This is the third entry in my journal chronicling my wife’s journey into exploring our shared cuckolding dynamic. It’s been an intense ride, and if you haven’t read the earlier parts, I suggest catching up to understand the full story.
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The morning after she was with the dominant man, she sent me a message telling me she had another date lined up. My wife is passionate about ping pong and quite skilled at it, and this new guy? Apparently, he’s even better. A 23-year-old Frenchman — ripped, athletic—a rock climber and biker who could easily pass as a model.
She got ready excitedly and texted me as she headed out. They played table tennis for hours and had a long conversation. She admitted he was incredibly hot, yet wasn’t sure if he was interested romantically—they hadn’t been flirty at all. The following day, he asked if she wanted to come swimming at a nearby lake. I secretly hoped she’d go topless since that’s normal there, but she didn’t; and again, he didn’t push boundaries.
She started to think maybe he was just looking for friendship, being new in town. But then things took a surprising turn. She messaged me unexpectedly. Her dating profile simply stated she was in an ethically non-monogamous relationship and not seeking anything serious, mostly to avoid scaring people off by revealing she was married—and especially that I enjoyed her being with other men. Still, when he asked if she was married, she told him everything. By that, I mean he knew about our whole arrangement—the ‘whole nine yards’ as she called it—which felt like a tremendous leap.
She shared some texts with me:
“We’re both headed home to shower; he has to grab groceries, then we’re meeting at the park. Hopefully he’s coming home with me afterward—need him to live up to those French stereotypes!”
“Being with someone who looks like one of those track stars always flirting with cheerleaders is surreal.”
Later, they met at the park. She rushed home to avoid the coming storm, but he stayed out to watch it. I joked, “Is he just out there in the storm?” and she replied, “Yeah, the wild type.”
I teased: “He’ll probably have to strip off his wet clothes when he gets here.” She teasingly texted back, “No kidding. Might have to change into your stuff…” and then sent me a selfie, proudly displaying her ring after I suggested she wear it.
The evening passed in silence. He arrived, they watched a movie, and I waited anxiously for updates. Around 2 a.m., he left, and she said they had a good time but nothing physical happened; she assumed he wanted to be friends.
But the next morning, she sent me a screenshot of a message from him: “I really wish to kiss you, but I was too focused on the happiness I saw in your photos with (my name). How about coming over tomorrow, and we just kiss and hug?”
I chuckled—maybe we should’ve taken down our engagement photos.
The next day, Allie told me she invited him over. I was driving with my mom and couldn’t keep up with the messages, which made my anticipation almost unbearable. Just hours before returning, she messaged: “He’s here. Don’t rush home ;)” Then 40 minutes later: “He just left. That was incredible.” And: “I’m still shaking.”
My thoughts scrambled.
When I finally arrived, we waited for my mom to fall asleep. My heart pounded as I walked into our bedroom. There she stood, wearing a sweet little blue floral dress. On the floor lay a pair of panties, unmistakably stained. I closed the door, pulled her close, and kissed her passionately, like it was our last day alive. I begged her to tell me everything.
Her story unfolded:
“He had to shower after work. When he came out in just his underwear, he sat beside me and began kissing me deeply. I held him—one hand on his abs, the other cradling his head—and he slid his hands over me. He cupped my nipple through my dress, then slowly pulled the dress off. We kissed for what felt like forever.”
She slid her hand down to me—still clothed—as I listened intently.
I asked, “Did you touch him that way, too?”
“Of course,” she smiled. “After a while, he asked if I wanted to go to the bedroom. I joked that he was inviting me to my own bed. We laid there, making out even more. He mounted me, removed my panties, and explored every inch of me. He put on a condom, and I was so wet for him. He took his time, mostly missionary, holding my legs open.”
“He climaxed first, then asked if I wanted to come. He fingered me, gently rubbing my clit until I was trembling. I thought I’d cum just from his touch, and he didn’t stop until I pushed his hand away.”
I asked, “How big was he?” as I continued to pleasure her.
“Thick enough it hurt a little,” she answered, “shorter than you but definitely thicker.”
Afterward, while we made love, she shared words I’ll never forget, fueling my own release.
“He asked if I thought about you while we were together.”
“And?” I pressed.
“I thought about it, but honestly, no.”
I came harder than ever.
He messaged her days later asking if she wanted a second round, but she caught a cold and had to postpone. Just last night, she went on a date with a guy who looks like a prince and hopes for another outing soon.
With my mom gone, we’re eagerly looking forward to being together again. Yesterday, we sexted nonstop, sharing our secret desires. She even sat on my pillow, ensuring a lasting reminder of our connection. Here are a few of her tantalizing texts:
“I’m going to make you so jealous, baby.”
“I love the idea of making out and being taken by someone else while you can only kiss me and play with my nipples.”
“Someday, maybe, the thought of you taking me from behind while someone else fills me beneath would be insanely hot.”
“Being tied up and losing control while this happens excites me.”
“Taking my time and leaving a mess on your pillow.”
“Fuck, I just came so hard.”
I realize how fortunate I am. Hopefully, I’ll have more to share soon.