Disclaimer:
This is a fantasy. No one in their right mind should participate in the activities the characters in this story do. If you don't like cuckold stories don't read it.
* * *
I was awakened by a gentle kiss. Opening my eyes, I looked into his smiling face as he bent over me.
"It was great, I hope we can do it again some time. I've got to go." With that, he stood and walked to the door, pausing as he went through to give me a little wave.
It was the second time he had awakened me that morning. The first time it was just getting light, about sixish, I'd guess. That time he had been softly licking my right nipple while his middle finger was gently caressing my clit. My nipples are extremely sensitive and nothing gets me going like some attention to my nipples. The fire in my loins woke me I grabbed his head and pulled it into my breast. Knowing I was awake, his hand became more aggressive and was soon pushing two fingers into my rapidly moistening box as his mouth tried swallow my nipple, boob and all. I thrust again and again against his hand and experienced another orgasm to add to the many I'd had through the wee hours after we took it to the bedroom. Before I came down, he was in me with his knees on either side of my hips, forcing my knees to be raised, driving with long, hard strokes, rolling me over into yet another more powerful orgasm. This one just rolled on and on, seemingly never to end, but it did as he blew his load deep in me within me as I twitched in time with his spasms. He kissed me gently and slid out and to the side. I then fell asleep as he held me.
I smiled as I remembered that first awakening. Then I panicked
. 'George! Where the hell is George? Oh God! What the hell have I done? How could I have done this?'
George is my husband of ten years. Up until last night, I had been absolutely faithful... that is I'd never had sex with another man. (See Bill Clinton's definition of sex.) I searched my mind for what had led up to my night of debauchery. The last I'd seen of George, he was asleep, or was that passed out, on our recliner. That's when...? ...?
'Tony!
God I hope that was his name.'
It was bad enough that I'd had sex outside my marriage, but to not even know the guy's name would make me a total slut. God knows I've been studying for the roll.
'How the hell has it come to this?'
For the answer to that, I had to go back three years to when we had bought this house. It's in an upscale neighborhood and has a very aggressive HOA. Very organized and active. It's actually one of the better HOA's I've come across. Most HOA boards get hung up on the power and start passing resolutions that are restrictive and little appreciated by the rank and file. But this one seemed to be pretty reasonable on that score. Instead, they went out of their way to foster a sense of community. One of the things that made this neighborhood stand out was that the pool and recreation hall rivaled a country club, sans the golf course. Along with the pool, the tennis courts, and large park, the rec hall boasted a full size indoor basketball court and a separate weight room and spa as well as a large lounge with fireplace and wet bar. There also is a small kitchen, mostly for warming whatever food was brought to whatever function was to be held there.
My husband's recent promotion was responsible for our buying the house and I have to admit that I was a little intimidated by the social class of our new neighbors. But I soon came to find out that I needn't have been. After we had gotten settled in out new home, all the boxes unpack and put away, I was out one afternoon getting the mail at the curbside lock box and I ran into Marge, our neighbor from two doors down. She was friendly and unpretentious.
"Hi, you're our new neighbor. I'm Marge Hanson," she said as she walked up.
"Hi, I'm Lucinda Michaels, Luce to my friends."
"Welcome Luce. I hope I'll be a friend."
"Me too. It's a bit awkward, being new in the neighborhood and I could use a friend."
"The easy way to get to know people around here it to got to the monthly dances at the rec hall. They're held every first Saturday."
"Oh, well I don't know if George, my husband, will want to go to a dance. He thinks he's not a good dancer, but the truth is he does OK as long as it's the fast dances where he doesn't have to worry about stepping on my feet."
"Well tell him it's a neighborhood party. Have you seen the rec hall?" I nodded. "The dancing is done in the basketball court and the socializing is done in the lounge. No need to dance if you don't want to. My husband really doesn't dance... doesn't even like to try. But there are plenty of men who are happy to see I get my dancing in," she smiled.
"Thanks, I'll do that."
And that's exactly how I approached George with it. He thought it was a good idea to get to know the neighbors. What made the whole thing appealing was that we could go enjoy ourselves, have a few drinks and not have to worry about driving home impaired, since we would be walking distance from our house.
The first dance, we didn't even hit the dance floor, but stayed in the lounge. Marge was there with Harold, her husband, and she introduced us around before she was whisked off to the dance floor by one of the men. I discovered that evening that it wasn't unusual for couples to dance with other people. As a matter of fact, it was nearly expected. Marge explained it was a good way to get to know people.
When we got home, I told George what Marge had said and he told me that if I was asked to dance, it would be up to me to accept or decline. He knew I liked ballroom dancing and that he wasn't very good at it. So when the next dance rolled around, I got him out on the dance floor for a few faster numbers where he could fake his way by just bouncing around to the beat of the music, but we sat out to slow songs. Around 10:00, one of the couples we'd met made note of that fact.
Jenny said, "Luce, I notice you guys don't dance the slow dances. If you don't know them, there's studio Bob and I went to that teaches ballroom dancing. Members of the neighborhood association get a discount."
"Oh," I told her, "I love ballroom dancing, it's just that George's sense of rhythm isn't good and he tends to step on my feet."
"Bob, why don't you dance with Luce the next slow tune," she said turning to her husband. "She loves ballroom dancing and George would rather not."
"I'd love to," replied Bob.
And so it was that I was introduced to being held close by another man. After my dance with Bob, I made sure to go back to George and hug on him. I wanted him to be sure that I loved him. Well word got out that I need a slow dance partner and I was asked nearly every slow dance by someone or another. George teased me about being the bell of the ball, but it was good-natured and he was glad I was having a good time.
I began to look forward to those dances and we really enjoyed our time there. Over the first six months I think I danced with every one of the guys in the small group that we had become friends with. Some were so-so, not really any better than George, and others were really good. I finally learned who to avoid because of bruised toes and who to encourage to ask me again.
Every now and then a new face would show up for a couple of dances and then disappear and I danced with a few of them. It was one of those new faces that started me toward my night of wantonness. In February the dance was held on the second Saturday with a Valentine's theme even though St. Valentine's Day was still nearly a week away. The majority of the dances were slow tunes and there were quite a few new faces, people that didn't regularly attend. The songs were predominately slow and I spent an inordinate amount of time on the dance floor and danced with a number of guys I'd never met before.
* * *
Then a little after 11:00 I found George. "I've had too much to drink. We need to go home now," I told him.
"OK," he said with quizzical look on his face and said goodbye to the people he'd been talking to.
We walked home in silence, but George kept looking at me trying to figure out what was up. When we got home I nearly attacked him in the bedroom. It wasn't love making; it was raw animalistic sex. I got off three times and after he got his, I gave him only a few minutes rest before I worked him over with my mouth to get him up again so I could get him to do me again. After the second round, we both went to sleep exhausted.
George was up and in the kitchen when I came out. He had made coffee and was working on French toast. "Morning," he smiled.
As we ate the breakfast he asked about last night. "So, what with all the slow dances, I thought you'd be in heaven and I'd have to drag you out of there so they could lock up. You said you'd had too much to drink. But by my count, you only had five drinks in four hours. Were you nipping at someone's hip flask on the dance floor?" He smiled at it, trying to tease me.
I just looked at him, unsure of what to say. He looked back and finally got serious. "Look this is the first time since we started going to these things that you've left early, what's up?"
I took a deep breath and said, "I don't think we should go to any more."
He looked at incredulously. It was like I'd get if I suggested that we give up eating every other week to save on groceries. "What? The belle of the ball wants to not go dancing any more? What's going on here? What happened?"
I looked down at my French toast and realized I'd only taken one bite. Keeping my head down, I fought back tears as I told him, "One of my dance partners got fresh last night."
"Look," he said, "a lot of guys try that kind of thing at dances. You can't let that keep you from going and having a good time. If some guy puts his hands some place you don't like, move it back where it belongs, tell him you're married and you don't do that kind of thing. If he doesn't mind his manners after that, walk away from him."
"That's the problem," I said as I felt tear form in the corner of my eye.
"What's the problem?"
"I... I did... I... I did like it and I didn't stop him."
Suddenly his fork stopped mid bite. Setting it back on his plate he just looked at me for the longest time. "Maybe you should tell me just what happened."
"Don't hate me," I begged.
His voice took on a soothing tone. "Look honey, I love you and I'll never hate you, but I can't understand what's got you so spooked, unless you tell me what happened." He came around the table and pulled me up and hugged me. "Just tell me everything," he continued, "and I promise I'll not hate you or get mad. OK?"
