Loren Cuckolds Her Husband

Chapter 1

I stare at the pregnancy test on Janey's bathroom counter, a simple plastic stick that's torn my world in two. My fingers are cold, but there's a heat rising in my chest -- not the warmth of friendship I've felt for twenty years, but something tighter, darker, something I recognize as rage. My husband's child grows in my best friend's womb while my own remains stubbornly empty month after month. The symmetry would be poetic if it weren't happening to me.

"Loren?" Janey's voice calls from the living room. "Are you okay in there?"

Am I okay? The question is so absurd I almost laugh. I pick up the pregnancy test, positive sign mocking me, and step back into her apartment. Janey sits on the edge of her mid-century sofa, hands wringing like wet laundry.

"So," I say, my voice unnervingly steady, "you and Curt."

Her face crumples. "It was one time. After your anniversary party. We were both drunk, and--"

"And now you're pregnant with my husband's child." The words taste metallic, like I'm sucking on pennies.

Janey nods, a tear slipping down her cheek. I should feel something for her--pity, perhaps. But all I can think is how many times I've cried in doctor's offices, specialists explaining my "hostile uterine environment" while Curt squeezed my hand with the same fingers that apparently had no trouble creating life elsewhere.

"He doesn't know yet," she whispers.

I perch on the chair across from her, legs crossing automatically, a lady accepting tea rather than devastation. "No, I imagine he doesn't."

Three years of fertility treatments. Three years of temperature charts and ovulation kits and timed intercourse that felt more like a clinical procedure than lovemaking. Three years of Curt's increasingly distant support, his "It'll happen when it's meant to happen" platitudes.

And it took him one drunken night to do what we couldn't achieve in three years of trying.

"I'm keeping it," Janey says, her hand moving protectively to her still-flat stomach. "But I don't expect anything from him. From either of you."

The room seems to tilt. I grip the armrest to steady myself. "How generous."

"Loren, please--"

"I need to go." I stand, my purse clutched against my chest like armor.

She doesn't try to stop me. Perhaps that's for the best.

I drive home in a fog, muscle memory guiding me through familiar streets while my mind races ahead. What now? The conventional responses parade through my thoughts: divorce papers served at his office, belongings thrown from windows, social media declarations of betrayal. But those feel hollow, performative. Besides, a divorce would let him off too easily. Let him run to Janey and play happy family with their miracle baby.

No. I want him to hurt the way I hurt. I want something more... intimate.

The thought forms slowly as I pull into our driveway. Our house--the three-bedroom Tudor we bought with a nursery in mind--sits there like a stage set for a life I'll never have. At least not with him.

Inside, I pour myself a generous glass of the cabernet I've avoided during fertility treatments. No reason to abstain now. The television drones in the background--some documentary Curt was watching before he left for his "business dinner." I flip channels aimlessly and land on a movie scene: a woman in the throes of passion with a man while another watches from the corner.

I freeze, glass halfway to my lips.

The watching man's face is contorted with a complex emotion--jealousy, arousal, shame. Something clicks in my brain. A memory surfaces: Curt's browser history once showing porn featuring wives with other men. He'd been embarrassed when I discovered it, claiming it was just a random click, nothing he was actually into.

But I'd seen his eyes. The dilated pupils. The flush creeping up his neck.

I take a long swallow of wine, the idea taking root. What if I gave Curt exactly what he secretly wanted--but as punishment rather than reward? Make him watch me with another man. Make him see that he's not irreplaceable. Make him witness me receiving pleasure he's never been able to give me.

The thought sends an unexpected pulse between my legs.

I spend the next hour researching "cuckolding" online, each article making the idea more appealing. By the time headlights sweep across our living room wall, announcing Curt's return, I've cleared my browser history but retained every detail.

"Hey," he says, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door. His tie is loose, shirt slightly rumpled. "You're up late."

I study him in a way I haven't in years. He's still handsome at forty-two--sandy hair with distinguished touches of silver, laugh lines that once charmed me. Now I search for signs of Janey on him, as if she's left some invisible mark.

"Couldn't sleep," I reply, voice casual. "How was dinner?"

"Boring. Client stuff." He drops onto the couch beside me, reaches for my hand automatically. "You okay? You look intense."

I let him hold my hand, noting how easily the lies come to him. How natural his concern seems. I wonder if he touched Janey with this same gentle pressure, if he whispered the same sweet reassurances into her ear as he moved inside her.

"Just thinking," I say.

"About?"

About how I'm going to make you watch while another man does what you couldn't. About how I'm going to find someone who will make me forget your name.

"Nothing important," I lie, matching his ease.

He kisses my temple and stands. "I'm going to shower."

As he walks away, I allow myself to imagine it: Curt bound to a chair perhaps, or simply commanded to stay still. Me with someone else--someone bigger, stronger, more virile. Someone who could give me what Curt couldn't. The image is startlingly arousing.

For the first time since finding out about the betrayal, I feel something other than pain. Power. Control.

Later, in bed, Curt reaches for me. His touch is familiar--too familiar. I know exactly how this will go: the same foreplay, the same positions, the same disappointed little sigh when it's over and we haven't made a baby.

"Not tonight," I say, turning away. "Headache."

He doesn't protest, just rolls to his side. Within minutes, his breathing evens out in sleep.

I lie awake, planning. I need the right man for this--someone who would intimidate Curt, someone completely different from him. I need someone who would make Curt feel utterly inadequate. The more I think about it, the clearer the image becomes: a black man. The taboo excites me in ways I never expected, the imagined contrast of dark skin against mine sending a thrill through my body.

By morning, my decision is made. I will have my revenge. I will find a well-endowed black man, and I will make my husband watch as another man claims what should have been his alone. And perhaps--the thought comes unbidden but is instantly, wickedly appealing--perhaps this man will give me what three years of trying with Curt couldn't.

A baby.

I smile into the darkness, my body humming with anticipation. For the first time in months, I feel alive.

Chapter 2

I lie in our bed while Curt showers for work, my fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach. In my mind, those fingers aren't mine -- they're larger, darker, belonging to a man I haven't met yet but can see with perfect clarity. My skin prickles with goosebumps beneath this imaginary touch, my breathing shallow with anticipation. The ultimate revenge fantasy has taken root in my mind, unfurling like smoke into every corner of my consciousness.

The shower shuts off. I withdraw my hand and pretend to sleep as Curt moves around the bedroom, the familiar domestic rustling of a man getting dressed. When the front door finally closes, I exhale and reach for my laptop.

My search history would scandalize our friends -- those same friends who sent us fertility crystals and baby-making playlists, who've watched our struggle with pitying eyes. They wouldn't recognize me now, consumed by visions of another man's hands on my body while my husband watches, unable to intervene.

Not just any man. A black man. The image is so specific in my mind I could paint it: dark hands splayed against my pale thighs, muscles rippling under ebony skin, the stark visual contrast making it impossible for Curt to ignore what's happening.

I click through images, my breath catching at certain ones. Men with bodies sculpted like classical statues, but with a power that makes Greek marble seem bloodless by comparison. Men who look nothing like Curt with his accountant's build and cautious love-making.

The taboo thrills me in ways I hadn't anticipated when this idea first formed. There's something primal about it that goes beyond revenge. I've never been with a black man before. The thought of crossing that boundary, of experiencing something Curt has never been able to give me -- it's intoxicating.

Later, at the grocery store, I find myself studying men in a way I never have before. A tall black man reaches past me for cereal, his arm extending into my space with an easy confidence. I linger, pretending to compare nutrition labels while actually noting the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretches across his chest. When he catches me looking, I don't avert my eyes immediately as I might have before. Instead, I hold his gaze for an extra beat, pleased when his expression shifts from polite disinterest to something more curious.

I don't approach him -- he's not the one. But the interaction leaves me feeling powerful, awakened.

At home, I run a bath and sink into the hot water, closing my eyes. In my mind, I'm with a faceless black man, his hands exploring my body with possessive assurance. Curt sits in the corner, eyes wide, forced to witness what he's lost. The fantasy evolves as my fingers drift between my legs: the man whispering in my ear about how he's going to fill me, plant his seed where Curt's couldn't take root.

The thought sends an unexpected current of pleasure through me. Yes. That's it. The ultimate revenge wouldn't be just cuckolding Curt -- it would be getting pregnant by another man. Making Curt watch as another man succeeds where he failed.

I slide deeper into the water, the fantasy crystallizing with perfect clarity. I see myself, legs wrapped around a powerful black body, urging him deeper as he empties himself inside me. Not just for show or simple pleasure, but with purpose. To create life. To do what Curt and I couldn't accomplish in three years of clinical, scheduled sex.

I shudder against my own hand, the water lapping at the edges of the tub as I come with an intensity I haven't experienced in years.

After, drying off, I study my body in the mirror. I'm still attractive at thirty-eight -- my stomach flat, breasts full, hips curved. I imagine how I'd look pregnant with another man's child, my body swelling with life that isn't Curt's. The thought should be horrifying. Instead, it sends another pulse of desire through me.

How would I present this to Curt? I rehearse approaches in my head as I dress. I could be direct: "You fucked my best friend and got her pregnant, so now I'm going to fuck someone else and let him get me pregnant while you watch." But no -- that would give him too much warning, too much chance to stop me.

Better to ease him into it. Test the waters.

At dinner, I watch Curt cut his steak with methodical precision. The same way he approaches our sex life -- careful, measured, checking all the boxes without genuine passion. I take a sip of wine, then casually say, "I had lunch with Melissa today."

He nods, chewing. Melissa is a colleague he's met at office functions.

"She and Todd are trying something new to spice up their marriage," I continue. "They're seeing other people. Together."

Curt's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "Like swinging?"

"Not exactly. More like... they invite someone to join them. Usually just with her while he watches."

He sets his fork down slowly. "That seems... complicated."

"Apparently it's saved their marriage." I shrug, watching his face carefully. "She says the jealousy, watching someone else with your partner -- it creates this intense desire. Makes you appreciate what you have."

There it is -- the flush creeping up his neck, the slight dilation of his pupils. The same reaction I'd noticed when I discovered that browser history years ago.

"I'm not sure that would work for everyone," he says, but his voice has a careful neutrality that tells me he's intrigued.

"Probably not," I agree, acting disinterested. "Just thought it was an interesting approach."

We finish dinner, but I notice how his eyes linger on me as I clear the plates. How he touches me more that evening -- a hand on my waist as he passes, fingers brushing mine when he hands me the TV remote.

In bed, his lovemaking is more urgent than usual. I close my eyes and imagine he's thinking of me with someone else. I wonder if, deep down, the idea appeals to him as much as it does to me. If it does, it will make my revenge all the more exquisite -- giving him what he secretly wants, but as punishment rather than gift.

The next day, I go shopping. Not at my usual department stores, but at boutiques with lingerie designed to entice rather than comfort. I select black lace that would contrast beautifully with dark skin, pieces that frame my body like artwork. The saleswoman raises her eyebrows at my selections.

"Special occasion?" she asks.

"You could say that," I reply, imagining Curt's face as another man peels these delicate scraps from my body.

I also buy ovulation tests -- discreetly, at a pharmacy across town. If this is going to happen, I want to maximize the chances of conception. The scientific approach feels fitting somehow, a cold calculation beneath the heat of desire.

At night, I research more specifically. Not just cuckolding porn, but discussions from women who've actually lived it. Their descriptions are intoxicating -- the freedom of pleasure without restraint, the erotic charge of breaking taboos, the way their partners responded. Some report their relationships emerged stronger, rekindled with a new understanding. Others describe the addictive quality, how nothing after compares to that first experience.

I wonder which category Curt and I would fall into. Not that it matters -- our marriage effectively ended the moment Janey's pregnancy test showed positive.

My fantasies grow more explicit, more detailed. I've always been quiet during sex with Curt, self-conscious and controlled. But in my mind, with this faceless black lover, I'm vocal and demanding. I tell him exactly what I want, guide his hands and mouth, command him to fill me with his seed. And all the while, Curt watches, aroused and devastated in equal measure.

I find myself masturbating constantly, addicted to these visions. Sometimes I do it in spaces Curt has just vacated -- his home office chair still warm from his body, the shower still steamy from his presence. It feels like reclaiming territory.

The fantasy evolves further: after conception, I imagine my belly swelling with another man's child, Curt watching helplessly as the evidence of my infidelity grows inside me. In my wildest mental scenarios, my lover continues to visit, continues to take me while I'm pregnant with his child, Curt relegated to witness and caretaker.

It's perverse. It's perfect.

I check my fertility app. I'll be ovulating in two weeks. Enough time to find the right man, to set everything in motion.

One night, after particularly vigorous sex initiated by Curt (who seems revitalized by my hints about Melissa and Todd's arrangement), I lie beside him in the dark and make my first concrete move.

"I've been thinking," I say softly, "about what Melissa was saying. About... watching."

He stiffens slightly beside me. "Oh?"

"Would that... interest you?" I trace patterns on his chest. "Watching me with someone else?"

There's a long pause. I can practically hear him weighing his response, trying to determine if this is a trap.

"I don't know," he finally says. "Maybe. Is that something you want?"

"I think I might," I whisper, the confession seeming to hang in the air between us. "I've been fantasizing about it."

His breathing changes, quickens. "Who would it be? Someone we know?"

"No," I say firmly. "A stranger. Someone completely different from you." I pause, then add the crucial detail: "I've been thinking about a black man, actually."

His sharp intake of breath tells me everything I need to know. I've struck gold.

"That's... specific," he manages.

"It's just a fantasy," I say, keeping my tone light, experimental. "But the contrast appeals to me. His dark skin against mine. His... differences from you."

Curt is silent, but I can feel his renewed arousal against my thigh. Interesting. This isn't just tolerance -- this is active excitement.

"We could just talk about it," I suggest, reaching down to touch him. "Play with the idea."

And so begins our new bedtime routine. As I stroke him, I describe in increasing detail what I want another man to do to me. Curt comes harder than I've ever seen, his eyes squeezed shut as I whisper about large black hands holding me down, a thick black cock stretching me open.

I never mention the pregnancy aspect of my fantasy. That's my secret, my true revenge. Let him think this is just about sex, about forbidden pleasure. Let him think this is something we're exploring together, a mutual kink.

But I know the truth. This isn't just about sex. It's about creation. It's about taking from another man what Curt couldn't give me, and making him bear witness to his own inadequacy.

Two weeks until ovulation. Two weeks to find the perfect man to complete my fantasy. My body hums with anticipation, not just for the pleasure I know awaits, but for the ultimate victory: a child conceived in revenge, growing beneath my heart as testament to Curt's failure.

The idea should frighten me. Instead, I find myself smiling into the darkness, my hand drifting once again between my legs as Curt sleeps beside me, oblivious to the depths of my plans.

Chapter 3

The call from Janey comes on a Tuesday afternoon, her name flashing on my phone like a warning sign. I nearly let it go to voicemail -- what could she possibly say to make things right? But curiosity overrides anger, and I answer with a terse hello, my voice brittle as sugar glass. Her apology rushes out, words tumbling over each other like desperate children, and I listen with my eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the paint.

"Can we meet?" she finally asks. "Please, Loren. I know I don't deserve it, but--"

"Fine," I cut her off. "The café on Elmwood. One hour." I hang up before she can respond.

I dress deliberately -- a cream silk blouse that highlights the tan I've been cultivating, tailored black pants that make my legs look endless. I want her to see what Curt is losing, what she betrayed. When I arrive at the café, I spot her immediately, hunched in a corner booth looking smaller than I remember, her hands wrapped around a mug like she's trying to absorb its warmth.

"Janey," I say, sliding into the seat across from her. The waitress appears, and I order black coffee. No cream, no sugar. Nothing to soften the bitterness.

"Thank you for coming." Janey's eyes are rimmed red. "I've been trying to figure out what to say beyond 'I'm sorry,' but everything sounds hollow."

"That's because it is," I reply, studying her. There's no visible sign of pregnancy yet, but knowing it's there makes me search for changes -- a fullness in her cheeks, perhaps, a certain glow I've envied in other women.

"I know. And I'll understand if you never forgive me." She pushes her hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I recognize from twenty years of friendship. "I just... I need you to know it wasn't planned. It wasn't an affair. It was one terrible, drunk mistake."