My Wife Her Boss His Party

This is the fourth in a series of stories. This one and the next will definitely take things into kinky territory, so, again, let me warn readers: if you do not like hotwife and cuckold stories, hit your back button and read something else.

For readers that

do

like stories in this genre, I think that this one should push some interesting buttons. I've actually just figured out where the story is headed, and I may go back to edit chapters 1-3 again now that I have a more coherent narrative in mind.

For those who have been contacting me to wonder why my narrator is male while I (Veronique1983) am female, there's a hint at the end of this story, and much more to come in chapter 5.

Please keep the feedback coming (in comments and in messages) if it's about the writing or if it offers sex-positive descriptions of the desires and experiences you'd like to see represented in these stories.

*****

Starting Slow but About to Speed Up

And so we started our new life.

Amanda would take a lover. Her boss. Eric. And I would consent.

I don't mean to make that sound all that grand. To this point really not much had happened.

To summarize, Amanda, like a lot of wives (if my Tumblr is to believed) teased me with stories that got me off, and she had had one night's (minor) indiscretion with her boss.

Kissing, fondling.

Maybe a little more.

But really not that much; and not anything that most husbands couldn't get past were it to happen.

But now we had agreed . . . or, rather, she had led me to agree-not merely to forgive one night's indiscretion, but that we would allow much

more

to happen. Even that she would explore things further. Much further.

And this agreement, these explorations-however slowly they might happen-felt new and momentous to me.

But really, you may ask, what was the big deal? Hadn't I always fantasized about her being unfaithful? Didn't I make myself come, and didn't she make me come, to the wildest possible fantasies of her being fucked by cocks other than mine? bigger than mine?

Did I really think that something like her evening of indiscretion with Eric WOULDN'T happen at some point? Did I really get points for forgiving her for this? For "forgiving" something that I had encouraged?

Look-I get it. I sound like a hypocrite.

But here's the thing about these desires: you

both

want them and

don't

want them. It fucking turned me on that she had let Eric kiss her; it also made me fucking crazy with jealousy.

So it was hard for me to get to the point where I could be honest not just with her, but with myself, about what I wanted.

To be honest, it had taken years to get this honest, this real. Years of me only half grasping what I wanted and what Amanda needed.

In telling Amanda that I accepted . . . even that I

encouraged

her desire to pursue this relationship with her boss, it meant that I was coming to terms with things that were a part of me, that had

always

been a part of me, but that I had held back or denied or toned down or kept in the realm of fantasy.

And it also meant coming to terms with just how much

Amanda

wanted all of this.

For herself.

Not just as a way to please me, as a favor to me, as something a loving wife does to get her man to come. I had to start being less narcissistic and selfish; I had to start recognizing her desires and not just my own. To recognize that she wasn't going to fuck Eric because it got me off, but, rather, that she was going to fuck Eric because it got

her

off. That

she

wanted it, that

she

needed it.

Up until now, it had been mere stories and fantasies. Mind-blowing, limit-pushing, transgressive stories, but still, just stories. Which made it all safe.

But now everything was really happening.

It was real. And dangerous.

And it was still raw and frightening for me.

Thankfully Amanda was sensitive to my anxieties. She promised to check in with me constantly, to tell me if any lines were about to be crossed so that we could discuss it all in advance. That we would move slowly.

And, in fact, at first it seemed (to both of us) that we were almost moving

too

slowly. Each day when she returned from work I expected to hear something new. No, not that they had fucked on his desk in the middle of the day, but at least that there had been flirtations, caresses, a kiss or two.

But nothing.

Nothing seemed to be happening.

Now, it was a busy time of year for the firm, Amanda said, it being October, with the holidays approaching. There was so much to finish before Thanksgiving and Christmas. So apparently the office was simply too busy for any shenanigans to happen there right now.

I have to say that things were in a somewhat frustrating state for both of us.

We both knew, now, that she had permission to begin pursuing this relationship with Eric, but neither of us knew what the next step would be . . . when something would happen . . . when she'd have a new story to tell.

So I think that both of us - maybe me even more than Amanda - were excited when Eric announce that he was going to host a holiday party for his staff at his (obscenely large and expensive) apartment downtown.

I don't think I can fully convey the excitement on Amanda's face when she told me . . .

"John, I really think that this party could be

it

. . . you know . . . the perfect occasion for . . . whatever is going to happen next?"

"But how can you know?"

"Well, Claire is handling all of the invitations, for all the regular guests, that is. But Eric made a point of taking the invitation out of Claire's hands and handing it to me . . . he put it in my hands with such care . . . and . . . I guess it's just the way his voice sounded when he invited me. He made me feel that I wasn't like all the other guests . . . he made me realize that he feels

guilty

that he hasn't been able to give me

that

sort of attention for a while. And . . . well . . . I don't know how to say this . . . but I . . ."

"What?" There was clearly something lurking behind her hesitance to complete the sentence.

"I . . . well . . . so when he invited me, Eric said that he had to admit he was slightly disappointed he couldn't invite me to come alone, without you."

"Hmmmm . . . well that's certainly sending a clear signal about his intentions!" Again I was both aroused and disturbed to hear this (like I said, these desires are complicated). I smiled to encourage her to say more . . .

She continued, but caused me a little anxiety by beginning, "Babe, I . . . I'm worried you'll be mad about what I said next."

"No no-sweet-it's OK-like I said, you have my permission to pursue this, as long as you keep talking to me, as long as you share things, as long as we are truthful with each other."

"OK," she continued, "I told Eric, 'Don't worry about John, he has no intention of stopping us from enjoying ourselves.'"

Fuck.

I have to admit I was a little shocked.

I realized that, without really grasping it fully or being able to articulate it, there was a

huge

and significant distinction in my mind between giving Amanda permission to have sex with her boss and her telling him that I had given her permission. I tried to pause and pull my thoughts together in my mind before initiating a fight over this . . . Was it that I felt humiliated that he knew? Or was it . . .

I didn't have time to think about it, because Amanda, sensing I was disturbed, jumped in. "Oh John don't be angry. He didn't think it was odd at all-I knew he wouldn't. I . . . well it's just that Claire . . . well there's so so much I have to tell you. But it suffices to say that he feels all of this is natural and normal and healthy . . . he is happy to be . . . I still don't know

exactly

how I feel about this word . . . but he's happy to be my 'Bull' . . . or

our

Bull I should say."

I really didn't know how I felt about all the lingo of this lifestyle we seemed to be lurching towards . . . I mean, I had certainly jerked off to cuckold porn with its bulls and huge cocks and hotwives . . . I just didn't know that I wanted to have our sex life by labeled like that. But now wasn't the time to debate semantics . . . Amanda was sharing her innermost desires, and I wanted to affirm them rather than to get caught up in arguments about what we'd label all the roles in our little scenario.

All I could muster was, "well-do you think we should go then? To the party"

"Yes, babe. Yes. I think that now's the time, John. If we are going to take our thoughts and fantasies and bring them into the real world, if we're to act on them, I think that now's the time. I think that this party is really the perfect occasion. Are you OK with that?"

I thought for a moment. This was big. I could pull back, or I could agree and hand my wife over to another man.

"Yes. Yes, Amanda." I took a deep breath. "I'm OK with it. Let's do it."

At the Wrong Table

So the night came and we went. To the party. To what I had a good sense would be the next step in this new, unconventional relationship my wife and I were embarking on.

Eric's apartment was just as extravagant as we guessed it would be. Far far too much space for one man, unless that one man needed to entertain and impress clients . . . and colleagues. . . and their wives.

The guests took a while to arrive, and we were among the first to walk in.

Eric was warm in his welcome: he embraced Amanda (and I noticed she kissed him on the cheek), and he shook my hand firmly.

Even if he weren't already involved with my wife, I would have found him just a little intimidating.

He was strong, handsome, rich. Part of me certainly felt inferior, but a growing part of me felt proud that

my wife

was the object of this man's affections. Clearly I hadn't completely fucked up in life if I had ended up with a woman that this man--fuck, I may as well say it even thought it's not my favorite expression--a woman that this

Bull

would want to fuck.

We mingled for a while, but once the guests all were there, Eric and Claire (serving as an assistant here as she was at work) directed everyone to the two main seating areas for dinner. The full time staff and some key clients sat at the large dining room table (which sat 16), while the rest of us took up seats and stools in the living room and around the kitchen island.

Claire and I ended up in the living room, on the outside looking in, while Amanda sat in the dining room, next to Eric.

Don't get me wrong, I was pleased to be sitting next to Claire, who was remarkably beautiful and captivating. But having to look across the apartment, being at least 40 feet from Amanda . . . catching only half-glimpses of her interactions with Eric . . . it was excruciating.

Now it has to be said that Eric was a magnanimous and charismatic host, attentive to all of the guests needs. He did at times leave the dining room to check in on those in the kitchen and living room, even stopping to offer a toast next to the large kitchen bar . . .

"Now I know you may feel left out in the cold out here, and I have to apologize that this small apartment cannot accommodate us all in the dining room." This was the falsest modesty imaginable, there wasn't a single apartment in town that had a larger dinner table than his, and if there were, it would be in an apartment that would fetch much more than the multiple millions this one cost.

"In any case," he continued, beginning to look me in the eye with an intensity that made me a bit uncomfortable, "I thank you for coming tonight, and hope you'll join me in looking forward to much happiness, much pleasure, and many adventures both tonight and in the new year."

As he raised his glass his eyes were on mine, he saw me drank with the rest of the guests in affirmation of his toast. Even though there were dozens of people in the room I couldn't help but think the toast was targeting me, that the pleasures and adventures he intended to have himself would be with my wife. But this didn't stop me from drinking along with the other guests. And who am I kidding, I had already agreed to these pleasures and adventures.

As I lifted my glass I caught Amanda's eye in the room beyond for just a moment. She saw me smile at Eric as he said all this. She saw me consent.

In that moment we both knew what was happening. What was going to happen.

Tonight was the night.

As Eric retook his seat next to Amanda and dinner began, I reconciled myself to the fact that it was all out of my hands. I kept looking across the room at them, and each time I did I seemed to catch Amanda laughing at something he had said, or looking into his eyes with uncommon intensity. If she wasn't in love with him now, it seemed to be coming. What the fuck was I thinking, encouraging this?

I wanted it and didn't want it. I didn't want to look, but had to look. Something special was happening between the two of them, and I think that everyone was beginning to notice, maybe even beginning to gossip. In a way, I was hoping the night would pass more quickly, but I also wanted to hit pause or rewind and rethink the whole thing.

Where is Amanda?

The dinner was superb, and I have to admit that I was pleased to have been sat next to Claire, as this definitely eased the pain of being distant from Amanda. I don't think I've ever seen such a beautiful girl up close. She was far far far to young (and simply to hot) for me. But, still, it was better than being seated next to a 65-year-old male client of the firm, to say the least.

Her intoxicating beauty definitely helped to curb my impulse to look back at Amanda and Eric every 15 seconds. It took my mind off of things having Claire at my side, making small talk, laughing at my jokes. But mainly just presenting a display of the female form that was simply next level. Her breasts large, but absurdly firm, defying gravity. Her hair a deep, luxurious red. Her lips large and moist.

Fuck.

"Amanda's the one who's supposed to be unfaithful tonight," I thought to myself. "And you are essentially a dirty old man. Leave this 23-year-old alone to enjoy herself and keep your dick in your pants."

This helped-a bit--but amidst these Claire-provoked distractions I had actually lost sight of Amanda, and when I looked up she was gone.

Many of the guests had left the dinner tables, and were seeking drinks and entertainment throughout the apartment. But Amanda was nowhere to be found.

I walked through the house, asking each of the guests who knew Amanda if they had seen her, and none had. She had essentially disappeared, and no one seemed to know where she was.

Also conspicuously absent was our host, Eric.

I kept asking after her, wandering from room to room. Telling myself that she'd gone off to do something innocuous and that I'd find her soon.

But it was pretty obvious what was going on.

Indeed, with each person I asked I became a little more sure of what was happening, but couldn't quite admit it.

It was happening.

Like she said, tonight was the night. It was happening. Or going to happen. And about to happen?

What the fuck was happening??

In trying to hunt her down I wasn't getting any closer to stopping it (if that's even what I wanted to do) . . . I was only calling attention to things. And the last thing I needed was for everyone at the party to start asking questions about where Amanda and Eric were.

So, while I had no idea what I was hoping I would find, I pursued my search further, walking deeper down the hallway, past the bathrooms, the guest room . . . I knew that sooner or later my search had to proceed all the way down the hallway that led to the

master bedroom

. . . . I guess I just couldn't bring myself to go there immediately.

But I had to.

So I walked all the way to the heart of the apartment, past most of the guests (all who thought it impolite to venture that far into Eric's private domain).

I had a sense of what I would find.

I half wanted it; half didn't want it. I wanted to stop; I wanted to continue.

I didn't know what the fuck I wanted.

So it was a bit of a relief when, halfway down the hallway, nearly right outside the master bedroom, I encountered Claire's familiar face (and body).

"Fancy seeing you here John . . . are you looking for something?"

"I'm looking for Amanda."

"Well-I haven't seen Amanda, but I wouldn't look for her in there . . . that's Eric's bedroom, and I think he's in there with someone."

I'm sure my face betrayed me by turning red (or losing its color-I couldn't be sure how any of this was affecting me).

Claire seemed to be putting two and two together. "Oh . . . my . . . god! It's

Amanda>

in there, isn't it?"

I was stunned-I was already unsure about how I felt about all this, with something clearly happening without my advance knowledge. But now Claire knew. A coworker, a friend. A girl I saw and would continue to see at the front desk everytime I dropped by Amanda's office. And now each and every time I dropped by I'd know that she'd know I had been cuckolded.

I wanted to escape the conversation immediately before she asked too many questions, but it was too late.

"Well are you going to rush in there then? What are you waiting for? Aren't you going to stop this?"

She smiled a knowing smile.

"Come on John . . . another man . . . a pretty fucking manly man . . . is in there with your wife. He could be about to kiss her. She could be about to kiss him. Or more. He could be about to fuck her, John. He could be about to fuck your wife. Aren't you going to try to stop it?"

I didn't know what to do. Mainly I turned red and cast my eyes down at the floor.

"Hmmm . . . or . . . did you

know

about this? Did you know already John? Or at least have an inkling? Maybe you're one of

those

guys." Her smile grew wider and her eyes took my reaction in with the giggly sadism that only a 23-year-old that otherworldly hot can manage.

But what she said next took things in an entirely unexpected direction.

"Fucking Hell." She began. "How does he do it? How does he know?"

She laughed as if at an inside joke.

"What do you mean, Claire?" I asked.

"Do you think Amanda's the

first

girl from work to find her way in there? Into his bed?" she laughed. "Don't worry, John--I'm not going to say anything to anyone--I just think it's funny. Lots of guys are good at spotting wives and girlfriends they can fuck . . . but somehow Eric can spot the ones whose husbands and boyfriends are

into

it. I can't fucking believe it." She took a large gulp of wine and smiled, half to herself and half at me.

This was exquisitely painful.

"Awwww. Am I hurting your feelings?" She said in a baby-talk voice while touching my chest with her hand. "Don't worry."

I hated to admit it, but she was starting to turn me on. I don't know if I was more excited by Claire, herself, or by whatever was happening to Amanda, or by Claire's various provocations that seemed intended to intensify my jealous and arousal . . . whatever . . . the point is that Claire had me (metaphorically-for now) by the balls.

"Look, John-your secret is safe with me . . . and can you guess

why?

Try, John, try." Her hand slowly traced its way up and down my chest-I didn't know what the fuck to do.

"Come on John . . . guess. I'll give you a hint! It looks as though, as of tonight, Eric has now fucked

four

girls in our office; and, including Amanda, there are

four

girls in our office." She really couldn't contain her knowing laughter. "And if I'm right about what's happening tonight, in each and every case

the other guy was cool with it.

So you tell me: how the fuck does he do it?"