By Labor Day weekend, the days are getting noticeably shorter, and the birds don't start singing until 6:30 or so. That's probably what first alerts my sleeping body that it is time for my penis to start doing its morning stretching exercises.
And that's when the cruel hard cage that my penis lives in grabs it and laughs and says, "Time to wake up Ryan's brain, too, and tell him to suffer."
I had been up too late as it was; I could have slept longer. When I'm not in my cage, a morning erection doesn't wake me up. Unless my wife notices it and decides she wants to play.
But this weekend she's playing a different game. This game involves me being locked up, denied orgasm, denied tactile pleasure, denied even the relief of a normal, healthy erection, while she plays with another man's turgid, gloriously sensitive cock... stroking it, licking it, sucking it into her mouth and then allowing it to slide into her velvety body. This weekend, that cock belongs to my sixty-year-old father.
I sighed. They're probably not up yet. Maybe he's hard already, because
he
gets to have morning erections while still in his sleep, his body stretching languorously and then drifting back off to the blissful sleep of the satiated.
Last night, he took her out, took her to a company event to introduce her to his friends as his date, as the new woman in his life. Not as his daughter-in-law, certainly.
I was sure she would have made it clear to everyone in the room that his relationship with the new woman in his life had advanced to sexual intimacy. Nothing scandalous or provocative, of course; she was too good a tease for that. Just the kind of light touching, the shared glances, that would assure the curious that, yes, this guy is getting laid tonight.
They're not up yet. Later. Later this morning he'll be back in her mouth, in the soft sleeve of her luscious body.
I don't know whether she'll be thinking of me or not. I can imagine it both ways.
Maybe she thinks of me a lot, and it adds to her arousal. I picture her, on her elbows and knees between his legs in his bed, one hand holding his cock upright so she can trace sensitive circles on his frenulum, the other down between her own legs, stroking her clitoris, getting more pleasure from thinking of me squirming in torment than she's getting from merely servicing him.
Sometimes I imagine that I never cross her mind. She's lost in the experience, lost in the pleasure, lost in the other cock. As far as she is concerned, I no longer exist. And if I did, it wouldn't matter. I wouldn't matter.
I find both scenarios equally erotic.
I read kink stories. On weekends like this that's all I do. I'm going to be painfully, unrequitedly aroused all weekend anyway.
I read stories about other guys with my cuckold fetish. I'm not alone, even if I might be on the extreme end of the spectrum. I read the comments on those stories, including the ones from people -- men, I assume -- who just can't believe that guys like me exist; who insist that we're mentally ill, hopeless, that we should hang ourselves in our garages.
I wonder why they keep reading.
I read about other kinds of kink, about BDSM, even though hardcore bondage and impact play doesn't appeal to me. Most of us, when we first heard of that world, heard it in the context of a joke about "whips and chains." It's more than that, but I read about it to rationalize and better understand my own fetishes.
I don't get it. I don't get the notion of getting arousal, euphoria, satisfaction from physical pain, from being flogged or being repeatedly kicked in the testicles. But then maybe some of those guys would never understand my addiction to psychological torment.
There's a fetish within the kink world called "abandonment." It involves the submissive being left alone, or at least seemingly so, perhaps helpless, for an indeterminate amount of time, marinating in the fear that maybe, maybe this time, it is permanent. It can involve being handcuffed to the headboard, which Michelle and I have done. On the more extreme edge, it can involve being chained in a basement, or mummified in a vacuum-sealed latex bag, or even seemingly "buried alive," followed by the receding sounds of the domme's heels clicking on the floor as she walks away, and then... silence.
That one, I kind of get.
I got up and looked out the window. Across the street, my college-aged neighbor Dani was just pulling her beat-up Nissan into her mother's driveway.
I wondered if she was just getting back from an overnight date with a college-aged boyfriend, maybe the tall, bearded, slightly overweight guy in the pickup truck that I saw visiting her last week.
Or whether the bed she had just left belonged to another one of her mother's prospective, middle-aged boyfriends.
Dani got out of her car and walked to the front door. For a few seconds I could enjoy the sight of her insouciant sexpot body in her mini-dress, her magenta hair bobbing with each step of her pale plump legs, disappearing into her house.
I lust after other women, I just don't do anything about it. When Michelle and I first mutually agreed to start acting on our kinky bedroom role-playing, she had very quickly realized that she did not at all like the prospective reality of sharing me with another woman. I had very quickly realized that the arousal and angst that I got from knowing that she was with another man was more than enough extra spice in my life. And then the power exchange that came from that mutual agreement -- me giving her unrestricted sexual freedom, her denying the same to me; me being okay with that; her reveling in my acceptance -- became one more addictive aspect of our unique sexual relationship.
I'm seized with a sudden desire to see Dani today, to be further teased by her. Three weeks ago she not only teased my father; she went down on him and let him cum in her teenage mouth. She's teased me since then. There's no way she knows I know. Or does she? Would that make it better for her? What would she think, to know that I was caged, unable to respond in the normal male way to her attentions? I'm pretty sure
that
would make it better for her.
It would make it better, at least more intense, for me, that's for sure. Reminded in person that she was one more woman that my father got to enjoy, that I did not.
Our back patio is so secluded, surrounded as it is by house on three sides. No one ever wanders back there. So Dani wouldn't, either.
Maybe I should find an excuse to sit out on the front porch.
All over America, I thought, middle-aged men are ogling their college-aged neighbors and having lustful fantasies.
I'll bet I'm the only one fantasizing about my young neighbor clicking her aqua-colored fingernails on the hard steel bars of my cage, and laughing, and laughing, and laughing...
====
Two hours later and two hundred miles away, John's morning got off to a much better start.
He woke to the smell of coffee and the warm, gentle sensation of a woman's mouth enveloping his thickening erection.
He had had a bit of a restless night, unsettled by his reaction to his first public "date" with Michelle the night before. In retrospect, it had been everything he had hoped for. His friends were impressed, maybe even dazzled. She had actually been delightfully affectionate toward him without being the least bit inappropriate, at least as far as anyone could see.
If only she had worn a simple sundress instead of that sleek bodycon number. If only she hadn't worn her wedding ring. Maybe his friends would have looked at her with more appreciation and less lust. Maybe he would have felt a little bit less disturbingly jealous.
Maybe he wouldn't be feeling guilty about how ruthlessly he had pinned her to the wall and -- what was her term? -- grudge-fucked her afterwards. Although, she did seem to have liked it.
Well, he had begun to realize sometime around 3 AM, he knew what he was getting into, or at least he had known for the past three months. Michelle was beautiful and charming and delightful company and incredible in bed, but she was a hotwife who liked playing games. You get what you play for.
But this morning she was naked in his bed, all soft and accommodating and... ideal. She had woken him with coffee and a blowjob. She had waited while he got up and brushed his teeth and emptied his bladder before returning to settle easily between her welcoming thighs; not the feverish rush to devour each other of a furtive affair, but the natural, unceremonious Sunday morning routine of a man and a woman who had the entire day ahead of them.
And now, now, he thought, as he held himself up on his elbows above her and felt her thighs come up around his hips as he slowly sank into the silken glove of her pussy, he was where he wanted to be and she was where she belonged and all was right with the world.
God, he thought, I could get used to this. It was a thought that he had had many times, and in the light of day he had to chastise himself, remind himself that this whole affair was just a fantasy, that it was a strange twist of fortune that had put him in this position, father to a cuckold and father-in-law to a hotwife who genuinely loved his son; that of all the women in the world she was the only one he really could never actually take for his own.
But for the duration of each exquisite sexual encounter, he could luxuriate in the sensation and wish it could last forever.
He looked into her eyes and realized that she had been reading him, studying him, as if he had been somewhere else for a few moments. She pulled her arms, which had been loosely around his neck, down so they were tucked together over her breasts, so that his arms completely enveloped her. She bit her lip. She looked vulnerable and unusually submissive.
"Feeling possessive again?" she asked.
"Yes," he rasped. "Is that okay?"
"Mm hmm. I like it. I'm all yours, baby."
