What Lola Wants

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

We spent maybe a year with her exploring her existence as hotwife, in a fairly straightforward way. By that I mean, she went out and f****d a lot of guys, I was given regular accounts of her activities, and we spent a lot of time discussing the various guys she met. It was mostly vanilla, because that was the kind of s*x she was used to having with me. She just wanted a lot of guys with fairly big c***s who would f**k her hard and often, in whichever hole they chose. I got the distinct impression that once they got the go-ahead that f*****g was in order, they took the initiative on which hole they would use, in which position, etc. Now and again a guy would want a little more. She has one of the most delicious asses I have ever seen, round, firm, smooth, dimpled, and for guys who liked spanking it was perfection. She certainly wasn’t averse to it, and indeed I spanked her myself on occasion. But as I say, it was mostly just f*****g.

It seemed to me that while these guys were the ones who took the decisions, so in her relations with me she became more dominant. Not in any profound sense. I had heard of guys who were “female-led”, as they said, and they had their c***s locked up in little cages and they were permanently forbidden orgasm and they wore women’s knickers under their suits at the office. Their wives f****d them up the ass with strap-on dildos, and made them do all the housework. I wasn’t one of those. I was just a guy who got excited by the thought of his wife getting f****d by other guys, and was prepared to let her do as much of that as she wanted to.

Even so, there was definitely a tendency towards her taking more control, certainly of her own s****l activities. And eventually that extended to taking more control of mine too. The first step that I remember after she began “the great experiment” as she liked to think of it, that is, after the initial nights spent with other guys, is that she announced one of them was going to take her away for the weekend. This was one of my functions, to take her off to nice places for special weekends. But now it seemed that she preferred for one of her new friends to do that. I was a little put out, but I managed not to show it, even though it was to be a three-day weekend, leaving Friday night and not back till Monday morning.

I tried to keep busy that weekend, but I couldn’t help thinking about her with this guy, who was quite a hunk, she said. I thought of him f*****g her this way and that, I thought of the little cries she made during orgasm, I thought of the grunts she made when she was on her knees, getting a c**k dug into her really deep. And I started thinking in particular about what was happening to me, why I had this need to think of her this way. Wasn’t I rather sick, to enjoy thinking about it? Most men, surely, jealously guard their women, keep other men away from them. But even though it was her taking the initiative, once she had started I had encouraged her, there was no question. And every time I thought about another guy’s c**k in her beautiful body I was possessed by a double emotion, a pair of contradictory feelings. On the one hand, I was excited. It was my perversion, to imagine her in the arms of another man. And on the other hand, I suffered when these thoughts came over me. Far from having conquered my jealousy, I had cultivated it. And the more it pained me the more I wanted it. I was, I suppose, a psychological masochist. I wanted to have my feelings in turmoil, I wanted to suffer. It wasn’t just the thought of these acts being done to her, it was the knowledge that she wanted them. At that moment, she wanted another man’s c**k more than mine, wanted it to be pounding her, she wanted to be clinging to him and moaning in ecstasy. I might be missing her, but she wasn’t missing me. At the height of such emotions I found myself imagining what it would be like if she came home and told me she was leaving me for another man? Or, more likely, other men. At the thought a dagger of jealousy pierced my heart.

I think it’s impossible to describe to those who have not experienced such feelings how powerful they are. I was transported into a state of mind where the pain of jealousy became pleasure, just as extreme masochists say that eventually if the pain is hard enough it tips them into subspace, in which they know no difference between pain and pleasure, each of them a drug of which they cannot get enough.

During the weekend she sent me a couple of pictures. In one, she is sitting in front of a dressing-table mirror wearing knickers, suspenders and stockings, but no bra. She is doing her make-up. It looks like it must have been him taking the picture. Her accompanying text says: Dressing for dinner. Later, much later, there was another picture. In it she is even more undressed; this time she has no knickers. The accompanying text says: Undressing for bed. I groaned with tormented desire.

Later, she went on another trip with the same guy. This time instead of pictures she left the phone on so I could hear them having s*x. At one point there was a squeal. I tortured myself imagining what he was doing to her. Then I heard him talking to her. “Dirty little b***h,” he growled. “You’re going to get just what you deserve, a big hard c**k right up your tight little ass.” I heard her cry out, presumable as he forced his c**k into her. “Oh god, oh god,” she cried. Then it sounded like they were both coming together. Was she coming from him in her ass? She had never done that with me.

As things progressed, I began to see that just as my willingness for her to go with other men was a kind of masochism to which I became addicted, so her behaviour was similarly marked by a kind of emotional sadism. As I have said, our relationship never took the turn into a complete negation of my masculinity. I was never a sissy or a slave, though I can see that it might not have needed much pressure from her to tip me over the edge. But I think she didn’t want that capitulation. What she enjoyed was knowing how much it hurt me, how much I wanted and needed her, how much I still lusted after her. And then, she would exploit that, twist the knife in so many ways, large and small.

The first major step beyond simply spending a night or two with another man was when she decided to bring us closer together. Physically, I mean. During one of our late night conversations in bed, when we would review her progress as a hotwife, she said that she wanted to embark on a development. I waited to hear what it would be, my c**k, at that point limp after a recent ejaculation, twitching and starting to rise again.

“I don’t want always to be distant from you when I f**k other guys,” she said. “I’d like some proximity.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want me to watch?” I replied.

“I haven’t said anything about watching,” she said. “We’re some way off that.”

That strongly suggested that it was on the cards if not imminent. My c**k twitched again; watching her being f****d by another man would add an extra level of jealousy. But not yet, it seemed.

“What I’m thinking of is if I f**k him here, at the house.”

Again my c**k twitched. I was getting harder. At any moment she would discover it, and once again she would have confirmed the hold she had over my s****l feelings.

“Here?” I said. “In this room?”

“Eventually”, she said. “In this bed. In our bed.”

My c**k sprang to full attention. “Oh,” I said.

“We know what’s going on,” she said. “There’s no need to hide it. I think it would be good for you, to be forced into a more direct experience of what is happening.”

“Where would I be while you are doing it?” I said, wanting her to feel my excitement.

“I haven’t decided,” she said. “Maybe in another room. Sleeping in the spare room, perhaps. But eventually you might be in the same room. Not watching. Kneeling facing the corner, perhaps. Or locked in the cupboard. Or under the bed.” She started laughing.

I could feel the blood hammering in my c**k. I turned towards her, wanting to push into her. She held me off. “No,” she said. “You’ve had enough tonight. But think about what I’ve said while you fall asleep.” She turned on her side. I lay awake in the dark. It was surely sheer sadism, tormenting me with the thought of being so close to her while she committed the act, but being unable to intervene, unable even to witness what was done to her But I should be able to hear the sound close up, the little sucking noises and the sighs of pleasure and the grunt of satisfaction. After an hour of being unable to sleep, tormented by lust, I went into the bathroom and jerked off. Even then, my mind was still racing, though eventually I slipped into sleep.

Two weeks later she began her plan. She had invited a new boy called Brian to the house on Friday night. As soon as the doorbell rang, I was to go upstairs to the spare room and stay there until morning. She had allowed me to stockpile a couple of bottles of wine, and a few snacks. I asked what was to happen if I wanted to use the bathroom. She told me there was a chamber pot under the bed. (I’ve no idea where it came from!). I could play music but there was no TV. Instead, I was told to make sure I had enough reading matter.

Accordingly, the bell rang and I went up the stairs. I heard her open the door and there were some indecipherable exchanges before my wife and the boyfriend went into the sitting room and closed the door. About an hour later I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Both of them went into the main bedroom and closed the door. I poured another glass of wine and settled down to wait. But after a few minutes I opened my door and listened carefully. There were muted voices and some laughter. I was sorely tempted to steal up to the bedroom door and listen. But I didn’t; to be discovered eavesdropping would be simply too embarrassing. However, I left my door ajar. From time to time I would hear a sound, perhaps a laugh, perhaps a cry (of pleasure, I assumed). It was nearly midnight when I decided to close my door and go to bed.

I had a restless night. Each time I woke I tried to hear something, but all was quiet. Eventually, at seven o’clock, I decided to risk it and go downstairs. I was desperately in need of a cup of coffee and some toast. I decided to put on the radio in the kitchen, so that if my wife should come down she would know I was there. I didn’t want to meet the lover, and I was pretty sure she didn’t want him to meet me.

At last, at about ten o’clock, I heard voices and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Then the front door opened. There was some conversation, and what sounded very like a big kiss, then my wife came into the kitchen, wearing a white t-shirt, not long enough to cover her ass. I greeted her without comment and got her some coffee. I asked her if I could make her some toast. She accepted. For a while we sat in silence. Then she said, “You were a good boy. Perhaps later today you will get a little present, though I want it understood that good behaviour should be its own reward.”

I nodded in acknowledgement of what she said. By this time it was rare for me to initiate s*x. Somehow, without my really being aware of it, the balance of power had shifted. We still had s*x, but it was almost always at her invitation. Reward or not, it was up to her if I got to f**k her.

Slowly things progressed. During the next month she had s*x with several men, but not in our house. Then she said the guy who had f****d her before, when I was in the spare room, was coming round again. He would stay the night again. She said that she was going to lock me in the cupboard in the bedroom. It seemed I was getting closer. I wondered what it would lead to.

Just before he arrived, she took me upstairs. I remember she was looking particularly desirable, in a black dress, cut low and with a high hemline. Her legs were bare except for very high heels. I wanted to f**k her more than ever, but of course that wasn’t her idea. Instead, she took all my clothes off and stood in front of me, looking me up and down while my c**k steadily rose. She reached forward and slapped it. I recoiled. “Your pleasure tonight is entirely vicarious,” she said. “Think of him enjoying me, and all you can do is listen.”

She took a pair of handcuffs from the bedside table and fastened my wrists behind my back. Then she led me into the cupboard. It was large enough to stand up in, but mostly full of her clothes. She shut the door and locked it. Inside it was totally dark. I felt around for something to sit on and got hold of some sort of bench. I sat there. waiting, my c**k as hard as ever. Once again my beautiful wife was going to give herself to another man.

I heard them come in. There were several words exchanged, though I could make no sense of them; sweet nothings. There were snuffling noises indicative of kissing. Where was he kissing her? On the mouth, of course, but where else? Had he got the dress off yet? I didn’t know what underwear she had on. Black, perhaps? I knew she had recently purchased some expensive black silk things; that must be it. They would be coming off too and then he would enjoy the sight of her naked, her long legs, her finely sculpted ass, her cute t**s with their hard brown n*****s, and most compelling of all, her shaved cunt, with its pretty pink lips which parted to reveal her c**t. But it would not be me tonight coaxing it to swell, feeling it grow, curling my tongue around it. It would be another guy, one I had never seen. I hoped he would have proper respect for her cunt, for its fierce desires and its pleasure-giving properties.

I heard them lie on the bed. I heard the rustle of sheets. I heard her sigh and then gasp. What was he doing? Surely his c**k wasn’t in her yet. I imagined him lying between her legs, licking her cunt, sucking on the lips, maybe nibbling them, the way she liked it. Perhaps she was ruffling his hair, a thing she liked to do while her cunt was being pleasured.

I heard a grunt and then I distinctly heard her groan, and I was sure that at that moment his c**k was entering her, pushing into that tight, soft, slippery cunt (she always got very wet). And then I heard what was surely the sound of regular thrusting as he pushed in and out of her. This went on for a long time; the guy certainly had stamina. And then I heard a cry. There was no mistaking it; that was the cry she made when she had reached orgasm. But was she coming with him inside her? Was it his c**k making her c*m? I was tormented with a pang of jealousy; I couldn’t remember her ever coming just from being f****d. She always needed something else; my finger or her own, my tongue, or one of the several vibrators in the bedside drawer. But I heard no sound of an electric motor buzzing, only the long drawn-out cry as her cunt gripped his c**k and her hips lifted up and her whole body tightened and then shook.

She wasn’t just getting variety from f*****g other men. She was getting better s*x. For surely it was that. She had once told me that she wished she could c*m with a c**k inside her, she was certain it would be the ultimate sensation. But it never happened with me, unless somehow we contrived for her to get additional stimulus while I was f*****g her. Occasionally she would straddle me and as we f****d she would reach down and rub her c**t until she came. Once I bought a device that strapped to the base of my c**k, so that when I was inside her it would press against her c**t. But somehow, though the theory was right it never quite worked in practice. But now another c**k, quite possibly a bigger c**k, was getting the job done for her. And what was I doing in the meantime? I couldn’t even stroke my own c**k for comfort.

The sounds from the bed died away and there was silence. I leaned against the side of the cupboard. I must have fallen asleep. I don’t know what time it was when I was awakened by the cupboard being unlocked. She reached inside and felt for my c**k. It seemed to have remained hard and she grasped it and drew me out of the cupboard. The room was mostly in darkness, though I could just see a figure under the sheets. She pressed a finger to her lips to indicate I must be quiet. Then, still holding me by the c**k she led me from the room. I watched her gorgeous ass as she walked along the corridor, pulling me after. We went into the bathroom. She asked me if I needed to pee and I said yes. She stood me in front of the toilet and took hold of my c**k, pointing it down.

“Pee,” she said.

It took a while before anything happened, partly because sometimes it does, but mostly because it was embarrassing having her watch. Eventually it came. She watched the golden jet fall into the bowl, then when I had finished she shook my c**k till the final drop fell off. She flushed and took me to the spare room and led me in.

“Did you like to listen, naughty boy?” she whispered.

I nodded; no use in denying it. She unlocked my wrists. “You must still be good,” she said. “No touching.” She took hold of my c**k again and pulled back the foreskin. “But you want to, don’t you?”

I nodded again.

“In the morning I shall give him breakfast, then he will go. You must wait in here until he’s left. And then, if I’m in a good mood, well, we shall see.”

She bent down and gave my c**k a little kiss. “Now I’m going back to bed to get some more of that big beautiful c**k of his. My cunt may be sore by morning, he’s a bit tight in me, and so I might not let you use it, but perhaps we’ll find something else for you.”

With that she turned and padded up the corridor. I closed my door and got into bed. She was having a wonderful time, that was clear, not just from the s*x but from teasing me and provoking me. And I loved both the fact that she was getting such pleasure, and also my own sweet agony of denial and frustration and humiliation.