About ten years ago I discovered I was drawn toward stories about cheating wives and husbands who are into their wives sleeping with other men. The more extreme versions of cuckold porn did nothing for me -- no shade on anyone who's into that -- but the thought of my gorgeous wife Laurel "branching out" always gets me going.
There are three main reasons I'm turned on by the idea of my wife enjoying other men:
First is my desire to see her reveling in pure sexual ecstasy, unburdened by marital baggage; 27 years is a long time! I want to know she's in orbit, toes curled, eyes rolled back, loudly and proudly taking her pleasure, carried away by unencumbered lust and joy.
There are a couple words for this, one old, one new: "Mudita" in the ancient Pali language is the quality of taking joy in other people's joy, happiness and success; compersion, coined by polyamorists, means taking pleasure in the pleasure of someone you love.
Second is to vicariously indulge my bi side (or heteroflexible, or whatever I might be; not much into labels) through proximity to a fit male body, and particularly, a big, beautiful dick, whether I simply hear about her adventures (hot), watch her (hotter) or join in (would I...?).
I've known since I was 19 that I had a bisexual streak. That's when I was shocked to read my first bi Penthouse Forum letter, about a threesome between a married couple and a hot young stud. It took me until middle age to own my not-quite-straight sexuality. I have no desire to be "intimate" or romantic with a man, kiss, hold hands, sleep together; call me a straight guy with an attraction to a nice cock.
Third is my lifelong penchant for rebellion and taboo-breaking, my disdain for arbitrary societal rules -- in this case moldy old notions about marriage, monogamy, and judgment of anyone with desires and interests outside cultural norms.
Though always game in bed, Laurel took a while to warm to the notion of being with other men (or women, something she'd enjoyed before me). As a young man, I had been jealous and insecure, and she worried I wouldn't be able to handle the emotional intensity of bringing my fantasy to life. But bit by bit, she began to trust that I had grown up; only then was she comfortable enough to fully get into it.
At first, in the afterglow of a hot fantasy session which had her fucking this guy or that, with or without my knowledge, we reflexively reassured each other that this was just for fun, and of course we wouldn't really want it to happen.
And once we came down from the mountain, the inner voice I call Logic Man lectured that the reality would surely fall short of the hot scenarios incubating in my fevered imagination. But the fantasy was fun and enough.
Or so I told myself.
~~
Last spring, I learned that I would have to work overseas for about three months. Laurel wasn't thrilled, and neither was I, but there was no way around it. We'd managed to survive when forced to be apart for as long as six months in the past, and we'd do it again.
One night, departure looming, I pulled her warm, soft body close and whispered that I would understand if she needed to meet her needs in my absence.
"In fact," I said, "it would really turn me on." Momentary sparks of panic and arousal jolted through me -- can I handle it?
"Oh," Laurel said with an exaggerated wink, "don't' worry! I've already got plans."
I pushed up to one elbow, heart thudding faster. "Really?"
She raised her eyebrows, shot me a wink, and began to giggle.
"No!" she said, still laughing. "Of course not."
"But I mean it, sugar," I said, a note of pleasing creeping into my voice. "I would be so into it."
"How can you be sure?"
I shrugged. "I'm a big boy now, remember?"
Her face grew more pensive. "Of course it's exciting to think about," she said. "But wouldn't it hurt your feelings?"
Maybe, I thought. I shrugged again. "Never know until we try, right?"
Her face morphed into the same wry, doubtful expression I saw any time she thought I was proposing to do something she considered ill advised.
"While you're gone? I thought your thing is to watch or ... you know," she said. I blushed and made my "yikes" face, eyebrows raised, and teeth clenched.
"It is. It is. I know it would be crazy but I'm telling you, baby, it would turn me on."
"Well, I'll consider it," she said, then blushed. "Anyone in particular you had in mind?"
She knew the answer: A fit, tanned college kid named Andrew, who had been working summers as a lifeguard at our local beach. The year before, Laurel and her friends had blatantly flirted with him. It wasn't hard to understand why.
Andrew was one of those lucky guys who radiate a kind of natural, golden vigor and confidence. Maybe a shade over six feet tall, a sculpted, bronze body (oh, lost youth!), with sun-streaked light-brown hair, big, blue eyes, white teeth and a dimpled smile. Laurel particularly loved his smooth, strong shoulders, biceps, and chest. Hey, I get it: I'm fit for my age, but the kid had me beat.
"Well, why not?" I said. "I've seen your hands all over him anyway. I believe you've described him several times as 'yummy'?"
She giggled. "He is. But it's not just me! It's Sarah and Jen and Amanda, too. We call it 'molesting.' But you know it's all in fun."
Though more than twice as old as the lifeguard, Laurel is a hottie, too. After our two daughters left home, she got back into fitness, leading classes on the beach. After a while, she started looking like a healthy 30-year-old, lithe, shapely, and alluring. She even had her pubic hair permanently removed (not that I mind a bush -- I grew up on Playboy!).
"No wonder I get dirty looks from women when we're out together," I once told Laurel. "They think I'm some old creep dating a woman half my age."
~~
I headed overseas in early May. The hotel was fancy, work was fine, but I was lonely at night. I missed touching, kissing, and holding my wife, yearning for maximum contact. But we spoke by video most days and had occasional long-distance sex. She was kind enough to send a steady stream of hot photos and sexy messages.
"Come on, mama, you don't have to hide it," I said during one of our video sessions. "I know you're bringing hot guys home to enjoy."
"Of course I am," she replied.
And with that, we were off and running with one of our favorite fantasies.
But as always, once she'd simmered down, she reeled it back in: "You know I'm not really, right?" she asked.
"Of course," I said. "But if you do get a chance to turn it into reality, just know that I'm down."
"Hmmm," she said, eyes gazing beyond her laptop screen.
"But as always, it's up to you," I said.
~~
About three weeks before the end of my hitch, my tolerance for separation was about gone. Same with Laurel. Despite getting out to the beach and dancing, she said she sometimes felt lonely and longed for my touch.
One day during a video call, she said she'd run into her "boyfriend" far up the beach, away from the crowds of summer revelers.
"Are you talking about...?"
"Of course I am!" she said.
She'd run into Andrew -- she called him Andy; that was promising -- returning from a full beach check on a four-wheeler. His royal-blue shore-patrol swimsuit and legs were spattered with pungent black. He had apparently mired the ATV in plough mud near the creek.
"I've talked to him million times," Laurel told me, "but I swear this he was flirting back. Sitting there all confident, covered in marsh glop."
"I half expected him to say, 'Oh, Mrs. B, can you help me wash up?'" She laughed.
"Oh, yeah! Bwow-chicka-bwow-chicka-bwow," I said eagerly, doing my best to imitate cheesy '70s porn music. "But this is just a story, right?"
