Acts of Infidelity - Becy and David

This story is different from my other cuckold tales.

Both readers of erotic literature, Becky and her husband David had been enjoying my Acts of Infidelity series for some time before she decided to get in touch. In an open marriage herself, she wanted me and my other readers to understand that there is a different aspect to partner-sharing that my 'Cuckold' stories so far had missed.

Although she knows first-hand the pain and pleasure than can be derived from allowing a partner to take another lover, Becky wanted readers to understand that there is a more balanced, less one-sided way of living and loving that I had not so far presented.

She wrote to me to explain the way her marriage works and offered to work with me to create something new. I replied and we became online friends. This story is the result.

It made a very pleasant change to work with the female half of an open relationship. I hope you agree that the result is both unusual and enjoyable.

***

"So what should I call him?" I asked my husband one dull Tuesday evening in February.

"Huh?" David replied, not raising his eyes from the pile of papers that were fanned out over the kitchen table in front of him.

"Chris," I explained. "Is he my lover, my friend with benefits, my fuck-buddy? None of these seems quite right. We connect on so many different levels."

I was standing at the ironing board, pressing his work shirts having just finished my own awkward-to-iron dresses and the toddlers' nursery clothes. Apart from the topic of conversation, it was a normal, sexually-stereotypical scene as found in millions of households every night.

"Call him what you like," my lover of eight years, partner of five and husband of three grumpily suggested. "It's what you do with him that counts, not what you call him."

"What do you call Sarah?" I asked.

"Sarah!" came the sulky reply.

I couldn't blame David for his attitude. Even in an open marriage like ours, it couldn't be easy for a husband to have to listen to his wife singing the praises of the new man in her life and in her bed.

Unfortunately, I had been doing this regularly for over six months.

In a perverse way I was enjoying my husband's discomfort. After all, hadn't I put up with hearing him extol the many virtues of the girl who had been his Other Significant Other for most of the two years that had passed since we had agreed to open our minds, our marriage and our bodies to additional partners?

I had a lot to thank Sarah for. It was her deepening relationship with my husband that had brought things between David and me to a head and precipitated us into the open marriage we had been enjoying since the extraordinary night I first became aware of her.

Sarah and David's relationship had been a presence in our marriage even before the ink had dried on the secret document now hidden at the foot of my wardrobe.

Yes, our new marriage contract is actually a written document. It might even be legally binding too; certainly the website from which it had been downloaded made that claim, but I couldn't imagine it ever being tested in a court of law.

I hung David's newly-pressed shirt on a hanger and placed it with the others on the back of the kitchen door then took another from the linen basket.

I enjoyed ironing. What with two small children and my hectic job in a London Hospital it was a calming, relaxing activity which I viewed as a relief rather than a chore. Let my husband spend his evening marking essays and theses if that was what he needed. I was having a night off from stress.

Of course, being with Chris was another way I could relax but that had been last night - if you could call the antics we had got up to 'relaxation'. The low-cut, sleeveless top I was wearing to iron had been deliberately chosen to display the marks of my most recent date for my husband to see.

To my amusement, David was pretending not to notice the fingertip bruises on my upper arms and the small but distinctly tell-tale hickey that my lover had left on my lower neck.

By the time he and I were in bed together tomorrow night, the more hidden marks and sore places on my body would have faded but right then, the chafing of my shirt against my sore, braless nipples and the rubbing of the gusset of my panties against my still-pink vulva were pleasant reminders of my developing relationship with my own 'Other Significant Other'.

I shivered with pleasure when I remembered that there was so much for Chris and me still to explore; so much still to try out together... but sadly my next date would have to wait until the following week.

Tonight I had to babysit; tonight was David's night. In a short while, my husband would be on his way to spend the evening with his young girlfriend. They were going for dinner in a trendy backstreet restaurant in Soho; one he and I had visited many times and loved. He would probably stay the night in her flat too, so I would have to get the kids to nursery in the morning on my own and wouldn't see him until he came home from work tomorrow evening.

But I mustn't complain; last night had been for me. Last night it had been David's turn to look after our daughters while Chris and I enjoyed some private time together.

Most of the dates we had with our Other Significant Others were during the week; we had agreed that the weekends would be family time and with only one or two agreed exceptions, we have stuck to this.

I seldom stayed out overnight. Although I knew David was more than capable of coping on his own, as their mother I was still uncomfortable leaving our daughters overnight too often. I usually arrived home sometime between midnight and one o'clock to be there when they woke up in the morning.

With time, I was sure this would change and I would feel happier spending whole nights with Chris but, as I said, the relationship was quite new and I was still finding my way around the world of polyamory.

So, what makes an outwardly-normal, attractive, successful couple abandon the monogamous life enjoyed or endured by the vast majority of their friends and peers? What do David and I get out of bringing others into the most intimate aspects of their lives?

The answers are complex and I suspect, different for every couple. In our case a fear of boredom, a need for adventure and I suppose, a desire to have our cakes and eat them too were involved but even that is too simplistic.

My life with David has been one of balance from the start. We met at University, we were both top students on our courses, we were both moderately attractive, both overly confident academically and yes, we both had problems with commitment and promiscuity.

In my case, I was almost as interested in girls as I was in boys but was just coming to terms with it. To be honest, I still am though it is has been some time since I have put that interest into practice.

Let's be honest from the start, both David and I love sex and are good in bed. I don't mean to sound conceited, it's just that we have both had enough partners to know this as a fact. David is caring, sensitive, attentive and has plenty of stamina where sex is concerned. Less so when it comes to housework.

I'm open-minded, adventurous in bed, easily aroused but considerably harder to satisfy. If I'm even more honest, until my marriage I was a much easier lay than a girl's reputation could normally withstand too.

As a result, David and I had been drawn together. At University, we had slept together several times on a purely casual basis before we realised we had started to connect on an intellectual and emotional level as well as the physical one which was working so well.

I suppose our long-term relationship had started before either of us realised it.

David is not the best lover I have had by any means, but he's still very good and works hard to make sure my needs are looked after, whatever they happen to be at the time. Yes, he does have a big cock but by no means the biggest I have had, and I know better than to equate mere size with performance.

I often tell him that the affection we share makes up for the many flaws in his technique and in return, he assures me my own considerable shortcomings in the sack can be overcome with patience.

I love him to bits!

We are well-matched in many ways. In normal circumstances, neither of us is very romantic or sentimental as this story shows only too clearly but he is my best friend and I am still very glad I married him - which I did three years ago after finding I had accidentally become pregnant.

David is a college lecturer, a job that brings him into contact with large numbers of available young women. He's grown much better-looking with time, but in an alternative kind of way, usually dressing East-London-trendy with a topknot, bushy beard, slightly short, tight trousers and no visible socks.

It's a style that seems to go down a treat with his female students, most of whom are at least partly in love with him. I'm sure Sarah isn't the only girl whose body he has enjoyed in the past, but that's okay as long as it remains in the past.

I'm skinny and flat-chested with a moderately pretty, slightly quirky face. I used to have long brown hair but since the last birth, I've had it cut short for a change. Apart from when I'm with Chris or at work, I can usually be found in tight trousers or leggings with Doctor Martens boots, a black motor cycle jacket and woollen hat.

I work in a local hospital. I suppose I meet a lot of attractive men there too, but the circumstances are often shall we say, unfortunate and my work clothes are hardly designed to show off what little figure I have. There are always opportunities to stray in a hospital community but as I want my career to develop, apart from at the very beginning of our new open marriage, I've taken care not to soil my own doorstep, so to speak.

Our relationship is a model of modern gender balance; we consult each other over everything. We share the cooking, cleaning, decorating, child-care, bank accounts - everything a normal, close, millennial couple should do. We earn similar salaries, we split the rent down the middle, we have mutual friends as well as our own separate circles.

My nineteen-eighties-rampant-feminist Grandmother approves of us. She might even approve of the part of our marriage we don't talk about but I'm not ready to tell her about that just yet.

So why do I need another sexual outlet? The answer goes way back.

I lost my virginity relatively late by the standards of my school. I'm an only child, my parents didn't talk about sex at home and I wasn't the most attractive girl in the school anyway, so an abundance of opportunities to have or even understand sex simply hadn't arisen. Or at least on the few occasions they had arisen, they had been with the wrong boys so, as I entered the Upper Sixth form, I was the last of my circle of friends still to be in possession of her cherry.

Feeling increasingly isolated and unable to join my more experienced friends' conversations, I became determined to lose it. Ridiculous is it might sound to any men reading this story, it's not such an easy thing for a girl to do 'the right way' if she's not in a long-term relationship.

From watching my friends and their antics, I had seen just how bad an experience a girl's first penetration could be, even if it wasn't reluctant and was with a long-standing boyfriend. I had seen what getting it wrong could do to a girl's reputation too so, when I decided the time had come to kiss goodbye to my hymen, it was a deliberate decision on my part and I was determined to do it right.

One Saturday night in November I went to a club in town with a couple of friends. There I got slightly drunk for Dutch courage and allowed myself to be danced with and eventually picked up by an attractive but older man who called himself Mike. I guess he was in his early thirties; nearly twice my age. He was quite good-looking, but also had an air of kindness about him which made me think he might be gentle.

He clearly fancied his chances with me. I was drawn towards him and, sensing an opportunity, he responded.

Well after midnight and the wrong side of a few drinks, I agreed to go back to his flat knowing full well what was likely to happen, hoping it would and wondering if it would hurt.

Well, the inevitable did of course happen and equally predictably it did hurt; emphatically so. No sooner were we in his lounge than his lips were on mine and his hands were all over me. The ease with which his fingers and tongue aroused me then directed me towards the sofa made the decade or more difference in experience obvious.

I was helpless; massively aroused, slightly frightened but still determined not to leave that place still a virgin.

Mike seemed equally fixed on the same outcome, concentrating almost all his efforts on my groin. Within what seemed like seconds, my so-short dress was raised and his hand was inside my knickers, fingering me expertly in a way no boy had ever come close to.

My first bewildering, manually-induced climax followed swiftly, my body shaking and trembling, leaning heavily against him as I came helplessly and messily on his hand.

From there it was a simple and inevitable progression in which, though too shocked and inexperienced to play any positive part in my defloration, there was a complete absence of resistance on my part.

Mike can hardly have believed his luck as he lay me on my back on the cushions and fumbled clumsily with his trousers.

There was the sound of a metal belt-buckle being unfastened and a zipper being lowered, my heart thumping as I realized it was all happening for me. There was a fumbling out of my line of sight that I later realised was him rolling on a condom before rising over me.

I closed my eyes tightly, silently begging him not to let me see my first ever erect cock in case the sight frightened me so much I wouldn't go through with it.

I made a small, instinctive gesture of resistance, pressing my knees together as my knickers were pulled down my thighs but I was far too aroused to stop then. I made a second, equally feeble attempt at saving myself when he pushed my knees apart, spreading my legs wide, fully exposing my vulva to a man for the very first time.

I remember the look of triumph on his face when he realised I really was going to let it happen.

I remember something warm, smooth and alarmingly large being rubbed up and down my slit until it found my entrance. I bit my lip as I felt his first tentative pressure, parting my labia and trying to enter me, failing as my hymen blocked his way. I remember the sharp bolt of pain it produced and his surprise at finding himself with an indisputable virgin.

I remember him backing off and trying again, this time a little harder. The pain was sharper still. He tried a third time, then a fourth, each more determined and forceful than the last until with a strange, painful and slightly nauseating yielding sensation, my hymen finally tore.

With a gasp of triumph from above and low, half-choked moan from me, Mike's erect cock slipped slowly and painfully into my vagina and my virginity was gone; on my back on his sofa, my short, tight dress rammed under my armpits, my damp, torn knickers tangled around one ankle.

As a virgin in the very act of being penetrated, I was tense and went stiff as a board. Mike was too drunk and too excited to be as gentle or sensitive as I had hoped, and I had literally no idea how to respond to his progress but after a few failed attempts, his thirty-plus-year-old cock finally sank its full length into my teenage body and my virgin status was no more.

Both the pain of my hymen tearing and the extraordinary alien feeling of having a part of someone else's body inside mine for the first time were a real shock. Both blood and tears began to flow, but once the seal had been broken so to speak and he was clumsily thrusting in and out of my over-tight, desperately-lubricating vagina, I gradually stopped crying.

Soon, to my surprise, I began to derive some new and unfamiliar pleasure from the new sensations that were emanating from my loins. My body responded clumsily but instinctively, loosening and lubricating as never before. Encouraged by the rapidly-decreasing resistance, Mike began to thrust harder and deeper. The sting in my belly returned, along with a warm wet glow and I bit my lip hard, my mind spinning with the completely unexpected mix of pleasure and pain.

"Tight! You're so fucking tight!"

Mike gasped as his strokes grew faster and erratic as, unrealised by me, his climax was approaching rapidly. His face twisted and contorted, frightening me but before I could react, his orgasm broke and he began to cum in the condom inside my sore, battered vagina.

The feeling of relief when his penetrations slowed to a halt was almost palpable, but as his cock began to soften then slipped from my body, a strange feeling of disappointment passed over me too. I had not been expecting that at all.

Afterwards we lay together on his sofa like too spoons, Mike stroking my battered body, me trying to conceal the tears that were running down my cheeks. My instincts were to get out of there; get home, get clean, be normal again but something else told me to stay put; that I had only had the merest taste of what might be awaiting me.

So, against all those instincts, I lay trembling in his arms until the room grew too cold. When he suggested we went to bed, I said nothing but simply let him lead me through to his room.

When Mike took me a second time in the small hours, this time properly naked, on my back and much more comfortable in his bed, there was pleasure from the start. To my delight, the pleasure grew stronger and stronger as I became more relaxed. The more I relaxed, the more his technique seemed to improve too and the more pleasure there was for us both.

When he came inside me for a second time, my eyes were open, my mind alert and though still a long way from orgasm, I had felt enough to know it was something I wanted and wanted badly.

When I left his flat in the morning, my torn knickers in my handbag, I was hooked. It was to take three months and two more partners before I had my first proper vaginal orgasm but when I did, I knew I was a lost soul.

I didn't see Mike again, though he tried very hard to turn our one-night stand into a relationship, calling and messaging me frequently. I wasn't ashamed of what I'd done; far from it. It was just that he had served his purpose and, having just discovered an entirely new form of pleasure, I was in no mood to limit my experience of it.

And anyway, I was much too young to be involved with a man his age.

Looking back, I was young and behaved selfishly. In truth, I have a lot to thank him for. Although I now know his technique in bed left a lot to be desired, Mike remembered about and took care of birth control, he was relatively gentle, very caring afterwards, entirely confidential so when he dropped me off in the morning (at a friend's house so he wouldn't know where I really lived), my self-respect was enhanced rather than damaged.

Mike, if by some chance you are reading this, you were a Gentleman and I hope you can forgive the cruel way I treated you.

Anyway, having now been introduced to the pleasures of the flesh, I was almost desperate to experience more. During my final year at school I slept with half a dozen boys, most of them only once. I was careful to make sure I didn't acquire too bad a reputation - my parents still had to live in the town - but when I left school and discovered the freedom of University over a hundred miles away, I took maximum advantage of it.

And you can be sure there was no shortage of boys willing to oblige any equally willing girl, however skinny, flat-chested and plain she might look.