I stare out the glass sliding doors to the deck on the back of the house and the woods beyond, lost in thought, barely aware that my cellphone on the kitchen island is ringing and vibrating.
The overnight thunderstorm had knocked down a few small branches and unsettled the furniture on the deck, which was in the shade of the house and still wet, but the furniture was not nearly as unsettled as I.
Glancing at the phone I could see it was Meghan, my wife, calling for the third time today. We had exchanged texts earlier but she had guessed correctly by my brief response that I was troubled.
Boy, was I ever.
I let the phone ring until it went to my voicemail and returned to staring into the backyard, and back to anguish. I had been trying to work from home, not getting out of bed until our daughter, Samantha, had left for school, but I had accomplished very little.
I was tempted several times to pull out my cock and work it, reveling in the madness of last night.
Now it was 3 p.m.
Meghan had flown to New Orleans two days earlier for a meeting with a client. She is doing well with a logistics firm and her job takes her away from home every month or so to visit a client or for a meeting or a convention.
I had spoken with her last night before going to bed, before IT happened.
The notification went off that there was a voicemail.
I dialed up the message and heard Meghan's voice: "Jon, the vibe from your earlier text felt like you needed to talk about something. Well, I wanted to call and see what was going on. Miss you. Oh, Ron and I are going to be busy this afternoon."
"Busy" was said in a whisper like she didn't want to be overheard. I knew exactly what she meant.
That was all my fault, too, just like last night. I wanted most of all to confide in Meghan, but I wanted least of all to confide in Meghan.
The thing that happened last night might change our lives. It might change everything.
I curse myself for not having a crystal ball and foreseeing that the can of worms I opened about five years ago is now complicating our lives, not directly, but still. It was like popping a butter-soaked piece of lobster in your mouth, for me anyway. So much fun to chew but later it doesn't sit well.
Right now, "busy" wasn't sitting well.
I've been busy in the past but not that Meghan knew about, like that long-term relationship with Tara, the wife next door.
I'm the one who mentioned to Meghan years ago that our sex life was getting really boring and my idea of exciting was for her to fool around while she was out of town.
Of course, that idea went over like a lead balloon at first, but after a few months of role playing she was ready to dive in. There were few repercussions for what we had in mind. We watched a lot of porn together about wild and dirty wives and cuckolding, often masturbating together. Masturbating became our main sex.
I had mixed emotions the first time she came back from a conference with her tale of a one-night stand.
But, with the photos she took, there could be no doubt what she really did. We were so horny that first time and had amazing sex the night she returned. She explained that she took his condom off and asked for a creampie to please her husband.
Well, fast-forward a few years and you can imagine.
Meghan doesn't have a "guy in every port" but at least half the time she's getting well laid on the out-of-town excursions. My favorite is when she's gone for a week and is shacked up with some guy. I have to reclaim her after she flies back home.
Often Meghan shares a hotel room with a guy and her company is simply billed for an unused room on her expense report, for appearances sake.
One time, I went along on a trip and watched her and the guy she was meeting from a distance. It was a very hot experience, though I had to get a hotel room on my own because she needed ours for her weeklong shack-up.
Ron is her regular in New Orleans.
Yes, I guess I am a cuckold. I find it an amazing turn-on to know my wife is getting dicked down a lot. Don't ask me why. I've thought about it a lot and have no good answers.
I think one of Meghan's guys is black. The thought of a black guy shooting his seed into my wife has been the fodder for numerous orgasms, or pops, I call them. Self-service, you know.
