Monday, September 15, 2014

Don't Worry...

Things are fine, they really are, I've just been busy. Too busy.

Unanticipated busy at work.

Unanticipated closeness with Emily.

Unanticipated home repair.

Writing is an outlet for certain...urges. And as happens with me from time to time, when given other outlets, I write less.

But things are good, they really are.

Emily is good. Emily and I are good. Emily and Matthew are good. And Matthew and I are good.

That covers it, right?

And I know, I know, I write more.

So I'm a bad girl. Spank me if you must :)

Monday, September 8, 2014

Engagement Presents

He bought her a $6,000 ring:

She bought him a $200 cage:

Friday, September 5, 2014

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

I love practicing

Laundry Instructions

Hand Wash Only,
Cold Water
Dry Flat
To Pretreat Stains,
Soak In Sissy's Mouth,
30 Minutes

Some, not all.

I read somewhere (I read a lot about it because I need the validation that my fantasies are desires are real and healthy, at least for me…and Emily) that cuckolding takes what should be a marriage's biggest threat—infidelity—and transforms it into something that instead brings a couple closer together.

That's the essence of our experiences, both before (Evan, Dallas, Jeff), and now. Both in fantasy and role play and the reality of Matthew. I know this would not be true for many people, even most people, but it's true for us. 

Every time it brought us closer together, emotionally. Her dalliances with Evan, her teasing play out of town, even Jeff. Oddly, it brings us closer together intimately, too. 

Why? I have no idea what makes me tick—I can tell you my fantasies and desires, but barely understand them. The same with Emily. Our needs are unique, powerful, and difficult to understand.

But they are our needs.

Emily picked out my outfit first, wanted me to dress before she did. He didn't want Sara, not yet, but she thought I should still dress less masculine, disarming. She suggested I start with a microfiber camisole and panty set. "He doesn't have to meet Sara yet, but you should feel feminine inside," Emily said, "he'll get the mood."

"You're sure," I asked.

"I'm sure," she promised. She got a shirt and slacks from my closet. The shirt was a pink, trim, and while it buttoned on the 'correct' side for a man, the cut, the darting in back, made it un-masculine. The same with the slim cut wool pants, androgynous. 

"He may as well meet Sara," I said.

"No, love, there's a difference," she said, "effeminate, not feminine, emasculated. It sends the right message, doesn't it? Who's the man, who isn't?"

"You're cruel," I said in a mocking tone.

"Am I," she teased.

When I was dressed, Emily asked me to get her small travel bag, asked me to pack toiletries, perfume. I raised an eyebrow, afraid to verbalize what I thought. "Don't worry," she laughed, "clubs get sweaty, I might want to shower me, I won't shower after."

I blushed, looked away.

"That's what you want, isn't it?"

"I...I don't know," I mumbled.

"Because I can shower after, too, before I come home..."

"No," I whispered, quite only partially from shame, more from excitement.

After I packed her bag, she went to her closet, took out the black slip we'd bought, set it on the bed, went to her dresser, took out coordinating black panties, a new package of black, lace top thigh highs. "These too."

"Aren't...isn't that what you're wearing," I asked.

"You're cute," she flashed a smile, "I'm wearing it...later...I bought a dress." I had a surprised look on my face at that, too. "It's too much, even for a club," she said, touched my arm. "I'll do it another time, though, meet him at the door in lingerie, maybe in the fall, wear it under a coat and go surprise him."

"He...Matthew said to dress...risque," I said. ""

"Like his whore," she finished. "Trust me, love, I will, I will...I don't want Matthew, or you, wondering who I belong to tonight." She walked up to me, I knew what she was doing, what she was going to say, but the words still ran through my body like electricity. "I'm his whore, love, I'm Matthew's whore."

I moaned softly, grew in the cage. She hugged me tightly, her breasts pushed against me through the fabric of her satin dressing gown. "I want to feel him, love," she said, "the warmth of his skin, the heat he gives off."

"Emily," I moaned.

"I want to taste him, love, I want to take him in my mouth."

"Hmmmmm," I felt dizzy, jealous, excited.

"And I want to feel him inside me, bare, I want to let him do things only a man does to a woman." I pressed my torso against her, a hopeless, helpless gesture. "My poor little sissy...all locked up where she belongs. After, I want to come home. And tell you. And show you. And if you're a good boy...if..." Her voice trailed off, an unspoken promise.

" promised..."

"Hmmmm...if you're a good boy."

After she showered, she kicked me out of the room, asked me to take her bag downstairs and wait for Matthew while she dressed. 

I was nervous, pacing back and forth. I was anxious. I was excited. I was everything. 

I heard his car, looked at the clock, he was almost ten minutes early. I stopped pacing, started for the door, but didn't want to appear too anxious, took a step back, waited until the doorbell rang, lunged for the door.

"Matthew," I said softly, looking him in the eye, then quickly lowering mine.

"John," he said with a grin as he eyed me up and down, held out his hand for me to shake.

"Come...come in," I stood back, "Emily isn't ready just yet."

"I assumed she wouldn't be; I'm a few minutes early, I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Oh," I said, surprised, forgot, for the moment, the bourbon I'd gotten for him.

"So," he said as he sat in a club chair, "Emily's mentioned the device you've been wearing, the..."

His voice trailed off, he looked at me standing nervously, his eyes went to my waist; his tone demanded the answer as much as anything, demanded I name it, his silence reinforced my uncomfortable feeling and I had to answer. "The chastity cage," I said, looked away.

"How long have you and Emily been experimenting with it...with chastity," he asked calmly.

"For a..."

"Sit," he pointed to couch.

"For a few years," I said doing as he said. "On and off." I laughed nervously at my pun, he smiled.

"Who's idea was it?"

I thought for a moment. "I'm not entirely sure, really...mine, I guess, it's hard to remember."

"Who decides when you wear it? Emily, I assume?" I nodded. "And she decides when it comes off?"
I didn't answer right away; it was rather humiliating to admit my wife controlled something like that and part of me thought he would find it, well, revolting. "John, if you really don't want to talk about it, we don't have to talk about it."

"'s embarrassing," I said.

"Embarrassing or humiliating?"

"Both," I admitted.

"I'm not surprised," he said sitting back. Again, the silence was uncomfortable, at least to me.

"She decides," I finally said. "When it comes off."

"Thank you," he said. "I presumed, by the way. How often do you two use it...and for how long?"

I sighed. "We used to do it now and then for a few days at a time, we've started using it more often...most of the time..."

"And how long, John?"

"A couple of weeks to a month...sometimes longer," I said.

"Like now?" I looked up at him in surprise. "She said it had been awhile, John."

"She...we...we haven't since before the wedding, before she met you."

He nodded, almost seemed to understand. "Haven't taken it off of haven't had intercourse?"

"Either," I mumbled.

"But you're intimate, right? Just not intercourse?" I looked up, shook my head again. "I'm glad," he said. "About both. Especially when this is all new. I don't mind your intimacy with Emily, hell, I encourage it, but intercourse...that's a different matter."

"We hardly do that," I said, "'s rare..."

"Good, it should be. I mean, for the record, permitted, but very rare. Some things are best left to me, agreed?"

I did, that's the thing, I did agree. Totally. Some things should be left to him. "Yes."

"Good. But I mean it, intimacy shouldn't be rare, okay?"

"I...I know," I said, then chuckled.

"What's humorous, John?"

"I guess it's're encouraging me to be intimate with my wife."

"Of course I am. This is about the two of you, first. I'm an outsider. A very influential outsider, but still an outsider," Matthew said. "I get that. If the two of you aren't strong and if you don't both enjoy this, we'll all get hurt."

I sat quietly for a minute, looked at the clock. Emily should be ready by now.

"Can I ask you something, John? Two things actually, before Emily comes down."

"Of course," I answered.

"You know what she and I are doing tonight, right?"


"Is that what you want?"

I looked at the masculine man sitting in the chair in our great room, the man asking me if I wanted him to fuck my wife. Bareback, as they call it. If I wanted him to do what only a husband should do. If I wanted him to take her, fuck her, cum inside her. If I wanted him to treat her like his whore. "Yes," I said almost in a whisper.

"You're sure?"

"Yes," I said again, "I...I can't begin to explain it, but yes."

"Good. I have to make sure. Second thing?"


"Who picked your outfit?"

I blushed. "Emily," I said.

"She's a bad girl," he shook his head, laughing.

"Did it wrong?"

"No, John, it isn't. I told both of you I didn't want to meet Sara...yet...I mean...well...never mind, it's too complicated, let's go with yet. This is sets the right tone between, should we tell Emily we're done, then?" I looked at him...she knew he wanted to talk. He smiled, confirmed it. And on cue, like she'd been listening, I heard Emily's heels coming down the hall.

We both turned, I sat stunned at her beauty, but Matthew rose to greet her.

Here's the dress she wore (bought without me knowing...she's so bad!) with black platform heels and super sheer black nylons (Matthew, it seems, like a certain sissy, has a thing for nylons, though I like wearing them, he doesn't).

She looked stunning...the dress was short, and with heels, her legs seemed to go on forever. She was obviously braless, I the lace didn't quite hide the swell of her breasts. "Hello Matthew," she said quietly.

He walked up to her, put an arm around her, pulled her to him, kissed her long and hard on the mouth. She put her hand up, for a moment, as if to protest, but dropped it. I just stared, I'd never seen something like that, my wife, kissing a man, enjoying it. I'd say I was torn...I was torn...but I couldn't look away, couldn't protest, couldn't do anything but watch my wife melt into into Matthew's arms in a long, sensuous kiss.

Finally, he broke it off, she looked like she might fall over, but kept her balance and was embarrassed, either at the kiss, her reaction, or both.

"You...look beautiful," I said to her, wanting her to know I was okay...good.

Matthew leaned over, whispered in her ear, and she blushed. Whatever he said was their secret, though I may have guessed. "She does look beautiful, doesn't she, dressed the way I like. Do you feel pretty, Emily," he asked.

"Yes," she blushed, "but..."

"But it's more revealing than you're used to, I know," he reached up, touched her stomach through the sheer lace. "Does it make you self-conscious? Showing off your body?"

"Yes," she said, "I...I'm not used's...different."

"Good girls don't dress like this, do they," he said hand still on her stomach.

"No," she swallowed.

"John, I'd like that drink now, just a single-I'm driving-and a glass of wine for Emily."

I went to the kitchen, poured Em a glass of white wine, poured Matthew a single serving of the Blanton's Bourbon I'd bought. When I brought the drinks (none for me), he was sitting in the chair again, this time with my wife on his lap.

She was leaning back against him, eyes closed; he had his arms around her, his left hand was cupping her breast, his right was running up and down her thigh, teasing her through her nylons, moving higher and higher. I knew from touching her how excited she got when her thighs were played with, how she'd start shaking in anticipation, how wet she'd get.

I set the drinks down next to them, sat on the couch, quietly watching him touch her like he owned her...and the reality was, now, at this moment, he did.

She was breathing faster, rubbing against him; I saw her hands open, tense, she was close, if he moved his hand up slightly, if he merely grazed her, she'd cum. "Please," she whispered when his hand stopped.

He looked at me, spoke to her. "Please what?"

"Please...please don't stop," she said.

But he did, still looked at me, "I will for now, Emily, but I won't later, I promise."

After a minute he said it was time to go. "Sorry the drink, John, if we don't go now we might not leave." They stood, so did I. Emily embraced me, told me how hot it made her to do this, how excited.

More later.

Saturday night...and Sunday morning...

They went well. Very well. Like, fucking amazing well (like, ahhhh, release!)

I just haven't had time to write about them, but I will.

I was too busy Sunday and Monday simply spending time with my beautiful, loving wife.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Feel like his...

I'm excited.

We're dress shopping tonight, a date night.

Yes, our date night is shopping for a dress for her to wear on her date night with Matthew.

I know, it's strange, I know...only a sissy likes dress shopping with his wife; only a cuckold likes picking out a dress for his wife to wear on a date with a man.

I'm both so I'm doubly excited; there it is.

She must have asked me fifteen times yesterday if I was sure, each time I said yes and asked her if she was sure. I think we're both sure. Nervously sure. But sure.

We were sending ideas to each other this morning, inspirations, though we have to see what we can find when shopping.

I sent the first one, almost a joke.

"You like," I asked, "for tomorrow night?"

"Sweetie, if a dress could talk, this one would say 'you're not getting laid tonight,'" she emailed back.

"You're hilarious. Shorter? Like this," I emailed her a little black dress.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Better...a bit formal though. You need better inspiration, love," Emily said.

"So give me some," I teased.

"Fine," she emailed back a bit later. "Here. I think this sets a better tone. You know, leaving no doubt in Matthew's mind...or anyone that sees us...that I'm his."

"I don't know we'll find something quite that...skimpy, Em."

"We can try," she said, "can't we? I mean...he said go beyond what we'd normally go."

Right before lunch she emailed again. "I found what I want," the email said.

I looked at the picture. Fuck. "That's lingerie," I emailed back.

"Actually, it's not," she replied, "close though. They don't have it locally or in my size online, but this is similar, just as sexy...for club wear."

"Love the necklace, no?"

"Fuck," was all I could say.

"They don't have that either...but there's another option..."

"What," I asked.

"Instead of looking for a slip dress, just look for a slip."

We talked about it, that night, after we got home with a dress, er, a slip, how it made her feel.

"It's not how I picture you," I told her.

"I know, believe me, it's a bit...uncomfortable. When we went out last time, I felt like I was on display, like I was naked, even."

I heard the quiver in her voice. "You liked that? The feeling?"

She nodded. "With him...yes. It makes me feel, I don't I'm..." She paused, bit her lip.

"Like you're his whore," I finished.

Emily blushed deeply. "Sara, I don't mean to," she started to say, perhaps misjudging my thoughts.

"Em," I held up my hand, stopping her; she certainly saw my eyes now, the reaction to the erotic presence of Matthew. "Say it...finish..." She understood, her words didn't hurt, humiliating as they were, her words were the thing, the essence of the thing we were doing, the thing we both craved. "When you dress for him, how does it make you feel?"

She looked at me, our eyes met, I could see the wheels turning in her mind; she too felt the erotic charge between us that Matthew was causing, the intimacy he brought to Emily and me. "I...I feel...I feel like I'm his whore," she said in almost a whisper.

"When else do you feel like that," I asked. "When else do you feel like his whore?"

"When...when he touches me," she said, eyes half closed. "I feel like his whore when he touches me."

"And," I asked, "when else?"

"I...I feel like his whore when I'm undressed in front of him."

"What else?"

"I feel like...his whore when I'm kneeling on the ground."

I half mumbled, half moaned.

"I feel like his whore when he's in my mouth.

"What else? When else do you feel like his whore?"

"I feel like his whore when he fucks me."

"Em," I said, touched her breasts.

"I'll feel like his whore when he cums inside me." We were holding hands, squeezed them together, I was as hot as she was. "And I want you to feel like his whore," she half moaned, "when I get home and you lick me and taste me."

But I feel like his whore now, already, his whore, her whore. It's such a bad word, so, so bad, but so erotic, too, so fucking erotic.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Tomorrow then

I texted Matthew this afternoon, I don't know why, it felt like the right thing to do.

"Matthew, I'm glad we met the other night, it was reassuring."

He responded, quick for him. "I'm glad too. It's important you participate, that's what makes Emily happy, you know that...she's not cheating, you know that...this is very different."

"I know," I texted back. "It makes me happy, too. Participating."

"We talked about this, John, always understand I don't want to exclude you, just the opposite, I want to include you. Tomorrow...I told Emily I'll pick her up a half hour before we have to leave, I'd like to have a drink with you two first. I assume you picked up some Bourbon."

"Yes, I did. I hope you like it, I did some research, but I'm not a whiskey drinker."

"Of course not, it's a man's drink. Tomorrow then."



So tonight, Emily is dreaming about this:

And Matthew is dreaming about this:

And I'm dreaming about this:

I'm not sure who is having the best dream, but I wouldn't trade places with Matthew, even if she let me. (I don't want to admit whether I'd trade places with Emily or not).

Thursday, August 28, 2014


I was a bundle of nerves, of course, while he was calm, controlled. I'm sure he was nervous, too, but unlike me, he didn't show it. His nerves were channeled into dominance, mine into submission. Simply the difference between us.

He was polite, even friendly, from the moment I sat down, but in charge of everything. He interacted with the waiter. He ordered the drinks. He controlled the conversation.

As always.

"Before we talk about what you didn't tell me about," he started, "I want to talk about Emily and you…she seems happy…with this…but I'm not her spouse, you are, am I reading it right?"

I told him she was happy, nervous, but happy. Satisfied.

"Why," he asked.

I said she was drawn to his assertive personality.

"My little whore," he said, sipping his drink. I blushed, deeply. "That turns you on, doesn't it? Hearing me call her that."

"Yes…but she's not really."

"A whore? Of course not, no more than she's a slut. It's ironic, she's monogamous, of course. But I call her that, my whore, my slut, just the same, because in the bedroom she is."

"So she says," I said.

He picked up on the slightest twinge of jealousy in my voice, raised his eyebrows. "Does the jealousy excite you? Honestly? I want you to be happy, too, this is about Emily…but you, too.

"Yes," I said softly.

"I mean it, more than you might know…you both have to be happy. All three of us, really."

"I…I'm happy…but I'm nervous."

"Of course," he said, "I expect you are, but I expect it feels natural, too, doesn't it, letting a man take charge."

I looked down. "I…I was never good at that role."

"I imagine not," he said, staring intently. I blushed. Sara. He meant Sara. "Why didn't you tell me, I asked for you to be honest."

"I don't know…I guess I was afraid, I…I didn't want you to think I was…strange."

"I'm fucking your wife, it's all strange."

"I…we…we're afraid you'd…I don't know…run…flee."

"I get to make that decision, not you," he scolded me. "Besides, I told you before, I don't do competitions…I presume that means that's less likely to happen with Sara." I blushed, he smiled, pressed on. "I don't know that I'm ready to see Sara, but I like to think of you thinking like that when I'm around or out with Emily."

"I usually do," I said.

"Sara's submissive, I assume."

"Of course. I mean…yes."

"You seem to respond to a strong man as much as Emily, maybe more."

I told him it was part of the attraction, not just a man fucking my wife, but a man as a part of us, as a couple, a dominant man in our lives, not just her life.

"I'd like to be friends," he said, "I want to talk from time to time, too. I really do want you to be happy, this is about Emily, of course, but you, too. And I want to respect boundaries. Yours and mine. I get what you're nervous about, believe me, we all share that, it's important for you and your wife to be strong, as a couple. There are boundaries for me…your families, your friends, hobbies, vacations. Even the intimacy of your marriage." I looked away, my tell. "You two are intimate, she says."

"We don't…I mean…we are."

"But not sex," he said, "not intercourse, right?"

I looked down, blushed. "We don't usually…um…"

"Screw," he suggested.

"Rarely," I admitted.

"I understand that's a part of it, the whole cuckolding thing, that's one of my boundaries. Intimacy I encourage…she said you're very good a certain activities, I encourage that, but intercourse…"

"We rarely do," I cut him off.

"You're okay with that?"

"Yes," I said softly.

"Good, because except for rare events, that's mine."

We talked for awhile, I grew comfortable, though no less nervous, ate dinner.

When we were finishing, he circled back to Sara, the weekend. "I'm picking her up on Saturday, later though, like a ten. We're going to a club, then to a hotel across the street. There's no reason for modesty when you pick out something for her to wear; I want other guys staring at her, it seems to put her in the mood when she's shown off."

I nodded, agreed.

"I'll bring her home late, four or so…you don't have to wait up…I assume she'll wake you." I blushed, he knew why. "No condoms, remember, that's a boundary we don't need."

A deeper blush, a surrender to control.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Men don't ask, they tell.

The text from last night, no inquiry as to my plans, my availability, simply a command. I would have cancelled anything, anyway, as he full knows.

Matthew: You and I are having dinner tonight at 7. Pick a place halfway in between us and make a reservation.

Yes, we're having dinner tonight. My day is pretty much shot.

Monday, August 25, 2014


We were sitting on the couch in the living room on Friday night, both in provocative lingerie at Emily's insistence, not that I was reluctant in any way. After opening a second bottle of wine, Emily stretched her bare legs out onto my lap so I could resume the foot massage I'd been giving her for the last half hour. As minute after minute went by, I silently hoped she'd move one of her feet, slightly, touch me between my legs, but she seemed to purposefully avoid doing that, instead letting the sexual tension build more and more.

Finally, I said what had been on my mind the entire evening. "Matthew…texted me."

"Did he," she raised an eyebrow.


"I've been wondering when you were going to bring it up," she said.

"He…he told you," I asked, surprised.

"Only that you had something to tell me, a message. From him." For the first time that evening, her foot brushed against my swollen balls, the chastity cage, but just briefly. "What did Matthew want," she asked innocently and I had the impression she really didn't know.

"He…he said the test results are in."

"And," she sat up slightly, brushed against me again, eagerness in her eyes.

"All negative," I said softly. "And…"

Her eyes sparkled. "And?"

"I'm supposed to tell you that…that he said…," I bit my lip, "next time, no…no condoms." She inhaled sharply, my words repeating his, but the flush of her face was obvious. "Emily, he…he wants to…"

"Yes," she said softly, finding me again with her foot.

"I mean, he…"

"Yes," she said again, slowly flicking my balls with her toes.

"Next time…," I said, "Is…is…"

"Is kind of a big deal," she said softly, "is really a big deal. Is…is that what you want?" I bit my lip, stole a glance between her legs, she laughed. "You're naughty," she shook her head.

"What," I said, looked away.

"I know what you're thinking about, Sara, don't pretend, it's what you think about all the time, fantasize about all the time. No condoms…no condoms. A man's right, that's what he wants. A man's right."

"Emily." My eyes were closed, I pictured it, him inside her, his bare cock touching her wet lips, his naked cock pushing them apart, entering her.

"It's humiliating, isn't it? Emasculating, thinking of him inside me."

"You…you're incorrigible," I half moaned.

"Am I? I'm only verbalizing what you're thinking, love, how erotic it is to think of a man fucking your wife." If I hadn't been in the cage, I would have exploded right then and there, but I couldn't, didn't. "I want to feel him inside me, love, but…"

"I do, Emily," I said, knowing what she wanted, "I…I do."

"You did this before, with her," she said, half statement, half question. "When she cheated on you." I nodded, memories flooding. "And when she came home…and you…"

"I…I didn't know…for sure," I said

"But this time you will."

"Yes," I said, "yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes," I said again, "yes…yes."

Was I sure? Yes, completely, totally. I wasn't sure, before, what I was doing when I was cheated on; all I knew then was that it was an incredible turn-on. Now, though, older, wiser, more fully aware, it's something I want, something I need.

"Tell him."


"Yes," she nodded. "You should text him, he'd appreciate the gesture."

"Em," I looked down at her foot, touching me, rubbing me. "Can…can we…"

"I don't like when you ask," she said.

"I know…it's…been awhile and I…I really want to."

"It's difficult, isn't it? Being the only one who isn't…you know," she giggled.

"Yes," I said, "I'm not complaining…"

"No, I know. You've been so…patient."

"It's a turn-on," I said.

"Can you be a little more patient, love," she asked. "Just until…you know…after…"

I sighed. I knew what she asked, of course, and it made sense. "Yes," I said.

"It's better that way."

"I know, Emily, I know."

Friday, August 22, 2014

Test Results

"Log in," he texted, "the results are in."

I stopped what I was doing, logged into the website, negative, negative, negative...all negative. I expected as much for us, hoped as much for him.

"All negative."

"Yep," he replied.

"I'm glad," I texted.

"I want you to tell her something...John...remind her."


"Next condoms."

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Post Saturday

It's like everyone asks for updates and sometimes I don't want to give them. Selfish? I don't know, it isn't like I keep all this a secret. Part of it is time…it takes time to give updates, time to rethink it, time to relive it.

Saturday, Emily came home; he dropped her off again, didn't come in, left her to me, me to her. I was anxiously waiting, of course, the yin and yang of jealousy and excitement.

I didn't know what to say first when she walked in, what was foremost in my mind—Sara or what he did to her. But she stopped me. "Get changed," she said (I was still dressed as a boy), "I can't see you like that, not tonight."

I went upstairs, dressed for bed, dressed for play. Feminine, soft, sexy, flirty. Emily followed, was in the doorway after I dressed. "You make such a pretty girl," she said watching me. "That's what I told him, when he asked."

"He didn't," I said.

"He did, love, of course he did. He wasn't surprised. He asked how long you've done this…all your life."

"Did he…did he want to see."

"Sara? God, you're so predictable," she laughed. "I don't know, he didn't say, I guess we'll just have to see…why are we talking about this," she asked, knowing full well why. "He's never…he's not experienced in something like this," she pointed to me.

"How'd he react? What did he say?"

"Not much, love, I know you want more, but not much. He didn't react badly, but I don't know…I think he wants you to be unsure."

"He…he said we'll discuss it later," I said.

"I know…can I give you one clue about his reaction?"

"Yes," I said, eagerly.

"I'm sore," Em said.


"Sore…he…we…he did…twice," she looked down, blushed. "The second time was…I…"

"Emily," I...

She walked over to me, pushed me back to the bed, looked down. "I felt like his whore…"

"Emily," I was shaking, swelling.

"Before…on my knees…sucking his cock…I felt like his whore."

"Oh god," I mumbled.

"The first time," she touched my face, "riding him, I felt like his whore."


"But the second time, Sara, the second time…he put me on my hands and knees, pushed my face into the pillow, and fucked me, really fucked me. Every stroke made me shake, every stroke made me cum…that's when I was his whore, Sara, then, right then."

I was too turned on to speak, too ashamed, too jealous. But I wanted more, I knew it, so did she.

"I'm sore, love, I'm so sore…and I want you to be my whore now, lick me, softly, Sara. I love when you lick my sore pussy, I love when you're my whore."


There's no date this week…life…busy…him…us…

But he texted me, he wants to meet, talk, to me, about this, him, Emily, me.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Our Day, Yesterday

Yesterday was our day, Emily and me. Intimate time for us.

I woke first, made coffee, brought it to her in bed, where stayed for more than an hour just cuddling. Intimate time for us.

We did a few things we wanted to do around the house, a small project. Intimate time for us.

We made brunch together. Intimate time for us.

We took a nap. Intimate time for us.

We went on a bike ride. Intimate time for us.

We made dinner together. Intimate time for us.

We sat on the patio with a fire, had wine. Intimate time for us.

We showered together. Intimate time for us.

We read leaning against one another in bed. Intimate time for us.

We went to sleep together, holding one another, kissed and kissed and kissed. Intimate time for us.

Yesterday was our day. Intimate time for us.

He wasn't mentioned by name, not intentionally, but yesterday was our day. Intimate time for us.

What sissy little princesses dream of…..

Source | SissyNylons

Erotic? Yes. Why? Two things: 1) the ring and 2) the perceived glance over at her husband


Is this what we want? Is this too much? Is there too much risk? Is it too fast? Is he the right man? Is any man the right man? Should we forget all of this? Are we risking our own relationship?

Who know. Ultimately, I think not. We both think not. And that's the thing. This…not just Matthew…but this…cuckolding…a man…a more open relationship…these are things we both want, full aware of the risks.

I risk that Emily will fall in love with someone else, which would be bad, and that she'll fall out of love with me, which would be devastating.

Emily has a similar risk, that I'll fall out of love with her. That I'll be so jealous, too jealous, that I'll not see her relationship with Matthew (or another man) as part of my relationship with her, but as a betrayal.

We know this. Both of us. We are totally aware of the risks.

But there are rewards, too.

For me, there is the incredibly liberating experience of not being the man, because at times, the pressure to be a man for my wife is, well, overwhelming. Part of this, part of what I like, emotionally, is stepping back, as letting the 'maleness' fall away, of settling to a more subservient, a more submissive role. Emotionally, I do not like trying to be both man and woman for Emily. She wants, like man women, the strong presence of a man. I know this, I feel this, and sometimes I feel pressured to try to fill that need for her and I can't and it bothers me. I'm happier when I don't have to do that.

For me, there's also the incredibly sexual experience of having a strong man in her life as well as mine. Aren't we sexual creatures at our core? If so, I get strong emotional fulfillment when: 1) there is a man being a man, sexually, in our lives and 2) being the submissive sissy.

For Emily, of course, there is much the same.

But the risk…he breaks up what we have.

But the other risk…we're always missing something. Not something that just she wants-this isn't simply about my wife wanting to cheat, wanting someone different, wanting cock-but something we both want.

Saturday, August 16, 2014


Matthew: Seems like you were not 100 percent honest about your ideal situation...Sara. Seems like you and I have something to discuss...Sara.

Me: I apologize...we...I...didn't want to...scare you. I'm sorry.

Matthew: Do something for search...cuckold and many results?

Me: Lot's...I assume.

Matthew: I said do the search. How many results?

Me: About 2,920,000 results.

Matthew: You think I've never heard it before? I'm not mad, but we'll discuss this later. I have other things to distract me the woman sitting next to me who kept whispering in my ear all through dinner that she wants to be my whore.


There was a heightened tension when Matthew came to our home, a heightened awareness. I know Emily, the sexual lust was written all over her face, and if Matthew was any kind of man, he was totally aware of the way she looked, acted, felt.

They kissed, not passionately, but certainly erotically. He looked at my wife, told her how sexy she looked, obviously meant it. Emily smiled, even blushed. "I feel…" I waited for her to say the word again, but she didn't. "Exposed."

"I know," Matthew said, looked over at me. "You picked the outfit, John," he asked.

"Yes," I said, blushing.

"Good choice, this is exactly what I want, John, this is exactly how I want Emily to look and feel."

I felt guilty at my pride at his compliment, after all, she said she felt like a whore. His whore. "Thank…thank you."

"Matthew, would you like a drink before we go," Emily asked to my surprise. "I…I don't know what you like, we…"

"I'm a Bourbon man," he said.

"We…we have wine…beer…gin," I said, "we don't really drink brown liquors."

"I assumed not, John, that's okay, you two don't strike me as the whiskey types. I'd rather not drink yet anyway, we're driving soon. I'll text you what I like, though, you can pick up a bottle for when we stay here for a while."

I blushed at his easy confidence, his assumption he'd be back, that he'd be entertained at our home. Not incorrect assumptions, but not ones I would ever make. "Coffee, tea, water," I asked, blushing at the words.

"A glass of water, sure," he said, I left for the kitchen.

When I came back, they were sitting on couch, touching, snuggling. He had his arm possessively around her, his hand casually resting on the side of her breast, the other hand on the bare skin of her thigh. Emily was touching his thigh; she looked half ashamed at the display of affection in front of me, but when she looked up at me, when our eyes met, I saw the need, the desire, the hunger. She wanted him, was embarrassed, but wanted him just the same. For a moment, I wondered if they'd make it out the door, wondered if I was ready for that.

He saw the dynamic, took charge. "We should get going, Emily, the sooner we eat the sooner…" He stood, sentence unfinished, pulled her up with him. She kissed me softly on the lips, passion but no eroticism, love for me, not lust. Awkwardly, water glass in one hand, I pulled her ear to my mouth with the other. "I love you," I whispered.

"God, I love you, too, Sara," she said softly, too quiet for him to hear. "You good?" I pondered my response. Yes, of course, but…

"Be his whore," I said, released her to him.

"You ready," he looked down at her clutch, pointed. Em blushed, so did I, she nodded. "Good," he said. "Results come Monday," he said to me, "you understand we'll use them today, John; but if things are good, and I assume they will be, today will be the last time."

"I…I understand, Matthew," I blushed, jealous, excited at the same time.

"That's a ground rule, then, no condoms…after today." I thought my wife was going to faint hearing her lover, her boyfriend, tell her husband of his intent to fuck her, to cum inside her. "Something Emily tells me you're both looking forward to, John." Speechless. Utterly speechless. He wasn't though. "I told you I get it, both of you. I know what Emily wants, I know what you want."

As he turned, I hesitated, said his name. "Matthew." He looked at me patiently, I looked down. "What time…"

He smiled. "That should be a ground rule, too. I'll have her home by 1…maybe 2, no later."

"Thank…thank you," I said.

I meant the time, thanking him for telling me the time. He knew, but answered otherwise. "You're welcome, John, she deserves it. You both do."

Casual Date

She usually wears the top with a more conservative, high waisted skirt. Or the shorts with a less revealing, conservative top. Tonight, she'll wear them together.

For her boyfriend.

For her lover.

"I'm going to feel like I'm on display," she said looking at herself in the mirror.

"I think that's what he wants, Em." She looked down, bit her lip like I often do. "What?"

"I don't know how I'm going to make it through dinner. I'm saying this in a good way...if there is a good way...I feel like..."

"Like what," I said. "Are you sure this is okay?"

"Yes, yes, it's not's just not a nice thing to say, but I feel like...a whore."

I felt my stomach flip when she said the word.

"But his whore."

"Em," I groaned softly.

"I want to be his whore, Sara, and later, when I get home, I want you to be my whore."

"Jesus, Emily."

"I'm going to be his whore, Sara, I'm going to do what he says, whatever he wants. And when I get home, you're going to do whatever I say, whatever I want."

I grunted, "Em...fuck..."

"I plan to, love, I plan to. Maybe someday Sara can be his whore, too."

"Don't mess with me," I almost sneered.

"I know what you want, don't mess with me," she stuck out her tongue. "You want to be a whore, too."

"He...he might not like...Sara."

"I don't think he's going to have any problem with Sara, not when this," she touched her breasts, her stomach, "not when this is what's waiting for him."

Friday, August 15, 2014

Makes my mouth water, how about you?


He texted me last night. Matthew.

"I'm picking Emily up at 7 on Saturday. We're going someplace casual for dinner first, so when you pick out something for her to wear, it shouldn't be formal. Sexy, but not formal."

First...I knew what he implied by that so I didn't ask, I assumed, but that's part of what this was all about.

"Okay," I texted; when he didn't respond, I texted again. "I understand, she has a few casual, cute things."

This time, his response was immediate. "I didn't say cute," he texted, "I said sexy. And by sexy I mean risqué." I saw the ellipses, he was typing more, it took a minute, I waited, waited.

"Sexier than she'd normal wear, John, sexier than what she'd wear for you. Not safe, but sexy. Risqué. Daring. I want people to stare, I want YOU to stare. Emily is a beautiful woman, she has a beautiful body; when she meets her lover, that body better be on display. This is one of my ground rules, John, when she's with me she should be sexy, always. If I wanted a woman in sweat pants, I'd get married, if I wanted a conservative woman, I'd date a woman from church. Are we clear on this? I don't want her dressed the way she would to meet her parents, her boss, or you, I want her dressed to meet her lover."

I stared at my phone, hand shaking, finally responded. "You're clear," I texted, "we'll pick something sexy."

He didn't respond again. He's a man, men don't text like women. Men aren't needy, testing. He's a man.

I have to check with Emily, but I have an idea what she should wear, what she will wear.