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I stood at the window of my 14th-floor hotel room and watched an evening storm roll in from the west. I could have gone out for drinks with my clients, but honestly, I couldn’t wait to get back to this cool, dark room and immerse myself in the angst of my situation. The heartsick feeling in my chest; the turmoil in my gut; the dull and growing ache where the steel cage that I had been wearing for the last 24 hours was tightening its grip on the root of my cock.
The cage was the main reason I had chosen to drive to Atlanta rather than fly. Although, really, with all hassles involved in air travel these days, driving only added about an hour to the trip. But primarily, I wanted to avoid the security scanners and allow the cage to be a more-or-less constant reminder of the excitement and misery for which I had signed up.
I have a safe word. But I’ve never used it. If I ever was going to, this would have been the time. But the long, slow tease of the last ten days had rendered me mute, unable to do anything but concede to a growing acceptance of, even compulsion toward, my fate.
I took a sip of whiskey and watched the first tentative raindrops splatter on the window. I checked the app on my phone. My wife had now been at my father’s house, three hours in the other direction, since mid-afternoon. She had arranged for me to be eight hours away as I experienced the most intense cuckolding of my life.
It was hard to believe that it had only been ten days since this obsession had taken root. For me, at least. She says she’s been playing with the idea for months. Once she gets an idea in her head, she usually acts on it. She had teased me for two years about making me a cuckold, and throughout that time I leaned toward believing that it was all just hot marital role-play, even as I gradually came to hope that she would do it for real. Then, two years ago, she did.
It felt like the same thing was happening with her teasing about having sex with my recently divorced dad. The idea had never occurred to me, until just the weekend before last, when he had come for a visit. That first night, she had begun to torment me with the notion that she was going to go seduce him … or perhaps, that she already had. Throughout the disturbing, anxious weekend, I continued to be 80% confident that it was all a magnificent charade. She was so good at keeping me perpetually aroused that way.
But then, after he left, she had ramped up the titillation. She made pillow talk and role-playing around the idea a constant part of a week’s worth of daily sexual play. She could tell that I found the prospect both terrifying and irresistible. Then this past weekend, she had cut me off — a standard part of our play in the days leading up to one of her dates with other men.
Last night, she had locked me into my cage, and then invited me to get on my knees in front of her in the bathroom with a bowl of steaming hot water and a Parker Butterfly safety razor.
“Do you think your dad has ever seen a freshly shaved pussy before?” she had mused. “I mean, up close and personal?”
“I … doubt it,” I responded, gently spreading shaving cream up each side of her outer labia. She said she had got him to admit, last weekend, bahçelievler escort that he had not started dating yet since his divorce. And I was quite confident that he had been faithful throughout his marriage. It was one more thing about him, she had told me, that made him attractive to her.
“And I’m quite sure he’s never encountered one of these,” I added, touching the shiny barbell of her clitoral hood piercing.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she cautioned me. “No touching me there. Your job tonight is to focus solely on the external parts.”
I sighed and went to work with the razor, moving down in smooth strokes from the neatly-trimmed triangle on her pubic mound.
“Does it excite you to think that you’re shaving me for *him*?” she teased.
I sighed again. “Yes.” Of course it did. The verbal reminder just increased the discomfort inside my cage.
“Do you think it would excite him to know you had?”
Ummm. “I think he’ll be plenty excited without that detail,” I muttered. My head was already swimming with the image of my father exploring my wife’s most intimate parts, smooth and soft and fragrant with arousal, brushing her clit with his salt-and-pepper moustache, parting her lips with his tongue. And later, imbedded inside her, grinding against her, concentrating on the bright pinpoint of sensation where his pelvis was smashing her piercing up against her clitoris.
“You’re such a good son,” she continued, intent on making me wallow in my submissiveness. Right, I thought. Hallmark card stuff, right here.
“Do you remember the first time you prepared me like this?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” I replied, wincing at the grip of the cage. Almost two years ago I had shaved her for the first time before accompanying her to her appointment at the piercing parlor, then held her hand while a lean young man with tattooed arms and blonde dreadlocks had gloved up and clinically, professionally performed the procedure on her.
“You did great,” he had told her afterward. “And it looks fabulous.”
“Thank you,” she had replied, squeezing my hand again. I had been caged then, too.
“Now, don’t forget,” said dreadlocks guy. “It’s best to let this heal for six weeks.” At which point he made eye contact with me.
“Six weeks?” she had protested, although they had already covered this. “I hate to wait that long.”
I did, too, but I remained silent. She looked at me and said, with a shrug, “Well, you heard the man.” Then she looked back at the young man and said, “Perhaps I should come back in six weeks and have you confirm that I’m ready?”
The young man had looked at me again, this time, for the first time, knowingly. “I think that’s an excellent idea.” That was the first time she had denied me for six weeks. Six weeks later I had shaved her again, and brought her back; but this time she had had me wait out in the lobby while she went with him to a back room for forty-five maddening minutes.
I went into the bathroom and stripped, and looked with morbid fascination at the metal contraption that kept my penis restrained, and my scrotum stretched tight around my vulnerable testicles. It was a statement, a reminder of my bala escort powerlessness, of her decision to diminish my masculinity so that another man could benefit from being the only erection in her world.
The key was in my suitcase. She wasn’t going to send me cross-country with no means of emergency escape. She had placed it, though, in a small lockbox secured with a numbered plastic lock. I could easily get it out if I needed to, or even wanted to. Part of me wanted to cut the plastic lock, uncage myself, and masturbate furiously. But I knew that doing so would relieve me of the extreme arousal, and leave me with only the sickening regret.
I thought back to a few mornings ago, as I held myself up above her on my elbows in the moments after orgasm, gazing adoringly at her as she smiled slyly. “I can’t wait to be underneath your dad’s big barrel chest like this,” she had said, leaving me to process that with my blood-depleted brain.
She had placed her hands on my chest, fingers splayed open, and then run them over my now-trembling biceps. “His arms are so much bigger than yours, too. When is the last time you beat him in arm-wrestling?”
I coughed and lowered myself into her amused embrace. I had never defeated my dad at arm-wrestling. By high school I could beat him in driveway basketball, but I had given up on competing with him in feats of strength by the time I graduated from college.
“It must have made you feel very safe, growing up, being protected by such a big, strong man,” she teased. “I think your dad deserves to be rewarded for that, alone, don’t you?”
I just moaned. I had just poured out all my testosterone and adrenaline, and I was powerless to protest.
“I get it,” she continued. “It’s only natural for a boy’s father to be his first ideal of masculinity. What better validation for you, than to have your powerful, authoritative father … enjoy your woman?”
Then she added, mimicking my father’s voice, “‘Well done, son. You married a real vixen.'”
Well, *that* much was true, I had thought. I loved it and hated it when she psycho-analyzed me. No matter how outrageous her suggestions were, they always became truths for me.
Of all the explicit, lurid images that this cuckolding game had burned into my brain — of other men’s hands and mouths on my wife’s breasts, of fetid foreign penises pushing their way up toward her womb — none had ever overwhelmed me like the idea of that other man being my own father. The seed had been planted. It had germinated, its roots creeping deep into my psyche. All that was left was for it to burst through in full flower.
I went back into the room, poured another whiskey, and laid naked on the bed, keeping my thighs slightly spread to avoid giving myself an accidental ruined orgasm. I picked up my phone again.
I looked at the app, at the tiny map showing the “pin” for my wife’s location in my dad’s hometown, five states away. I checked again for texts, for voicemails. Nothing.
The weekend she had introduced this fantasy, I kept telling myself that I was 80% certain that it was all an elaborate tease — although the other 20% was enough to drive me wild. By now, the percentages had flipped. balgat escort I was 80% sure that she had gone to my father’s house to offer him her warm, inviting body.
Of course, that still left a 20% chance that her trip was just the next level of the charade. She really had gone there to help him paint his apartment, and to ratchet up my anxiety yet again. Maybe they were painting right now. Or out to an innocent dinner, where she was advising him on how to ask out the woman from across the courtyard.
But no, I thought. She’s told me in every possible way that she’s serious.
“I admit that I’m having an obscene amount of twisted fun with this,” I had confessed at one point. “But you know, if you … if we actually do this, we can’t take it back.”
“That’s right,” she agreed. “There will only be one time that your dad takes me for the first time. Until then it’s our game. After, it will be your new reality from then on.”
“So maybe we should, um, just keep riding this wave for a while. Just you and me.”
“No,” she stated, getting oddly practical about it. “Look, I’ve told you I’ve been attracted to your dad for a long time. But I never would have considered seducing him while he was married to your mom. And sooner or later, he’ll get involved with a new woman, and then we won’t want to mess that up for him. So, baby, I think we need to strike while the iron is hot.” Then she licked her finger and placed it on her hip, and made a sizzling sound.
So no, I didn’t think she was painting or out to dinner. The big question in my mind continued to be about their conversation, and whether it would take place before or after she had made her move and he had yielded to temptation, that she would assuage his concerns and his guilt by telling him why it was okay. Maybe she would stretch the truth a little bit, just tell him that we had an “open marriage.” Let him think that I was out there bagging other hot babes left and right, too. But I suspected that she would go with the truth, and explain to him what it meant that I was a cuckold. Eventually, assuming this didn’t end badly, he would figure that out anyway.
And there were so many ways for this to end badly. I wasn’t worried about Michelle leaving me and setting up housekeeping with my dad. I did sometimes worry that she would someday tire of me because of this fetish of mine — although she constantly reassured me that she adored my kinks and that we were perfect for each other, this particular scenario might be a bridge too far.
And maybe no matter what she told him, my father would be offended and appalled. He would think of me as a weak, pathetic pervert, and her as a worthless slut. That would no doubt be the worst outcome, for tonight and for the rest of our lives.
Well, she’s a grown up, I reminded myself, and she’s definitely the one who decided to play this game. She’s a big enough girl to swallow her humiliation and leave and go get a motel room. She could call me and we could talk this out over the phone, but I can’t rescue her from here.
Then I thought, maybe she was giving me one last chance to use my safe word, to wave her off, to call an end to this beyond-the-pale endeavor that she knew was causing me such inner turmoil. Maybe, just maybe, if I call her now, we can keep this whole journey as just a wild fantasy between just the two of us.
I considered that. Then I set my phone down on the end table, and watched the darkening sky as the storm began to pelt against my window in earnest.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
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