A New Loo for Marriage

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This part is really only for those interested in the entire series. There isn't much sex in it, but I thought it was better to include it than not. If you have read the first two and not realized this is a cuckold story, then you have been warned. I should take the time to thank my favourite and most dearly loved consultant for his input. It would not be possible without it.

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I never thought something, so seemingly simple in speculative fantasyland, could be so stressful in practice. Picking the plus one to our couple would prove to be anything but simple. Once the cards were on the table, and it was clear that neither were bluffing, we now had to figure out just what we were calling. It's not as if I have a stable of studs just waiting for a turn to take the reins. It usually takes time for me to develop an attraction to a man and then even longer to decide if I actually want to sleep with him.

In the months since my infidelity became a mutual martial fantasy, I never really gave much thought to the man we were discussing. From a certain point of view he was the man I had the affair with, but that's an incomplete and distorted view of the game we had been playing. We never called him by name and, in many ways, his character took on a persona which our actual relationship had not. We had now agreed to invite a real person into our bed. In that, we were inviting a real relationship and had to figure out just what that meant to each of us. Those are the broad strokes of this twisted tale of modern love to this point, so without further preamble I'll pick up where we last left off.

Waking to the dull early morning light barely breaking the curtains, I see my husband quietly dressing. "Sweetie, where're you goin'? It's ear-ly."

"Oh you're up, I didn't want to wake you, you didn't sleep well last night."

"You going for a run?"

"Yeah, I'll be back in an hour or so. Yoga this morning?"

"Uh-huh, if I can find the prana to leave this bed. Was it hot last night? I couldn't get comfortable."

"Prana?" He fumbles loudly through the top drawer looking for socks.

"They're in the lower drawer honey, your running socks are always in the lower drawer." I pull the comforter past my head and roll over with a theatrical swoosh. "I don't know what it means, they're always saying to find your prana. I think it means breath. I don't know what I meant."

He sits on the edge of the bed to struggle with his socks. "I'll be back in time to make her breakfast."

"You're taking her today, right?"

"Yeah, then we're going to see a movie in the afternoon."

"Make sure she eats early, she shouldn't eat too soon before she dances, it's not good for her. She thinks she has a chance at a soloist this year."

"Does she?"

I sit upright in the bed making the commitment to leave the comfy confines. "I don't know, might be a bit ambitious, but she should at least try. What movie?"

"I don't know, probably something stupid, her taste in movies is about as good as yours." He smirks at his own barb.

"Hey! I like good movies!" I pout in playful response to his mockery.

"Twilight Michelle. You liked Twilight." He drones.

"The vampire was hot. Everyone's allowed to like one bad movie anyways."

"Ahem...Titanic, My Best Friend's Wedding, Dirty Dancing and of course, who could forget, She's All That?"

Dramatically going through the motions of laying out my yoga clothes, I continue my indefensible position. "That had Freddy Prince Jr."

"Oh don't worry, I will never forget watching that one right to the credits."

Both of us now laughing I concede, "Ok, ok, you've made your point."

"Why do you have to lay out every pair of tights you own like that?"

"Cause I have to pick a colour and I don't know which top I'm wearing. Aren't you going running?"

He shakes his head at the absurdity given that all of them are some shade of blue. "Yeah, yeah, going right now."

"K, give me a kiss before you go." He comes up behind me with a warm embrace and kisses me on the neck. His rough morning stubble is welcome to my smooth skin and his warm breath sinks my shoulders. I turn to get a quick kiss on the lips before he turns to go. He looks back over his shoulder at the bedroom doorway, and I remember, "Oh honey, I'm meeting Sharon at the studio and we're going to breakfast after, ok?"

"Yeah, not a problem, I'll see you this evening."

"One more kiss to keep me til then?" He rushes back for another quick kiss on the lips before disappearing down the stairs and into the dusty grey dawn. I really hate all my clothes sometimes. I keep buying more and more, but so many mornings I feel like I have nothing to wear. I'd probably save 3 hours a week if I just put the same thing on every day. I could make a closet for just a single outfit, roll out of bed and fall right into it. Eventually nobody would even notice, I could go anywhere and nobody would ever notice and, with a little luck, the background could consume me. Maybe then, I would know what it means to have nowhere left to go. In my little slice of nowhere, I would watch the stars spiral overhead and the rocks roll down the mountain.

Sharon is my best friend. She's my only sister in this world, despite the fact we share no blood, we don't have any other way of describing each other. She was born in Canada, 1st generation, her parents moving from Hong-Kong shortly before. Petite, but she projects a strong force of will. It's easy to get the impression that once she settles on anything she's going to get it. We lived together in an apartment at university and spending my days with her is what I missed most about leaving.

Sharon introduced me to the wild side of life. She helped me break out of my shell and introduced me to all the other girls who would be our friend group. We spent many sleepless, chemical fueled, nights dancing away on dirty floors to strange and wonderful music. Even so, she has a very conservative side too. Even when she was dating, she would move from one suitor to the next, usually without even sleeping with them first. In this regard, she showed an incredible amount of restraint. Her restraint is a stark contrast to my impulsiveness; perhaps that's why we get along so well.

We meet at the studio where she bends in ways lost to me since my ballerina days. I chalk it up to my height; nevertheless, I can't help but feel a bit of envy. Her shoulder length shiny black hair shows no sign of frizz in the hot room. Mine breaks, splits and curls unevenly so I tie it back tight to go through my downward facing dogs. I have a lifelong love-hate relationship with my hair, but I have to say that I'm blessed to still have the volume to wear it long at my age.

After practice, we go to the dim sum in Chinatown. This never fails to turn the morning into the afternoon as we talk about everything and anything in our lives. The restaurant is crowded with bored wandering children waiting for their parents to quit gabbing. The organized chaos is complete with wandering chefs and patrons vying for their attention with enough noise to rival Grand Central Station.

"Did you see the guy in front of the mirror?"

"Sharon, he's like 20 year old!" I laugh in response to our regular after class ritual of discussing the hot guys.

"He can be any age he wants with abs like that. You noticed."

"The guy in the back was cuter."

"In the back, no way, not more than mirror guy. Beside the window?"

"No, no, the guy who could do handstands. In the corner."

"The bald guy?"

"Yeah, I think maybe he shaves his head."

Once getting the hot guys of yoga out of the way we move to the more mundane details of politics at work, our kids and friends we don't often see. As we move from topic to topic I can't help but feel disconnected. There is really only one thing I want to discuss, but I told myself that I wouldn't. This nagging feeling keeps telling me to tell her. Perhaps I can use a little bit of restraint to temper this run-a-way impulse.

Finding an opportune time to lower my voice, I look side to side indicating the delicate seriousness of the matter, and begin to fill her in on the developments in our bedroom. The words don't come easy and I find myself rephrasing and re-explaining every couple of steps. Somewhere along the way she's caught, more or less, up to speed.

In a whisper of surprise, Sharon recoils her shoulders while pushing her chin forward. "Another man in your own bed?"

"Not our bed, I mean a hotel or something."

"Who's idea was this?"

"I guess it was his." I say with an undertone of non-committal as I process the veracity of the statement. I think it was his, but I'm not sure I'm sure about that.

"What's Colin going to do?"

"He wants to watch. What Sharon? He likes it."

"Watch? Like in the same room? With you and a man? Are you serious?"

"Does it really sound that bad?"

Sharon continues in a whisper despite the fact nobody is listening. "Mich, you're okay with this?"

"I don't know, I think so. Why are making those eyes?"

"Umm he's objectifying you. I thought you were a feminist?"

"Oh come now Sharon lighten up. It's not that serious; just a bit of fun. He's not objectifying me; he's my husband." After a short pause I continue. "You know things haven't been working so well in bed."

"Did you try baking with honeycomb?" Ever the guru for home remedies Sharon never fails.

"Sharon, really, it's not just about that...not that I'm complaining about the return of that. He's really turned on by it."

"So you're going to perform for him?"

I shrug with indifference. "Maybe I want to perform for him, I don't lose my feminist badge for that. He's my husband. You wouldn't for Mark?"

"Are you kidding? No way. If he wants a hooker he can go and find a hooker." Sharon says raising her eyebrows with humour.

"An empowered hooker." I flutter my eyes with a raised chin. "Anyways, he really wants it and I feel bad about cheating on him."

"I still don't know why you told him about that...twice. Mich, nobody tells their husband when they sleep with other men. Something's not right with you sometimes."

"Ok, ok, but do you really think it's that bad?"

"No, I suppose it's not bad or anything. I just don't get how it would work. Do you have to wear a leash? Obey commands?"

"Stop it, that's not funny, I'm being serious here. I want to do it too."

"Who's joking? You haven't even said what "it" is yet."

"Didn't I?"

"Well who's the lucky guy then? Not Derek?"

"Jesus, no! Sharon, we broke up and just no."

"Then who?"

"I don't know. We haven't really talked about that yet."

"Just someone who suits you more in bed?" Sharon tilts her head forward and relaxes more into the conversation.

"Yeah, that's part of it. I don't want to embarrass him or anything but I think he gets that."

"He's ok with that and still wants this?"

"I think so, it seems that way. It's at least part of it. He's caring like that, really. He does get excited by it too; probably more than I do."

"Does he get another woman?"

"He doesn't want that. We even joked about it. He wouldn't even with no strings attached...Says he only wants me."

"He's always been so sweet. You two need to talk about it and make sure you both want the same thing. Pillow talk is one thing, but he could get really hurt in a really bad way."

Concern covers my face as we get to the core of the issue. "Sharon, I know, but every time we try to have a sober talk about it, it turns into getting off. I don't know what to do. It's not like he's going to just drop at this point anyways. I'm not going to do anything he doesn't want me to."

"You need to sit down and write out rules. Do's and don't's in the bedroom and don't make the list in the bedroom. Sit in the dining room or something; maybe his office. At least that way you will know what's unacceptable. Better to find out now rather than later. Have a safe word just in case."

"Have you done this before Sharon?" I say with a crooked knowing glance.

Sharon laughs knowing that I'm already privy to her bedroom games which sometimes involve whips, chains and leather. I can't help but think of her and Mark sitting at their kitchen table discussing the terms of engagement. Whimsical mental images aside, she made some very valuable points.

With a concerned look Sharon continues, "Ok, then what's the problem Mich?"

"I don't know, I suppose I'm feeling really guilty and selfish. It's like I did this horrible thing and my only punishment is that I get to have sex. I keep expecting there to be something else. And I don't even get what he gets out of this. Sharon, I just don't get it. He should be mad at me, at best. I ask him over and over and he just says that it turns him on. He can't say why or how or what. Just that it turns him on. He wants to hear everything, all about guys I've been with from whenever. Some of them I even feel ashamed about. All I really know is that it turns him on. I don't know what makes me so special."

"So it bothers you?"

"No, that's the thing, I do like it. I just feel guilty, but the thrill is undeniable. It's like a nervous build up and then a release over and over. Almost like nothing is off limits. Remember when we lived in that apartment in university? The guy who lived upstairs, we screwed and we weren't even dating or anything. I even told him about that and he just wanted to hear about how it happened, what he said to me, what position and all sorts of other details. It's like the worse my behavior the more he wants to hear about it."

She leans her fist on her cheek. "And you don't want him to think less of you?"

"Don't you think he will?"

"Maybe you will think less of him?"

"Sharon no. Why would you think that? He's the father of my kids. If anything, I'm impressed that he can trust me to still love him no matter what. And I do love him no matter what."

"But are you attracted to him?"

"I don't know if I've been attracted in that way for a long time. We're having fun though and I do love him. Anyways, I'm more attracted to him if he's having fun and not getting frustrated and down on himself. I like him being all kinky."

"Think he's just being kinky?"

"I don't think that's it either, more like he wants to know everything because he loves me; it's romantic in a twisted way."

"Well he got one thing right at least?"

"What's that?"

"Mich, nobody does twisted better than you." Our familiarity allows us to laugh together at the hyperbole of the punchline.

I have a habit of spending too much time in my own head. I plant one concern from which a worry sprouts, grows into an issue, and then branches out into fears. This time I fear that I'm building something fun into a monolith of tension. Catastrophizing things doesn't happen all at once. It's more like adding more and more things to a dumpster before lighting the match. It takes weeks to fill the bin and then, like any good dumpster fire, it needs to burn for a while and get blazing hot before the lid comes off. In the past, I would let things fester until they raged unrestrained. This time I know I need to talk to him. I seems so simple. I need to talk to him.

I wait a few weeks with a clear mind, making sure he has time to process before approaching him. "Honey, we need to talk. Is your office ok?"

"Michelle what is it?" He says while blinking his eyes quickly as if looking for a fire extinguisher.

I sit with my feet hanging off the side of the desk as to not feel so formal. I don't spend much time in his office, it's not off limits to me, but it's understood that this is his space. It's his home office, he uses it to do even more work when he gets home. I make sure not to disturb him when they door is closed and he's working. Well working or watching porn. It's no secret to me, not that it bothers me in the least. I'd probably watch it with him, except porn has become so brutal these days, not like when they were movies. Movies with horrible plots and comical dialogue, but movies nevertheless. Those had some charm, now it's just random girl and greasy guy meet on a sofa, greasy guy fucks random girl on sofa and cums on her face. It's like they aren't even trying to be sexy.

Was Sharon right? Does he really expect some random guy to meet me on a sofa?

Instinctively crossing my left leg over my right, I lean toward him showing a bit of cleavage. "Oh don't worry honey, I just want to talk about it." My smile drops a hint of mischief.

"It?" *gulp*

"Yeah, you know?"

"I think so?"

"So, do you still wanna?" I softly run my fingers over his neck muscles; his pulse is racing.

He nods with suddenly alert eyes that dart left to right avoiding mine.

I shift my weight back and uncross legs, "Well, what do you think?"

"I still want to." He says intently, still nodding.

"I think we need to make some rules. You ok with that?"

The rules of engagement add a sense of order to anything destined to be chaotic. They're important, important as a baseline, a starting point and somewhere to revisit. Some rules are golden standards which from there can be no deviation and some rules are made to be broken. Sitting in his office we discuss the particular rules of this engagement. I stress plain language. I tend to prefer parsimonious conclusions which remove the need for assumptions. Although there are many nuances in interpretations, the purpose of this collaboration is not to suck the fun out of this, but to make sure nobody gets hurt, so we need to be pedantic.

Rule 1: Protection will be used. This one speaks for itself and requires no debate. Safe play is still fun play. The risk of STIs or a possible pregnancy make condoms a necessity. Spermicide is optional, but likely only preferable just in case something breaks.

Rule 2: In the event that either one of us wishes to slow things down or stop completely, that wish is respected and honoured. This is the golden rule of golden rules and non-negotiable.

Rule 3: Discretion is used in public. Any displays of affection are limited to us as a couple. The small risk of being spotted by a familiar face is too much risk to not include this. Even while watching him type this one I can't but think that this one could be fun to break.

Rule 4: There will be no request for anal or any other sex act deemed unpleasurable or demeaning. My husband knows my sexual boundaries and knows they will not change in the presence of another man, so this is a reminder to respect them. Vice versa, this applies to me as well, I will not ask him to engage in any act he finds uncomfortable.

Rule 5: A level of respect is maintained in that there are no malicious attempts to humiliate or otherwise subject each other to undue stress. This one is a little ambiguous but the inclusion is important to me; malicious being the key word.

Rule 6: Upon request, any and all contact between the other man and either one of us must be divulged to the other. This doesn't mean we can't have individual contact, just that we hold none of it secret.

Rule 7: Communication. In the event that we do follow through with it, there must be a time for one on one communication following the act. This one is my husband's request, it seems a bit fuzzy to me, but it is included as a matter of record.

Rule 8: We must agree on the man we invite to our bed, no exceptions.

"So those are the 8 rules. Can I see to make sure they look right?" I say while looking over his shoulder at his laptop screen. "Make sure you save them, ok?"

"Sure, but I don't see what the big deal is."

"It's important to me, ok? So save them in a place you'll remember. And take it seriously."

"Yeah, yeah, that's why we wrote them all out."

"Colin, I just don't want any misunderstanding, this is a big deal to me. I'm not joking."