The High-Mileage Cuckold Wife

1. Unusual Delivery

one

Unusual Delivery

Istood in the delivery room with Wendy’s hand crushed in mine and watched my wife push another man’s baby out of her.

The doctor and the nurse had no idea. They were doing their jobs — her knees hauled back, her pussy stretched around another man’s son — and I was supposed to look like any other first-time father.

Supportive. Wet-eyed. Proud. I was hard under the thin hospital gown they’d given me so I could stand at the business end without looking like a pervert.

I kept my other hand there and hoped the fabric hid it.

I had been hard for most of the last hour, losing it and finding it again with every contraction.

Contractions made me hard. The sound she made did, too.

The knowledge of whose kid was crowning did the rest.

Wendy’s chest heaved. Those tits had always been too much for her frame, full Ds on a five-foot body, and pregnancy had made them obscene.

Milk had soaked two dark circles through the gown.

Ready for a mouth that wasn’t mine. For Steve’s son the same way they’d been ready for Steve, and for the other men I’d talked her into letting use them once she understood what I actually was.

She bore down with a noise I only ever heard when she was getting fucked past thinking.

I almost laughed and had to turn it into a cough.

Steve’s boy was about to ruin her pussy in a way his father hadn’t, and I had asked for every mile of it.

I had stood in kitchens and airports and dark bedrooms and asked her to give this part of herself away.

Now the proof was coming out of her in front of strangers who thought they were delivering our child.

This was what I had built. This moment, this room, this child. It started with bad beer and a woman who never went home alone.

* * *

I met Wendy not long after we both got out of college, a friend of a friend at somebody’s rented house with bad beer and a playlist that wouldn’t die.

She was always leaving with somebody different.

The guys had a nickname for that. Easy. I watched her anyway.

Petite, just over five feet, small-waisted, and breasts that seemed almost too much for a girl that size, the kind of thing you noticed and then tried not to stare at.

Her face was the same deal. Pretty in a specific way, not soft about it, and when she smiled there was something in it that made you feel like you'd just said something dumber than you thought you had.

I asked her out expecting a polite no. She said yes like it was nothing complicated.

Dinner. Drinks that turned into a second round. I walked her to her door meaning to be a gentleman, but her kiss was not polite. She kissed like someone who wasn’t thinking about anything else either. She opened the door wider and tugged my shirt.

“Really?” I asked, still half in the hallway.

She laughed. “You bought the ticket. Might as well take the ride.”

The door caught on the frame. She went up on her toes and pressed my hand against her tit over the dress, then under it.

No bra. Nipple already tight against my palm.

When I got the dress off she was tiny and top-heavy and already wet through cheap panties.

I hooked them aside and touched her. She was slick and hot, and she pushed my fingers in herself, impatient, and said, “Don’t get shy now. ”

I fucked her on the couch first because we didn’t make it to the bed.

She was loud and greedy, and she came with her forehead pressed hard into my shoulder like she’d been waiting all night for somebody to stop talking and just fuck her.

In the bedroom she climbed on and rode me with those ridiculous tits in my face and told me where to put my mouth.

When I came she kept moving until she got hers again, then dropped onto my chest and laughed like she’d won something.

“You’re good,” she said. “Most guys rush dessert.”

A few hours later she kicked me out. Travel in the morning. I told her I’d call when she landed. I drove home smelling like her, and already knowing Friday wasn’t going to be soon enough.

* * *

The day she got back I called and asked her out again. She declined, careful, almost kind. She already had a dinner date.

I was disappointed. I was also, immediately, hard.

“After that, maybe?” I asked.

“There’ll be dessert,” she said.

She was going to fuck somebody else tonight and she wasn’t even dressing it up as a maybe.

“Call me if he’s not interested.”

“They all want dessert,” she said. “Maybe later this week.”

“How about the next night you don’t have dinner plans?”

“Friday. I’m booked all week.”

“Different dinner dates?”

“Yes.” A pause, long enough for me to hang up. “You still want Friday?”

“Definitely.”

Friday I couldn’t wait. At her place she stopped me at the threshold with one hand on the doorframe, her expression a kind of polite warning.

“You sure you want to come in? Most guys aren’t interested when they find out I’m seeing other men.”

I stepped in, shut the door, kissed her, and said, “You mean when they find out you’re fucking other men.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Yes.”

“I figure the practice will make you better.“ I said it like a joke. The true thing wasn’t ready yet.

“Better?” Mock anger, a smile under it. “I’m not good enough already.”

“I dunno,” I said. “What’ve you got?”

She showed me. I was afraid I wouldn’t walk right the next day.

She put me on my back, used my mouth and then my cock.

Afterwards, tracing a line on my chest, she told me last night’s guy had come on her tits.

She’d washed it off before our dinner. She said it to see if I’d flinch.

I came inside her instead, harder than I meant to, and she laughed into my neck like she’d just found a new toy.

“Okay,” she whispered. “You’re a freak. I can work with that.”

She didn’t have the word yet. I did. It was jealousy that pointed down, into my own pants, and stayed there.

* * *

We dated around her calendar. I got any night that wasn’t a dinner date.

Eventually the dinners thinned out and she was almost always with me, which should have felt like winning.

At parties I could hear our friends talking about how I’d tamed the slut, and how.

Other wives looked at me like I had a magic cock, like I was the one who had tamed her.

They had the story backward. I hadn’t tamed her. I had found the one thing that made me harder than having her to myself: knowing I wasn’t the only one who got to.

After about a year, it was mostly just me.

And Jack. He was a cocky leftover from college she still saw on Thursdays.

She’d call from the car, telling me she was headed to Mary’s to pick out napkin colors for the wedding.

I’d say okay, hang up, and picture her on her back in his apartment.

The lie was part of it. I wanted her to think she was getting away with it.

I wanted to be the man who waited, and knew.

We got engaged. She still saw him. I still didn’t say the word. I bought a ring and put it on a woman who left my bed and went to his, and I came in my fist thinking about the order of operations.

* * *

The wedding morning I already knew. I had known for months. I didn’t say it in the hotel hallway while her mother fussed with hair. I said it years later, in our bedroom, because by then not saying it had become its own kind of lie.

We were talking about work trips, about a man at her company named Steve who flirted like it was a sport, and I had been circling the same familiar drain.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed in a tank and underwear, taking earrings out, and I was standing there with a hard-on I was done pretending was about the argument.

“You were still sleeping with Jack while we were engaged,” I said.

Her mouth opened. I didn’t let her find a softer version.

“Those Thursday wedding-planning nights,” I said. She tensed. “They were at Jack’s, not Mary’s. I called them Jack nights. You were getting him off. I was at home, jacking off. I used to wonder if you were under him while you were picking out napkins.”

She went quiet. “That was a phase. It didn’t last that long.”

“Right up until the wedding,” I said. “He spent the night before. He was the first man to fuck you on our wedding day. He snuck out that morning.”

She started crying. I hadn’t wanted that. I had wanted her to know it was allowed, that what she thought was the worst secret in the marriage was what I had built the marriage on. I got up, pulled her in, and let her shake against my shirt.

“Baby. It’s okay. I love you. It’s okay.”

“I cheated on our wedding day,” she said into my chest. “Before the ceremony even started.”

I wiped her face with my thumb. “I love that you did that.”

She looked stunned, blotchy, beautiful. “You love that I cheated? That I was… with him?”

“Yeah. I jerked off three times that morning knowing another man was fucking you. I kept hoping you wouldn’t stop after I put the ring on.”

“I stopped once we got married.”

I had to know the rest. I had wanted the rest for years, lying next to her in the dark inventing it.

“Did you do it in the dress?”

She stared at me. Then she nodded, small, like the nod itself might break something.

My cock went hard so fast it almost hurt. She felt it against her hip and made a sound that wasn’t a sob anymore.

“You walked down the aisle with his come running down your leg.” She flinched. I didn’t stop. “I thought I felt it on the garter when I took it off for the toss. Sticky. I told myself I was imagining it. I wasn’t.”

I walked her toward the bed while she tried to process that I was hard about her worst secret. She came with me. She didn’t pull away.

“Did you meet him in the bridal suite after? When you left to freshen up?”

Her mouth opened before the rest of her face caught up. “Yes. But nothing happened. I told him I couldn’t anymore. I was married. You have to believe me.”

“I believe you.” I pulled her hips against me so she could feel what the story had done. “Jack and I have something in common.”

“What?”

“We both wanted him to be the first one to fuck you after you belonged to me.”

I got her clothes off and mine and put her on our bed on her back.

She was already wet. Wedding-day wet, years late, the same as that morning no matter how long she’d spent trying to forget it.

I pushed her knees apart and looked at her.

She still had a neat little thatch I used to bury my face in.

I dragged two fingers through her and held them up between us, shining.

“This is what I wanted on my wedding night. Sloppy seconds. Proof.”

I put my mouth on her. She gasped and grabbed my hair.

I licked her slow, thinking about Jack’s morning in her, even though it was years gone, and when she started shaking I didn’t let her up.

I sucked her clit and pushed my fingers into her the way I used to imagine his cock had been at seven a.m. in a hotel room with a white dress hiked to her waist and a veil somewhere on a chair.

“Doug—”

That was the first time I heard my own name in the story. Good. I wanted it in there. I wanted her to know who was eating her while we talked about the other man.

I climbed up and shoved into her in one stroke.

She was soaked and tight and she made that punched sound, the one that means she has stopped being careful.

I talked into her mouth while I fucked her.

Dress around her hips. His load on her thigh under the skirt.

Aisle. Vows. Sticky garter. Bridal suite almost, and then not, because she had chosen the ring instead of the second round.

“I wanted to be the second man in this cunt that day,” I said.

“I wanted you walking around our reception with his come in you and then I wanted to add mine on top of his. Leftovers. I wanted you to keep fucking Jack. Other men. Whoever was better at it than me. And then come home wearing my ring like that didn’t change what I am. ”

She wrapped her legs around me. I fucked her hard and ugly, with no rhythm beyond getting deeper.

She came on me with her head tipped back and I couldn’t last. I buried it and went blank and stayed in her, pulsing, like I could rewrite the morning by finishing now.

I couldn’t. That was the point. The morning was his. This was what I got.

When I could breathe she was looking at me, wrecked and still trying to be the good wife.

“But I didn’t,” she said. “And I don’t.”I collapsed next to her, keeping my hand on her wet pussy. Her words hung in the air between us. “I know,” I finally said. “That’s too bad. I was hoping you would.”

* * *

She let it lie for a day. Then two. I left it alone. When I finally brought up Steve, I did it at dinner, casual, like I was mentioning the weather — the current version of Jack, the one who still existed and still looked at her in meetings like he’d earned the right.

Steve worked with her. Handsome in a forgettable way. She’d mentioned him the way women do when they’ve already decided not to touch something, which is how I knew she wanted to.

“Next trip,” I said. “If he propositions you, say yes.”

She said she’d stay faithful. A week of nudges later, she planted a hand on her hip in the kitchen and said, “Enough. I won’t cheat. I can’t. What you said… that was the past. This is different.”

“Not if you enjoy it,” I said. “Then it’s just convenient.”

“And if I don’t? How do I make it stop?”

I kissed her. Smiling. Still hard from a conversation that hadn’t happened, a hotel room I could already picture.

“You have the pussy, baby. You decide who gets it. I want you to give it to him. I want to be the husband waiting downstairs.”

She watched me a long time, like she was trying to figure out if I was joking or genuinely broken. I wasn’t kidding. I just hadn’t learned how to ask for it out loud until now.

She didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to. The door was open. I’d put my shoulder to it and asked her plainly to walk through and leave me behind.

That was the start. Not the baby, not the business trips. The start was a kiss in a kitchen and a husband who finally said out loud that he wanted to watch.