The Tragedy Of A Reluctant Cuckold Ch 01

I hope the title doesn't throw you off too much. But that's what I am, a reluctant cuckold. I didn't cherish that shit. I didn't want to see my wife of 18 years fuck 23 men. I'd read about those type men on the Internet message boards. Found out there was a whole subculture of them, too.

Fuck that.

Spineless fucking twerps, that's what they are.

I didn't get turned on while I watched each man drop his load in one of my wife's holes. My cock didn't get hard. I didn't want to see more.

What real man would? Her cum-stained face staring at you, smiling, while she's getting plowed doggy style by your ex business partner - give me a fucking break.

If I could've moved, if the fucking barbed wired those fucks had me strapped with, didn't gouge out my right eye and dig into every part of exposed flesh I had, I would've smashed every television screen in the fucking room and cut off every man's dick with the broken glass.

So, to say I was reluctant would be an understatement. I'm not a damn prude. Myka was a damn good-looking woman – a hair or two taller than 5 feet 10 inches, about 165 pounds. Nice chest, flat stomach (even after three daughters), great, great ass.

We got married our senior year in college, and 18 years later she still had the athleticism that made her a third-team all-American small forward.

I loved that fucking woman with all I had. I loved being with her. I loved being seen with her. I love the kids we created together.

We were both flirts, but never took it any further. I loved the fact that I'd see her on the dance floor, getting her groove on with a friend, and knowing that friend wished he were sharing her bed that night, but he was all mine.

Now, I'm no slouch. I was an all-conference running back in college – 6-2, 230 with 4.4-speed in the 40-yard dash. Got drafted in the third round and lasted a little more than three years in the NLF.

I wasn't a bust. I had a couple of 800-yard seasons. But guys came in who were just better than me. No shame in that. I got beat out by somebody with better vision and quicker feet.

Thirteen years after the League, my body still looked good. I knew it. Myka knew it. She commented several times about her girlfriend's wishful desires.

Our lives were great. Three healthy daughters. Nice home and cars. Money in the bank and more coming in from our four upscale fitness centers.

So what happened? You ask.

What has this early 40s man typing these letters from the library of the United States Penitentiary in Atwater, California? Why is this man who coached his 14-year-old daughter's softball team to the regional championship and has numerous civic awards on death row?

The US penal system executed 59 people in 2004. I was supposed to be No. 60.

That was after pleading guilty to 23 counts of first-degree murder in five different states. I had six different lawyers, all friends of mine. They all tried to argue I was insane. I made sure everybody knew I wasn't.

The trial lasted more than 18 months. It went through two judges. The first removed himself after finding out his granddaughter played on my softball team and that she was one of the many thousands who stuck up for me.

But I didn't want her to. I didn't want anybody sticking up for me.

I did it all. And I fucking enjoyed every fucking moment with each of them. I probably enjoyed it more than they enjoyed fucking my wife and forcing me to watch – with one eye.

I don't get much shit here at Atwater at all. I'm convincing like that. Fuck, I have guys on death row on fitness programs. They're all believing in the importance of fitness for a long, healthy life.

I don't cry much about my situation, only when my three daughter come to visit. I hate seeing them cry. I hate not being able to touch them, to hug them. I'm not there for prom or homecoming. I wasn't there for Alexis' 16th birthday. I wasn't able to teach her how to drive.

But I knew all of that, my future, was going away as the tears and blood ran down my face while those lousy fucks, fucked my wife. I knew I wouldn't see the twins Ashley and Vivica graduate from middle school.

Myka's moans and groans still fill my ears every night. I'm surprised lack of sleep hasn't killed me yet. I hate closing my eyes because I see the pulsing dick of some former acquaintance releasing its load into Myka's gulping mouth.

I see her winking at me as she swallows. I see her, a dick in her pussy, one in her ass, another in her mouth and one in both hands.

I see them hose down her body, washing it off, painstakingly making sure she is clean. Then they dress her, make her look beautiful. They sit at a table and have a lavish dinner with her.

I see as then they clear the table and fuck her all over again, all 23 of them. And if there wasn't a dick in Myka's face, she stared at me the whole time. I wondered what I'd done to deserve it.

The last thing I always see is her cum-covered body standing a foot away from my bleeding, limp and almost lifeless form. She leans over an says to me, "Calvin, I don't think I love you anymore."

And she smiles and put her hands on my bleeding shoulders. Just then the unmistakable pressure of repeated thrusts let me know somebody was again fucking her while her face was merely inches from mine.

With every once of energy I had, I spit a wad of blood-filled saliva at her.

Then I could see every thing grow dark as I passed out.

I didn't know until later that I was out the better part of 23 days. I woke with Alexis' head lying on my heavily bandaged chest.

"Allie," I remember saying, barely able to whisper.

"Poppa. Poppa!" she yelled starting to cry. "Ashley and Vivica came into the room that I thought was a hospital. Tears were in their eyes, too. I wanted to cry. But no tears fell.

I wondered why everything looked so strange. Then the ordeal started coming back to me. I slowly moved my hand and felt the patch on my right eye. I started shaking.

"Uncle Mark! Uncle Mark!" Alexis yelled.

My brother Mark rushed into the room. He put is hand on my head and sprinkled some powder on my face. I calmed down, and realized I was no longer in La Jolla and no longer in near my house that overlooked the might Pacific Ocean.

I was in Theriot, Louisiana. Bayou country. I loved my brother, but I hated Theriot and all it represented.

But Theriot is where my journey to death row begins.

Gotta run now, they're letting us play basketball in the yard. We don't get those opportunities too often.

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And Myka, I know you're out there. And if somehow able to read these words, your time in this existence is almost over.

You're next.