Teasing Two It went like that for weeks, months. Tara was different. Somehow much more self-confident, less inclined to ask my advice about household or business matters, less inclined to tell me about her day, more inclined to expect that I'd agree with her whenever she uttered an opinion on anything. Our sex was never better. It was sweet, furious, intense, extended, and exhausting. Now that she'd found a switch that invariably turned me on, now that she knew how to harden me up for whenever she wanted more, she wanted more repeatedly. She'd cry out different men's names, sometimes while urging me to shift position sliding inside her, always at the height of her climaxes. Often furiously, as if she resented that person and her own need the very moment he was providing her the greatest satisfaction. Never tenderly, that was reserved for me, for Patrick, her husband, afterward. Her ride on my cock was more frenzied than ever, and my plunging into her got more rampant, more desperate. But we always ended with the same face-sitting, when she'd appreciate me lovingly by my own name, even stroke my cum-streaked cheeks as I nibbled and nursed and licked my own cum -- by different men's names -- out of her pussy. She loved these new things we were doing, and I got used to them. I even began to enjoy eating her after we'd made love, and more than just because she loved to see me do it. Licking her soft, warm, salty wet, puffy creases and folds was sweet, delicious. My own cum wasn't at all bad tasting after a while. It was pleasant. I got to enjoy the slick-coating it left on my mouth and tongue, even the crust tugging on my eyebrows when I woke up the next morning. It was the last thing I tasted before going to sleep, and the first thing on waking up. It was the taste of the day. She changed the scenario subtly one night. We were both sated, settling in and snuggling, and I was almost asleep when she said drowsily, "You are just great, lover. My husband could never have done that." This was a cue of some kind. I waited. "Oh?" I said finally. "No way. One fuck and he's down and gone. But you just don't quit! And you know something else I found out recently about my husband? My so-called husband, that so-called man who can't ever really satisfy me the way you do?" "No, what?" "He's not really a man. He's a weak-willed wimp. He submits to anything I ask. I've begun wondering whether deep down under he's really gay. Maybe a repressed homosexual." What was she up to? "Why do you say that?" "Well, I tell him I'm sleeping with other men, and he never says anything about it. He wants me to sleep with other men, I think. He likes the idea. It excites him!" "Oh?" Tara turned to face me, looking straight at me with that faint smile of hers. "Yes, his cock loves it. His cock knows that my other men are much better than he is. That they can do all sorts of things he can't. Stiffen up and stand tall and ram into me till we both keep cumming, bring me to such ecstasy I can't stop shrieking for joy! Then do it again, and then again! He doesn't mind. He isn't the least bit jealous!" She was up to something I didn't understand. I had to play along. "He isn't jealous? It doesn't make him unhappy?" A quick amused gleam came into Tara's eyes. "Well, of course, in a way. But he's never mentioned it. He knows it makes me happy to go to bed with better men, I think, and that's why he lets me. He loves me, he wants me to be happy, how else can I explain it? He does, you know." She paused, and waited for a response. And waited. Finally I realized I had to say something. "I suppose so," I said. "I suppose he does love you and want you to be happy." "Yes," she affirmed, satisfied. "And you know something else?" "What?" "I don't think it's jealousy he feels. I think it's envy. When he sees how I am with those other men, I'm sure he'd like to feel that way too." "Feel the way your men feel when they're making love to you?" "No, silly! Feel what I feel! Enjoy a man's rapturous embrace, feel that strong, swollen thing pulsing inside his own body, feel it spreading that slippery warmth that's just too lovely for words. Just too lovely! Think about it!" Talk about twisted? I felt a touch offended. Did she believe it? Plainly, she wanted me to try the idea on for size. "Why do you think that?" "Well, first of all, he never knows what I'm really up to during the day, when he thinks I'm working. He never asks and I never tell him. I think he's afraid to ask. He thinks maybe I'm spending day after day going from man to man, getting my pussy filled up by one after the other. But he doesn't want to know for sure. Maybe because he feels jealousy and envy both, and can't handle it. But at night it's different." "How? What about at night?" "At night he watches me make love to other men, he's right there the whole time. When I get into bed with my lovers and I embrace them, he can't bear to stay downstairs and just imagine that it's happening, or to go out for a newspaper or something and stay away until we're finished. He has to come into my room with us, even into my bed! He'll watch me make love two, three times a night. He gets off on it. I know that. He even puts them into me, and when each of the men I'm with cums, he cums too! While watching us! Every time!" I was silent. There was an odd truth inside this improvised version of our lovemaking, one I wasn't sure I wanted to acknowledge, though I couldn't deny it. I had to play along. "So? You're telling me that he gets voyeuristic kicks from watching you make love? No big deal, lots of people do, that's why lots of loving couples put mirrors on their ceilings, on wardrobes across the way, on walls surrounding their beds, all over. Maybe when you're making it with someone he's imagining that he's really your lover, that he's the man who's enjoying you, vicariously maybe." "No! How could that be? What sort of man would make love to his own wife as if he were some other man. Make himself into his own cuckold, humiliate himself? No, it has to be that he's imagining he's me with those men! He's gay. Maybe even one of those transsexuals, men who want to be women." I didn't want to argue. I wanted to drift off to sleep, and this whole topic was uncomfortable. "Maybe," I murmured, to end the discussion. Tara paused, as if surprised that I'd said that. I opened my eyes and saw her looking at me intently, genuinely curious. And I saw what had happened. She'd been testing out one more way to tease me, maybe, not really expecting me to pick up on it. But I hadn't foreclosed it. Maybe she'd struck a glint of gold, another vein of perversity in me, something I could never acknowledge even to myself, certainly never to her? She inclined her head ever so slightly, lovingly, as if grateful to me for revealing a terribly intimate confidence of some sort. Then she resumed, playing with the notion luxuriously.. "Of course! I don't even need to ask him. My husband the pansy girl! My dear little swish! I've never understood why men don't feel about each other the way women feel about them! But I can understand how he feels! Maybe he married me in full flight from his own homosexual yearnings and now he can't resist them any longer! That must be it! Because you know something?" "No, what?" "Afterward, when my lovers have gone and I'm back in bed with my little faggoty husband Patrick, you won't believe this! He drinks their leavings! He loves it! He slurps up and licks and swallows all their semen." She closed her eyes and smiled to herself, now in a relaxed, post-coital glow. "He adores sperm! Its taste in his mouth, its feel on his face and in his belly! Because when I'm done with whoever I'm with, I always sit on Patrick's face and feed him everything that's been pumped into my pussy. And he licks and slurps and sucks it all down like a good little boy licking a melting ice cream cone, trying to swallow every drop. His face gets all covered with it, and he doesn't even notice! He's in seventh heaven, on another planet! What do you think of that?" I had nothing to say. For some reason that pleased her. "My poor Patrick! He can't face the fact that he's gay, that he wants a man of his very own, he wants to fall to his knees and suck on a hot cock with his own mouth, and feel one sliding in and out of his own bum. So he uses my men indirectly. He has sex with my lovers at one remove. Isn't that likely?" How could I deprive her of this riff she was riding? "Maybe," I said. She smiled at my complicity. "Maybe? No maybe! It's such a thrill for him to know how a real man makes me happy, that afterward he brings me off two or three times more with his tongue. He can't have those men, so he enjoys them though me! He's satisfied that I'm satisfied. Don't you think that's true?" I couldn't deny the substantial truth in that last. "Yes, that much is likely," I replied. She was pleased by that. "Yes. He loves me. He's such a dear little man, even though it's harder each day for me to think of him as a man. He's something else, we'll have to find out what else, give him every opportunity to come out of himself. But I do love him. Very very much!" She paused. Then asked in a quiet voice, "How do you feel, honey?" This wasn't playful. She wanted honesty. "That you love me? Happy. Very happy." But my voice sounded troubled. "No, I mean about the rest." "Uneasy. A little frightened. Helpless, even. Demeaned. And that's not right, I shouldn't feel demeaned because I'm your lover. Nor demeaned by being gay, even if I were, which I'm not. Should I?" "No, sweetheart." I couldn't read her voice. Did she think I was confessing something? "Not if I enjoy having a lover. Not if you enjoy being gay. Do you find what we're doing now exciting, too?" "Yes." I couldn't deny it. She kissed me gently, satisfied. "Good! G'night now, baby, let's sleep." Well, I couldn't. Not for a long while, after that. Because I couldn't be sure any more if this was still play acting, something we did together. Had she really been fucking different men in her own mind, using my body as a handy facsimile of each? Or worse, each time we made love, was she reliving the day's actual lovemaking with another man? The fact was, now I didn't feel like her game-playing partner any more. I felt instead like a husband helplessly watching her enjoy her real lovers and then because I love her, because I want her to be happy, helplessly cleaning up after them. Why wasn't I jealous? Did she really think I like sex with men? Was she testing me for that idea? That what I really wanted was to be her? The idea wasn't at all pleasant, except for the fact that it pleased her. Maybe. She'd mindfucked me all right. From then on, whenever she seemed to be using my body to pleasure herself, I'd feel it was really someone else's body. I couldn't help it. I witnessed her infidelities night after night and said nothing. That was how she wanted it. I shared a bed with Tara and Steve and Tara and Brian and Tara and Scott, all of her other lovers, and at the height of their passion, when she was writhing on me or under me in the most racking of orgasms, I sometimes actually found myself wishing I'd been the one who'd brought her off! She sensed how I now felt separated from her, and she began to explore those possibilities in our relationship. She took charge of our sessions altogether. She gave her cuntsucking, cumsucking, submissive, maybe gay husband an additional duty. When she got home from work, sometimes she'd walk into the living room and call me from my alcove. Then when I'd arrive and was standing there, waiting, she'd pull off her panties and sit bare-bottomed on the couch, and spread her knees, and tell me, "Clean me up!" Clean up what? And then she'd lean back and close her eyes, confident that I'd follow her orders. And I would. I'd kneel devotedly between her legs and do just that. Because she wanted it. And now -- I just couldn't help it, each time I found I was tasting her delicately for evidence of ... someone else. Some other man in her life. I'd accepted that she just might well be unfaithful to me. It drove me wild. She knew. She'd watch me lick her labia and dip my tongue into her snatch, feeling for something viscous that was never there, and she'd be amused. Sometimes she'd even console me, "Nothing this time? Maybe it all dripped out before I got here? Maybe I douched? Don't be impatient, maybe soon, sweetie! I know what you want!" It was much worse on days when she'd arrive home and then not ask me to lick her pussy. Then I really could believe that some man had squirted spunk into her and that she didn't want me to know for certain, not just yet. I'd stare at her crotch, wondering if her panties were sticky, or if she even wore any. I'd pull them out of the laundry hamper and inspect them, and I'd feel desolated when she'd strip them off and hand-wash them before I could see for myself what had leaked into the crotch. I'd try to read some kind of meaning in the satisfied way she'd look at me every time I looked at her. Some evenings I couldn't look away! She'd notice and smile in deep satisfaction. Once she asked me in a soft voice as I studied her, "Happy, love?" I suppose she thought I was. Maybe I was? There was something else too. She'd almost never previously given me blow jobs, only maybe as a special treat on an anniversary or a birthday. There was nothing at all in it for her, she'd tell me. She knew how devotedly I kissed her quim, but she felt nothing like that whenever my penis was in her mouth. But now she loved it! When teasing failed to reawaken my ardor for a second or third round she'd solve the problem by taking her lover's cock into her mouth and then sliding it in and out of that warm, moist place until it hardened and she could sink it into her pussy. "I never do this with my husband's cock," she'd sometimes say. "But yours is so beautiful I can't keep from kissing it!" And whenever she said that I'd go ramrod stiff. When she was mounted on my face afterward, my lips buried in hers, or when we were both drifting to sleep, she'd talk on and on about the pleasures of giving head. As if trying to persuade me to try it. As if she felt challenged to bring out my supposed homosexual yearnings, or if none emerged, to mock me. "It's really lovely, honey, making love to a man's cock, " she said. "That purple head feels so silky smooth on your lips, you can't possibly keep yourself from licking it and sucking on it. The liquor that seeps out of that little eye in the tip? You must try it! Are you sure you haven't? Not even once? Oh, my poor baby, you want to but you're too frightened?" It was yet one more kinky tease. Now and then she'd blow a supposed lover to orgasm while I lay there watching them, because there I was, waiting to taste his jism directly from her mouth, still hot. She'd tell me just that. When I was nearing a climax, rising and tensing, about to pump into her mouth, she'd cry out, "Now comes the best part, for Patrick!" Spurting was the best part for me, so at first I assumed that was what she meant. But when she'd transferred my sperm from her mouth to mine, she'd murmur it again. "Here you are, the best part! A man's sperm! Sucking down sperm! You'll be getting all you want soon enough, all by yourself, just be patient sweetie. I'm making all the arrangements!" I told her I didn't understand what she meant by "the best part." She was surprised, or she pretended to be surprised. "Why, you know, baby! Being so loving that your man just can't help it, he goes rigid and swells up and then cums in your mouth! Tasting each fresh spurt is the best part! Swallowing it down! Licking that last drop! Soon enough you won't need my help! Just be patient!" Soon enough I'd be sucking someone's cock on my own? That gay thing again? I decided to let it alone. She had her fantasies. Her vocabulary widened. She'd always been embarrassed to use four-letter words, always maintained a prim decorum when discussing sex. But now she'd tell me how she adored being a "loving cunt" to her endless stream of lovers, how she wanted me to become the same "sweet cock sucker" that she was, to share in her pleasure. I tried to feel gratified, since all her lovers were of course me and all of their cocks were mine. But could I ever be perfectly sure? My jealousy grew. I couldn't help it! She explained to me once how she was proud of her husband, that he accepted his limitations, his inadequate and undeserving prick, and was content just to lick her "snatch" after another man had filled it. Writhing blissfully on my soaked face while I was slurping up blended cum, she cried out in orgasmic joy, "Ahhh, sweetie, you do love cream pie, don't you? You love it! Ahhhhh!" Cream pie? What had she been reading? Who'd been talking to her? Afterward I asked her. She just smiled and told me "You think different men tell me those words? Maybe. Maybe it's only the computer? There're lots of stories on the Net about men just like you, wannabe cuckolds and real ones too, men like you who get off on their wives' supposed infidelities. Married gay men who'd rather be eating cock than pussy. All sorts. They eat cream pie too, just like you! I do wish I'd known about you years ago! Think of the fun we could have been having together!" Could I believe her? I checked her laptop the next day while she was out shopping, and sure enough, there was "alt.sex.cuckolds" prominently bookmarked. That was reassuring, at least she wasn't enlarging her vocabulary from actual experience! I looked at the "cuckolds" newsgroup to see what it was like. Sure enough, there were lots of women chatting about how they deceive their husbands and then undeceive them, how to make them into helpless infants who lie in their cribs sucking their thumbs while watching mommie get fucked by a stud. Lots of husbands were eating "cream pie" nightly without even knowing it. Was it all shared fantasy? Were there really such women? Such self-betrayed men? I scrolled back to the top. And there I saw it! She'd posted a note to me with the subject line "Tara to her Sweet Hubbie." I opened it immediately. "Hi, Patrick sweetheart, I just knew you'd look here! You see how many husbands share your dreams? Read and enjoy! Oh yes, don't expect me home too soon tonight. This is so exciting! I need to see a man about this yearning I have to ... well, never mind. Love ya!" When she got home -- an hour late -- she went immediately to her laptop and checked her log, and she was positively gleeful when she saw I'd been there and that her message was marked "already read." She sashayed around the house for the next hour humming to herself and looking at me delightedly. I was tempted several times to ask her to let me lick her pussy, please. Please! I had to know if what I feared had actually happened. But did I want to know? She knew I'd be indecisive, so she hummed all the more loudly, but never once did she sit down where I could fling myself at her snatch! Finally, she started up the stairs, commenting "Baby, I'm going to take a shower before dinner, I do feel so very sticky down below!" And she was gone. And with her my chance of knowing for certain. When she came down she seemed dreamy, She was wearing a sexy negligee, and I thought to myself, tonight she'll use me as one of her lovers for sure. But I was disappointed. After dinner an actual client called. She was instantly all business as she talked to him and reluctantly, I was sure it was reluctantly, she told him she'd come out and look at the site, at whatever was on his mind. She changed quickly to one of her "power" business suits. These days I always noticed how she dressed for work, whether prim or provocative. This time it was prim, all perfectly proper. As she went out the door she paused, looked over her shoulder at me, and then suddenly kicked up a heel and tossed her head at me saucily, elated by the intent uncertainty she saw in my face. "I'm off to meet my man, now, honey!" she said. Then she was gone. When she returned she took my hand and led me directly to bed and we fucked like goats for hours. Me, Patrick, the two of us, not Tara and one of her well-hung lovers. That was so unusual it disturbed me. Had she actually done it this time with someone else, so she was making it up to me? With that thought I was near despair! I was sure of it! Yet when I licked her, she tasted no different, the same as always, just my cum inside her. But a lot of it. Maybe not only mine? A month more of this whipsaw treatment and I was helpless, trapped inside layers of agonized doubts and suspicions, unable to conclude anything at all. I lived with agonized uncertainty and yet also a hard-on that returned every time I wondered what she was doing. I told her that one evening, hoping she'd relieve my anxiety. But all she did was nod, smiling delightedly. "Oh, good! That's so nice! You do love it, don't you! Look how hot it makes you! The more you think I fuck, the more we fuck! " That was true enough. I think.