George stared at the glowing computer screen from the depths of his dimly-lit "man cave", as he called it. In reality, it was the basement of his mother's house, where he spent most of his spare time. It was very cave-like, being dark, damp and smelling of moldy things growing. There was little that would be considered manly about it.
It had a furnace in one corner, a laundry room in the other. There was even a small half-bath so that George didn't have to climb the stairs to take a dump. Along one wall was a chest-style freezer, an avocado-colored refrigerator that had survived since the 1970s and a cabinet with a toaster oven, microwave, and sink.
An old, ratty sofa and chair, that looked like someone had thrown them away ten years before faced an off-brand flatscreen television, where George would mostly watch his sports, play X-box games and whack-off to porn.
Under the wooden stairs, George had built a desk, of sorts, where he had his pride and joy, Betsy. Betsy was a computer, with multiple monitors, an open case, with cables leading to numerous external drives and devices. In fact, it was more than one computer but had several of them stacked together. It allowed him to simultaneously run multiple programs on different machines, have numerous active, anonymous accounts and log-in sessions that he used regularly to mask his identity and appear to be many different people.
Betsy made George feel important. It made him feel like a big man when nothing else in his life did. With Betsy, he could pose as girls in Second Life and have virtual sex with men. With Betsy, he could troll Reddit and Literotica without being found out. Betsy let George feel like a man.
The rest of the basement was littered and piled high with boxes, junk, forgotten and unwanted possessions. George felt right at home.
George shifted in his seat at the computer, causing the chair to squeal loudly in protest. His bloated, whale-like body taxing the frame of the chair to its limits. It would not be the first piece of furniture to collapse under the stress of supporting his corpulent, distended body. He suddenly leaned forward and stared at the screen.
"It's about time," he stated, as he saw the new stories had posted to the Loving Wives section of the Literotica.com website. There were three. One looked to be a Burn the Bitch story, so he skipped it and instead focused on the other two. One was a story about a couple's surprise, erotic adventures while camping. The other was another chapter in an ongoing story of a couple who joined a swinging club.
He scanned the titles and descriptions, then quickly moved to the end of the story, where you could leave ratings and comments. He clicked on the rating drop-down and picked a 1. He snickered when he saw that it was a first-time story from a new author who had not learned to disable comments from Anonymous users.
"Stupid fucking asshole," he sneered as he started typing out his "review".
"More sick shit from a wannabee cuckold. You probably get off on another man's jizz in your wife's cheating cunt. Pathetic. 1*."
He then cleared his cookies and session and relaunched the website, going back to the story's last page. He added another 1 rating and posted another comment:
"Wasted space. Didn't bother to read this sick crap. 1*."
He repeated this process for the next fifteen minutes, before moving on to repeat it for the swinging story. When he was finished, he had left fifty one-star ratings on both stories and five or six horrific comments on each. He then went to the story that was a "Burn the Bitch" episode. He quickly scanned through each page, noting that the husband got some serious revenge on his cheating cunt of a wife.
He smiled as he wrote a very positive comment and left twenty or thirty five-star ratings to help pump it up. His comment read:
"This is what happens to bitches who cheat. No real man would put up with his wife fucking some other man. She got what she deserved. 5*"
Satisfied and feeling smug, he went back to the listing and clicked on the new story about camping. "Let's see what kind of sick shit this whore gets into," he mumbled as he started to read it. He skimmed down and down, ignoring all of the setup. To him, most of the stories were the same and followed the same format: introduce the characters, hint at the outcome, then backtrack to talk about their history, then get into the story, blah blah blah and then the sex.
There was a juicy bit of history as the author described some of the wife's sexual activities during college. She had attended a frat party and got drunk and fucked several guys. As he read the juicy details, George slid his sweatpants down around his ankles and started fondling his micro-penis. Fully erect, he would be lucky to hit three inches. He cupped his dick in the palm of his hand, which covered all of it, and pumped rapidly.
His pre-cum made his hand slick, so George licked it clean, savoring the flavor of his own juices. He pumped faster and faster as the woman in the story sucked off all the men. As she took loads in her mouth, George moaned, licking up more of his own secretions. He edged himself on the brink of orgasm, but when the sex scene finished, he stopped touching himself.
He scanned down in the story, looking for more sex. He found it. The couple had run into a stranger in the woods, who joined them for a dip in a mountain lake. As they all got naked, George returned to fondling himself. When the husband sat by idly, watching as the stranger fucked his wife, George groaned. When the stranger shot his load into the hot wife, filling her pussy with his seed, George grunted and shot his spunk into a dirty hand towel. He looked at his sperm, then lifted it to his nose, sniffing it. He slipped out his tongue and licked it from the towel, moaning as he savored the flavor, then swallowed it.
As he finished, he heard sounds from upstairs. There was the slam of a door, then footsteps. He looked at the clock. It was past two AM. He shook his head, realizing his bitch wife had been out all this time. He pulled up his sweatpants, stood and waddled to the foot of the stairs, grabbed onto the wooden railing and started hauling his fat ass up them.
He had to pause halfway up to catch his breath from the exertion. Finally, he made it to the top and leaned against the wall momentarily, out of breath. When his dizziness subsided, he padded his way into the kitchen. His wife of twelve years was sitting at the table, having a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles and milk. It was a large bowl and she'd dumped in half the box of cereal.
"I told you not to wait up for me," she said between shovel-fulls of the sweet cereal. A dribble of chocolatey milk ran down her chin.
"I didn't," he responded, "I was working on stuff."
She chuckled, "Stuff? What like jerking off to gay porn?"
He bristled and ignored the jab. "Where were you? It's after two."
She laughed, "You trying to impress me with your clock skills? You know where I was. I had a dinner meeting."
George knew it wasn't a dinner meeting.
"Dinner was over by nine. Where the fuck have you been until now?" he asked, noticing that her clothes looked completely disheveled and wrinkled. It also looked like she was missing her bra, as her large tits sagged onto the table.
"We had a few drinks and then went to Mr. Parker's suite for a meeting. That's why it is called a dinner meeting, dinner then a meeting." She rolled her eyes at him and raised her bowl to slurp down more of the milk. She belched.
"You went to his suite? You and who else?" he asked, feeling his little dick getting hard again.
"Mr. Parker, of course, Dave, Jim, and Carl were there too," she said with a naughty-looking smile on her face as she thought about what had happened. She had just named her boss and all three of the sales guys at the used car lot where she worked.
"What did you do?" he asked, feeling his breath starting to get ragged.
"What do you think we did? Nothing you could do. That's for sure," she scoffed.
"Did they fuck you?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. This was not her first dinner meeting.
"George," she said, pushing the empty bowl away, "it's none of your business."
"You're my wife. Of course it's my business," he replied, sounding weak and whimpery.
She laughed. "You know you are such a pathetic little loser. Is your cock getting hard thinking about it? I can't tell, it's too fucking small to even notice a bulge in your pants."
He blushed.
