by Tempesto
“Well, where do we start?” she finally asked. “This is quite the situation you brought into our marriage.”
“Yes, and I am sorry. I really regret watching Brenda and Samuel that day.”
“You should be sorry for that – and a lot more! What I don’t understand is why you didn’t turn right around and come home instead of becoming a freaky peeping Tom. Just in case you forget, you weren’t actually fulfilling your job in the bedroom over the last six months or so,” Christine stated.
Her assessment was not erroneous. In fact I had not been pursuing my wife sexually, certainly not the way such a beautiful woman deserved. I had taken to surfing the web when she was asleep and reading interracial themed erotica for my thrills, becoming more interested in masturbation than sex. To her credit Christine had been trying to ignite the bedroom flame between us, and I often just didn’t have the spunk to offer because of my illicit activities. I had slowly tried to reveal my increasing fascination with black on white sex by bringing home interracial videos. Christine had not been interested in black men at first, and when I hinted and commented that I thought it was sexy to see black men with white women she was cold to the idea. Slowly she had become more acclimated to the kink as we watched more and more interracial adult movies. I reinforced the theme by insisting on watching more mainstream movies that featured the familiar interracial coupling. So, I knew that I had been guilty of paving the way for my wife’s curiosity of black men in general, and for Sir James in particular.
“I know Honey,” I responded. “I don’t know what to say besides I know I shouldn’t have watched Brenda and Sir Samuel, and should have been paying more attention to you.”
“Well, that is an understatement. I can forgive you for watching Brenda and Samuel. And in spite of everything that has happened, I do still love you.”
“But,” she said in a stern tone, “we need to talk about my relationship with James. You spent the last few months working on me about black men. Then you go and offer me, tied up no fucking less, on our marital bed to a black man you didn’t even know! Did it ever cross your perverted mind that all three of them could have raped me? You left me totally exposed, unable to defend myself in any way, and all three of them could have done anything they wanted to me. Lucky for us that James is a gentleman, and didn’t force me to do anything. In fact he didn’t even pressure me at all. When he whispered in my ear he asked permission before he did any little thing to me. And you know what honey, he won my trust over on our bed because of it. How could I not trust him after he had me, dead to rights and able to take advantage of me, but still was a gentleman to me? How could I not see him as my man, my protector?”
“You are right, and I am ashamed of what I did,” I responded.
“That’s the best you can come up with?” she asked incredulously. “Well, I’m not surprised that you are ashamed. But I think it has more to do with regret because of James and I over the last week than the acts of betrayal you committed against me, AND our marriage. Do you remember what I told you that night?”
“Yes, you said that you were going to teach me a lesson on how I should cherish you.”
“Right!” she continued. “Then I encouraged a stranger to slide his hungry cock where yours was meant to be. That was what being married was supposed to entail. That ecstasy was SUPPOSED to be just for you! YOU changed the marriage by inviting that man to sample your wife and delivering me over to him! So, I just want to make sure that you understand that my relationship with James is completely your own fault. But you fucked up pretty good this time, because he is giving me all the sex that you were depriving me of. Did it ever occur to you that it was a stupid idea to offer an extremely horny, undersexed wife to another man? Because that’s exactly what you did!”
I sat silently, knowing that even though my wife had been fucking like a whore all week she did, indeed, have the higher moral ground.
“Here’s the bottom line, Ben. I am taking the right to date James that you willingly gave when you offered me to him. I really don’t want to hear you bitch about it. So, don’t bother. I really do still love you very, very much. But between feeling like you failed in your vow to cherish me, and my developing feelings for James, I need some time to sort my emotions out. As far as I’m concerned you need to prove your devotion to me all over again if you want any chance with me again. So even though I am taking the right to date outside our marriage that you gave me, I am not offering you the same freedom. If you want this marriage you are going to have to work for it. I expect you to demonstrate a level of pure devotion to me until I feel satisfied that you would never do anything like this again if I come back to you. If you really love me then you will just have to be patient and wait for me.”
“Oh baby, I do love you too,” I responded. “I know I fucked up, and I’m not going to bitch about you dating James ...”
“That’s Sir James to you! He demands that YOU call him by his proper title, and I expect that you do so also out of respect,” she interrupted me, correcting my breach of etiquette.
“Yes, of course, Sir James. I promise to be devoted to you while you work through your feelings,” I said.
“And?”
“And what?” I asked.
“I want to hear you say that you accept my right to date and renounce your right to the same!”
I put my trembling hand on her knee and said, “Christine, I accept your right to date, and I swear not to date any other women while I wait for you. I promise I will show you what it feels to be cherished. I promise to be faithful to you.”
My wife put her arms around me and gave me a very nice hug. I felt myself go limp in her sweet embrace.
“Good, I really feel like it was important for you to say it out loud – to actually verbally SAY it. I gladly accept your sacrifice Ben! Even though it is all your fault, I know this isn’t easy on you,” she whispered in a sympathetic voice.
Then she removed her wedding bands and returned them to me.
“I will wear these again if and when you successfully prove your devotion to me and our marriage to be true. In the meantime I see no reason for Sir James to have to be exposed to the symbols of our marriage, especially when we are out on dates. He has a right to have me completely to himself and never need to answer questions that might come up if I wear your rings in public.”
The wedding rings were heavy in my palm, and were an indictment of my failure as a husband. As I looked down at them I stole a glimpse of the sacred shrine atop my wife’s thighs. To my relief her jeans betrayed no sign of a camel toe. Lack of that telling omen gave me a ray of hope in this lust charged hell of my own creation. I pacified my fears of the accumulating toll James unyielding manhood was extracting with the knowledge that some degree of Christine’s once familiar fleshy tautness still remained unspoiled. Hugged my wife again, I intentionally breathed her pheromones deeply into my lungs. The banquet of her exclusive voodoo-sex chemicals excited and nourished me, though the effect was not sexual. My manhood was obedient to her and submissively flaccid, though it felt awkwardly heavy between my legs. The soothing supplied by my wife was more of a spiritual reassurance, which was sorely needed. My concession to Christine to not dating other women was not difficult for me, or even a sacrifice. Since I had lost Christine’s sexual attention I longed only for her. She had become the ONLY woman that I craved.
Chapter 5
After that conversation with Christine I found greater strength in my capacity as a willing cuckold. The ability to deal with the humiliation of a husband in this circumstance is like discovering an unknown muscle, and as it was exercised it became robust. Sir James still reveled in his relationship with my wife, proudly having sex with her in every room of my home. I was not witness to his conquest of the house. But the smell of their activities lingered throughout the domicile, confirming the certainty of his exploits of territorial ascendancy.
One week turned into two. Sir James spent every night in the master bedroom with my wife
, and the pattern of the first week continued. They would have sex, and the only access allowed to the apex of my wife’s thighs was to lick clean her while blindfolded and cuffed. Though I was not allowed to see Christine’s nakedness, pulling her sex lips into my eager mouth revealed that her once tiny folds had enhanced elasticity. It was impossible to know that if this change was a temporary change due to the fresh pounding, or if long-term changes were taking hold of my wife’s respectability.
It was at that point in this saga that James cornered me in the kitchen while my wife was in the bathroom and said, “Christine just started her period today. It’s YOUR job as her husband to put up with that shit, not fucking mine. I’ll be back in a couple of days. In the meantime I want you to pamper her and take care of her. Consider it an assignment. I expect my woman to be treated like a queen in my absence. If she isn’t happy when I come back your pussy licking privileges will be revoked. I will call every day, and you will tell me when her period is complete. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” I responded.
A few minutes later Christine entered the room, with pale, drained pallor. I poured her a glass of chilled white wine to help soothe her stress. Taking a sip, she thanked me and returned the glass for me to hold. She sidled up to James and gave him a hug, seeking to satisfy the physical and emotional need for masculine empathy during her feminine time. Christine’s face was pressed to his chest as she held him and her eyes were closed. However, the look on his face exposed that the role of empathetic male was not one Sir James was suited to fulfill.
“Now, now, now,” he said in a consoling voice. “I’m only going out of town on business for a couple of days. In fact, I was just talking to Ben and making sure that he would take extra special care of you until I get back. Won’t you Ben?”
“Oh yeah. Don’t worry about a thing Christine,” I responded.
“But Honey, I really like to be held a lot when I’ve got my period. I just need that from my man. It really helps me feel better,” she pleaded with him.
I felt the stab of envy to hear my wife use the same endearing nickname for him that she often had used for me. In reality I suppose that it happens all the time, the next lover receiving the favorite title. Still, to hear it caused a quick, but jarring emotional freefall.
“I’ve got a solution,” Sir James said. “You can hug Ben all you need so long as you are both fully clothed and remain outside our bedroom. How does that sound?”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she despondently responded, “I guess that will be okay. But what I really crave is to be held in the arms of my man.”
“This will all be okay, and I will be back before you know it,” he responded.
“Okay Honey, I’ll be waiting for you,” my wife said starting to get emotional.
At that James held her tighter for few seconds before breaking the embrace. Christine walked him to the door, giving him a lingering kiss. They hugged again, during which he sneaked the opportunity to give me a stern look.
After he left, my wife came back to the kitchen where I was waiting. She took her wine glass back and look another sip of the intoxicating elixir. She wordlessly looked up into my eyes before walking down the hallway toward the master bedroom, closing the door behind her.
James did call and talk to Christine every day. During the call he would have her put me on and ask me of her status. He instructed me to respond in code words as to the progress of her menstrual cycle, keeping Christine in the dark of his queries. True to his conversation with me before he left, he did not see her while she was menstruating. Instead it had become my accepted role to deal with her changing and sometimes bitchy moods. Christine’s period is usually a stressful affair. My wife’s body typically aches her very much during the early cramping. The soreness often created emotionally driven, stormy moods that were unleashed on those near her. She usually took time off from work and prowled the house in sweat suits, alternating between spoiling for a fight and depression during that ‘time of the month.’ I had become acclimated to the vacillation between her angry, frustrated rants and sullen depressions whenever she was dressed in what I secretly nicknamed her ‘period sweats’.
The start of this particular cycle was especially polarized. During this one I also took time off from work so that we could be together. Neither of us commented on the significance of this period. But we both understood that her uterus was purging itself of any trace of my sperm. Every soiled pad and tampon I saw in the bathroom basket felt like the tolling of a doomed, distant cathedral bell. Those sullied dressings contained the last fleeting chances that I had impregnated Christine before Sir James entered our lives, verifying the failure of my lost opportunity. Her vagina was resetting itself, sanitizing itself of all the previous month’s events in that holy quarter. We both recognized that the last vestiges of my seed within her were dejectedly seeping out of her drop by drop.
Christine’s commencement of a fresh menstrual cycle was a palpable break in our physical union, but not emotional or spiritual marriage. The implications going forward were equally obvious and ominous. When these precious few days were over my seed would be permanently removed from her child-virgin uterus. From this point onward only James youthful seed would occupy her garden, undisturbed by any competing influence. Perhaps it was in part because of her heightened emotional state and my increased capacity to bond with my wife on an empathetic level, but I was positive that the arrival of her period felt like a break up for BOTH of us.
Ironically, as we were feeling rent apart by the implications of her period, this was one of the most honest, tender and empathetic epochs that our relationship ever experienced. I felt close to her in ways that were more endlessly profound than what can be expressed by my verbose ramblings. It was not merely the fact that was a better husband by physically consoling her more empathetically than I had previously in our marriage. In fact I initiated the chance to lay with my wife constantly to comfort her in her time of craving physical attention, spooning on the living room rug with pillows and blankets so as to observe James demands. We clung to each other in desperation of an uncertain future. Every dribble that escaped her folds contained the remains of our former sexual union and represented another step towards an unknown destiny.
Early in her period my wife is prone to taking afternoon naps. I became obsessed with her soiled pads and tampons, and what they represented. It may sound bizarre, but I would go to the bathroom and examine them when she slept. Knowing the implications of the evidence before me – that her womanhood was biologically cleaning itself to be pure for her new man – they became borderline pornographic in meaning. I started to masturbate seeing the evidence of the preparation of Christine’s body to entice her virile lover with its quiescent fertile potential.
I performed the husbandly duties of support for my wife during this menstrual period better than ever before in our marriage. My potential as a mate showed breathtaking improvement as I found more capacity for understanding, empathetic, and sympathetic attunement to my wife’s needs far beyond the false boundaries that my prior performance suggested. Certainly, the experience of having been cuckolded helped me connect with my feminine side, assisting me in my becoming a mate of enhanced ability. I even found greater skill at weathering the occasional storms of her menstrual cramp fueled fits of anger through my increased capacity to yield and submit. Several times Christine was resentful of James obvious avoidance when she openly expressed to him that his presence was expected. It was hard to resist the opportunity to try and expand the schism during her rage. But I experientially knew that my wife’s fury during her period is fierce but short lived, and usually shadowed by thoughtful sullenness. Attempting to interfere with her relationship then would be a transparent attempt, and likely to later incite anger towards me.
Christine became more emotionally composed as her ‘monthly friend’ eclipsed day three. The intensity of her anger’s flare began to mellow. On the fourth day she didn’t take
a nap, initiating apprehension in me and making it impossible for me to savor my afternoon masturbation. Late that night I checked the bathroom wastebasket and found confirmation of the root of my anxiety. The flow of her period was markedly decreasing. The evidence that Christine’s body was nearly done removing the concluding traces of my existing seed from within stung cruelly. I stroked my manhood furiously but was unable to find erotic peak. My balls were heavy with sperm, but the implications of the sight before me – that James would soon return and have my wife’s womanhood pure, spotless and clean – distressed me. Knowing my time of being able to hold Christine was closing started to depress me, and I was unable to reach orgasm. I felt love and yearning for my wife, but knew these feelings were useless and futile given the certainty of the near future.
During day five of her period Christine became increasingly physically distant, turning down my offer to spoon in the living room. She did give me a deep hug though. Throughout these precious days I seized the opportunity to be near her, immersing my lungs with her chemistry. Intentionally I enslaved my biological chemistry to the black magic spell of her pheromones, knowing that the sands were running out of the hourglass. I was gripped with desire to capture this woman’s essence and craved that it merge into my blood and impart its dependence-creating energy as an internal, refreshing spring. I instinctively knew that her hormones within me were essential medicine required to deal with the jealous daggers to the heart of being a willing cuckold. It may not have been the bond I had sworn in marriage with my lovely one, but at least we still shared a bond. James’ forceful ‘Alpha male’ pheromones, and their ability to overshadow my union with Christine, were a factor beyond my control. But through immersing myself in Christine’s love-chemistry I satisfied my hunger for a bond with her, even though it was a subservient one.
I did a secret progress check of the bathroom wastebasket and predictably found that the once crimson drops were barely perceptible. Her body was virtually finished scrubbing my wife of the last traces of my spirit. My testicles felt tightened in the knowledge that her garden was cultivated and ready for masculine attention. I was unable achieve an erection knowing that her flower was on the verge of blooming for another man. A clouded pall of depression set over me, knowing what would soon transpire.