An Unfaithful Wife free porn video

An Unfaithful Wife by Vickie Tern The plot: A man's wife encourages his erotic fantasies and his emasculation by suggesting she's seeing other men. The caution: This story depicts sexual acts between consenting adults. Those who are not both of these things should read no further. The story descriptors: TG femdom wife humil creampie She was in a weird mood, I think. Or maybe a teasing mood. We were getting dressed for work, Cassie to go to her law office downtown and me to my study downstairs to read over a long report comparing software technologies one last time and then fax it to the client who'd commissioned it. She was just about to pull on her frivolous french lace panties, the ones that drive my cock crazy when I see the bottoms of her sweet buttocks peeking out from underneath them, and she'd paused to inspect the no-nonsense cotton lining in the crotch. She saw a stain? It evidently started her thinking. What came out was sudden. "Hal, honey, have you ever wondered whether I masturbate? I mean, say, at the office sometimes, whether I take care of my sexual needs sometimes when you're not with me to help out?" I was startled, and stared at her. The word "masturbate" had never crossed her lips before. She stood there, panties in hand, looking at me and waiting for a reply. "No, why?" came out of my mouth before I could correct it. An honorable but dishonest answer, and I'd sworn to her and myself always to be scrupulously honest with her. So I corrected myself, "Yes, sometimes." "You're ashamed to admit it, aren't you?" "Yes." I was. It was true. I stared into my sock drawer, looking for a matched pair and avoiding her gaze. "Why do you think you're ashamed?" Cassie often dug into whatever reasons were given for deeper reasons still. "I don't know." That was untrue. I had my suspicions, and they weren't welcome. Because Cassie loved sex. She seemed insatiable sometimes, eager for more well past my penis's ability to perform. I was never sure I'd satisfied her. So for years I'd supplemented our lovemaking with my face between her legs, always before we made love. Then sometimes for hours while she did other things, made notes on legal papers or read or watched TV, even talked to friends on the phone. The first time because she asked me to. But now she merely pointed when she wanted me to lick her cunt. "It feels so nice," she'd say. "Even when I don't end up with an orgasm. Just knowing that you're there for me no matter that." Why was I ashamed to ask her about masturbation? I struggled to find a reason. "Because masturbation is a terribly personal matter," I said finally. "Some people think it's shameful in itself. So I wouldn't want to intrude on anyone by asking." "Yes, but it's not too personal for us, honey!" She looked at me, gently chiding. "Sweetheart, we're already so very personal with each other! We couldn't be moreso. The truth, now!" This was awfully uncomfortable. But I knew better than to try to change a subject once Cassie opened a line of questioning. She was one of her firm's best trial lawyers. "Because ... because if you masturbate, that might imply we aren't sexually well-matched. That I don't satisfy you. That I'm not man enough for you." "'Might'? Only 'might'?" I kept silent on that one. She was determined to leave me no place to hide. "Well, are you man enough, do you think?" "All things considered, I think so. I hope so!" "Then why are you ashamed to ask me if I masturbate? Because if you aren't man enough, you don't want to know?" She had me. I had to end this. "Do you masturbate sometimes?" I asked. I began pulling on my socks, feigning nonchalance. I expected answers as evasive as mine, but instead, Cassie said in a quite matter-of-fact tone of voice, "Yes, Hal. I have needs. So I relieve them. Often." A strange feeling began to creep over me, but she'd established the scenario and I had to follow it. "Because I'm not man enough?" "I didn't say that. I'd use you if you were there. But you aren't. So I use what's available. My finger often. Like this." Her bush was still fully visible -- her lace panties were still hanging from one hand. I stared. She smiled flirtatiously and placed a forefinger gently onto the top of her slit, just over her clit I was sure, and rotated it delicately. "Mmmmm!" she said. "Mmmmmmmmm!" Then she stopped and looked directly at me. "That's nice. But oh, if you could see your face now! You're feeling threatened, aren't you?" My throat had tightened and I could barely say it. "Yes," I had to reply. Threatened, but also annoyed. She was deliberately provoking me. Why? "By a finger? You're jealous of one slim little finger? You think your penis may not measure up even to this?" She held her slim finger up erect, inspected it closely, then waved it reprovingly at me. "Your cock can't hold a candle to my finger?" Now she was playing word games, taunting me! Better to alter the direction this interrogation was taking. "You say you use your finger 'often,' Cassie? What does that mean, 'often'?" She was now gathering the hair at the nape of her neck to twist it and pin it up, businesswoman style. With both hands behind her head and her elbows out, she looked adorably helpless, yet supremely self-assured, altogether in control. I was reminded again how breathtakingly beautiful she was, how lucky I'd been to attract and win her love, and how privileged to keep it. She just looked at me inexpressively, and said nothing. She was accomplishing whatever it was she'd set out to accomplish, I could tell that much. Making me uneasy, that much was certain. Since I felt goaded, I tried again. "'Often' implies there are other things too," I tried to explain. Black suspicion where she was going with this began to form in my head, and I thrust it away, but nevertheless I could feel my balls pull up, my scrotum tightening defensively. "Like what?" "Other things, yes. Fingers aren't always enough. You know how I am sometimes when we're in bed together and we're neither of us ready to sleep, and we decide to make love. Sometimes I'm already as wet as if we'd already made love. Fingers can't do that. A girl needs ... well, other things to help her out." Was she telling me ...? "What other kinds of things do you mean exactly?" I asked again, trying to suppress the tension in my voice. "Whatever other kinds of things are available. All offices are full of them." She was by now nearly dressed, and inspecting herself in the mirror, looking out at me in all wide-eyed innocence. I could only croak out what she'd been leading me toward. "You mean you sometimes use ... other men?" She seemed satisfied. Was that where she'd been leading me? "Oh, if I used men to get myself off, that wouldn't be masturbation, would it, Hal? Any more questions? No?" But what had she said? "I have needs. I relieve them. Often." So we weren't talking only about masturbation! And unthinkable as it was, she wasn't saying she didn't use other men when I wasn't available! She knew I couldn't possibly ask the obvious next question. Marriages are based on faith. I didn't dare doubt her fidelity and then ask about it. I was feeling strangely demoralized, yet also agitated. "Oh, dear," she said, staring at the rock-hard erection now tenting my underwear. "I see all this talk has excited you." She glanced at her wristwatch, a delicate little thing I'd given her for out first anniversary, she never wore any other. "And there's no time now to do anything about it. Well, you have my permission to masturbate today before I get home. But you'll have to tell me what your masturbation fantasy was tonight when I get home. Every detail. Promise? Bye bye, sweetheart!" I did sometimes sneakily masturbate during the day, while reading porn stories on the Net. I didn't think Cassie knew. And now, she'd given me her permission? If I tell all afterward? But how could I masturbate with her "permission"? Apart from it constituting a confession that I'd done it at all, it would be an acknowledgement that I could pleasure myself only under her orders, that she'd taken charge of my sex life even in her absence. An hour later, when I'd faxed off my report and felt free for the rest of the day, I decided to grasp my boner. Resentfully, but I did it anyhow. As if under orders. "Yes, Cassie," I muttered to myself ironically. "Now I intend to masturbate! Does that make you happy?" I wasn't happy. Who was she to grant me permission to do something I've done most of my life? Yet as I finally spurted my load into a handful of kleenex, I gasped "Thank you, Cassie" sincerely and gratefully. Because incredibly, for the first time in my life, it was really good! Altogether guilt free! Uninhibited! No way cheating her of libido or sperm I owed her. For the first time since our marriage I wasn't indulging myself shamefully in the belief that I was depriving her of what was rightfully hers. That night I told Cassie the truth, that I'd masturbated, and how I'd felt afterward. That what I'd fantasized while stroking myself was what she'd confessed, that she was in her office masturbating her pussy. That I'd seen her legs spread wide, her slit's pink lips and fringe of golden hair fully visible. That her finger was twiddling her clit and then plunging into the orifice. Then that her cum was trickling out of it, and I was licking it off her thighs. It was her cum at first, pouring out of her abundantly. Then maybe mine. Then -- I couldn't help it, a dark notion had emerged when I was so near a climax I couldn't suppress it -- maybe cum from someone else at her office. Some other man's cum. She was interested. "Someone else's, eh? And that idea brought you off?" I ignored her question, instead repeating that I'd loved masturbating with her permission. She smiled reassuringly, looked at me slyly for a moment, and said nothing. Then, "Any time, baby. But you'll always ask me first, all right?" And I was trapped! How could I ever? I couldn't! Ask my wife for permission to jerk off? That's so demeaning! Impossible! But now that she'd asked me to ask her, it was equally impossible for me to jerk off without her permission! That would betray her trust! "All right?" she repeated. She meant it! "Sure," I said carelessly, as though my thoughts had already turned elsewhere and it was no big deal. So from then on, for days at a time I went celibate. I'd be desperately horny by the time her car pulled into the driveway. A few times I had to meet her at the door and take her hand and lead her straight upstairs, not a word spoken. She knew. But also from then on, whenever I licked and then entered her, I was always aware before I began how wet she was, whether lightly lubricated or dripping. That did happen sometimes. When she was soaked I never dared ask how she'd gotten that way. I made that mistake only once, and she'd replied by waving her forefinger at me. As if that were her answer. As if that was her instrument. As if telling me I was naughty to ask. But occasionally when she was leaving the house she'd tell me she had a crowded schedule, she expected to arrive home late or exhausted. "So feel free to jerk off any time today, Hal baby," she said. "If you feel like it." On other occasions she'd pause at the door and as if an afterthought, she'd ask me, "Do you want to masturbate today, honey?" Like a little boy caught with his hands in his pants I'd have to answer in a small voice, "Yes, please," or "No, thank you." She'd then smile, and if I said 'Yes' she'd say, "That's fine. You go right ahead then, sweetie," and if I said 'No' she'd look at me wryly amused, as if she didn't believe me, shrug, then leave. And that's how it was from then on. Her pussy was mine by marriage I suppose, though I shared my exclusive rights of access with her finger. I hoped only with her finger. But my cock, my main means of sexual gratification, was now completely under her control. The day finally came when, as she was leaving the house preoccupied with the day's work and obviously intending to say nothing to me about it, when I felt a sudden urge to ask her if I could jerk off today. It was embarrassing. But I did it. She paused and looked at me intently, thinking. Then she said, "I haven't asked you this, honey, not since that first time I gave you permission. When you masturbate, do you always imagine me pleasuring myself the same way? Or someone else also pleasuring me?" I was stunned! How did she know? "Sometimes," I had to acknowledge reluctantly. Then because she remained silent, waiting, I replied, "Sometimes someone else." "Then you go ahead and masturbate all you want today," she replied, obviously satisfied with my answer. "But be sure that each time you're imagining me with someone else. I'd like that. OK? I gotta go!" She kissed the air between us and was gone. "OK," I replied to the closed door. I felt somehow defeated. Yet also excited, I had no idea why. She'd asked me to cuckold myself in my imagination and like it, that seemed to be why. That night she made no sexual moves toward me at all. She seemed to know that during the day I'd emptied myself utterly, that I'd beaten my meat over and over. With no guilty inhibitions, with her complete permission, I'd watched her writhe in the arms of other men repeatedly, each time forgiving her so we could both do it again, me masturbate and she fuck yet another man. ********** A month or so later, Cassie was already in bed and I was getting ready to join her when she burst forth out of nowhere, "Sweetheart, you do know I love you, don't you? That you're the dearest person in the world to me, that the happiest day of my life was the day we got married, and that I never want to leave you, and I think I would die if you ever wanted to leave me? Just curl up and die? You do know that?" What in the world? Suppressing my concern, I looked over at Cassie as if casually. She'd been sitting in bed reading, but her book was turned down in her lap. She'd been watching me undress. I suddenly came aware I was stark naked. "Are you all right, honey?" I asked gently. That seemed ungracious! So I added as quietly as I could, "I mean, what brought that on? I mean, what have I done to deserve that ... accolade?" As if unconcerned I slipped my nightshirt over my head. I'd always slept in pajamas but recently I'd shifted to nightshirts. Cassie'd given me some a few weeks ago, and then called the Salvation Army and given away my pajamas. They were short, barely reaching my bum. She said she wanted to reach for me whenever the mood struck her, or anyhow, that she wanted to feel she had unrestricted access. Could I deny her? She had reached for me a few times since, and it was wonderful! Our first few years of marriage she'd wanted to be wooed, and she'd lie there like a princess as I kissed her toes or her eyes and then worked my way up or down. But for a while now she'd taken all the initiatives. "Just let me," she'd say. "You be the princess." I'd lie back in bliss with my eyes closed as she slipped her hand up and down my penis and squeezed it until I grew hard, then mounted me or mouthed me or pushed her boobs into my mouth or pulled my head into her crotch or rolled over onto me or rolled me onto her and into her, all without the slightest restraint. We'd become like one sentient being, one flesh -- her slightest gesture would tell me what she next wanted and I'd perform it devotedly. I loved it that she felt that passionate! I saw she was wearing her babydoll top, and a glance told me that its matching sleep-panties were still on her dresser. That was a broad enough hint that she expected to reach for me tonight. She responded not at all to my query, so I answered hers. "Of course I know you love me, Cassie. And you know I love you just as completely" I'm sure I did. I'm sure she did. There were times when she'd act as if I were still probationary, as if we were still in the early days of our relationship and she still hadn't made up her mind about me, as if her tentative feelings about me were auspicious, promising, but ... well, there are other men, she'll just wait and see about me, and meanwhile, well, I'll do for now, if I contiunue to shape up. In earlier days I never knew if that was how she actually felt or if she was only teasing me, stirring me to renew my courtship of her, to try extra-hard to please her. When I once asked her, she'd smiled and said nothing. Whatever, it always worked. I'd then make extra efforts to meet her needs and desires. Though whenever she slipped into that mood of seeming uncertainty, I was always unsure why. Not now. Cassie's customary facial expression was sincere and concerned, and now too. Her eyes were moist and she made no effort to wipe tears away. I was the center of her life, she was saying, and she wanted me to know it. "You do know, don't you, that your happiness is the dearest thing in the world to me? Dearer than life itself, I sometimes think!" This was the strongest statement she had ever made about us. I choked up immediately. "Yes," was all I could croak. I wanted to ask her, 'Cassie, what's wrong?!' but I couldn't. "And I know you feel the same way about me. Don't you?" Finishing on a question? What did she want? Something she was afraid to ask directly? Reassurance of some sort? What? I said "Yes, of course." Then carefully, I inquired again, "Why do you ask, honey?" She hesitated for a long time this time as if struggling with herself, though her eyes never wavered from mine. Then she spoke suddenly. "Because I need to ask you some things you might not like. That might make you uncomfortable." So I was right. But at least it was to ask me things, not to tell me. Ever since we'd talked about masturbation I'd been afraid Cassie might want to say something I couldn't endure hearing, maybe about an affair, about an infidelity that would destroy us as a couple. "Like what?" I asked. I just stood there in my nightshirt, my genitals and my butt exposed, my voice deliberately kept attentive yet casual, so whatever she said and whatever my reaction, none of it would seem to be a big deal. Though obviously it was a big deal to her and that made it one for me too. "Like, I want you to tell me for once, really honestly, from the deepest place in your heart, all of the ways you feel when ...oh, I don't want to say it. You'll get mad. Or maybe you'll feel bad I'm even asking." "No, never," I said. "Ask." "It's really a whole series of questions, sweetheart. This is only the first one." I carefully shrugged, as if nothing could faze me. "No problem," I said as reassuringly as I could. I sat down on my side of the bed and then waited, still watching her. "All right, baby." Her eyes were now wide open, fixed on my face. "I've been wondering about this a lot, lately. You know that men ... ah ... flirt with me sometimes. The way men do. You've seen it, at office parties and things, galas at the Club, social gatherings. Even here in our own house when we're throwing a reception or something, and everyone knows I'm married to you and you're right here being the host, despite that some men come on to me as if you were only some hired servant. Well, sweetie, I want to know -- I need to know, really and truly -- tell me everything you feel when ... when that happens. When you see guys making moves on me. Everything." I'd seen a lot of it. Cassie was beautiful when we got married and she'd only gotten moreso. Now she was gorgeous, honey blonde, beautifully groomed, huge wide eyes, teeny chin, a naturally pouting mouth, tall and poised. A doll, a dish. A babe. More rare, a babe with brains, more than one opposing attorney had mistaken her subtlety for naivete and gotten creamed. When she's dressed and made up for a formal occasion, she's absolutely ravishing. She'll put the last touches on her face, hang a perfect pendant from her neck, and then turn to ask me "How do I look?" as if she didn't know. I'd glance over and see the gleam of pride in her eyes and I'd catch my breath and my heart would lurch. Every time. Hers is the kind of beauty that staggers, even intimidates. Some men find it challenging. They're challenged to possess it somehow. And they keep trying. I knew that. And not only her beauty, her manner, too. She carries herself confidently, decisively. And then there's that concerned expression. When she speaks, she looks directly into your eyes as if appraising you, maybe reserving judgement, maybe approving, as if large issues and powerful emotions were lurking just beyond that decision. As if she could see things in you that amused her, or gave her a handle on you. Or gave you reason to believe that if you took her hand and led her to a bed, she'd go willingly. Eagerly. As if she'd lead you. Men fall hard in her presence. I had. Some feel her power and pretend they don't, become evasive, I'd done that too at first. Yet when she approves what she's seeing, that same look becomes a glorious invitation. It says she wants to know you better, maybe even intimately. It's flattering, that look, and it emboldens all but the most timid of men. Then when they're hooked she flirts with them shamelessly! Twisting her body, glancing sideways, thrusting her boobs forward, smiling in subtle invitation, tossing her head with the same 'come hither' motion she'd used when she first saw me. But then she'd meant it! It turned out she'd made up her mind about me immediately, however seemingly tentative she seemed since. I came to her and joined her and we've not been separated since. I was what she wanted, she told me on our first date. And I wasn't the least bit intimidated. I exulted! Maybe her flirting is a reflex she isn't even aware of? Maybe. As when she makes me feel I'm still on probation, useful for the time being only. It gives her a feeling of control. And she needs that. She likes it. I've seen the result often enough. Like at office parties, for instance. She's a partner in a huge law firm where people rarely see each other, so they often hold get-togethers in the name of "collegiality." Spouses attend some, but I doubt Cassie behaves any different whether I'm there or not. She uses parties as informal professional opportunities to mend fences, query policies, check out strategies. She's always working the room. Few people there know me, so from a distance or even standing alongside her I can usually watch what happens as if I were a fly on a wall. Certain men come foward ingratiatingly almost as soon as they see her. Superbly confident, poised, charming, they bend their faces close to her to share some confidential witticism or compliment. Or proposal. She never backs off or turns away. Instead, she parries gracefully, lifting her chin and shaking her head as though flattered and grateful but she just can't respond right now, this isn't quite the moment, you know, her husband, her obligations, things. But soon. There's always an implicit promise, maybe they can find some more private time to ... locate an understanding. She always leaves them feeling hopeful, though they never know just why. So they'll often offer her a lift when the party is breaking up, asking if she'd like to pause first for a drink at the Roundabout Bar or the Marriott. or the Oasis just down the street. Even when I'm standing right alongside her. I sometimes wonder if they know I'm her husband but don't care because it doesn't seem to matter to her. Whether she's sending them signals I can't interpret. Then they'll always call the house later that evening or the next day, always with business to discuss, or more proposals. Cassie wears a wedding ring as I do, the same kind. But these men assume she's available nevertheless -- maybe she lives alone or she's separated, or maybe she works mostly at home and her husband's out of town. Or maybe he's away at work and won't ever know. Or she's available because he's a wimp who doesn't matter. They aren't aware that I'm the one who works at home, that Cassie does almost all of her work downtown. That I'm the one receiving all their calls to my wife. At first it was annoying. I'd answer the phone and the men were always surprised to hear a male voice. Then they'd leave messages for her as if I were only her roommate, or a brother, or a butler, someone who didn't matter, maybe an accustomed cuckold or neutered eunuch. Their tone was always condescending as they instructed me what to tell her, that they were suggesting this time and that place for her to meet them, have I got all that written down? Women callers would query who I was when asking about Cassie's availability for a double date, but I'd still reveal nothing. Cassie's business negotiations were sometimes tricky and opposing lawyers are often deceitful, so I was under strict instructions never to identify myself as her husband or as anyone else, never to provide callers with any information whatsoever, not even my name. Just to take messages. I did that, and when Cassie got home she'd leaf through the slips impassively, set several aside, and look up distantly and thank me, her mind already elsewhere. Was I unawares helping her carry on assignations with numerous men? Opening her moist, pink pussy to them and then bowing obsequiously away, as so frequently now in my masturbation fantasies? I wondered. It made me uneasy. Finally I balked, especially at transmitting to her the exact words of various men's seduction speeches, at serving as their pander. So Cassie got an answering machine and set it up in the hall just outside my study. Then it did the answering aloud, while I eavesdropped like a guilty voyeur at a porn movie who'd sneaked in. My consulting service has its own number and I'm not that all gregarious, in fact I'm a loner with few friends, and those few out of town. So most of the calls were for Cassie -- from clients, co-counsels, legal aides, girlfriends, all straightforward enough. But also, many were from those swarms of hopeful admirers. And on the speakerphone, I'd hear everything. Cassie's voice on the answering message is husky with desire as it tells everyone who calls, "Hi, Cassie here. I can't talk right now, you know how it is, but I do want to know everything you have in mind, what it is you want. So please tell me!" Somehow she creates the impression that she's in bed with another man at that moment but would rather be with the caller. I suppose it's good for business. The result is that often every day when I'm alone at my desk doing my calculations, I hear men just outside the door talking to my wife sometimes intimately. Sometimes only asking for a callback. But sometimes right out and open asking for a date, offering her fabulous dinners, concerts, shows, companionship, parties with celebrities attending, weekend resort trips. Always promising incredible experiences she'll never forget. Some of them allude to past unforgettable moments, whether theirs or someone else's I can't ever tell for certain. I suppose it's flattering that though men find Cassie attractive, she chose me. Still, it's disquieting to listen day after day as they attempt to seduce her with advantages I can't possibly offer. Worse, several times a day the phone will ring once and then I'll hear clicks, then those same voices repeating their proposals and propositions, then more clicks. That's Cassie picking up her messages from her office. Sometimes I hear her cut them off, cancel them abruptly in mid-pitch. But some she listens until the man has finished his appeal, declaring once again that she'll love it, what he's suggesting, she'll never regret it. Then sometimes there's a pause before the final click. Is she writing down his phone number before clearing the phone for new messages? Or at that moment is she using another office line to call him back? I feel very peculiar at such times. I try not to listen, but I can't help wondering whether ... whether she ... these are attractive-sounding men offering marvelous opportunities, men of substance and intelligence. I feel strangely stirred. Because Cassie is so terribly attractive. But no. She's my wife. It's a matter of faith. I trust her. I have to trust her. And she loves me. And she's just told me that yet again, in the most powerfully persuasive words imaginable. Yet here she was sitting up in bed in her daintiest nightie, her eyes moist, asking me exactly how I feel when I see men flirt with her, trying to get into her pants, men who don't know or care that I'm watching and listening. Or maybe it's a special pleasure for them to know the husband is watching while they debauch the wife. How do I feel when these things are happening? What can I say? That I feel jealous? That's to confess weakness. "Proud that you're my wife, that's how I feel," I said finally. "I also feel a touch of pity for them, that they can't have you. And I'm glad once again that I've got you. That you're mine." "And you're mine!" she interrupted, nodding in affirmation. "But go on! There must be more." I felt challenged, so I dug a little deeper. "I'm annoyed that you might feel annoyed or plagued or insulted by their flirting, because you're a married woman after all. Especially when they're persistent." "Oh, Hal," Cassie said, sounding a little disappointed. "Of course! I know all that! All very respectable. That's how any decent man would feel. But really, down below these things? How do you feel for instance when I flirt back? You've seen it at parties. I love to flirt. I can't resist teasing anyone, not even you! What then?" That was a tough one. Because every time I've seen her flirt, seen her toss her head and glance and smile sideways, I'd feel everything I'd just confessed to her, yes. But also something else. A terrible twist in my vitals. A pang of fear. Of jealous anxiety. My God, what if she left me? What if she expected me to tolerate sharing her affections with anyone else? Then more terrible in its way would follow a thrill of anticipation, even an eagerness to see it happen. And a sense of fatality, of readiness to accept that it must happen. A feeling that it was inevitable for Cassie to seek and find other men. That I should feel pleased for her, and reconcile myself to it. Mostly I could stifle that weird apprehension.. But not always. I had to formulate an honest answer. But a complete answer? I played for time. "Maybe I feel complacent when I see the man's no competition for me and you're having a good time toying with him. I know you like to toy with guys. And I like to watch you having fun -- you do sometimes glance over at me to share your amusement when someone's spreading it a little thick. I like that. I feel closer to you, times like that." I was still sitting on my side of the bed, preparing to slip under the covers, seemingly at ease. A long silence followed. "Honey, listen. I hear you, and I'm glad. But I know there's lots more. You masturbate to other feelings, much more powerful feelings, when you imagine I'm with other men. I know that. I want you to dig deeper, till maybe you're in a place where you don't want to go. This is pretty primal stuff." "I'm not sure I know what you mean, honey," I said. I hoped I didn't know. Her face grew firm, thoughtful. She put her fingertips together in front of her. It was as if she were beginning an opening argument to the jury. "I've beeen talking to my partner Nadine, you've met her, our firm's divorce specialist. She's built her whole practice around the way men feel when other men are sniffing around their mates. I told her I once had a boyfriend who went ape whenever I even talked to another guy. Really crazy jealous. But that you know, part of the craziness was that it excited him? He'd agonize and get angry, but he was always aroused! Cock like a telephone pole. Then at the height of his insecurity he'd pound it into me, if we were alone for a few minutes." Talk of her previous liaisons made me uncomfortable. "You have interesting coffee room conversations," I said, trying to jest. Cassie paid no attention. "He got to be a jealousy junkie, he got off on it, and he began to accuse me of all sorts of impossible liaisons just so he could get off on it. I had to tell him about other men I'd been with when we were in bed together, or he couldn't even get it up. Whether I'd been with those other men or not. So I quit with him -- it got to be too much. I needed someone gentler and more considerate, less fretful, less demanding. And that was when you walked into my life and changed everything, sweetheart." "I'm glad," I said. What else could I say? She was circling something. I waited for her to pounce. "Nadine told me that's a primal animal reflex in males. Because fear and desire and possessive hostility all conflict, making for a crazy mix inside them of horniness and jealousy. Because our species descended from two different kinds of primate with two different sets of instinctsm she says. Some men have more of one kind than the other." I nodded. An intellectual exercise like this at bedtime was tolerable, if it led to more physical things eventually. It seemed likely. She paused, and then folded her hands on the book still in her lap. "Nadine says there are monkeys where males and females choose each other and then stay monogamous, like us, or like we try to be. They even share all household chores, like raising babies." She smiled at that. I smiled back. "But there are also the great apes, she says, where males fight each other for access to all the females, and the biggest are the ones most attractive to the females and the others get the leftovers." "I suppose," I said. Where was this going? "The lesser males accept the situation. They have to. They feel competitive, but they know that if they fight a bigger male they'll get torn limb from limb. So all of the males feel pleased to yield their mates up to the bigger male." "Adultery City," I said, still trying to keep it light. "Well, that's what jealousy is in men, according to Nadine. An instinct to defend your access to a mate you've supposedly chosen for life, the way the monogamous monkeys do, yet a fear of inadequacy and a readiness to yield her the better man. To the biggest ape. Even more, not just a readiness, a desire to yield her. To survive by offering her to him. Nadine says men get off on that desire. That's why it blows their minds. They can't accept how they feel, it makes them crazy." I had nothing to say to that. "We try to be monogamous, but some men are simply more attractive and all women know it. They want a reliable partner who'll help around the house, so they marry old Joe. Then they have affairs with the strong, attractive guys. Old Joe can't do anything about it, so he learns to ignore it or accept it. Even feel aroused by it." This was not the most reassuring lesson in cultural anthropology I'd ever heard. I knew what she was saying, but I didn't want to and didn't know why she was saying it. I just sat there quietly on the side of the bed and waited. She sometimes got like this when she was relaxed, lecturing. Also when she was planning something. "They're conflicting instincts, to fight your rival or surrender to him. To lust for battle or lust to be defeated, Nadine says. Men can't help it. She says that knowing this, she can break almost any man's case if he's trying to divorce his wife for adultery. She can make him crazy enough so eventually he'll sign anything. If the wife's her client and is willing to aggravate his jealousy, she can awaken in the husband so much perverse eroticism that he's fucked up utterly." I turned now to look at Cassie. "Cassandra," I said. My voice was grave. "What are you driving at?" "Your happiness, sweetie," she answered. "Because I do love you so very much." And her eyes told me that was the simple truth. She took my hand in both of hers, and rested them on the coverlet. "Honey, let me ask you a little more directly. Don't you ever feel even the teensiest, weensiest bit jealous when you see me flirting with some other man? Fearful of your own inadequacy? Don't you feel some sort of twisted fight or flight reflex in your tummy? Even though you're sure of me, sure that no man will ever get anywhere with me, and you pity them, and you're annoyed with them, and you're proud of me, and you're glad that I'm having fun, and all that, all those things you've mentioned? Don't you also feel stirred by the possibility that I might actually be unfaithful to you? Excited by the possibility? Sexually, I mean? Doesn't it make you hard? Isn't that why you love to masturbate to the idea?" We'd never talked about this. Our devotion to each other, our faith in each other's fidelity were so sacred that jealousy was unmentionable, by mutual consent off limits. To confess jealousy implied self-doubt, vulnerability, weakness. Accusation. Cassie was looking at me now with her classic concerned expression, earnest and appraising, yet also with a hint of amusement in the set of her lips and the corners of her eyes. Did she know something I didn't? I tried to see if she was more deeply concerned about something not yet mentioned, since she was looking directly at me and I could see everything. I saw nothing. Yet I already felt that familiar sharp twist in the belly, a fear that she was about to confess to an affair, to a little lapse, that she'd slept with someone else. That she'd found me inferior. That some other man's cock had been inside her and she preferred him. Repeatedly. Lots of different men's cocks. That she was an eager cock slut. That she's forgotten to mention it to me, but months ago she'd accepted a position as Company Whore, that for months her cunt had been the drooling property of every man in the building and every out-of-town visitor! That she could never get enough. Oh, God, no! What mad fantasies! I saw nothing unusual in Cassie's face. I decided not to see anything unusual. I swallowed. We were always honest with each other. She'd specifically asked for honesty. "Jealous. Am I jealous about you and other men? Yes, sometimes," I said. Another long silence. "Can you explain that? Say a little more?" Now her voice was low, coaxing, as if she were talking about something terribly important, but talking to a small child who might easily get frightened. I tried to explain. "Sometimes when you flirt back, you get so intense. Your eyes sparkle and your whole body gets so eager it seems to glow. You look so incredibly desirable! You kind of concentrate on the man as if you were so deeply attracted you want him to take you away and bed you down right then." I was going to add that I knew of course that she wasn't attracted. But the fact is, at times I didn't know. There was that Christmas party at the Country Club for example, when she looked so incredibly gorgeous as always, so lively, and she danced with so many different men that I lost sight of her for an hour or so. Other wives seemed to be coming on to me as if to distract me while their husbands were screwing Cassie, as if they wanted to even the score by screwing me. And because I had to parry them politely I couldn't break away and go looking for Cassie. Toward the end of the evening I was sure, almost sure, despairingly sure, that she'd already gone off with someone else who even at that moment was twisting her whole body onto his ten inch dick. That I'd be going home alone. I relived that terrible moment. Again my heart felt squeezed by the anguish of losing her. Cassie was watching my face closely, and saw, and relented for a moment. "Oh, sweetie," she said. "You look so pained! But I just told you, and it's true, it's true! I'll never leave you, never!" Then as if to distract me, she added, "You say, 'him'. Suppose it isn't a 'him' I'm attracted to but a 'her'?" I suddenly relaxed. "You, flirting with another woman? I've never thought of that. I've never seen it!" She was teasing! Maybe all along? "You never noticed? Oh, baby, you can't be that naive! Women flirt differently, that's all. We have lesbians in our office. I flirt with them sometimes. And they flirt back if so inclined, we both enjoy the give and take. There's a certain special shimmering satisfaction when you feel attractive to another woman. Men don't feel that way about other men I suppose. Or maybe only gay men do." "I suppose," I said. "Women do feel more free to be affectionate, to hug and kiss each other and so on. Men don't dare." "They should dare," Cassie said. "They're missing out!" Was this what she wanted? For me to start an affair with a man?! "But all right then, Hal, let's go back to those times when my eyes sparkle and my body is sending messages to some man, and you're feeling jealous. Tell me about it. What's inside the jealousy?" I sat silent. Maybe if I kept to the surfaces? I was getting terribly uncomfortable. I sensed that there were things here I didn't want to know, nor for her to know. "Anger," I said finally. "Maybe. A little." "Toward the other man or toward me? "Toward the other man, if he seemed to be my equal, someone I could take in a knock down drag out battle for your affections. Like one of your apes. I'd never do it, of course, he might be your best client, you'd never forgive me." "Never anger toward me?" "Never, sweetie." It seemed strange. I wondered why not. Men murder their wives on suspicion of adultery. Because they're afraid to take on their rival? That answer pleased her. "My cave man," she smiled. Then she leaned toward me, her eyes alert. "But what if the man isn't your equal, honey. What if he's obviously stronger, taller, more self-assured, more powerful? Richer, cleverer, more handsome?" She paused. "Better hung, with a much bigger cock, men always worry about that? A really heavy package? What if you thought that if I danced just once with him when he was aroused and rubbed my belly against him just once, I'd never want to dance with you again. How would you feel then?" I tried to swallow but my throat was dry . She wanted honesty. Honesty hurt. I tried to stall. "Honey, why are you asking these ...?" "Just answer me," she said abruptly, as if I were under cross-examination. Her voice ripped through my feeble evasion. 'I must be cruel to be kind,' popped into my head irrelevantly. Othello said that just before he strangled Desdemona in an insane fit of jealousy. Insane or deceived? This was cruel. How is she being kind? My answer? I knew how I'd feel. I felt it at that moment. Vulnerable. Lost. Desolated. Inadequate. Helpless. I said finally. "I'd feel terribly vulnerable. Inadequate." I paused. "Helpless, hopeless. Impotent," I added, near tears. "Terribly alone." She leaned back now. Did I see pity in her eyes now? Was it compassion? No, it was pity. And something worse? I looked away. "Only a little more now, baby. Please bear with me. You're doing fine. I know it hurts. So, what I understand is, if you saw me flirting with someone you knew was more desireable than you, more of a man, you'd cope by quitting? You wouldn't fight? You'd give me up to him even before there was any reason? As if you'd already lost me?" I couldn't look up at her. She was right. I was ashamed to confess it, but I already had. I wasn't a great ape, I was a lesser ape. A trusting monkey. I wouldn't fight, I'd turn belly up. Because I'd know that married or not, Cassie's affections are her own, not mine. That I can't commandeer them. That any woman can betray any man if she chooses, let the Great Ape beget all her babies and Old Joe help her rear them if he was willing to settle for sloppy seconds. That all men are powerless. That Cassie could love me at all had always seemed to me inexplicable. No more so than at that moment. "Yes," I said. What a terrible admission! "If you thought he was a better man, and you were attracted to him, I'd give you up to him. It would be humiliating. I'd try to feel happy for you. But what else could I do?" She ignored my question and again tried to ease me out of my misery. Was she joking? "Suppose it was a woman? Then you couldn't compete at all, could you?" Now I could barely speak. "No," I whispered. "I couldn't. Not with a woman. Not if you preferred a woman." "You'd feel the same way? Impotent? Inadequate?" Why was she tormenting me? She'd just told me she'd love me forever, and confessions like that from Cassie are rare! "Yes. Maybe." "Ashamed too? Because your manhood was somehow compromised?" "Maybe. Maybe not." "So under either circumstance you'd likely give me up without a struggle?" "I'd have to, wouldn't I?" "Even though you love me?" "Yes," I said. Where was this going? Had I lost her? Was she preparing me for an ultimate announcement? But she'd begun by reassuring me that she loves me, and that positively, absolutely, she could never leave me! I felt bewildered! "Because I couldn't compete anyhow." Then I said defensively, "And also because I love you." She picked up this last idea and continued calmly. "Yes, there's love, isn't there? Because you love me, you'd feel I deserve someone better than you, isn't that right? You'd want me to have someone better than you. That would be your gift of love to me. You'd console yourself with that noble idea, with your sacrificial devotion to me." Was she being playful? Was this serious? I'd been sitting slumped on the side of the bed for too long. I withdrew my hand from hers and turned, and got into bed. Slipped under the covers alongside her and leaned back on my pillow. Then turned and studied her face. I still couldn't make out anything. She was nearly inexpressive. I tried to regain a semblance of dignity. "That's right," I said. "I'd feel nobly sacrificial." "So if you found out somehow that I was having sex with someone more desireable than you, not just flirting but actually going to bed with him, enjoying sex with him, what you'd feel is not anger but emptiness, loss, sorrow, humiliation, and maybe also a kind of nobility." "Yes. I suppose." I felt like a fool, saying that. "Oh honey, I'm so sorry, I really don't want to hurt you, but I need to go on. I love you. No matter what else, I'll never leave you. I know that! You know that too, don't you?" I swallowed. I could, just barely. "Yes. I do." I did, but somehow it didn't help. "I hope I do." "Well, remember it. Now a terribly painful question, baby! Please, tell me the truth! This sorrow. This humiliation. Would it be a sweet sorrow? An eager humiliation? A satisfying agony? Maybe you'd feel ashamed that you couldn't keep me, couldn't keep the woman you love, and maybe you'd also feel somehow glad that I'd found someone better? Because that's what you want for me? Is that it so far?" 'Because that's what I want for her'? Talk about a trick question? But it was true. And honorably true. I did love her. She does deserve the best. The better man should win! "I guess," I said as we both lay back on our pillows. Now I was staring at the ceiling. "Yes." "So the more I fucked him the more justified you'd feel that you'd given me up to him?" Her voice was now inquiring carefully. "You'd be humiliated that you weren't man enough for me, but also glad for me, that I'm better off, better fucked?" I was silent now. "Happier, for my sake, because you'd knew I was feeling happiness you couldn't provide? Happy to be sacrificing your pleasure for mine?" No more commitments. It was too dangerous. "I guess," I said. "Maybe." And that was all. I was now cold sober and serious. What was this interrogation about? What was she about to tell me? "When you saw me embracing someone else it would bring you a terrible but also a terribly deep satisfaction, so complete you can't describe it? An irresistible desire to see more? You'd want it to stop but you'd want it to go on and on?" I had no reply. I couldn't reply. My throat was closed. "You'd feel ashamed but also aroused? Joyous? It would confirm your own inadequacy, it would take you out of the running, you'd be free of a terrible imperative to fight for your woman? And you'd take your cock in hand and jerk off in desperation but also for joy?" "Maybe," I said with enormous reluctance. I could imagine such a situation, my wife enclosed in the arms of another man, someone stronger, more confident, more commanding, with his far bigger prick thrust deep inside her as -- in an ecstatic trance -- she slid slowly up and down on it. I felt my balls shrivel, and a strange, terrible sweetness did indeed invade the pit of my stomach. I'd felt it often enough before, when I'd realize that Cassie was replaying certain phone messages several times. I'd think she was actually considering those men's offers! Then I'd feel that same anguished twist of ecstasy, and I'd masturbate. She'd even told me to! I had to be honest with this woman. I'd sworn to be. "Maybe?" she asked. "My God, Cassie! Yes! Yes!" And I actually began to cry. I felt torn open. I couldn't help it. "It's terrible, sweetie, isn't it? You want me to be unfaithful even though you dread it!" She was nodding in sympathy, but she made no move to touch me, to console me. "Yes!" I sobbed the word, struggling to regain control. "Because that's the way you are. That's the way all men are. More often than we think. Only the biggest apes aren't." "Yes. Oh, Cassie, please don't!" But she was relentless. "Imagine me naked in some hotel room somewhere, astride some muscular stud with his penis already deep inside me, slowly rotating my pelvis so I can feel how full I am, how packed tight, how unfamiliar that feeling is after the kind of sex you've been giving me. He thrusts himself in deep again and again, and he seizes my hips with his powerful hands and lifts and lowers me on that grand cock over and over and finally plunges it so far in I can't breathe and he spurts and spurts strong sperm into my cunt that race to beget his baby in my womb for you to raise for him! And I love it! Because though I love you, he's superior to you in every way." Suddenly, with a quick, delicate twist of her thin wrist, she wriggled her hand under the covers and reached for the penis now standing stiff under my short nightshirt. And grasped it gently but firmly. "Yes," she said. "You do want that, don't you? Look at you! You're as hard as you've ever been, aren't you?" Did she sound amused? Could I deny it? "Yes!" I said Without releasing her grip on my cock she put her other hand on my cheek and turned my head and kissed me softly on the lips. "Sweetheart, I know," she said, her voice sounding re-assuring. "I've always known, because we're so very close, because we're one person, really! I'd never ask you to confess something so hurtful to your ego if I didn't already know. You know the rule, every lawyer knows it, never ask anyone anything unless you already know the answer. I know you've been there." "Yes," I said again, helplessly, mindlessly. "I have a confession to make. I want you to feel that sweet torment, that terrible ecstasy. That twisted delight. I've flirted where you could see, and I've teased you deliberately. You may think the erotic excitement aroused when you think I'm fucking someone else is perverse, unmanly. But you shouldn't, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's like this erection, undeniable. It's just the way men are. And I want you to feel that deep joy, so powerful it feels like an orgasm. It's one of the sweetest, most intimate, saddest, most joyful, most glorious emotions a man can ever feel, if he can only allow himself to submit to it. Isn't it?" I had no answer. My eyes filled with tears, and inside her grip my cock lurched agreement. Her hand tightened. "That's why I encourage men to call me where you can hear, and encourage them to sound as provocative as they are, so you can torment yourself about how I'm responding to them. So you can indulge all your sweet jealous fears to your heart's content. So you can enjoy my illicit affairs even when I'm being absolutely faithful to you." I didn't know what to say. I couldn't say anything. I nodded mindlessly. It was so bizarre and yet so very real. "It is sweet, isn't it? The idea of losing me to someone more attractive? Because inside that sense of loss, of helplessness, of shame, is a delight you've never previously acknowledged, isn't there? You've jerked off to it, but never admitted it! Until now? Isn't that right?" I had nothing to say. My face began to clench as again I fought back more tears. "But now you can confess those feelings to me, my darling! To the one woman who loves you more than anyone or anything else in the whole world. Who will never leave you. Say it. You do fantasy me in bed having sex with other men, haven't you. You've been there in your imagination, standing by helplessly and watching as they stroke themselves into me and out of me, watching me writhe under them, hearing me moan aloud as their cocks stretch my pussy wider with each stroke. You've seen things like this in your mind's eye, haven't you? Whenever you've masturbated, and other times too?" And she took my cheek in the palm of each hand, and kissed me again on my mouth, then looked into my face with those wide, concerned eyes of hers and added, "And the idea was always arousing, wasn't it?" She glanced down at my crotch. "You've stroked yourself to climax with it countless times. You've loved it, haven't you? You love it even now." Oh, God! I looked into her eyes and I couldn't deny it. She had her hand on the evidence! "Y ... yes!" I confessed. "Yes!" again, in a pitiable squeal. I almost began to cry again, but with a single shoulder spasm I managed to get it under control. "Often?" she asked. "Do you imagine me that way often?" "Yes, sweetheart." Then I don't know why I asked it, "Can you forgive me?" "There's nothing to forgive, sweetheart. It means you love me. It means you know I'm desireable and desiring. I love you for that. But mostly I love you right now because you're so strong. I'm so proud of you! Because you're able to confess such a terrible thing to me. Because you're man enough to tell me you sometimes feel like less than a man, much less, and that you can enjoy it. That you can find happiness by sacrificing your manhood to my happiness. It's appealing, isn't it, that feeling? Awful, yet glorious? Arousing? Masturbating to the rhythms of another man fucking me? Tell me the truth!" I was silent. She took both my hands and looked deep into my eyes. "I know the answer. Tell me anyhow, sweetheart." A sob escaped me, then another. "Yes, Cassie! I'm sorry!" Now I really felt devastated! "Ahhh!" she said. "My dearest! And that's not the worst, is it? When we're through, when the man has squirted his sperm into me and I'm no longer whimpering and shrieking in delight at the size of his cock, you sometimes feel a deep need to abase yourself even further, don't you? To bow down and surrender to the superior man, to prove that you only want to serve him and his new woman, the wife he's taken from you. So you fantasize even more, don't you?" I just stared. "You want to surrender yourself utterly to both of us," she said. And waited. Nothing. "To assure me and my lover that there's no resentment. That you're satisfied, maybe even grateful." No reply. "Tell me how!" she said sharply. "When you imagine this, what do you do? Where do you put your face?" In a small voice, I said, "I lick your pussy. I suck his cum out of your pussy." And then I fell silent. "Ahhhhh!" she said. As if I'd just done just that. "And what else?" Again sternly, waiting. "What establishes utterly that you are no longer a man? No way competitive with a real man. Tell me what you do next!" In a nearly inaudible voice I said, "His cock. You tell me to suck his cock. So I ... suck it." I was now beyond feeling anything. "Yes!" she said, finally satisfied. "You surrender to an urge to suck the cock of the man who cuckolds you. To placate him, to submit yourself utterly to him. You imagine it's because I ask you to, and you want to please me. But it's really because you want to. Because that's how a man surrenders his manhood to another man." There was a long pause. "Yes!" she said again. She was savoring my confession in her mind. Then she began talking almost to herself, almost as if I weren't there. "How about imagining me with a woman? Our two bodies sixty-nining, her face in my honey pot, my face in hers? That never occurred to you? That wouldn't be as tormenting I suppose, because then there's no competitive challenge, no threat to your masculinity. Oh, to your male ego maybe, but not to your manhood. Men never measure their egos, but they're always taking the measure of each other's manhood, testing each other. But no man can possibly measure up when a woman desires another woman, can he? He's out of the running. And it's just as well. No contest, no defeat." She looked at me, knowing I couldn't deny it. "No erotic excitement. No masturbation." I still tried to control myself, but my breathing was constricted. How could Cassie ever respect me now? I was a self-confessed fantasy cumsucking, cocksucking wimp. A sick deviant. She pretended not to notice. Instead, she leaned over to kiss me again on the lips. "Thank you, sweetheart, for your honesty," she said. "I know this wasn't easy. You're so very precious to me! I knew all this, or anyhow I guessed it, but I wanted you to know I knew so you'd never deny it to me or yourself, and never feel ashamed of it. To enjoy it! To imagine me in the arms of other men as often as you like, to play with the idea as you play with your penis, and learn to love it! Goodnight, sweetheart. I do love you, I do! Don't worry. No matter what, you won't ever lose me." She reached down and squeezed my boner once, affectionately, and then she turned away and put her book on the nightstand, and turned out her light. And as I lay there staring at her in the dark, she settled in to sleep as though there'd been no conversation between us at all. There'd be no lovemaking tonight after all? Her interrogation was over? Not mine. I felt fully awake. And I still had this incredible erection! When I recovered my ability to speak, I asked huskily, "Cassie, what was all this about? Why did you do this to me?" "For your own good," she said she said quietly in the dark. "Because I love you so very dearly that I want you to be able to accept and enjoy everything your heart can feel, to the very depths of your being. Even to enjoy feeling humiliated. Everything that can possibly make you happy I want for you. And I mean to see that you have it. No matter what." Oh God, do I understand her? Is this where she was going? "Cassandra, no! Please, God, no! Do you mean ...?" "No more tonight, darling," she murmured in reply. "This has been difficult for both of us, and I have two court cases tomorrow. But think about everything you've just told me, all those fantasies, and imagine they're actually happening. You have my permission to masturbate if you want to. You've certainly earned it!" And in a moment her breathing was regular. I lay there. She was right! I still had a raging erection! Just from what she'd forced out of me! From the fact that she knew and approved, even loved me for confessing these sick jealousies, these degenerate fantasies! The ultimate submission of my manhood was an idea she found arousing, and it certainly aroused me! I wondered for a moment whether I actually should, whether I should grab a few toilet tissues and jerk off helplessly while imagining (oh God!) that there was some other man in our bed, his hips pumping up and down on hers, hers writhing beneath his, the two of them humping each other while her throat made strange singing noises I'd never heard before and I just lay there next to them listening and masturbating. I couldn't resist. I took hold of my cock and wrapped it in toilet tissues and pulled on it while trying hard not to wake her up. I had her permission! She wanted me to do it, she'd said so! Oh, God! More! Humping! I saw her, my beautiful Cassie, her mouth feverish on that man's mouth, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, her heels dug into his back, her hips rolling and heaving under his ...! I spurted and spurted and spurted! And as I softened and wiped myself, I spurted yet again. And realized I'd been making soft, mewling sounds all through my whole orgasm. Had she heard? I glanced at her. She was smiling slightly, as often when she slept. Her breathing seemed the same. Apparently she was still asleep. There was more to the fantasy. If I were to take this man's cock in my mouth (unthinkable!), what would his cum taste like? Cassie knew, she'd taken mine into her mouth often enough. But I hadn't. I'd sucked on Cassie's twat for hours before we made love, sometimes just to please her, to make her feel good while she did other things. As foreplay. But never after we made love -- it seemed somehow ... perverted. But now here was cum on my fingers. Cum from that man who'd just fucked my wife. I put them into my mouth and licked them. Salty, sticky, lightly honeyed. I thrust my fingers in and out a few times to coat my lips, puzzling out the strange taste. Now I was finger-fucking cum into my own mouth. God, how twisted can you get! I didn't dare open my eyes to see if Cassie was awake after all and witnessing my self-degradation. As I then started to doze, my loins spent, empty, I entered into a strange reverie. There was a girl in a black slip kneeling between my darling wife's legs with her face deep in my darling's crotch. Maybe one of those women she'd described nursing at her honey pot. My beautiful Cassie stroked her hair affectionately, and at last clutched that woman's head tightly to her quim and arched her back and screamed and screamed in sheer joy! And she was right! The idea of a woman doing my wife wasn't threatening at all. In fact thinking about Cassie with another woman brought on another stiffie! Half asleep, I grabbed it and pumped myself again, this time avoiding another imaginary cuckolding by an imaginary man. I imagined instead that I was that girl in the black slip, eagerly pleasuring my gorgeous wife with my mouth and sleeping in her bed every night. No matter where my wife went otherwise or with whom, she always returned to me, because I wasn't a man, I was a woman, so I couldn't be measured against any of the many men she fucked. I was different. And I knew how to go down on her because I was a woman myself. Soft and warm, and my breasts were so heavy .... Again I came, this time directly into the sheets! This time altogether exhausted, I fell asleep in the puddle. ********** In the morning my prick was too spent to use. It barely stirred when Cassie woke up and kissed me with much gr