My Husband's Adventures

by Alex Hathaway

  But I’ll never forget that steely look in Allen’s eyes, concealed by his newfound meekness.

  “You be careful,” I whispered to her as she followed him out.

  Chapter 22

  Last I heard, Allen and Sirenna were both alive, at least, and on the West Coast, although we made a point of losing track of one another.

  I didn’t want to tell Jackson about this little encounter.

  For a while, I told no one. I went to work uneasily the rest of the week, concerned there would be consequences. I figured Allen was only in a temporary stupor and would wake up enraged.

  But Allen never did come back to the office. Rumors about what happened persist to this day, along with some truly wacky stuff about Allen’s sudden departure.

  My co-workers never heard a peep out of me. Well, except at a girl’s night out, when we were talking about the smallest penises we’d ever seen. (“I can’t believe you actually measured it, Corrie!”) But I didn’t say whose it was.

  Under duress or not, Allen did give notice, and I got my promotion. I even got his secretary. She’s been giving me some knowing looks and the occasional funny smile, but I’m not saying squat. Now my job is about proving I can handle everything on my plate. That I deserve this chance.

  Once I knew the promotion was official, I told the family. Chelsea gave me a big, happy hug. All I could think was, You don’t know the half of it, girl!

  Then I told Jackson the other half.

  He was almost shocked. But not quite. It was obvious I had been jolted into a change. He was all for it. Somehow, that bizarre scene opened me up again. Maybe the shock peeled my defenses away, or showed me how fragile all this really is. I don’t know. But Jackson and I are lovers again, not just sluts for each other. I can’t keep my hands off him, but we’re kissing like prom dates, too. I really should have a talk show!

  If you’re thinking I never let Jackson fuck another man’s wife, you’d be wrong. I’ve accepted that part of my fate—and his. But I did make some changes. First off: the husband always has to agree. He doesn’t have to watch—that’s up to him. Jackson doesn’t mind these restrictions one bit. He pretty much got his cake and his icing too, and that sweet son of a bitch knows better than to question his good fortune.

  Weeks go by as a normal married couple, but I always have my antennae up. Usually the wife is the one who approaches us, but not always. When it comes to female ecstasy, the grapevine is pretty powerful. But even if the wife starts the ball rolling, I insist on meeting with the husband on his own before anything happens.

  Some of the wives don’t like that, but by then they are already pining for Jackson. And if not, I know just what to say. They relent. And yes, it’s always married women. I think that keeps the whole thing cleaner. I remain haunted by Lisa, who was technically single; our friendship didn’t recover. I also find it incredibly hot to see the lengths wives will go to—literally—to get the sexual fulfillment their husbands cannot provide.

  Their urgency and desperation for Jackson always sparks our own sex. Watching husbands’ eyes glaze over in jealousy, frustration, humiliation, and yes, relief—that remains a fascination.

  In the year since, Jackson’s fucked five more wives. So, yeah, we’re still up to no good. But we pace ourselves. I don’t know how to express exactly how I feel about the situation, but I’m less compulsive about it now. If it started as a late night fix; now it’s the life we share.

  Don’t get me wrong—it’s still hot as hell. Nothing beats watching a wife get the best fucking she’s had in years. The ones who have never been fucked like that are the best.

  Recently we seduced a wife who is a local newscaster, so I can’t say her name. In her innocent sex life of four partners, she’d never had a dick much bigger than five inches. Her generous husband knew she was missing out. She had the tightest pussy Jackson could remember since high school. For once, he had to take it slow, slow, slow. But she opened up—they always do. I wish you could have heard her grateful screams. I’m touching myself just thinking about it.

  But here is the weirdest thing: if we do this the right way, it seems to make the marriages we encounter better, not worse. That may sound bizarre, or maybe self-serving. If you think so, there’s not much I can say to change your mind, I guess.

  One thing I do know: if two people love each other enough, they can make almost anything work. If they bring the whole truth, not just the convenient parts. If I pick up on any weirdness in a potential couple, we back off. I don’t want to tie anyone down against their will again. Nor do I want to make a bad marriage worse.

  I do miss bringing assholes like Allen down to size. But we have a strict “no jerks” policy now. I do let my domme side out, when I know the scene is safe for everyone. I tell the husbands that the only thing I can promise them is intense pleasure for their wives, and that they need to be ready for what that will feel like.

  Other pressures go away, though. The husband is off the performance hook. He is so relieved to stroke and watch and not try to do things to women his little dick wasn’t made for. And a well-fucked wife makes for a happier home; we all know that.

  If they face it together, they can have some intense fun along the way—and, as I’ve now learned, come out the other side the better for it.

  As for salvaging my own marriage, Brad actually helped me with that one. And that’s the weird part. As much as this strange adventure with Jackson brought our marriage to a better place, it’s my friendship with Brad that carried me over.

  With Jackson these days, sometimes I’m his wife, sometimes I’m his slut. Sometimes I’m his lucky bitch who gets to fuck what all the other wives wish they were fucking. And yeah, sometimes I’m his pro bono pimp, watching him turn girls into happy puddles.

  I finally got it through my exceptionally thick skull: Jackson is my gifted lover and companion; he’s not everything I need in a man. In Brad, I found something I couldn’t get with Jackson.

  I think Cindy and Jackson are both a little uncomfortable with my friendship with Brad, but we make a point of only having lunch and only meeting in public places. We found a hole-in-the-wall breakfast place that has a halfhearted lunch crowd. We can sit in the back and speak frankly.

  It’s usually not about sex; it’s about other stuff. Brad is just so open with his emotions. And he seems to understand my odd mix of badass goddess and little girl seeking comfort.

  I’ve made a point of being brutally honest throughout this little memoir, so I’m not going to tell you I have it all figured out. But I think Jackson and I are going to make it.

  Sometimes, when Jackson and I have a dispute, I look forward to my weekly lunch with Brad a little too much. I find myself wishing Jackson had the grasp of his own psyche that Brad has forged.

  Which brings me to Daniel.

  One day, about a year after all this went down, I was walking into the parking lot after a lovely lunch with Brad. I got into my car and drove, impulsively, toward where I knew Daniel lived—he moved back about a year ago, but we both agreed to keep our distance.

  Driving over to Daniel’s, I found myself wondering if he was single.

  Then I had the craziest thought: What if you got this all wrong? Should you have married Daniel, and let Jackson be your lover?

  It was a potent, distressing thought. I flipped on the radio but the Foo Fighters’ “Best of You” was on, and that only made the moisture turn into tears.

  Then I had that thought again: Should you have married Daniel?

  At the time, I had eliminated that option. Sex with Jackson was life-changing, amazing, and Daniel and I were flat-lining.

  But that was back when I assumed marriage came in one vanilla flavor. Now I knew better. Next came the deviant idea: The same honesty that worked between me and Jackson could have worked with Daniel.

  If I had told Daniel I needed other men to please me sexually and wanted to share that adventure with him, would he have agreed? Would he have been
open to it?

  Would he have loved me all the more for it? And would he have loved my dominant side, which I don’t exercise with Jackson but would have been compelled to act out with him? Would the honesty have been enough to spark us? I believe that it would have ….

  Dammit Corrie, if only you’d had the guts to be honest with him!

  The tears kept running as the memory of Daniel’s kind eyes lingered, how close I’d felt to him. It wasn’t that simple, of course. I told myself, You didn’t know then what you know now. But the missed opportunity gnawed.

  I’ll never know what would have happened to me, or Jackson, if Daniel had been home alone that day.

  As I drove by his corner, I saw him there, but not alone.

  A pretty woman with a small child was outside with him. It looked like the woman was trying to track down a wayward cat, but the cat ran up a tree and she slipped, muddying her sundress.

  There was laughter and … a kiss.

  Not a long kiss—it was a family type of day at Daniel’s place—but a kiss nonetheless.

  I kept driving. I would learn through a mutual friend that I had seen Daniel with his future wife and her son from a prior marriage.

  I don’t know if Daniel is happy, but he sure seemed that way, at least that day. I ran into him one more time, just today actually, at the same spot where Brad and I meet. I introduced Dan to Brad, who had the good grace to say he’d heard a lot about Daniel. Daniel looked curious—he’s one smart dude—but he left it alone.

  We only spoke for a moment—“how are you?” type pleasantries—but something did happen. As I looked into Daniel’s eyes, I could see a warmth, a forgiveness. It was a forgiveness I didn’t deserve, but I’m grateful to Daniel for finding it in his heart.

  Once upon a time, I faced two doors, each leading to very different lives. I took door number two. Like Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors, a part of me wants a do-over, wants to see the other side and where it would have taken me. Far from where I am now? Or would I have arrived at the same place?

  I would wreck my life if I tried to open that other door now. I’ll never know what it’s like to be married to a Daniel or a Brad. I wound up with a different set of marital tradeoffs.

  Just like Jackson has a gift for women, I have a gift for the husbands that come our way—a gift that might strike you as strange, cruel even. These are sweet, likable men. But they are struggling. Their liberation lies in embracing their submission, a certain kind of blameless inferiority that balances their strengths.

  Or so I tell myself. Granted, my tactics are taboo. But one thing I do know: when we have these adventures with Jackson, it’s not just the woman who is liberated. Yes, the woman gets a gratifying release, but I’ve learned something very surprising: the husbands need it more. And I don’t just mean sexual catharsis. Yes, the good-hearted ones love to see their wives in ecstasy, but it runs deeper: they need it for themselves. They got stuck playing “normal nice guys,” whereas I think their true path is both more submissive and fiercer. And yeah, far more intense. But you know that part by now.

  I’d like to think that I helped Brad pass through to a stronger, more accepting place. At least that’s what he tells me. It feels so much better to help Brad than to tear an asshole like Allen down. So as this confessional ends, maybe we can count that as my emotional progress.

  I hope I can reconcile my longing for kind/submissive men with my marriage. I hope I can be a devoted wife without losing something primal I crave almost as much as love. I guess I’ll find out.

  * * *

  Alex Hathaway, also the author of From Housewife to Cuckoldress: How I Took Sexual Control of a Marriage in Crisis and Education of a Cuckold, is fascinated by the erotic power of sexual taboos and the adventures that can be had by exploring them. An author whose relationships have evolved from vanilla to anything but, Alex has a particular interest in writing about cuckolding and the unconventional sexual fulfillment it can provide.