The Cuckold's Princess, Prt 2: The Plot To Bed Lori. free porn video

I hated deceiving Lori but it was the only way my fantasy was ever going to happen. Making my dream a reality would take planning, subterfuge and — yes —lies. And if she ever found out I’d been online and arranged for some stranger to seduce her... Let's put it like this: there would be hell to pay. But it was a risk I was more than happy to take. Setting it up behind her back was my only option.

Watching the footage of her with Tom and Vince had given me an itch that wouldn’t let me be. The knowledge of what she had allowed tormented me for weeks. I was a man obsessed. I would lie awake at night with the grandad of all erections, tossing and turning while imagining Lori in the arms of another man. In my mind, he was some fabulously improbable alpha male whom she would surrender to gladly in the same way she had to Tom and Vince. He would take his time. He would fuck her relentlessly, hour after hour.

It was when the images began to plague my waking hours that I knew I needed to take action. If only for my sanity’s sake, I was determined to see my fantasy lived out.

I convinced myself that if I could get her part of the way down that road, overcome the professional persona of up-tight respectability that she had assumed over the last few years as a Clinical Psychologist, then maybe — just maybe — she would be carried along by the sweep of events. No matter how much she might deny it, I knew that deep down Lori would enjoy the experience as much I wanted to see it. After all, I had seen how she had revelled in the attention Tom and Vince lavished on her.

But I knew such circumstances never just happen, that they have to be manufactured, that I would have to be proactive. And not just me, whoever I chose for Lori would have to be an extraordinary person to get his cock between her legs. Only someone exceptionally handsome would have a cat in hell's chance of bedding Lori. He would need to be inordinately articulate, a person who could overwhelm her with his confidence and his charm.

I placed an online add in the hope of attracting such a man.

The header screamed my need:

                                      Ever wanted to fuck a princess?
                                      Articulate, extraordinarily handsome
                                      male required to seduce
                                      my twenty-seven-year-old —
                                      Princess Araminta lookalike — wife.

 But I’d also qualified the above header, was sure I’d made it clear I didn’t want some average looking guy to come round to our house and fuck her in our marital bed, me looking on. No, no, no! Lori would never go for that. I knew it like I knew the sun would rise tomorrow that the Lori of today would never allow herself to be used by a stranger in such a pornographic manner.

And I made this all clear in the ad I placed. Or so I thought. I quickly discovered I had failed on that score, that I had not put off the idiots, the chancers, the insanely optimistic. It took me three evenings to read through the replies that swamped my inbox. I would sneak away to the home-office whenever I had time and study them carefully.

Looking at their photos, reading their drivel, I nearly lost the will to live. Out of almost two-hundred respondents, it seemed only three or four had English as their first language — well, that is how it appeared. Very few showed any understanding of what kind of man I required. And I swear! I never want to see another snapshot of an erect cock as long as I live. Sometimes I despair of my fellow man.

In comparison to all the others, Marcus was an anomaly. From his first email and photo, I sensed his extra-ordinariness. Later, both Lori and I were to become captivated by his indefinable charisma, his depth of soul, and not least, his blatant sex appeal. As soon as I saw his image I knew he was the one. In fact, he looked too good to be true: inordinately handsome, even his digital image projected an air of suave confidence. He was one in a million, the perfect example of unadulterated masculinity.

Even so, I was still suspicious. The resume he’d emailed me too perfect, his photo too compelling. But I knew if the man in the images really were him, Lori would find Marcus hard to resist. He said he was thirty-six but looked younger. A set-square jaw and dirty blond hair, short at the sides but with more on top and parted on the left. His smiling face radiated a Mad Men chic, an old-time movie star glamour. Six-four in his socks, he said, but that was hard to verify from his photo. He claimed to be a journalist for some Sunday broadsheet. I wasn’t sure about that either, though his written English was succinct, faultless.

After exchanging emails, he and I met. He said he lived in London, a hundred miles from us, and so I arranged our assignation mid-week in the bar of a Steakhouse, the one next to the Travel Lodge in Dedbury, the one just off the bypass. I went alone — a sort of interview I suppose.

His photo had not misrepresented him. Immaculately groomed, he dressed with understated flair and carried himself with unhurried certainty, though without a trace of arrogance I might add. He had the air of a man who knew what he was about, projected the air of someone who had worked hard to get what he wanted in life and understood that no one could take it from him.

He already knew what I required of him, but on his insistence, I elaborated. There was something about him that drew out my most intimate feelings. Typically, like most blokes, I don't do heart-on-my-sleeve, but with Marcus I found myself telling him about Tom's video and how it had set a giant snowball of lust rolling downhill, how watching it had stoked a yearning in me that was threatening to affect my day to day functioning.

He listened patiently as I once again emphasised how this couldn’t be some sordid swinger’s romp, that I wanted him to woo her, make her almost fall in love with him. I said too much, told him my need to see this happen had become an obsession, that it was consuming my waking hours, filling my nights with depraved dreams.

I handed him my phone and let him browse the selection of photos I had installed of Lori. After a couple of years, the fuss of Araminta settled and Lori had resumed her natural look. She is a tall, slim, elegant brunette, her shoulder-length hair strangled into a plait but set free at weekends and holidays. Her eyes are blue-grey, flecked with emerald, eyes that sparkle with life. Her mouth is generous and full, a sensuous mouth that smiles readily for those she regarded as friends.

Marcus had previously seen only one photo of Lori. It was one of her in her bikini taken last year when we visited Goa. I’d attached it to an email.  Lori, beautiful and carefree, smiling widely for only me. God! She would have divorced me if she knew I’d sent a picture of her to some stranger on the internet. During our marriage, she had become a very private person, almost paranoid in her mistrust of strangers. But that is hardly surprising considering the work she did as a clinical psychologist that meant prison visits, her clients being the dregs of society; her endless succession of sessions with murderers, rapists, paedophiles, the criminally insane.

Marcus spent a long time with the photos, swiping back and forth, scrutinising each in turn. Finally, he handed back my phone saying, “There is no need for me to tell you that your wife is an exceptionally beautiful woman, Jonathan, but I think you are insane to ask me to do this.”

“So you’re up for it then?”

“Of course. I would not be here now if I weren’t.” He looked through the photos again. “You certainly didn't exaggerate. Your wife’s resemblance to Lady Araminta is uncanny. Often a likeness to the famous is superficial, but your wife resemblance to Araminta is unnerving. More so than I could ever have hoped." Then to himself rather than to me, “Put her in the right clothes and tweak her hair—”

He broke off his sentence as if he had said too much. That must have been the moment the seed of everything that later transpired pushed its head to the surface.

He handed back my phone, and we shook hands over the table, him saying, “It’s an honour and pleasure to be helping you out, Jonathan.”

By the time we parted, I was shocked to see that three hours had passed. During that time Marcus told stories about himself, his travels to exotica locations, his assignments to regions too dangerous for most westerners to venture. His recanting of his six months embedded as a reporter with the British Arm in Anharastan had me spellbound, left me in awe of him.
                                                                  
Back home, I thought of how he had called me insane, how he'd obviously thought I'd lost the plot. Who knows, perhaps I was insane. I’d spent many sleepless nights wondering if I really did have the strength to see this through to the end, to actually sit there and watch another man push his cock into my wife. I would run the scene over and over in my mind: his buttocks rising and falling while her knees pulled back, her heels pressing into the base of his spine, her arms around him pulling him close.

Lori is a gorgeous, intelligent, kind and conscientious woman. If you were to meet her you would be hard pressed to picture her as the teenage slut I had come to realise she once was. Until I viewed that footage, I often had to pinch myself, unable to believe that she had chosen me to spend her life with. Back then, when I saw another man looking at her, desiring her, undressing her with their eyes... Well, it made me feel like a king. I would inwardly gloat for possessing someone so beautiful, someone they would never have, my very own princess.

I thought I'd married above myself. After all, I was just a boy from a terraced street in Bromwich, both parents semi-skilled factory workers. Making a catch like Lori Westbrook, a girl from the shires, whose girlhood was all ponies and ballet classes, was as massive a shock to me as it was to her parents.

Growing up Lorri had lacked for nothing. She had attended an exclusive girl’s school until going up to Oxford. As for me, I was the local boy made good, the scholarship pupil who had a talent for numbers. I came home from university with a first class economics degree and the most gorgeous girl at Cambridge on my arm.

But even now, when we go to her parents at Christmas I’m still never sure which piece of cutlery I am supposed to use on which course. And it wasn’t until I landed my executive position at Baker and Hawkshead that her parents grudgingly excepted me as a success, someone worthy of their daughter. All the same, I still feel like a fish out of water when we visit.

I told Marcus all kinds of stuff about Lori, about her being a newly qualified clinical psychologist, now working in one of the countries high-security prisons, and how she was inordinately ambitious. I told him about the stuff she liked, what interested her, reeling off a list of her favourite movies and books. Lori also loves adventure sports. She’s tried her hand at most things; Kayaking, climbing, potholing, skiing. I knew the gods were with me when it turned out they had an interest in common. Her favourite activity just then was scuba diving. Marcus said he often dived. He went on to tell me about his recent diving expedition to the Caribbean in search of lost Spanish gold. Perfect they had shit in common.

I promised to email Marcus nearer the day to let him know what she was reading, so he could impress her. I warned him it would be probably something very literary — she loves pretentious stuff like that does my Lori. He said that was all great, that the homework I set him would be worth the effort if it helped bring about the end we both desired.

We planned that would come across each other as if accidentally, a fortuitous twist of fate. The hardest part, he had said, would be him getting the threshold of her suspicious nature. Dealing with criminals on a daily basis had given Lori a skewed perspective on humanity — males in particular — so I knew that having a stranger approach her out of the blue would cause her to shut down and put up the barricades. Marcus would need a compelling opening gambit for him to cross the threshold of her ever suspicious nature.

And so we came up with a scenario, invented a back story, a mixture of half-truth and reality. There were so many details to get right. And so over the next three weeks, we exchanged emails and thrashed it all out point by point. Eventually, we came up with a final draft, as it were, a story we hoped was watertight, one that covered every angle. I feared it would not be enough.

He would be waiting in the bar for our return, dressed in an off-white linen suit. You know the kind: tailoring harking back to the empire, the kind of thing foreign affairs correspondents sport when reporting back to the studio live from the rubble of some bombed out third world hovel. When I asked him why the fancy-dress, he said it would make him easier to spot — though there was no need as I would have recognised him anywhere. And so I told him his theatrics were unnecessary, that I thought he’d look ridiculous dressed like that. After all, it was London and not Czabul. But he said the look would give him kudos, pique Lori’s interest, disarm her. Women always found foreign correspondents fascinating, he said; the travel and the danger, they loved that shit, made them cream their panties, he said.

Once the details were thrashed out, he insisted I leave everything to him. He reassured me, said I was not to worry about a thing, that Abbi’s seduction was already a done deal, said she would be unable to resist him. Looking at his photos, I believed every word he spun me. He sold me my very own dream.
     
                                                  *************

She thought it was just one of our regular city breaks, one like all the others we have shared during our marriage. Three or four times a year we visit a different town. During the day we take in the architecture, the shops and galleries, and in the evening, in the bigger cities, it would be a show. That weekend I wanted it to be special: a five-star hotel in London, tickets for Hamilton, followed by a supper in a swanky West End restaurant.

And afterwards, the denouement of months of planning, I’d arranged for Marcus to be waiting in the hotel bar for when we returned from our night out.

After the meal we hailed a cab to take us back to the hotel. I held her hand as I rested my cheeks against the icy glass while watching the haze of lights slide by, and all the night people coming and going. The closer we got to the hotel the greater my excitement grew. Soon my nerves were at fever pitch. It was so hard not to say something, but I knew that if I even hinted at what was to come, as soon as Marcus made his move she would immediately understand and there would be a scene.  

During the weeks of my growing obsession, I had attempted to draw her into my fantasy world by dropping leaden hints, obliquely touched upon the fever now plaguing me. When making love, I tried dirty talking her into telling me how she would feel about me watching her with another man. Numerous times I tried to incorporate my blossoming peccadillo onto our sex life.

And we did have a vibrant sex life, were not coy with our desires. One time, after she had indulged me with her filthy talk and we had made love over and over, I looked into her eyes and asked her somberly if she really would ever let me watch her with another man. She held my gaze, her silence almost a revelation, while she considered my question. There was a new strangeness in her demeanour, one that told me she had not entirely dismissed the possibility.

Then smiling she said, “Maybe I would, Jonathan — in the right circumstances, and if I really, really fancied him. But never with some stranger from the internet, or in one of those clubs you go on about.”

And so on the big night itself, in the back of the cab with Lori, I was feeling confident as we sped back to our hotel after the show and meal. She held my hand, and I turned and looked her in the eyes and told her I loved her. She kissed my cheek, and I nuzzled my face against her neck and tasted her warm, soft skin, inhaled her dark rich scent.

After I had paid the cab fare, I took her hand and we stood side by side looking up at the illuminated facade of our hotel. For just a moment I saw a fairyland palace that promised a night of magic.

Inside, waiting for the lift, I casually suggested, “Let’s have a nightcap in the bar before we go up.”

“I’m tired,” she replied. I knew she was tired. It had been a long day.

“Just a quick one. Please?”

"If you really do want to..."  Her voice was gentle, her mind absent from her words.
                                  
When we walked into the bar hand in hand, I congratulated myself knowing that all my schemes were about to be fulfilled.

I spotted him immediately. He was sat on a stool at the bar keying his smartphone. There were not many other people about, just two couples by the window, and three Japanese men at the other end of the bar talking excitedly in their native language. Marcus did not turn to look at us as I steered Lori to a spot six feet from him. He paid us no heed at all, just continued to tap at his phone. It was hard for me not to look at him, acknowledge him in some conspiratorial way. I ordered drinks, A single malt for me, dry white for Lori.

With drinks in hand, we were about to find a table when unexpectedly he made his move. Two steps and he was beside us and offering me his hand: “Jonathan, Jonathan Wilson — isn’t it?”

I scrutinised his face as if I was trying to place him in my memory.

“Marcus! What are you doing in London? Last I heard you were giving them hell in New York.”  My voice cracked as I spoke. I felt transparent, obvious.

He did not answer. His eyes had settled on Lori. Immediately I saw how intensely he desired her.

It was now that the back-story Marcus and I had concocted began to play out. He was an associate from way back. I had worked with him a couple of years ago at the company’s Head office during my time in London. I knew Lori would recall that time in our lives. It had been hard for her with me working away from home during the week. We were still at that stage in our relationship when nothing but the other person had any importance. Newlywed, we missed each other terribly.

I explained to Lori who Marcus was, how the company had developed new software for the markets which was ready for release and how Marcus, as a journalist at the Financial Times back then, had been brought in write a feature. I had worked on the article with him for nearly two weeks.

“I don’t remember Jonathan mentioning you, Marcus,” Lori said, her eyes narrowing.

He fixed her intently with his eyes as he said, “Oh, Lori, Lori! I’m bereft. Jonathan told me so much about you — so much in fact that I always imagined if we were ever to meet we would already be dear friends.”

He had piqued her interest. Something had passed between them as they held each other's gaze. For me watching, it became a slow walk to the inevitable denouement, the death of a husband by a thousand pricks. As I witnessed that first shared moment between them, I felt the solidity of my reality undermined. I realised my marriage to Lori was built on a foundation of ice which was speedily cracking in the heat of Marcus's interest. I felt my old sense of certainty about Lori cracking apart beneath me. I was about to take a plunge, become immersed in a cold and sobering new reality.

He told her she was more beautiful than I had led him to believe, and just for a second she had lowered her gaze and stared at her feet like an embarrassed young girl uneasy in her blooming sexuality. Was she bushing! To see her rendered so fazed by his attention was a hammer blow to all my certainties. Was she so easily won? Was she, deep down, still the slut I had seen in action with Tom and Vince. At that moment she became a stranger to me. The way her eyes beamed for him was a dagger in my heart pushed hard and going deeper with every second that passed by. My head became shrouded in uncertainty, befuddled by disbelief. I was on the brink of passing out.

Then something snapped and I was back in the room with Marcus launching into our scripted past. And so we talked about our imaginary times together in London, while Lori looked on and sipped her drink. My emails had given so many names, old colleagues of mine from the London office, and now he breathed life into the NPCs of our script. I was utterly entranced by his eloquence, his enthusiasm.

He created a canvas of fictions of our time together in London that he recounted with anecdotal relish. His telling was Old Boy stuff, stories for some exclusive London Gentleman's club, and as he talked I began to wich the life he spoke was one that I had lived. It was then that I realised how committed he was to make this work. He had taken the names I had given him and fleshed them out, turned them into the living breathing people we needed them to be.

Memory is a strange thing. After a while I began half believing the anecdotes he came up with; there was a genius in their plausibility. I laughed with him over imaginary incidents, and we would interrupt each other to finish a line. He had the knack of making his words totally believable. So much so that I began to distrust my memory.

He turned to Lori and began to include her in our banter, little by little manoeuvring the conversation away from Baker and Hawkshead to quiz her about herself. Where did she work? What were her tastes in music and literature? He was sidelining me now. I had become an outsider, excluded from their subterranean intimacy. And though things were going as planned — far better than I had ever hoped — I found my self longing for an opening back into the conversation, so captivated had I become by his talk, his natural amiability.

But I stopped myself from interrupting, remembering that the only reason for us all being here was for me to watch him woo my wife. With a bitter-sweet pang, it hit me that the seduction was in full flow and that within the next few hours I might finally get to see Lori fucked by another man.

Lori was never one to feign interest in a person to be polite, and I was shocked at how quickly she had relaxed in Marcus’s company. Now she was nodding and smiling with genuine pleasure. He had set her at ease, had won her over in only fifteen minutes.

The space between the pair diminished until they faced each other separated by only inches. I watched the unfolding seduction like one might view a public execution; a terrible thing and yet so compelling. My cock grew uncomfortably swollen in my pants as the dance of intimacy they were engaged in picked up tempo.

I asked if they wanted another drink, but neither acknowledged the request. I turned away and ordered the same again. I paid and then left the glasses on the bar and went to the gents.

When I came out of the restroom five minutes later, on the far side of the room I saw him whispering in her ear. I imagined his breath moist on her flesh clouding the cold pearls that garlanded her smooth white neck. She laughed and I wondered if I was the butt of their joke. He saw me approaching. From over her shoulder, he winked at me. Then he smiled and I was proud of how we had pulled it off, this conspiracy of ours, this sexual plot, this gunpowder to blow my kingdom of marriage sky-high.

Soon we were the only ones left in the bar, the barman putting towels over the taps and dimming the lighting. Marcus drained his glass and said, “What about a nightcap in my room?” His eyes fixed on Lori's intently. A refusal was no longer an option for her.

She turned to me, and I saw her excitement. “It might be fun, Jonathan. You’re not tired are you?”

Marcus added. “I have a single malt that needs company.”

He reached out for her hand. She gave it to him without hesitation. I stood and watched them walk towards the door, saw that her hand remained in his, and it struck me how only thirty or so minutes ago it had been my hand that held hers when we entered.

As I have said previously, Lori is a tall, slim, elegant woman. In her heels, her five-eleven became over six foot, well on the way to matching Marcus’s six-three. I watched them make their way from the bar but was unable to follow. I stood frozen, could not step one inch, I remained dumbfounded watching them leave the room without me, shocked that she did not once turn to see if I was following behind. But I couldn’t help but admire the sight they made: the perfect, extraordinarily beautiful couple.

With an effort of will, I extracted myself from the quagmire of fear and headed off after them. I was relieved to see they held the door of the lift until I caught up. I saw a certain was look in their eyes as they watched me approach; it was as if I were some tiresome guest, one who etiquette dictated they entertain long into the night.

In the lift hand in hand. He whispered something and she smiled to herself, pleased by some new secret. And then her turning to him, her eyes seeking his. He said something else and I saw her understanding, her nodding once, her glad acquiescence. The lift slowed and she turned and looked at me as if only just realising I was still present, her expression saying: this is what you’ve always wanted isn’t it, Jonathan. I’m going to let him take me. I’m going to give myself to him, allow him to do anything he wants, anything all.

His room was one of the most expensive, situated on the top floor with panoramic views over Dockland and the Thames. Its opulence stunned me. I had seen the price of these rooms when I booked ours. It was the kind of room visiting heads of state might take, the aristocracy, the elite of the pop and film world, Arabs sheikhs or overturned African dictators. But at the time I did not think it odd what the expense implied, what it might say about Marcus. I was too preoccupied with other things just then.

Lori stood looking out of the large plate glass window that served as one entire wall of the room. I kept my distance, melting into the background to give them the space they needed. But even from where I sat in the depths of the room, I could see the lights of the city stretching away, enchant, bright.

He came with drinks, handing Lori hers first, them my tumbler of single malt. I expected him to return to Lori but just then he excused himself, saying he had a vital call to make. For a moment we were left alone. She came to me and sat on my knee and whispered, “He wants to make love to me, Jonathan. Is that okay? It's what you've always wanted.”

“What!" I tried to sound outraged. "He’s been coming on to you? He actually told you he wanted to make love to you. When was this?"

“In the bar. While you were in the gents.”

“Is that what he was whispering?”

“Yes.”

 Her words shocked me. I did expect her to be so brazen; it was almost as if she were gloating, so pleased with herself. I asked her, “He actually said those words, that he wanted to make love to you? Just like that?” I was obtuse, unbelieving. I repeated it once again, more for myself than for her. “He actually said, ‘I want to make love to you, Lori’?”

“Sort of... The words were, 'You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. I want you to make love to you, and it has to be tonight.”

“And what did you say?”

She took my hand and squeezed. “I told him I was a happily married woman."

And what did he say?"

"He just laughed, said he could see a need in me, and that I wanted him as much as he wanted me. He said if I was worried about you, he could arrange your removal from the picture.”

“Removal? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“She opened her purse and pulled out a small pill. “Marus said I was to slip this into your drink when we were back in our room; then I would be able to come to him when you were unconscious.”

I was genuinely shocked, hurt, even. I became uneasy, no longer sure  I trusted the man I had invited into our lives. “What did you say to that suggestion?” She looked embarrassed,  hesitated to speak. I insisted, “Tell me!”

The words struggled to leave her mouth “I... I said I wouldn’t have to drug you. But I would have to speak to you first.”

“Didn't he think it strange that you wanted to ask my permission?”

"More amused, so I told him that you have this thing, that you want to watch me with a new lover.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said he didn't mind — if we I didn't mind.”

"Do you mind me watching?"

"It'll be strange, but I really want this. There's something about Marcus..."

“Is he the one then?”

“The one?”

“You know... The one that if the circumstances were right then you just might?”

“Is that okay, Jonathan? It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it, to watch me with someone else?  So will it be okay if that someone is Marcus?”

Her eyes betrayed her fear I might refuse. It cut me to see the degree to which she needed this to happen. She wanted it more than I ever thought she might. I suppose I had never really believed she would come to this enthusiastically, really desiring it for her on pleasure. In my mind she would have been doing it for only me; reluctantly, selflessly, to please just me.

I eased her up from off my knee and stood up myself and held her to me. We kissed for a moment, her tongue pleasing me. After our kiss, I asked, “It's settled then?”

She nodded.

“And no regrets. Right?”

“No regrets. I do love you, Jonathan.”

“I know. I love you too. I always will, no matter what.”

At the sound of Marcus returning, Lori took a sharp intake of breath. He apologised for leaving us, said it was business that could not wait. He followed Lori as she moved away from me and back to her previous spot by the window. They stood together and began to talk about scuba diving. He was telling her of his trip to the Carribean, the dives he’d made while out there, the artefacts they had brought to the surface. I sipped my malt while only half listening to their talk, savouring the warmth of the drink and allowing it to spread through my veins. A comforting glow suffused me, soothing my agitation. All pre-performance nerves now evaporated. The show had begun.

A sense of euphoria washed over me as I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to their voices, low, soft, intimate. Soon I was unable to hear their actual words, but the sound of their conversation, its cadence and tone, was pure sex, full of secret expectation. Imaging what they might be saying excited me more than the most explicit words ever could have.

I opened my eyes again and saw them standing together looking out into the night. Their backs were to me, his large hand resting at the base of her spine, the spot where her flesh begins to be curved and ample. I watched his fingers travel down so that his palm cupped one of her buttock cheeks. He began to knead her plump flesh through her short, clinging cocktail dress. I imagined the curve of her cheeks beneath her dress and how it would feel to him as he slid the outer fabric over her sheer tights beneath. And all the time, his lulling words dismantling her long-abandoned defences. Oh, the power and charm in that interminable spinning of words.

Him turning her to him, her looking into his eyes. There was no hesitation, no thought of me. Then the kissing. There was so much tenderness in the way he held her. It was as if she were the most precious thing ever created and now entrusted to his care, forever to be cloistered in the constricting safety of his arms. I feared she would never be free of him, would from now on be his and would never return to me.

She responded to his kiss without restraint, her arms rising and circling him. My head filled with a dense incomprehension that threw all perspective into chaos. Their pressing bodies became shadowed by a deepening half-light as they stood and kissed for minutes on end, two become one silhouetted against the panorama of city lights beyond the window.

Then he let her be, told her to stay. He walked over to the bed while she obeyed, remaining at the window looking confused being abandoned so soon.

He sat on the edge of the bed and studied her for a moment, and then he turned and propped pillows up against the headboard and leaned back on them, stretching his legs out along the rich, dark red duvet.

When he had settled himself he commanded her, “Take off your clothes. I want to see how you move when you undress.”

She reached behind herself to unfastened the top hook of her dress. But she fumbled, her clumsiness threatening to dispel the moment.

Then his voice. “Jonathan, please be so good as to assist your wife.”

I put down the glass I was nursing, stood and was quickly behind her. I saw why she had struggled: the hook had snagged. My hands shook. I had to focus hard through a deepening alcoholic muddle to get the bloody thing undone. When it was free, I found the zip-head and slid it all the way down to the base of her spine. I peeled fabric from her chilling shoulder and pulled it down to her hips where it clung.  She wriggled and I tugged hard, until the bunched material burst free of her curves to slide down her silky-sheathed legs.

“Now her bra," he instructed.

I did as he said, and then I stood back two paces and looked her up and down as she stood looking almost forlorn in just her heels and pantyhose.

“Gather back her hair, Jonathan. It hides her breasts,” he told me.

I stepped forward and reached around her and gathered up her dark hair, bringing it back behind her shoulders in a ponytail and then freeing it to cascade down her back. Standing behind her, I imagined her perfect breasts, how they would look to Marcus on this his first viewing. I pressed my face against her back, her hair soft against my cheek, imbibing her fragrance and drinking in the actuality of her as my wife, knowing that soon she was to be laid on her back and fucked by this man who only an hour ago was a stranger to her.

“Take my pearls,” she whispered, turning her head to the side so I could hear her words. I did as she asked, slipping them into the pocket of my chinos.

His voice again: “Thank you, Jonathan, you can sit down now. You’ve been a great help.”

I was a flunky dismissed, and so I retrieved her dress from the floor and walked with it back to my chair, draping it over the dresser chair as I passed.

I resumed my seat, saw Lori at a loss now, unsure what to do next. She took a step to join him on the bed but he commanded her to stay where she was.

“Turn for me,” he told her.

She slowly pirouetted. How gracefully she presented herself for his gaze. Tall and beautiful, she is the sweetest wife any man could have. And as she turned for him, I thought do I really want this — I mean, really, really want to see this?  Will you be able to stand it when she is on her back, her legs wide for him? And for just a moment I felt like jumping up and grabbing her hand and taking her from the room.

But I didn’t. I had deeper urges, darker needs.

“Lori is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, Jonathan. How lucky you are to have her as your wife. How she must torment the men she encounters, all those men that cross her path every day. Do you ever wonder about all those men, Jonathan?"

Words would not come. I had indeed wondered about the men in her life, about what she might have allowed them. And every day I thought about what might happen if there was a security breach at the prison.

He reached out with his arm, his hand beckoning her as he said. “Lori, please come here and sit on the bed.” Slowly she walked towards him, and I saw her skin airbrushed to perfection by a light that gave her an otherworldly aura. “That’s right, just there.” He patted the spot he wanted her in.

She sat gracefully, her legs together, her palms resting flat on her thighs. He got off the bed and came and knelt before her, taking her left foot and losing the fastening of her strappy heels. Her foot set free, he raised it to his lips, licking and kissing her sole through the gossamer mesh of her tights, the same with the right foot. Then he had her stand up and then he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her tights and peeled away the clinging fabric, kissing the flesh as it became exposed to the air. His mouth followed in the wake of the delicate material. He attended to each leg, in turn, continually kissing the newly exposed flesh, her belly, abdomen, pubes, thighs, shins, toes.

Twisted snake skins trodden by their feet, he stood with her swaddled in his arms again and they kissed a fathomless kiss. And then him pausing to whisper those things women love to hear. He manoeuvred her down onto the bed and she lay on her back quite quietly as he kissed her body all over. He began at her feet and worked slowly upwards leaving no inch of flesh free from the attention of his lips, his tongue. Now and then his teeth would snap at her flesh, and she would yell out in from the sweet and sudden pain.

When he had tasted her from head to toe, he gently parted her legs and licked the inside of her right thigh, and then the left, until his head was between her legs, his lips over her cunt. I wanted to be closer, to see his tongue flickering, lapping. I realised if I didn’t move, stand up and get closer, in this half-light I was going to miss so much.

I stood up and went over and stood by the bed close enough to see all I needed. The sight of Marcus licking my wife between the legs, his face against her most intimate flesh was a spectacle for which my fantasies had not prepared me. It was five hours since her shower, and I imagined her animal richness mingling with the headiness of her perfume, her creams and soaps. As he lapped at her, I conjured the sweetness of her bodies natural scent, evoked in my mind the taste of her pussy, its richness, its humidity, its metallic tang on my tongue.

He was patient, generous, continued to please her for so long, taking his prompts from her subtle visceral cues. She raised her arms, fumbling behind herself as if searching for the metal framed headboard of our bed, which she would often grasp during the pitch of our lovemaking. But there was no brass headboard, and I realised that for a moment in her distracted elation she had forgotten where she was, thinking herself at home and lying on our marital bed. Her hands found only smooth leather, and I saw confusion cross her face like I would see sometimes when in my arms back at home when lost to her dreams.

His hand beneath her buttocks, his palms filling with her flesh and bringing it to his chin so that it pressed into the pudge of her backside while he licked her cunt. I watched her facial expression changing in chameleon responses to the pleasure he gifted her. All at once her eyes opened wide, her hands clutching at his head, her fingers becoming entwined in his hair, twisting strands as she cried out in orgasm. She raised her legs, bringing her knees tight back to force her cunt into Marcuse’s face as she shuddered and twisted, over and over, her rational mind swept.

He disentangled himself from her, hushing her as he left her to stand and undress. Her eyes followed him, never left him for an instant. He told her to touch herself while he unfastened the buttons of his shirt. As she watched him, she caressed her nipples with the backs of her knuckles and then let her right hand travel down between her legs, bringing up both knees into an arch as she widened her legs. She fingered herself with hard, precise rotations.

He removed his trousers and boxers, his cock suddenly appearing; looming, portentous. It struck me as having an impressive certainty in how it strained ahead of his torso, so eager to plunge inside her. It was as if the rest of him, body and soul, would have to follow wherever its need dictated. I had never seen another man’s erect cock before — in reality, that is, only in porn. I was envious of what nature had blessed him.

How large he was. How swollen he had become by anticipating enjoying her. And you know, it was strange: never in my life until that moment had I experienced a sexual thought for another male, but the sight of Marcus’s magnificent cock excited me more than I have words to express. I wanted to touch it, hold it, know it completely, this thing that would soon be deep inside my wife. It was not so much that I received a sexual pleasure of my own from contemplating a man's cock; no, it was more the thought of it violating the thing most precious to me. I wanted to sample it just like I would want to examine any gift I intended to purchase for my dearest Lori.

But I just stared and stared, envious of his body's almost classical proportions. He was a Greek statue brought to life, smooth and cold, his muscularity rendered flesh-as-marble by the shadow casting bedside lamps, emphasising his athleticism, highlighted the contours of his dense, toned muscles. He turned and saw me looking, and he smiled a smile that said you would never forget what you are about to see, Jonathan. Then he turned from me and back to the business in hand, easing himself on to the bed beside Lori. She continued to finger her clit as he approached, her eyes anticipating him with a mad woman's delight. I did not recognise her, for a moment feared her mounting wantonness.

He leaned on his left elbow as he lay beside her while casually running his right hand over her belly. She remained on her back with legs parted and arched. I could discern her muscled abdomen beneath the veneer of soft belly flesh, her reward for all those long hours spent at the gym. And I could see the glisten of her excitement seeping from her cunt.

 He placed his hand on hers, the one she continued to use to pleasure herself. Even then, she continued frantically rubbing her clit. He pressed down hard to stop her while he parted her legs with his other hand, further apart than they already were. When he had her just so, he positioned himself, taking his cock in hand and rubbing it in against her cunt, letting it sweep from clit to perineum, back and forth. And then he was ready, and there was no need for her guiding hand. He entered her entirely with one determined lunge.

Penetrating her with such energy, she gasped like the aftermath of an ocean wave slapping against her. It was an involuntary statement of pained delight. With each thrust he made she moaned like a woman in labour. His pace was hard, relentless, delivered profoundly, meant to impress. Both his palms went beneath her buttocks, which he gathered and bunched, pressing the two half-moons of her rump together. I could not see from where I stood, but I imagined his testicles slapping against her plump cheeks as his cock surged and retreated, over and over.

He was intent on pleasing her, no selfish fuck and cum for Marcus. His thrusts were focused, determined. And when his cock was at its deepest, his pubic bone ground against hers. At one point he shifted his angle of penetration so that for a moment it was like two women, mons against mons. His cock had vanished, was as deep inside her cunt as could be. I watched his face as he strained to go deeper, the moment of stillness when he understood there were no more worlds to conquer, the exquisite look from the pleasure of his cock engulfed by Lori's tightness, her sodden cunt.

 And then his testosterone-fuelled thrust resumed. I watched his buttocks rise and fall, eyed his narrow waist, the length of his muscled back, his shoulders like those of a young Olympian. His forearm muscles tensed, causing his veins of his forearm to the surface as he pulled her closer to him.

She raised her long legs, encircled him with them, drawing his cock to her core while her soft inner thighs scissored each side, her heels pressing into his buttocks and urging him on, spurring him faster, insisting he fulfils her lack. She had captured him, and I thought of female spiders and their post-coitus feasts.

 I watched their lovemaking in astonished awe. They had become strangers to me, a couple in the grip of such lust for each other that it negated all decorum. Each had put aside all thought of consequences. I kept thinking he will explode inside her any minute now, utterly fill her. I imagined his inundating jizz the summation of his lust for her.

But it went on, was interminable. The two lovers became in some way synchronised, resonating in perfect harmony with each other. Her hips undulated with impeccable timing, responding to his thrusts with choreographed certainty. In her abandon, she called his name. It came like a plea for mercy to cruel deity, a mantra to be spared her fate. Never in ten years of lovemaking had she pleaded with me as she pleaded with Marcus. Was it mercy she begged for, a petition for him to spare her this savage pounding? For me, the sound of his name on her lips was a taboo broken, the final betrayal. For a moment I stood on the edge of an emotional precipice. Finally, I understood the emotional carnage I had conjured for myself.

I steeled myself, mustered my will, told myself this is what I had always wanted and that now I was getting just that. After all, this was the thing I had so long dreamed of, worked so hard to bring about. Now it was happening right in front of my eyes. I had known there might be emotional discomfort, that the spectacle might be bittersweet, but I was beyond self-governance now, sensed imminent emotional insurgency. I took a deep breath and, to distract myself, to gain some focus, I placed my hand on Marcus’s back, just between his shoulders. He did not flinch, increased his pace as she called, “Oh, God. Marcus, Marcus. Oh-my-fucking-God!”

Touching his flesh grounded me. So I let my hand skate back and forth between his shoulder blades while sensing the energy and power his torso contained. I stroked the length of his back, tentatively down to the base of his spine, and then encroaching on his buttocks. His thighs continued to rise and fall, and I imagined his engorged cock inside my wife. I traced my finger along the crack of his buttocks. I had an overwhelming urge to get out my cock out and rub it softly against him as he pounded into Lori. I wanted to feel the sensation of him beneath me, his buttocks pushing against my cock as his hips rose while he fucked her.

But then Lori cried out, almost screamed. She heaved and twisted as the bed rocked beneath her. For nearly a minute her nails were talons that clawed his shoulders. My hand curled under him, my palm nesting his balls, my fingers feeling for where his cock entered her. Then I felt the stem it as it partially left her cunt before once more penetrating her. He was at the pitch of excitement, and when his cum erupted, I felt how he throbbed in spasms of pleasure as he emptied himself into her.

And then I stood away, ashamed that I had touched him. But neither of them acknowledged my brief participation in their lovemaking. Now they lay in each other’s arms like the truest of lovers. They were whispering again, the sibilant hiss of serpents in the night communicating dark secrets in a language I could not decipher.

My cock was bursting. I considered taking my clothes off and climbing onto the bed and making love to Lori. I thought of her cum filled cunt, how my cock would feel pushing into her, her pussy's raw lips leaking his jizz.

But I didn’t. Quietly I left the room and took the lift down, went back to the modest room we had booked. Now I felt sickened by all that I had seen, shame at what my selfish lust had initiated; but more than this, I felt self-disgust for having touched another man sexually.

And yet . . . Even as I berated myself for what I had led Lori to do, I remained at a pitch of sexual arousal. I lay on the bed and released my fraught and swollen cock from the confines of my chinos while calling to mind the image of Marcus and Lori rutting like animals. Once more I saw his muscled frame and the split of his arse-crack rising and falling, over and over, the knowing who was beneath his implacable mass. I thought of how I had stroked his back, his buttocks, and how I had cupped his balls, felt his cock slip across my fingers as it entered my wife. In thirty seconds my jizz lay cooling on my belly, my mind awash in a sea of regrets.

I still do not know how I managed to sleep. It seemed hours that I lay awake imagining the pair together in his room many floors above. I wondered how many times he would make love to her before morning arrived.

It was after nine when she stole back into our room. I pretended to be asleep as she slipped out of her dress, though secretly watching her through half open eyes. She had not bothered to put on her bras and panties. I found them later, tangled among her tights in her handbag.

Before she could shower, I pretended to wake. I called her to me.

“Not now, Jonathan. I want to shower,” she said.

“And I want to smell him on you, taste you where he’s tasted you,”

I sprang from the bed and grabbed her roughly and held her close. I mouthed her neck like Lecter while my cock of granite strained against her belly. I thought of all his cum inside her, my prick parted from it by mere centimetres.

I wanted my cock to be steel so I could impale her, release the flood of jizz she had stored inside her from their all-night rutting. My hands filled with her buttocks and parted them, tearing at them like soft white bread. Had he had her that way? I wondered if she had taken his cock in her mouth one last time before leaving him and returning to me. Was that her final goodbye, her final gesture of gratitude. While I kissed her, I thought of his cum at the back of her throat while my guts churned in hellish jealousy.

As I kissed her, the reality of what she had allowed became too much to bear. I broke from her, threw her on the bed and called her a  slut. She looked up at me with eyes all of a glisten with tears.

She sobbed as she told me, “It’s what you wanted. I only did it because I thought it was what you wanted! I did it all for you. Only you, Jonathan.”

“No, Lori! I saw how you looked at him, how you called out his name when he was fucking you.”

In the throes of her distress, she looked vulnerable, more fragile than I had ever seen her look before. My heart melted and I told her I loved her. And then I parted her legs and brutally pushed my face up against her cunt. I had not shaved; my stubble rasped, and she flinched. She was icky down there, bitter to taste. Her scent was feral, and I inhaled deep hoping to capture something of Marcus. Then I licked her clean, purged him from her.

When I fucked her, I went eye to eye with her, towering over her on arms straight as pillars to support my weight, looking down as she looked up at me. I pushed into her without regard for her comfort, and she accepted me without flinching. I entered her easily, my full length encountering no resistance. Even so, her cunt was not the mire I had imagined, just enough of Marcus still inside her so that I fucked her with sublime ease. It was obvious he’d had her one last time before packing off and back to me. I slipped in and out of her relishing the cum he had left, his parting gift left within her for me to find.

In thirty second I added my load to his, then extricated myself from her and looked once again between her legs. The mingling sperm trickled and glistened, its patina coating the raw, puffy lips of her pussy. I watched in fascination as yet more continued to ooze into view.

Later, when she had showered, we lay propped by pillows on the bed and talked. She squeezed my hand and hesitantly asked, “Was it as you imagined it would be?” She was not sure if I wanted to talk. I ignored her. She persisted, “How did it make you feel, Jonathan?  Seeing him with me?”

“Seeing him fucking you was like you had taken a knife to my guts — and like the angels were singing.”

We were silent for a moment. Then I asked, “And you? What was it like for you  Marcus’s cock inside you all night long? This morning as well!”

“Like a...“ Immediately she regretted starting what she was about to say.

“Go on, say it.”

“He made me feel special... Like a princess — the one everyone once thought I was.”

"Did he call you his princess.” I did not wait for her reply. “How many times did you make love?”

“Don’t be angry, Jonathan.”

“Who’s angry?” She squeezed my hand as if concerned for my state of mind, a prompt for me to let it rest now. But I insisted:  “How many times, for fuck‘s sake?”

“Twice more after you left, and once again this morning.”

"And did you suck his cock."

Without hesitation now: "Yes, I sucked his cock."

"Did you like sucking a stranger's cock?"

"Jonathan, please!"

"Tell me."

"I wanted to please him."

“Is he still In his room?”

“He has to leave soon. Something important, he said.”

“Did he ask to see you again.” she did not answer. “Well, did he?”

She began to cry again. “No! no, he fucking didn’t!”

For three months neither of us mentioned Marcus. I had scratched the itch that had plagued me for so long, scratched it until it bled. Over the following months, the rawness subsided, the wound healed. There was hardly any scar tissue.