle. From college. I’ve told you about her.” I was already moving toward the kitchen, pulling him along. “She travels everywhere. Couldn’t make the wedding because she was in, like, Morocco or something.”
Raquelle turned as we approached, and her face lit up. “Nora!” She set down her wine and pulled me into a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and airplane. “Oh my god, look at you. You look amazing.”
“You look amazing,” I said, because she did, and because I’d never been good at taking compliments. “Raquelle, this is my husband, Ben. Ben, Raquelle.”
Ben extended his hand. “Nice to finally—”
He stopped. Raquelle’s smile flickered, just for a second. Something passed between them—recognition, maybe, or surprise—and then it was gone, smoothed over so fast I almost thought I’d imagined it.
“Nice to meet you,” Raquelle said, shaking his hand. “Nora’s told me so much about you.”
I hadn’t. I hadn’t talked to her in years.
The rest of the party went the way parties did. I caught up with Danielle, met her new boyfriend, ate too many of those little bruschetta things. Ben circulated, charmed people, did his thing.
But once, when I glanced across the room, I saw him and Raquelle near the same conversation circle.
She’d said something to him—casual, nothing—and he’d laughed, but it was wrong somehow.
Too short. He excused himself a moment later, and I watched him cross to the other side of the room without looking back.
I filed it away. Weird, but whatever.
We left around eleven. I hugged Raquelle goodbye, promised to catch up soon, meant it the way you mean things at parties. Her cheekbones caught the porch light as she smiled.
In the car, Ben was quiet. He fiddled with the radio, found nothing, turned it off.
“Raquelle looks incredible,” I said, watching the streetlights slide past. “Like, annoyingly good. Has she aged at all since college?”
“She seems nice,” Ben said.
“She’s amazing. We were in the same dorm freshman year.” I kicked off my heels and tucked my feet under me. “She was telling me about this trip she just did. Vietnam for two weeks, and then a stop in Tokyo on the way back. For fun. Just because she had miles.”
“That’s cool.”
“Meanwhile, I haven’t left the state since we went to your mom’s for Christmas.” I watched the houses go by, all their lit windows, all their ordinary lives. “I just wonder sometimes what it would be like. To be someone like her. No mortgage, no routine. Just … going.”
Ben was quiet, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel.
“I used to have this fantasy,” I said, and then immediately wanted to take it back. The wine was making me stupid. “Never mind.”
“What fantasy?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
I laughed, but my face was hot. “She’s bisexual.
Or was—I don’t know if that changes. She hooked up with a girl on our floor sophomore year, and I remember being so …
” I waved my hand vaguely. “Anyway, I used to imagine going with her on one of her trips. Like she’d invite me somewhere—Paris or wherever—and we’d just …
I don’t know. Have adventures.” I stared out the window so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
“And maybe, like … more than adventures.”
The silence stretched. I could hear the engine, the tires on asphalt, my own idiot heartbeat.
“Anyway,” I said, “stupid college stuff. I never … It was just a thing I thought about sometimes.”
Ben didn’t say anything. When I finally looked at him, his jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“What?” I asked.
He exhaled slowly. “It’s probably better I tell you this now rather than later.”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
We drove in silence for a block. Then another.
“I didn’t know you knew her,” Ben said. “And it was before you and I met. And then, when you told me about your college friend Raquelle who travels all the time, I didn’t put it together until tonight. When I saw her.”
“Hence the weird vibe.”
“Hence the weird vibe.” He glanced at me. “I’m sorry. I just … the longer I waited to tell you, the more weight you might think it had. But yeah, we had a fling in Paris. Only lasted a weekend, and then I went home.”
“No, no, I get it.” I did get it. It was before we’d met. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither had she. “It’s just a lot to take in.”
“I know.”
“You had a weekend in Paris. With Raquelle.”
“Yes.”
“The Raquelle I just told you I used to fantasize about.”
He exhaled. “Yeah. The timing on that was …”
“Incredible.” I shook my head. “Truly incredible.”
***
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Ben was out within minutes—he always was, the bastard—but I lay there staring at the ceiling, my brain running the same loop over and over. Raquelle. Paris. A hotel bar. A weekend.
What did that even mean, a weekend? Friday night through Sunday morning? Did they leave the room? Did they order room service? Did she wear something silky, or did she just answer the door in one of those hotel robes?
Or worse—did they sightsee? Did they go up the Eiffel Tower together? Did he have a selfie with her somewhere that he’d forgotten about, because sleeping with amazing women in Europe was just something my husband used to do before marrying a librarian?
I turned onto my side. Ben’s back was warm and familiar, rising and falling with his breath. This back. In Paris. With Raquelle.
I tried to picture it and couldn’t. Then I could, and I couldn’t stop.
Her dark skin against white hotel sheets.
Those long legs. That smile she had, the one that always made me feel like she knew something I didn’t.
Ben’s hands—hands I knew, hands that had touched me a thousand times—sliding up her thighs.
Did she speak French to him? She spoke French.
Had she whispered something in his ear while he was inside her?
I pressed my face into the pillow and made a small, frustrated sound.
This was insane. It’d been eight years ago. Before he even knew I existed. I had no right to be jealous of something that had happened before we’d met.
But it wasn’t just jealousy of her for having him. It was jealousy of him for having her. The road I’d never taken, and he’d just … stumbled onto it. In Paris. Like it was nothing.
My hand drifted down my belly before I’d realized what I was doing. I stopped. Started again. Stopped.
I was not going to masturbate to my husband’s past hookup while he slept next to me.
I lasted about ten more minutes.
***
The next morning, I made coffee and pretended everything was normal. Ben came downstairs, kissed the top of my head, poured himself a cup.
“Sleep okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” I lied. “You?”
“Like the dead.” He grabbed a banana from the counter. “I was thinking Thai for dinner? The place with the dumplings?”
“Sure.”
From upstairs, I heard the telltale thump of small feet hitting the floor. A moment later, Lily appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair wild, pajamas twisted, demanding waffles with the confidence of a tiny dictator.
“Waffles are weekend food, monster,” Ben said. “Today is yogurt day.”
“Yogurt is boring.”
“Yogurt keeps you alive. Go get dressed—I put your clothes on the chair.”
She trudged back upstairs with maximum dramatic reluctance. Ben and I exchanged a look—the kind you develop after years of parenting the same small tyrant.
Twenty minutes later, Lily was dressed, fed, and being herded toward the door. Ben grabbed his keys and the tiny backpack covered in dinosaurs.
“Say bye to Mommy.”
She waved at me as he guided her out. I waved back. Normal morning. Normal life.
My phone buzzed.
Hey Nora! It’s Raquelle—so good to see you last night! I’m in town for a couple weeks. Coffee?
I stared at the screen. Did she know that I knew? Had Ben texted her?
I took a breath. That was insane. Danielle must have given her my number.
I typed back before I could talk myself out of it.
Yes. When?
***
She was already at a corner table when I walked in, long legs crossed in dark jeans that fit her like they’d been made for her.
A cream silk blouse, loose but somehow still showing everything—the length of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, the suggestion of curves underneath.
A gold bangle on her wrist caught the light when she set down her phone. She looked up and smiled.
“Nora!” She stood and pulled me into a hug. Same perfume as the party. Same warmth. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Me, too.” I sat down across from her, dropping my bag on the empty chair. “How long have you been in town?”
“Just a few days. Staying with my cousin in Clintonville.” She flagged down a server. “What are you having? My treat.”
I ordered a latte. She ordered something complicated with oat milk.
We settled into the easy rhythm of catching up—where she’d been lately (Portugal, then a quick stop in London), what I was working on at the library (a new children’s reading program, not as exciting as Portugal).
She asked about Ben, about the house, about whether I’d kept up with anyone else from school.
I answered on autopilot. My eyes kept drifting to her hands wrapped around her cup. Long fingers. Short nails. Those hands on my husband’s chest in a hotel room in Paris.
“You okay?” Raquelle asked. “You seem a little distant.”
“I’m fine.” I wrapped my own hands around my latte, needing something to hold onto. “Just tired. Lily’s been waking up early.”