Cucquean

Prologue

"Martha," he said to me, "are you sure about this?"

I brushed the hair back from his forehead and smiled down at him. He was laying with his head in my lap while we talked.

"David," I said, giving him my best smile, "the wife always knows." I brushed an imaginary hair away again and lightly caressed his cheek with my fingers. "I know you've had your, well, your flings? Your affairs? Anyway, I know, David, and I want to be part of your life, all of it."

"I love you," he said and I smiled.

"I know, honey, and I love you, but that's what happens when you marry a man half your age," I said.

"You know she doesn't," he started but I cut him off.

"Don't you dare say that," I said, "if she doesn't mean anything to you then I'm married to a no-good tom cat and I'll ask for a divorce."

I smiled again.

"David, I understand, I really do. You're 32 and I have a Medicare card. It's okay, honey, it really is, but I don't want to be shut out of your life," I said, struggling now with my emotions. This was NOT an easy conversation to have.

When he didn't respond, just kept looking up at me I took a deep breath and laid it out for him.

"I've been reading, honey," I said, "and usually it's the younger woman who winds up bringing home her young paramour. It's called cuckolding, and the husband, at that point, can either accept it or he needs to get a divorce."

I brushed at a few more imaginary hairs so I could lightly run my fingertips across his forehead, something I knew he liked.

"And I don't want a divorce," I said, "so please, David, bring your little girlfriend home. I'll be your, well, I guess it would be your cuckquean, and I'll make it good for both of you."

What I didn't tell him, because I didn't want to make this part open yet, was that I was looking forward to it. I had been neglected too long and I was ready for some excitement in my life.

So there it was. I had opened my house to my husband's girlfriend, And I was excited about it.

"Unless," I said, my fingers trailing down his chest now, "you don't need a girlfriend anymore."

He smiled up at me and worked the T-shirt that was all I wore up, exposing my breast. I hated the way it sagged but that's what happens when you have six children and breastfeed them all. Well, and when you have a husband that enjoys mother's milk too. But David always liked them and that, I suppose when you get down to it, is what matters.

"I never 'need' them," he said, his fingers lightly brushing my nipple making it tighten. It was big, like one of those little Vienna sausages, and hung with its own weight, "but I suppose on some level I am a bit of that Tom Cat. I enjoy some variety," he smiled that smile that had won my heart eight years ago, "but I always come home to you."

I used my thumb and fingers to work my areola and nipple, starting my milk flowing, and then lifted his head, nestled in the crook of my elbow, and used my hand to brush my nipple across his lips.

He was smiling as he opened his mouth and accepted what I offered.

As he latched on I felt that rush of pleasure and pain only a woman can know. The first hint of pain passed as I started to flow and the pure ecstasy of feeding another filled me.

And just like it always did, that pressure deep in my belly, the sexual thrill of my need, started building.

As he nursed and my pleasure built I let my mind drift to the future.

David wasn't the only one who needed some variety. Oh, he was a good lover, considerate, and able to find my special places. But after eight years, well, I was ready for something new.

Chapter One

I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and asked, "Martha, are you certain?"

"Fuck no, I'm not certain," I answered myself, "but I want to try."

"You're crazy, you know that?" I told myself.

"I'm not sure 'crazy' is the right word," I answered myself, "but I do want more than I have now."

"Okay you ditzy bitch," I said to myself, "let's get you ready."

I watched myself as I unbuttoned the man's shirt, not one of David's, his were too small on me, I wore. I tugged the tails free of the waistband of my jeans, at $250 bucks a pair they had better do good things for my ass and they had been designed by someone who understood a woman's figure, and looked at myself in just my bra and jeans.

"Not too bad," I said to myself, arching my back, posing.

"If you like thick chicks with Medicare Cards," I said.

I giggled. I was, manifestly, a thick chick with a Medicare card.

I did the double-jointed thing all girls learn with their first training bra, got all six of the hooks undone, I'm a big girl and I need a heavy-duty bra, and let it fall.

I had always been heavy-chested and when I got pregnant the first time I ballooned from a legitimate D cup to an F cup that I overflowed. And they never went away although they certainly did sag once I let my milk run dry. They still sagged but they were full again after my six months of overdosing on prolactin and estrogen, like a crazy woman, and pumping every two hours to induce lactation so I could give David what he wanted.

A tracery of light blue veins drew a map to my small areolas, pale tan a few shades darker than the skin of my breast, and that oversized nipple hanging from its own weight.

"Not bad," I said, lifting them and letting them fall to hit my ribs with a soft but audible smack.

"If you like floppers," I replied to myself.

I kicked off my slippers, the fuzzy slippers I wore around the house all of the time.

I unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans and pushed them past my ample hips, then let them fall to pool at my feet.

"God, slut," I said to myself, "could you wear them any tighter?"

I giggled and ran my fingertip along the distinct red line where the jeans had bound my belly.

"Nope," I said, giggling, and turned to do the look-over-the-shoulder thing to check out my ass.

The panties I wore were plain cotton, what everybody calls "granny panties" since "Bridget Jones Diary" was released. But they were comfortable, the padding between my legs handled the occasional leak, and I had never understood the thong thing. Hell, I had spent a good bit of my life trying to keep my underwear from riding up the crack of my ass.

I pushed the panties down and stood before the floor-length mirror.

"Not bad for a sexagenarian," I said, aloud, to myself, and for a wonder, I didn't have a wisecrack response.

And I wasn't.

My face is round and I've been told, often enough by those whose judgment I trust, that it's cute that I accept their judgment. Blue eyes, small ears, a button nose, and a generous mouth. My hair was that strawberry blonde color that seems to have replaced blue among women of a certain age, and I spent $150 a week making sure it stayed looking good and not a single grey hair showed.

My shoulders are broad and I'm still pretty strong. I had always been an athlete. A gymnast until my tits and ass got in the way, and then soccer, field hockey, and softball (fast pitch, not that wimpy slow pitch crap).

My breasts were heavy, full, and sagged.

My waist was a mere memory. Thick, distinct stretch marks ran from my belly button, a distinct outie since my first pregnancy, around my hips.

The delta of my pubic hair is sparse and very black still, giving the lie to the color on my head but no one really believes that color anyway. The hair covered a very distinct mons veneris, that Mound of Venus of my pubis, very round, showing the front of the slit my plump labia made.

My legs are good still, if thick, but I HATE the cankles that I can't seem to trim down.

My fingernails are manicured every week when I have my hair done. The nails on my toes are thick and horny if left untended but a monthly pedicure keeps them presentable.

"You're really going to do this?" I asked myself.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah," I said, grinning.

My least favorite thing about my body is my body hair. It's not particularly thick or anything, but it's very dark and it's everywhere. I spent almost $8,500 of the insurance settlement when my first husband was killed in an industrial accident (he was crushed under a load of truck flooring if you care) to have it permanently removed from my face. No more sideburns or FuManchu for me. But the $50,000 to do my body was more than I was willing to spend.

So there I was, looking in the mirror at that hair, and decided it was a Nair day.

I started the shower running hot and then scrubbed my body thoroughly. No gentle soap for this, good old Zest with its high detergent content. For the Nair to work best my skin had to be clean, dry, and oil-free.

When I was clean, dry, and oil-free I started covering my body with the depilatory. I started at my feet, doing the tops of my toes first and then working my way up. At my groin, I was careful to stay away from the delicate skin of my labia, but spread the thick white cream to form a clearly defined triangle pointing to my sex. I did the backs of my hands, my arms, and my armpits.

I used the sponge pad, a backwasher from Amazon, to smooth the cream onto my back. I was careful to get the weird triangle at the base of my spin where the hair was thicker.

By the time I was finished enough time had passed to start with the blue cloth, surgical towel to wipe away the hair. I did this standing at the sink so I could rinse the towel and wash the residual hair down the drain.

I inspected myself carefully in the mirror and, satisfied, took another shower, this time with the gentler soap. I did my face, and hair, shampooed and conditioned, and then my body, being sure to wash away the residual depilatory.

Clean and dry, I sat at my little makeup table. I wanted to strike a balance, somewhere between matron and slut. I giggled at the thought.

A bit of base and blush, then a hint of a bit darker shadow to try and thin my face. I traced my eyebrows, mascara for my lashes, and a blue eyeshadow that I thought set off my eyes nicely. I finished with the reddest lipstick I had been able to find at Macy's.

Then I invested another 20 minutes with the blow dryer, hair brush, and hair pick to get my hair looking good.

I had been thinking about this since we had first discussed becoming his cuckquean and I had been to "Second Chance," a place that dealt in what they euphemistically called "gently worn" clothes. I had found a dress there that looked like it had once been seen in the Donna Reed show, or maybe worn by June Cleaver. It was in a light plaid pattern with a Chelsea collar, a belted waist, and a flaring skirt that ended in the middle of my knee.

At another stop, this one at "Naughty and Nice" I had found an old-fashioned open-bottom girdle, a torpedo bra, and, of all things, a petticoat.

As I say, I had put a LOT of thought into this.

So I tugged and squirmed and pulled and yanked, and got the damn girdle on. Then I, very carefully, rolled the nylons up and hooked them to the girdle, and stepped into the pumps. I had tried on some true stiletto heels but, well, at 66 my ankles weren't in any condition to handle them. But the pumps, with their modest three-inch heels, were okay.

I got my boobs cased in the torpedo bra, sticking out like oversized cones.

I dropped the dress over my head and did the double-jointed thing to zip myself into it.

I checked myself in the mirror, and thought I looked pretty damn good.

I looked at the clock and thought, "right on schedule."

David was going to meet Lori, the woman he was having an affair with although I'm not sure "affair" is still the right word what with what we had planned for the night and all, after work for a drink and then bring her to the house. He told me to expect them around 7:00. It was 6:27 according to the TV.

I hadn't wanted to cook so I started laying out the inside picnic I had planned. On a big platter, I laid out little bite-sized cubes of five different sausages, a half dozen cheeses, slices of apple and wedges of orange, a hard Italian and a soft French bread. I filled the round-bottomed bottle with Chianti, a brand I liked, so dry I suspected you could remove paint with it.

And then I waited.

7:00.

7:15.

7:30.

"Oh well," I thought, "they aren't coming."

As I finished that thought I heard the key in the lock.

David walked in, Lori on his arm doing that two hands on the arm thing women do to show their claim.

She wasn't quite a redhead, more auburn. She was short and cute rather than the tall and pretty I had expected. She was quite pear-shaped, her small breasts barely making bumps on the blouse she wore, and her hips flaring in a very feminine way.

I was standing, waiting, and the way her eyes got big I could tell he hadn't warned her what to expect.

"Lori," he said, "meet Martha, my wife. Martha, Lori."

I stepped forward, touched where her hands were on David's arm, and said, "Welcome to our home."