Broken Vows - a Cuckold Story
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Part 1
Fiction Sex Story: Part 1 - I held a series of polls for my 184k followers on X.com asking what type of original story I should write next and the results were that they wanted me to write a cuckold story, featuring a shy/reserved wife and the husband is cuckolded by a coworker/boss. I feel the boss dynamic has been done so much I would try a different spin, though for people who enjoy this genre I am sure you will see similar beats as you find in other stories. This is the introduction and I hope it will be enjoyed!
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Sharing Wife Watching DomSub MaleDom Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism
Chapter 1: Noises
The bang yanked me out of my fitful sleep so hard my shoulder hit the headboard and the impact traveled down my arm. For a second I was not sure where I was. The room didn’t make sense; it was too dark. The air felt still and slightly cool against my bare chest. The bed was empty beside me. My hand went for my phone and struck empty wood—the nightstand was on the wrong side. Then it registered I was in the downstairs guest room and everything flooded back to me in a cold hard wave.
I found my phone on the floor. The screen lit the dark; my eyes burned and were red and blurry. 3:48 a.m. My mouth tasted stale. This was the fourth time I had been woken up, and considering how hard and long it had taken me to fall asleep each time, it all added up to almost no sleep.
I had actually passed out around 10:30 p.m. mostly from the booze. I had ended up in the spare bedroom, confused, depressed, and yet strangely excited over what I had witnessed. I had so many conflicting emotions rushing through me when I had closed the door and laid down on the bed I had thought sleep would never come, but it had almost immediately.
The first time I was woken by the noise was just before midnight. It had been a single hard crack that I’d half-convinced myself was just the house, until the other noises had followed and I couldn’t explain them away. The second time was around one-thirty, and it had lasted longer. My stomach tightened; fear and apprehension sat heavy in my chest, and each louder noise raised my concern. The third time I’d been woken I was already half-hard and listened until the rhythm slowed. Every time the same sequence: a sharp impact, then the steady, heavy thump of the headboard against the shared wall with the master bedroom upstairs, then her voice.
It started again. Thump. Thump. Thump. Not random. The frame upstairs protesting with every stroke. I lay still and felt the vibration travel through the mattress into my back. Then the sound changed and a low moan rolled through the drywall, muffled but clear enough that I could hear the catch in her breath. Almost careful at first, just like the times before. I knew it would not stay careful. I hadn’t expected the walls to carry sound this clearly, but the increasing moans continued to reach me and then I heard her voice.
“Oh my God. It feels ... it feels — so good. Please— please — don’t stop—oh my God—I’m going to cum—”
Sarah.
My stomach dropped and I felt queasy. That was my wife, the woman I loved with every fiber of my being, the mother of my children, my life partner, my soulmate. The same voice that had told me she would love me forever on our wedding day. The same voice that had mostly stayed quiet even when she came—tight little gasps against my shoulder or my mouth. She was not quiet now.
“Wha ... What are you doing to me — Oh my God I can’t stop — I can’t —I’m going to cum again—”
The words stretched and cracked. Behind them the steady slap of the headboard kept time and, under that, the wetter, softer sound of skin meeting skin. I recognized the pitch of her orgasm. I’d given her plenty over the past 12 years but never like this. Never that loud. Never with her begging and sounding like she was being driven through it and still wanting more. The vibration in the wall matched the rhythm. I could feel it in my palm when I pressed my hand flat against the drywall.
I sat up. The sheet was twisted and damp where I’d been sweating. My cock was already rigid, aching, a small wet spot already forming on the front of my boxers. I hated how fast it happened. For a second—the millionth time that night—I thought about going upstairs and putting a stop to it. Opening the door and saying her name. Ending it and taking her back. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet hit cold floor. I stood with my hand on the doorknob, heart hammering hard enough that I felt it in my throat, and listened to her moan again. Longer this time, louder. The kind of sound that meant she was still cumming or cumming again. She was still being fucked and the more I could sense her pleasure, the more the thought of stopping it started to feel selfish and distant.
I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The house was dark except for the thin strip of light under the master bedroom door at the top of the stairs. The kids were not here; they were staying with “Auntie Roxie” tonight. It was supposed to be a night for Sarah and me to reconnect. How had things turned so sideways? I climbed the stairs slowly. One hand on the banister. Bare feet silent on the carpet. Every step made the sounds clearer. The wet slap grew sharper. The creak of the bed frame grew louder. Her voice climbed higher, less controlled, breaking on the edges. By the time I reached the middle of the stairs, my cock was throbbing so hard the head rubbed against the cotton of my boxers with every step. The closer I got, the louder she became, and the more the idea of walking in and ending it slipped away. I wasn’t thinking about stopping anything. I was thinking about how good she sounded. How wrecked. How the wet sounds kept getting wetter.
At the top landing I stopped. The master bedroom door was shut and a thin strip of light showed under it. I put my ear to the wood. The vibration of the headboard slamming traveled straight into my cheek and down my jaw. Inside, I could hear his voice —low, steady and talking to her while he was fucking her.
“That’s it, my little slut. Take it, take it all. You love this cock, don’t you? You dirty little girl, you’re soaking my dick again.”
I had never used language like that with Sarah. Not once. I would have thought the words would disgust her or at the very least upset her enough to end whatever what happening. Instead her moans climbed higher. A whimper broke into a shaky, almost angry cry. She sounded even more excited. The wet sounds got louder, slicker, the unmistakable noise of a cock moving in and out of a very wet pussy. She was dripping. She was loving every filthy word. I could hear the rhythm change when he slowed, then drove in hard again.
“This is what you needed, isn’t it? A man to take control?”
She did not argue with him; she only whimpered, and her moans were louder, the sounds of their sex wetter, more urgent.
“That’s right, you needy little slut, push back on my cock. Fuck yourself on me and get yours.”
A sharp slap cracked through the door. Skin on skin. Then another, harder. The sound was clean and loud. “Yeah, push that ass back. Take every fucking inch. You like getting fucked like this, don’t you?”
I knew from how the impacts of his hands landed on her ass and the way the bed frame protested that he was taking her from behind. She almost never let me do that. She said it felt too exposed. Once or twice a year if I’d been patient and she’d had wine, and even then she kept her face turned away. But for this man she was not only allowing it; she was pushing back and taking the slaps while she moaned for more. The headboard slammed in a steady, punishing pace. I could hear the wet slap of his hips against her ass with every stroke.
I shoved my hand into my boxers and wrapped it around myself. The skin was already slick with precum. I stroked slow at first, matching the rhythm coming through the door, feeling the vibration in the wood against my forehead. Then faster when her voice climbed again. “Harder—please—oh my god—please—don’t stop—I’m gonna come—” She was talking now. Begging. Her voice cracked. She came hard, the sound half sob, half laugh, long and shaky, and I came with her, messy and fast over my fist and the front of my boxers, forehead pressed hard to the door so I wouldn’t make a sound of my own. My legs shook. The aftershock left me dizzy. I could still hear the wet sounds continuing on the other side of the door.
The guilt hit on the way down, hard and cold. I was a failed husband. I was not man enough to open the door and end it. Standing outside my own bedroom with my softening cock in my hand and cum cooling on my fingers while another man laid claim to my wife and she begged him not to stop. I stayed there, ear still against the wood, listening to the rhythm slow but not stop. Her whimpers turned soft and broken. I heard a sob. I wiped my hand on my boxers, stood until my breathing evened, then turned and went back downstairs. I shut the guest-room door, got into the cold bed, and stared at the ceiling. The thumping continued, slower now, still going. My cock was sore and already half-hard again. The smell of my own cum was sharp in the dark. I couldn’t sleep.
How the hell did we get here?
Chapter 2: Iowa State
I met Sarah my sophomore year at Iowa State. She was a freshman, still raw from a breakup with her previous boyfriend James. Everybody who knew her had heard some version—he’d had cheated on her, she’d caught him in the act, it had been ugly. She sat alone a lot. She was blonde, small, pretty in a way that didn’t announce itself until you actually looked. I noticed her in the dining hall one night because she was sitting by herself with a tray she barely touched and a paperback open. I said something stupid and self-deprecating about the book. She laughed—a real laugh—and that was the first time I thought maybe I had a shot with someone who looked like her.
I was average. Five-nine, brown hair, brown eyes, the kind of face that disappeared in a crowd. My two older brothers had both cleared six feet early. Peter was bigger and already heading toward becoming the family cautionary tale. He was on his third marriage with kids from each wife. Alex was the golden child, the magical real estate investor in Florida and the one my dad told everyone about. I was the one who stayed home, helped with the yard, got decent grades, and tried not to take up too much space. Meeting Sarah felt like proof that maybe I’d been wrong about how much space I was allowed to take.
We started talking. We got coffee and walked across campus together to our classes. She told me about James in pieces. He has been intense, demanding and she admitted he had been good in bed but was not loving. I didn’t push. I’d only been with two girls before her. What I had was patience and the fact that I liked listening. By the time she told me she was falling for me, I’d already decided I was going to marry her if she’d let me.
The first time we had sex was in my dorm room on a Tuesday night. Her roommate was gone. Mine was at the library. We’d been kissing on my narrow bed for twenty minutes, her small hands under my shirt, my hand on the inside of her thigh. She was nervous. I was nervous. Just the desk lamp on. She pulled her sweater off and took off her bra. She had small, perfect breasts that featured pale pink nipples which already tight. I kissed down her neck, took one nipple in my mouth and felt her arch. She made a soft sound and her fingers slid into my hair.
I got her jeans and panties off and discovered she was already wet. I could see it, feel it when I ran two fingers through her. She gasped when I pushed one finger inside and a second. She was tight and hot. Her movements and noises were soft and urgent. I went down on her because I wanted to see what she looked like when she came and because I wanted her to feel good. I licked her slowly at first, tasting her, then faster when her hips started moving. She came with her hips bucking off the bed and her thighs shaking around my head, a quiet, broken little cry escaped her lips as her fingers held on tightly in my hair. I stayed there until she pushed at my shoulder, forcing me to stop because she had become too oversensitive.
When I pushed inside her she was still pulsing. She made a sound like she’d been holding her breath for a year. I went slow. She was tight enough that I had to stop and breathe. Her legs wrapped around my waist. We stayed in missionary, lights low, her hands on my back, nails light against my skin. I lasted longer than I thought I would. She didn’t come from my cock that night—she told me later she almost never did—but she held me afterward, sweaty and smiling, and said, “That was really good. I liked that a lot” and I believed her. We did it again an hour later, her on top this time, riding slow, and she came from my fingers while I was inside her. I remember thinking I could do this forever. She seemed to enjoy it just as much. We were careful, a little awkward but completely into each other.
After that we fucked constantly. Every chance we got. Her dorm when her roommate was gone or mine. The back seat of my car in the parking lot behind the ag building. She was almost always ready, wet before I even touched her. She liked it when I went down on her and I soon had found all her special spots can could make her cum with my mouth quickly or slowly if I was in a playful mood and wanted to tease her. She kept the positions simple—missionary, her on top, occasionally from behind if we were both a little drunk—but she was sexual. Hungry, even. She just wasn’t wild or crazy in bed. She did not want to experiment with toys and there was no dirty talk beyond the occasional “right there.” Blowjobs from Sarah were rare. She would do it if she’d been drinking, usually after a party, and she never wanted me to finish in her mouth. I didn’t mind. I liked going down on her more than I liked getting head anyway. I figured the rest would come. She was young. We both were. Once she got more comfortable, once she trusted me completely, she’d open up. That’s what I told myself. She never really did.
Chapter 3: Marriage and Nicole
We dated for a year and a half before I asked her to marry me. I did it on the back porch of her parents’ house the summer after I graduated. She cried and immediately said yes. We got married the following June. I was twenty-two. She was twenty. Her parents liked me. Mine liked her more than they’d liked any of the girls my brothers brought around. My mom especially. She pulled me aside at the rehearsal dinner and told me Sarah was good for me. The kind of woman who would stay by my side and I would never have to worry about. She was the strongly loyal type. Both families were happy. It felt right.
Both our families were church-going, even though both Sarah and I were not active. If there was any issue between our families it which over who would perform the ceremony. I relented and we used Sarah’s family’s church. The marriage ceremony itself was a simple affair. We both stood at the alter and took turns and professing our love for each other; our vows were short but pointed. She promised she would love me forever and stated that no man could ever have gained her love as I had and that she was looking forward to a long life together, just us and hopefully a family soon. There was a good crowd; both our families came, and so did all our friends. Even the golden child Alex showed up with a hot blonde on his arm and spent the entire reception talking about his latest deal with my father standing nearby beaming like he had won the lottery.