Note: I never planned for this story to be any more than a one-off tease, but I've also never had reader comments asking so eagerly for more. So we'll see what we can do with it. Part four won't be so far behind.
**
When I woke up, the room was awash with mid-morning sunlight and I was alone in the bed again. It had taken me forever last night to finally fall asleep. I probably would have slept longer, in fact, if not for the discomfort between my legs from where the chastity cage had gripped my attempt at a morning erection and forced it into submission.
After brushing my teeth, I went to my dresser and pulled out a fresh t-shirt, and then a pair of loose-fitting nylon jogging pants -- the better to hide the bulge from the cage that my wife had insisted that I wear for the rest of the weekend. Or at least until tomorrow evening, when our houseguest went home.
That's right. My wife wanted me locked in chastity, so that the only person getting an erection in our home could be our houseguest, my recently divorced sixty-year-old father.
My wife has been cuckolding me for two years now, to my constant amazement ... and torment ... and delight. She had always been the most playful, deliciously diabolical tease, but I had always assumed that it was just naughty marital role-playing to keep things spiced up. Until she did it for real.
So, I've learned not to put anything past her. But still, last night when she slyly pulled out the handcuffs and secured me to the headboard, and then informed me that she was going to go seduce *my father,* I was -- in addition to being flabbergasted and disturbingly excited -- almost certain that she was just giving me the kinkiest, most taboo tease imaginable. Ninety percent certain.
Maybe eighty percent.
For months now she had been *talking* about cuckolding me with someone in our actual social circle, who I would then have to face regularly knowing that he knew my shameful secret. A neighbor. A golf buddy. Her boss. *My* boss. Or maybe some kid who reported to me. The idea was titillating and terrifying, and I loved the sound of her laughter as she taunted me with the notion.
And now this.
And now, I was descending the staircase, getting ready to sit across the table from my dad; making eye contact and wondering whether the man who had raised me had just taken advantage of the unexpected opportunity to bury his cock in a willing young woman ... who happened to be his son's wife.
And if he had, then ... well, I guess he knew I was a cuckold either way. But did he know that his son was a *willing* cuckold?
And. And and and, my mind raced on. There's no way he would do this to me, no way *he* would do this to *me,* if he thought she was cheating on me. So *if* it happened, it would have to have been because she had convinced him that this was something that we do ... shit.
Or. I mean, it seemed so unlike my dad; but then again, I had no idea how it would feel to be divorced at sixty, revisiting every choice and every shredded value through the prism of a late-midlife crisis. And then suddenly a lovely younger woman is in your room, silently presenting herself as an offering to you and your newly restored availability and masculinity. Maybe in that scenario you just seize the moment, seize the woman, and pour yourself into her. Even if she is your son's wife. Deal with the consequences tomorrow. Again, shit.
Well, it's tomorrow.
My dad was sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper. He was fully dressed, in a plaid cotton shirt with the cuffs rolled up his forearms, and gray suspenders that held up his jeans below his broad chest and his middle-aged belly. He wasn't fat, by any means; just thick, a shade beyond solid. I had often looked at my father's body and wondered whether that was my physical destiny. I had never really looked at him and conjured the image of that torso flattening out the lush flesh of a younger woman. Let alone that that woman might be my wife.
My wife was behind him, her back to us, puttering with something on the kitchen counter, wearing a demure, casual robe that came down somewhere below mid-thigh, and which revealed the hem of an equally casual nightgown. Between there and her slippers, her knees and calves were bare. Nothing suggestive ... she just looked informal, non-descript, innocent. Our houseguest was just family, right?
Except, as I watched her from the doorway, I had to wonder whether she was wearing panties. I had to picture her, moments before, pouring my father's coffee, then locking eyes with him and lifting her forefinger to her lips as she took his hand in hers and placed it between her thighs and gently drew it upwards ...
All this had gone through my mind in the couple of seconds as I stood in the doorway, before announcing my presence.
"Hey, good morning," I said, startling myself a bit with the rasp in my voice.
"Good morning, son," my father said, looking up from his paper with a smile. I fixed my gaze on his face, trying hard not to appear too studious. Innocent smile? Knowing smile? Guilty smile? I was beginning to realize that my ability to gauge reality was unreliable.
My wife had crossed the room to kiss me on the cheek. "Hey there, sleepyhead. Restless night?" She winked at me.
