The Cuckold & The Cuckoldress

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

“Amazing lasting power... for a college kid. Your tiny thing used to spurt to the sound of my voice when you were his age, Andy. Burt seems to go forever.”

My wife exudes, arriving home from her dinner date. She gushes, always telling of her libidinous encounters with enthusiasm. No detail to be spared.

“I will have to measure him... when he’s more comfortable with me. I swear he’s bigger than David. And he moves... so... well... forcefully... but with a certain swagger not often felt with younger guys.”

She places her purse on the kitchen table where I sit enjoying... trying to enjoy... a cappuccino.

“You bought him a nice dinner... porterhouse steak. Supposed to be for two. But Burt took down the whole thing. Quite the appetite... and for more than just food,” giggling with the double entendre.

The purse opens. My credit card is returned, with the receipt for dinner. Glancing at the total, I have again been quite generous in my wife’s dinner date. The exchange irritates, and wife Linda knows that, well aware that I inwardly seethe.

“Motel room too,” tossing another receipt before me to assure I am adequately grated. “Closer to campus. Easier than bringing him home. Sorry you could not meet him. Quite debonair for a college kid.”

“Linda, you’re closer to his mother’s age than his,” I blurt unchivalrously, attempting to parry her annoyance.

“Yes. For some boys the maternal thing is a... well... attraction I suppose,” shrugging off my attempt to deflate her elation. “How was your counseling with Marsha?” an index finger tapping my nose in a demonstration of maternal care.

“It was... interesting.”

“Were you attentive... obedient? I understand she’s strict. Does not suffer naughty little boys,” Linda’s tone turning to that of mother lecturing a child. “Tell me all about it... unless you’d rather go to bed and learn what Burt tastes like.”

Another joust, chiding in my reluctance... my refusal... to engage in the so termed cream pie clean up. When I agreed to awaken a moribund s*x life by letting wife Linda date, I was unaware... naive I suppose... concerning this curious world of cuckoldry. After some half dozen trysts, spending Sunday mornings learning of the size and vigor of each and every conquest, an internet search of some quirky sites explained to me the lifestyle. I am a cuckold, Linda the ‘hot wife’ and her dates are termed bulls.

Initially I was free to in turn seek my own alternative companionship. But this changed, a vexatious Linda making a point of informing every potential companion of my s****l inadequacies.

‘When he does get it up, you probably won’t notice, sweetie,’ grabbing my cell phone during one introductory conversation. ‘And then he’ll dribble on your panties like some puppy in heat.’ Then handing me back the phone she smirked, remarking on my questionable oral prowess loud enough for my prospective date to hear.

Obviously that ended the conversation. No date.

Compounding the dynamics of our relationship is the economic imbalance. Linda is an heir to wealth... plus has a high paying job. I’m a burned out salesman. So burned out that the cost of last night’s dinner and motel fling will bring challenge to paying down my credit card. Which is as Linda intends. A short financial leash, she terms it. Not much spending power should I indeed find my own companion.

Frustration mounting, Linda suggested... strongly... that I need to acclimate to a different role... address my phobias... accept her preferences. The latter being a euphemism for her need and desire for deep penetrative s*x, yet to be pampered and have an unpretentious male at home serving at her behest.

Thus friend Marsha Martin to intercede, confronting the quest to make us both happy. “So, you gave her my letter. And then what? Tell me all about it.”

I do. Haltingly, Linda interrupting every time I try to conveniently skip over the more embarrassing and salacious activities, I relate the day’s events.

“A fascinating woman. Marsha was quite popular with guys in college... certain types of guys. Though quite athletic, she always seemed to be dragging some little wimpy guy around campus. So you’ll be seeing her on Sunday mornings... serving... in the nude... directed by her houseboy. That should address this silly male pride thing of yours. Andy, there isn’t much in which to take pride.”

I gulp the last of my cappuccino, noting that the flavor seems to have turned bitter.

“And before going to bed, I saw your last commission check, Andy. It’s even smaller than your d**k. So it looks like I’ll be paying the taxes on the house again. Since you can’t offer a girl a decent f**k, you’d think you’d at least be able to afford a house for her.”

The derision seems constant of late, particularly at bedtime. With her needs satiated, why make the effort to engage in any form of conjugal bliss?