Author's note:
The fantasy story setup was that my husband would meet a couple in Chicago and do the wife while the husband watched, and call me on the phone while they did it. The couple played cuck games at home, but had never actually done anything like that in real life.
We started writing something fairly realistic, but then the characters just got away from us. We ended up with something just totally over the top – appalling, lurid, depressing, comic – you name it. It vastly helps if you read our previous story "Wendy and the Ritz" so that you understand the characters of Maxine and Arthur, and of what they are capable.
* * * * *
It's Wednesday night and David Brooks is tied up on the bed again.
"The new guy at work, he's gorgeous..."
He wants her to go faster, move faster, but she keeps the tempo languid, controlling the pace. Her nails, barely barely touching him, restrained. . "Really good looking. The last time we did it I pretended it was him. You know."
David is groaning now.
"But I'm not pretending it's him right now, not like this. Because if it were him I'd be doing a lot more than just these little baby caresses. I'd have it way down my mouth, and I'd be looking up at him, pleasing
him
...making you watch me." She moves down, her mouth next to her husband's straining cock, and exhales, warmly over it, sending a shiver up his spine.
"But I'm not doing anything more with you than
this
," she whispers, her fingers lightly around his shaft. "Because I really want to save my mouth for him. I want you to think about my mouth on him instead of you."
Her fingers pause, her hand closing around the base. In a voice so soft, a whisper, "I've been talking to Arthur you know." Breath warm in his ear.
"The e-mails, I know."
"No." She says, her hand gripping him tighter now, moving just barely. "
On the phone.
"
"What?" he catches his breath, looking to her, tempo interrupted.
"Friday night."
"What?" again. "What have you been...?"
"Friday...." She says.
"But I don't know if...."
"Shhhh –look at me and just shoot right in my hand baby, because this is last time I'm touching you for awhile."
Then comes the shot across his body, him pulling, stretching against the soft binds, his cock aching, aching for more – more pressure, more contact, and his sweet smiling Sarah right next to him, a growing pleasure in her eyes at just barely holding his straining cock, denying him any small favor of a squeeze, even a kiss, and he is exploding now, his semen shooting in the air and far, far down the bed.
Breathless.
Silence.
"David," she is untying him, "I'm calling him now, get out of the bedroom. I want to be alone with him when I call."
"Can I watch?"
"No."
Even more than anything, perhaps, is the site of her as he stands in the hallway only partly redressed, she is nude, looks beautiful, too good for his plain face. (
Hot looking wife, dude, how'd an ugly mother fucker like you get her?
) . And she is excited now, her mouth parted, still smiling, always smiling and she looks him right in the eye as closes the bedroom door on him, to make him wait while she...
calls another man...naked and flushed...why would she want to be alone unless...
This feels so
dirty
to her, so
good, make him wait, make him suffer a little, he likes it
. Closing the door on his puppy dog face while she calls another man – a real man – not a dildo or a pretend person on the net. This feels naughty, dirty girl.
Make him wait
.
The sound of the little lock clicking shut.... He is hard again, hard and helpless. It burns in him, that she knows this.
* * * *
They had been exchanging e-mails with a couple identified as "Arthur" and "Maxine" for several months. They were somewhat older. The e-mails from Arthur were restrained in tone, informative. He wrote to David about the experiences, the agonies and ecstasies, of being a willing cuckold. And also of their two recent experiences in "turning the tables," in making Maxine the passive voyeur.
Maxine sent her own e-mails to Sarah, giving her tips on how to play some intense sex games at home. Maxine's e-mails were funnier, more explicit and descriptive. They seemed nice enough, helpful and forthcoming and not wierdos.
Somewhere along the way, the playful e-mails, unbeknownst to David Brooks, became more dangerous.
* * * *
And thrilling.
* * * *
He is sitting at the kitchen table, absolutely still, when she reappears. She is half dressed now in the routine casual nightshirt, her face still flush, he knows the telltale look. She sits down and lights a cigarette, produces a piece of paper with numbers written on it, "Arthur Robbins."
"This is Arthur's credit card number. He wants me to pick a hotel in Chicago this Friday. He wants you to make the reservations. He said make it clear when you do that you are
not
Arthur, that you are booking the room for him using his credit card, with
his
permission. Be sure to get a setup with a separate bedroom."
"Sarah," his stomach churning now, "we barely now a thing about these people, really. What do we really know about them?"
"I know that he gives good
phone
. Twice now. David I started telling him fantasies that I could
never
tell
you
. I love you so much and I at one point I would have never, ever done anything like that..."
A pause...
"But now I really know that you want me to, it's all you've talked about for more than a year. So... "her tone firm, unyielding. "I am going down to a fabulous hotel in Chicago this weekend and I am going to get taken care of, get paid attention to, and get seduced.
Not by you
. Do you want to come with me or not?"She looked, purposefully, at the growing bulge in his underwear. "Don't even think about it, David, you're not getting any more of me until I've had
someone else
."
God, she looks so beautiful there (
I started telling him fantasies that I could never tell you
)...new and cruel words for her...
His hands clenched, still sitting at the table. Back in her normal voice, she stands, looking at him, a slow drag of her cigarette. "Doesn't it just suck to get what you asked for?"
* * * *
A torturous two days. He jacks off repeatedly. Twice she finds him and rolls her eyes, walks away, saying nothing. They rearrange job things to take off early Friday afternoon into the summer muck and traffic of Chicago. They have chosen the Swissotel downtown, near the everything district. It is beautiful and modern, five star prices and service, according to the guidebooks but somehow a less famous marquee makes it less intimidating than other choices.
My wife got fucked at the Swissotel
is somehow more comic, less of a loser feeling than
My wife got fucked at the Ritz
.
Arthur sends only one further e-mail:
Hello David and Sarah. Friday, 7:30 PM, be in the lobby. Look nice.
Arthur's wife Maxine, however, sends an increasing number of e-mails addressed to "Sarah not for David" but he can't resist reading them. They are funny and breathless. She wants Sarah to call her – during the festivities:
You'll like him
she types to Sarah,
he's gracious and aloof but he's very charming. Call me, baby, and tell me when you're doing it! Make fun of me, don't be kind! Just make me suffer
. The tone of the e-mails becomes increasingly more urgent, pleading.
David thinks:
maybe I could get his wife someday, do this funny round big hootered girl. Do her rough, get him back, get them both back
. But it's only a fleeting thought, a thought to file away. Right now, it is all about Sarah, all about his wife and friend.
She has really started to fixate on Arthur's image. She has carried around the photo of him in her pockets and purse for the last two days. "Guess whose photo is stuck in my pants?" She says, "Not
yours
." He groans at this. Sometimes with frustrated humor. Sometimes the groan isn't funny at all. Angst, cuckold angst, this is the black pit of it.
You asked me too, baby,
her voice rings in his ears (
fantasies that I could never tell you
).
* * * *
And he's starting to have second thoughts about good old Arthur. Arthur seemed nice enough in the e-mails. As he rereads them he starts to pick up the cues:
You and Sarah are nice people, David. We're not
. But what sucks is that Arthur doesn't sound like a liar –
I don't look like a Chippendale's stripper
; the rich guy talk, the businessman talk, even other words from Maxine (
He's very confident around younger women
)....
And that sweet, horrible bolt he feels in his cock every time in the last two days that Sarah points to the crotch of her jeans and says "David, guess who's picture I am sitting on right now? No, honey, really guess..."
"Arthur."
"That's riiiiight," she says, "and not you, honey. Aren't I mean?"
* * * *
In the lobby there, at the Swissotel. It's 7:25 PM.
Sarah had been very worried about what to wear, fretting, getting ready for a real date. Knowing Arthur is a businessman, she doesn't want to look too "slutty."
"David," she says knowingly, as to a girlfriend, "
rich
guys just
hate
that."
She has finally settled on a mid-length all black dress with longish sleeves, a fairly good plunge on the cleavage; the husband has never seen it, would remember it if he had. She's insecure about her breast size, now, knowing that Maxine seems proud of her own and comments on them often.
