Faithful Wife Strays

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This work of fiction contains themes of home invasion, sexual force and domination as well as cuckoldry in its most basic definition which is, "verb: (of a man) make (another man) a cuckold by having a sexual relationship with his wife". It is strictly heterosexual.

The story also contains a "choose your adventure" element where the reader may choose one path or another for the middle of the story.

If you like the story, please send me an email. If not, please don't. ;-)

Disclaimer:

Views and opinions expressed in this work of fiction belong to their respective in-universe characters and do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of the author. The author is not condoning the actions or attitudes of fictional characters.

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Chapter 1

My name is Julianne and this is the sordid tale of my journey from being a loving and committed wife whose eyes had never wandered into a depraved cock slut.

Just so you know me, I've been twenty-nine for three years. When I'm not wearing heels, I stand five feet five inches tall. I'm sexy and slender but with a hint of love handles which my husband enjoys gripping while we make love. My hair is black, eyes brown and my boobs nicely fill a C cup bra. I have always resisted shaving off or waxing my pussy hair, but I do keep it trimmed into a nice triangle in front. My husband, Derek, says he loves the feel of my muff and I love pleasing him (he also pleases me plenty, just in case you thought it might be one-way).

And while I'm on the subject of my husband, Derek is just a bit taller at five feet eight inches, with deep brown hair and gorgeous green eyes. His eyes are what first caught my attention at a party during college, and we were together off and on for four years. Then, five years ago, he asked me to marry him and we've been happy together since then.

Derek has a steady job with good pay and I have a side gig as a freelance photographer and painter with a social media video channel which brings in some extra cash. While we're far from being wealthy, we often enjoy fine dining and attending society functions such as art gallery galas and the like, and we always dress for the occasion.

And that is where our troubles began one autumn night.

Walking the roughly three quarters of a mile to our home from a downtown art exhibit--when I say downtown, I mean the recently renovated downtown area which had become a gathering spot for local hipsters and socialites--in our evening wear, we caught the attention of two men loitering in an alleyway which cut across the street on which we were walking. The men were smoking, drinking bottles of beer and speaking to each other loudly using profane language.

As we neared their alley, one of the men stepped out onto the sidewalk and asked for the time. I could see under the street lamps that he was of Hispanic descent, around Derek's height and thin and wearing faded and ripped blue jeans, a white tank top and a kind of bandanna tied around his head.

Out of habit, both Derek and I meandered sideways toward the curb to walk around the man while Derek glanced at his wristwatch and announced without turning his head or slowing that it was 9:07.

Then the hounding which would plague us the rest of the way home began. "Man, why you can't stop and tell me that?" the man asked. "Why you in such a hurry? Where you goin'?" We both stopped and turned just enough to see both men now standing on the sidewalk several feet behind us. The second was taller than his friend and a bit pudgy, wearing black and gray shorts which ended below his knees, a t-shirt showing some profane language in red lettering and a black & white image of what I assumed to be a popular hip hop star, and he wore a backwards white or light gray ball cap.

As Derek and I were walking hand-in-hand, I felt him tense up. He turned and began to walk, quicker than before, and I caught on instantly and matched his pace, my high narrow heels clacking on the concrete.

"Where you going in such a hurry?" the guy asked again.

I called back that we didn't have any change.

"What's that? No change? Bitch, I asked for the time, not for money. I ain't begging. Why you gotta be like that, snobby white bitch?"

I glanced sideways at Derek. He shook his head in silence and we continued walking quickly toward home which was just a few long city blocks away.

The street punks began to follow us, continuing to question where we were heading in such a hurry and why we "gotta be like that". Then one of them--I think it was the taller, pudgy guy but I wasn't looking to be sure, said, "Hey man, your lady got some fine legs and a real nice butt. You know that?"

We increased our stride, but as I say we were dressed for the art gallery and I was walking on three inch heels, so the fast pace was beginning to make my shins burn.

The same guy called out, "You should slow down, you know? Don't make your lady strain those fine legs."

The other guy added, "Hey, we just admiring your fine lady. Least she could do is stop and thank us for the compliment."

Turning a corner just a block from our home, Derek was already pulling out his house keys from his pocket. The guys had not tried to overtake us, but they matched our pace and kept up the banter about how we were being rude when all they wanted was to welcome us to the neighborhood. Derek's fumbling hand lost hold on his key ring and the sound of them hitting the concrete filled us both with dread. There was no choice but to stop, but to stop might allow the thugs to catch up! Were they armed? Would they stab, shoot or beat us? I dropped to a crouch alongside Derek and we both felt out desperately in the near total darkness in search of his keys.

The hounding from behind--but nearer this time--continued with the two Hispanic men whistling and commenting on how nice my butt looked pushed out like that in my tight-fitting dress.

Derek must have caught a glint of reflected light on his keys and he snatched them up then gripped my elbow and helped me stand. We resumed our rapid walk toward the safety of our home.

It was out of the question to run the couple of hundred feet to our house, given our attire and my now very sore legs, but we pushed ourselves to walk as fast as possible to end this encounter before it escalated.

Getting our front door open, both the deadbolt and then the knob, took long enough that the guys were right upon us before we could step inside. Imagine the nerve of them, in a nice somewhat well-to-do neighborhood, hounding us with rude conversation every twenty to thirty seconds and rushing us at our own door; the entrance to our private and personal sanctuary! As the door swung inward, Derek pushed me inside and followed right behind, trying to keep the door open only just far enough for us and then to pivot and push it closed, but one of the guys stuck his foot in the doorway and then they both pressed forward, knocking Derek back onto the living room carpet.

The next few minutes were a blur, but I know that I went for the telephone on the side table near our sofa and one of the men blocked me. Something happened between Derek and the other thug, and in the end Derek ended up with his arms actually handcuffed behind him--I thought only the police could legally carry handcuffs--and then he was being tied to a dining room chair with an electrical extension cable the guy had taken from a nearby floor lamp. A moment later, to silence my husband, the thug used his bandanna to gag him.

As the man holding me pulled me into the center of our living room, I begged them not to hurt us and not to steal anything. I told them we would forget the whole incident if they would please just leave us alone.

"You might forget, but we won't. You actin' like we some bums beggin' for money. All I did was ask what time it was." He gripped my chin, forcing my lips to pucker. "You got this nice house here, these fancy clothes, and you think you can treat us like bums because of it. Well you got some nice stuff; maybe too much nice stuff. We gonna see what's valuable and then you will forget this happened."

"Please," I repeated almost out of breath, "just go. We don't want any trouble, just a quiet night alone."

"Don't worry baby, we ain't gonna hurt you. Just do what we tell you and we ain't gonna hurt you." He released my chin.

Derek was thrashing in his chair, and the shorter, thinner guy pressed both hands down on Derek's shoulders to keep him still.

"I'll do whatever you want," I whispered. "Anything you want, just don't hurt Derek and don't steal anything." Then I turned my face toward Derek but could not raise my gaze to meet his. "It'll be okay baby, they won't hurt us if I do what they want. They won't hurt us."

The taller, beefier one responded, "That's right, not gonna hurt you, just gonna show--Derek, is it?--how to treat a fine but stuck-up lady." Then he grabbed the front of my evening dress with both hands and, with a show of brute strength, ripped it from the top just above my breasts right down to my waist. A moment later it was piled on the floor around my feet and I stood, in a bit of a daze, wearing only my heels, stockings, black lacy panties and a black low cut strapless underwire support bra.

The shorter man whistled. "I like what I see, I like what I see. Turn around sweet thing and let us see it all."

I hesitated, mentally processing the request, then numbly turned in shuffle steps all the way around.

From behind, the taller guy standing near me gripped the back strap of my bra and roughly yanked it down to my waist. Then he gripped the waistband of my little panties and pulled them down below my knees, where gravity took over and pulled them the rest of the way to the floor atop my torn dress. "Keep turning," he ordered. I did, and he commented, "Sweet ass, nice tits, and oh that pussy needs to be pet."

With my gaze lowered, I shuddered, "You promised not to hurt us."

He didn't speak, he just pushed me face first against the nearest wall then pressed himself against my back. I could do nothing put paw the wall with my palms as one of his hands reached around to grope my boobs and the other plunged between my thighs to stroke my pussy hair. Through his long shorts I felt his cock getting harder against my backside. He began to talk to me in even, low tones, his mouth so close to my ear that I felt his hot, moist breath with every syllable. "We ain't gonna hurt you, chica. We just gonna make you feel like a woman."

I could hear Derek rattling his chair and screaming into his makeshift gag, but no words were clear.

I whimpered, "And when you're done with me, you'll leave and leave us alone, right?"

"Oh, of course, of course."

The thug continued groping my breasts and his other hand eventually stopped petting my muff and began rubbing my clitoris and pussy lips. He kept whispering into my ear how hot and sexy I was, but how bad a girl I had been to them, and now they would punish me for being so rude.

"Oh God, oh please," I whimpered in a trembling voice. I had intended to say, "Oh God, oh please don't do this," but the words didn't all come out.

"Oh yes, keep begging for it. You know you want this. I know you want it. Your pussy is so wet." He brought two sticky fingers up to my face and traced my mouth with my own juices. It was utterly degrading that I was beginning to get turned on by this.

I would never have admitted to anybody--I could scarcely believe it myself--but aspects of the night's events so far had played out in various fantasies and sex dreams I have had for years. Something about the total loss of control and being manhandled in front of my husband who could do nothing to help me aroused some deep rooted fantasies in my psyche. The forceful removal of my clothes in a strip search by authority figures, either police or airport security or in this case thugs, who would confine me in a small room and take liberties with my body, groping my breasts and pushing their fingers inside my pussy. I was getting wet for sure and my heart rate and breathing were increasing.

After groping my breasts and fingering my pussy for a while, the taller thug turned me around and kissed me full on the lips. He then guided me, with my back quite literally to the wall, down to my knees. He freed his penis from his shorts and slapped my face with it a couple of times before pressing the head of it against my lips. Aside from being strangely turned on, I figured that the sooner we got this over with, and the sooner they climaxed, the sooner they would leave. I opened my mouth to allow him entrance.

At first he did all of the work, bucking his hips and sliding the length of his penis deeper into my wet mouth with each thrust as I managed to take more and more without choking. But my hormones got the better of me and I sealed my lips around his shaft and began sucking and licking. Soon I was taking his full length--maybe five and a half or six inches--and moaning with pleasure. Then I found myself reaching up and gently rolling his balls between my fingers.

From across the room I heard Derek thrashing in his chair and screaming into the bandanna stuffed in his mouth. I just kept playing with the tall thug's balls and slurping his dick until it started to twitch and his butt and thigh muscles clenched. He was beyond the point of no return and I turned my face away to keep from having him fill my throat. He came in several forceful spurts from my hair line down over my nose, across one cheek and onto my neck.

He staggered back and sat his bare ass on one of our dining room chairs to catch his breath. I needed a little breather as well, though I barely got a gulp of air before his shorter, thinner friend--whose dick was quite a bit more substantial at around seven inches long but also half again as thick as his friend's--took my head in both hands and dragged my mouth along the full length of his shaft in one swift motion. I tried to push him away and I tried to scream, but my mouth was stuffed full. It wasn't that I couldn't handle him, it was just too sudden and it took a good twelve or maybe fifteen seconds to relax my jaws and throat to take him all the way. I began rolling his balls in my hands as well while he fucked my face more forcefully than the first guy had done. He soon tensed and blew his load, but he held my head tight and came directly down my throat which made me start to choke and cough. I managed to pull free and spat the first wad of his hot semen onto the tiled floor, but his second spurt went into my hair and as I looked up the third hit me just above my left eye and a fourth little spurt drooled onto my breasts.

After using me, they un-cuffed Derek's wrists and hurried out of the house before Derek could stand up to them, but he made certain to lock the door once they had gone then came and knelt behind me where I was still down on my knees with semen sliding down my face and chest. He held me close but neither of us spoke for many minutes. Later, we agreed to not report the incident to the police as we had no names nor adequate descriptions of the guys and, let's be real, a vague report of a Hispanic male dressed like a thug is unlikely to lead to a positive identification. Even if those guys were apprehended, they would probably be released within hours and could return for revenge, and we just wanted to be through with them.

That night I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Reliving the incident in my head, I began to realize the extent of my subconscious longings as I discovered myself mindlessly rubbing my clitoris and moaning into my pillow thinking about it until I climaxed.

It was two days later, when I went looking for my secondary DSLR camera body for a photography project I had recently started, that I discovered the thugs must have stolen it on their way out of our house. I was certain that it had been on the dining table that night we went out, now it was nowhere to be found in any room of the house. It would be useless without a lens attached, but it was worth several hundred dollars and the memory card contained many photos of my work which I didn't want to lose. So rather than this project helping to take my mind off the events of that horrible night, those events were re-focused in my mind and fueled my determination to face the thugs.

CHOOSE A PATH...

If Julianne should go alone to track down the thugs and retrieve her stolen camera, continue to Chapter 2 then skip to Chapter 4.

If Julianne and Derek should go together to track down the thugs and retrieve her stolen camera, skip to Chapter 3 then continue to Chapter 4.

Chapter 2: Julianne Goes It Alone

My mind was still tumbling through a bizarre combination of fear, rage and an unshakable sense of arousal at having lost all control, so getting back to my own work for my social media presence seemed like the best way to move on. Derek had returned to work after taking a sick day to be with me and to make sure all our door and window locks were in good working order, so I was home alone.

As I was only planning to do some work inside the house that day, I had thrown on a simple sleeveless knee-length floral pattern dress with wide shoulder straps which had a decorative ruffle which overhangs the shoulders to fall just a couple of inches down my arms. Underneath, I wore a light peach colored cotton tank top bra and peach satin panties. Before going out, I pulled on bright pink ankle socks and my pearl white laced walking shoes. I wouldn't be getting shin splints from walking quickly today!

I figured it might take a few trips each day for several days to locate the thugs, if I could locate them at all, so even though the downtown area was less than a mile from home I drove my car to cover more ground quickly. I drove up and down each street in a one mile by one mile area--one thing you have to admire about early twentieth century town planning around here, they laid things out in a nice grid so it's simple to locate anyplace you're going. This gave me no leads, so I returned home and tried to work on my project but I just could not focus, so after a couple of hours I went out looking again.

Luck--if you can call it that--was on my side. After just a few minutes driving around the downtown area, I caught sight of who I felt certain was the taller, pudgier guy who had been wearing the long shorts and backwards baseball cap. I found him standing outside the rolled up steel deliveries door at the rear of a small warehouse or auto repair shop where he appeared to be stacking, or maybe un-stacking, boxes. My instinct was to step hard on the brake pedal to get out and confront him right away, but thankfully self preservation took hold and kept me from causing a traffic accident. I turned the nearest corner and had to drive for two blocks to find an open parking space.

Before leaving my car, I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and took a series of deep breaths. If I went through with this, no matter the outcome, my life was going to change. I took another deep breath, got out and slammed the door shut behind me, then made my way back to the small warehouse. When I got there, the door was still open and some boxes were still on the pavement of the alleyway but the guy was gone. As I considered stepping inside the dingy and poorly lit building, my heart skipped a beat. I steeled my nerves with another deep breath and resolved to face this head-on.

Stepping inside, I saw it was indeed a little repair shop, with a greasy floor and several half-finished walls with tools and motorcycle parts hanging on old wood shelves which bowed from age in their middles. Some tires were stacked in one corner and two motorcycles in various stages of repair stood to one side beneath a dingy window facing the street out front. One corner of the building was blocked off with internal walls and a door, probably an office for the shop owner.