Reluctant Cuckold (46 page)

“Wow, that sucks.”

“Yeah, but I wound up winning it back and then some an hour later. You know how a split works?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, not following what he was saying.

He started asking me who was winning the one o’clock football games when Ashley emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing a white miniskirt and a pink, cleavage-revealing v-top with no bra. On her feet were these cute little pink sneakers that matched her top.

“Hi Mike,” Ashley said, like I wasn’t even in the room.

“Wow, Ashley,” he said, “you look ravenous.”

Ashley half-blushed and proceeded to hug him. As Ashley pulled back, Mike said, “How ’bout a kiss, gorgeous?”

She looked back at me for a moment, pausing, as if asking for a green light, and I kind of looked away, as though I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on. With that, Ashley leaned in and kissed him. Soon they were making out, right there in front of me. I tilted my head down like it wasn’t happening but then I saw Mike’s hand on Ashley’s ass.

I stood there frozen until they were done.

Mike pulled out the tickets and laid out a seating chart on our kitchen table, encouraging me to look as well.

“It’s upper level,” Mike said, “but center court and third row aisle. There are plenty of worse seats in the house.”

“No, these look great,” Ashley said, “I’m ultra-jazzed for checking out some tennis.”

“Hey, Dave,” Mike said, handing me his iPhone, “do you mind taking a quick photo?”

I was in stunned reactive mode and said, “OK.”

Ashley, in her cute new outfit, put her arm around him, and I took the fucking picture. Mike reached for the phone and showed it to Ashley as she snuggled into him for a closer look.

“Aw, that’s cute!” she said.

“Well, we should probably get going,” Mike said.

“OK,” Ashley replied, quickly finishing her beer.

“Wish I had an extra ticket,” Mike said to me, “but it’s tough to get three seats together without a fourth.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Dave’s not much for tennis, anyway,” Ashley offered.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling like I had to say something, “besides I got the four o’clock games and the Giants play tonight at eight.”

“That’s right, Giants-Cowboys, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Should be a good game, my man. Well, I guess we should get going.”

Ashley gave me a quick kiss goodbye, and I watched as they left our apartment, Mike shutting the door behind me.

I imagined my doorman doing a slight double-take when Ashley said, “Bye Jimmy,” with Mike by her side.

I felt horribly alone, helpless and jealous.

I imagined them walking to the subway holding hands, like a couple. Mike had done it. He’d succeeded. He was taking my wife out on a date to an event she loves and showing her a good time without me. And Ashley had bought a new outfit to look extra special for him—extra fuckable. She had leaned into Mike, tilted her head forward and made out with him in our kitchen, passionately, right in front of me.

What kind of message was Ashley sending, to tongue him back as I just stood there? Talk about making me feel like a fucking third wheel. I was sure that had to have been Mike’s idea. What’s a date without a pre-date make-out moment in front of the sap husband who just stands there and awkwardly takes it?

What balls he had for pulling that stunt, and what lack of balls I had for sucking it up and taking it.

Then I thought of the handjob Ashley had given me earlier. She hadn’t even contemplated putting her lips around it. Is that only reserved for men with real cocks, Ashley? Like the guy you got all dolled up to see tonight? Or were you in a hurry to get to the gym and knew I would cum so very quickly anyway?

Jesus fucking Christ.

Anyone could potentially run into Ashley and Mike at the Open and see them holding hands or making out.

Was someone from work going to tell me, “I could swear I saw Ashley with some other man?”

He had to know what he was putting me through. And the sinking torture as the clock slowly ticked away.

I thought again of the way they had made out earlier. Mike must have been delighted when she took his lead. Like he was saying, “C’mon, Ashley, just do it, make out with me in front of your husband, send him that message that you don’t give a fuck, that you don’t fucking care that he’s standing there ... Fuck him, fuck Dave, let the pussy do some sulking tonight, fuck his feelings, let him cry later thinking about this. Send him a message like you did when you fucked Jim Murta. You don’t give a shit. You’ll make out right the fuck in front of him.”

And she had done just that. She made out with him. She sucked face with him. She French-kissed Mike—with me barely five feet away.

And he had Ashley going to a public place, on a date, with the prospect of being seen on national TV within the realm of possibility.

I turned the TV to the pre-game, saw the match starting at Arthur Ashe, and set it on DVR.

I was fixing a drink to calm down, when my cell phone went off. It was a text message from Mike. I opened it up to find three photos attached.

The first was of Ashley and Mike sitting in their seats. Both of them were all smiles, like they were having a wonderful time—a wonderful time without me.

The second was of the court, with the caption “view from our seats.”

Why didn’t he just add, “Pretty sweet seats, eh, Dave? Too bad you’re not here, but don’t worry, I’m showing your wife a fantastic time.”

The third and last photo was of the two of them in our kitchen. It was the one Mike had asked me to take before they left.

Sending that photo felt like the ultimate fuck-you.

I pictured Mike thinking, “Here’s the photo I got YOU to take of the two of us before our big date. Look at that outfit she dressed up in for me, Dave. That’s the outfit I’ll be fucking her in. What do you think of that, Dave?”

I sent the photos to my email and enlarged them. This was the outfit Ashley picked out shopping. She probably had Mike, and Mike’s cock and the way he had fucked her in her head as she bought it.

I looked at the photo I took of them. He was making a statement when he handed me the camera and he was making another one now.

You’re such a pussy, I pictured him thinking, that I knew I’d get you to take it. Stare at the photo, Dave, look at the excitement in her eyes, look at the strength and confidence in mine … I’m with your wife tonight…feel like a cuckold now, buddy?

It felt like another, incredible, fucking cherry on top.

I thought of the immense power he must be feeling as he transmitted these trophy photos to me. The mental high-stepping he must be doing, sending them to the poor sap husband.

I looked back at Ashley, noting the twinkle in her eye as she sat next to Mike, and my heart ached like it never had before.

As I looked at the photo I imagined Ashley talking to me. “Look at my big titties, Dave, do you like how I’m displaying them out in public with Mike? I’m wearing the kind of top in public you’d have given me grief about three months ago. Do I look nice and sexy for Mike? You know how much I want to fuck him again. With his big fat juicy cock. These are his tits now, Dave. Just like it’s his pussy. And it’s all because you introduced us. Are you happy now? Are you happy knowing Mike’s gonna give me another good hard fucking? The kind of fucking my pussy needs and you can’t give me. Aren’t man enough to give me. I made out with him in front of you and you did nothing.”

Why did I take that photo of them in the kitchen? Why didn’t I at least sabotage it by sticking my thumb in front or leaving out half their faces?

I could have said no, proving that I had some resolve and fiber of manhood. But instead, I took the picture.

I could picture Mike whispering in Ashley’s ear, “We’re gonna cuckold him; you’re gonna cuckold him, Ashley. I’m gonna show you how. I’m gonna show you that the man you married is not much of a man at all. He’s a pathetic little pussy. You can walk all over him. His cock can never satisfy you. You’re getting what you need now—a real man’s cock—a man who knows how to fuck you properly. Your pussy’s mine now.”

I thought of the power Mike must’ve felt, but also of the sense of power Ashley must be experiencing. Fucking Mike in our bed and making out in front of me. Showing me how she doesn’t give a fuck. Leaving me to sleep on a couch, leaving me to wait for her date to end.

Oh God, Ashley, I so fucking love you.

I came hard looking at that photo.

I lay in bed, wondering what things would be like now. Would there be any way to find our way back from this?

And as one a.m. became two a.m., I started to cry.

Ashley woke me up when she lay down next to me.

“How was the Open?” I asked.

“Freaking awesome,” she replied.

Then she planted a kiss on me, and I reciprocated until we were swapping tongue, making out for a good, long, minute. It gave me a hard-on, which felt reassuring. I was so grateful to have her home.

“Well, it’s pretty late,” she said. “I’m going to run into the bathroom and get ready for bed.”

I was stroking my dick through my boxers under the covers. I had such a boner when she came back out. She lay down on her side and invited me to spoon with her.

But she quickly fell asleep, and I didn’t want to move and wake her. So I just lay there, my boner up against her ass, until I fell back to sleep myself.

I had to work Labor Day Monday.

I didn’t disturb Ashley, or tried not to, other than to give her a goodbye kiss as I was leaving.

The office was on skeleton crew, but I had a pitch to work on, for my boss’ trip to San Francisco. An hour later, his boss called to tell me my boss was in the E.R. with kidney stones.

“We’re going to put this one in your hands, Dave. Can you book yourself a 6 a.m. flight tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” I said, “consider it done.”

I couldn’t say no to the president.

As I scrambled to get ready by 4 p.m. I kept checking my phone—still nothing from Mike.

He’d said we’d meet Monday—how he’d be in touch. Was he sending me a message by not messaging me at all? When he didn’t reply to my text, I finally called him.

“Hey buddy,” he said, “I’ve been working the holiday myself. It’s kind of hectic—how you doing, bro?”

In some weird way, his just picking up the phone was reassuring.

“Hey,” he said, “do you think you could meet me over here on the east side?”

On the subway ride over, I wondered if he was illustrating a power shift—having me go to him now.

I was on my second beer when Mike arrived and gave me a hug.

“So how you doing?” he asked.

“I’m OK,” I replied, “actually, I’m not really OK, OK?”

“Talk to me man.”

“I’m a bit fucked up with all that’s taken place.”

“Mmm hmm,” he replied. “I understand that. It can be an adjustment at first, but it is all going to be OK.”

“How’s it going to be OK, Mike?” I asked, “how the fuck is this going to be OK?”

“Dave, chill out. I’m on your side, I’m your friend.”

“I’m sorry, Mike,” I said. Indeed, I needed this guy on my side.

“Here’s how it’s going to be, OK bro?” Mike replied, “Ashley loves you, she’s told me that every night I’ve been with her.”

“What did she say?”

“She said ‘I love Dave’ probably a half dozen times. She said you’re a sweetheart. Does that make you feel better?”

“I guess,” I said. “She didn’t say anything about wanting to leave me?”

“Hell no, not at all! She said you’re dependable, caring, trustworthy. You’ve been very good to her, and she loves you for that.”

“You talk to her about me?”

“Sure, how else would I have heard how much she loves you?”

“What did you tell her Mike—c’mon you owe me that?”

“I simply told her the truth, Dave.”

“The truth being what?”

“I said you confided in me about being hurt by what happened at the party, but that part of you was quite turned on by it.”

“You told her I masturbated thinking about it?”

“I left it up to her to interpret,” he said, “but I did say you got turned on imagining what happened.”

“Jesus, Mike, if you’re my friend as you say, why would you tell her that?”