The Ultimatum

Three months after we moved in together, I decided I wanted to see Harriet fool around with another man.

I knew she'd never go for it. She wasn't the type.

She was a traditional kind of woman, wasn't overly concerned with her career, and had no grand plans for the future. She'd left school with decent grades but no desire to go into further education. At eighteen, she'd taken a quiet administration job at the local council and been there ever since. I asked her once if she ever thought about promotion, or whether she yearned to move on and try out something new. No, she replied. The job was fine.

Her attitude was the same towards our relationship. We were together three years before she suggested I move in with her - we certainly hadn't rushed. We had a few issues ironing out the logistics of it. Harriet had been paying the mortgage for ten years, and it was clear she hadn't wanted to let me jump in and begin contributing and then feeling as though I had some ownership of the house. We agreed that I would make a small contribution towards some of the other bills - the place would be "mine" insofar as I lived there, but I wouldn't own any part of it. Maybe in a few years she'd sell up and the two of us could buy a place together, but for now we simply enjoyed spending time together.

At the start of 2018, we took the plunge. A new year, a new era for our relationship. We were both excited about what the future might hold.

And then suddenly, this cuckolding fantasy arrived, invading my mind like a parasite that had lodged in my brain.

I don't know where it came from, what first put the idea into my head. But once it was planted there, it became impossible to shake.

I've watched my fair share of pornography on the internet - who hasn't? - but it became an obsession for me to find every cuckold video available on the free sites. I found that I wasn't particularly turned on by the big budget, professional productions: I liked the home videos, the grainy, difficult footage. They seemed so much seedier-and seedier was definitely better for this particular fantasy.

Some of those videos drove me wild - and the only thing hornier was the thought of living out those scenarios for myself, seeing Harriet do these things right in front of me, like a live porn show.

I knew I had to tell her about it. This wasn't out of some ideal I held about honesty: I just knew there was no way we'd ever actually be able to actually go through with any of it if she wasn't aware.

So I sat her down one Saturday night and told her all about it: "I want to see you fool around with some other guy," I told her. "I've been fantasising about it for a while now. We can work out the exact details of how it'll work later, but I just wanted to hear your thoughts on the idea."

She stared back at me incredulously. She wasn't keen. (And boy, was that an understatement).

I hadn't expected her to be interested. She didn't mind a little adventure between the sheets and in the bedroom - but that was firmly where the activity stayed: in the bedroom, and mostly between the sheets. For Harriet, wild was making love with the lights on.

And that's what it came down to for her. It wasn't sex, it wasn't fucking: it was making love.

I thought back to the night we had first met, in a pub at the local high street. It had been her simple, uncomplicated nature that had appealed to me, that had drawn the two of us together.

She was pretty, of course she was - but again, it was a simple beauty. She didn't coat herself in makeup or wear skimpy clothes. Her hair was a mousy brown colour and her eyes a lively, sparkling green. The only time she wore skimpy clothes was at the gym, and that was when you could see how her body was toned, firm, tight in all the right places. Her breasts were small and perfectly-shaped, her legs firm and strong. Her pubic hair was always trimmed and tidy, but never extravagant or outlandish. In many ways, her pubic hair was a reflection of the rest of her: neat and functional.

She was the same when it came to sex. It was usually over quick (okay, I'll admit that wasn't entirely her fault). There was never any extra messing about, no fooling around just for the sake of it. There was no desire for experimentation. She didn't mind if we were a little messy - she didn't mind if I came on her tits, for example (though she would never allow it anywhere near her face) - but she was always quick to clean up afterwards.

I tried to press her on the cuckolding idea over the next few weeks but she wouldn't even really discuss it - just told me to stop being silly, that it was just a fantasy and just something for those dirty movies. Real people didn't do anything like that, unless there was something wrong with them.

I couldn't argue on that point - maybe there was something wrong with me. It couldn't be a normal thing to want to see your girlfriend with another man. But I wasn't ready to let go of the idea just yet.

One night, after I'd brought it up yet again, she asked how it would even work. I remember excitedly thinking that she was beginning to come around to the whole idea. There were hundreds of ways we could make it happen, I told her. We could sign up to a swingers' website, we could take out an ad online, we could go to the pub and get drunk and just blurt it out to someone...

It was obvious I'd thought about it a few times. It had, in fact, become something of an obsession.

Harriet simply shook her head, like a patient teacher talking to a slow child. "There's no way we could do it without putting ourselves in serious danger. We wouldn't know who the guy was, what he was capable of. Anything could happen."

It was a fair point, and one I should have accepted. Instead, I sulked.

"Are you saying the idea doesn't turn you on at all?" I finally asked, desperately.

"No," she responded. "I'm sure it would be a huge turn on, very exciting. But it's dangerous. There's no way to go through with this safely - no way to protect ourselves, our health, our relationship. It's too risky to think about actually doing anything like that."

I went away with my brain buzzing. She'd disregarded the idea, as always - but this time she had admitted it would turn her on. She had accepted she'd enjoy it (at least theoretically). That, at least, was something to work with.

Another ten years, I figured, and I might finally wear her down to the point where she might give it a try.

It was better than nothing, but my nuts ached at the thought of having to wait that long.

I played different scenarios through my head, hoping I'd hit upon some inspiring idea. When it came, it didn't hit with a bang. It wasn't like an explosion going off in my head or a lightbulb suddenly pinging to life. It was like a glimmer in the distance, a dot of light on a gloomy light. I wasn't sure if there really was something there or if my mind was playing tricks on me, and I would never find out unless I went searching for that flicker.

It was Harriet's birthday in June, just a few months away. I decided that's when I'd make my move. I'd work on this idea and see how things panned out by then.

#

I started by starving her of sex. I'd never seen her uncontrollably horny, but I figured lack of sex was a good way to try to bring that about. Usually, Saturday night was our night for that, but I began to make excuses, saying I was tired or feeling ill, or I had work to do; or any other thing I could think of to not let it happen.

Harriet didn't seem particularly upset, and just accepted it. She would still initiate things, every couple of weeks, even though she knew I was going to come up with a reason for not going through with it. I could see it in her eyes, darkening every time I refused (and each time that shade became a little more intense, a little more desperate).

One week, I considered getting started, fooling around a little, getting things really steamy. Then pulling away and changing my mind when things started to get really hot. It would be interesting to see how she reacted to that.

But I decided not to try it. The lack of sex was getting difficult for me, too. I had started to catch myself daydreaming, fantasising, pretty much every day. I didn't think I'd be able to find the strength to pull away once we got started.

Then, as her birthday approached, I told her I had something special planned. On the Friday, I booked us a table at a fancy restaurant the other side of town and told her we'd go somewhere afterwards too.

She dressed up - at least, as much as she ever really did. A pale green dress - nothing too showy, but enough so that when she leaned forwards it was possible to see right down her cleavage. She had her hair down - just below her shoulders - and straightened it so that it had a sheeny, shiny look. She applied makeup. Her eyes were big and deep, and glittered as she looked around.

She looked great.

We took a cab to dinner. I ordered the specials, the most expensive wine to go with it. Harriet fluttered her eyes at me throughout, clearly enjoying being spoilt like this. We talked quietly over the table at each other. I talked about our relationship, our past, how we had met, everything we had been through together. I told her that meeting her, and then moving in, was the best thing that had happened to me.

She blushed and thanked me, and said she felt the same.

Under the table, between her legs, I knew she'd be getting wet. Attention like this always did it for her. She'd never been the centre of attention anywhere in her life - she had three sisters and two brothers, and she was right in the middle somewhere in terms of success, brains, looks, talent, everything. She had never stood out. She hated to admit it, but it really turned her on when the focus was on her.

We ordered dessert and at slowly. She looked at me expectantly throughout. It had been nearly four months since we'd last had sex, and it was clear she was expecting that drought to end tonight.

The plan couldn't have been going any better.

I paid the bill and ordered a cab. We sat in the back seats and I held her hand gently. She had gone very quiet since we had left the restaurant.

"The night isn't quite over," I said to her. "I thought we might go to the pub for a couple of drinks."

It was an odd suggestion - neither of us had ever really spent much time in pubs. But she shrugged: fine.

There was a quiet pub not too far from our house, hidden away from the main streets. It would mainly have locals in there - none of the teenagers or the clubbers or the ravers, or whoever else might emerge on a Friday night looking to get tanked up.

I checked my watch as we entered. It was just after nine, so we had a good couple of hours until last orders. It was a small, cosy place. The barman was a skinny, balding, middle-aged guy with deep, haunted eyes. He tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.

I ordered drinks - beer for me, white wine for her - and we sat at a table in the corner.

Aside from the barman, whose interest was now buried in a newspaper he kept behind the bar, there were only four other people in the pub: a white-haired old couple at a table in the corner, sipping short measures and barely looking at one another; an old guy sitting at the bar on his own, engrossed in a newspaper he had spread out on the bar and with a half-full pint next to him; and a young professional sitting at a table with headphones attached to his ears and an iPad resting in front of him. He had half a pint of lager on the table in front of him and munched his way slowly through packet of crisps. A city worker, stopping in at the local on his way home from work.

I had expected more. I had chosen this place specially - the busy places in town wouldn't be suitable. But nothing was going to happen in a place like this.

Harriet seemed to be just as glum, staring into her drink.

And then there was hope. The door burst open and a bunch of guys came bowling through. They were loud and brash and crass, workmen-types. They crowded close to the bar and the barman appeared in front of them, trying his best to plaster a passable smile onto his face.

"Same again, lads?" one of the guys asked, then ordered four pints from the barman.

I looked over at Harriet. She had noticed them - of course she had, after they'd come crashing through the door like that.

These guys were perfect. They were scruffy, dishevelled, in dirty old jeans and T-shirts. Workmen on their way home from a week on a big job, probably just a few Friday night drinks to unwind.

These chavvy types had always been a guilty secret of hers. In school, these had been the cool guys, the bad boys - the ones who'd sat at the back of the class, causing disruption. The kind of guys who never would have noticed someone like Harriet, sitting near the front, buried in a textbook and hardly speaking.

The leader of the group - the one who'd bought the drinks - scanned around the pub. He caught sight of Harriet and his eyes rested on her a few moments longer than necessary, then he turned back to his friends.

I told Harriet I'd get us another drink and went to the bar, standing close to the group.

I took a closer look. The lead guy held their attention now, going through some rambling, raucous story. Despite the rough surface, it was clear he looked after himself. He was somewhere around mid-thirties. His arms and chest were well-toned under his T-shirt. He had a long, intricate tattoo all down his left arm, a sleeve. His brown hair was clipped short and his blue eyes sparkled. His jaw was speckled with stubble.

The second guy was about the same age. His hair was a bit longer, styled and swept to one side. His skin was smooth. Pretty boy type. He said something to the main guy, talking in that same chavvy accent.

Harriet would lose control if a guy like that gave her attention.

The other two guys were a complete contrast to one another: one was old, at least fifty, with greying hair and a scrunched-up face. He'd had a hard life. The fourth was just a kid, barely old enough to be out drinking. He must have been an apprentice of some kind.

The barman came to me when he was done with the group, and I ordered the same again and paid, then went back to the table with the drinks. As I sat down, I swallowed down half my pint in one go. Here goes, I thought.

"Those guys over there seem to have noticed you," I said light-heartedly. "One of them kept looking over while I was getting the drinks."

She blushed slightly and flicked her gaze over to them, then away. She had already noticed, I thought.

"I've been thinking about what we taked about before," I continued, and she looked back at me blankly. "The fantasy thing, you and another guy."

Now she rolled her eyes, trying to treat it as a joke. But her face hardened and she sucked in her cheeks. She wasn't happy that I'd brought it up again. She sipped at her wine curtly.

"Harriet, I'm not kidding here. I know you've got reservations, and I completely understand them. And if we give it a try and you don't like it, well then we don't go through with the whole thing. But I'll regret it forever if we don't at least give it a go."

She sighed. "You're absolutely disgusting."

I leaned over the table toward her now, my voice firm. "We've talked about it and you agreed it was a horny idea. I'm not asking you to jump into bed with someone. Let's just see if those guys make a move, that's all."

I picked up my pint glass and drained what was left. I continued: "I'm going home. I just want you to sit here, drink your drink and see if any of them decide to approach and chat you up. If they do - well, great. You just sit there, let them try to impress you. You might even have a good time."

She breathed deep and glared at me.

"I mean it," I said. "This is what I want. If you're not willing to at least try it out, I just don't see us having any kind of future." I waited a few seconds to let her process this information - it was a harsh thing to say, but I couldn't think of any other way to get this through to her. "Like I said, you don't have to do anything. Maybe he'll want a snog, exchange numbers - great! Can't do any harm. Just lighten up a bit and maybe you'll enjoy yourself."

I stood up. The combination of anger and disbelief on her face melted and became pure shock. "It's nearly ten now. I'll head home, and I don't want you to come back through the door any time before eleven. I mean it."

And I turned and left. I could feel her staring after me, her eyes burning into my back. But she didn't follow - she stayed there, no doubt cursing me under her breath.

I walked out into the night air. Adrenaline pumped through my body. I felt alive somehow, excited. I didn't imagine anything would happen - probably those guys would continue talking among themselves and not really notice her. But this was just the start, as far as I was concerned. Once she did it once, she'd go ahead a second time, a third time... It wouldn't take long for her to relax about the whole thing.

It was a shame I couldn't be there to see if anything happened, but maybe one day I could watch from the other side of the bar as a guy tried to chat her up, buy her drinks, take advantage of her.

That might be enough for me, I thought.

#

I was home in five minutes - it really was that close - but when I checked my mobile, I'd still heard nothing from her. No call, no text: nothing telling me this was a stupid game and she wasn't playing any more. I figured she'd probably sit there until about quarter to, finish her drink, then come home.

I also assumed she wasn't going to talk to me for the rest of the weekend, but I could live with that. She'd be angry for a while, but then we'd talk, she'd realise it hadn't really been that bad, and she'd probably agree to it again some time in future. This was all about the long game.

I put the TV on and slumped in front of it, not paying attention. I was aware of the hands of the clock moving, edging closer and closer to the eleven o'clock deadline. She'd be home soon.

Then it was gone eleven; then quarter past; half past; midnight. Still no sign of her. I checked my phone: no texts, no calls. I thought of calling her...but no. I wondered if it was possible those guys really had started talking to her. Maybe she was enjoying being chatted up.

Unlikely.

She'd gone to her parents'. We'd had a couple of serious arguments before, and that's where she had gone both times. Clearly, she wasn't going to give in to my ultimatum. She wasn't going to play this game.

I sighed and switched off the tele. I might as well go to bed.

I put on my pyjamas - a Christmas present from her - and then climbed into bed. I'd pushed too far, but at least I knew now she was never going to go along with the idea.

I would call her in the morning, see if I could make it up to her. I drifted off to sleep, wondering what I would actually say.

#

I sat up in bed, head tilted. My head was groggy, but I could definitely hear movement. Voices. A bang as the front door closed.

I reached for my phone in the darkness and checked the time: 1am. I hadn't been asleep long.

Harriet was home.

My muddled mind tried to piece together what must have happened - the place obviously had a late licence, and she'd just stayed there, drinking.

Furious at me, no doubt.

Then there was a crash downstairs, a giggle...followed by a man's muffled voice. I shook my head clear. No, I wasn't imagining it. She had brought someone back with her!

What the hell? That hadn't been part of the deal, but I was in no position to complain.

I clambered out of bed, the fog around my brain dissipating.