Be Warned,
this tale has cuckoldry as the central theme.
I am five foot ten in height with a wiry build but consider myself to be quite clever. Sandra my wife is six inches shorter but her four inch high heels make us the perfect match for dancing. We are both now in our early thirties but I'm fortunate that, after ten years of marriage and bearing two kids, she still retains the slim waist and rounded figure that she had when we met. I mustn't forget to mention her glorious, shoulder length blonde hair. I describe my sexual experience before we met as being average and she said the same about hers but I often had the feeling that her average was somewhat higher than my average.
I first got an inkling that Sandra was cheating on me roughly three months earlier. A decade of contented marriage, without a doubt in my mind, and then a kind of gut instinct told me that something had changed. The problem was that all the various clues were rather tenuous and at first it was very easy to convince myself that I was imagining things.
The major difference was that Sandra began claiming that she was 'not in the mood' far more often and even when we did have sex she became reluctant to persevere until I gave her an orgasm, instead telling me to finish quickly because she was feeling tired. I knew that over the years our sexual activity had tended to ebb and flow in intensity, but somehow this seemed more significant. From the start of the marriage the sexual part had been important for both of us but that seemed now to no longer be true for her.
Every Friday her parents had our two young daughters at their house overnight, occasionally keeping them for the whole weekend, so we generally grabbed the opportunity to have Friday's as a night out, cinema, take in a show etc. Monday evenings I regularly played Duplicate at a local bridge club and Sandra had her night out on Wednesdays when she joined up with a crowd of married female friends. These evenings were usually spent drinking and chatting at one of their houses but sometimes, generally someone's birthday, they all went out clubbing and on one occasion the crowd of them went to a reasonably respectable venue to watch male strippers.
The breakthrough on knowledge about my wife's infidelity came from a missed phone call. It was a Wednesday and Sandra was late home from work so consequently it was a mad dash making tea, then her frantically getting ready to go out, with the result that it was not until the kids were safely in bed that I thought to check the tape for missed phone calls. There was only one and it was for Sandra from her friend Petra. The short message was, "Hi San, Just checking – with you blobbing again last week I wanted to make sure you would be there tonight. Bye, Petra." To my knowledge Sandra hadn't missed a Girl's Night for months.
My wife arrived home late, in a merry mood and somewhat inebriated, but I said nothing. Nor did I question her on the Thursday because I still needed to get things sorted in my head but I made sure that we would be spending Friday evening at home. When the time came I waited until we were both sitting with a glass of wine before asking quietly, "Are you having an affair?"
Sandra laughed. "Whatever gave you that idea?" she asked with an amused expression on her face.
"You haven't answered my question," I said doggedly.
"Well you haven't answered mine either," Sandra said grinning, acting as if this was a game. "Anyway, I don't know how you can ask me something like that."
"Where were you a week ago on Wednesday?"
"You know where - with the girls like always," my wife answered but with much of the confidence suddenly gone from her voice.
Without speaking I played the incriminating message to her. When it finished there was a long pause before Sandra started to say, "I can explain," but then she stopped and said, "No I can't," before breaking down in tears, mumbling, "I'm so, so sorry."
Throughout our relationship I have always hastened to her side to offer comfort at the slightest sign of distress but this time I steeled my heart and waited until her sobbing had eased before asking, "How long has it been going on?"
"Nearly two months."
"How many times?" "- have you seen him," I added quickly before she misinterpreted the question and caused me even greater distress.
"Five – six counting the first."
This was still more than I had hoped to hear. Knowing, from the phone call, that she had missed the girl's night once before, I realised that the bastard must have fucked her on at least two occasions but now my mind was working overtime trying to identify the times that she must have returned to me after being with him. I was incapable of speech for what seemed like an age but was finally able to ask the big question, "Who is he?"
Sandra shook her head. "I don't want to say."
"I need to know."
My wife again shook her head. "I can't tell you, I just know that it won't help."
"Do I know him?"
This time Sandra nodded. "I'm afraid of what you might do if I tell you who he is. I can't risk you getting hurt or ending up in prison."
"If I promise not to try for revenge, to not even speak to him about it, will you tell me then," I asked.
My wife looked deep into my eyes looking for sincerity then, making her decision, she said quietly, "Its Huw."
I felt as if I had been kicked in the gut, I could hardly breathe and it was as if the whole of creation was falling down on top of me. You see, Huw was the one man in the world who I thoroughly loathed.
(For clarification, Huw is the Welsh spelling of the name Hugh).
I spend my working life in the software development area of a very large open plan office where I'm in charge of a small team of five dealing with specialist applications. Down one full wall there are a series of offices fronted with opaque glass, to give privacy while allowing light from outside to pass through to the main office. Huw is the purchasing manager and his is the middle of the nine offices. In his early forties he is just over six feet tall but very heavily built. He wears his straight black hair sleeked straight back so that it looks like a skullcap with the visage completed by a fat jowly face with rather bulging frog like eyes. To my mind he is ugly but I have to admit that females don't seem to see him that way.
Down the other long wall are banks of VDUs manned by data input girls, mostly school leavers and single mothers. There is a steady turn over. Near the main entrance to the office there are two big automatic drinks machines. It is allowed to get a drink at any time but during the official break there is always a small crowd round the machines. Now whenever an attractive new girl appears, as if activated by radar, Huw emerges from his office like a spider from its lair. Making a beeline for the girl he either squeezes her bottom or runs his hand round her back and up under her armpit while saying loudly, "Isn't anybody going to introduce me to this gorgeous creature." The groping is so blatant that I expect the girl to slap his face but none do. Instead they smile up at him as if glad of the attention. I would never dream of doing such a thing and resent the fact that Huw seemed to do it with impunity.
He made a fair number of conquests which would have been fair had he used discretion but he made no secret about who he was screwing. Even worse, particularly when ready to dump a girl, he liked revealing intimate details about her to his group of cronies. These acolytes seemed to laugh at everything he said and I wondered how they could fail to see through his shabby façade. At least two of the females he humiliated were married, both left the firm and I know for certain that one ended up divorced. It's an understatement to say that I despised the man.
Every lunchtime, I and nine others gather round a table left clear for the purpose and engage in a game of liar dice. This is played with five dice but with court cards on the faces instead of spots and together they make up a range of poker hands. A nominal amount is paid into the kitty for three lives and when all three lives are lost you are out of the game, winner take all. When the bell goes to signal lunch, someone rattles the dice in the cup and from all over the large office, players start heading towards the table like zombies answering the call. One game nicely last the whole lunch hour.
The game requires the ability to bluff and knowledge of probability. Hands are rolled secretly under a cup and passed to the next player who can accept or refuse the claimed hand. If he refuses and the hand is there he loses a life otherwise it is the liar who forfeits. If he accepts and looks under the cup he must pass on a higher hand, rolling whatever dice to try to achieve it. He may pass it on unseen but if then called when he has been bluffed it is his misfortune. A key part of the game is that you may under call the hand. I am rather good at the pastime. Before I came along Huw was one of the better players but due to my dislike, I used subtle game ploys to ensure that he lost more lives than he otherwise would.
The previous two years we had been unable to attend the firms Xmas bash but last year, for the first time, we managed to turn up to the large hotel where it was being staged. We had a couple of dances and were just sitting at our table drinking and enjoying the ambiance when Sandra suddenly asked, "Who's he?"
With her eyes she was indicating part way round the dance floor to where two tables had been pushed together and in the middle of the small crowd was Huw holding court. "Which one?" I asked, guessing the answer but hoping I was wrong..
"Him in the middle, the one with very black hair."
"He's called Huw but you don't want to know about him. He's a fucking sod," I told her firmly hoping to end that line of conversation.
"Well he seems very popular so someone must like him," my wife remarked dryly. "He's a bit ugly but appealing in a funny sort of way. I can't see much wrong with him to make you dislike him as much as you obviously do."
"He's too bloody full of himself and he can't leave the females alone," I complained. "Whenever a new girl starts work he has his hands all over her at the first opportunity then passes it off as just being friendly and making her welcome."
"Perhaps he is just being friendly. Some people are a lot more tactile than others. They just touch quite naturally without thinking anything about it and that probably has something to do with upbringing. I know that you don't act like that but then your parents are not exactly cuddly people are they?"
I said nothing hoping to let the subject drop but Sandra had not finished. "Did any of the girls object?" she asked and when I shook my head, she said triumphantly, "Then they must have enjoyed being touched. Women do you know."
"Even blatantly groped?"
