"Calm down," I told myself. "She's teasing you. I'm certain of it. Almost."
It's a breathtakingly realistic charade, I'll give her that, I thought. But that's why my wife owns me, body and soul and, in particular, mind. She knows how to create and sustain a fantasy, to push all my buttons.
She was probably sitting in the living room, having another glass of wine, reading Conde Nast and smiling to herself as she imagined me, tormenting myself.
Or else, she was in the guest room, riding languidly on my father's cock. Just like she told me she was going to do, after she handcuffed me to the headboard and left me desperate and twitching in my chastity cage.
I couldn't help but to squirm at the thought. Yes, my wife was a cuckoldress. It had been four years since she had figured out, and allowed me to embrace, this weakness of mine. Through two years of pillow talk and two more years of actually sharing her body with other men, she had always understood, before I had, how this game triggered every submissive fiber in my being.
But nothing she had ever teased me with, or actually done, had prepared me for this. Never, in our nine years together, or in the several hours since my father had arrived in our home today for a weekend visit, had she ever expressed a sexual attraction to the man who had raised me. And the thought had never occurred to me. Until after she had asked me to lock myself into chastity and secured my wrists in manacles, and then told me that she was going to go visit my dad.
I had plenty of fantasies, and she was great at indulging them; but the best erotic experiences were the ones where she took me places I had never imagined. And this was the wildest, most forbidden one yet.
So, it had to be a tease. Surely, she was cooling her heels in the living room, biding her time while I stewed in my cuckold angst. Surely, she hadn't slipped into my father's bedroom and closed the door behind her, meeting the surprise in his eyes with her own sultry gaze; her shoulders back; her firm, full breasts with their large areolas pushing her pronounced nipples through the fabric of her diaphanous gown, making a silent offering of herself to his primal masculinity ...
Surely, she hadn't done that, because honestly, taunting my father like that would be more cruel to him than it was to me. I just couldn't picture my dad taking my wife up on such an offer; or if he did, he would be wracked with guilt. My dad wasn't the kind of arrogant alpha guy who went around taking what he wanted, including and especially other men's wives. He was a nice guy, who had probably been a little too compliant in his life. I felt for him, really; a man of his generation, single again at 60, might not think of himself as still desirable; so I *hoped* that some sexually assertive woman would come into his life.
Just not my wife!
So, no, surely this was a magnificent tease. I concentrated on slowing down my breathing, and I felt the pressure of the bars around my penis subside. No, my wife was surely sitting in the living room right now, flipping the pages of a magazine, smirking at her practical joke. Getting bored and restless, as I now realized I was; letting enough time pass that she could gig me some more when she came back to bed.
With my mind no longer focused on my stunted erection, I realized my back itched. Damn it.
But what an amazing tease it was, opening insecurities and fetishes I didn't know I had. "I've been thinking about this for months," she had told me.
My mind suddenly snapped to a familiar image. One of the many dozens of photos in our wedding album; a candid snapshot of the two of them dancing at the reception. A 27-year-old woman and a 52-year-old man. His right hand on the small of her back, her right hand enclosed in his left hand between them, the fingers of her left hand splayed open against his shoulder blade. Their faces inches apart. An innocent dance, observed casually by everyone in attendance; just a proud father-in-law and happy daughter-in-law celebrating her wedding to his son.
Now, instead, I pictured them recreating the scene at this very moment, on the other end of this house; except, horizontally. A different kind of dance, more basic. Her arm, again clad in sheer white fabric (was that why she had chosen that nightgown tonight?) on his back; except, *both* arms, not one; and his back was broad and bare; and her fingers slightly curled, her nails gripping his flesh.
His right arm -- the only one visible to me in the image I was transposing -- still around her waist, but clutching her to him somewhat lower.
And in this image, of course, my wife's gown is bunched around her waist and her legs are open, drawn up, creating a cradle in which my father's thick thighs and compact ass are rocking. And somewhere there, hidden from my imagined view but inevitably, my father's veiny, uncircumcised cock is gliding in and out of my wife's silken vagina, claiming it, reshaping it, making it his.
Right now. Right down the hall, under my very roof. And here I was, powerless to intervene. Or even to watch.
