My name is James Dalton. Marianne, my current wife, and I met twenty-one years ago at a small soiree for her date, Mr. Mel Calvo, a gentleman who had just been promoted from sales manager to VP of sales for Riley and Bozman Industries, that, upon the retirement of his predecessor. At the time I was twenty-four, and proud holder of an M.B.A. in business from Wharton. I had just been hired by RBI, who incidentally are makers of various electrical components and computer hardware; it was my first company party.
RBI had been headhunting for a couple of assistant product managers and one such for a quantity control position. Though I'd had but limited experience working summers during my college career, I'd gotten the assistant quantity control managerial job based on my degree and the subsequent interview I'd had with Nick Bozman himself. It was he who had invited me to the party that night.
Marianne at the time was a refugee from the secretarial pool. Mr. Calvo had taken a fancy to her and asked her to be his arm candy for the affair. At any rate, after that night at the party, Marianne and I had become an item. We'd danced some, drank some, and talked a lot. She accepted my enthusiastic offer to begin dating, and a year later we were man and wife.
Our home life was good, or so I'd thought. No damn it! It was good. It really was. And, I thought, I really thought, that the sex had been as well. It was only later that I discovered just how illusory some of my thoughts were in terms of the sex part. But, more about that in a bit.
I progressed over time at RBI; finally becoming VP of procurement and quantity control. My division did all of the materials buying and all of the inventory control. I loved the job, and I especially loved the pay and the perks. The pay, allowed Marianne to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. Yeah we had children: twin girls Melanie and Barbie: both twenty now and juniors at—where else—Wharton. Marianne became active in the community, and her commitments kept her, and keep her, almost as busy as me.
At any rate, for the first few years the sex between us had been hot, then lukewarm, then hohum. Neither of us realized what was happening at first. When we did, our attempts to revitalize our libidos took the forms of fantasy talk and role playing; it'd worked for a while. But now...
I am sitting on the barstool at the wet bar in our den and reading the letter she'd left me. She'd done it; she'd actually really gone and done it.
I'd begged her not to. I'd even tried to bribe her: she'd always wanted to go to Europe. But, evidently not more than she wanted to take a lover and have me be okay with it; all of it, her ideas, the result of our shared fantasies. I was not okay with it, fantasies were just that and nothing more. The verbal warfare that ensued was not good. Eventually, she called my bluff. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
The whole mess began two months ago, a Tuesday it was. The mess the result of us deciding to go for one of our fantasies one time, that more or less for the hell of it. Tonight was a Friday, if that means anything at all, and I am alone holding her letter, thinking about our daughters, Marianne, us. My life is fucked!
I reread the letter for maybe the fourth time.
I have decided to take the bull by the horns and take a lover, as we—well I—talked about, and yes, it's Marcus Williams. I am not doing this to hurt us or to end us. I am doing it for me. I need it Jimmy. I hope you can find it in your heart to allow me this freedom. Trite as it may sound, I love only you; I love our babies; I do not love Marcus, but, I do need what he can do for me.
That one time, seemingly so long ago now, Jimmy, has made me need it. If we hadn't decided on me taking a lover so you could watch, well, we did and so here we are. I know we planned on it being a onetime thing, but well, sometimes things don't work out like we think they will. This is one of those times.
I'll be home around 10:00. If you're home and waiting for me, well, then I'll know we have a marriage and we can talk about where we will go from here. Jim, I hope we can move forward and continue as husband and wife, as mom and dad. I need you and I want you, Jimmy. Please allow me to fulfill this need.
Your loving wife,
I refolded the letter and set it almost ceremoniously on the bar. I went around to the back of the bar and found me a marker, a red one. I wrote my response on the back of the letter: NOT A CHANCE! She wanted me, she said; well, evidently not as much as she wanted her freedom. It, we, were over.
She was right of course, at least in part. I had encouraged her to getting it on with another man so I could watch, and, so she could watch me watch her—in our fantasies it had always been a two-way street. It had been a really hot fantasy that we'd shared for years, among a number of others, and the time seemed right to just do it. The Man, Marcus Williams, was a sales agent passing through; and he seemed right too. He was here for a few days, as he said; he'd be gone forever after that—so we erroneously thought. I'd approached him with Marianne's tentative approval. I arranged a dinner meeting for the three of us.
After some shy-time where all concerned consumed a significant amount of liquid courage, Marcus began flirting shamelessly with Marianne. It took a bit longer for her, but soon Marianne was reciprocating. Me? I was—what—an interested spectator. I will admit to feeling some negative vibes as Marianne began to more or less ignore me as the flirtations went on; but, I reasoned; and I was still able to reason; Marianne and I were in our mid-forties, Marcus was in his early thirties, too young for him to get involved with us to any significant degree. Again, that was my reasoning. I was wrong.
Again, Marianne and I had engaged in so many different private fantasies, on so many nights, and never tried hardly any of them. It seemed to me that here was an opportunity to get one of the biggees done with no risk. Marianne, again, had agreed that so long as it was a onetime deal, that it might be a kick. So ... two months gone we did it.
Two months ago:
Marcus had showed up that first night, and in spite of the previously noted ice breaker at the bistro, he was at least as nervous as I was. I counted that a good thing. As for Marianne, she appeared—what—comfortable. I thought that odd as hell; but, what the hey, she was a woman; women didn't think like us men.
She'd made us tea. There would be no drinking this night, no alcohol that is. She was in charge, and she wanted everybody in full performance mode.
As we sat and sipped our tea, I noticed that she and Marcus kept glancing at me. I had to wonder what was passing through their minds. But, their words, everything they said to me, was clearly meant to allay any concerns I might be harboring. All in all it was a good beginning or so I thought then; now, is a whole different kettle of fish. After maybe half an hour of making ourselves more or less at ease, she sent Marcus down the hall to get himself ready; she came to me; I was going to get a reup of my marching orders.
"Jimmy..." she started.
"Well, here we are, babe," I said. "Wanna call it off?" I was kinda smiling, but it was a weak smile, I knew, I was becoming a little unsettled, worried. She gave me a condescending smirk and ignored my weakly expressed negativity.
"Jimmy, once again, when we go in there, you know what to do, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I sit and watch but say nothing," I said.
"And?" she said, clearly not satisfied with my incomplete answer.
"And I'm not to play with myself or to give—him—dirty looks or do anything to upset the apple cart," I said. She nodded.
"Yes, and after he's gone?" she said.
"I am to strip naked and eat you out, clean all of his cum out of you. Yes, I know," I said. I'd been cleaning my own stuff out of my wife for as long as we'd been married. Somebody else's? Well, how bad could it be.
"Yes. Jimmy, that's exactly right. I know we've been over this several times. But, I just wanted to make sure that we don't have any glitches. You know, so we can enjoy ourselves and get the most out of it as we can. You've agreed to become a real cuckold tonight, Jim, not just an imaginary one. We have talked about that too—a lot—and while some of it may be a real test for us, none of it should be a surprise. So again, are we okay, Jim? Are we sure?" she said. I nodded. "Jim, once again, this is a onetime thing, so if we are going to do it, go ahead with it, we need to make the most of it. Okay?" she said. She was repeating herself; I guess she wasn't quite as comfortable as I'd thought; she was nervous too.
"Yes, of course, and we will," I said. She pointed to the credenza by the far wall.
"Bring your cap. Put it on the night stand when we go inside. Once you have been cuckolded, you will have to put it on and go to your knees and stay there the rest of the while my lover is here. Okay?" she said. I nodded.
The cap was a conical thing. It was an exact replica of the old dunce caps of bygone eras; its sole purpose was to humiliate and chasten. But, instead of DUNCE being emblazoned on it; it had the word CUCK on it instead, again, same purpose obviously as the old dunce cap. She'd made it herself, sewn it, out of felt. When she'd first shown it to me, I was appalled, but, I had agreed to wear it as she dictated; it was part of the scene: the lot of a fantasy cuck was to obey, so I'd obey.
.... There is more of this story ...