This started after the first incident.
My wife and I made rabid, devouring love with one another every night, sometimes twice in a day, for weeks. For two working parents with a kid, that's an impressive feat. The mind games she played with me took a truly devious mind to conceptualize. Perhaps you'd have to be inside my head at that point in our marriage to know what I knew....but, for the record, I never once took her seriously. My wife was the type of person who was a resident assistant in her college dorm, the permanent designated driver, and our neighborhood HOA president. But, she was always, always, a closeted pervert. And her favorite hobby in life was trying to get a rise out of me. This was merely her true self, coming to life.
One night, I caught her on her tablet reading about raising a "Desi" baby as a white mother. Another night I caught her rubbing a dirty men's sock against her pussy. She made a show of nervously hiding it from me, and she claimed it was Patel's...(it wasn't, Patel didn't wear a cheap pair of Fruit of the Loom rubbed rather lazily in the dirt in our backyard). Another time, she left a list in plain sight on our kitchen counter, a "pros" and "cons" list of whether she should leave me. "Pros" were Patel's money, obedient nature, and his 'horse' cock. "Cons" included our daughter "having one of her Christmases with poor people."
Like I said, she was creative.
Buying into the fantasy certainly did fuel our passions. Somehow putting all that at risk, while living a life where we practically had no risks, made us animals. On some level, we felt alive again. I don't know if that was "good" or "bad."
But on a deeper level, I was suppressing strong feelings of territorial jealousy and anger. I know that the conversation we had the morning after that tenuous night was at least party sincere on her part. She certainly didn't love him, but she was dealing with some kind of primordial bonding they shared. But I also knew this was a test to see how much abuse I could take. Like I said, I was the "Gary Cooper" big silent type...it's what she loved the most about me.
Behind that strong-silent-type veneer laid some deeply inconvenient emotions. Sometimes she would be washing dishes, or enjoying a drink on our patio, and I would have the overwhelming urge to grab her by the hair and slap the shit out of her. Never once in my life had I ever thought of hitting a woman until a particular moment came to being: when I was walking away and saw Patel jam his cum-covered cock back inside her.
There was some subliminal moment, a wayward glance at her reaction, where I knew she belonged to him. I still didn't know what occured after I left her with him. Maybe she pushed him away and got dressed. Maybe he came in her ten times. None of that phased me. The image that had me fantasizing about knuckle-dragging violence was much more mundane. I envisioned her, kissing Patel, while he was inside her and they were completely alone in the dark, with a certain glint in her eyes. It was the look she sometimes gave me that made me feel wanted. If she gave that to him, which was a state that she seemed to be moving towards when she closed her eyes and let him back inside her without a full throated protest, then I was truly betrayed that night.
But, I walked away. And it was probably the right move.
When her period came, she was visibly let down. I knew her disappointment didn't lay in not being pregnant, but rather that the game was no longer afoot. In bed one night, she was laying against my shoulder, contemplating.
"You know it was all a goof, right? I was just having fun..." she said, looking up at me devilishly.
I didn't say anything in response. I knew my silence just made her more titillated.
"I hope this doesn't mean we go back to normal..." she purred, as she started groping me.
"Did you stop texting him?" I asked nonchalantly.
She was quiet, "Is it time to put this whole thing away...?"
"Mmmhmm."
She writhed a little, "OK, fine. I won't toy with him anymore."
We made small talk and eventually made love. It was quiet, and heated, but on some deeper level, we felt like something was lost.
--
This started six months after the first incident.
No pregnancy, no second baby. Our morale was getting low.
Our sex life started to feel the same way it did before the incident...rather pedestrian. As before, it was sufficient, but I had a lot of passionate, carnal, rage-filled sex in my short-term memory. I tried to brainstorm ways to bring the passion back, and the fantasies always led back to one place: another man. More specifically, seeing my wife dragged out of the cocoon of our marriage into the forbidden and the strange. The disgust and the jealousy, no matter how I hid it, stemmed from having that rather unkempt, undeserving man inside my wife. I tried to find ways to invite the same intensity back into our lives without someone simply defiling her.
A dozen google searches later, I felt like I found my plan of action...
--
This was a month later.
We were in a big box warehouse store, browsing a patio furniture set. Or...something. I was so excited I barely remember. The kid was with her grandparents. My wife was jabbering on and on about something she was looking at.
"Why did you make me wear this sundress?" she suddenly asked, laughing. Her words kind of cut through a fog. "It's kind of low cut for...groceries..." I just ignored her questions, Gary Cooper style.
We walked for awhile. "You're being weird..." she noted.
She was looking at a piece of produce when my phone dinged. I looked, and saw it was time.
"Listen," I said in a hoarse, low voice, "Keep your eyes on the fruit...act like we're just talking...no matter what you do, act normal."
She gave a confused look, but followed my instructions. I grabbed the space between her ass and pussy with authority. I started rubbing into her.
"A man is going to walk up to you. He's your new husband. For two minutes."
I rubbed my index finger into her slit.
"He's a loving husband that wants to kiss his wife. If you don't do what he says, I lose $600. If you satisfy him, we get $600."
I kissed her on the back of the head with intent and then walked away. She didn't call after me or move. I turned a corner and could see the back of her head as she jostled with the produce and tried to remain calm. Her shoulders and back heaved as she breathed deeply in anticipation. I knew the chemicals in her brain were flying all over the place. I had blindsided her.
When he walked up, I recognized him from the pictures on the app. He was older, maybe early fifties, with a full head of salt and pepper hair. He wore a red polo shirt that was untucked and sloped with his uncontroversial gut. He wore tennis shoes with jeans. His pace was a little hurried, but nothing that would raise eyebrows in public. My phone started to record him on his approach. There must have been a dozen or so people hovering around the area, lazily shopping and pushing their carts.
He came up behind my wife and gently rubbed one of her exposed shoulders. She froze in place, placing a piece of fruit down. I could see his hands as she sort of moved slightly to the side. One side of her face was visible to me. In a truly brazen but calculated move, he brought his hand down to her cleavage and placed his left hand directly into the lining of the dress. He started to massage her ample breast, in front of dozens of unaware people. It was a slow, methodical kneading of her nipple, but so terribly vulgar given the setting. My arousal shot up when I watched people pass idly by, not noticing my wife being groped. He spent a good twenty seconds, arduous and long, laying into her flesh. After what seemed like a surreal eternity, a middle-aged woman noticed, and outwardly stopped and scoffed. She looked at my wife and her assailant for some kind of recognition that they were aware of how inappropriate they were, but to no avail. My wife stood stoned off her rocker with lust and shock, staring into space. The woman hurried off with her cart, visibly upset.
He took his hand out from her dress and nudged her to turn around. When their eyes met, her eyelids fluttered as she tried to engage with the emotional tidal wave. The sensuality, mixed with her discerning his features, mixed with the public, mixed with the taboo...was overwhelming her.
The kiss started slow with a pec. He established the bond, pulled back, and looked her in the eyes. The next kiss laid into her, he wrapped his hands around her waist, and started something passionate. I sat and recorded my wife as she let her reluctance melt and lost herself in a terse, deep kiss. As strange as it sounds, the kiss attracted far more attention than the blatant groping. All the strangers that surrounded their makeout session just looked on with casual curiosity, but they had a crowd. I had to tense my toes to keep my cock from growing to inconvenient lengths in my pants.