Cuckquean - Ellen, the Honest

She craves to watch. He's willing.

This one's kind of a biography. Not mine, but a dear friend's. I've heard her story, but I made the rest of it up. I'd never have the courage to just come out and confess my darkest fantasies. At least not in person to he who matters.

And thanks to my dear editor who rides my ass hard, figuratively, making me go back and fix stuff over and over again. If the story is half worth reading, he should get a lot of credit.

-,-'--{{@

How can I tell him? He'll think I'm sick. I'd just forget about it if I could, but it consumes me.

Perhaps I am sick.

Twenty three years married, two grown children, financially well off, and married to the most wonderful man I know. The perfect life, and I'm scared to death I'm going to throw it all away.

But if I don't do something, I'm going to go insane.

Ever since Cindy left for college, I can think of nothing else. I know Steve is getting frustrated with me, and he should be. I'm short-tempered, a bitch to him half the time, and our sex life has gone to hell. I'm lost inside my head all too often, unable to communicate. I'm losing it. Forty-seven years old, and I've got the focus of a four year old. I've got to do something before I drive him away.

He's going to think I'm sick. Maybe I am, but I've got to do something!

- ( . Y . ) -

I'd been my most loving. I labored in the kitchen, once my confident retreat, now a jail. I cooked his favorite dinner, served it with a smile, and gave him his favorite dessert. Me. I broke out all the big guns, wearing a tiny thing he bought me seven years ago, but never had the guts to wear. It exacerbated my every fault, and the poor fool never noticed a one. He was almost in tears when I paraded out in front of him, dropped to my knees, and gave him his birthday present four months too early.

For a few minutes, it was good. I even forgot my compulsion. We were teenagers, in lust and in love. He was a young, bronzed, hard-body, the few inches added to his waist in the last quarter century invisible through the eyes of a girl in love. His need for me was exhilarating, humbling, and the most honest thing I'd ever seen. And I was ashamed that my part in it was a farce. A means to an end.

I wore the poor man out, which is quite the task with Steven. It was about the best chance I was going to get. I needed him sated, content, and enamored again. It was time.

I hated myself, but I had to do something.

"Steven, have you ever cheated on me?" I asked, my body melding to his, the two of us one, at least for the moment. I tried to make it sound playful. Yeah, I'm sure that worked.

"Cheat? Of course not! I could never be unfaithful to you! Why would you even ask?"

I kissed his shoulder, and rubbed his fleshy stanchion, hoping to calm him. Or excite him. Whichever would work. I wasn't picky. "Would you tell me if you did?"

"Ellen, it would never happen. Is that what's wrong? Somehow you got it in your head that I cheated?"

"No, darling man. I knew you hadn't. You couldn't. I was just wondering if you'd tell me if you did. Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically, if by some act of God, I was unfaithful to you, the guilt would kill me. I wouldn't last five minutes around you without confessing." He sounded irritated. This wasn't going well, but then again, I never thought it would. But I had to try. That or collapse inside myself, and live in abject misery the remainder of my days.

His voice was chilly when he spoke up. "Would you tell me? Jesus, Ellen, you didn't cheat on me did you? Is that what this is all about? Have you done something foolish?"

Foolish? Only time would tell, but cheat? "No! Of course not. I've never even been tempted. I couldn't do that to you!"

"Then what's going on? You've been acting odd for months, and now these questions? I thought perhaps you were going through your change. I'd be patient, give you space, but now you're scaring me."

Scared? He had no idea. Try exposing the deepest darkest most humiliating secret to the one you love more than life itself, knowing it would shatter his view of you, and perhaps lose him forever. Wanna talk scared? I was terrified, but I couldn't back down. Not this time.

"Have you ever thought of cheating, Steven? Hasn't anyone ever tempted you? Even a little."

He was quiet, the way he was sometimes, when analyzing something, the engineer in him taking hold. He was thinking, weighing his options. But I knew one thing, if nothing else. He wouldn't lie. Not to me. Not now. Obfuscate, redirect, joke even, but never lie. It was a trait of his I would exploit shamelessly. Evil bitch that I was, I would use his love for me against him to have my way. I was that far gone.

He turned to me, his hand caressing my flesh. Flesh that was not as elastic or blemish free as when we met, but still excited him. Poor bastard. His lips, capable of portraying so much, pressed dryly against my forehead. If he was aware of what was going on in the brain below, they would probably turn to cinders.

"Of course I've thought about it. Lord knows the opportunity has presented itself often enough. But it never goes beyond the stray thought. I don't even fantasize about it. Why, when I get to come home to you, my life, my love. I could never do it though. I could never hurt you like that."

"What if it didn't?" I asked grasping at the opening.

"'What if it didn't' what?" he replied. He sounded confused. His relaxed body exposed his anxiety as his muscles tensed.

"What if it didn't hurt me? What if I said it was okay? What if I wanted you to?" There it was out there. I'd done it. I'd cracked my chest open and served him my heart and soul on a silver platter.

"If you wanted me to, what? Cheat? Are you crazy? You want me to cheat on you?"

I was almost in tears. I reached for him, clinging to him, terrified that I'd lost him. He had to understand. He just had to. He was my savior, protector, and I needed this more than I'd needed anything in my life. I needed him to accept it.

"Yes, I'm probably crazy. I don't know why. But it wouldn't be cheating. I want you to do it. I want to see it. I want to watch you with another woman. The idea is driving me crazy. I think about it all the time. It's eating me up. It invades my thoughts. Please, Steven! At least think about it. I want you to have sex with another woman, and I want to watch."

He released me, rolled away from me onto his back, his eyes soulless, staring at the ceiling. His arm rose from between us, and brushed mine away, thoughtlessly, uncaring. Devastating. He shifted away a few inches, so we were no longer in contact, and I died a little.

My insanity had driven me to hurt my husband, and all I could think about was what I would do if he said no. How would I survive? I shrank, emotionally, physically, curling into a ball, hugging my pain, embracing the soul-rending agony of disappointing him for my selfish need. More than half my life in the balance, and I'd pushed it to the edge of the abyss, ignoring the black chasm, for a yearning I couldn't defend, couldn't explain, but couldn't deny.

God help me. I wanted my husband to cuckold me, and I desperately needed him to tell me he would. If he didn't, I'd die. I know I would.

I AM sick, and the cure may be worse than the disease.

- ( . Y . ) -

He didn't speak to me, wouldn't meet my eyes. His confident stature had faded, his shoulders sloping. His skin look wan, his eyes lifeless. The man I loved was shrinking, fading, and I was the one who had done it to him.

He went to work. He came home. He refused food. He didn't drink. He retreated to his study, and sat in his hideous old chair which I would never be allowed to replace, his safe-haven. He sat and stared sightlessly at the walls, and I ached.

What was wrong with me? How could I wound him? He who gave his life for over two decades to make sure I wanted for nothing, that I was safe, secure, loved and protected. Spoiled. And this was how I repaid him, making a sham of our vows, while exposing the corruption within me. The vile filth that had replaced my organs with fetid trash. I was disgusted with myself, and now my perfidy was exposed to the only person that mattered.

After two dreary days and sleepless nights, he appeared from his den, shuffling, unkempt. He hadn't shaved, and his tidy hair was a mess. I watched him approach in trepidation, bracing myself in case he felt the need to strike me. I knew he couldn't but I almost hoped he would. Tell me I was disgusting, unworthy. Beat the foul thoughts out of me. Punish me for my betrayal, I wanted to beg. Instead I sat still, waiting, each moment stretching into an eternity.

He paused before me, and I could hear the cracking and popping in his knees as he sank before me, diminished. He looked up at me, eyes misty in pain and disappointment, moisture brimming, lips trembling.

My God, what had I done? How could I be such a cruel, unfeeling bitch? So incredibly selfish.

He bowed his head, marshaling his thoughts. His hand rose, shaking, and landed on my knee, a condemning gesture of false closeness. His chin slowly raised, his lips moving, but no sound escaped. His pain was palpable, and I was to blame.

"Why?"

Oh God. Didn't he know I asked myself that a million times? Searched my thoughts, my actions, wondering how it had come to this. That most damning of questions, the true essence of my failure.

"I don't know." Inadequate, but true. "I don't know, Steven. I wish I did."

His head was rising, his back straightening, his eyes changing from pain to hardness. The hand on my knee clamped down, and I had to stifle a cry of pain. He was a big man, powerful, and his grip seemed to grind his fingers down to the bone.

"You don't know? You ask me - that? And you don't know why?"

All I could do was shake my head.

"Damn it, Ellen! Is this some kind of payback? Have you been fucking around and now feel the need to allow me to get even? What the hell is going on here?!"

How could he even contemplate such thoughts? I moved forward, sliding off the front of the chair, kneeling with him, my arms embracing his torso, my back exposed if he felt the need to punish me. Punish me.

"No, Steven. I would not, could not be unfaithful to you. Never. There is no getting even. Please understand, what I need is to see you. See you with someone else. Younger, more beautiful, more deserving. Worthy of you."

"This is insane," he snapped. Yet his arms embraced me again, destroying my defenses. I feared he'd never touch me again, but he was holding me!

"I know," I sobbed.

"There is no one more beautiful than you, Ellen. No one."

Such a fool. Could he not see? Were the cataracts of love so blinding he didn't recognize how two decades, and a pair of children had ravaged my once smooth firm body. The varicose veins, the cellulite dimples, the sun spots on my skin, were these invisible to him? How could he not notice the changes, my sagging tits, the drooping ass, the wrinkles, my thinning hair? Was love truly blind?

And what would happen if I was successful? If he saw me for what I was, would it destroy his desire? Why did I need this?

All I could do was hold him, cling to him while he was still mine, foolish, in love, and blind.

He stood and lifted me to my feet. He took me by the hand, led me to our bathroom, and started the shower. He undressed me slowly, his hands reluctant to move once they touched my bare skin. Each of my flaws exposed under the harsh fluorescent lighting, and innumerable bulbs over my sink. Reflected in perpetuity, mercilessly, by the mirrors over our sinks, on opposite walls. Naked, I stood before him, ashamed, while he undressed, flaunting his flesh.

Life was so unfair. Once we were young, near equals. My youth and beauty a fair match for his many wondrous traits. His intelligence, confidence, humor, candor. His body was good, not great, but he was so much more than that. Fast forward twenty-three years and what little I had was fading, drastically the last few years. And Steven? He only got better. Every damn year, more devastatingly handsome, fitter, smarter, more confident, more powerful. A force of nature, irresistible. I saw how my friends looked at him. How strange women watched him. He was desirable, achingly so, and I was withering away.

It was never more apparent than when standing before him naked, under the spotlight, while he undressed before me, heedless of my fears. He took me by the hand and drew me under the shower. He bathed me, soaping me, his hands unflinchingly persistent, missing nothing. I realized I'd let myself go the last couple of days as much as he had, and the results, of course were far more telling.

He shampooed my hair, gentle but thorough, twice, before adding the cream rinse. His hands glided slickly across my skin, ensuring no trace of soap remained. He was hard, and his erection brushed against me time and again, deepening my shame. Hard, for what I'd become. How was it even possible?

I was his, malleable, yielding, willingly led into the middle of the room, where he dried me, not sensually but thoroughly. Allowing me no refuge from the harsh exposure, naked, helpless. I sat when he put the stool under me, and tilted my head as he desired, while the blow dryer dried my hair. The brush ran through what remained of my once glorious, shining tresses.

He turned me around to face him. It was so ridiculous I almost cried, his large hands awkwardly handling my makeup, shakingly applying the concealer, blush, eye liner, and lipstick. He knew me so well, knew my habits and routine, imitating each poorly, but with a sincerity that shattered me. When the tears spilled forth he kissed them away, hushing me, professing his love.

He leaned back, examining the results. "God, you're beautiful, Ellen. How could I ever want anyone but you?"

His words struck me like the straps of a flogger would, I imagined. Each, individually, causing little pain, but the compound effect a thudding blow leaving me gasping.

Then I was in his bed, and he was in me. Leaning over me, kissing me, filling me so sweetly, so completely, beyond all I deserved. He was a wonderful lover and when we had sex it was incredible, still, after two decades. But when we made love, it was so much more, an affirmation of all that was good and right. How could he love me, after what I was putting him through?

I lay in his arms, comforted, pleased that I could provide him with the modicum of pleasure I could. My hand rested on that amazing vessel between his legs, the barometer of his need and desire, momentarily tamed.

"You need this, don't you?" he whispered. "For me to . . . be with someone else.

I nodded, struggling not to cry, not to show my weakness.

"And you can't tell me why?" Again, another vicious blow. And I deserved it.

I shook my head.

"How would we do it?"

His words echoed in my head, reverberating, an impossible combination of sounds. Inconceivable. My salvation. My God, how that man loved me! The extent of my unworthiness blazed greater than ever, fueling my perversion.

"I don't know," I whispered.

"Did you have someone in mind?" he asked, his hands gentle, his voice soothing, not accusing.

"No. Whoever you desire. The stronger that desire the better." There, another nail in my coffin. Not just a one night stand. Something more. Something dangerous.

"Here?" he asked softly, that single syllable inflaming my need.

"I would prefer that. Whatever you need, my love."

"No," he said firmly, a hint of steel in his tone. "I need nothing but you. This is about what you need."

Damn him for leaving me nothing, not a shred of self-respect or dignity. Exposing my selfish perversity. "Here."

He nodded, and I was disturbed to feel him harden under my hand. Dear God, he would do it, and he would enjoy it. He had someone in mind, and for the first time in our marriage, he was thinking of another woman while in bed with me.

The orgasm tore through me like a flash flood: unexpected, unpredictable, merciless, and devastating. I cried out, humping against his hip, fingernails digging into his flesh.

I clung to him, my ears ringing, my hand grasping his stiff shaft, flooded with desire for another.

"She's beautiful, you know. Kind. Incredibly sexy without flaunting it. A natural blonde with big blue eyes. The way her hand brushes against me whenever she gets the chance, the manner in which she looks at me, I know I only have to ask."

I whimpered as his words beat me into submission, burning through my veins. She was beautiful. She wanted him, of course, and bravely let him know. He wanted her. Damn him! Damn him to hell!

And me with him.

I gasped, my shame shattering me, while I came again.

- ( . Y . ) -

Our love was bright, new, fresh, reborn. I was ecstatic, and made sure he knew it. His stride was back, his confidence overwhelming. We caressed each other in passing. No mindless pecks hello and goodbye, our open-mouthed kisses screamed our love for each other. Our desire.

He took me without explanation, without remorse. Bent over the kitchen table. Coming out of the shower. Forcing me to my knees in front of the TV, drawing my mouth to his cock, relaxing while I pleasured him.

We didn't speak of it. It would happen now. I knew it. He would do it. Do it for me. And he would love it. Damn him!

It was two weeks of exquisite, devastating anticipation. On Friday he dressed nicer before going to work. I watched him agonize over what to wear. He shaved twice, flossed, examining himself closely in the mirror. Standing in his closet, unable to choose, I chased him out. I selected his best, and dressed him. Tied his tie as I had so many years ago. His eyes burned my flesh. I knew he wanted to tell me, but couldn't find the words.

At the front door he hesitated. He couldn't face me. "I'll be late. I may not be alone."

I dragged him back, hugging him, clinging fiercely one last time while he was still all mine. "I know. Thank you."

He nodded, grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me with a passion that buckled my knees and flooded my panties. Would he kiss her like that?

"I love you, Ellen. Twenty-three years, I've loved you, and only you, with every fiber of my body and soul."

I heard the underlying accusation. I'd have to share that love now.

He walked away, the door closing behind him. I sank to the floor, my back to the hard wood, my hands traitorous demons, beating my deceitful conniving cunt into submission, making it scream.

Over and over again, envisioning him with HER. Seducing her, taking her, loving her, giving her the orgasms that should be mine. Losing control, his passion boundless. Fucking her mercilessly, endlessly, while she tried to steal more than his body, his lust, his passion. Would she be successful? Would she be better? Would he love her?

I collapsed onto my side, my hands still moving, legs clenched together, groaning as I came and came and came.

- ( . Y . ) -

It was after midnight when I heard his car pull into the drive. The doors opening and slamming shut, their voices chattering, mindless of the agony each tone delivered. I'd left the porch light on for him, and the door was unbolted.

The house was immaculate. As was I. I had splurged, making myself up the best I could, at the hands of well-meaning strangers. I checked myself in the mirror. I knew I wouldn't be able to compete, but I had to reduce the difference between us to as little as possible. I had to. She might be better, but I wasn't totally unworthy.

The laughter outside subsided into complete silence, for far too long, the implication devastating, before I heard the key turn in the lock. I stepped back quickly, standing in the kitchen doorway, attempting to appear casual.