After Friday Night

by Vandemonium1

When I read a word I don’t know, I look it up in the dictionary. When I read a concept I don’t understand, I research it until I do. I’ve researched the concept of voluntary cuckolding, but until recently didn’t understand it. Why? Because it seems, no one else appears to either. There are literally no reputable studies out there, that I could find, that explain it. What studies exist, are seriously flawed, particularly in the ways the samples are selected. I’ll expound on that in an afterword. I kept reading and the story below is the result of my research and some theorising. It also presents my scenario on what might happen if a guy, not temperamentally suited to the lifestyle, at the behest of his partner, tries it.

I haven’t read many voluntary cuckold stories, so if this one has been done before, I apologise.

This one is aimed at a very specific audience. Those of you who, like me, have read stories where men willingly watch their wives with other men and ask questions like, why? How? Even, WTF? If you aren’t someone like that, you’d probably best not read it. You might find it offensive. For the rest of you, keep in mind you know me and my style so, though it may appear at first to be a cuckold story, I ask you to please persevere.

It is presented as a sequel to a story I read some time ago. Sorry I can’t remember the name or the author. If it was yours, then I apologise that I can’t acknowledge you. I mean no disrespect. The original story was about a childless couple that were deeply in love. The wife went with friends to Las Vegas and witnessed one of the other ladies getting it on with a well-endowed negro. She got obsessed with it and slowly convinced the husband to let her do it once. I think there was a little, ‘If you love me, you’ll let me do this’, in there. After months of nagging and maybe withholding a little sex, he very reluctantly agreed. While still trying to convince him, she was corresponding with candidates on the net, effectively behind his back. Eventually, he relents and decides to prove his love for her by letting her do it. He witnesses her pleasurable experience.

This story begins the next morning. It has minimal sex in it. It is a far better read due to the efforts of CreativityTakesCourage, thanks Lovey.

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John awoke, after an extremely poor night’s sleep, on the couch in the lounge, with the first feeble light of dawn. The feeling of dread that had started creeping into his soul the previous night had matured in his sleep. He just knew his marriage would never be the same as before last night.

He’d left the bedroom before the end of the first performance of his wife Sandra and her big, black-cocked internet buddy, Michael. He’d thought he was mentally prepared for the experience, but it hadn’t occurred to him Michael and Sandra would kiss before the foreplay and the main event started. The intimacy of that act hurt.

And then there was the sight of his wife trying to cram as much of the monstrous organ into her mouth as possible—it did nothing for him. Then Michael returned the favour, before mounting Sandra for the first time. Initially, John was excited by her excitement. He’d even sported half an erection for the first few minutes of observing their mating.

Then her screams started.

John was shocked. He’d never heard her make anything like that sound with him. How could he ever compete with that? Not until they invented dick transplants. His erection immediately deflated.

He stayed there looking at Sandra thrashing around. He loved her. That’s why he was giving her this experience. This one-off, loving gift. He sat there, waiting for her to acknowledge his sacrifice or even to check if he was travelling okay. Nothing. He might has well have been on the moon. Absorbed in the intensity of the moment, she was completely ignoring him, her husband. It just made him feel so… inadequate.

John tried sleeping in the spare bedroom, but the sounds of his torture were too close. The couch was as far away as he could get. The silence at about eleven finally allowed him to drift off to sleep. Only to be woken at just after 3:00 a.m. by the sounds of more nails being driven into his soul. Had he been asleep when Sandra came to see if he was all right? She must have come, mustn’t she? Then why hadn’t she woken him up?

He must have dozed until about five-thirty. All was silent upstairs, he noted with relief. Maybe Michael was an early riser and was gone. John tiptoed upstairs and looked in the master bedroom. He really wished he hadn’t. The sight of Michael lying on his back, fast asleep, with Sandra nestled in his shoulder, hurt like hell. This wasn’t sex, it was intimacy. Did that mean he’d been conned? Could they be that intimate after only meeting last night or was this only officially the first time? John wandered downstairs again in a daze. What had they done?

He was brewing a second coffee, just before 10:00 a.m., when John heard the next evidence of life upstairs. Sandra’s shout drifted down the stairs.

“John.”

John walked to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up them.

“Yes.”

“Is that coffee I can smell? Can you bring us a cup please?”

That was it.

John’s breaking point.

He grabbed his coat, phone, and wallet and walked out the front door. It shut quietly behind him. He turned, opened it again, then slammed it as hard as he could. The whole side of the house rattled. He jumped in his car and drove away. He checked his phone was on and started counting under his breath. He gave up at five hundred. Why hadn’t she rung?

He drove and walked around for what seemed like an age. He was having a late lunch at a fast food restaurant when his phone finally rang.

“John, where are you?”

“Having lunch.”

“Why did you leave?”

“If you don’t know now, you never will.”

“I’m sorry, John. We just got carried away, I suppose. Are you coming home now?”

“Is he gone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. See you shortly.”

Sandra was sitting in the kitchen in her dressing gown when John walked in the front door. She rose to give him a kiss, but he held her at arm’s length and averted his face. She looked confused.

“Have you had a shower yet, and gargled?”

“No. I rang you as soon as Michael left. Look, John, you agreed to last night. Why are you acting so upset?”

“Oh, I’m acting upset, am I?”

“Yeah. Almost busting every window in the house slamming the door this morning kind of gave you away.”

“So, you knew I was upset three hours ago, yet you only rang me just now.”

“Yes, John. I tried to ring when you left, but Michael, er, distracted me.”

“What? You fucked again this morning?”

Sandra’s averted eyes answered the question.

“Where did I sleep last night, Sandra?”

“I don’t know, John. In the spare room maybe.”

“No, I slept on the couch, Sandra. You would have known that, if at any time between nine o’clock last night and ten o’clock this morning, you gave enough of a fuck about me to find out how I was travelling with all this.”

“I’m sorry, John. I guess I was a little caught up in it all last night. Then Michael woke me up in the middle of the night and, well, we did it again. Then…”

“Then, this morning, you were so concerned with how I handled last night that you yelled down for coffee so I could bring it to you like a servant.”

Sandra hadn’t looked at John for several minutes. She had no answer to John’s very valid points, so she stayed silent.

“Sandra, will you at least acknowledge that what I did for you last night was the most loving gift I could give you?”

“Oh, yes, sweetie. Not only that, it was the most loving gift I have ever heard of.”

“And you repay me by acting as selfishly and inconsiderately as anyone I have ever heard of.”

“Yes, I see that now, John. It’s just that last night was the most…”

She stopped, instinctively knowing a graphic description of how mind-blowing the experience had been would be a really bad move. She would take that secret to her grave, along with another one. She realised one of the reasons the previous night had been so special, was John clearly hated it. That was obvious when he walked out of their bedroom the first time.

Silence settled in what was once a very loving and comfortable household.

“I’m sorry, John. I’ll make it up to you though. I promise. Just, well, just not tonight.”

“Why not? Because you’re too stretched out? Have you got friction burns?”

“No, it’s just that…well, I don’t like to say, John.”

“Come on. Out with it. I doubt you could make it worse.”

“Well, I… I’ve had so many orgasms since last night that I started to cramp. It’s really uncomfortable down there.”

“Okay, so I was wrong. Why do you keep looking at the clock, Sandra?”

“Um, I have an appointment in half an hour, John.”

“Who with? Michael?”

“No, of course not, John. Last night was a one-off thing, you know that. I’m yours exclusively forever now. My itch has been scratched.”

“So where are you going?”

“Can’t you just leave it knowing I have to be somewhere, John? You know I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to. I can see I have some damage control to do here. I should only be an hour or so.”

“No, Sandra. I thought I knew you as well as anyone could know someone else, but I’ve seen a stranger since last night. Where do you need to go?”

“Okay, since you insist. I need to go to the doctor to get the morning after pill.”

John felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He literally fell into a chair.

“I’m sorry, John. Like we agreed, I didn’t wear my diaphragm last night. I thought Michael would be so big and long he might damage it. I know we agreed on condoms, and I used them last night, as you saw, and again this morning, but when he woke me in the middle of the night, I didn’t notice he… Well, in the heat of the moment, you know.”

“I can’t believe you did that, Sandra.”

“You had to be there, John. It was so intense, so all-consuming. I wasn’t behaving rationally…”

“So, instead of ringing as soon as you woke at ten this morning, you fucked him again and rang at 1:00 p.m., knowing you had a much greater chance of missing out on a weekend appointment.”

“Sorry, John.”

“Just go, Sandra. You’d better ask for an STD test when you get there.”

“No, he said he was clean. He sent us that certificate remember.”

“Which proved he was clean three weeks ago. Just get the fucking tests done please.”

 Two and a half hours later.

“Where have you been.?, You said you’d be an hour.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. But I had to wait for almost an hour and a half at the doctor’s and then had to drive around to find a pharmacy that was open.”

John stared into her eyes. He was looking for the truth and they both knew it. Their relationship had been damaged. They both knew that as well. If you’d asked either of them at this point whether the previous night was worth it, they would have given conflicting answers. Sandra, still basking in the glow of her recent experience, would have said, ‘Shit, yeah.’ John, who was never convinced it was a good idea in the first place, but allowed his love for Sandra to influence his decision, would have said, ‘Hell no.’

“Is the job done?”

“Yes. I took it in the car outside the pharmacy.”

“What about the other tests?”

“Well, there was a problem there. The doctor said that it was a waste of time testing this early. He recommended waiting two weeks before testing for gonorrhoea and chlamydia, but up to three months for syphilis, HIV, and hepatitis.”

“Well, that’s just fucking great.”

“I’m sorry, John. I guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was.”

“Never again, you hear. Never, ever, ever even dare suggesting it again.”

“No, John, never again.”

They both slept the sleep of the exhausted that night. There was no more mention of ‘that’ night.

Things were strained but returning to normal by the following afternoon. John and Sandra went to a previously arranged BBQ with nine other couples from their social circle. John was happy for the distraction. His stewing and second-guessing was getting a little obsessive. About an hour after they got there, John sought out Sandra to ask her if she wanted him to get her a drink. She was on the other side of the pool talking to her friend, Jenny. Thinking nothing of it, John approached them from behind. As soon as he was within range, he heard Jenny ask incredulously, “How big was it?” Before Sandra could answer, John reached them. He grabbed Sandra, not to gently by the elbow, and led her out of Jenny’s earshot.

“You haven’t told Jenny about Friday night, have you?”

“I had to tell someone, John. I can’t tell you about it, but it’s bursting to get out. It’s like that time you got a hole in one at the golf club. You rang me straight away to tell me, you were that bursting with happiness.”

“What the f…? Surely you can see the difference, Sandra? Golf is perfectly acceptable social behaviour. What we did on Friday night isn’t. Fuck, if any of the guys found out, I would be finished.”

“Sorry, John. I didn’t think of it that way.”

 “Okay, go straight back to Jenny and make her promise not to tell anyone else for fuck’s sake.”

John noticed Sandra was looking at the ground.

“Please tell me you haven’t told anyone else, Sandra.”

“Just Debbie.”

“What! I work with her husband. If she tells him and he blabs, I’ll be finished at work.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, John. They’ll see it for what it was. A devoted husband giving his wife a loving gift.”

John just shook his head.

“You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

John spent the next hour standing alone, watching Sandra talking earnestly to Jenny and Debbie. Starting with Debbie’s husband, he also watched to see if anyone cast any strange looks in his direction. He did consider asking Sandra if Debbie had already told anyone else, but subconsciously decided life would be more bearable if he didn’t know. He avoided all eye contact with the two women, ‘in-the-know’. Unable to bear not being able to tell anyone of the greatest event in her life for a long time, Sandra suggested they leave early. Besides, Sandra’s privates almost felt back to normal and she didn’t want to vacillate any longer with repairing John’s ego. She thought she knew how much damage it had suffered. She was only out by about 65 percent.

Once home, she dressed in her sexiest lingerie, whether for her benefit or John’s, she wasn’t quite sure. She went and dragged John up to the bedroom where she impatiently stripped him. Once she had him nude and on his back, she started with the same act about half their sessions began with. After licking his shaft, she took about two inches in her mouth as she normally did. After a few minutes, and to her horror, she noticed him starting to deflate. ‘Of course,’ she thought. ‘He saw what I did to Michael Friday night and wants the same.’ She was pleased when John responded to her act of taking the whole lot in her mouth for the first time ever. ‘See, John, this is what Friday night did for us,’ she kept to herself.

Full hardness for John lasted only another half a minute. Sandra was confused. John wasn’t. At first, the sight of her lips reaching all the way to his pubic hair was new and exciting. Then the image of her on Friday night, struggling to take even half of Michael intruded.

Sandra stopped, not knowing what to do. Then she thought back to what she normally did to get him hard a second time when their foreplay included her blowing him to his conclusion. She knew he’d always loved growling her out. She straddled his face. She loved that and knew John did too. John saw the familiar vagina approach, but unlike every other time, suddenly imagined it swimming with bacteria and viruses. On pure reflex, he dry-heaved. Sandra jumped off in horror. This time, she knew exactly what had just happened.

“I’m sorry, Sandra. Maybe if I got a plastic bag, I could use it as a kind of barrier…”

John dry-heaved again. A tear started to form in Sandra’s eye. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Did John see her as somehow unclean?

“Don’t worry about me, John. I just want you in me.”

“Um, did you buy any condoms when you were in the pharmacy yesterday?”

Sandra cursed herself. This was turning to shit real fast.

“I know, Michael left the ones he brought over Friday. They’re in my handbag.”

She jumped out of bed and retrieved them from her handbag in the lounge. By the time she got back, John was lying on the bed with a fully flaccid penis.

“Why did you put them in your handbag, Sandra? Why not the bedside drawers, where the other stuff is?”

“Er, I put them in my bag yesterday when I wanted to remove all reminders of the Michael episode. I thought you would appreciate that.”

“Why didn’t you just put them in the bin?”

“Well, I thought you might see them in the bin up here in the bathroom and get upset. I had my bag on the bed, so I put them in there, so I could throw them away somewhere else. I didn’t think we might need them.”

She could see by the look on John’s face he was unconvinced. That confused her for a few seconds until, “My god. You thought I intended to meet Michael secretly in the future and intended to use those condoms, didn’t you?”

John just raised an eyebrow.

“No, John. Please believe me. I have never cheated on you and never would. I told you Friday was a one-off and it will be. How could you think otherwise?”

“Well, Sandra, you did contact and correspond with Michael behind my back. Before I’d ever agreed to do what we did on Friday. Some might say that was a little dishonest. Then, when I saw how out of control you were Friday and Saturday, I just…”

“No, John. You have it all wrong. I’ll admit that Friday was fantastic on a purely physical level, but with women, sex is much more than that. For us, sex is a whole body and mind experience. I would rather have one loving session with you, one where I didn’t even cum, than have a whole lifetime of sex with someone I don’t love, like Michael.”

She looked into John’s eyes and saw she wasn’t getting through. Time for actions to talk louder than words. Time to throw in the reserves. Time to be desperate. One of the unique experiences about Saturday morning had been when Michael licked her ass. No one had ever touched her there before and she’d never even imagined it as part of any sexual scenario. On Saturday, she’d cum immediately under the ministrations of Michael’s talented tongue. Then, soon after, when he’d mounted her for the last time, Michael put a hand under each buttock and slid a finger from each into her anal sphincter. Again, she’d cum straight away and she’d cum hard. It was an eye-opening experience. She realised she had to be really careful raising the subject with John though.

“John, honey, I’ve thought of a way of repaying you for your fantastic gift on Friday night.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, you know you’ve asked me a couple of times in the past for my, how can I put this… my last virginity?”

The look on John’s face was priceless.

“You mean…”

“Uh huh.”

Sandra was ecstatic with the effect the offer had on her husband. He leapt up and grabbed the infamous condom packet. He opened it and grabbed one rubber along with one of the small sachets of lube. He noted there were only six rubbers left of the original twelve. It almost spoilt his mood until he realised that the packet may not have been new Friday. Sandra saw his hesitation and correctly guessed the reason.

“Here, let me put one on you, honey. It’s sexier that way anyhow.”

Thirty seconds later, the latest disaster was revealed. Sandra was two-thirds through her task before she really looked at her handiwork. With no real choice, she kept going until the rubber reached her husband’s base. She glanced at John’s face, hoping like hell he wasn’t looking. Fat chance. The condom looked ridiculous in-situ. There was at least a two-inch air gap at the head end and a finger could quite comfortably be inserted between the condom and John’s cock. As a protective, it obviously wasn’t going to work. Sandra glanced at the box and for the first time saw the words, ‘extra-large,’ on the side. Before she could react, John leapt out of bed, grabbed his clothes, and ran to his study. The door was locked by the time Sandra got there and no amount of knocking and yelling elicited a response.

Sandra reluctantly returned to bed to ponder this disaster. As the ephemeral memories of Friday night and Saturday morning faded, she had a glimpse of the huge mistake she’d made. In lieu of sleep, Sandra tried to process the turmoil in her head. Once she could manage that, then maybe she could think how to nurse John’s ego through this. She loved John dearly and was mortified her obsession may have damaged their marriage. Over the hours she lay there, she pondered all John’s strengths. He was handsome, loving, considerate, a fantastic breadwinner, and would make a great father when the time came.

There was one topic, however, she couldn’t bring herself to think about—her feeling of respecting him as a man. Somewhere on the boundary of her conscious and unconscious minds, she suspected her respect for John as a man had been irrevocably maimed. After all, could an alpha male really stand by and watch his woman being taken by another man? Automatically, her self-defence mechanisms forced her away from thinking about respect, one of the three cornerstones of any successful marriage.

John was gone to work before Sandra woke in the morning. He’d showered in the downstairs bathroom. Unusually, he shaved in the shower rather than in front of the mirror. If he’d stopped and asked himself why, he may have finally come to the realisation he had trouble looking in mirrors now. His self-respect was critically damaged.

Sandra rang him as soon as she realised he was gone. They talked about inanities and skirted the real issues. When he asked about her plans for the day, she reminded him she had the next two days off. He was silent for a moment.

“You won’t be seeing ‘him’, will you?”

In her exhausted state, Sandra couldn’t stop her reply being snappy.

“Of course not. It was a one-off. I told you that. I’ll admit that on Saturday morning, Michael did ask if we could meet again, but I said no straight away. I told you, John, I’m yours for eternity.”

“Okay, darling. I have to go now, I’m busy.”

That was a lie though. John was sitting at his desk doing no work at all. He’d already decided to devote his day to doing some research. Maybe there lay the solution to his sudden lack of confidence as a man. He turned his computer on and started delving. He avoided any papers he sensed may have had left wing or feminist leanings and concentrated on the more academic works. What he read didn’t paint men who allowed their wives to sleep around in a good light. He kept seeing references to something called a testosterone test and googled that. One of the references was to a book called, ‘Why men won’t ask for directions and woman can’t read maps’. He paid to download an e-copy and scanned it. It seemed to be along the same lines as ‘Men are from Mars and women are from Venus’ which he wasn’t a big fan of. Then he got to the section with the testosterone test and made the mistake of reading the blurb before doing the test.

It struck a strange chord with him. Strange, he hadn’t thought of it before, but maleness and femaleness is a continuum and not black and white. The author’s theory was that some brains are wired to be male and others, female. The actual genitalia those brains packed was irrelevant. The test produced a result for every individual between 0 and 360. Most male brains scored between 0 and 180, John supposed 0 was Arnie. Most females, 150-360 and again John assumed 360 was Barbie. The closer to 0 a male scored, the more his brain was wired as an archetypal male and the closer to 360 a female was, the closer to the archetypal female.

The chapter went on to explain that males that scored over 180 had a high probability of being gay. They were literally a female brain trapped in a male body. Below 150, females were the same. Male brains trapped in a female body. John had enough empathy to feel sorry for those people but couldn’t see himself in that light. He drifted off from reading and began theorising for himself.

It made sense. The grey zone was where those that followed alternative lifestyles lived. Males with scores between 150 and 180 and females below about 150. John knew enough butch females to put some faces to behaviour. The women that tended to attract the softer kind of man. The women who delighted in bossing their partners around, either privately, publicly, or both. He couldn’t identify with any male 150-180 friends. Was it that he didn’t know any or was it that they were better at concealing it?

He found himself wondering how such men would behave sexually. With the male and female part of their brains battling for dominance would they enjoy watching their wives with other men? Would they actually, secretly, want to have sex with other men? Perhaps, their pride only allowed them to have such sex vicariously through their wives. It also explained the men who felt the drive to humiliate women. The logic went like this: Overwhelmingly, in nature, the males of any species dominates the females. Could a confused male, subconsciously nervous about his maleness, feel the urge to behave like a super-male? That made sense. John’s stomach heaved when he recalled those stories of men sucking their wife’s lover’s semen out of the wife. Were they in the 150-180 range? No, they had to be well above 180 but couldn’t buck societies pressure that people with penises married people with vaginas.

While this all made perfect sense to John, he was confused about where it left him. He’d had no desire for Sandra to have sex with another male, but he hadn’t forbidden it. While he’d been excited about seeing her pleasure, that was temporary. He didn’t have the mental strength to do the test before it was the end of the business day. He went home very, very, preoccupied.

That night, Sandra was worried, but a little relieved at the same time. Worried because she didn’t know what was going through John’s mind. Relieved because after the unrelenting pressure of the last couple of days, it was nice not to have to talk about it. She’d bought some regular sized condoms that day, but sex wasn’t on the agenda.

John drifted to work the next day but didn’t have the strength to force himself to take the test. He did some actual work instead. That night at home, their troubles weren’t mentioned but sex was. Sandra knew that the secret was to re-build her husband’s sexual confidence. She mentioned the whole anal thing again and was happy with how John responded. After about half an hour of foreplay, it was time for the main event. She noticed he closed his eyes when she rolled the condom on, but when she smeared him with lube, they were well and truly open.

She wanted to control the mount, so she went to do cowgirl. John suggested reverse cowgirl, he thought the view would be sexier. Sandra was damned glad they’d agreed on that because it prevented him seeing her facial expression. It was really uncomfortable. She suffered through it for about five minutes before begging John to stop. Sandra could only think that Friday night’s enjoyment came from the sheer scale of her excitement. John didn’t want to proceed with regular sex as he didn’t want to embarrass himself by losing his erection. He convinced Sandra he was happy to cuddle until they went to sleep. Sleep was a long time coming for John, his mind already focused on the test he’d convinced himself had to happen the next day.

He did do it the next day, but it was late afternoon before he worked up the courage. Why was he so nervous? That was easy enough. No man wants to think he may be a closet gay. He was old enough to remember when the word was an insult. By question three, he realised he would have to be extraordinarily honest with himself. For most of the questions, it was obvious which ones were aimed at identifying female traits and which ones, male. For example, are you good at impersonating animal noises. Obviously a yes answer was an advantage for a male hunter.

With bated breath, he completed the test and hit the analyse button with eyes closed. Ninety-two, there’s nothing wrong with that. Sure, he wasn’t Arnie, but hell, he wasn’t Boy George either. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. Further processing was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. It was Sandra reminding him she had a lingerie party to attend that night. It was one of those Amway type parties where people invite their friends and lay it on thick about what commission the hostess gets if everyone buys up big. Of course, everyone feels obliged to buy something. As commonly happens at lingerie parties, there would be a modest selection of sex toys available to order as well.

The phone conversation struck John as odd. Unusually, Sandra had reminded him about the party Monday night and again, Tuesday night. What was she up to? It was only a rip-off-your-friends-party, after all. He hung up the phone determined to be vigilant.

That night, Sandra rushed dinner, showered, and went out wearing nothing special. John knew which friend’s house she was supposedly going to, gave her a half hour head start and followed. He was relieved when he saw Sandra’s car exactly where it should be. Was the friend, friendly enough to cover for Sandra if she’d got changed and gone somewhere else? Yes, John decided. He gave it another half an hour, until full darkness fell, then ashamedly snuck into the yard, over a fence, and peered in windows. There was Sandra plus friends being presented to.

Relieved, John returned to his car. He sat there and thought. It was seven-thirty now, and thinking about it, Sandra rarely returned from one of these things before eleven. She still had time to stay a while longer, then bunk off for another meeting. John determined to stay there till ten, then return home.

His heart raced at nine-twenty-five when light spilled out of the front door and Sandra appeared. She looked carefully left and right before leaving the safety of the porch, walked out the gate and across to her car. John analysed the possibilities. One and a half hours before the earliest she ever got home. Possibly two and a half before he would consider her late. Plenty of time for what he thought she was up to. He then analysed his feelings for any sign of excitement. There was none. Only the certainty that his marriage was over if Sandra ever met, or suggested meeting, Michael ever again.

John followed Sandra’s car at a discrete distance, noticing that even in the dark it wasn’t that easy. Sandra turned onto the main highway through town… and went home. Relief flooded through John, then worry. Sandra was going to return to an empty house and wonder where he was. His fundamental honesty made it uncomfortable for him to invent a plausible lie. He decided instead to stop at a twenty-four hour shop and buy some specialty bread. Hopefully, Sandra would think he just had a hankering for a late-night snack and not ask the question.

No such luck.

“Where have you been, John.?”

“I…”

“You followed me, didn’t you?”

“Er, yes. Yes, I did. You reminded me about the party tonight so many times that I…”

His voice trailed off when he saw a tear in Sandra’s eyes.

“Oh, John. I reminded you three times because I thought it may make you believe me more. That party was arranged two weeks ago. I came home as soon as the presentations were finished, rather than socializing for a while, so you wouldn’t worry where I was. Have we totally destroyed your trust in me?”

John just couldn’t answer that.  

“Please trust me, John. I love you. Friday was a mistake. I see that now.”

Without waiting for a reply, she went upstairs before she lost it completely. John didn’t follow immediately. He wanted to avoid uncomfortable questions like; will you ever trust me again? Could anyone exposed to the amount of pleasure he’d witnessed resist the urge again? Ironically, because John most definitely owned a male brain, he couldn’t empathize to a large extent with the female link between love and sex, it being a much lesser link in males.

They were both exhausted on Thursday and in no mood to talk or love. Friday, they did all the right things and actually made love. The condom was an uncomfortable reminder and spoilt the mood a little. Sandra made sure to make a little more noise than normal. To no avail though. John couldn’t shake the feeling she was putting on a performance just for the sake of his ego, or that she was comparing him to Michael. Sandra couldn’t relax as she was very aware that to make anything like the noises she’d made with Michael, would take some major faking that would be exposed as insincere immediately. Consequently, she didn’t enjoy it as much as normal. All she could think was, Catch 22.

Saturday was a repeat performance. After fingering Sandra to one orgasm, John entered her. Every time he tried to let himself go, the insidious thought crept into his head. Is she thinking of me or him? This delayed his release. Meanwhile, Sandra was desperately trying to not think of Michael, but the reality of what she’d felt with him and what she was feeling now with John, was just too big. With mounting horror, she felt herself drying up. To avert disaster, she told John to stop and finished him with her talented mouth.

Sunday was even worse. Sandra tried to put John off with the information she had a big presentation at work the next day. John, driven by the need to reclaim her, bulldozed her into bed anyway. Again, it was unsatisfying for both of them. Over an hour later, John was driving into her doggie style when Sandra looked to her left. John followed her gaze. All there was in that direction was the bedside clock. He stopped abruptly. Sandra looked over her shoulder and saw his eyes locked on the clock. She also felt his erection deflate and slip out. John collapsed onto his back and Sandra arranged herself snuggled into his shoulder. Coincidentally, it was in the exact same posture John had seen her in with Michael, early that Saturday morning.

“I’m sorry, John, I told you I had a big day tomorrow.”

“It’s fine, San, I’m tired as well,” John lied.

They both separated and desperately tried to find the peace of unconsciousness. Both failed. John because of the pain. Sandra because she felt the pain of the man she loved. She knew her husband’s confidence was declining but had no idea what to do about it. All she could think of as a solution was counselling. But that would entail sharing with a complete stranger what she’d done that Friday night. She knew John would find that nearly impossible to do.

 Monday saw John’s boss confronting him about the drop in his performance. There was no way John was ever going to tell him what he’d done, so he just hinted that he was having trouble at home. His boss guessed incorrectly that Sandra had cheated. He then explained his own wife had cheated in the past, but he’d forgiven her. Nevertheless, he felt it necessary to check on her occasionally. He surprised John by going to his office and retrieving a GPS tracking unit and a disk with the software. He showed John how to install the software on his computer and how it worked. John went along with it to divert suspicion away from his real problem.

On the way home, he thought the tracker might actually help him fix his trust problem. Sandra was telling him constantly he’d nothing to fear from Michael and the memories of that weekend. If he could prove to himself she’d had no contact with him for three to six months, then he might actually believe her.

So, just after he parked his car in the garage, he opened Sandra’s car and slid the tracker under a seat.

The pattern for the next two weeks was a little surreal. They went to work, where John would turn on the tracking software that was set to alarm whenever the unit moved. There was never any movement that couldn’t be explained by Sandra going through her normal routine. Then, at home, they would talk and make love, badly. Sandra said all the right things to let John know she knew what he was going through. She went over the top in displaying her love for him. John, however, soon became aware that, despite all her noises, Sandra really had no idea of the depth of his hurt. What he didn’t know, however, was why this was so. Was it because a female could never know fully the male concept of pride? Just as a male couldn’t know the female equivalent. Or was it that she just didn’t see what a big deal her actions of that weekend were?

It was a chance encounter, three and a half weeks after the fateful weekend, that spurred John’s next move. He was out buying lunch on a weekday, when he ran into an old girlfriend. They had lunch together and the woman was extremely flirty. All afternoon, John obsessed about Sandra’s lack of real understanding of what he was going through. That is probably why, in bed that night, he said something he shouldn’t have. The conversation was set in the context of weeks of poor sleep and a little sexual frustration on both their parts.

“Sandra, I know we’ve both been wracking our brains for a solution to this impasse we have gotten ourselves into. I may have a solution.”

Sandra was all ears.

“Oh, that would be wonderful, John.”

Sandra listened with mounting horror to John’s plan.

“Well, I ate lunch today with an old girlfriend and later I had an idea. It really bugs me that you will never really know what I went through that weekend. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it until you do understand. Until you see me enjoying myself with someone else, just like you did that night, you will never really know what it’s like.”

“John, don’t say it. Please. You know I’d do anything to get us through this, but you can’t ask that of me.”

At this point, John had the last opportunity to back out. He’d no intention of sleeping with anyone else. What he wanted was for Sandra to feel the same hurt he had, to prove her love for him by agreeing, just as he had proved his for her. Once he’d seen her pain and knew she now realised how he felt, then got her commitment to repair their marriage, he would give her the good news.

“I have to, Sandra. I have to make you truly understand. It’s the only way.”

Too worn out by weeks of anguish and restless nights, Sandra lost control of her mouth.

“It’s not going to happen, buster. Put it out of your mind. Fuck, John. What self-respecting woman would allow the man she loved to do that? Are you crazy?”

Too late, she stopped. John lay there in shock. Between them lay the elephant in the room. John suspected he’d lost his respect for himself. Sandra’s words were a clear demonstration he’d lost hers as well and they both knew it.

“So, that’s it then? You destroy my self-respect by making me prove my love for you. But one hint that I want some of the same and it’s, ‘get fucked, John’, is it? What’s good enough for the goose, isn’t good enough for the gander?”

They both lapsed into silence. Sandra questioning her automatic response, which she was fairly sure was her final answer. No way; she couldn’t do that. She wasn’t built that way.

Meanwhile, John realised he’d backed himself into a corner. The only way out now was via Sandra agreeing with him sleeping with another woman. Sandra must prove herself or they were finished.

There followed a week and a half of the most uncomfortable time in their marriage. They hardly spoke. John was waiting for Sandra to prove her love. Sandra was desperately trying to find a way of saying ‘no way’, that wouldn’t terminate the marriage. The one technique that would have worked, didn’t even occur to her. She had no idea that if she agreed to John’s demands, he would reveal it as a bluff and that she would have passed the test. The revulsion of risking it happening never allowed the idea it was a bluff to enter her head.

Paranoia ruled supreme. John thought Sandra’s respect for him had been a factor in her not pursuing a repeat performance with Michael. Now he knew she didn’t respect him, that safety factor was gone. Meanwhile, Sandra suspected John might sneak off with his ex-girlfriend to try to reclaim some of his self-respect. Net result—they monitored each other’s activities closely.

Neither John nor Sandra could ever decide if the following Friday was the day their marriage died, or whether it was dead on ‘Michael Friday’ and had just been walking around for a month like a zombie. Whatever the case, whether death or simply coup de grace, it happened on that Friday.

Sandra had taken to ringing John at his office every morning and afternoon. Ostensibly to profess her love for him, but actually to make sure he was there. Likewise, John kept a close eye on the tracker when he was in the office but rang Sandra regularly when he wasn’t. On the Friday morning, as they were discussing their days, John told of having an off-site meeting all afternoon. At one of the breaks about 2:00 p.m., he called Sandra’s office, only to be told she’d gone home early. John thought of Sandra’s elevated mood at breakfast and leapt to a conclusion. He made his excuses and sprinted back to his office and logged on to his computer. The tracker was at home. Packing his laptop in its carry bag, he hurried to his car.

Parking down the street from his house he slipped into the back door. There was no sign of Sandra downstairs. He crept up the stairs with straining ears. If she was there alone, he could always sneak out again. If she wasn’t, then, well, who knows what would happen.

John was just outside the bedroom door before he heard the unmistakable sound of the shower running. That was unusual; Sandra normally showered in the morning. His heart raced with a surge of adrenaline. With three and a half hours before he normally got home, what was Sandra up to? Was she getting ready to go out and meet her new, big-dicked friend or was he coming here? What had changed? Was it the sexual frustration that was driving Sandra or was it, as he’d thought all along; that a further episode was inevitable right from the start?

What to do? If he confronted Sandra now, he would never know. After about a minute’s thought, John decided to secrete himself in his closet to see what transpired. He opened the closet door and shuffled things to the side to make room. He was about to enter his hiding place when an incongruous sound caught his attention. After years of knowing her, he knew what noises Sandra made when she was approaching a good orgasm. That’s what he heard. With a heavy heart, he walked in the bathroom and put his hand on the shower curtain just as another loud groan came from within.

For once in the last three weeks, John had surmised correctly. Sandra had been sexually excited since she’d come home at five-thirty the previous night. Waiting for her in the post box was the item she’d ordered at the lingerie party, weeks before. Frustrated by weeks of obsessive thought, but little sexual release, she’d been totally unable to concentrate at work and had excused herself.

Suddenly the shower curtain was thrust aside. Sandra froze in mid thrust. John’s eyes were drawn to the dildo in Sandra’s right hand. It was black, nearly twelve inches long, and very fat.

Just like that, John and Sandra’s once perfect marriage ended.

Could it have survived without mutual respect? Perhaps. Could it survive the knowledge Sandra would never be truly satisfied with anything John had to offer? Well, John, for one, was too embarrassed to hang around and find out.

EPILOGUE

Neither John nor Sandra seriously considered giving their marriage another chance after that. They both came to the conclusion, in much the same way that a paramedic, coming on an accident scene where the victim’s head is a couple of body lengths away from its natural home, considers starting CPR—pointless.

Like I said, neither Sandra or John could ever decide at what point their marriage ended but I reckon it was after that Friday night.

The End

Now lighten up.

A guy goes into a public urinal and stands next to another guy he vaguely knows and flops it out. To relax himself a little and to play one of those little games some men like to play, he says to his neighbour, “Brrr, the water’s cold today.” Without batting an eyelid, his neighbour replies, “Yes, and deep as well.”

Afterword

The following has absolutely nothing to do with the above story. It details the problems I had researching the subject.

When I first discovered LE, I read a few stories about men that like sharing their wives with other men. I didn’t understand this mindset, so I began researching the subject and came across a problem all such researchers must. There just aren’t any reputable studies out there that explain it. Well, none that I can find anyway. Why is that? IMHO the answer is remarkably simple. Researchers need a large, unbiased sample to ask questions of. Otherwise, the answers to their questions are meaningless. Most swingers are a little embarrassed of the lifestyle so don’t readily come forwards to talk about it.

So, I approached one of the authors of one of those stories who claimed he’d found a study that was scientifically defendable. I checked it out and the author of the study had based their findings on interviews with a thousand ‘swingers’. The results of the study were that the vast majority of those questioned stated they had happy marriages and were happy with the lifestyle. That sounded fair, until I delved deeper into how the sample was chosen. The study authors put a notice on a swinger’s website, inviting people to contact them. I can see you’re already smart enough to have spotted the flaw. The only people that contacted the study authors, were people that visited that particular website, i.e. active swingers. Excluded from the study were the people who maybe had tried swinging and either gave it up before it destroyed their marriages or didn’t have a partner to exchange in a swing because it had already destroyed their marriage. Who knows, for every successful swinger that volunteered for the study, there might have been ninety-nine who tried and gave up. If that was the case, then the study reflected the opinion of the 1% and ignored the 99%, so was fundamentally biased before it started.

I can see, looking around the class, that some of you are still a little confused, so let me give you an analogy. Let’s say a magazine, with a readership of a million people, asks readers to visit an anonymous website and answer one question. “Have you cheated on your partner?” In the next issue of that magazine, they report the result. 100,000 people responded and 36% admitted to cheating. That’s 10% of the readership responding and statisticians say that is a good sample size. So, can we conclude that 36% of the population cheat? No. The exercise had many built in biases.

• It was biased against the elderly, probably uncomfortable with the technology involved in responding to the survey.
• People who had cheated are a little embarrassed about it and so, anonymous or not, felt uncomfortable responding.
• It was biased against lazy people who didn’t expend the required effort to respond.
• Of course, the biggest bias by far, is that the only people that knew about the survey, were readers of that magazine. If that magazine was ‘Horse of the month’ magazine, then logic says that the million readers they have are overwhelmingly female and middle class.

The best we can ever say is that 36% of the younger portion of the middle class, female readership of that magazine, who bothered to respond and weren’t embarrassed about cheating, cheated. Suddenly the results of that survey become meaningless. The only way you will ever get an accurate picture of prevalence of embarrassing social taboos, is to kidnap a representative part of the population, inject them with truth serum, then ask the questions. I’m not an expert on the ethics of surveys, but I can spot a couple of flaws in that approach.

With no reputable source of research material, and still no clue as to what motivates these people, I kept contacting LE swinger authors. Only one would freely talk and he behaved rather strangely. He started off saying that both he and his wife slept with other people, but over time seemed to sense that I thought less of him, as a man, because of that, and the story changed to, “Well these days, I sleep with other women, but my wife doesn’t sleep with other men”. How do you spell bollocks? Where can I go for honest, unbiased data? Shortly after this, my internet pal became hostile and abusive, I think, driven by embarrassment or a belief that his world view was superior to mine and by inference, he was better than me.

Possibly the most believable article I found on the subject was entitled, ‘Why would you do that? (watch your wife with another man), by David J Ley Phd. He interviewed men of the lifestyle as part of his research for a book. He came up with 12 different reasons, from masochism and desire for humiliation on the man’s part, to the thrill of the taboo. He claims that over half the men in his study were driven by a desire for some sexual contact with the guy they invited into their bed to screw the wife. Now that’s a believable reason. Just lends weight to my theory that men that share their wives, would probably score poorly in the testosterone test.

QED