I had been fantasising about dick for a long time. On and off, I had spent most of my adult life masturbating to thoughts of cock and of getting fucked. Very rare was the orgasm achieved from aroused thoughts of women, though I was always looking at them with lust. But if you had asked me, I would have said I was straight; *maybe* bi if push came to shove. I do like women, I can cum from having sex with them, I get turned on thinking of their bouncing tits, their tight, perfect asses, even enjoy watching straight porn... But sooner or later, once I had my dick in my hand, cock would pop into my mind, and I couldn't help riding it to orgasm, no matter how ashamed I was.
Daisy knew all about my fantasies. After four years together, how could she not. I mean, okay, I've head the tales about women married to gay men for decades who never even suspected, but honestly I'm a bit sceptical. There are signs, obvious signs. Like when I want you to push your finger into my ass, or when I want to go shopping for strap-ons, or when my internet history is littered with gay gang-bangs and sissy cock-suckers. So of course she knew. I imagine she'd had her suspicions all along, but she first really found out definitively when I confessed a semi-infidelity early on in our relationship.
I had been out at a beach bar with a friend drinking, and we'd gotten separated when he got mired in a lengthy pool tournament. I didn't feel like playing, so I made my way to the bar, sat on a high-top stool, and ordered a beer. I was already several drinks deep at this point, and I was feeling a little free. So when an older man sidled up next to me, I made easy conversation with him. It was his forty-fifth birthday, and he was drinking alone. At first it was just chit-chat, and I just figured he was a regular guy, but then he mentioned how he and his boyfriend had split a few weeks previously, and I realised *this guy was gay*. My mind buzzed. Was he hitting on me? It was a straight bar, but it was crowded with people, the lights weren't that bright, and I was fairly drunk. I was unconcerned.
I'd been swimming earlier that day and I was still wearing a pair of loose-fitting swim trunks. My new friend asks -blatantly asks- if he can touch 'it'... As a birthday gift. He must have realised something was up. But I played it cool. I told him he could have a pity feel if he wanted. He knew about my girlfriend of (at that time) a year and a half - so no hanky-panky, no funny stuff, he just wanted to touch it. Somehow (maybe nerves, maybe alcohol-soaked hormones) I managed to be more-or-less soft when I slipped my waist-band down and popped my manhood out, balls and all, right there under the bar. He caressed it, gave it a little squeeze, and popped it back into my shorts and said 'Thanks, hon.'
Now we were ordering more drinks; he softly telling me how much he wants to suck my cock. Now I was noticing his hand resting on the back of my stool, casually. Now I've discovered that he's slipped his hand into the waistband of my swim-trunks and he's migrated his finger to the crack of my ass. And I'm pushing back against that finger as it's exploring my asshole. Still at the bar. Surrounded by strangers. No one's noticed (or at least no one's said anything), and he, discovering what I'm really about, starts telling me how good he'd fuck me - he can do it in the alley right now if I want! I'm slowly pushing back against a finger that's, let's face it, essentially fucking my (fairly) virgin asshole on a bar-stool in the midst of a crowded beach bar, and I somehow manage to extricate myself from the situation, regardless of how deeply I want his cock buried in me.
Having narrowly escaped infidelity, I stumble home drunk and fall into bed, and the next morning I have almost no recollection of the night. It comes back in dribs and drabs throughout the day, the way such nights have a way of doing. And it's about lunch time, when I'm sitting in the cubicle in the office toilet, that the memory of that invasive finger comes floating back to me, filling me with a shame and arousal that are so powerful, it takes little more than a stroke or two before I'm erupting cum like a geyser. And then I'm left with a memory - intensely hot, and equally shameful - I can't think about it for the next several days without pulling my cock out and cumming all over myself within moments - in the car, in the toilet, at the desk.
Weeks would go by before I had the courage to tell her about the incident, but she shrugged it off - It was 'not that big of a deal', and 'I'd really had her worried' when I'd told her I had something to confess... We'd also been drinking on that night, and when she reacted so cooly, I'd gotten a little more courage, and spilled the rest of the story to her - my fantasies, my masturbation, my curiosity about toys... We played with it a little - we'd start messing around and she would whisper something in my ear about 'wouldn't you rather have a big, fat cock to play with?' We went out late one night and spontaneously bought a strap-on, which she dutifully used on me a few times before it went into a bedside drawer, but after that, apart from occasional dirty talk our sex went back to vanilla normal for a long time. Anyone would think we were a 'normal' couple. But I still had the fantasies, and they were always getting slowly stronger.
The guilt began to build up as the thoughts of cock clouded my mind almost every time we had sex. Every time I was alone I would surf, almost reflexively, to one of a handful of gay or sissy porn sites, and I let my fantasy world flourish despite feelings of shame. We still had sex a couple maybe three times a week, and it was always (outwardly) totally straight sex. We never really talked about my fantasies anymore, hadn't done for a year or two, and I figured that, from her perspective, we had a pretty standard sex-life. But Daisy's not an idiot.
And I was no wizard with the internet histories - she never let on, but she was aware of my growing addiction, and she let it slide without saying anything. I reckon she was just wondering how far it would go on its own, or maybe that she got a little vicarious thrill out of knowing I was secretly using the sex toys on myself when she was out; knowing I was surfing gay porn and chat sites while she slept or worked. Who knows what she thought - I've never asked her and she's never volunteered it up. But whatever her motivations, as she spied on me slipping deeper and deeper into addiction, a plan began to take shape in her mind. And while I alternated between wallowing in shame and revelling in daydreams about being stuffed full of cock, all unknowing, the plan developed and matured.
She started talking dirty again during sex - asking me if I wouldn't rather be sucking on a fat cock, or maybe I needed to have my ass filled? It was so unbelievably hot! Just like in the old days - my cock would twitch and jump and, as she would slide her finger down the crack of my ass, teasing me with it, she'd place my hand onto my cock and gesture for me to start masturbating. And if I wanted to have sex, she'd demure - she wanted to watch me get my jerky-treats. And besides, she knew what I really wanted, and it wasn't pussy. I'd lap it up and cum thunderously and, often, she would cum just as hard from watching me. Afterwards, I'd tell her how excited it had gotten me, but that I really just wanted her, and she would nod: she knew, and she loved me.
More and more we would masturbate together, and sex became a less frequent affair. All the while, she never said a word about her plan. Eventually, something pushed her to put that plan into motion. Maybe she got tired of having a half-boyfriend, or maybe she's just a devilish type who loves to corrupt (there's evidence that both are true), but she evidently made some calls, arranged some appointments, and managed to keep it all a secret from me until the night she sprang it all on me and changed our lives forever.
