This narrative is part of a multi-part story. Reading previous chapters will enhance the reader's understanding of each subsequent installment.
This story showcases wife sharing and cuckold themes. If that is not your thing and you still read on, any emotions it triggers in you, is on you.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are over 18.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are over 18.
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The sun faded over the western Iowa skies as Corey Miller pitched his laptop bag onto the passenger seat of his pickup truck. Sliding behind the wheel, he surveyed the former abandoned cornfield which his construction firm had transformed into a sprawling healthcare facility with 500 beds and medical offices. It took two years and came at a price tag of $150 million, but as far as he was concerned, the real cost had been the five months - and counting - spent apart from his wife of 28 years. Thankfully, the ribbon cutting ceremony was scheduled for mid-February, signaling the end of major construction. He could then turn in his resignation, leave the company in good graces, and join Lauren in Miami. Unfortunately, since it was only early October, he would be handcuffed to Iowa for at least another four months.
Driving passed the chain-link construction fences, Corey waved at Jerry and Dan, two other project managers on the job. He smiled. If only they had known the dark role they played in he and his wife's love making recently, brought up by none other than Lauren herself. A tall tale to be sure, told from her point of view about an encounter with his coworkers in the construction trailer, which ultimately resulted in them unloading semen onto her face. Pure fiction, of course, but hot, nonetheless.
The 45-minute drive to the suburbs gave the 61-year-old a chance to reflect on his wife and their relationship. In the five months since Lauren had relocated to South Florida for her new job, he had witnessed the low key, demure, and nearly frigid 48-year-old Midwestern mother change into a dynamic sexual creature who was slowly embracing some of the eccentricities that he himself had fantasized about for years. For some time now he'd been pushing her to dress more provocatively, be a flirt, and more recently, be promiscuous. In the last couple months, she had checked all three boxes. In addition, she seemed to have developed her own idiosyncrasies, ranging from a newfound fondness of facials and over-the-top filthy talk while in the throes of passion. What used to be a few whimpers had graduated into a steady stream of fuck me, fuck you, fuck everything! Sometimes contrived, sometimes self-deprecating, but always, always a turn on.
Admittedly, Corey had played a major part in this transformation and much of her new behavior was a product of his own doing. Beginning years ago, he had promoted the notion of sharing her by way of manufactured tall tales while nestled safely in their marital bed behind closed doors. Lauren had always enjoyed the imaginary lovers to some extent, having an orgasm at the thought of others taking her roughly during the precious few times they did make love. It was a concept they both understood to be pure fantasy and it seemed destined to stay that way. Alas, an early menopause and Corey's expanding waistline and diminished stamina as he aged had significantly decreased his wife's libido. Until her recent move, that is.
Now, she had grown emboldened, triggered not by his persistence alone, but an inner force he could not quite put his finger on. It was as if something had awakened; a sexuality that had laid dormant, just below the surface. Perhaps she had suppressed it once they were married or maybe it had never surfaced before at all. It was hard to tell. During Lauren's recent tryst with the neighbor boy, she had uttered some nonsense about her pulling train in an old boyfriend's fraternity house. Whether there was any truth in that or if she was just being "in character" feeding Corey's kink, he did not know. Nor had he pursued it. Yet, it was clear he had poked a tiger, and since coming to Miami, it appeared the tiger had been inspired. At times he beat himself up over the perpetual cajoling. Husbands weren't supposed to encourage their wives to have sex with others. At least that's what mainstream society claimed. He told himself it was for altruistic reasons - for
her
sexual fulfillment and happiness - but that would not be completely honest either. No, he had enough self-awareness to know it was the damn compersion he craved, the feeling he experienced when witnessing or even thinking of Lauren with another. Yes, it was kinky, perverse, and even depraved, but God help him, he loved it so.
The flash of a sign signaling the post office ahead caught Corey's eye. Crap, almost missed it! He slowed the old pickup truck and guided it into the parking lot. Grabbing a small plainly wrapped box from the middle console, he jumped down and approached the night drop. His hand shook slightly as he pulled opened the drawer and placed the tiny package on the tray. Hesitating longer than he should have, he allowed the lid to close, listening to the parcel drop into the void. He looked up at the rosy twilight sky and sighed. It was going to be another lonely night.
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Lauren walked into the lobby of her apartment building and bent over, hands on knees and slightly wheezing. Out of breath from a long early evening power walk, she walked aimlessly around the white marble floor as she willed her body to cool down. Miami in October could still be quite warm and this day was no exception. She had to remind herself she was not a young chick anymore.
An older bespectacled gentleman working the concierge desk looked at her appreciatively. One of the perks of the job was being able to observe female residents come and go, all under the pretense of
keeping an eye on them for their safety
. His eyes drank in her tight black bike shorts and pink sports bra. Small firm ass and tiny tits. The apartment building was not lacking for pretty woman, but this one was exemplary. Older, but more in shape than most.
"Good evening, Mrs. Miller. You have a package waiting. Would you like to pick it up now?" he asked, maintaining an air of professionalism.
Lauren nodded as she approached the desk, taking a long sip of water. The man handed her the package, discreetly glancing at the tiny nipples hardening from the cool air blowing from the floor vents. "Thank you, Harvey," she replied, closing her hand around the small box, noting the familiar handwriting on the brown paper wrapper.
The attendant watched the perfect buttocks shift up and down beneath clingy polyester as their owner sauntered to the elevators. He was acutely aware the woman's husband only visited from time to time and was not yet a permanent resident. That was risky. Leaving a fine piece of ass like that alone in a sinful city like Miami was only asking for trouble.
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Lauren entered her 23rd floor apartment with only two things in mind: a hot shower and a good meal. Looking down at the package, she noticed it was postmarked three days ago from Des Moines. Sweet Corey. He was forever sending her little things for the apartment; a candle here, a knickknack there. Unfortunately, this one would have to wait. Plopping the box on the kitchen island, she stripped off her sweaty clothes and jumped under the steady stream of warm water. It was Friday night, and she was in a good mood. Her taste buds had been tantalized for weeks by the aroma of a new Italian restaurant around the corner and tonight she was set on some good pasta.
After showering, the 48-year-old donned a long sleeve, red satin scoop-neck dress and simple two-inch high heels. It was of modest length, stopping mid-thigh, but clingy enough to highlight her curves and small chest. Classy without being over-the-top.
Meandering into the kitchen, Lauren picked up the nondescript package from the kitchen counter and unwrapped it. Inside was a small white jewelry box held together by a blue ribbon. This immediately piqued her curiosity. She could count on one hand the number of times Corey had given her unsolicited jewelry. Carefully wiggling off the top, she peeled away the fluffy white cotton to reveal a short gold chain nestled within. It was too short to be a necklace. A bracelet perhaps?
Lifting it from the box with an index finger, she peered at it quizzically. It had a rather sturdy clasp and two small letter pendants hanging in the middle: "H" and "W". Lauren stared at the chain with a blank look. What the heck? Those were definitely NOT her initials. Moments later a faint recollection crept in. During her research into understanding Corey's hotwife kink, she recalled that some women wear an anklet as a way of sending a subtle message to potential partners that they are available and have the consent of their husbands to "mingle".
"I'll be damned," Lauren shook her head, grinning.
He's getting bolder, I'll give him that.
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Corey was huddled over a barbecue grill in his backyard nursing a t-bone steak to perfection when the video app on his phone rang. His face lit up at the sight of his lovely wife.
"Hi babe. TGIF! Hope they took it easy on you this week," he said cheerfully. He too was in a good mood. "Wow, you're dressed nice. What's the occasion?"
"Going to the new Italian place down the street. Looking forward to a good meal without cooking for a change."
"Alone? I mean the dress and all."
"Yes, alone," Lauren replied. Narrowing her eyes, she held up the anklet. "Unless you had other plans for me."
"Ah, yes," Corey tittered. "So, you got it. What do you think? Do you like it?"
"High-quality gold. You have good taste."
"Nothing but the best for you."
A few moments of silence followed.
"You know this is a clear invitation for men to hit on me," Lauren stated flatly. Then, remembering her commitment to helping him evolve his fetish, she added softly, "I'm assuming that is what you want."
"All I want is for you to be satisfied."
"You are so full of shit," Lauren snorted, twisting the chain around her fingers. She watched quietly as he sprinkled some spices on the meat. After a minute, she spoke up. What the hell, she was in a funky mood.
"Would you like me to wear it tonight? I'm not convinced anything will come of it, but maybe some Italian stallion will take notice."
Corey looked back towards the screen and raised his eyebrows. " Really? I wasn't sure you would."
"You sent it just to sit in a jewelry box?"
"I...I guess not," Corey gulped. "I sent it because it was hot picturing you in a bar, the anklet advertising your availability, men trying to pick you up..."
"You mean, like a hooker," she pondered, "except the milk's free."
"Um, well, now that you put it that way..." Corey stammered. He was losing this one. "Just forget it, babe. I thought you might find it hot too. I can send it back. No harm, no foul."
Lauren deliberated her response. He clearly intended for her to wear the gift with hopes for a specific outcome. She was willing to indulge some of his fantasies - after all, she derived pleasure from them as well - but was this taking things too far? Still with few friends in the area, any man approaching her in Miami would more than likely be a stranger. That posed a danger in itself these days. Still, she wanted to satiate Corey's needs, let it swim around in his perverted brain. What's the chances of a single man at an upscale restaurant hitting on her, much less one recognizing the anklet's significance? Besides, it might be a naughty thrill.
