28 - Giving It All He’s Got!
MMF / Hotwife / Humiliation / Encouraged Bisexuality / Anal
“So, what is it?” I asked, looking at my husband in the mirror behind the bar.
Tommy looked flabby, colorless, kind of miserable.
He always did, back then. We were sitting in our old watering hole, the place where we had spent every Friday night for years.
That was part of the problem. Everything about our marriage had become stale, predictable, safe.
We both knew it. I wanted to talk about it, and Tommy didn’t.
That was the extra problem, the straw that threatened to break the camel’s back.
“What’s what?” he replied eventually, talking into his Pilsner.
I took a final swig of my cheap house white and set the glass down, a little too firmly. The bartender looked around, walked over, and asked if I wanted another. I nodded, noting how easy on the eye the guy was. Then I turned to face Tommy, and tried again.
“When we go home, will we fuck?” I said quietly. “Or will you just lie there, as usual, while I try and fail to stimulate you orally?”
Tommy reddened at that, which at least put some color into his features.
He glanced around the bar. He was clearly afraid someone would overhear.
As if anybody would be interested in our troubles.
That was part of the problem – Tommy’s self-consciousness, his fear of rocking the boat.
Our sex life had stagnated, after a great start nearly twelve years earlier, and while some of my friends said that was just how it goes, I felt sure there was a deeper-rooted problem.
“Come on, Kirsten,” he muttered. “This is hardly the time or place.”
Again, he wasn’t looking me in the eye, and I felt a pang of irritation.
Then I noticed something odd. I followed his eyeline, worked out that he wasn’t just gazing vacantly at anything that wasn’t me.
No, he was following the barman as the young guy brought my wine.
Then he saw me looking at him in the mirror and, once more, found something fascinating to observe in the bottom of his beer glass.
I wondered what would prompt my thirty-eight-year-old husband to look furtively at a guy.
Jealousy? It seemed unlikely. Wondering if they’d met before, in some different setting?
Unlikely, why not just ask if it’s that commonplace and innocent?
So how about a latent gay impulse? I suppose that was possible.
In fact, now I thought about it, hadn’t I seen Tommy looking at young guys before?
Glancing a little furtively, then getting a kind of thousand-yard stare.
Just for a second, as if he was seeing something cool in his mind’s eye…
“Thanks,” I said, as the barman put my drink down. “You’re new here, right?”
“Yep,” replied the guy. “I’m Mike, just started on Monday.”
So I introduced us, noting that Tommy was kind of shame-faced, bolstering my ‘gay curious’ theory.
Mike was slim, tall, broad-shouldered. Now that I looked more closely at him in the dim light I upgraded my initial rating from Good to Oh Yeah!
He had one of those faces where white, Hispanic, and African genes had conspired to make something close to perfection.
I felt sure his body would deliver on the promise of those looks.
We chatted for a couple of minutes. It was a relief to simply talk to someone who seemed self-possessed, confident, at ease in his own (flawless, taut, mochaccino) skin.
I felt myself getting a little wet in the old panty zone, and thought back to the last time I had fucked someone other than my spouse.
Then I felt really old, of course, because I had never cheated – not physically.
Right now, I was cheating mentally, and not for the first time. But a girl can dream, right?
“Hey, can we get a couple beers over here?”
With that, Mike was gone, and I managed to casually lean over to see how his ass looked as he went to serve some loudmouth.
Then I turned to Tommy. I was going to say something sophisticated and insightful.
But I had already had three glasses of wine and I was kind of pissed.
So what came out was not exactly Shakespeare, though it did have the virtue of sincerity.
“Are you gay? Is that it? Is that what you’ve been brooding over?”
Tommy goggled at me as if I’d just grown an extra head. Then he spluttered a denial that sounded kind of genuine. But there was still something else going on, I was convinced of that. Something he was not telling me.
“So, if it’s not that, why were you checking out Mike, there? There are maybe four or five hot chicks in here tonight, you barely glanced at any of them when we came in. Tell me, honey, what’s so fascinating about that particular young man?”
For a few seconds, I thought he was just going to dodge and bullshit me like he had done a hundred times before.
Same old crap about pressure at work, middle-age, lack of exercise, the booze.
All sorts of reasons that weren’t reasons at all.
But no, this time – maybe because I’d been so blunt about it – he blurted out the truth.
“I want to watch that guy fuck you.”
I stared at him for about three heartbeats, then picked up my glass and drained it in one go.
Then I took another look at Mike. He caught me looking, smiled, and I shifted on my bar stool.
Panties were still just a little moist. The idea of fucking Mike was not exactly repellent to me.
But why had my husband, not usually the most imaginative man, dreamed up this notion?
Again, I searched for the right words, and eventually settled on:
“What the actual fuck, Tommy?”
***
That night, instead of dozing off after another failed attempt at serious lovemaking, we lay side by side while Tommy showed me some of the porn he had been looking at.
I expected young blondes with surgically-enhanced tits and too much make-up, and – sure enough – there were quite a few of those.
I expected to see fucking, which there also was, in abundance.
But what I had not expected to see was this ‘third wheel’ in every video.
The cuckold. Cuck for short. And believe me, they all seemed to fall way short.
“Cuckolding?” I said. “That’s something out of old-time court cases, right? I mean, it sounds really Victorian. ‘I was cuckolded by an itinerant knife-grinder, Your Honor.’”
Tommy looked a little more uncomfortable at that point, shrugged.
“I didn’t make up the terms,” he insisted. “It’s cuck, bull, and hotwife. Those are the three people in every – every ménage.”
“Ooooh, ménage!” I exclaimed, wiggling some fingers for emphasis, I think it was an over-reaction borne of shock and embarrassment, but I went on in my terrible French accent. “We are in ze movie with ze subtitles now, pass the fancy cigarettes, Gaston, and why isn’t zis in monochrome...”
Then something else he had said sank in.
“Hotwife?” I said. “Seriously? That’s more than a little lame…”
I looked at the screen of his laptop again, and started to look at the captions rather than the thumbnails. Sure enough – the word ‘hotwife’ kept popping up. It was often applied to girls who didn’t look old enough to drink, admittedly, but there it was.
“So you think I’m your hot wife? But you don’t want to fuck me. Jesus, Tommy, this is some convoluted shit.”
He looked as if I had just slapped him with a wet fish, and I reached out to caress his shoulder.
He smiled weakly. I felt a surge of genuine love for the guy, old school romantic love.
I remembered why I had proposed to him in the first place.
He was kind, made me laugh, and he could turn me on with his clever fingers.
I was prepared to cut my guy a lot of slack.
Yards of it. Fathoms. But I wondered where this fixation of his would lead us.
“Okay, I get that it’s a thing a lot of people are into, and we all have our little – interests,” I said, carefully.
“But it seems to me that it’s the hotwife who’s doing most of the heavy lifting.
You really fantasize about me fucking some young stud, while you just watch?
And I just ignore you, or even treat you with contempt? ”
Tommy nodded at that, looking me in the eye, coloring a little. He was excited by me just talking about it, that much was obvious. But was I excited by the idea? That was another matter.
“Wow,” I said flatly. “Just wow. I’m gonna have to think about this. And do some more research, obviously. Let’s see some more of this stuff.”
***
For the next few days, I thought about the concept of cucking.
I thought about it a lot. I thought about while I was watching a young guy pumping gas.
I thought about it when a couple of firefighters came into my work to do some safety check.
I thought about it when I watched movies and TV shows.
I thought about every hunk or near-hunk I encountered in any context.
I thought about them fucking me. Then, after dancing round the topic a little, I told Tommy that we could maybe try what he wanted, if he was still keen.
But I was in charge of setting it all up. That was the red line, no way was I going to lose control. Or not in that way, at least. And, yeah, I already had a ‘bull’ in mind. And I was devising a plan that would – with luck – work well for everyone.