It's amazing how the human mind can compartmentalize.
On Tuesday I was back at work, with a full agenda. Weekly staff meeting. Lunch with a major donor. And all afternoon, annual performance reviews. I hate annual performance reviews. I'm still a little self-conscious about being younger than half of my staff; and being in the position of correcting them, reminding them of things they should do better; not necessarily learning new skills, but just the freakin' basics when and when not to "reply to all" on emails, or asking for help when a deadline loomed. Jesus, folks...
But in the moment, I was able to focus on these interactions, and put out of my mind the entire maelstrom of emotions and questions about the crazy weekend I had just endured, with my wife 200 miles away, fucking my father's brains out.
And then in my five or ten minutes between meetings, i would slam back into obsessing about the games that my lovely wife was playing with me. Much as I had tried to avoid thinking about the whole pregnancy-risk thing (which
she
had started, damn it, I swear!), that was back on the front burner.
A month ago, when she had reminded me of her limits and told me, "I'm not going to tell you again," I had taken that to mean that she thought my fixation on her getting impregnated by my father was just too much, and that I should knock it off. Unless what she meant was, "Okay, hubby, I'm going to tease you until you beg me to stop."
Her little game of leaving two weeks' worth of unused birth-control pills in her nightstand for me to find (while simultaneously taking the pills from next month's pack) had told me that it was the latter.
The thing was... she had been there when I opened the drawer, to watch me react, to give me a momentary mocking "Oh My God!" expression, then to laugh, and to hug and hold me as my pulse rate came back down from 145.
I kept thinking, though... what if I had for some reason opened that drawer while she was gone? Found some little item of hers to put back its place; or an unopened condom that she had planned to use in one of our little role-playing games in the kitchen or the study? What if, at the moment I realized what I was looking at; gathered that it meant that she had stopped taking her birth control pills at the start of her cycle; and it had hit me that
it was too late. TOO LATE!!!
* The weekend was half over, and my father had already pumped four or five or six loads of his potent seed up inside her fertile womb?
And then I had to face the question: what would I have done if I had found those pills early Friday evening, while Michelle was still en route to my dad's house? How would I have reacted, after the initial surprise and moment of terror? Would I have picked up my phone and frantically called her and begged her to stop, even turn around? (And if I had, would her mere words over the phone telling me it was a prank, without the visual evidence of the second pack and the reassuring embrace, have been enough to talk me off the ledge?)
I thought back to the stormy late afternoon in an Atlanta hotel room several weeks ago, when I was away at a conference and she had informed me she was going to go to my dad's house to "help him paint his apartment." How I had stared at my phone as the sky and the room darkened, and my presumption that it was all a tease slowly faded into a certainty that she really was on her way to my father's bed, and I thought about calling her and using my safe word and... just didn't do it, just couldn't do it.
That afternoon, my lack of a phone call, my lack of a safe word, had given her the green light to open her legs and let my father slip his thick sixty-year-old cock up inside her, definitively and irrevocably cuckolding me.
This wasn't quite the same thing. I knew now that this whole little scene had been a stunt. And, at any rate, on Friday Michelle wouldn't have known whether my failure to call her just meant that I hadn't found her birth control pills, or it represented my tacit approval for her to go ahead and have unprotected sex with my dad while ovulating. This time, it really had just been a game, a trick, a performance where my reaction played no role in the outcome.
There would have been no way for her to have known what I was beginning to acknowledge: that there was a growing, metastasizing tumor within my psyche, that wanted it to happen.
***
Michelle and I spent the next two evenings just cuddling. It's always been kind of a pattern for us; any time we've spent a weekend having some kind of sexual adventure and then reconnecting afterwards, she definitely needs some downtime, and I don't mind it, either. I don't believe any of that crap you read in stories about "her pussy needs time to recover;" I think it's more a matter of her mind needing to relax after a few days of concentrated "performance."
Our relaxed, affectionate, normal week was not a performance. It was a return to normal. It was what real life had been for us for a long time. Even after we had started playing the hotwifing game for real a couple of years ago, after years of fantasy role-playing, the week after one of her adventures had always been a reassuring reconnection. We were made for each other, she would tell me, from time to time. Our kinks were aligned. But our kinks did not define us.
Of course, none of her other liaisons had ever become such a fixation. So, while my outward self relaxed back into normality, in my private moments, my mind kept conjuring images of my wife's ripe, flawless body writhing and undulating under my father's thick, hairy, insistently thrusting torso...
None of her previous lovers had had this effect on me. I was troubled and jealous during the seduction phase and while they were together, but afterwards, they were just another notch on her bedpost, not my obsession.
Not the confident, aloof management consultant with the $400 haircut who first "demanded" that I wear condoms.
Not the chiseled, gifted cornerback for the Cincinnati Bengals who had winked at me as I sat in the corner while he put her ankles on his broad shoulders and folded her up like a deck chair underneath him.
Not the lanky dude with blonde dreadlocks in the tattoo parlor who had performed her clitoral hood piercing and advised that she abstain from sex while it healed, and who then smirked at me after she returned to
him
to "try it out," to confirm that she was "good to go."
No, the only man who had apparently taken up permanent residency in my head, and maybe in my wife's vagina, was the graying, slightly overweight, outwardly gentle man who had raised me, who had
made
me; my first and perhaps ultimate authority figure, who my wife had said now owned her pussy.
***
Friday evening I was rinsing the dinner dishes, just planning on leaving them in the sink to soak, when she came up behind me and wrapped her arms her arms around me. I could feel that she was wearing just a simple short silk robe. I could smell that she had just taken a quick shower and was freshly lotioned.
"Let me finish up here," she purred. "Why don't you go take a shower and meet me in the bedroom?"
She didn't have to ask me twice. Although, as I lathered up and rinsed off, I couldn't help remembering that this was, according to her, how she had first seduced my father. I conjured the picture in my mind as I dried off and wrapped the towel around my waist, my erection already pushing its way against the terrycloth. My father, of course, had been oblivious and flaccid -- for a moment, at least -- on that fateful afternoon, as he had come out of the shower and seen his daughter-in-law reclining, naked and inviting, on his bed.
I came out of the bathroom fully expecting her to be in the same position she had once described to me as the pose she had struck that afternoon to offer herself to him... half-reclining against the headboard, arms spread out across the pillow shams, swiveled at the waist, one succulent thigh drawn up across the other one. As elegant as one can be while completely naked, and utterly irresistible. And my father had not resisted.
