Free cuckold community
Sign up now!
Context: Before this happened, we had already been exploring cuckold/hotwife stuff. We were both into it. But after I cheated, she used it to punish me. It was still hot, but it wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t on my terms, and she knew exactly how to use it against me.
Everyone involved was 18+ at the time.
Brief description of my girlfriend at the time: Asian girl, 5’3″, around 115 lbs, big light-brown almost hazel eyes, skinny waist, wide hips for her frame, great ass, 36C tits, smooth skin, and just a ridiculous body for someone that small.
About a year after we moved in together, I fucked up and cheated on her.
I’m not proud of it, and I deserved what came after.
She basically stopped talking to me for three months. We were living on top of each other in our tiny studio, and she would barely say a word to me. I slept on the floor.
But three or four nights a week, usually after dinner, she would shower, get dressed up, and leave to spend six or more hours with the same guys from our friend group.
One night toward the end of those three months is still burned into my head.
She came out of the shower naked and started getting dressed right in front of me like I wasn’t even there.
She put on a baby-blue lace side-tie thong. Then the matching baby-blue lace push-up bra.
It was one of my favorite sets on her, and she knew it. Thin baby-blue lace, semi-see-through, technically covering her but still showing pretty much everything.
Then she put on my black zip-up hoodie over it. The hoodie ended a couple inches below her ass, so once she zipped it up, she technically looked covered.
But she left the zipper down just enough to show some of the baby-blue lace bra and her cleavage.
Against the black hoodie, it stood out immediately.
If I hadn’t watched her get dressed, I would have thought it was conservative compared to what she had worn most nights.
But I had.
I knew there was nothing under that hoodie except lingerie.
And she was wearing it to one of the guys’ rooms.
It was a detached garage that had been converted into a bedroom, so they had complete privacy. No parents walking through. No public place. Just her in a private room with three or four guys and the freedom to do whatever she wanted.
And by this point, she had spent almost three months going over there three or four nights a week, usually for six or more hours each time.
Around 210 hours in that detached garage bedroom with them by this point.
Trust me, I did the math while sitting at home alone driving myself crazy.
So when she walked out in that hoodie, I knew there was almost no chance it stayed zipped like that all night.
The hoodie was just what she wore to leave our place.
The real outfit was her lingerie underneath.
I couldn’t stop picturing what happened once she got there.
Maybe she unzipped it a little before she even walked inside, just enough for them to see more of the baby-blue lace bra and cleavage underneath.
I knew she hugged each of them when she got there. She always gave them long hugs no matter the situation. So I kept picturing her walking in with the hoodie slightly unzipped, hugging each one of them, chest out, pressing herself into them, knowing they could feel her tits pushed up against their bodies in that thin baby-blue lace bra.
I wondered how long it would take before the hoodie was fully open.
Did she unzip it herself?
Did one of them do it?
Did she leave it open for the rest of the night?
Or did it come off completely?
Because in my head, if that hoodie got fully unzipped, there was no way it stayed on. And after 210 hours in that room, if it came off, there was no way she wasn’t fucking them all night.
By that point, I couldn’t help thinking this had probably been happening almost every time she went over there.
This felt like her way of showing me what had been happening for months without actually saying it.
And those weren’t just random friends.
The core group was always the same three guys from the game nights — the same guys she had spent months teasing right in front of me with her sexy outfits.
Sometimes a fourth guy joined them too — the one she had spent eight days alone with and did pretty much everything short of actual sex.
And the room she always went to was his room — the same guy who had fingered her while I secretly listened through the open window of our apartment.
So every time she got ready to go over there, it wasn’t just jealousy.
It was every old image, sound, and memory coming back.
Only this time, instead of turning me on at first, it felt like a gut punch.
The first couple weeks, she at least pretended she was wearing normal outfits. Tiny dresses. Crop tops. Miniskirts. Heels. Still technically clothes.
But as the weeks went on, that line kept moving.
Most nights, what she wore over there looked more revealing than the hoodie did from the outside.
But the hoodie night still sticks in my head because I knew what was underneath.
If that hoodie came off, she would have been in front of them wearing nothing but one of my favorite lingerie sets. And it was see-through enough that they could see pretty much everything underneath.
And right before she walked out the door, she would finally speak.
Not to explain herself.
Just to tell me who she was going to see. And that night it was all four guys.
She would say their names casually, almost like she was telling me she was going to the store.
Then she’d walk out the door without saying another word. If I asked anything, she just ignored me and kept walking.
And I’d sit there alone for the next six hours imagining every possible thing that could be happening.
As bad as it felt, I eventually got turned on by the thought of it. I’d sit there alone, angry, jealous, guilty, and turned on all at the same time.
After a while I couldn’t help myself, and I’d end up jerking off multiple times before she got home.
But it was still torture.
She wanted me sitting there alone, picturing every possible thing she might be doing with them, driving myself crazy because I didn’t know what was real and what was just in my head.
And it worked.
She usually came home around two or three in the morning.
Some nights she came home looking almost exactly how she left.
Most nights, she didn’t.
When she came home that night, her hair was a wreck. Her makeup was smudged. Her lipstick was gone.
The hoodie was unzipped halfway.
And no matter how she looked, she always did the same thing.
Straight to the shower.
Then straight to bed.
Not a word to me.
The shower really got in my head.
I would lie there pretending to be asleep, listening to the water run, wondering what she had done, what she was washing off, and what those guys thought about her visits.
Did they tell the other guys in our group about it?
Did they take pictures of her?
Videos?
Sometimes I’d finally break and ask.
“Where were you?”
Nothing.
“Did something happen?”
Nothing.
“Were you with them all night?”
That was usually when she’d finally look at me and simply say, “Yes,” with this cold little smile on her face.
And whenever I pressed hard enough, she would blow up and eventually give me some version of the same answer.
“You don’t deserve to know.”
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.