Wendy & the Ritz

Introduction:

Unlike some of the things we will post, this is a true thing.

We (husband and I) think it’s really simple: cucking is about betrayal. And betrayal is wrong and is evil and evil is erotic. The number of times I’ve looked right into his eyes while getting fucked by someone else. Wow! I’m lying back there getting fucked, or with some guy’s cock in my mouth, while looking right at him…. what a slut wife, a baaaaaad wife. I have enjoyed this part – the slut part – as much as the fucking itself,

Lots of times those strangers haven’t been nearly as adept as my husband is at pushing the right buttons in the right order. But it was so fucking slutty – so wrong – that I should look right at him while blowing some guy…knowing that me mind-fucking him just tore him up. Making him watch me do something to another guy’s cock was so much more intense for him than actually doing the same thing for him. It made me sexier to him than if I had been faithful – even if the better lay that night was my beloved husband instead of some trash I was blowing, fucking, submitting to….

Jesus, on those drives to Chicago we kept saying this was crazy, that we loved each other, that something was wrong and either of us would stop at any time if the other one couldn’t take it. But we would go back 3-4 times per year looking for the same trouble. And me, knowing that I was so sexy to my husband, my beloved, when I would really mind-fuck him, telling him that this strange guy’s body, or cock, or mouth, or whatever was sooooo much better than him (even if most of the time it wasn’t true)…promising him that I would never, ever blow him again or let him fuck me or whatever while that strange guy(s) did me and he watched…and he jacked himself so hard.

The cucking part in itself is a head game. If husband didn’t get off so hard I wouldn’t do it. I love him dearly. He’s not a spineless sissy or my slave or anything like that. I find the idea of him giving me head right after someone has fucked me (i.e. cream pie stuff) rather nauseating. Nor do I want to see him in girl’s underpants or physically hurt in any way.

(Quick parenthetical note here – just to sound a little less, ahem, like a prudish cuckoldress or whatever – I can do anal and get off on it really well, smiling and everything, as long as I have a free hand, two drinks, and some lube – this is particularly humiliating to husband). He is in his mid-forties; I am – barely – hanging on to my late late late thirties. My hookups with much younger guys (early twenties) is a delicious pinch point – as I told him - during the act – of how much I wanted these young young boys to do it to me like he couldn’t.

Enough rambling for tonight…. and it’s really all just context for the next part…where he handed it all back to me….me!….good slut-wife… reverse cucked!…. A surprise, it was improvised….and a serious, serious head rush for me.

Part 1: Bistro’s got a piano

We usually pick one of those big chain bistros that are so ubiquitous in the Midwest…They have a lot of people in them and they are not too seedy. So if you don’t mind the families and the kids, there can be a lot of action on the bar side – usually really big spacious bars, and sometimes some dancing, depending on the place. Lots of unattached guys and girls around, particularly on Friday and Saturday nights. No one remembers your face or anything like that…even if you show up a month later.

Lots of crowds and turnover during the night so most don’t notice if you walk in together and then he sits at a table while I sit up at the bar. I’ve got a couple dresses that are good at showing my boobs (woo! she has big boobs!) and hiding my butt (not fat! Little waist, big boobs, big butt) . He always looks like some bland businessman. (Wait – that’s because he is one).

So we had the typical set up going, late March 2004, but the place really slowed down by 10:00 PM, not usual for one of these busy bistro places. There were still a few guys around and I got hit one some, but no one was doing anything to really get me cranked up. Husband was getting bored too – and so he walked over to the piano (not very many places have them) and he started playing some real low-key jazz. He’s very good – started college as a music major and played in a bunch of high school and college bands and stuff.

So I was just starting to get mellow, working on my third (weak) gimlet, just enjoying a relatively quiet bar with my husband playing piano in the background. I noticed after awhile the waitress really flirting with him. Hanging around while he played, making requests for him to play, bringing him drinks. I wouldn’t say she looked quite like me, but she was shaped like me – short and round and her outfit showed off her big boobs (woo! the other girl had big ones too!). Also, she had jet-black hair with a little blaze in it, which I have, which is not common, and which husband totally digs. She was much paler, though, very fair skinned and I am olive colored. (Footnote: blaze = black hair with a streak of white in the middle, it’s a genetic thing that a few women get – think Veronica of Archie’s comics fame)…

Okay – I guess she looked like me, a younger me.

I was immediately jealous. Not in a good way.

They were talking more now; she was sitting next to him on the bench. Smiling sweetly, looking up at him. While he was talking to her, whispering I guess, he would be looking down at the piano keys and then at her and then – looking at me – directly into my eyes. I must have looked like I was just taken with jealousy. And the more he looked back at me, the more he was showing a little smirk. Goddamn smirking at me while the young girl was leaning now directly into his side, her head almost laying on his shoulder.

This girl – from that body language and tone of voice that I couldn’t even hear but could hear in my head, her soft breath at his ear – I was so goddamn mad that for a few minutes I didn’t quite realize the absolute electric SHOCK I was feeling in my pussy. True.

I hadn’t looked at husband like that in over fifteen years! Looked at that man who was so confident, so smart, such a pretty piano player and sweet talker and such a ruthless fucking businessman. That was the man I had so desired to marry – and I did marry him. And even with a pot belly now and a little less hair, he was there again. But I just hadn’t seen him in that light in so many years.

Oh – I just wanted to do him so badly. Give him anything, do anything he wanted me to. He just looked so cool with another girl (young!) paying him that attention. Starting, maybe for the first time in my life, to get seriously into that sub space, was when he walked over to me at the bar and said, pointing to the girl, “I’m going to fuck her up, you want to watch?”

I think I just kind of gasped. And he said, in that tone of voice that he never, ever uses with me, that cool, even voiced ruthless voice, the “work” voice, he said, “I know our plans were different, but I am absolutely going to fuck this young, young girl tonight and I hope you want to watch me.”

And he said, an almost undetectable smirk, “Max I love you so much, more than anything, and that’s why right now it just thrills me so much to know that you want to watch me fuck this girl and NOT YOU.”

And it sounds just like some bad text on a dirty story site but that’s when I looked up at him and came really, really close to an orgasm without even touching myself. These feelings came on to me so quickly, unguarded.

One caveat: I was pretty drunk that night, and husband is making me fill in the details according to how I think things happened, so I can't say this 100% accurate, but I can definitely say that it's true for me…

We left the bar, me following husband and the waitress. For purposes of this story, I’ll name her “Wendy” after a girl I was jealous of in high school. Instead of driving out to a nondescript motel on the outskirts of Chicago (the usual routine for when I was the one getting the action) he hailed a cab and we drove into the city. After making a few calls on the cell phone, he got reservations at the Ritz-Carlton. No kidding, $312 a night after taxes. It was part of his way of driving my humiliation higher…it was working….

See – I don’t work except for fun. Husband is the businessman. For years I knew that cucking him was part of his release from that day to day world of his – a way to get him into a deep subspace where he didn’t make any decisions, just watched helplessly – got to see the big show without any of the performance requirements.

So for him to book a room at the Ritz was this new subtle way of pushing my buttons – he’s the big wage earner; he’s the important successful one. But instead of igniting some feminist anger in me it really worked – it just put me more in my own new sub space…I soooo wanted this important successful man, a guy who could on a whim easily get a room at the Ritz.... this really callous mean motherfucker. And my panties were really soaking by now (not trying to be gross, but it’s true)…knowing that I wanted to fall in love with a really mean domineering motherfucker like that, knowing that I wanted him to be mean to me…. my head was kind of spinning and my pussy almost hurt by now….

And I read the stories from male cucks that get this rush from watching their darling sweet wives just be so fucking mean, so wrong, to them, and I do get it now…. I know that feeling, sweet agony.

He also got that room at the Ritz on purpose just to blow the mind of that obviously lower middle class teenage waitress. It worked, she was ecstatic. She was so impressed and gee-gosh-golly over the idea of staying at the Ritz. It eased my mind only slightly that her reactions were not of some working prostitute throwing a trick – she was just some slummy waitress up for about anything for a night at the Ritz. Probably the most money the bitch will ever see in her life, ever, that night. Bitch.

He told me later that he made her show him her driver's license. What a porno setup.

Cute girl, not “beautiful” or a “knock out” but with a sweet round face and a big smile. A perfectly vertical line of cleavage you could (according to husband) stick a notebook in and hold it there. I started wondering if her nipples would be as fat as mine, but maybe pale and pink to match her pale complexion. It’s not everyday that I wonder stuff like that. I’m not naturally dykey at all – I’m a girly girl.

In the back of the cab he was in the middle and she was on his right side. He had her arm around her the whole time and he was telling her this and that about the city. Confident, cocky motherfucker but with all that money and charm to back it up. Musician, too – they’re all pricks you know. Ooooh – what a mean husband, what a bad cocky husband to put his arm around her and ignore me. This crushing gravity on me, on my shoulders, crushing my pussy – sub wife, good wife, sub sub sub sub wife. Do whatever he says.

God I haven’t thought about him like that in years – that man I had ached for, would have done anything for, just pined for him to ask me to marry him.

Where had he been for the last ten years? He was there now, next to me in the cab, romancing the short little big tit bubble butt bitch with the jet black hair and the trace of blaze that, the more I sat there and watched them, started looking more like me at nineteen.

It came back quick how mean he could be when we pulled up to the Ritz-Carlton, a small army of doormen to pull open the door. He yelled up to the Arabic cab driver whose name had no vowels in it “My wife will get the fare” as he turned to kiss Wendy and then grabbed her ass and pushed her out of the cab, leaving me sitting there, fumbling for my purse. The cabby may not have understood any of what was going on, but I know my face was burning crimson hot.

At the desk he was all business, charming and deliberate. “One night, only, they lost our bags at Midway and I do expect them later.” And then, “Yes, thanks so much, we would appreciate you sending up some extra toiletries for the night.”

Clever, clever, mean boy. Sub sub sub sub wife. Good wife. You would have never thought of that – showing up at the Ritz with no bags and a sympathetic story. Good little wife. Stay still. He’s really going to do this.

As for Wendy – I’ll give her this: the youth have less hang ups than us. Hey Wendy, you like how I play piano? How about I take you to the Ritz? Ever been? No? It’s cool, they have all kinds of free stuff! By the way, the only thing you have to do to party with me tonight is tolerate my wife trailing us around…. a threesome? Nope, just a tag along, don’t mind her, she’s a good little wife.

Wendy was totally cool with all that. She really didn't pay much attention to me.... ooooh. Just like all those boys and men had – for the most part – been cool with totally domming me in front of my pathetic husband. Except those were in mid grade motels, not the Ritz. And tonight that husband didn’t look pathetic at all…I did. What is it about pathos that was just electrifying my pussy?

The next part – the actual acrobatics – get a little fuzzy. Down at the bar he plied me with two more Gimlets ($13 a pop, jesus). I remember this part – he handed Wendy one of the room keys and told her to have a drink in the lounge and come up in half an hour.

When we got into the room I don’t remember me lunging my hands into my panties but I do remember him pulling them away, him pinning my hands gently (but authoritatively) behind me. I think I must have started crying or come close to it – the emotion, the pussy, whatever – and him behind me whispering into my ear – this part I remember – and he says “I love you more than anything, and that’s why tonight I just so want to see you suffer.”

That cool, cool work voice, the control. And I’d whimpered “then fuck me, do my ass, hit me, spank me.”

And him, behind me, my hands still pinned, “No baby. That wouldn’t be making you suffer. I want you to watch me fuck that girl, and I want you to watch how much I enjoy fucking that girl. And I want you to look right at me, and right at my cock when it’s pushing into her pussy. And I want her to giggle and look at you while it’s in her mouth. And I love you so much, Max, but I am absolutely going to do this tonight and you know I am.”

“Let me rub off, pleeeease” I was moaning.

“No,” he said that smirk again. “You will not get off until or after that moment when your cuck wimp husband is cumming into a nineteen year old’s pussy, or mouth, or butt, or whatever I decide. I will be looking right at you Max, when I cum in her, and that’s the moment that you can let yourself go.”

Sub sub sub sub sub wife. Good wife. Where had this strong cool man been?

( Husband is so coy with me right now - he will check my grammar but not my facts. I think I am pretty close to what happened..... what was about to....)

Part 2: Good little wife

When there was the knock at the door from Wendy the waitress, husband leaned over to kiss me and my mouth went wide open and ready, hot and spitty, and he pulled back and kissed me on the cheek instead, chaste, chaste little kiss. Chaste little kiss for the good little wife.

“I’m not doing this out of revenge,” he whispered. “For all those strangers you’ve fucked and sucked and done up…no revenge necessary, baby. I have gotten off every single time you’ve done it to me and I’ve driven you to them and watched and jacked off while you looked at me all sweetly, sweet little slut wife. No revenge, no regrets.”

I was breathing so hard now.

He says “I’m doing it because I know how nasty it feels to be betrayed by your smiling loved one, and I want you to feel that way, baby, I mean I really want you to suffer and explode and I hope it works out that way for you because even if it doesn’t I am definitely going to fuck her, fuck that nineteen year old bimbo.”

He let Wendy in; she was all bright eyed and excited. There was nothing in her that suggested the kind of intensity that was shaking my head and my pussy. To Wendy, this was really simple – party with some older guy for a night at the Ritz – she didn’t even think of it like any kind of trade, it was just a no-brainer to her….duh.

And what about the tag along wife? Well, whatever. As long as the wife wasn’t going to freak out or try to be dykey with her or whatever.

She downed a Margarita from the pitcher he’d ordered from room service (good call for the nineteen year old, I’d realized) and started picking at the chocolate mousse sculpture beside it. They’d layered up into two little bird shapes. She stuck her finger right in it and sucked off about eight dollars worth of chocolate. “That’s good,” she said happily.

“Wendy,” husband said, and he was kissing her now, wet, warm….”My wife over there gives shitty blowjobs.” (Not true! Not true! Not true!)… “I’ll bet you give great ones.” “I give great blow jobs,” she giggled. “Like it’s a real big surprise you want one” she said agreeably. She turned and looked at me and then back at him. “Is she, like, really your wife, she acts like your little slave or something.”

“No, she’s my wife, but she’ll do whatever I say.”

It was true.

“Make her strip,” said Wendy, now looking at me, her eyes narrowing slightly, her voice slowing. “I want you to make her strip if she’s going to watch us.”

“How about you make her strip,” said husband, looking at her, not me.

“What’s her name?” She hadn’t even been interested enough to ask until now.

“Her name,” husband said slowly, is “Arthur’s wife.”

Wendy turned back to me, playfully, not meanly, and said “Hey Arthur’s wife, I want you to take off your clothes. If you’re going to hang around, you have to be naked like we’re going to get.”

It wasn’t a strip tease and she wasn’t asking for one. I just undressed. Dress over the head, underwire off, underpants down and off. I left my red heels shoes on. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. She was looking at me, and so was he. Standing there naked in front of them, my boobs low and heavy and wider set without my bra, my little round tummy showing, my pubic hair, and still in those heels, while those two were fully dressed. I felt cool air from the air conditioner on my nipples and they popped up. I have never felt more naked in my life. I understand a little about the thrill exhibitionist girls and flashing men must feel.

“Well” she said cheerily, “Item one. Arthur’s wife is naked.” She quickly pulled off her dress and underthings. She turned to my husband and said, “Item two, Wendy is naked.” Then she walked over to me, right in front of me, and our shape was very similar – I couldn’t help but look at her – short with big wide natural boobs and a little pot belly and even the black black hair with blaze…. all similar but her complexion was very pale. She showed no hesitation or shame about her imperfect body. She was less embarrassed in that moment to be naked in front of my husband than I was.

“We kind of look alike,” she said, “I’ll wonder if I’ll look like you when I get old.” And what was so goddamn humiliating about what she said was that there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm or irony in her voice.

“Arthur” she turned her head back to him, “I’m not, you know, a girl’s girl or anything like that but I have always wanted to try something.”

“What’s that?”

She turned back to me, right in front of me, less than a foot away. “I have always wanted to hug another girl with big tits. You know, just hug her. Can I do that?” Not asking me, asking him.

“Sure.”

“Yes!” she hissed, stepping forward to me, putting her arms around me. I put my arms around her, around her neck, and our breasts mashed together.

That part was neat – swear this is true!