I Am A Cuckold

Looking back, I was a sucker. I was duped. I was probably the butt end of a lot of jokes with a lot of talking behind my back. I was a total chump. In short, I was several times the victim of a cheating wife. I was cuckolded and I did not even know it. But, everybody else did.

I guess if I had to characterize myself back then, I would say I was a bit arrogant, confident, and ambitious. I married my wife at a relatively young age. I had a short list of sexual experiences up to that point. My wife, by her own ambition, stopped counting the notches on her bedpost. I knew she had a reputation, but I didn’t care. It was true love happily ever after. Happy, that is, until I caught her cheating with another man.

It’s almost cliche in the internet age. I caught her cheating when I was trying to retrieve an email I accidentally sent to the trash bin. I found my email, but then I stumbled upon a short email exchange with a man named Joe asking how my wife was doing without the benefit of much sleep. I would later discover Joe was a coworker and the manager of a different office. That question alone was odd, and I probably could have explained it away. It was her response that set off a bomb of adrenalin in my gut. She replied, and I quote, “Very tired and very sore! ” The little wink symbol at the end pretty much said it all.

I was gone on a business trip for four days (left Fri night and came back early Monday around lunch time). The date on the email was early Monday morning. I just about checked every last file on the computer and found absolutely nothing else incriminating. I forced myself not to call her at work. I knew I wouldn’t be able to control my anger. Then, I started ransacking the apartment for evidence.

I found absolutely nothing. When I settled down, I got a little nauseous. I ended up puking airline peanuts and soda in the bathroom. Then I saw a bottle of perfume on the counter. I saw fingernail polish on the counter. It wasn’t messy, but it hadn’t been put away yet. I then got the idea to check the clothes hamper. In it I found a matching set of white lacy panties and bra. The panties were lacy in the back, and the bra was sheer lace around the cups. The bra smelled strongly of perfume and I thought I detected a faint cigarette smell. The panties on the other hand were definitely used and dirty. The crotch of the panties smelled of sex. It was stained around the vaginal area with a darker white discharge. Even though it was clearly obvious I was holding proof of her cheating, I put the panties to my face and breathed in the scent. I had to prove it to myself. It was definitely a mixture of sex, and I wasn’t a part of it.

Then, like a beaten man, I cried. It wasn’t a dignified cry either. It was a sobbing and agony cry. Clutching her stained panties, I doubled over on the bathroom floor and just cried. My wife of eight years, the mother of my children, was having sex with another man. I wasn’t there while they had sex, but I my mind sure was. I saw my my wife being ridden doggie style, on her back, on top. I saw her on her knees giving head to him. I saw him going down on her. I saw it all in the darkest places of my mind. Just the one smell of those filthy panties set me off on an emotional roller coaster.

Then, I got angry. I started scheming. I started planning. I wanted to destroy her life, her job, her everything. But, I couldn’t. We had kids. We had bills. It was a an impossible position. I put her used panties in a sealed plastic bag and hid them. Then I called her. She refused to talk at work. She said she would call me when she got off work, and then we would meet at a restaurant or in the mall to talk.

She got off work at 5pm, but she didn’t call me until around 6:30pm. I later found out she went to his apartment to see him in distress because of my discovery. They ended up talking and then having sex for about an hour. I felt like my body was going to tear apart from my skin during the wait. I can only imagine what I would have done had I know she was getting ‘consoled’ by him.

We met at a park. I thought for sure she would deny it. She didn’t. She just came right out and said she had been seeing him for a few weeks. I demanded to know exactly how long. She said she didn’t know the exact time and asked if it really mattered. I then wanted to know if they had slept together. She replied with what do you think? I said I needed to know and I didn’t want to play games. She said, “I spent the night at his apartment Saturday and Sunday night. What do you think?” I said I had to know. She asked if I needed her to draw me a picture. I said I wanted to hear it from her mouth. At this point she was irritated with me, and she looked at me with complete contempt. She said, “Ok. I sucked his dick. We fucked all night. Is that what you wanted to know? Is that what you needed to hear?”

I don’t think I have ever been hit in the stomach as hard as she did that day with words alone, and making matters worse, I asked for it. It was like an atomic bomb of adrenalin which made my breathing rapid and my heart rate sore. Still, I didn’t stop what she would later refer to as a ‘sick 20 Questions” interrogation. I asked her if they used protection. She scoffed a quick, “No. He’s clean. He doesn’t have any diseases, and I don’t have to worry about getting pregnant (she got her tubes tied after our second kid).” I knew better than to question his STD status, so I moved on to the next question. Did he cum in your mouth? She asked, “You don’t really want to know, right? What difference does it make?” I didn’t have to respond. She looked at my expression and the she said, “Yes, he came in my mouth, and before you ask, I swallowed for him.”

This was another bomb in the pit of my abdomen. She only swallowed for me once, and then we mutually agreed (more her than me) that she didn’t have to swallow. Whenever she went down on me, I rarely got to cum in her mouth. If was mostly a precursor to sex. If she let me come in her mouth, it was off to the sink to spit and rinse. For him, she swallowed every time. Before I started to point this out to her, she said, “Don’t take it personally. I just really wanted to make it special for him. I wanted to be the one who gave him the best ever.” I then started in on the ‘size’ question. At this point she refused to talk about how big, how many times, or where they had sex, or how long, or any other specifics. She said, “I know that once this is out, we can’t come back from this. I know you. Even if I wanted to, you can’t come back from this.” Then, she matter of factly said she was sorry. Her cell phone rang, and she got up and walked a little distance. Her expression changed from stern to cheerful. I knew who was on the other end of the line.