Reluctant Cuckold (45 page)

I wondered why in hell he had sent them. What was the statement he was trying to make? Was this a victory lap or adding another cherry on top?

“In case you weren’t already feeling low about what happened Dave, well here’s a few photos to make you feel even lower.”

Why else would he end the series with a photo of him with Ashley?

Jesus Christ
, I thought, the whole thing was a storybook.

Dave meets Mike, photo one …

Dave with Ashley, photo two …

Dave introduces Mike to Ashley, photo three …

Dave looks like the third wheel, photo four …

Dave’s no longer even there, as Mike has his arm around Ashley, photo five …

Yes it was chronological, but it seemed like Mike was sending me a message. The last photo felt like an exclamation point, as if to emphasize how Ashley’s pussy was now his, how far he’d moved in on my girl.

He might as well have thrown in a photo of the U.S. Open tickets, to remind me he was taking my wife.

He had to be sending me a message with that text. Just in case my imagination and memory weren’t enough, he was sending me the visual of how he’s inserted himself into my marriage and relegated me to the fucking couch.

I wondered if he was showing those photos off to his friends in Atlantic City, explaining how he’d met me online, sensed I was a vulnerable stooge, and fucked my wife in my bed the very first night.

“She’s super hot,” I imagined his friend’s saying, “and yeah, her husband looks like a pussy.”

After pacing and thinking for a while, I sent the photos to my email and enlarged them on my computer.

I stared at the photo of Ashley and Mike from the night before. Mike’s smile was completely confident. He had already fucked my wife two nights earlier, and he surely knew he’d be fucking her again in a few short hours.

Ashley also had to know that Mike would be coming back to our apartment, that my own bedroom would be off limits to me.

I looked at Ashley’s smile and the way her tits, propped up in her white dress, pressed into Mike. She would be taking his big fat cock soon and would have known by then that I’d be no obstacle at all.

I enlarged the photo further and stared at Ashley’s face and her mouth, the one that would be saying, “It’s your pussy, Mike.”

Oh God, Ashley.

I pulled up an image of a large cock and juxtaposed it next to the photo: Ashley and Mike on one side, the big cock photo on the other. Then I went under the sofa and grabbed the recorder.

I yanked my jeans and boxers down, hit play and began looking from one photo to the other.

It was stimuli overload—looking at Ashley posing with the guy she knew she’d be fucking in our bed a few hours later. And then looking at the type of big cock that Mike probably gave her last night—and then hearing the audio come on.

As soon as I heard Ashley repeat back to Mike, “It’s your pussy, Mike,” I knew I was about to lose it. But I knew she was about to orgasm and I wanted to wait for her.

As I heard her start to cum, I stared back and forth between Ashley and the cock and came hard.

I’m losing my freaking marbles
, I thought, as I yanked off the headphones and went for a paper towel.

I felt alone. Like in some kind of mental Siberia, Mon-freaking-golia, Ant-fucking-Arctica.

Why would Mike send those photos to me?

Surely he didn’t expect me to reply with, “That’s a really nice photo of the three of us.”

This was about Mike adding that additional cherry on top. It was a way to say, “I’m taking your wife out tomorrow and there’s not a damn thing you’re gonna do about it.”

Jesus Christ, I thought, this guy is going caveman on my ass.

For all I knew he was going to frame the photo of Ashley and himself—the one I’d just masturbated to—and suggest she put it up on our bedroom nightstand.

I thought of having a talk with Ashley. Perhaps I’d suggest she skip tomorrow night. At the very least I could reassert my love for her.

I was on the sofa zoning out with the TV on, when Ashley unexpectedly arrived.

Then I saw Tracy walk in after her and stood up.

“It’s good to see you Dave.”

“You, too. Beautiful day,” I said, “I just came back from the Park.”

“I’m just dropping my bags off,” Ashley said as she went into the bedroom.

“So, good day shopping, Tracy?”

“Yeah, we’re only half done,” she replied. “We’re going to hit up stores in midtown now. I really miss the city, Dave.”

“How are you?” Ashley asked as she came back and gave me a kiss.

“Good,” I said. “So, going back out again?”

“Yeah,” she said, hurriedly, “and then we’re meeting up with Tamara and a friend of hers. I can call you if you want to meet us.”

“I heard from Jack earlier,” I lied, “and he wants me to check out his brother’s band, but that may fall through, and if it does—”

“Sure,” Ashley said, “just text me if you want to, and tell Jack I said ‘hi’.”

“Nice seeing you, Dave,” Tracy said. “Sorry it was so brief, but if you don’t do the band thing, swing by.”

“Of course,” I said, and gave her a hug.

So much for a talk tonight, I thought, so much for a Saturday night alone with Ashley.

I went into our bedroom after they left.

In Ashley’s closet were new shopping bags from Nordstrom, Aldo, Zara, and Victoria fucking Secret.

I pulled out the pink box from Victoria Secret and noticed it was sealed with tape. I so wanted to look inside, but I didn’t want to disturb anything. I didn’t want Ashley coming back and asking, “Were you in my closet? Did you go through my bags?”

So I just sat on a chair with the door open, looking at her bags. What else could I conclude? These were her “fuck me” clothes for her big U.S. Open date tomorrow night. Why else would Ashley stash them in her closet? Inside those bags was some sexy outfit she’d wear out with Mike.

And whatever Victoria Secret lingerie she’d bought, well, Mike was going to see it before I would—Ashley’s own freaking husband.

I thought of how Ashley said they’d be meeting up with Tamara later. With Tracy there, I was less concerned. Tracy’s a conservative girl. There’s no way Ashley would have told Tracy about Mike or Jim Murta. If Ashley had modeled her clothes for Tracy, she would have assumed Ashley was buying them to look sexy for me. Tracy would essentially be a conversational cock-block to Ashley discussing Mike with Tamara.

Mostly I felt deprived of a Saturday night with my wife. It would have been a chance to dial things down, take a time out from the mind-numbing stimuli, and reassert myself.

But Ashley loves the U.S. Open. It would be hard to last-minute “no” her on that.

I went onto Craigslist and looked at tickets. I could get a three-hundred-level nose-bleed for $150.

But what am I going to do, trail them in disguise with binoculars in tow?

I was just going to have to suck it up and take the emotional shellacking. Ashley had a sexy outfit in mind, and Mike was going to be her date for the evening.

I saw the joint in the living room and in a what-the-fuck kind of way, I took a few hits. “Thanks Tamara,” I said aloud, “I’m smoking your weed, bitch.”

I’m in a strange mental land, I thought.

Planes are flying backwards, and every car is blowing through the red light.

The life that I had assumed, expected, and taken for granted had become infinite question marks. Reliability and predictability had picked up their bags and scampered away.

Jim Murta had taken a swing at that piñata, but Mike was taking a caveman club to it. He was standing between me and my wife—that colonial house and family Ashley and I had imagined together.

I played a song on Ashley’s iPod—some rap song from a British white guy, I believe. The verse/rap was about a pop star talking about losing it on drugs and booze. The chorus kept repeating as girls sang back to the singer, “You’re pranging out.”

To me the line meant, you’ve lost your shit, gone over the deep-end, have a first class ticket to coo-cooville.

And that’s how I felt as I figured out how to loop the audio on the recorder. I could select a starting point and then loop the audio to keep repeating that section.

I looked at the photo Mike had sent and listened to Ashley say, “It’s your pussy, Mike,” and came three more times as the night progressed.

I fell asleep on our bed and only later woke up—with Ashley sleeping beside me.

Ashley was in her gym clothes when I awoke the following morning. I wasn’t sure how I slept through her getting up.

“Hey there,” I said, “why don’t you lie back down with me for a minute.”

I saw Ashley look over at our clock.

“It’s not even nine,” I said. “I know you want to bang the gym out, but c’mon.”

“It’s not like I want to go,” she said, lying back down, “it’s just that I have to. I’ve only gone once in the last three days.”

I put my arm around her and she rolled over facing me. We began kissing, then making out. I felt goose pimples as she ran her hand over my back.

She pushed me away slightly, like she didn’t have time for this, but then joined me in the embrace. I felt her hand go to my thigh and brush against my boner.

Oh yes
, I thought as she pulled my dick from my boxers and began stroking it.

I tried to block out her words to Mike, but I couldn’t. We were in the same bed Mike had fucked her in. “I’m your horndog, my pussy’s yours, Mike …”

A half-minute later I came hard, splashing some onto Ashley.

She went into the bathroom to wash her hands.

“I’m sorry, Dave,” she said, “but I really have to get going.”

“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Thank you for that—you’re just so beautiful, I don’t know, I kind of lost it there.”

“I love you,” she said as she kissed me goodbye.

I looked at her ass as she leaned over the dresser —the way her tight workout clothes showed off her ass cheeks.

“I have some errands to run,” she said, “so I won’t be back till the afternoon.”

I had some errands to run myself.

It was opening day NFL Sunday and I turned on the pre-game show when I got home.

But in my head, the real countdown was Ashley leaving for the Open. Time was clicking down like the waiting for the ball to drop on New Year’s Eve.

Ashley returned at three, saying, “I have to skedaddle big time,” as I watched her strip naked and run for the shower.

When she came out, she was in her bathrobe. Her hair was wet, and she was holding her cell. “So,” she said, “Mike’s going to be in the area. He wants to know if he should meet me downstairs or if we’re up for having a quick drink here?”

“Which would you prefer, Ash?”

“I’m cool with either,” she replied, “but if he comes up here, I think we’re out of beer.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, I still have to get changed and put makeup on.”

“OK.”

“I mean I’m not going to be able to run out now.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Yeah, OK, I can run out.”

“Thanks.” She gave me a quick peck and went back into the bedroom.

What in hell am I doing?
I thought, as I crossed the street to the bodega.

“That’ll be thirteen-fifty,” the guy at the counter said.

“For a six pack?”

“It’s Corona Light.”

“Whatever—here.”

Within a few minutes of putting the beer away, the buzzer rang.

“Hi David,” my doorman intercom’d, “Mike is here.”

“Yeah, send him up.”

Ashley came hustling in still in her robe and said, “He’s friggin’ early. You guys have a drink. Tell him I’ll be out in ten.”

“OK,” I said as our doorbell rang.

He greeted me with a big smile and a “hey buddy” hug.

He was wearing shorts and a funky dark t-shirt.

I handed him a beer, opened one for myself, and explained that Ashley was still getting ready.

“How was A.C.?” I said.

“A blast. We have to go sometime. I lost a grand in blackjack in the first fifteen minutes.”