BD8280 wrote: ↑Sun Mar 16, 2025 10:20 pm
Thanks for this brilliant response. Reading through all of those points, I guess the one that stands out, the one that would most test a relationship is point number 5.
Obviously other hotwives will be different, but it sounds like there is always some psychological shift away from the husband, towards the boyfriend (inevitable I suppose). Obviously made worse in your case because she wasn’t sharing the experience with you.
The question for us husbands/cucks is wether we can “enjoy” this change, enjoy watching our wives “blossom” independently from us. It’s always difficult because every hotwife will do it to a different extent i suppose.
Can I ask what your situation is now? Are you able to look back at that period with excitement at all? From a cuckolding point of view?
Thanks!
To answer your question—where are we now? Well, the short answer is, this is just part of our life now. There’s no going back, and I know that with absolute certainty. We both tried at different points to stop, to return to monogamy, but we couldn’t. The feelings, the cravings, the new version of our relationship—it had already evolved too far to reverse. That’s a hard truth I don’t think most people in these forums acknowledge. Once this door is open, you cannot close it.
We’re fully open now. She shares details about her encounters freely, and I believe she tells me everything. But—and this is a big but—once trust is broken initially, even if you rebuild it, there’s always a sliver of doubt that never fully goes away. I had to work through that. The reality is, she has little reason to obscure facts now. She knows I want to know, that I thrive on the details, so she lays it all out for me.
On a few occasions, she’s even called me during the act, leaving her phone on so I could hear everything. I don’t watch her with other men—that’s her preference and, honestly, a core part of her being able to enjoy the experience without feeling like she’s performing for me. But in return, I get very detailed explanations afterward and, once in a while, those in-the-moment phone calls. Let me give you an example from last month, I think it makes the changes more relatable:
She rang me while she was at his place, but never said a word to me. I just heard the rustling of clothes, soft laughter, and a few heavy breaths. It must have been foreplay at first—her moans were subdued, almost teasing, and I could make out the wet sounds of kissing. Between those soft smacks, she whispered something I could barely catch—maybe his name, maybe a breathy “right there,” though I couldn’t be sure. Every few seconds, there was a faint shuffling, like she might be adjusting her position. Then her voice changed pitch, turning breathier—she let out a hushed “Oh, God…” like she was starting to lose herself. That’s when the moans started coming faster, growing more urgent.
I realized it wasn’t just kissing anymore the moment I heard the dull thump of the mattress springs. Her gasps deepened, and I could make out brief, half-formed words—maybe a desperate “yes” or a muffled “like that”—as if she was right on the edge of coherent speech. His breathing grew louder, too, and there was a rhythmic squeak that told me he was thrusting into her with enough force to move the bed.
It went on for a while, intensifying with each passing minute, the mattress creaking picking up pace. Instead of building to a clear release, their pace seemed to linger just on the brink. I distinctly remember her letting out a long, trembling low-pitch moan, then shifting to a series of quick, breathy high-pitch moans. At this point her voice grew thick with desire, and she let out a shaky laugh, almost playful, right before she said, “Don’t stop… oh God, so good, keep going.” It sounded more like a plea than a simple request, and every soft, rustling move of their bodies seemed charged.
A few seconds later, her moans returned, deeper and more drawn-out, and his breathing turned ragged in the background. She started whispering encouragements to him—little phrases like “Yes! Just like that!” and “Don’t stop, fuck me!” but with a heat in her voice I rarely hear at home.
Eventually, there was this unmistakable moment where both of them seemed to lock into a rhythm. The bed was creaking loudly now. Her cries got sharper, his grunts grew louder, and you could practically feel the tension snap when they both hit that final peak. Now, she’s Asian, and I’ve always known her to have a certain stereotypical whimpering moan when she climaxes—soft, high-pitched, almost like what you’d hear in Japanese porn. I always think this is her exaggerating a bit, playing along. But this time, it was anything but gentle whimpering. As she came, her voice rose in pitch and turned into short, desperate inhalations that made it sound like she could barely breathe between gasps. Each inhale felt sharper than the last, like every ounce of self-control had evaporated. Instead of her usual subdued whimper, she gave a raw, unrestrained sound that sent a jolt through me, more powerful and unfiltered than anything I’d heard from her before. And in the background, I heard his rough, urgent grunt, and between her strangled breaths she began to beg, “Please, please,” over and over in a shaky voice that left no doubt how close she was. It was an intensity that left me both mesmerized and hollowed out.
Then silence.
What I remember most is the quiet that followed. They didn’t speak right away—just the sound of them catching their breath, bodies shifting, maybe a soft kiss or two. Then the call ended. She never said a single word to me. But I’d never felt so simultaneously turned on, jealous, and helpless in my life. And believe me, that alone is a mindfuck when I really sit with it. I know exactly what she does, exactly how she enjoys it, exactly how her body responds when she’s with them. Hearing it firsthand, in real time, strips away any illusion I might try to keep. It’s arousing as hell—and also a punch in the gut.
Has her attitude toward me stabilized? Yes and no. She’s more self-aware of the shifts in her behavior, but it’s not like she’s the woman she was before she started fucking other men after I urged her to. That version of her? She’s gone. That’s the cost. This is most noticeable when we argue—there’s a confidence, an edge to her that wasn’t there before. Take a recent argument, for example. She was frustrated about how much time I was spending on a particular hobby—something I enjoy, something that used to be a non-issue between us. Before, she might have been annoyed, but she would’ve approached it more softly, maybe with a joke, or just voiced her feelings and let it go. But this time, her tone was different. Sharper. More matter-of-fact. She wasn’t trying to convince me to change anything—she was telling me that it was an issue for her.
At one point, I said something dismissive, something along the lines of, “It’s not like I’m ignoring you.” She looked at me and, without missing a beat, just said, “I don’t have to wait around for you.” That hit differently, because she was right. If she felt neglected, she didn’t have to just sit at home waiting for me to pay attention to her. She could go out, meet up with one of her regulars, and have a night filled with attention, desire, and sex whenever she wanted. And she wasn’t saying it to threaten me—it wasn’t a warning or an ultimatum. It was just true.
She’s also less likely to compromise or seek reassurance in the little things. For example, if she wants to wear a low-cut top and a short skirt for a night out, she used to ask me if I was cool with it. Now, she’ll just pick whatever makes her feel sexy and say, “I’m heading out,” no follow-up, no second-guessing. For instance last weekend, she made plans to see a bull. Instead of double-checking if I was okay with it, she simply told me, “I’ll be out Saturday; I can meet you on Sunday,” and that was that. She’ll also reference her past choices—like that first time she slept with another man, without telling me upfront—if she’s annoyed or we’re arguing, just to underscore that she made her own path and doesn’t regret it.
And it’s not just about the sex itself—it’s about the role I used to play. Now, in bed, that becomes obvious. She’ll almost always bring up her bulls—sometimes to tease me, sometimes to instruct me. She’ll say things like, “He fingers me like this, you should try it,” or, “He likes it rougher, so maybe push harder here.” She’s so much more direct about her desires—telling me exactly how she wants it, or even setting a tone by describing how one of her men does it. Sometimes she’ll say, “I want you to fuck me like he does,” and I’ll catch myself wavering between intense jealousy and arousal.
In bed, it means she’ll guide my hands or correct me mid-act, referencing how her bull does something. She might say, “He keeps his thumb here,” or “He hits that angle better,” or even just moan in a way that’s clearly imitating a session she had with them. It’s an ego check and a turn-on all at once. I’m learning things I never knew about her preferences, but it’s only because I’m following in another man’s footsteps.
What’s more, over the last year she’s realized that when they cum inside her, it particularly influences her mood—something hormonal, most likely, that leaves her more relaxed and at ease. If she’s had an especially good night, she’ll be in this dreamy, satisfied state for days—patient, affectionate, eager to please in non-sexual ways. But the downside is that during those stretches, she loses all interest in sex at home. She’s so thoroughly satisfied that she genuinely doesn’t crave more, at least not with me. Then, when the glow fades, she’ll circle back around to having interest in me again. I’ll be honest—it’s frustrating. She’ll openly admit, “I’m all fucked out,” and while she’s sweet about it, it’s a real kick to the gut.
She’s also become very aware of how this “post-sex glow” can make bad days vanish. If work has been hellish or she’s just feeling off, she’ll dress up for a date with one of her two bulls, barely talking to me beforehand—almost like she’s in a sour mood she doesn’t want to discuss. Then she’ll come home hours later looking like she’s floating on air, her hair tousled in that way you only get from hard sex, her long locks often tied up in a hasty bun rather than neatly styled as when she left, and her panties bearing the unmistakable marks of a rough, satisfying session—damp, stretched at the sides, carrying that raw scent that tells me exactly what she’s been doing. It’s obvious she got precisely what she needed, and the effects last far longer than any so-called “spa treatment” ever would. Her cheeks glow in that same flushed, radiant way I once attributed to carefully applied makeup—only now I know it’s more primal than that. She used to tidy herself up more before coming home, as if to hide the traces, but over the past few months, she barely bothers. She comes through the door looking disheveled, grumpy mood gone, replaced by a blissful calm.
A few times, she’s been blunt about it, saying things like, “I needed to get fucked by him. You couldn’t have helped,” or, “Don’t worry, I’ll be better after tonight.” There’s a practical tone to it, like she’s solving a problem. But for me, it’s a reminder that someone else is meeting a need I can’t—or at least, that she doesn’t want from me in that moment. And that’s where I get hit with every emotion at once: a twisted cocktail of relief that she’s happier, confusion about my own role, jealousy that he’s the source of her calm, and a lingering sense of inadequacy. It’s not something you can compartmentalize easily—it cuts deep. Part of me is oddly grateful that she can find a fix for her mood, but another part aches knowing I’m not her preferred solution. It’s a strange reality, wanting her to be happy while also feeling a knot in my gut that she seeks that happiness somewhere else.
Adding to that sting is the fact that she revealed she’d been luckily using condoms before telling me about any of this, but one of the first things she wanted after she told me was her desire to do away with them. I’d already had a vasectomy, so we hadn’t been using them, and she always hated condoms. By the time I learned about her “recreational activities,” she’d had both bulls for two years. I demanded she get tested, and was negative, so she got an IUD inserted—and now condoms simply aren’t used. She’s admitted the feeling of their cum inside her, literally and chemically, is part of why her mood shifts so profoundly. She stated the post sex glow is much more intense since. It’s a reality that sets off a storm inside me: I’m turned on imagining it and repulsed by my own jealousy, all at once. Knowing that it’s their seed inside her that’s lighting her up, that she wanted it enough to ditch condoms completely, sits in my chest like a lead weight.
Looking back at the early days? Still complicated. The reality is, it’s a tangled mix of intense eroticism, disgust, jealousy, and frustration. Some nights, I’ll lie awake running through the memories, feeling my cock harden at the thought of what she was doing behind my back. Other nights, I feel sick to my stomach. It’s both intoxicating and deeply unsettling.
And once this door is open, you can’t close it. So if you’re wondering whether you’ll enjoy the transformation, the answer is both yes and no. You’ll be turned on by it, probably more than you ever imagined. But you’ll also lose something. And once it’s gone, it’s gone. That’s what most men don’t realize before they open this door. You think you’re just adding a new kink, a new element of excitement to your marriage. But what you’re actually doing is reshaping the foundation of everything you once thought you were. And that’s a change you can never undo.
. Thanks in advance.
Thanks everyone for your responses !
