It's Only Acting - the Conclusion

It's Only Acting - The Conclusion

Who's the star of Act II?

Twenty years ago, in 2003

,

https://www.literotica.com/stories/memberpage.php?uid=38706&page=submissions

,

wrote the short story

, "It's Only Acting."

You can read it here, and should, before reading my continuation.

https://www.literotica.com/s/its-only-acting

It was one of the first stories I read on LIT, and I've always expected someone to jump in and finish it, or write a sequel, with an alt ending. That never happened. Some readers, and surely, other authors saw this as a fit ending to cuck story.

For some reason, the whole damned thing confounded me. I found myself very conflicted, and in different ways, as to the ending. I recently discovered five different endings I'd written, in an older laptop that I'd started over the years. None of them were even close to reconciliation or acceptance. Here, you're getting the one I thought best.

I thought our MC deserved better. Hell, he wasn't even given a NAME in the original. Instead, I saw him as an easy-going guy who trusted his wife, and expected her to do the right thing. Although she was keen in fessing up about her naughty deeds, what she heaped on him in the conclusion wouldn't pass any sort of loving wife test.

As always, I endeavor to stay true to the author's original piece. You'll find butchered UK slang, although I did look some of them up, trying to find the right spot in the story to use them, and provide a little humor. Blame it on my Americanism!

Finally, I asked Wonderful for permission to submit the one I thought was best. He/she isn't very active on LIT anymore, so I can only hope that my ending meets approval. Hope you enjoy!

Relax; it's just a story, people.

I should have slept well. I always did after a heavy sex session with my gorgeous wife, Kelly. And lately, with the overheated rehearsals, we'd had more than our share of those.

The previous night - opening night - I'd heard my wife's drunken revelation. Then we'd gone straight to our bed, and I discovered - then heard her jauntily and jovially admit - that her co-star had filled her with his cum. I came in record time. It was more or less a premature ejaculation.

Then, to my utter amazement, I remained hard, and we fucked again. It was far rougher than we usually did together. I'd turned her around and pulled her up on hands and knees, and then I just ploughed into my wife for all I was worth. Since I'd just finished having an orgasm, I lasted a long time and knew that I would.

I was quite sure she was going to be sore because as I was dozing off, my cock felt pretty beat up.

With the dawn of a new morning, and in the light of day, though, I was feeling anything but fat and happy. It was five-forty-five and I was standing in the shower, feeling very... uneasy. Uneasiness was putting it simply. After a spouse's confession and my reaction to it, uneasy would be appropriate.

But I was also confused. Confused about a great many things, I was, as my brain spun at high speed.

When the hot water started running out, I got out, got dressed, and went for a run. It was a ritual for my Saturday mornings, albeit an hour and a half later than I'd usually start. The run only added to my angst, so I stopped at a local coffee shop and sat with my thoughts and a bagel.

As a writer, it was my habit to get conflicting and over-burdening thoughts out of my head, and onto paper. I was used to sorting them later. I asked the server if she had something to write on and a pen, handing her a five for her trouble. I didn't try to organize my thoughts, because I never did.

I busily scribbled. I took a bite of my warm bagel and scribbled more. Finally, I had a full page of thoughts that I would allow me to push the delete button on inside my brain.

"Fucked another guy."

That was the first thing I wrote.

Oddly, the very second thing I should have thought didn't come to me until later that day. "Twice," "Admitted it," "Did I agree to it?" "Did it turn me on?" "Why am I so upset about it now?"

Those last two were the crux of my confusion and turmoil. I wrote: "You agreed to this - from the start."

Or was I groomed to simply go along with it

? I thought.

That didn't seem accurate. I didn't write it down. Kelly had told me all along the way, exactly what was happening - how the play and the scenes were progressing. She even warned me twice in the week leading up to opening night. I put that aside for now.

The reality was I didn't want to think about it just then. What I did with my wife after her admission wasn't me. At least it wasn't the 'me' that I thought of myself. I'd always considered myself fairly mainstream, in my beliefs and actions. Certainly, while in college, I'd written some smutty scenes, and Kelly had actually played in one, except she'd only run her hands over a naked guy, and hadn't even touched his cock. Other females on stage had been assigned to that.

I was always open and honest with Kelly. I'd hoped she was with me too. But I'd be damned if there wasn't now a slight little nagging doubt, in the back of my mind.

Bloody hell!

This wasn't right.

I loved my wife and I trusted her with my life. When she worked for the brokerage, I'd never mistrusted her - not even once! Did that fare well for her, or was there an element of naivety on my part?

I decided I was getting ahead of myself on that point too. So I did some math and scribbled a number: "nineteen." The previous night, opening night, was a Friday. Friday the first of March. The play ran all month, and other than the opening weekend, which was three nights, the performance was scheduled Thursday through Sunday.

Nineteen performances. Nineteen times my wife could potentially fuck another guy on stage, breaking her vows, and without any... For fuck's sake! They weren't using any protection. He came in her, and I just went along with it happily, or stupidly. I was pretty sure it was both.

What the hell was I thinking?

He was bloody handsome, and bigger than me - in every way. Kingsley wasn't some tripod, by any means. Without a tape measure and sitting in the fifth row, it was hard to say, but his meat and two veg were definitely bigger than mine by an inch or two. There was no way a bloke like that wasn't getting laid on a regular basis. He was an actor to boot - probably shagging half of Essex.

I wrote: "Disease, get tested." Then, another thought: "Is Kelly on her pills? Has she missed any?" Then a biggie came to mind, and I wrote it down. "If they all knew this was likely to happen, why no condoms available?"

I was sinking into despair thinking about what was happening, and the damned visuals were making me nauseous. I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. I waved to the server for a refill on my coffee. I'd cleared my mind just enough to focus on myself for a little while before going home to have a major discussion with Kelly.

What was my stance on last night? I considered that but had to do a replay from long ago to get to the answer. Yes, I'd always considered myself a liberal-thinking person. Politically, I'd call myself a progressive, even though that was a pretty loose term. I was in the arts, for fuck's sake, and a writer by profession.

Back in uni, I prided myself on my work. I had no problems or concerns writing some raunchy stuff. I reveled in pushing the envelope. The plays I read, and some books published by the playwrights I'd studied helped me understand how to skirt that edge, making something both brilliant and controversial, that caused a big to-do with the audience and the press.

I allowed myself to smile, thinking back on those days. There was an overabundance of young women in drama studies, and I had more than my fair share, sampling them one after another. Then I met Kelly, and she was different. Kelly wanted to try her hand at drama, like a hobby. She was going for her master's in finance. She wasn't some airhead like the others. She set her mind to something and she did it, the end. At first, she wasn't my cup of tea, but that determined spirit of hers grew on me.

I'll never forget the look on her face when she told me she was selected along with six other students to visit the New York Stock Exchange in America. It equally matched the look she gave the day I asked for her hand in marriage.

Kelly got lucky to land her first job with Bronson Equities, LLC, but then her skill took over. She moved into a broker position quickly, almost too quickly, I'd thought at the time. But then she brought on some big clients, who trusted her with their money.

Davis Bronson, the founder's son, and CEO, was overly complimentary of my wife, especially at the awards banquets I'd attended with her.

I'd done well in my career also. I landed a three-book, two-year deal almost right out of college. That led to some prominence and I've written two other self-published books, along with numerous articles for magazines, and had continued writing plays.

I trusted my wife with my life. We've always had a great relationship, filled with respect, and trust. The love stayed just as strong as when we were courting. Sex was, in my humble opinion, stellar.

In short, Kelly never gave me any reason to mistrust her, even with her career and long hours. She always came home to me, telling me exuberantly about her day, or some project or new client. She'd always be excited when she landed some 'personality,' especially an actor - man or woman - and I basked in her tales and adventures.

So what was it, specifically now, that bothered me so much?

There was plenty. Things that could make me doubt myself - my inner self - looking in the mirror.

Expressing herself in a play, was one thing, while breaking her marriage vows for an entire month, was quite another.

That wasn't acceptable. She'd had actual intercourse with her male co-star the night before opening too, and hadn't confessed to that until last night.

Yes, she was drunk when she came home, so did she confess out of guilt or drunkenness? Did she even mean to tell me?

I thought the answer to that was a solid yes, from what I knew of Kelly. We simply kept no secrets. But now there was doubt there, as hard as I tried to push it away.

Would I be able to accept what happened? What was going to happen, or at least likely to happen?

I thought about that, and the immediate answer wasn't just no, but hell no.

This wasn't some nudity, kissing, or fondling. In the program, Kelly and her actor lover had kissed eight other times, not counting the strip tease scene. The kisses, as I focused more on them, had been passionate. Of course, that was the point, to provide realism, but it dawned on me that they'd had a lot of practice to do it so perfectly, so carefree, with ease.

I knew because Kelly had been completely upfront with me. She'd come home each night and fucked me senseless, obviously, all worked up from rehearsal, and I'd gone along like a happy puppy. I didn't want to have to tell her how unhappy I was about what she'd done. But, we'd always been honest with each other, so I was going to have to. This shouldn't be that difficult for my wife to understand. If the shoe were on the other foot, well...

When I arrived home, Kelly started right in asking where I'd been. She wasn't bitchy, just concerned. I got another cup of coffee, because I felt drained, and then told her we needed to talk, which she seemed to expect. We sat in our living room, with Kelly right next to me.

"What's wrong, baby?" she asked thoughtfully. "You look horrible. Something happen on your run?"

"No," I replied. "I had some breakfast after. I had some thinking to do. I need to talk about..."

"About last night, I know," she interrupted. "I was drunk, but I know what I told you. You seemed pretty okay with it, considering what happened afterward, but I'm not an idiot. Tell me what's on your mind."

"Well," I started sheepishly, "I've got mixed feelings. I also feel a little lost, because my actions and my thoughts aren't, or weren't in sync. In the cold light of day, I'm not happy that you've had sex with another man... twice."

I couldn't tell if Kelly was expecting what I said or not. At first, she was or seemed to be nodding slightly, but at my last statement, suddenly went stone-faced.

"What?" she said vehemently after a pause. "I haven't had sex with anyone. I never said that. I said, while acting out a scene, my co-star's penis slipped inside me. It happened at dress rehearsal, for a minute, no more, and then again last night."

Whatever Kelly was anticipating from me that was exactly what I expected from her. Kelly was going down that road, actor, co-actor, no harm - no foul.

Hold on, Kelly," I told her. "That isn't accurate. Your exact words were 'you watched your wife get fucked by another man, in front of a thousand people.'

"That's what I've been thinking about," I said emotionlessly. "You've been coming home, all revved up. I even expected things were probably heating up at rehearsal, and you did warn me about opening night. The problem I'm having is how you came home with it. Maybe teasing, but also, maybe rubbing it in my face a little. Then there's the issue of NOT telling me about dress rehearsal the previous night."

"Hang on a sec," her voice tone and volume rising. "I told you that dress rehearsal was pretty realistic. That was an admission without going into the gory details. I'm not fucking anyone, except you. I've been completely honest with you, from day one, even asking your permission, if you recall."

That wasn't the attitude I'd expected. The tone of her voice was anything but conciliatory. She was pissed, and daring me to call her out for lying, or for fucking. Still, she was telling the truth.

"He came in you," I stuck to it. "That's sex with someone else, in my book. Hell, in everybody's book. Also, if this director and you two

actors..."

I emphasized that last part, "knew the play was to be acted out this way, where were the precautions?"

Kelly was back on heel then. She hadn't thought about that or a response. So I kept at it.

"Now there's the matter of the future," I said very seriously. "Nineteen more shows. No precautions and nineteen more opportunities to have sex with someone else."

It took her a minute to collect her thoughts. "We can't use rubbers," she began tentatively. "You know that. You saw the play. That would look foolish and unrealistic.

"But we knew that. Both Kingsley and I were tested. We did that as soon as we made the changes to the scene because our genitalia would be in such proximity."

"Sure," I spat. I was getting pissed myself. "And how many weeks ago was that?" it wasn't lost on me that she'd skimmed right over the nineteen shows remaining.

"Four," she said confidently. "Or five. Right around that time," she followed, not as sure. "We're both clean, honey. I wouldn't do that to you."

"Kelly," I said, trying to calm down. "I'm not happy about this. I know what we did after your big reveal last night. The only thing I can think is that I'd been getting so worked up about it for weeks, what with your vague descriptions and all. Him 'accidentally' slipping it to you, play or no play isn't something I'm okay with. I don't think it should be okay with you, and I'm surprised that you aren't even addressing that. In fact, you are squirming around it."

"I am not!" Kelly replied loudly. "Look, honey, I can't do much about it at this point. I can come home and make it up to you, but the way it's worked out, and rehearsed, it's likely to happen again. I don't want this to cause us problems. I've been honest about it, and I thought you were good; that we were good. Please, honey, be reasonable."

"Yeah," I said in a quiet, sad voice, "come home to your cuckold and give him sloppy seconds. That's what I yearn for."

Kelly was beginning to understand the depth of our troubles. She sat quietly for several minutes, and I went to get a beer. Screw the coffee. When I returned my wife looked eager to say something.

"Okay, honey," she said. "I think I get it. I don't want you to feel jealous. I'll talk to Kingsley and the director tonight. I'll see what we can do to keep the realism intact but be more careful. That said, you saw the scene. I can't wear a sheath-like they do in the movies, because he's supposed to touch me there, and as you saw the audience would be able to see the thing. It looks like a panty liner. Obviously, Kingsley can't wear a condom."

I'm telling you, Kelly," I said, unaffected by her promises. "You need to get tested again. He's an actor, for fuck sake. He could have picked up all kinds of diseases in the past several weeks. You're not thinking clearly. I don't want an STD. I'll be getting tested on Monday. Then there's the matter of your birth control."

"Oh, honey," she cried out, "I'm on the pill, and I never miss. You know that. I'll do everything I can to keep him from accidentally slipping inside me. If he comes outside of me, I'll make sure to shower there before coming home."

She wasn't getting it. I didn't want to prolong the discussion, because her words and actions were so unusual to me. I was already beginning to mistrust her.

Kelly," I said sternly, "Just know that I'm not happy about any of this. Do what you need to do. The once, I think I can get past, but not a month of having sex with your co-star, in front of God know how many people. That's cruel, as far as I'm concerned."

I worked on the yard, as I did every Saturday. When I was just finishing up, Kelly found me in the garage. She came up to me and gave me a big hug.

"I'm heading over to the theatre now," she said, trying to look affable. "I love you, darling. Don't you forget that? I'll see you later tonight."

As soon as she was gone, I got cleaned up and went to my favorite pub for a burger and a beer. I thought more about my conversation with Kelly.

Somewhere along the way, she'd lost respect for me, at least to a degree. The admissions, I concluded, were just as much about teasing me, maybe even grooming me. She knew me well. She knew about college because she was right there with me.

The question was, what had changed in me? Had I become a stuffed shirt? Some sort of conservative? No, I also concluded. This was about some big bloke giving my wife a good going over, and if I had to guess, he was making a spectacle of himself, especially with how the other theatre staff had looked on me as an unknowing cuckold.

There was only one person who'd looked upon me with... was it pity? That was the good-looking young lady who'd been in the ticket booth with the bloody ass that had made the snide comment.

I decided I was going back to the theatre to try to talk to her. She'd probably not want to get involved, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

At six-thirty, I was standing in her line. When I got to the window, she gave me a perfunctory greeting, and then she recognized me. I leaned in close to the window.

"Hello," I said with a smile. In a quieter voice, I told her, "No ticket tonight. I was hoping to talk to you, maybe over coffee. My treat."

Her eyes wandered momentarily. I got the impression she was trying to figure out a nice way to say 'no.' Finally, I saw a little spark there. She looked down at the counter in front of her and scribbled something on a Post-it.

Then she slid it out the little opening. I looked at the paper, and read it:

"Biloxi Blues Café - 9:00"

I smiled at her, and said "Thank you."