Ever since I caught my husband in bed with someone else, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.
In the immediate aftermath, I would be distracted whenever Julien spoke to me, unable to think of anything other than that day. I didn't know if he knew that I knew. I didn't know if I wanted him to know that I did.
For the most part, our interactions stayed the same. There was no change in how he spoke to me, how he treated me, how he loved me. If he knew that I knew, he gave no indication. Sometimes, I wondered whether I had imagined the whole situation, whether I invented it, whether it even actually ever happened. Sometimes, I convinced myself that it didn't.
But, I think, deep down, I knew that it happened. And, if it happened once, it probably happened twice, and probably more than twice too. And, I knew that it would probably happen again.
I probably should've been upset at him; I should've confronted him about it. I didn't.
It wasn't because I was indifferent to his infidelity. I definitely had lots of thoughts about the ordeal, but that was the thing--I had lots of feelings and I wasn't sure which emotions I felt the most. I didn't know what to do--or, rather, I didn't know what I wanted to do--about my predicament. And, secretly, I remembered how turned on I was as I watched it happen.
I started coming home too early or too late, as if I would catch him in the act again. I don't know why, exactly; I guess I thought seeing it once more would force me to face the issue directly. I would tell him that I had to step out for a couple of hours, randomly--I gave him every opportunity to do it again. Before I would leave the house, I would call my work phone from my personal phone and hide it in the nightstand next to our bed, and I would listen through it to hear if anything happened in our bedroom while I was out of the house. At first, all I would hear was silence. I felt like I was going crazy with paranoia. I needed to test his resolve; I needed to know if he was going to do it again.
Last weekend, I finally got my answer.
After our usual Saturday morning routine, I told Julien I was going to hang out with my best friend for a few hours. I called and slipped my work phone into the nightstand drawer again without him noticing, kissed him goodbye, and stepped outside. I decided to go to my office at work, which was where I'd hide out whenever I tried to catch him in the act. My pulse racing, I closed the door to my office and locked it. I put my phone on speaker (with myself muted) and listened.
Silence.
Just like before, I heard no sounds coming through the phone.
I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding. I wondered to myself: What was I doing? I felt insane. There I was, on a perfectly fine Saturday, wasting away the weekend in my office trying to catch my partner doing something he probably wasn't doing when I should've been spending it with him.
Minutes passed, slowly. One minute became five became ten became twenty became thirty. I was becoming frustrated, with the stupid situation, with him, with myself. Was this all my fault? Did I do something to make him drift away from me? Was he even drifting away from me? He still loved me. He still seemed the same. Maybe I really was imagining--
I lost that train of thought as a voice came through over the phone.
"--won't be back for a while--"
"--have some time--"
"--been waiting too long for this--"
No. Not a voice, but voices. I stilled every cell within me to hear.
"I missed you."
That was unmistakably Julien's voice. I'd recognize it anywhere.
"I missed you too," replied the other voice. Somewhere deep in my brain, a modicum of recognition stirred. That voice wasn't altogether unfamiliar, as though I might have heard the speaker briefly somewhere once before.
As the speaking paused, I could hear some sort of rustling, almost like fabric being moved...or removed. A familiar sinking feeling began creeping into my chest. Of course. They're taking off their clothes.
"Oh, wow," I could hear Julien say. "That looks amazing on you."
"I wore it just for you," came the response.
"Fuck," Julien hissed. I heard a thunking sort of slap, like fabric against skin--or elastic, I realized. The elastic of a waistband. Probably a jock strap. Julien always did have a thing for jock straps.
I sat there in my office chair as the talking ceased, giving way to the unmistakable sounds of kissing. I listened as the noises grew into messy slurping punctuated by slight moans. Fuck. It didn't take a genius to figure out that they were probably sixty-nining. Julien always did love to make his bottoms deep-throat him while he ate them out; he enjoys making them squirm while he stuffs both their holes.
It wasn't long before I heard my husband tell the other guy (younger, by the sound of his voice) to get up and lay down. I listened to Julien position himself on top. For as long as I live, I will never forget the sound of Julien starting to penetrate that whore, popping his cherry, sliding all the way into him.
"Open up your pussy for me," I heard Julien command, and I could almost feel it secondhand via the sound of the twink's moans as Julien sheathed himself within him. Wait--twink? Fuck. Realization hit me like a truck. My brain knew it was a twink because I had recognized the other person's voice earlier--it was identical to the moaning I had witnessed the first time I caught Julien cheating on me. It was the same twink.
My mind reeling, I stopped to consider the implications of my husband cheating on me again with the same boy from before. This meant that they'd been in contact all this time. This was premeditated.
But everything had seemed fine between us all this time--even our sex life had been largely unaffected. Julien was still the same loving guy I knew and adored, the same man I married. Maybe he still loves me. Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe he just has a cucking fetish. He's always been every bit the stereotypical alpha male--maybe he just needs to spread his seed. A man needs release, after all; I can't expect him to have these primal urges and to not act upon them. Isn't this what I get for marrying a studly specimen like him? I mean, realistically, he's in great shape, he's still in his thirties, he's incredibly virile, he's a veritable fucking stallion. And, he's mine.
Except, well, just not in this moment. In this moment, he's someone else's.
I could hear snippets of Julien's dirty talk: "--so fucking tight--needed this so badly--have to breed your pussy--"
I could picture it clearly, Julien's powerful, muscular frame atop that twink, pounding away, unprotected. Bare. Raw, with every intent of inseminating him.
Before I knew it, my right hand had already slipped down, undone my zipper, and freed my own erection, and I was stroking myself to the sounds of skin slapping skin, of the twink crying out in pleasure, of my husband grunting like an Adonis at work.
I closed my eyes. The pounding of my heartbeat seemed to match the rhythm of my husband fucking someone else a mile away. I didn't think of anything else--I couldn't. The idea of--the reality of--my husband breeding someone else, it consumed me. The taboo, the transgression, it compounded my need for release, for relief. I was so fucking hard.
"I'm close," Julien was saying, his voice almost guttural.
"Cum in me," the twink begged.
I could hear Julien's breathing grow ragged, increasingly laborious. And, finally, when his breaths crested, with a cry, I heard him release--and so did I. In this way we came together, almost like all those times before. Through the phone, I could feel the hot spurts of his seed being implanted deep within someone else, as if it were me.
But, it wasn't.
I sat there in my office, dazed, a complete mess, physically and emotionally spent.
I still haven't decided what to do.