Free cuckold community
Sign up now!
If you’re just finding this, stop. Go back and read and first. I’m not summarizing. The ranch hand, the motel, Dale, how I learned what I am. All of that matters. This part won’t hit the same without the buildup.
—–
The next month, Dale came over to our house for the first time.
Up until then it had always been the motel. Room 14 with the boot-shaped water stain and the carpet that smelled like industrial cleaner. Neutral ground. Safe. Anonymous. But after the fourth visit, Dale looked at me while she was in the shower and said, “I want to fuck her in your bed.”
I didn’t answer right away. Something about that sentence hit different than everything else we’d done. The motel was a stage. Our house was real. Our bed was where I slept every night, where I read before turning off the lamp, where I reached for her at 3 AM when I couldn’t sleep and she’d mumble something and press her ass against me without waking up.
He saw me hesitate. Didn’t push. Just lit a Marlboro and said, “Think about it.”
I thought about it for nine days.
On the tenth day I texted him the address.
—–
She cleaned the house like her mother was coming. That’s how I knew she was nervous. Vacuumed twice. Wiped down the kitchen counter three times. Changed the sheets. I watched her pick out what to wear and discard four options before settling on a pair of gray cotton shorts and a tank top with no bra. Nothing sexy on purpose. Sexy because she wasn’t trying.
Dale showed up at eight. Knocked on the front door like a normal person. He was wearing jeans and a flannel with the sleeves rolled up, forearms thick and tan, that scar on his knuckle catching the porch light. He had a six-pack of Budweiser in one hand and a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the other.
“Housewarming gift,” he said.
She laughed. He smiled at her. Not his bedroom smile. A real one.
We sat in the living room. Our living room. The one with the brown couch she picked out at Rooms To Go and the family photos on the wall and the TV she leaves on HGTV when she’s doing dishes. Dale sat in my chair. The recliner. The one with the dent shaped like my ass. He sat in it like he’d been sitting there for years.
We drank. Talked. Normal shit. He told us about a deck he was building for a client in Visalia, how the guy kept changing the specs and Dale finally told him to pick a goddamn design or find another contractor. She told him about her sister’s divorce, the custody mess, how she’d been on the phone with her three times that week. I mostly listened. Watched them talk. Watched the way she tucked her legs under her on the couch and leaned toward him when he spoke. Watched the way he looked at her mouth when she was mid-sentence.
The bourbon went down smooth. By the third pour, her cheeks were flushed and she was laughing louder and touching his knee when she made a point. His hand found the inside of her thigh. Casual. Like he was resting it there. But his fingers were making small circles on her skin, just above the knee, moving higher by fractions.
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t look at me for permission. That was new.
He leaned over and kissed her. Right there on my couch, under the photos of us at the Grand Canyon and her niece’s baptism and our wedding day. His hand went up under her tank top and she made a soft sound into his mouth. I sat in the dining chair I’d pulled over, fifteen feet away, holding a glass of bourbon I’d forgotten about.
He pulled her tank top off. No ceremony. Just grabbed the hem and lifted it over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her breasts bare, nipples already hard, the lamp casting warm shadows across her skin. He palmed one, rough hand against soft flesh, and she arched into it.
“Come here,” he said to me.
I stood up. Walked over. He was sitting on the edge of the couch now, her standing between his legs.
“Take her shorts off.”
I hooked my fingers into the waistband and pulled them down. She stepped out of them. No panties. She’d planned that. He looked at her and then at me and there was something in his expression I hadn’t seen before. Ownership. Not of her. Of the moment. Of this room that was mine, this house that was mine, this woman who was mine and his and ours.
“Go sit back down,” he said.
I went back to the dining chair.
He stood up and unbuckled his belt. She dropped to her knees. On our living room carpet, the one with the little coffee stain by the leg of the end table, the one I’d shampooed last spring. She unzipped him and pulled his cock out and I watched her face when she saw it. That look. Like she’d forgotten how thick it was since the last time and was remembering all over again.
She wrapped both hands around the shaft and couldn’t close her fingers all the way. Licked the head slow, swirled her tongue around the ridge, and then took him in her mouth. He put his hand on the back of her head. Not pushing. Guiding. His fingers tangled in her hair, the same hair I smell on the pillow every morning, and she took him deeper.
The sounds. Wet, sloppy, the kind of sounds she never makes with me because she’s always been polite about it. With Dale she wasn’t polite. She was gagging on his cock, spit running down her chin, her hand pumping the base while she worked the head with her mouth. He groaned and his head fell back and he said, “Fuck, she knows what she’s doing.”
She pulled off and looked at me. Spit glistening on her lips. Eyes glassy from the bourbon and the arousal.
“You watching?”
I nodded.
“Good.” She took him back in her mouth.
*This is my living room. Those are my wedding photos on the wall. And my wife is on her knees sucking another man’s cock on the carpet I vacuumed this morning.*
My cock was so hard it hurt.
He pulled her up and walked her down the hallway. I followed. He knew which door was ours. I don’t know how. Maybe the door was open. Maybe he just knew. He walked her into our bedroom and pushed her onto our bed. She landed on her back on the comforter she’d picked out at Target, the blue one with the white trim, and he stood over her and took off his flannel, then his undershirt.
His body was built by decades of labor, not a gym. Chest hair going gray, a gut that was solid, not soft, thick through the trunk like a tree that had been standing in wind for years. A tattoo of a compass on his left shoulder, faded green, the kind you get at twenty and forget about at forty.
He pulled her to the edge of the bed by her ankles. Spread her legs. Got on his knees on the floor and put his mouth on her. She grabbed the headboard, the same headboard I’d assembled with an Allen wrench from IKEA on a Saturday afternoon, and moaned.
The room smelled like her lotion, the coconut one she puts on after showers, and the bourbon on our breath, and underneath that, the slow creep of arousal. Her scent going sharp and sweet the way it does when she’s close. Mixed with the cigarette smoke still clinging to Dale’s skin. The combination was nauseating and intoxicating at the same time.
He ate her out with his whole face. Not delicate. Jaw working, tongue flat and wide, sucking her clit until her thighs clamped around his head and she was grinding against his mouth. He held her hips down with both hands and didn’t let her move. Made her take it. Made her lie there and feel every second of it.
She came with a sound like something tearing. High-pitched and broken, her body curling up off the mattress, her hands white-knuckling the headboard slats. He kept going through it. Didn’t let up until she pushed his head away and said, “Fuck, fuck, stop, I can’t.”
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and smiled.
“Yeah you can.”
He went back down. Made her come again. This one quieter. A full-body shudder, her legs twitching, a long soft moan that trailed off into nothing. When he stood up, his cock was standing straight out, thick and dark and wet at the tip, that upward curve pointing at the ceiling like it had its own agenda.
He grabbed a pillow from our bed. My pillow. Shoved it under her hips, tilting her up. Then he lined himself up and pushed inside.
She grabbed his arms. Her nails dug into his biceps. Her mouth opened but nothing came out for the first few seconds. Then this low, guttural groan, starting in her belly and climbing up through her chest. He bottomed out and held there, letting her feel all of it, every inch of that thickness stretching her open.
“Ahhh fuck,” she breathed. “Oh god, oh god.”
“That’s not my name,” he said.
She laughed. Half laughed, half moaned. “Fuck you, Dale.”
“That’s better.”
He fucked her in our bed. Long deep strokes that made the frame creak, the sound mixing with the hum of the AC and the neighbor’s dog barking two houses down. Real sounds. Home sounds. This wasn’t a motel. This was our life, and he was inside it.
I sat in the corner. Our bedroom corner, next to the dresser with her jewelry box on top and the framed photo of us at her company Christmas party. My pants were off. My cock in my hand. I watched him fuck my wife in the bed I sleep in every night and I stroked myself slow, trying to make it last, trying to memorize every detail.
His hands on her hips, pulling her into each thrust. The way her tits bounced with each impact, the rhythm of it hypnotic. The wet sound of him sliding in and out, louder than it had any right to be. Her moans getting shorter, higher, more desperate.
“You like his cock?” I heard myself say. I didn’t plan it. It just came out.
She turned her head and looked at me. Her eyes were unfocused, her mouth open, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.
“I love his cock.”
Dale didn’t slow down. “Tell him more.”
“Nnnhh… He’s so deep. Feels like he’s in my stomach.”
“Tell him what you want.”
She bit her lip. Her whole body was rocking with his thrusts. “I want him to come in me.”
My hand stopped moving. We’d never done that. At the motel he always pulled out. Always came on her, not in her. This was different. This was our bed. Our sheets.
Dale looked at me. Waited. His hips slowed but didn’t stop, just shallow, teasing strokes that kept her whimpering.
“Your call,” he said.
I looked at my wife. At her face. At the need in her expression, raw and undecorated, the face she’d never shown me before all of this started. The face I gave her permission to have.
“Do it,” I said. “Come inside her.”
He smiled. That one-sided smile. Then he grabbed her legs, pushed her knees up toward her shoulders, folded her in half, and started pounding her. No more slow strokes. This was hard, fast, brutal, the headboard slamming against the wall in a rhythm that would leave marks on the paint. She was screaming. Actually screaming, not moaning, not gasping, full-throated screams that I knew the neighbors could hear through the drywall.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck Dale, oh FUCK.”
“Nnnhhh yeah, take it.”
“AAAHH, oh god, right there, right THERE.”
His pace got ragged. Lost its rhythm. His jaw clenched and his whole body tensed and he drove into her one last time, deep, and held there. She felt it. I could see it on her face, the moment his cum hit her cervix, her eyes going wide, her mouth forming an O, and then she came too. Her body clamped down on him, her legs shaking, her scream turning into this strangled, desperate sound like she was drowning and didn’t want to be rescued.
“Fuuuuck,” Dale groaned, low and long, his hips still twitching, pumping the last of it into her.
He pulled out slow. I watched it. Watched his cock slide out of my wife, slick and softening, and then the slow trickle of his cum leaking out of her onto our blue Target comforter. White against blue. She lay there with her legs still spread, breathing hard, one arm thrown over her eyes, her whole body flushed pink from her chest to her cheeks.
“Come here,” she said. To me.
I got on the bed. I could smell everything. Her. Him. The sex. The bourbon. The faint coconut lotion underneath it all. I climbed between her legs and she was so wet, so open, so full of him, that when I pushed inside I felt almost nothing. No friction. Just slick warmth and the knowledge that another man’s cum was coating my cock.
“You feel him?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You feel what he left inside me?”
“Yeah.”
She pulled my face down to hers. Kissed me. Deep, slow, her tongue tasting like bourbon and something else I didn’t want to name.
“Fuck me in it,” she said against my mouth. “Fuck me in his cum.”
I lasted maybe two minutes. The thought of it, the reality of it, my cock sliding through Dale’s load inside my own wife in my own bed, it was too much. I came hard, mixing with his, and she clenched around me and whispered “good boy” so quiet I almost missed it.
Dale was in the doorway. Leaning against the frame. Watching. A Budweiser in one hand, his cock hanging soft between his legs. He was smiling.
“You two are something else,” he said.
After, she got up to shower. I heard the water running down the hall. Dale and I sat on the edge of the bed, the bed that was now stained and wrecked, the comforter that would need to be washed before morning.
He handed me a Budweiser. It was warm. I drank it anyway.
“Different when it’s your bed, isn’t it,” he said. Not a question.
“Yeah.”
“Good different?”
I looked at the indent his body had left on her side of the mattress. At the wet spot spreading on the comforter. At the headboard marks on the wall.
“Yeah. Good different.”
He nodded. Finished his beer. Then he walked down the hall to the bathroom and I heard the shower curtain pull back and her laugh, surprised, and then silence, and then a moan, and I sat on the ruined bed in my ruined bedroom and listened to another man fuck my wife in my shower and felt the most complete I’ve ever felt in my life.
He left around midnight. She walked him to the door in my bathrobe, the gray one with the frayed belt, and he kissed her on the mouth right there on the front porch where the neighbors could see if they were up. His truck started and the headlights swept across the living room ceiling and then he was gone.
She came back to bed. Crawled in next to me. Pressed her face against my neck and said, “Thank you.”
I held her. She smelled like soap and sex and cigarette smoke that wasn’t mine.
“Same time next week?” I asked.
She nodded against my throat.
I lay there for a long time after she fell asleep. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the house settle. The AC clicking on. The neighbor’s dog finally quiet. The faint smell of Marlboro Reds still hanging in the hallway like a ghost.
I reached for my phone. Opened the thread with Dale.
Me: She wants you back next week.
Three dots. Then:
Dale: I know she does.
Then, a minute later:
Dale: Leave the front door unlocked.
I put the phone down. My hands were shaking again. But not like before. Before it was nerves. Now it was something else. Anticipation. Need. The specific kind of hunger that only comes from knowing exactly what’s going to happen and wanting it so bad you can taste it like copper in the back of your throat.
I pulled the ruined comforter over both of us and closed my eyes.
***
Over the next few days, I’ll write about the adventures that followed. We were a liberal couple for many years.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.