A warning to those guys whose insecurities and inadequacies are triggered by such things - this is a story that involves cuckolding in a loving relationship.
It takes a little while to get around to the sex scenes, and this story turned out to be longer than I planned, but they do happen, and after all foreplay is important, even when the sex is only on the written page.
It goes without saying that all the characters engaged in sexual activities are over eighteen, this is of course a work of fiction, and the copyright is reserved by me, N. S. Carter, and I forbid its use elsewhere, in whole or in part, without my explicit permission.
I welcome comments, votes and constructive criticism, and given that I of course write from a male perspective I would particularly like to hear from female readers, if I have any, and their impressions.
*
"Oh God, Pete, I am so, so, sorry ... I am never going to drink again ... will you ever be able to forgive me?"
Nadia, my wife for all of eighteen months, had hardly even waited for me to close the front door. I still had my shoes on. She was standing in front of me, looking forlorn, helpless, hands twisting awkwardly in front of her. It was obvious that she had been crying. She wasn't quite in sackcloth and ashes, but none of her clothes matched and her t-shirt was inside out. There was no lipstick on her lips and her gorgeous long blonde hair hung lank and uncared for.
I just stood there and looked at her, schooling myself to keep a neutral, perhaps even stony face, not speaking.
What can I say? As you will see I can be a bit of a bastard and as is so often the case a plan was beginning to form in my mind.
Nadia had already tried to call me that morning in work but I was in a meeting and couldn't answer. She then sent me increasingly desperate texts and I had deliberately been a bit mean, writing back that I we would 'talk' when I got home, so I guess by this point she had worked herself up into a terrible state, at least from what I could see.
"We haven't even been married two years and here I am screwing it up. Why am I so dumb? It was just some stupid thing -- I swear I would never do anything, I love you so much and I don't know what I would do without you. You know how I am after a few glasses of wine and it was all so relaxed with Jake and I forgot to stop after a couple of glasses and then I must have been really drunk and what I said to you it was just ...."
Nadia stumbled to a halt, unable to come up with a way of ending the sentence. The normally articulate-to-a-fault lawyer I had married was now almost incoherent.
Inside I was just amused and in truth even a bit aroused.
The evening before we had invited Jake round - my oldest friend and best man at our wedding. He was about to go and study for his PhD in evolutionary psychology in the US, so it was one of the last times we would see him before he went. Normally I would have stepped in and made sure Nadia didn't overdo it on the wine, but since we were at home and not in public, and Jake is a close friend, I didn't bother. Also in truth I find Nadia amusing when she is tipsy, and as someone who is so careful about what she says it means I get to find out things she wouldn't normally tell me -- in vino veritas and all that.
And there certainly was a gem of 'veritas' that evening after Jake had left. Having stopped her trying to clear up -- since it was likely to result in the destruction of our remaining wine glasses -- I was helping Nadia to navigate the stairs safely when she told me, apropos of nothing,
"You know maybe it is a good thing Jake is off to America now".
Intrigued rather than upset, I asked,
"Why's that? I always thought you liked him."
Her answer to that did catch me out though.
"Oh I do, I really like him Petey, and that is kind of the problem. Maybe I like him a bit too much, and a little in the ... wrong way."
It is kind of a 'tell' with Nadia that if she calls me 'Petey' it means she is feeling a bit guilty about some misdeed, usually completely trivial in my eyes. I don't think she realises that she does it and I find it endearing. I was pondering a response but she went on,
"You know how you tried to get me to admit to sometimes fancying other guys, like random guys I might see on the street, or actors in films, and how you told me it was OK even to fantasise about them?"
"Yes, I remember."
It had been part of my long-term project to get Nadia to loosen up a bit when it came to things sexual. This came from my feeling a bit guilty that I had been quite experienced when we met, while I was the only man she had ever slept with, and maybe even there was a subconscious fear in me that one day she might regret this and resent me for it.
"The thing is, Petey, I really don't have a thing for strangers. But, well, a couple of times I kind of fantasised about what it would be like to ... you know ... fuck Jake."
A bit of explanation might be in order here before we get back to her confession and how I reacted to it.
***
Nadia and I met as students at university, when she was in her first year and I in my second. She studied law and went on to work in a practice that mainly handled human rights cases, refugees, asylum applications and similar. I studied business and economics, went on to do a master's and am now working for an NGO that helps the homeless find a way back off the streets.
The ways in which she has changed me are much more obvious to people than those in which I might have influenced her -- no-one who knew me before we met would have ever imagined me doing that kind of work -- they expected me to either be rich or in jail by this time, or quite possibly even shot dead by an angry boyfriend/husband/father.
When we met I was working very hard at being a bit of a rogue; ambitious and not too bothered by scruples, and in the habit of using my 'superpower' -- a certain Machiavellian cunning -- to get what I wanted. And when I saw Nadia, I wanted her. She was this stunning blue-eyed blonde with the perfect figure, who seemed genuinely unaware how gorgeous she was. So I set to work seducing her.
It actually wasn't that difficult. Nadia was an extreme example of that syndrome where most guys she might have gone for didn't dare ask her out -- convinced she was 'out of their league' -- while those that did try it on with her were usually arseholes who didn't interest her at all. Within a week of our first date she ended up in bed with me and I discovered that she was a virgin.
I still remember how, having decided that she was going to sleep with me, she said, in her wonderfully practical way,
"Don't worry. I know it won't be very good the first time!"
Talk about low expectations! So I responded jokingly,
"Thanks for the vote of confidence!" This made her blush but then got both of us laughing.
Her words though made me want to prove her wrong, and I brought my experience into play. Even in those early days I realised how much I enjoyed getting even the smallest response from her, and so I put everything I had that night into learning what pleased her, and bringing her to three increasingly loud orgasms, first with my fingers, then with my tongue and finally in the act of deflowering her. To this day I can still remember lying there in the afterglow, propped up on my arms above her while I gazed into her innocent blue eyes, and being stunned when she told me that she loved me.
Anybody who thought they knew me up to that point would have expected me to have run a mile at that and generally behave like a complete rat. However their actual effect was that I just wanted to prove myself worthy of her. From then on what mattered to me more than anything else was what she thought.
Not having experience of this, it took Jake, my best friend from back in secondary school to point out the obvious to me, over a drink in the pub, when I was trying to get my head round why I cared so much what Nadia thought.
"Pete, my old friend - for someone who's supposed to be so cunning and knows what makes people tick - you can be really thick sometimes. You're in love with her! And you don't understand because it's the first time."
He was right.
Quite quickly I was learning to channel my organisational, scheming and what others would even call manipulative skills into good causes. At first it was done to impress Nadia, but surprisingly soon those values became part of me. It even became an in-joke between the two of us, with Nadia introducing me to people as 'a scheming bastard, but in a good way'.
We married as soon as we had graduated and got our first jobs. I didn't completely abandon my 'dark arts' as Nadia jokingly called them, and one of my contacts led to our being able to live in quite a large apartment in an up-and-coming part of London for nothing on the grounds that we were looking after it. Basically it turned out that this house, on the books of one of the property rental agencies that just happened to be managed by a friend, had been discovered to be something like a 'safe house' for a foreign intelligence agency. The company that owned it had mysteriously ceased to exist overnight, and the company that was renting it turned out to be fictitious. Legally it was a complete mess and they had no idea how long it would take to sort it out, so we were there on the understanding that we would have to move out at very short notice when things did get resolved. Which meant that we could live somewhere that otherwise would be completely outside our price bracket and at the same time actually save towards eventually buying a place of our own.
The other condition of our residence was that we were to not tell anyone else about some of the odder features of the place -- like the 'observation room' next to the master bedroom -- but more of that later.
***
So, back to Nadia's confession that she fancied my best friend, in fact even saying that she fantasised about fucking him (a word she pretty much only used when drunk).
Now for some men this would be an invite to mayhem, something where you might read about the bloody aftermath in the tabloid papers, and you might misunderstand why it wasn't for me -- so in a moment I will explain.
But first, back to my reaction.
Somehow I still managed to resist the urge to laugh (for reasons that will soon be clear), and keeping my face stern I said in a low, controlled voice,
"Come here, Nadia".
She approached me fearfully and a little hesitantly. And then I pounced, pulling her to me, enveloping her in my arms and kissing her passionately on the lips. She was passive for a moment, shocked, before responding with enthusiasm and what I sensed was relief.
When I pulled back and smiled at her, she said, clearly confused,
"But .... So you forgive me, then?"
My answer probably confused her more,
"There is nothing to forgive my love. I just wish that you did not have to be drunk to tell me -- and maybe that you had told me before".
She was looking at me quizzically,
"But ..." and then she could not even come up with a question.
So I rescued her.
