NOTE: I don’t like to read long blog posts, so as I began to write the story of Nick’s and my first cuckold experience, I decided to split it into three separate posts:
WARNING: Though parts of this post (as parts of the actual experience) are erotic, I am honest about how I felt about the experience, and not all of that is erotic. But again, the intent of this blog is to share what Nick and I learn about ourselves and our relationship through sex.
I followed Robert to his apartment, my mind filled with both anticipation and trepidation. I think Nick must have felt the same ambivalence, because he texted me several times, even called once.
Yes, I did text while I was driving. Add that to the “shame on me” list. When Nick called, I felt anticipation, excitement, a little fear, warmth and desire in his voice . . . all in the first sentence: “Hi, sweetheart. How are you doing?”
I said I was doing okay, a little nervous.
He asked me if I felt safe, told me if at any point I didn’t, to leave.
I said I would.
We both said, “I love you” and then, “See you later.”
I was both surprised and touched at the quantity of Nick’s texts throughout the night. They gave me the feeling he was with me. Before I arrived at Robert’s apartment, I received more texts:
Robert and I turned into an upscale apartment complex. He showed me where I should park my car, and I rode with him to the garage. We took the elevator up to the fourth floor. As soon as the elevator doors closed, he pulled me close to his 6’4″ body and kissed me. A gentle kiss first, followed by a brush of his tongue across my lips, more probing and passionate as he drew me closer, wrapped his arms tighter around me. As far as I’m concerned, a kiss is an excellent predictor of a man’s technique in the boudoir. After Robert’s kiss, I was wet with anticipation to ravage him . . . to have him ravage me.
We walked inside and he began to apologize for the kids’ clothes and toys lying around as he tried to pick up the apartment. He couldn’t have known the comfort that gave me–that he, too, was just a “normal” human being, a dad with two young children, yet, like me, was interested in pursuing sensual pleasures.
He excused himself to shower and I remember feeling good that he was okay to leave me on my own in his bedroom. I felt a bit awkward, wondering if I should undress and get under the covers. Would that be too presumptuous? Should I enjoy the pleasure instead, of his undressing me? I sought comfort by texting Nick:
Robert came out of his bathroom, wearing only a smile. I glanced at his cock, quite satisfied with what I saw, though strangely, not wanting my gaze to linger too long. Why? I’m not sure–something felt too intimate about lingering and enjoying too much. My intimacy belongs only to Nick.
That’s the dichotomy of this whole cuckolding thing to me, and something I learned about myself. I need intimacy with sex–need to care for my lover and have him care for me. Before this night, I’d only had casual sex once in my life, and it was one of the emptiest experiences in my life. So, with Robert, I felt myself on a tight wire, balancing between enough intimacy to enjoy the sex, yet not so much that I was sharing a part of myself that I only want to give to Nick.
Oh, okay. Enough ruminating. Back to the fun part.
I’ll admit, much of what happened next is a bit of a fog. The experience was surreal, and as I said, I didn’t allow myself to linger for too long in thoughts about it.
I undressed as soon as I saw Robert come into the room naked. He climbed under the covers, and I joined him, almost as if I was entering a sandbox with a playmate–I grinned, excited about sharing my “toys” with someone new.
“Can you wait one second?” I asked. “I need to text Nick.” Yes, that did feel a little awkward, asking to text my boyfriend just before a stranger fucks me, but Robert knew from the beginning that part of cuckolding is that Nick is involved, even if he isn’t there.
I put my iPhone on Robert’s nightstand and he hovered over me, kissed me passionately, but only for a few seconds. Before I had a chance to consider whether I would let him go down on me, his head was between my legs and he was licking my cunt. I opened my legs, fighting to let go of my inhibitions as he flicked his tongue lightly over my clit. Just as it began to hum, he reared up on his knees and rubbed his hard cock, just long enough to make sure I saw its size.
I swelled with the anticipation of feeling his penis plunge it into me. He rubbed its head against my wetness, teased me for a second, tempting me to surge up with my hips to swallow him whole. But I waited, let him decide.
I leave the real world completely behind when I’m intoxicated with sex, and therefore did not stop to make an important request before we proceeded. While at the restaurant discussing cuckolding, I’d told Robert I insisted we practice safe sex. He told me he was “safe.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “We need to use condoms.”
“Sure. No problem,” he replied.
So, there we were, in his bed, and he was about to enter me. Should I have stopped him right then and there? Said, “Wait just one dog-gone minute. Where’s your condom?” Or, should I, as I had in the past, comfort myself with the knowledge that he’d put one on before he came?
I went with waiting, feeling assured, based on his response at the restaurant, that he, too, wanted to practice safe sex.
So, he shoved his long, hard cock inside me, and I loved it, just as I always love that first thrust into me. He pushed deep inside, so hard I crossed the threshold of pleasure and pain many times, even pressed against his hips with my hands to keep him from plunging so deeply. Yet the pain, the fear that he’d go deeper, rip my insides, was thrilling.
I imagined Nick standing beside me and wondered what he would think about watching a stranger fuck his girlfriend. Could he–would he–really find pleasure in that? I felt a tiny pang of emptiness at that thought, but forced it back into the nether regions of my brain, instead focused on the pleasure of the fuck.
Robert thrust slow and deep, then pulled out and quickened his rhythm in short, fast pulses before plunging hard and slow again. Once, he put his hand on my throat and I panicked for a moment before he removed it. Though Nick and I play such games, I did not know Robert well enough to feel comfortable with rough play.
He repeated the hard and slow vs. short and fast pattern several times until he fell on top of me and whispered, “Oh, that was good. I came twice.”
What? I thought. You came twice? Without a condom?
I was pissed. But strangely, I told myself I could say nothing. I’d gotten myself into this “mess,” and I could hardly get angry with him now for not using a condom. Right or wrong, this is what I felt at the time.
Back on the shores of the REAL world, I’d left the deserted island of casual sex. I wanted to leave Robert’s bed, return to Nick’s warm embrace. But Robert rolled over, placed his head on my belly, faced the television to watch the Olympics ice skating couples competition.
There was something a little ironic about watching the grace, beauty and romance of couples ice skating after just having finished a good roll-in-the-sack with a complete stranger. And, it all felt a little too familiar, a little too intimate. Yet, that weird, obligation-duty-filled part of me thought it would be rude to say I had to leave. So, I reached for my iPhone for a little contact with my love:
I wanted to go home, but didn’t know how. I’m not experienced at this sort of thing–having sex with someone I don’t know well enough to know how to say, “Well, that was a nice fuck, but . . . gotta go now.”
Geez. What had I gotten myself into?
We lay there like that for about thirty minutes, Robert watching television with his head on my belly. Then, he turned over and started playing with my breast, studying my nipple as it hardened. I heard his breath quickening; he moaned a couple of times.
I knew what that meant.
He turned me over on my side and entered me again from behind. I love this position, the front of my body exposed, my breasts free to be touched and squeezed as my lover thrusts behind me. I spread my legs, inviting him to touch my wetness, feel himself go in and out of me.
He turned me onto my stomach and pushed deeper, the deepest he’d gone all night, and it hurt. I wanted him to cum so I could leave to go home.
And then, for the third time, he came. There was no thrill in any of the three times he came. Not like with Nick. When Nick cums, it’s glorious. Yes, glorious. It might be because his cries of relief let me know it’s glorious for him. It might be because he swells and I feel him explode inside me. It might be because I’ve teased him, made him hold onto his orgasm until he can’t hold it a second more, and then, I make him wait just a little longer. Or, it might be because I anticipate being wrapped in his warm arms after he cums, listening to him whisper a dozen sweet nothings in my ear.
There was none of that with Robert, nor did I want there to be.
If I’d been with Nick, he would have rolled over, holding me so close he’d remain inside me as we talked about a 1001 different things. Smiling, laughing, telling stories, planning what we’ll do the rest of the day. Or, perhaps lingering and fantasizing long enough that he cums again. Glorious.
Robert rolled over, his arm still around me. And again, I wondered . . . what now? Do I snuggle next to him? Do I get up and leave?
He asked, “Why don’t you just spend the night with me?”
Then, I knew my answer. No. No, I would not spend the night with him. Too intimate, and Nick was waiting for me at home. I wanted to get back to his arms, to feel his comfort and safety.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I need to be getting home. Nick is waiting for me.” And I got out of bed and started to get dressed.
He lay there for a few minutes, and I felt empty as I wondered if he’d even see me to the door. Finally, he got out of bed and pulled on his boxers. He went into the kitchen and got some water from the refrigerator. I was thirsty and anticipated an offer of something to drink.
There was no offer.
I wondered if he’d walk me to my car.
There was no offer.
“How do I get to my car?” I asked. I hadn’t paid attention to where I parked before we drove together to his garage.
“Oh. Just go down the elevator to the first floor. Turn left out of the elevator and go out the double doors. Your car will be right there.”
I have to admit, it was such a clear set of instructions, I wondered how many times he’d given them to someone else before. That, along with the fact he hadn’t used a condom, put my mind in a state of discomfort.
We said “goodbye” with a quick peck, and I felt the door close behind me. I won’t deny that I felt rather like a prostitute as I walked alone down that hall.
When I found my car, I sat there for a moment, thinking about what had happened. Then, I texted Nick:
As I drove home, I tried to talk myself out of the emptiness I was feeling. I knew this was a big deal to Nick, and I didn’t want to ruin our first experience with cuckolding by whining about how empty, how dirty I felt.
Still, I couldn’t help imagining what my dad would think of me if he ever found out what I’d done. The word “slut” kept flashing in my head . . .
She texted me at 7:23pm and said, “It’s done my love.”
I responded asking, “You’ve cucked me, darling?”
“Yes, I’m okay,” she replied. I asked her to text me when she left.
I soared. I could have flown to her. She was so bold, so mine, so wanted. I tried to imagine what had happened, picturing them, him inside her. I was giddy and confused with a mix of desire, excitement and joy. I couldn’t wait to see her.
I expected she’d text me in 10 or 15 minutes to let me know she was on her way home. I ran upstairs to take a quick shower. I didn’t want to miss her text. I quickly checked my phone when I’d dried off so I could respond and let her know I was about to leave. But there was no text.
Hmmm. Maybe they’re doing it again.
I shuddered at the thought and smiled. Maybe he’d really touched her slippery slope. Moved her and she wanted more. It turned me on. It did.
Yet my brain had decided she had fucked him and was about to leave and come home to me. Home to me.
I started to feel divided. Where was the text saying she was on the way?
I ate quickly and headed to her place. After 30 minutes she still hadn’t texted me. Why? What were they doing? My jealousy was rising, shoving out the excitement, clearing away the submissive focus, pushing away the erotic hold. I began to feel hurt, irritated and maybe even duped.
She’d been with him since 5:15. What were they talking about?
I waited upstairs in our bedroom. The spell was broken. I slipped from my submissive space. The pain was more than I wanted. I needed to text her, “yellow” (our code word to back off) let her know it had gone far enough, ask her to come home. But at the time, the thought to use our safe word really didn’t occur to me and even if it had I’m not sure I would have used it. Something wouldn’t let me. I wanted to bear it. It was me who wanted to be cuckolded. She wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want it.
I talked to myself. “Just wait, handle it, this is the deal. It’s what you asked for.”
But my mind wouldn’t let her go. I was in a battle with myself. Time slowly slipped past and my pain, anxiety and jealousy grew. After an hour—8:30—I worried she might be getting hurt or abused. Or worse. Still, I couldn’t text her. I felt gagged. Felt I needed to suffer this.
So I walked. I got up and went out. I needed to move. I walked through the neighborhood, and again, as I did that afternoon, stopped to check my phone every minute or so. I was hooked. There was only one thing I needed, beyond anything, her text. I wanted to know she was on the way back to me, that soon I would hold her, hold her as if we’d been separated for months. The wait became agonizing.
Of course she came home. I got the text she was on her way at 9:15 and all my feelings started floating away. I had no right to hang onto them. They lifted.