Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Fiction, Slow,
Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - When Gary Trowbridge invited Roderick Mason to have sex with Gary's wife Rachel to put more variety into their marriage, Rod could not believe it. Rachel was a fox, devastatingly beautiful. However, Rod had principles about married women, and knew Gary was making a huge mistake. Sure enough he was, and it led to more and more (mistakes that is)!
It might have been a mistake, but it wasn’t all my fault. I’ve had plenty of time to think it through, and I’m sure it really wasn’t my fault, though it did me a real favour – eventually. Some mistakes are like that.
It was Gary. That’s whose mistake it was, and yes, it was his fault.
“Rod, old son,” he said to me that dark cold March evening in the pub, “It’s a chance you’ve always dreamed about. Now you can have it.”
“It?“ I’m afraid I raised my voice, and other patrons glanced my way. So more quietly: “It is a She!“
“Ssh!” he said. “People are looking.”
“Rachel is your wife.“ I said more quietly and with exaggerated patience. “I always thought marriage was in some sense about faithfulness – you know – not going off shagging other people?”
“Look Rod,” he said with a show of almost as much patience as I had demonstrated, “Modern marriage is more varied, more flexible. Couples decide for themselves what they do. After four years of marriage and six years together, Rache and I want to have new experiences.”
“But you are saying you want to get her to sleep with another man! You want it. Does she?“
“She isn’t totally convinced,” he said, “but I’ve done a lot of research on this. Lots of men get a real buzz out of knowing their wives are fucking someone else – some other bloke is pushing his cock into his wife, and once the women get the taste for it, they love it. Variety, Rod, variety. She just needs to try it and she’ll be won over.”
“And what’s in it for you?” I asked him. “Do you get the chance to shag other women?”
“Well, yeah, but only if she wants me to, which she probably will.”
“So?” I was lost for words (except that one).
“As a cuckold husband I get to experience all sorts of things – jealousy, uncertainty, powerlessness, and a big erotic charge. There’s also the thing that while you get to shag her, she always comes home to me. I’m the one she wants to be with for ever. Just talking about it with you is getting me hard!”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it,” I said.
“If you go along with me you will get it!” he laughed.
“Yes – her.”
“I need to think about this,” I said. “Ring me tomorrow.”
I should have been more explicit, more definite. I should have said “No Way!”
Gary and I had been at school together. Gary and I were mates. Rachel was in our class, and she was gorgeous! Dark lustrous hair, green eyes, captivating face, long neck and perfect figure, and slim shapely legs. Gary was one of the lucky sods who got to date her. There were only a few who did date her, and none of them for long. She was clearly very choosy and could afford to be.
As far as pairing off is concerned, Rachel and I were non-starters – she didn’t look twice at me, and I never talked with her. I’m one of the average guys; her time, and probably she herself, was more than filled by one or two of the handsome, athletic jocks who clustered round her, trying to conceal their erections and their tongues
Gary was always winningly handsome in a roguish sort of way; still is. He did date her in sixth form, and they were together for a while, but it finished as teenage romances do; they both moved on to other partners.
Gary and I went off to different universities, and it transpired that Rachel went to a third. Then Rachel and Gary both returned to our hometown immediately after graduating, while I got a job in computing ninety miles away. They took up again, lived together for a couple of years and then got married.
Gary had a managerial job in a light engineering firm and was making good money, with prospects of rising to the top of that particular tree. Rachel was an assistant manager in a department store, and from what Gary told me was in line for a store manager’s job and more, further up the promotion ladder. He told me all about their brand new cottage-style home. It looked very small and cramped to me. In Britain ‘cottage’ means ‘cramped’! (It does mean other things as well, but not in this story).
After I’d been five years with the firm, it opened a division back home and I was offered a directorship in charge of customer support and bespoke innovation – very important in software sales – and a move back home. It included adapting existing programmes to perform different or extended tasks according to a customer’s needs, but was mainly dealing with helping customers with more complex problems than those resolved by ‘turn it off and on again’, or ‘try plugging it in’. I’m not joking!
I was very young for such promotion, but that was life in computing, everyone seems to get promoted young, and though I say it myself, I was very good at what I did, both solving problems and organising a team for more complex tasks.
The increase in salary and the share options were mind-blowing for me at that age, and I was able to buy myself a very roomy third floor flat with great views over a golf course to the hills beyond: spacious hallway, three good sized bedrooms, living/dining room, kitchen, roomy bathroom with wet shower area as well as a bath, etc. Each of the rooms, I reckoned with a good dose of exaggeration, was bigger than the total floor area of Gary’s and Rachel’s ‘cottage’. The flat was expensive, but now I could easily afford the mortgage. Life was good.
Gary was ecstatic I was back, and we took up again, though we only met in the pub or in my flat; I was seldom invited to their house, and when I was so invited, Rachel seemed to make herself scarce. Sometimes she would make polite conversation, you know: asking me how the job was going, that sort of thing, but she seemed distant and the exchanges were brief. They didn’t seem to invite people for meals. I laughed to myself that there wasn’t room to get everyone round a table in their dining room! I never invited them either.
Strangely it never occurred to me to wonder why that was. It was a ‘guy’ thing, I suppose: we were drinking companions. I had a busy life at work and socially. Gary and I had no real interests in common: he talked football and cars and I listened and commented. We also commented on the attributes of my various girlfriends, and he crowed about his sexpot wife, so there was plenty to talk and joke about while out on the booze.
So now, after a settled couple of years of regular drinking with him, I was faced with this new situation. I didn’t think very clearly if I remember.
First of all, I’d always fancied Rachel, but it was clear that she did not fancy me at all, and as I said, I never made any attempt to date her at school. I wasn’t sure she even liked me; our meetings were never what you would call warm or friendly.
In any case, Gary got to her first and mates don’t poach their mates’ women, do they? I must have told him he was a lucky bastard, though now it seemed he took that to mean I fancied her rotten, which I did, though very morally, hopelessly, and at a great distance.
So getting to shag the woman was very enticing at a visceral level: she was far better looking than any of the women I’d ever had. Come to think of it, she was far better looking than any women I’d ever seen. Realistically she would never go for it, and even if she did, morally I found the whole thing unsettling and frankly wrong.
Though she had a lively dating life in the last years of high school, and it was common knowledge that while she must have had sex, she was not ‘easy’ like some of the girls – the girls I went with. She had to date a boy for some weeks before they became intimate, and she was known never to cheat on the lad she was seeing. As a result only a very few, which included Gary, actually got to date her. I assumed she still had those morals and would not want to betray her marriage.
Finally, I was not short of female companionship of my own, and I didn’t need the complication of a married woman, even one as pretty as Rachel. While at university I did the one night stand routines, some of which extended into two weeks or a month.
However in third year, I had given up the casual liaisons and had two serious relationships. The first girl, Abigail, was hot. She and I had a stupendous and hyper-energetic sexual relationship, but that was all we had. We lived together in each other’s rooms in hall, but had few interests in common. Mind you, with all the sex we didn’t have time for much else.
It took us two months to realise that we were going nowhere, and finals were on the distant horizon. We parted without resentment before Christmas.
A month later I fell for the other end of the alphabet, Zoë. With her it was the reverse of Abi. We had everything In common, we had the same interests, the same likes and dislikes.
Though constrained by the need to prepare for finals, we supported each other through those last months at university. We studied better in each other’s company, and seemed to know when we needed a break. Sex was simple and loving; it had meaning for us beyond physical performance. We were perfect for each other.
The trouble came as the offers of jobs came through. I was offered the aforesaid opportunity I couldn’t refuse, about ninety miles from my home town, she had a similar offer but in Germany. She was a languages and business studies student, I was in science and computing.
We were realistic about it, took the jobs and parted with great sadness and regret after graduating.
After the bereavement of parting from Zoë, I buried myself in my new job, and made rapid progress. It was eighteen months later that opportunities for relationships began to present themselves. Nothing deep or serious – the girls were as career orientated as I was – and we had sex sporadically as recreation and fun.
Once I had moved and been promoted, opportunities for flings, one night stands or weekends, multiplied. I suppose the girls were attracted as much by the status and the posh car as my looks. In my mid twenties, I was not looking for a life-time companion.
So climbing onto my high moral horse was easy: Rachel did not fancy me, and I had all the female interest I needed. I would refuse Gary’s offer. He could get some other mug to tup his wife.
That done, I forgot all about it and mentally got on with the mundanities of life. So trusting! I believe the term used is blindsided. Yes, I was blindsided.
The next day Gary phoned me at work.
“Call by on Thursday?” he asked.
“OK,” I replied. “How did Rachel take it?”
“She seemed OK with it,” he said, though I thought I detected some uncertainty in his tone.
“OK,” I said. “We can talk about it on Thursday. See you then.”
He rang off.
Gary and I had got into a pattern when going out on the booze. I would call by his place and pick him up, and then take him back to my place where I would park the car and we’d go to my local. After an evening drinking, he’d either get a taxi or we’d go back to my place from where he’d get Rachel to pick him up. She’d ring the door bell at the outer entrance to the block, and he’d go down. She never came up; it was, after all, the third floor, though there was a modern lift.
On Thursday I had a surprise waiting for me. I drove up to the house, parked outside on the road as usual and touched the horn. I was not looking toward the house but ogling a rather pretty young woman washing her car across the street and wondering how she had managed to get into such skin-tight jeans, or how one would get her out of them, when the car door opened and Rachel got into the car.
The shock must have shown on my face.
“Rachel!” I said, rather fatuously. She looked annoyed, nay, angry.
“Come on Rod!” she snapped. “Drive. Let’s get this over with.”
“Sorry?” I said, still trying to cope.
“You? Sorry?” she spat. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re getting to fuck me, it appears!”
“Wait Rachel,” I said but I got no further.
“I said drive!” she shouted at me: by now she really was very angry. “Back to your place I suppose, or have you booked some seedy flea-ridden hotel?”
I put the car in gear and drove. I was starting to catch on. Gary had indeed blindsided me, probably realising that I would refuse if he didn’t pull a fast one.
He clearly hoped that her physical allure would be too much for me to resist. He’d led me to believe I was picking him up, and sent Rachel out instead. She thought I was in on his little plan.
It was a pleasant evening but only as far as the weather went, though it was darkening by then, so I drove to a favourite beauty spot of mine and parked the car. It was on a hill and overlooked the town, the lights of which were very pretty, though not as pretty as Rachel, even when she was angry. Up till then, she had sat in sullen silence, which I had been loth to break.
“What are you doing Rod?” she growled. “I’m not doing it in thi–”
“Shut up, Rachel!” I shouted over her. “Shut your mouth and listen to me.”
The astonishment on her face and her silence showed how much I shocked her, so I was able to get a word in edgeways.
“I was under the impression that I was picking Gary up tonight,” I began, “so I could tell him I was not going along with any harebrained scheme involving you committing adultery for his excitement.
“I just don’t understand why he’d want to prostitute you like that. You are gorgeous and I’m sure if it were me you were married to, I’d never want you to go with anyone else. Ever. I don’t think I could even let you out of my sight! You are more than enough for any man for a number of lifetimes. He’s insane!
“Then you get in the car and start slagging me off. I’ve done nothing Rachel, and I’m not going to do anything with you. OK?“ I sneered the last shouted word for emphasis.
She sat next to me looking at me with her mouth open. Then she became aware it was open, and closed it. I’d not noticed before, but she had perfect white teeth.
“But...” she began with a look of confusion, and stopped.
“He said...” again she stopped.
“You’re not...” and again. I began to wonder if she would ever get a complete sentence out at all.
“Rachel,” I said more gently, since she now seemed to be in shock, “I have fancied you rotten ever since we were in school together, but you have always been way out of my league. You never ever showed the slightest interest in me at school: you were into the football players, and Gary – the good looking lads. I never arrived on your radar, did I?”
She looked puzzled, and made as if to say something, but I was ploughing on.
“Gary talked about a chance I’d always wanted, now I could ‘have it’. I kept telling him you are a ‘she’, not an ‘it’. You are a woman – I have noticed – and you have feelings, and if you wanted to swing or cuckold him, you would never in a million years want to do it with me.”
She opened her mouth again but I was in full spate.
“In any case, I do have some morals, and even if you were to ask me yourself, which I know perfectly well will never happen, I would refuse you. You are married, committed, and should be faithful to Gary, no matter how stupid he is!
“Does that make my position any clearer to you?” I’m afraid the tone was sarcastic.
“Yes, Rod, it does,” she said, rather chastened. There followed a lengthy silence while we looked out over the beautiful valley below our parking spot.
“Rod, I never knew,” she said quietly. “At school I noticed you were always gentle and thoughtful. The other girls adored you. You were – are – clever, very clever. You have a way with words. I never knew you fancied me. I longed for you to notice me, to talk to me. I used to hear you discussing music, politics and chess and stuff. I learned to play chess because of you.”
Now it was my turn to be amazed.
“Oh?” I managed.
Another long silence.
At length she spoke again, turning towards me and taking my hand. Zap! Electricity!
“I’m very upset with Gary,” she said. “He’s been going on about this for weeks. I have no interest in other men, or sex for the sake of it. I had enough pricks at school and at uni, I don’t need variety – really I didn’t then either.
“Sex wasn’t that good usually, and it isn’t the ruling factor in my life now. I don’t think it is for most girls. Now romance! That’s a different matter. Doesn’t your girlfriend mind you playing around?”
“No girlfriend,” I responded.
“Oh,” she said with some surprise. “That’s another reason I was angry. I thought you would be cheating on your girlfriend. I assumed someone like you would be spoken for by now. Gary keeps going on about most of the men we meet. Here she gave a passable imitation of Gary:
“Oh, Rache! Bet you’d like him between the sheets!”
Another silence; it was getting to be a habit in this conversation.
“So,” I said at length. “Where do you want to go from here? Shall I take you home, tell him I’m not interested? What do you want to do?”
“Well,” she said, thoughtfully, “if I tell him you won’t go along with it, he’ll find someone else. He’s obsessed and I haven’t a clue why.”
I made a suggestion, “ Perhaps he wants to say to the other man, ‘You can experience my wife sexually, so you can see how brilliant it is to fuck her, but I get to make the rules and she stays mine. She always comes back to me. You don’t get her. I do.’ It’s the alpha male crowing over what he owns and what others can’t have.”
“Like I’m some sort of possession,” she said thoughtfully. “ ‘It’ instead of ‘she’.”
“So what do you suggest?” I prodded.