. 01

Author's Note:

For years I've tried—in every possible way that I can think of—to persuade my wife to cuckold me... preferably with a black lover. But she insists (and I've come to accept) that it's just never gonna happen. Not in real life.

But! My wife does like when I tell her a story about her being with a dominant black bull (if by "like" one means "rubs herself to orgasm while listening to said story"). So, in lieu of irl cucking, that's what she and I do instead: storytime and role-play. The story series that follows is a very-very-elongated version of one of the stories that we currently have on heavy storytime rotation. Note: the two black guys that she once actually fucked in her actual real life (prior to our marriage) were guys that she met at a gym, so this story series (not at all coincidentally) exists in that same general setting.

Fwiw, my wife is in her mid-40s, but looks younger. I'm calling her Christy in this story series, but that's not her actual name. Anyway, "Christy" is 5'9", has beautiful 34" tits with a sexy round ass, a proportionate waist and solid thighs, thanks to her Pilates and running regimen. She's got light blue eyes, silky shoulder-length brown hair, and a risqué smile, which usually comes with a tartish arch of her eyebrow. She's been told she looks like (and has the voice of) Famke Janssen, if you know the actress. Anyway, trust me: this gorgeous wife of mine absolutely deserves a big black bull in her life. And so: the following story series, told to her (the fantasy hotwife) by me (the aspirational cuck husband)...

***

You've been looking for a workout routine to complement your Pilates, so you decide to check out that new gym that just opened up in town. It's called Gym 68. Looks pretty upscale—you could tell just driving past—but I (your husband) have had a pretty good year, moneywise, in my gig as a code monkey at our friendly neighborhood dotcom. So you (my wife) feel okay about maybe giving this new gym a try. Plus, the more you work out, the more confident you tend to feel, and the hornier you tend to get, thus the more sex I tend to receive. So you're pretty sure I'm not gonna complain about this particular line-item in the budget.

Sweats and baggy t-shirt on, you stroll a few blocks into town and walk into Gym 68 and the first thing you notice is: yes, wow, super upscale. The lighting, the décor, the tech. Somebody sunk a lot of money into this place. The membership fees won't be cheap. And you already feel self-conscious in your sweats and t-shirt... somehow this place calls for something better. The next thing you notice: the clientele. It's... well, um, somewhat disproportionately "urban"? Like mostly, er, African-American, maybe? Looking closer, you do see a few white women (mostly young, blonde, model types... and none of 'em in sweats, that's for sure!). But the men... they're basically all black guys. Some of 'em younger, some our age, a few even a bit older than us, but they're all taut, and toned. And big. And black. Some tatted guys, some guys with dreads, some clean cut guys, but if there's a white guy in this gym, you sure can't see him. And the music in here reflects that. It's all rap. Driving, with a thump, and loud, and raw. The one other gym you've ever been in streamed, like, Cyndi Lauper and Erasure and whatever. This ain't that.

You start to wonder if this Gym 68 place is quite the right fit for you, but before you can back out, there's a man at your side, talking to you. Honestly, you miss the first few words that come from his mouth... or rather, the words don't register nearly so much as his voice: it's deep. Smooth. Unhurried. If you'd never fully noticed quite how thin and (frankly) effeminate my voice is, the contrast definitely presents itself to you within the first three syllables from this man's lips. Your breath catches just the tiniest bit (does he notice?) at the presence of this new, er, friend, and you look over... and then up. Fuck, this man is tall! 6'8"? 6'9"? Whatever it is, he's definitely taller than me, with gorgeous skin the color of dark amber. As this man looms above you, you smile nervously and reflexively tuck a lock of hair behind your ear: just the most basic schoolgirl flirt maneuver in the manual (crap, did he notice that too?). "Been waiting for you", the man says again (you realize now that's what he said the first time), and your instinct is to maybe look away in modesty/shyness, but this man's eyes... they basically won't allow it. They're behind rimless glasses, but no matter, these eyes are a deeper green than you've ever imagined possible, and sweetie, they have a complete hold on you. Like they know you... like this man, within seconds of looking at you, already knows every secret you've ever kept. Another slight breath-catch. He had to notice that one. But he continues: "A man in this business, he waits a long time for the right client to walk in. What took you so long?"

You try to think of something smart and self-effacing to say, but smart words aren't coming, so you shut up and shrug as this big black Adonis looks you over. And you summon the courage to do a bit of the same, in return. He's probably in his early 50's, this man. Close-cropped hair, and a hint of a goatee with a little salt and pepper in it. Smooth complexion. Defined jawline and features, but not severely so. Braided gold chain, major ice in his ear... honestly, this man could be a model, it seems to you. And that's just the face. His body? Well, right away you catch a hint of his muscular ass and powerful thighs down under his black workout lycra. Up higher: his shoulders are wider across than I am tall. The white top stretched across his pecs is filmy enough to show off a couple of tats on his chest. And if there's a single ounce of flab on those abs, well... I mean, there just isn't. Not on his abs, not anywhere on him. He might be the most beautiful, most physically-perfect man you've ever seen, this black guy in front of you.

And yeah, about the "black guy" part... Christy, you've never considered yourself particularly attracted to black men. All these years I've begged you to cuck me, and all these years I've pleaded for it to be a black bull you do it with, and all these years the answers have been no, and no. Not your thing, you say. Just not you. Not what a good girl does. So why is this good girl now silently submitting as this gorgeous black bull —this ebony god of a man you haven't even formally met yet- physically puts his hands upon you and turns you around so that he can inspect you from every angle? Two decades ago I, your future husband, didn't have the balls to so much as touch your hand until our fourth or fifth date! But here's this man, within seconds, grasping your shoulders, and stroking your hips, and rotating you by your waist, "seeing" you with his fingers through your sweats and baggy t-shirt, all without so much as a "please" or a "may I?". And here you are, lifting and turning and presenting for him, all subtly and subconsciously, but all with the same unmistakable message of submission. Wanting to please. Wanting approval.

"Yeah," he finally says to you, nodding, taking off his glasses for emphasis. "Yeah, I can't wait to get my hands on that."

You walk out of Gym 68 with his business card and an appointment for the following day. This man—this gorgeous, dominant black man—is going to train you. Somehow that was established without any actual input from you. He dismissed the issues of fee ("Don't even worry about it") and availability ("You're mine at nine") with barely a handwave, and that was that, and off you went, with a nervous giggle and another tuck of hair behind your ear, like a flirty sophomore, one-third your age.

"QUINTEN BORDERS"

That's the name on the business card. You Google him on your phone as you walk (practically glide) home from Gym 68. Turns out he's a former NFL player, this Quinten Borders. A Chicago Bear. He wore number 68 (hence the name of the gym)... a number that the Bears have since retired. He was a Defensive Tackle (whatever that is). Wikipedia says he twice won NFL DPOY (you really don't know what that is) and went to 5 Pro Bowls before retiring early to invest in the health and fitness industry. He created a line of workout supplements, and a hydration system, but he really struck gold with a fitness app that Droid now includes standard on approximately 2 out of every 5 smartphones unboxed anywhere on the planet. Quinten Borders is a billionaire now—he certainly never has to work another day in his life—but still, he's turned his energies toward a new boutique line of very-upscale gyms in urban centers containing tech industry concentration. The line is called Gym 68, and it's backed by some serious hedge fund capital, yet Mr. Borders is still known to provide the occasional patron with individualized fitness training, he says... when he can find "the right client."

Continuing your journey home, you click through some YouTube videos of Quinton Borders... press conferences before and after football games. Corporate rollouts. There's a TED Talk, for Christ's sake! No matter what you click on, the actual words he says end up blending together for you, but that voice... that deep, buttery voice, the piercing eyes, the assertion of power and control over each and every venue over the past two decades: it's all just the same as his command and power in the gym with you just a few minutes earlier.

"Wow, you got quite a workout."

It's me. It's the very thin, very un-deep, un-buttery voice of your husband, calling over from the couch in our living room. You got home somehow (you barely looked up from your phone the whole way back), and there I'm sitting, saying something to you. You pull an AirPod out of your ear and I repeat: "You look like you got a real workout. You're all sweaty and flushed."

You catch yourself in the mirror in the foyer, and... Jesus, yeah, you're red and blushing and somehow glistening. What the fuck has come over you, Christy?

You mumble something about needing a shower and away you go to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you as you strip off those big stupid sweatpants and that stupid old t-shirt from some 5K in 2004. You somehow feel embarrassed that this gorgeous, perfect man ("Quinten Borders", you mouth the name to yourself) saw you wearing that dowdy stuff. On some deep subconscious level you resolve not to let that happen a second time.

You're in just a bra and panties now, looking yourself over in the mirror, and slowly you run your hands over every quarter-inch of your body where Quinten ran his own. Did that really just happen? Did you just get touched—fondled, really—by that sexy, sable-skinned billionaire? And did it really make you... wet? Your panties, Christy: they're sopping. You slowly slip your hand under the waistband of these frumpy old granny panties that you just wore in Quinten's presence (another mistake you subconsciously vow not to make again), and push your fingers down through your warm, muggy bush. I mean, it's DC in August down there, sweetheart. You catch yourself in the mirror once again, barely recognizing the slut standing there, half-naked in her master bath, slipping a single finger (and now a second) between the sodden folds of her fevered cunt.

You'd idly deposited your phone on the bathroom vanity when you entered, and it's still sitting there, automatically advancing through YouTube videos as your fevered pussy seeps freely all over your fingers and down into the palm of your hand. Looking down, you notice the screen is now streaming a mixtape vid that someone cut of Quinten's NFL days. Your fingers find your clit (or more honestly, at this point, your engorged and needy clit finds your fingers), as you watch a younger version of this beautiful black god dominate and destroy everyone around him, in his black and orange 68. This Quinten Borders is aggressive and brutal. Pure, irresistible power. On a field of large dominant alpha men, he's the largest. He's the most dominant. He's the true alpha. Twisting and flicking your oily clit, you watch this man assert his will utterly, and the effect on you—on your body, on your very core, and certainly on your cunt—it's primal. And the effect is multiplied by the sexy rap track running over the vid. The text in the corner of the screen says it's "First Class" by Blueface, which you recognize not at all, but instinctively the stroke of your hand moves to match the thump of the track, and the thrust of your hips follows along, as a third finger now joins the other two, thrusting in and out of your gaping, desperate pussy.

You push those big granny panties down off your hips and kick them onto the floor (you'll never wear them again, btw), and you're now fucking your hand in earnest, your eyes never leaving the screen of your phone, where—in highlight after highlight- Quinten Borders controls. Possesses. Declares himself king Declares himself YOUR king. Every nerve ending within 18 linear inches of your cunt crackles and thrums as you pick up the pace of your finger fucking, rutting your hand ever-faster (Blueface's pace be damned), gaze glued on the glory of your king.

And just when you think you couldn't get any fucking hornier, along comes a clip of Quinten bull-rushing some pasty white quarterback who plays for a team wearing, like, light-teal unis (it's the Miami Dolphins, btw). You can clearly see this quarterback's face: he's thin and frail and... well, he looks a lot like me. This is a kid, this quarterback. A frightened little white boy barely able to get his tiny hands around the football, and now he's about to get absolutely fucking murdered by a man. A real man. Quinten Borders. But then the strangest thing happens. This QB—this doppleganger for me, your husband—essentially hands the football over to Quinten. I mean, sure, he made a halfhearted pretense at attempting to throw the ball away, but a pretense is all it was. In truth, he gave it up. He submitted. He understood the natural dynamic at play—when big man and small man want the same thing it's the big man that will have it—and he acquiesced. Quinten Borders simply accepted the ball and, with a stiff arm of dismissal (disgust, almost), he "mooshed" that poor quarterback right in his face. And down he went, that powerless white guy that I look so much like. Down, and out of frame, and no longer relevant, and never to be seen again, as the camera follows Quinten with the football, to the end zone, and to yet more glory.

It's somewhere during the above (and you're not sure exactly where) that the dam broke deep inside of you. The sight of primal dominance and submission, of conqueror and conquered, of superiority and subservience... it all set loose an explosion, a torrent. You cum, Christy. Your knees buckle and your head swims as the blood rushes from your brain down to your cunt (and deeper), where it instinctively, biologically seeks the seed of the conqueror. You may tell yourself you're a good girl. 45 years of Catholic upbringing may tell you that you're a good girl. But 450,000 years of evolution knows what you really are, or at least what you right now desperately crave to be: a prize to be rightfully-claimed and owned by the superior male.

All of that, again, takes place on the subconscious level, Christy. You're not quite thinking it, not in those exact words, as your body convulses with wave after wave of throm and thrum. If any words come to mind at all, they're words like "fuuuuuuckkkkk" and "yeahhhhhhhhhhhh" and "unggggghhhhhh". And after the orgasms finally subside, the words you tell yourself are modest, reassuring ones: you were only having a little harmless fun in the bathroom. You're just a faithful wife and mother, who just had herself a little "me" time. And it's all true enough. But you were more than that. For that careless and fleeting moment, Christy, you were an obedient and willing snowbunny, the sole possession of a superior black bull, who just happens to be located, at present, just a few short blocks away.

And as you catch your breath and towel yourself dry, preparing to rejoin your husband and family, and the actual three-dimensional world, your phone buzzes. It's a text message. It's from Quenten Borders. It reads:

"Don't believe everything you read on Wikipedia. I went to 6 Pro Bowls. lol."

***TO BE CONTINUED***