Reluctant Cuckold (44 page)

“You’re a little horndog, aren’t you Ashley?” Mike said as he began grinding harder. “Say it to me, baby, tell me you’re a horndog, Ashley.”

“I’m a horndog Mike,” she moaned.

“You’re my little horndog, Ashley” he said.

“I’m your little horndog, Mike, your little fucking horndog, Mike.”

“You love my cock, don’t you, Ashley?”

“I love your cock, Mike.”

“Oh yeah, that a girl, ride back on me, fuck back into it. Yeah, that’s it, you’ve got my cock so hard, Ashley.”

“You’ve got me so wet Mike.”

“Mmm ... Your pussy loves my cock, don’t it, Ashley?”

“It loves your cock, Mike.”

“It’s my pussy, ain’t it, Ashley?”

“It’s your pussy, Mike.”

“Tell me that again as I fuck you.”

“It’s your pussy, Mike.”

“Again?”

“It’s your pussy, Mike,” she half-screamed. “Oh my God, I’m about to cum again, oh fuck.”

“Tell me ‘you’re my horndog,’ as you cum, Ashley”

“I’m your horndog, Mike, I’m your little fucking horndog, Mike, oh my God, I’m cumming, oh fuck, oh my God, I’m fucking cumming ... oh God, yeah!”

“I’m about to cum, too, Ashley.”

“Oh come inside me, Mike.”

“I’m going to cum in your pussy.”

“Cum in my pussy, Mike.”

“Whose pussy is it, Ashley?”

“It’s your pussy, Mike.”

“Whose pussy?”

“It’s your pussy, Mike.”

“Oh yeah, Ashley, here it comes, oh fuck yeah, I’m cumming right inside you, baby.”

I had a major boner, but I also felt like crying.

I tiptoed back to the sofa and slid the recorder under the couch. Mike had just fucked my wife and got her to say that her pussy was his, like it was his property. Maybe she was just saying that back to him because she was caught up in the sexual moment. But it seemed as if he’d gone bare and seeded my wife’s pussy in my own fucking bed. What kind of positions he had her in, I could only imagine.

I felt meek, reduced, inadequate, helpless and emasculated. How could I possibly provide the sexual excitement he had just given her? How could I compete with Mike’s cock? I had never heard her scream or dirty-talk with me like that. How was I going to go back to a normal sex life with Ashley after this? Wouldn’t she always pine for what she had just had? I couldn’t deliver the cloud nine-type of pleasure echoing from our bedroom, provided by a real man’s cock, the kind of fucking Mike had just given her.

On an even baser level, how could she possibly respect me now? A real man and husband would have stopped the whole thing when he saw them making out in the bar that first night. Instead, I let Mike walk all over me, alpha-male me, in my own home, in front of my wife. And I’d just stood there frozen—a meek little coward—as he took my wife into my bedroom to fuck her.

What was he telling her about me? He could have told her anything. He could have disparaged me, reduced me in her eyes, told her I was a fucking cuckold, and elaborated in detail on what that is, or how he sees me.

What recourse did I have now? How could I come back down from Planet Pluto? There was no abort button or re-set control.

At this very moment, I thought, Mike’s head is probably lying on my pillow, as he talks quietly with my wife in their post-fuck afterglow.

I thought of the satisfaction he must be feeling. How skillfully and easily he had played my ass. He wasn’t just going to Jim Murta me. He had larger, bigger-picture aspirations. He had blocked me out, shut me out, locked me out, hard-cocked me out, and now he was trying to get my wife to cuck me out.

Lying there, I felt like the odd man out in my own fucking home, in my marriage to Ashley. I wondered if Mike would fuck her again in the morning. After all, none of us had to work today.

I felt very humiliated but also hard. I thought of listening to them fuck again and blowing my load on our bedroom door—my gesture—inexplicable, defiant, and utterly effete.

I began masturbating, on the sofa, under the blanket. I thought of Ashley exclaiming, “I’m your horndog, Mike,” and suddenly came.

I heard the door open and could tell it was Mike walking down the hallway. When he entered the living room, he gave me a nudge.

“Oh hey,” I said.

“Hey, bro,” he said, “I gotta get going, but wanted to say goodbye. Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s OK,” I replied.

“Hey,” he whispered, “I got some more insight. She had seen a guy before that guy at the party. I gotta run—I’m meeting a buddy in an hour, going to A.C. for the night—but I’ll give you the full download after this weekend. I think it’ll explain things better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just chill, Dave. Let’s meet up Monday. I’ll probably get more of a picture tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, I’m taking Ashley to the Open, remember?”

“Oh,” I said.

“Relax bro, this will be OK. I’m going to help you through this. I’m learning what makes Ashley tick. Believe me, I will share. You just sit tight and enjoy the weekend, OK?”

“OK,” I said, but I didn’t mean it.

In the quiet that followed, I thought of me lying on the couch and Ashley on our bed, and wondered what she must be thinking.

Was she thinking about us, our relationship, where things stood now, our future, how we’d be together moving forward?

Or was she thinking of what a good fuck Mike had been?

Was she feeling sexually satisfied, no longer frustrated, basking in the post-great-fuck moment?

Or was she thinking, “I never realized what a pussy my husband was. He didn’t step in or fight for me, he just let his old friend come into our place and fuck me in our bed.”

Maybe she even thought I had arranged this, that it had all been my idea, that I wanted it. Perhaps Mike had filled her head with those ideas. Maybe that’s what her “I understand” comments were about.

Hell, Mike had made me text Ashley about Friday night. She had probably interpreted that as me being OK with—or even wanting—this.

And then the reality of Mike’s U.S. Open invitation suddenly sank in. He had thrown it out so casually—as though it were an afterthought to inviting me to a Giants game.

Was it coincidence that his friend had bailed at the last minute?

Or had he secured the tickets after I’d told him what an avid tennis fan Ashley was?

Did it even matter?

He had invited her in front of me. Ashley had said yes, and now she wouldn’t need to text, “When am I seeing you again?” She knew when she’d be seeing him again—tomorrow fucking night.

It would be just the two of them, going to the Open together like a couple.

I’d be the stooge husband left at home to sit and sulk.

Mike was taking my wife out tomorrow night on a fucking date.

Jesus Christ
, I whispered.

In the last seventy-two hours, Mike had walked into my scene, my home, my life, my marriage, and turned it upside down.

How could I not have seen this coming? He saw a potentially horndog wife—as he had just called Ashley—and a husband who he thought he could get to acquiesce, or roll over, or de-man, or be a freaking doormat.

Suddenly Ashley came in and nudged me.

I opened my eyes and looked at her as she stood above me. She was in a bathrobe, looking groggy, her hair out of sorts. But my God, she looked beautiful, radiant, magnificent, blinding.

“Do you want to come into the bedroom?” she asked.

“Um yeah,” I said, “sure, how are you? Tired?”

“Yeah, super-tired and I have to meet Tracy in three hours which is a big ugh.”

She held out her hand and helped me up and continued holding it as we walked to our bedroom.

When we lay down together, she gave me a big hug, tightly and significantly—telling me she loved me without having to say it. It was a deep embrace in our own home, like she was happy to be my wife. She snuggled up on my shoulder as I ran my hand gently through her hair, and I listened as she drifted back to sleep.

Ashley looked so peaceful, like a small child or puppy dog, and I thought how much I loved this girl.

“Oh my God, it’s one o’clock,” Ashley awoke, startled. “I’m late! I’m gonna have to majorly scramble.”

She gave me a quick kiss and hurled herself into the shower.

Ten minutes later, she was pulling on jeans and a top. As I lay on the bed I just watched, admiring her. The way she put on her earrings. Or stumbled around, looking for her purse. The way her cleavage became exposed as she gave me a kiss goodbye.

“I’m jealous,” she said, “I wish I could crawl back into bed with you.”

“Why not tell Tracy you’re sick, that you have the flu?”

“I wish, but I’se gots to go.”

“How about the mumps?” I said.

Ashley smiled.

“Or tell her you just got skunked,” I said. “No, really, a skunk skunked you in Central Park this morning, and now I’m out getting tomato juice to give you a bath.”

“That’s cute,” she said. “Enjoy the lazy Saturday. And be glad you’re not trekking your out-of-towner friend all across town.”

After she left, the apartment felt profoundly quiet. I waited until she was gone a half-hour, so there’d be no “I forgot something” possibility.

Then I chained the door and pulled out the recorder.

I knew I was mentally and emotionally playing with fire, but I wanted to hear how it had come out. I lay down our bed, right where it had all happened, and put my headphones on.

The audio was ultra clear. Apparently recorders have come a long way since I was a kid. The bed was squeaking loud and fast and I could hear Ashley crying out, “Oh God, oh God, Mike.”

Then I heard Mike say it … “You’re a little horndog, aren’t you Ashley? Say it to me, tell me you’re a horndog, Ashley.”

I stopped it for a holy-shit moment.

I’m listening to my wife getting fucked in the bed that I’m lying on.

I resumed play and heard Ashley exclaim, “I’m a horndog, Mike.”

“You’re my little horndog, Ashley.”

I stopped and thought about what he was doing—verbally taking her from her being A horndog, to HIS horndog.

Then I listened as Ashley exclaimed back, “I’m your little horndog, Mike, your little fucking horndog.”

Adding the adjective “fucking” to horndog was Ashley’s contribution. She had thrown it in all on her own as Mike pounded his big, hard, penis inside her.

Then I heard Ashley tell him, “I love your cock, Mike. You’ve got me so wet, Mike.”

When Mike asked “Does your pussy love my cock, Ashley?” she replied, “It loves your cock, Mike.”

And then the real verbal escalation began …

“Whose pussy is it Ashley?” … “It’s your pussy, Mike.”

I listened as Ashley exclaimed she was cumming again, and then the guttural way Mike said, “Fuck yeah—right inside you baby,” as he came.

I rewound back to “It’s your pussy, Mike,” as the bed creaked loudly, and came myself.

I’m losing my mind
, I thought, as I got off the bed.

I paced around my apartment, unsure of what to do with myself, when a text message arrived from Mike.

“Hey bro,” he wrote, “just arrived in AC, we should come here sometime. Sending a few pics from the last few nites—just sent Ash as well—have a great wknd—be in touch.”

I opened the photos.

The first one was from Wednesday night. Ashley had taken it when we were at the bar. Mike had his arm around me.

In the second photo Ashley and I posed by the bar; my arm was around her. Ashley was beaming, baring her ultra white teeth, and I looked more comfortable.

The third photo Mike had asked the bartender to take—one of all three of us. Ashley was in the center, looking straight ahead, and both of us had our arms around her.

The last two photos were from the night before, at the restaurant.

The first was of the three of us. Even though I had my arms around Ashley, I looked like the dejected outsider.

The next one—taken by the waitress—was of Mike and Ashley in her white dress. Mike had his arm around my smiling wife. The two of them looked like a New York City power couple.