A Husband's Regret

[cuckold writer]

Greg stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his shirt for the third time. His reflection stared back at him—intense eyes, average build, and a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.

Tonight, he would prove to her—to himself—that he could be enough. He’d planned it all: a quiet dinner, a bottle of her favorite wine, the soft playlist she loved. He’d even lit candles in the bedroom, their flickering light casting shadows that seemed to dance with anticipation.

Leslie walked into the room, her smooth curves accentuated by the soft fabric of her dress. She paused, taking in the scene—the candles, the wine, the way Greg stood there, his hands clenched at his sides. Her lips, always so seductive, curved into a small, knowing smile. “What’s all this?” she asked, her voice light, teasing.

“I thought we could have a night,” Greg said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. “Just the two of us.”

Leslie tilted her head, her hair falling over one shoulder. “That sounds nice.” She walked over to him, her hips swaying slightly, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment, warm and soft, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

They sat together on the couch, the wine between them, the conversation easy at first. Leslie laughed at something he said, the sound light and melodic, and for a moment, Greg allowed himself to believe that everything was fine. That he could still make her happy.

They moved to the bedroom, the candlelight casting a warm glow over the room. Leslie reached out, her fingers trailing down his chest, and he felt his breath catch. Her lips found his, soft at first, then more insistent, her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth. He kissed her back, his hands trembling as they slid over the curves of her body.

But even as she pressed closer, her body warm against his, he couldn’t shake the images that flooded his mind—Leslie’s face contorted with pleasure, her cries of ecstasy as Mark took her. Stop, he told himself. Stop thinking about him. But the thoughts wouldn’t go away, and he could feel his confidence slipping.

Leslie pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his. “Greg,” she murmured, her voice low, husky. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice strained. “I’m fine.”

She studied him for a moment, then smiled, her hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. “Let me take care of you,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.

He let her undress him, his mind a whirl of guilt and desire. She kissed his chest, her lips trailing lower, and he felt his body respond despite the turmoil inside him. But when her hand reached for his waistband, he froze.

“Leslie,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I—”

She looked up at him, her eyes dark with need. “What is it?”

He hesitated, his mind racing. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just… nervous.”

Leslie smiled, her hand resting on his hip. “Don’t be,” she said. “It’s just me.”

She undressed him slowly, her touch deliberate, and he felt the heat of her body as she pressed against him. Her lips found his again, and he kissed her back, trying to focus on the feel of her, the way her body moved against his. But as she reached down, her fingers brushing against him, he felt a surge of panic.

As she took his cock in her hand, he felt the weight of his insecurities pressing down on him. She’s comparing you, his mind whispered. She’s thinking about him.

“Greg,” Leslie murmured, her lips brushing against his ear. “You feel so good.”

Her words should have been a comfort, but they only made it worse. He could feel himself getting close, too close, and he tried to hold back, to make it last. But the guilt, the jealousy, the fear of not being enough—it all came crashing down on him.

Leslie lay on the bed, her body stretched out like a symphony waiting to be played. Her skin glowed under the soft light of the bedroom, the kind of light that made everything feel warm, intimate. She was naked, her curves inviting, her breasts rising and falling with each slow breath. She glanced at

Greg, who was standing at the foot of the bed, already hard, his cock standing at attention.

“Come on,” she purred, her voice low and sultry. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Greg didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed onto the bed, his hands trembling slightly as they grazed her thighs. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the way her body seemed to pulse with desire. He kissed her, his lips crashing into hers with a hunger that surprised even him. She moaned into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck, her collarbone, until he reached her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, sucking gently. Leslie arched her back, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “Just like that.”

Greg’s hands moved down her body, his fingers brushing against her inner thighs. She spread her legs wider, inviting him in. He could feel how wet she was, her arousal slick against his fingertips. He slid a finger inside her, curling it slightly, finding that spot that made her moan.

“Greg,” she breathed, her hips bucking against his hand. “I need you. Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He positioned himself between her legs, the tip of his cock pressing against her entrance. He hesitated for a moment, savoring the feeling of her heat, the way she pulsed around him. Then, in one swift motion, he pushed inside her.

Leslie’s breath hitched as Greg thrust into her, his cock filling her in a way that was familiar but also… different. Smaller. She couldn’t help but compare him to Mark, the way his massive cock had stretched her to her limits, leaving her aching and wanting more.

Greg groaned, the sensation overwhelming. She was so tight, so warm, so perfect. He began to move, his hips thrusting against hers, each stroke sending shivers of pleasure through his body.

But it didn’t last long. The sensation was too much, too intense. He could feel his orgasm building, a pressure that he couldn’t hold back. His thrusts became erratic, his breathing ragged.

“Leslie,” he gasped, his voice strained. “I’m gonna…”

Before he could finish, he came, spilling himself inside her with a groan. His body shook with the force of his release, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her.

Leslie froze, her eyes snapping open. She stared at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and frustration.

Greg collapsed onto the bed beside her, his body still trembling. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Leslie sighed, a small, frustrated sound that cut through him like a knife. She sat back, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the sheets. “It’s okay,” she said, though her tone suggested otherwise.

Greg felt a surge of guilt, of inadequacy. He wanted to say something, to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he reached out, his hand trembling as he touched her arm. “Leslie,” he said, his voice barely audible.

She looked at him, her eyes dark, and he saw something in them—something he couldn’t quite place. Disappointment? Frustration? Or maybe just… longing.

Leslie stood up, her movements graceful despite the tension in the room. She walked over to the window, her back to him, and for a moment, all he could do was watch her.

He felt a surge of desperation, of helplessness. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her back to him, but he couldn’t move. Instead, he lay there, his heart pounding, his mind a whirl of guilt and fear.

Leslie turned away again, her gaze fixed on the window. “I need some air,” she said, her voice distant. “I’ll be back.”

Greg watched as she got dressed and walked out of the room, his throat tight, his chest aching. He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

He sat there in the silence, the candlelight flickering around him, and felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. What have I done? he thought, his mind spinning. What have I become?

And as he sat there, the sound of the front door closing echoing in his ears, he knew one thing for sure—this wasn’t the end. Not for him. Not for Leslie. And definitely not for Mark.

Greg stared at nothing in particular, his hands clenched together between his knees, shoulders hunched forward as though trying to shrink himself down to something less noticeable, less responsible, less... failed.

He had thought he’d been open-minded, adventurous. Enlightened, even. The idea had first come up late one night, nestled between conversation and fantasy. He had framed it as exploration, something to "bring them closer." He hadn’t expected her to say yes—not really. And he certainly hadn’t expected her to enjoy it so much.

But she had. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly.

Mark. Even the name seemed designed to leave a mark—short, hard, undeniable. Greg had seen him once. Tall. Confident. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for approval because it assumed it. Greg couldn’t help but compare. Everything about Mark seemed to radiate a casual ease, a sense of physical comfort in the world Greg had always lacked.

At first, he told himself it was fine. It was just sex. Leslie still came home to him, still laughed at his jokes, still shared quiet mornings over coffee. But something had shifted—subtly, then unmistakably. She was more alive now, more at ease in her skin. She moved differently. She glowed.

And tonight had been the worst. A clumsy attempt at intimacy, a chance to reclaim something. He’d reached for her, nervous but hopeful. She had smiled gently, even kindly. But his body hadn’t cooperated. Anxiety closed in too quickly, too tightly. Barely a few seconds had passed before shame took over.

She had pulled away, her expression caught somewhere between frustration and pity, and then she had simply dressed and left. No words. Just the soft sound of the zipper, then the door.

Now the house was quiet in a way that made Greg want to scream.

He got up slowly and wandered into the kitchen, not sure why. Maybe to distract himself. Maybe to escape the echo of her absence in the bedroom.

The fridge light blinked on when he opened the door, a tiny effort of normalcy. He grabbed a beer he didn’t want and sat at the kitchen table.

He didn’t drink it. He just held the cold bottle against his forehead and closed his eyes.

What did I expect?

It was the question that wouldn’t leave him alone. Had he thought this would make him feel powerful? Generous? Secure enough to handle the inevitable comparisons? Maybe part of him had wanted to impress her—Look how confident I am. Look how much I trust you. But now that trust felt less like a gift and more like a blade he’d handed her himself.

The truth was, he missed her. Not just physically, though that was a raw and present ache. He missed the way she used to curl into him on the couch, the shared looks across rooms, the sense that they were still discovering each other. Now he felt like an afterthought in his own marriage.

He thought about the way Leslie had looked lately—lighter, like something inside her had come alive again. And the bitter irony that it wasn’t him who’d helped her feel that way gnawed at him.

Was this his punishment for suggesting something he didn’t truly understand?

His phone buzzed once on the table. A text. He stared at it, heart climbing into his throat. For a second he hoped—stupidly—that it was her. But it wasn’t. Just a reminder about a dentist appointment tomorrow. He turned the phone face down.

He realized then that he wasn’t angry at her. Not really. She had done what he’d asked. With transparency, even tenderness. It was him he was angry at—for turning a fantasy into reality without understanding the cost.

The house creaked faintly, as houses do when the temperature drops and the day shifts toward night. Greg stood and wandered into the living room. He sank onto the couch and wrapped a throw blanket around his shoulders even though he wasn’t cold. He needed something to hold him together.

He didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know how to fix this. Maybe it wasn’t about fixing. Maybe it was about owning it—his mistake, his insecurity, his naïve belief that emotional detachment was possible when love was involved.

He glanced at the front door, half-hoping she’d walk through it. Not to fight, not to make things better. Just to be there. To remind him that they still had something worth fighting for, even if it was tangled and bruised.

Eventually, he leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.

He whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, “I didn’t know it would hurt this much.”

The clock ticked on.

[cuckold writer]

The front door opened with a soft click, and Greg’s head snapped up from where he sat, motionless, on the couch. The dim light from the kitchen spilled across the floor, illuminating a slice of the hallway, and he caught the unmistakable rhythm of footsteps: two pairs. Leslie wasn’t alone.

He didn’t have to look to know it was Mark.

Greg stayed where he was, frozen. The half-empty beer bottle in his hand had gone warm, and the condensation had long since dried. His grip on it tightened unconsciously, his knuckles whitening.

He heard Leslie laugh—soft, almost embarrassed—and then Mark’s voice, low and easy, the way men talk when they know they don’t need to try. That confidence again. Greg could picture the way Leslie looked up at him, the way she moved more freely now, the way she had changed. The glow she wore after nights with Mark wasn’t something Greg had given her in months. Maybe years.

He swallowed hard, chest tightening, and leaned back into the couch as their footsteps passed down the hallway. The bedroom door closed—not slammed, but with finality. A boundary drawn.

Greg stared ahead, past the dead TV screen, his reflection barely visible in the dark glass. His heart pounded in his chest. He could leave. He could stand up, walk out the door, slam it behind him. But his legs wouldn’t move.

Instead, he got up and went to the guest bedroom to listen.

Silence for a moment. Then movement.

The quiet rustle of clothing, the creak of the bed, a breathy laugh.

A slow rhythm began to build—bed frame creaking, breaths synchronizing, that soft, unmistakable pulse of sex. Greg shut his eyes and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until the taste of blood grounded him. But even with his eyes closed, the images came: Leslie’s back arched, Mark’s hands gripping her hips, her lips parted in abandon.

He heard it—the low, commanding murmur of Mark’s voice, followed by Leslie’s soft, breathy laugh. Greg’s hand instinctively moved to his waistband, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the button and zipper. The sounds grew louder, more urgent, and he knew what was coming. He couldn’t stop himself now.

Leslie’s moan pierced through the wall, a sound that was both intoxicating and devastating. She never sounds like that with me. The thought lingered, a bitter truth that only fueled his arousal. Greg’s hand slipped inside his boxers, wrapping around his hardening length, his touch tentative at first but growing more desperate with every sound that reached his ears.

Mark’s voice broke through, deep and commanding. “Turn around. Now.” Greg could picture it—Leslie obeying without hesitation, her body moving in sync with Mark’s desires. There was the sound of skin against skin, a rhythmic slapping that sent Greg’s imagination into overdrive. His strokes quickened, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Leslie’s cries grew louder, more frantic. “Oh god, Mark! Yes!” The way she said his name, the way she needed him, it was too much. Greg’s free hand pressed against the wall, his fingers curling as if he could reach through and touch her. I should be the one making her feel that way. But he wasn’t.

And that knowledge only made him stroke himself harder, his pace frantic, his arousal spiraling out of control.

Mark’s growl was low and primal. “Take it. Take all of me.” The words were a command, a demand that Leslie seemed all too willing to obey. Greg could hear her gasping, her moans breaking into sobs of pleasure. His own hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he imagined what it must feel like to be Mark—to have that kind of power, that kind of control.

Leslie’s voice was muffled now, her face likely pressed into the mattress as Mark’s thrusts became more forceful. “Oh god, oh god, oh god!” she chanted, her words dissolving into incoherent cries. Greg’s body was on fire, every nerve alight with the sounds of her pleasure. His own climax was building, a pressure in his lower abdomen that he couldn’t hold back much longer.

Mark’s voice was a guttural growl now. “You’re mine, Leslie. Say it.” There was a pause, and then Leslie’s voice, trembling with ecstasy. “I’m yours, Mark. I’m yours.” The words were like a knife to Greg’s heart, and yet they only made him harder, his strokes becoming almost punishing.

Leslie’s cries reached a fever pitch, a sound that was both agonizing and euphoric. “I’m going to—oh god, Mark, I’m going to—” Her words were cut off by a scream, a raw, unfiltered release that sent a jolt through Greg’s body. He could feel it—her climax, her body convulsing around Mark, her pleasure reaching heights he had never been able to give her.

Mark’s roar followed, a deep, guttural sound that left no doubt of his own release. The sounds of their passion echoed through the wall, a symphony of ecstasy that Greg couldn’t tear himself away from. His own release was imminent, his body trembling with the need to let go.

“Oh fuck,” Greg gasped, his strokes erratic now, his body on the edge. He could feel it building, the pressure in his lower abdomen about to explode. And then it did—waves of pleasure crashing over him as he came, his hand working him through it, his body shuddering with the intensity of his release.

He slumped against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body spent. But even as the pleasure faded, the guilt returned, a heavy weight in his chest. What the hell am I doing? The thought lingered, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, to break the spell that had been cast.

On the other side of the wall, Leslie’s soft whimpers reached his ears, and he knew it wasn’t over. Not for her. Not for Mark. And definitely not for him.

Greg sat slumped against the wall, his body still trembling from his release, his mind foggy with guilt and regret. His hand, now sticky and limp, rested on his thigh as he stared vacantly at the floor. The silence on the other side of the wall felt heavy, almost mocking, but it didn’t last long. Within minutes, the unmistakable sounds of passion began again. Leslie’s soft moans. Mark’s deep, commanding voice. Greg’s jaw tightened, his chest aching with a mix of jealousy and self-loathing. He didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want to feel any of it. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“Oh, Mark,” Leslie’s voice floated through the wall, low and breathless, sending a shiver down Greg’s spine despite his resolve. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, as if the physical pain could drown out the emotional torment. But it didn’t. If anything, the sound of her pleasure only amplified his own misery.

Greg’s stomach churned.

He heard the rhythmic creaking of the bed, the wet, slapping sounds of skin against skin, and Leslie’s cries grew louder, more desperate. “Fuck me, Mark! Yes! Just like that!” Her voice was a mixture of ecstasy and surrender, and it tore through Greg like a knife. He felt his cock twitch, thicken, despite his best efforts to ignore it. His breathing quickened, his heart pounding in his chest as he fought the urge to touch himself. I can’t. I won’t. But the temptation was too strong, the need too consuming.

He could picture Mark’s muscular frame towering over Leslie, his broad shoulders flexing as he pounded into her. He could see Leslie’s smooth curves trembling beneath him, her lips parted in pleasure as she surrendered completely to Mark’s dominance.

He had asked for this.

No—he had suggested it. Late one night, pretending it was a fantasy, something adventurous. Something to spice up their marriage. And Leslie, hesitant but open, had agreed. They had set rules. They had talked about trust. Greg had convinced himself this was modern. Mature. Brave.

He hadn’t expected her to enjoy it so much.

He hadn’t expected her to fall for it—for him—with this much hunger. Greg was no stranger to insecurity, but this was different. This wasn’t hypothetical. This was the woman he loved finding more pleasure, more satisfaction, more joy in another man’s arms.

The soft thud of the headboard hitting the wall snapped him back. Greg sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held some answer. He couldn’t breathe right. His hands trembled.

Each sound from the bedroom was a tiny dagger, a pinpoint puncture in his chest. He could hear her again, her voice higher now. She whispered something he couldn’t make out—maybe his name, maybe Mark’s. The not knowing hurt even more.

“Oh god, yes!” Leslie’s voice was a breathless cry, and Greg could hear the bed shaking violently now, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust. He imagined Mark’s cock sinking deep into her, filling her completely, claiming her in ways Greg never could.

“Fuck, Leslie,” Mark groaned, his voice strained with effort. “You’re going to make me cum.”

“Yes, Mark! Please! I need it! I need you to fill me!”

He had been so confident when he made the suggestion. So sure that it wouldn’t shake him. He had even fantasized about it—about Leslie coming back to him, eyes sparkling, grateful, more in love than ever. He thought it would be proof of how strong they were. How evolved

But all he felt now was small.

It felt like grief. Like mourning a version of himself that had died. The man who had once made Leslie feel that way. The man she had once reached for in the dark, needing no one else. That man was gone. Replaced. And he had helped dig his own grave.

He stared at the ceiling and remembered their wedding day—how she had smiled through her tears as she read her vows, how he had felt like the luckiest man alive. He had been so certain of their future. So sure of their bond. And maybe that had made him complacent. Maybe he thought they could survive anything.

But nothing prepares you for being on the other side of the wall.

And yet, the sounds from the other side of the wall didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder, more intense. “Oh god, Mark! I’m going to cum!” Leslie’s voice was a high-pitched scream, and Greg could hear the bed creaking violently, the headboard slamming against the wall with a force that made him flinch.

“Cum for me, Leslie,” Mark growled, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“Yes! Oh god, yes!” Leslie’s cries reached a fever pitch, and Greg could only imagine the look on her face as she came, her body trembling with pleasure, her nails digging into Mark’s back as he filled her completely. He felt his cock twitch again, a traitorous response to the sounds of her ecstasy, and he clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to touch himself again.\

“That was incredible,” Leslie murmured, her voice soft and sated.

This wasn’t just about sex. It wasn’t even about Mark. It was about everything that had led them here—the drift, the miscommunications, the slow erosion of intimacy. Greg had tried to fix something by outsourcing it, and in doing so, had only deepened the fracture.

He thought she would come back different—in love with him again. But she had come back herself, finally awake, finally free. And now he wasn’t sure there was room for him in that version of her life.

He regretted it. Deeply. Fully.

He would’ve given anything to take it back—to rewind to the moment before he had said the words, before he had opened the door that could never be closed. But regret was useless now. Leslie had found something real with someone else. And he had handed her the invitation.

He blinked up at the ceiling and whispered:

"What have I done?"

The question echoed in the quiet, unanswered.

Outside the room, the house was still. But inside Greg’s chest, the storm raged on.

[cuckold writer]

The porch swing creaked as Greg rocked gently back and forth, the soft groan of wood against metal a slow, steady rhythm in the warm night air. A half-moon hung over the trees, casting silver light across the lawn. Crickets chirped in waves. The house behind him was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old floorboards shifting with the night. He sat with a glass of water in his hand, though he hadn’t taken a sip in some time. His throat was dry, but not with thirst. Something deeper. A dull ache. A kind of hollow tension that pulsed behind his ribs.

He stared out at the yard but saw nothing. His thoughts spun in slow, heavy circles, the same ones they’d been tracing for days, weeks maybe. He had asked for this. That thought was always the first one back, and always the one that stung the most.

He remembered how it had begun. The fantasy. The suggestion whispered late at night, his heart pounding in the dark beside Leslie, both of them tangled in the kind of rut long-married couples fall into. They hadn’t been unhappy, exactly. Just numb. Passion had faded into routine. Sex became obligation. And Greg, desperate to feel something—anything—again, had wondered aloud: What if you were with someone else? Just once?

Leslie hadn’t laughed or recoiled. She had paused, curious. The next conversations came slowly, carefully. They both danced around it at first, uncertain of what it really meant. It wasn’t about betrayal, they agreed. It was about something new. Something that might wake them both up.

And then there was Mark.

Mark was a colleague of Leslie’s. Confident. Kind. A man who carried himself with quiet ease and spoke with warmth and attention. He was everything Greg wasn’t—at least not anymore. Athletic, composed, effortlessly charming. When Leslie brought him up, Greg had felt a ripple of something he couldn’t name then. But he nodded, told her it was okay. Told her he wanted it.

He thought he meant it.

Now, alone on the porch, the memory of Mark filled the silence. Not just the image of him with Leslie—though that was etched into Greg’s mind with aching clarity—but the presence Mark brought into their lives. How he made Leslie laugh. How she lit up when she spoke about him. How she came home afterward with her body glowing with energy, with something Greg hadn’t seen in her in years.

It hadn’t happened just once.

Greg had given her permission, of course. Encouraged it, even. But each time, when she left with an overnight bag or came home in the soft haze of satisfaction, he felt smaller. Diminished. Like he was being erased one night at a time.

He pressed the cold glass to his forehead and closed his eyes. He had tried to intellectualize it. Told himself it was an act of love. A way to give her something he couldn’t provide. He’d read forums and essays, watched videos of couples who swore this kind of arrangement made them stronger. But none of that prepared him for the quiet humiliation of knowing another man could make his wife feel things he never could. And worse, that she wanted it. She chose it.

The word floated up from the dark corners of his mind, the one he had been avoiding:

Cuckold.

He had read it before, sure. It was a strange, almost theatrical word. One of those terms that felt more like a punchline than a truth. But now, in the thick of it, with no jokes left to hide behind, it settled around him with a cold finality.

That’s what I am.

The label clung to him like a second skin—uncomfortable, exposing. He wanted to reject it, to argue that it wasn’t about dominance or inferiority or shame. That this had been a consensual, mutual journey.

But the truth didn’t need his permission.

He was a cuckold. And the realization cut through him, not because it was wrong, but because it was right. He had offered Leslie to another man. Welcomed the idea. Encouraged her when she hesitated. He had watched her leave their bedroom and walk into another man’s arms.

And now, he lived in the aftermath.

What hurt wasn’t the label. It was what it revealed.

That he couldn’t satisfy her in the ways she needed.

That someone else had awakened something in her he had never touched.

That he had spent so long pretending to be enough, when deep down, he had always feared he wasn’t.

He wasn’t strong, or commanding. He wasn’t mysterious. He had no edge. He didn’t fill a room. He didn’t seduce. He accommodated. He listened, he supported, he adapted. All things he thought were virtues.

But were they attractive?

The question gutted him.

When had he last felt desired? Not just loved—wanted. Craved. He couldn’t remember. Not by Leslie. Not by anyone. Even in past relationships, he had always been the “nice guy.” The safe one. The good listener. The one women confided in about their problems with other men.

He had mistaken that for intimacy. Mistaken kindness for magnetism.

Greg let out a slow, shaky breath and stared up at the stars just beginning to emerge between the trees. He wanted to be the kind of man who turned heads. Who made Leslie flush with anticipation. But he wasn’t. He had never been that man—not even in his youth. He had spent too long pretending it didn’t matter.

But now, stripped of illusion, he couldn’t help but feel like something was fundamentally missing.

Maybe I’m not man enough, he thought.

Not in the brute, testosterone-driven way he used to mock. But in the deeper, more devastating sense: not compelling. Not magnetic. Not someone a woman longed for in the quiet, private hours of the night.

That realization didn’t come with tears. Just a weight. A silent gravity pulling him inward.

He didn’t blame Leslie. She had been honest. She still held his hand in the mornings. Still told him she loved him. But now he understood what kind of love it was. A tender, enduring affection. A partnership. A friendship. Not a fire.

He tried to imagine her looking at him the way she looked at Mark—and his imagination failed. There was no memory to draw from. No moment in their shared history that matched the hunger he saw in her now.

He had wondered, when this all began, whether watching Leslie with another man might unlock something in him. Jealousy, yes—but maybe also relief. Maybe clarity. He had hoped it would give them both a new chapter.

But it hadn’t.

What it had given him was a mirror. Unforgiving. Brutal in its honesty.

And yet... he was still here. Still breathing. Still Greg. A man—not less of one, even if he didn’t feel like it tonight. Just a man learning what it means to be vulnerable without being destroyed by it.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor beneath him. His heart felt heavy—not with rage or betrayal, but with grief. A quiet, private mourning for the man he thought he was.

Greg had spent years believing that being a good husband meant being the sole provider of emotional and physical fulfillment. That to love someone meant to be their world. But Leslie’s joy with Mark shattered that illusion. And in its place was something both painful and freeing: the realization that he didn’t have to be everything.

It wasn’t easy to accept. There were moments of envy, moments where he hated Mark’s name, moments when he wanted to rip the whole thing apart and retreat into something simpler. But each time, he came back to the same truth.

Leslie deserved to feel sexual pleasure, pleasure he wasn’t capable of providing. Pleasure Mark was more than capable of providing.

He had watched her fade for too long. Dimming herself to fit the shape of a marriage that no longer fit. And now, seeing her bloom again—even if it wasn’t with him—was a kind of bittersweet gift. He loved her. That hadn’t changed. But maybe loving her now meant stepping aside in the ways that mattered most.

He straightened up slightly and wiped his hands on his jeans. The inadequacy still sat heavy in his chest, but it didn’t choke him anymore. Not tonight. He would carry it. He would sit with it. And maybe in time, he’d learn to live alongside it without shame.

Because maybe that was the most courageous thing he could do now: not try to compete, not try to rewrite who he was—but to accept it. To stand in the truth of his own ordinariness and still believe he was worthy of love.

Even if it didn’t come in the form he once imagined.

He took a long, slow breath and let the night air fill his lungs. The crickets continued their song, indifferent to the thoughts unraveling in his mind. Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl hooted once.

Greg finally took a sip of water. It was warm now, but he didn’t mind. He sat back against the swing and let it sway gently.

There was sadness, yes. But also clarity.

He was a cuckold. Not by accident or shame, but by choice. A man who had handed part of his wife’s desire to another, and now lived with the truth of that decision. It didn’t make him less. It didn’t erase his worth. But it did force him to face who he was—and who he wasn’t.

And strangely, that made the night feel a little less heavy.

He wasn’t everything to her. But maybe, just maybe, he could still be something important. A partner. A witness. A man brave enough to let love be bigger than pride.

The porch swing creaked again as he rose to his feet. He stood for a moment, staring out across the yard as the moonlight caught the edge of the trees. Somewhere inside, Leslie was sleeping. Or maybe thinking. Maybe dreaming of someone else.

But she was still his wife, in some way. Still part of his life. And he—flawed, uncertain, and aching—was still here.

Still a man.

Even if he didn’t feel like the kind of man women chased.

He didn’t have to be.

Maybe it was enough, someday, just to be the kind of man who stayed.

[shadowtantra]

Interesting to see where this goes next, clearly Leslie is on the path and in NRE with Mark. Does she want to just stay with Greg or is she looking for more in love and life. And what does Greg want besides his wife to be married to him to stay with him.

[shamed411bee]

Excellent!

[cuckold writer]

Greg hadn’t meant to linger in the hallway.

He’d only gone upstairs to grab a fresh towel. That’s all. But as he turned the corner toward the linen closet, he heard Leslie’s voice coming from the master bedroom—her voice light, conversational, and completely unaware of his proximity. Her door was open just a sliver, and her phone speaker must have been on. He paused for a moment, towel forgotten, when he realized she wasn’t talking to Mark.

She was on the phone. With someone close.

“...I’m telling you, it’s like night and day,” she was saying, laughing gently. “With Mark, it’s just different.”

Greg froze.

He knew it was wrong to stand there. Knew it was invasive. But something in her tone—so casual, so unguarded—held him in place like a weight on his chest.

Her voice dropped slightly, becoming more reflective. “I think I was drawn to him the moment we started really talking. There’s just this… presence to him. He doesn’t second-guess himself. He says what he means. There’s this quiet confidence, you know?”

The person on the other end must have responded with interest, because Leslie laughed again. “Yeah. And he takes charge. Not in some cartoonish way, but like—he knows what he wants. He doesn’t apologize for it.”

Greg’s throat tightened.

“He’s assertive,” she continued. “He doesn’t need constant reassurance. And when he walks into a room, people notice. He doesn’t try too hard. He doesn’t have to.”

There was a pause. Greg could hear her shifting on the bed, maybe standing up.

“I didn’t realize how much I craved that,” she said, softer now. “I spent so many years telling myself I didn’t need someone like that. That what I had with Greg was enough. He’s sweet. He’s thoughtful. But…”

Greg’s heart pounded.

“But he’s… passive,” she said carefully, almost with pity. “Always asking, always checking, always trying to please. I used to think that was considerate, but eventually, it started to feel like I was the only one steering the ship. And honestly? That’s not attractive. Not anymore.”

The words hit Greg harder than if she’d screamed them.

She kept going. “He never challenged me. Never had opinions that weren’t softened or hedged. Even in bed, it was like he was asking permission to breathe. Everything was so… cautious.”

A pause.

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” she added quickly. “He’s a good person. But I think I lost attraction to him a long time ago and just didn’t know how to admit it. And then Mark came along, and it was like—‘Oh. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.’”

Greg took a step back, each word imprinting on his chest like pressure against bone.

“He just doesn’t carry himself like a man who knows who he is,” Leslie said. “Mark does. And that alone changes everything.”

There was a longer silence. Her friend must have asked something difficult, because Leslie’s voice faltered slightly.

“Do I feel guilty?” she repeated. “Sometimes. I mean, Greg never did anything wrong. But staying in something out of loyalty when you’re no longer connected—it felt like I was lying to both of us. And now, with Mark… I feel like myself again.”

Greg turned away, walking softly down the hall before she could say more. His towel hung limply in his hand.

These weren’t just complaints. They weren’t petty grievances or heat-of-the-moment jabs. These were her truths, spoken freely to someone she trusted, said without hesitation or drama. And that made them harder to bear.

She didn’t say he was cruel. She didn’t say he failed her. She just said she didn’t want him anymore.

And not because he’d hurt her. But because, at his core, he didn’t make her feel anything now.

Because he was too soft. Too accommodating. Too beta.

And Mark—the “alpha,” the confident one, the one who didn’t ask—had become what Greg couldn’t be, and maybe never was.

It wasn’t about muscles or money. It was about presence. Posture. Energy.

Greg leaned forward, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his eyes.

He had always thought that being respectful, careful, and attentive was what a good man did. That asking, listening, deferring—meant love.

But to her, it had come to mean lack.

He sat there, breathing shallow, the room around him growing dim.

In that moment, Greg wasn’t angry.

He was just… dismantled.

Not because she had chosen someone else.

But because she had finally, clearly said what he had always feared:

She didn’t just stop loving him.
She stopped wanting him.

And now he had to live with that knowledge.
Under the same roof.
Every day.
Without illusion.

[nnjcpl2002]

Seems like a sad future, unless Greg can embrace it and be able to enjoy his diminished role. Or even possibly finding a more active cuckold role?

[shadowtantra]

Very well written - I appreciate the dialogue and the opening into what they are each thinking - Hopefully they can come together and share their thinking and define their pathway forward either together or separately!

[shamed411bee]

Wonderful!

[cuckold writer]

At first, Greg tried not to see it.

He told himself the toothbrush didn’t matter. That a single shirt hanging in the closet didn’t signal anything more than a practical decision. That the change in her laugh—lighter, more immediate, the way it used to be when they first met—wasn’t because of him.

But it was.

He knew it.

And knowing didn’t soften the edges. It only made the quiet harder to live in.

The first night Mark stayed over, Greg barely slept. Not because of noise or discomfort—Leslie and Mark were discreet, careful—but because of the absence. His pillow didn’t feel right in the guest room. The lamp flickered when he turned it on. The comforter was just slightly too short for his legs.

He lay there staring at the ceiling, heart thudding—not in jealousy, but in a strange, hollow rhythm that felt like a goodbye whispered too early.

This wasn’t a betrayal. Greg had been the one to open the door, after all. To offer something he thought would bring them both clarity.

What he hadn’t expected was how it would feel to be stepped over while still standing in the room.

At first, the change was subtle.

Mark would leave early the next morning, and Leslie would brew coffee like nothing had changed. Greg would come into the kitchen, their usual rhythm slightly misaligned, like dancers off tempo. He would sit across from her, offer a quiet “morning,” and she would smile—distracted but warm.

It was a smile Greg had known for years.

But now it was missing something. Or maybe it had added something—some spark, some new layer that Greg hadn’t put there.

By the third time Mark stayed over, Greg began leaving the house earlier. Sometimes he’d stop at a coffee shop and just sit, reading articles he didn’t care about, letting the hours stretch. He didn’t want to rush back into a home that didn’t quite feel like his anymore.

He still paid the bills. Still did the yard work. Still fixed the sink when it leaked. But each act felt more like maintenance of a memory than a shared life.

Greg never blamed Leslie outright.

She was being honest—more honest than he’d seen her in years. She laughed more. Carried herself differently. And part of him was glad for that.

But it didn’t stop the ache.

He noticed the details piling up like leaves no one bothered to rake: the missing shirt she no longer wore because Mark liked the black one better. The playlist in the car that now featured artists Greg didn’t recognize. The way she said Mark’s name when she got a text—with a softness that stung, because she used to say his name that way.

And it wasn’t just the physical space Mark took up—it was emotional real estate.

Leslie had always confided in Greg. Even when things were off, they still had the kind of shorthand that came from years of shared moments. But now, she’d pause mid-thought and say, “I already told Mark this story,” and Greg would smile, pretending it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because those stories used to be theirs.

One Saturday afternoon, Greg came home to find Leslie and Mark painting the upstairs hallway. It had needed updating for years, but she’d never pushed for it. Now the walls were covered in plastic sheeting, and Mark—barefoot, shirt streaked with gray paint—was laughing at something Leslie had said as she wiped a dab off his cheek.

Greg stood at the foot of the stairs for a beat too long, unseen. The moment was domestic. Natural. Theirs.

When Leslie finally noticed him, she brightened, her voice friendly but pitched with a tone he’d begun to dread: inclusion laced with guilt.

“Hey! We started the hallway. Hope that’s okay.”

Greg forced a smile. “Looks good.”

He kept walking.

He didn’t know how to explain what it felt like to be slowly… replaced. Not through malice. Not through dramatic betrayal. But through a thousand daily choices that added up to something undeniable.

He was still in the house. Still eating dinner at the table. Still offering to drive when her car needed service. But he felt like the understudy in a life he used to headline.

And Mark?

Mark was everything Greg wasn’t.

Not cruel. Not arrogant. Just certain. He filled a room without trying. Took the lead without apology. Where Greg had offered balance, Mark offered command. And Leslie responded to that.

Greg could see it clearly now.

The way she leaned into Mark when they stood close. The way her hand rested naturally on his back. How she laughed at his jokes without the practiced patience she’d used with Greg for years.

And what hurt most… was how effortless it all seemed.

Like Greg had been holding up something with aching arms, only to watch someone else lift it easily, with one hand.

He didn’t hate Mark.

In some ways, he admired him. The confidence, the ease, the way he looked at Leslie like she was the only woman in the room. Greg had loved her that way once. Still did. But maybe he hadn’t shown it right. Maybe his kind of love had been too soft. Too accommodating.

Too passive.

He remembered a conversation they’d had years ago, on a trip to the mountains. Leslie had asked him what kind of man he wanted to be remembered as. He’d said: a good one.

Reliable. Respectful. Caring.

At the time, she’d smiled and kissed his hand.

Now, he wondered if those qualities had quietly faded from desire into disappointment.

One night, after Mark had gone and Leslie had fallen asleep early, Greg wandered the house in the dark. He moved through the living room, brushing fingertips over the back of the couch they used to nap on together. Passed the kitchen table where she once laughed at his terrible lasagna. Stopped at the hallway, newly painted.

Mark’s work.

Leslie’s choice.

Their home was changing, and Greg was becoming part of its past instead of its present.

He wasn’t angry. Not really.

Just… hollow.

He knew he had to start carving something new for himself. A new rhythm. A new identity outside this house, this triangle. But it was hard to know where to begin when so much of who he was had been with her.

And yet, even now, there were flickers.

Little moments.

Like when Leslie touched his wrist absentmindedly while handing him a dish. Or when she laughed too hard at a memory they shared, the kind Mark would never know. Or when she lingered near the door of the guest room after saying goodnight, almost like she had more to say but didn’t know how.

He wondered if she still saw him, beneath the fog of change.

And if she did, was it with warmth?

Or only regret?

Greg lay back on the guest bed that night and closed his eyes.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t rage.

He simply felt.

The weight of memory. The dullness of replacement. The ache of watching someone else become the man she looked for in a room.

And the quiet, painful truth:

She wasn’t his anymore.

Not really.

And maybe she hadn’t been for a long time.

[cuckold writer]

The house was dim and quiet, bathed in the low amber light of early evening. Outside, wind moved through the trees in soft, brushing sighs. Inside, the master bedroom glowed with warm lamplight and flickers of intimacy that no longer belonged to Greg.

He had come home late, not by design, but by hesitation. He’d sat in the car for nearly twenty minutes in the driveway, staring at the front door, unsure of the version of home he’d find inside. There were nights lately when he came back to silence—Leslie in the studio, or out. Other nights, she was already in bed, reading or turned away, eyes closed before he could find the courage to speak.

Tonight, there was no silence.

As he stepped through the door, something felt off. The lights were on upstairs—more than usual. Two wine glasses sat on the kitchen counter. A pair of shoes by the stairs—men’s, not his. His breath hitched.

He moved with quiet instinct, not wanting to hear what he already knew.

Up the stairs.

The hallway.

The master bedroom door slightly ajar.

It was the sound that caught him—low voices, then a laugh, then silence again.

He edged closer, heart hammering.

Inside, Leslie and Mark lay in bed. The sheets were drawn up, their bodies close, skin touching in that unmistakably familiar way. The lamp cast a soft gold glow on them—on Leslie’s bare shoulder, on Mark’s hand tucked around her waist.

They weren’t speaking at first. Just kissing. Slow, deliberate, almost reverent. Greg stood frozen just outside the door, hidden by the angle, unnoticed. He hadn’t meant to see this. But now that he had, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop watching the moment that confirmed what he'd been too afraid to face.

Leslie pulled back slightly, breath catching as she looked into Mark’s eyes.

“I don’t know how this happened,” she whispered, voice shaking with something close to wonder. “I didn’t mean to… feel this much.”

Mark brushed a thumb along her cheek. “But you do?”

She hesitated, lips parting, then nodded. “Yes. I do. I’m falling in love with you.”

Greg’s chest cracked silently in the hallway.

Mark kissed her again—on the forehead this time, gentle, protective. “I’ve been trying not to say it first,” he admitted. “But I feel it, too. I’m already falling in love with you.”

They kissed again—deeper now, a shared breath of relief and longing. Leslie curled into him, their bodies fitting in ways that made Greg feel like an intruder in his own life.

She rested her head on Mark’s chest, fingers tracing aimless lines against his skin. “This is the first time in years I’ve felt like I’m allowed to just… be. No holding back. No pretending to be okay.”

Mark nodded, his arm around her tightening slightly. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You’re not a role. You’re you. And I love that version.”

Greg gripped the wall for balance, nausea twisting inside him. This was real. And it was happening in the space they had once called sacred.

Leslie shifted, her voice quieter now, thoughtful.

“I need to tell you something. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I haven’t said it out loud yet. Not even to myself.”

Mark looked at her gently. “What is it?”

She exhaled. “I think this… you and me… is my relationship now. And Greg… it’s like we’re still under the same roof, but we’re not a couple anymore. Not in the way we used to be. We’re more like… old friends.”

Greg closed his eyes. Her words sliced through him more cleanly than any scream could have.

Mark kissed her temple. “I’m here for the real thing, Leslie. I want this with you. Not in secret. Not in pieces.”

“I want that too,” she said, voice breaking slightly.

They held each other, still and warm under the sheets, and the room quieted again.

Greg backed away from the door as silently as he could manage, though inside he felt anything but quiet. His heart pounded—not with anger, but with grief. Not surprise. Not outrage. Just a deep, cold realization that what he had once called home was now someone else’s world entirely.

He made his way downstairs without a sound, sitting finally on the couch in the living room, where the light no longer reached. The shadows felt honest.

He didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, he sat there for a long time, as the sounds from upstairs faded and then disappeared altogether. Eventually, even their voices were replaced by the steady hush of night.

What he had seen wasn’t betrayal.

It was closure.

The final piece in a puzzle that had been forming for months. Maybe longer.

They had grown apart, and now Leslie had grown into someone else, with someone else.

He wasn’t angry at her. He couldn’t be. She hadn’t lied, hadn’t played games. She had asked for space, for honesty. She had taken the risk he’d proposed—and followed it to its logical, painful conclusion.

It had changed her.

And it had changed them.

Greg sat in silence, the house around him unfamiliar, though nothing had physically changed. Same furniture. Same walls. Same wedding photo in the hallway, smiling faces frozen in a past that no longer fit.

But now, the truth hung in the air, permanent and sharp.

This wasn’t a marriage anymore. It was two people coexisting. One falling in love. The other learning how to let go.

Eventually, Greg stood. He didn’t go upstairs. He didn’t knock on the bedroom door.

He walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the sink, eyes staring blankly out the window into the dark.

He thought of Leslie’s face, how it had softened when she said she felt free. How she spoke to Mark without armor. He thought of the way her hand rested on Mark’s chest, like it belonged there.

There was no version of this where he could fight his way back in. No grand speech. No rescue. She wasn’t waiting to be convinced. She had already chosen.

And now, he had to choose too.

Not between her and someone else. That choice was already made.

He had to choose who he was going to become now that he no longer defined himself by being hers.

He finished the water. Set the glass in the sink.

The silence didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt… final.

But also honest.

And maybe that was the first real step forward.

[shadowtantra]

Well done. Great read. I appreciate how you are sharing the raw emotion particularly for Greg.

[cuckold writer]

The house was quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to hum with unspoken words. Leslie sat in the bedroom, legs tucked beneath her on the comforter, the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds. A book lay unopened beside her, its spine creased from weeks of half-hearted attempts to focus. Today, like most days recently, she couldn’t bring herself to read more than a few lines.

Her gaze drifted to the ceiling. She was trying to breathe, to center herself, but the tightness in her chest refused to release. It was subtle, a pressure that never left. A knowing.

They had gone too far down a road neither of them had mapped.

She hadn’t set out to become this version of herself—so tangled in conflict, so aware of her body’s needs, and yet so guilty for them. It had started with a suggestion. Greg’s suggestion.

“You deserve to feel more,” he had said, as if offering her a gift. As if he was being generous.

And she had believed him.

Mark had been, in many ways, everything Greg wasn’t—physically, yes, but also in how he paid attention. He listened. He explored. He stayed present. With Mark, sex wasn’t something rushed or apologized for. It was something shared. He touched her like she mattered.

And maybe that’s what had shocked her the most. How unfamiliar that had become.

With Greg, sex had turned into a strange, muted ritual—brief, predictable, and deeply unsatisfying. It had been that way long before Mark. But they hadn’t talked about it, not really. Every time she brought it up gently, Greg would retreat, his shame wrapping the conversation in silence.

She had convinced herself, for years, that this was just part of marriage. That physical needs dimmed with time. That love was enough. But after being with Mark, that illusion cracked wide open.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Greg. She did. He was kind and sincere and, in many ways, still the man she had chosen. But she was starting to realize that love alone couldn’t carry the weight of intimacy if it came at the cost of her own pleasure, her own body’s truth.

And that truth was stark: she felt nothing when she was with Greg now—at least, nothing she wanted to feel. She felt frustration. Emptiness. Guilt.

She tried to want it, tried to hold on to the version of them that used to laugh in bed, that used to linger in touch. But lately, when Greg touched her, all she could feel was the countdown to disappointment. Not just his—hers. The steady, quiet betrayal of her own needs, again and again.

She picked up her tea from the nightstand and took a sip. It had gone cold.

The problem wasn’t that Greg was flawed. Everyone was flawed. The problem was that she had been lying to herself—pretending that it was noble to endure, that it was her responsibility to carry the weight of their broken physical connection just because she cared about him.

But it wasn’t noble. It was corrosive.

She was a woman with a body, with needs, with a voice. And she had spent too long suppressing that voice so she wouldn’t hurt him. But in doing so, she had been quietly hurting herself.

She set the mug down and stood up, walking slowly to the mirror. The woman who stared back at her looked tired. But she also looked honest.

She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even bitter. She was just done pretending that her own fulfillment didn’t matter. That sex could be one-sided and still be intimate. That she could continue to lie there, saying nothing, feeling nothing, and call it love.

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the soft fabric of her robe against her skin.

She would not do it again. Not out of guilt. Not to spare his feelings. Not because it was “expected.” Not out of punishment. Not out of anger.

Out of self-respect.

She whispered the words aloud, testing their weight in the air: “I’m not going to have sex with Greg anymore.”

And there it was—clarity. Solid. Final.

She didn’t know what would come next. A reckoning, maybe. A conversation that would hurt. A shift in everything they thought their marriage was. But she knew she couldn’t keep betraying herself to protect a version of love that asked her to go numb.

She walked back to the bed and sat down, letting the silence settle again. It didn’t feel as heavy now.

It felt like truth.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt like she could breathe.

The living room was still, lit by the dim golden hue of a single table lamp. The faint buzz of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the house settling were the only sounds. Greg sat on the couch, half-watching something on the television. He looked tired—slouched, distracted, one leg bouncing with restless energy.

Leslie stood at the edge of the room for a moment, uncertain how to begin. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her shoulders tense, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She had carried this truth silently for weeks, maybe longer, even before Mark. But now, she couldn’t carry it any further.

She stepped into the room.

“Greg, can we talk?”

He muted the TV instantly, turning toward her with that same slight furrow between his brows that had become more frequent lately. He studied her face, already sensing that this wasn’t going to be light.

“Yeah, of course. Everything okay?”

She sat in the armchair opposite him, her movements slow, deliberate. “I need to talk to you about us. About something I’ve been thinking about for a while. But I need you to listen without jumping to defend yourself. Just… hear me.”

Greg’s brow creased deeper. He nodded slowly, eyes wary but open. “Okay.”

Leslie swallowed, searching for where to begin.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said, voice low. “I’m not going to ever have sex with you again.”

The words dropped between them like a weight.

Greg blinked. His body stiffened, then leaned forward slightly as though to confirm he’d heard her right. “What?”

She held his gaze. “I’m not saying this out of anger. Or punishment. I’m saying it because it’s the truth I’ve been avoiding. And it’s time to stop pretending.”

He stared at her, stunned. “Is this because of Mark?”

Leslie let the question sit for a second before answering. “Mark didn’t create this. But he made me see something I didn’t know I was missing.”

Greg’s jaw twitched. “You mean—what? That he’s better than me?”

“Greg, you’ve seen it for yourself.” she said gently. “His cock is bigger and touches me in places you could never reach. I have multiple orgasms. I’ve never really felt what I now know I’m capable of feeling. And I didn’t even know that until I was with someone who showed me.”

Greg sat back like he’d been struck. He rubbed his palms against his thighs, suddenly restless. “So… I’m just the guy who didn’t measure up? Is that what I’m supposed to hear right now?”

“Greg, when it comes to sex—when it comes to my body—I’ve spent years convincing myself that it was okay not to feel much. That maybe this was just what sex was for me.”

Her voice softened. “But it wasn’t. It isn’t.”

Greg’s mouth opened and closed. He couldn’t look at her for a moment. “So you never… not once?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not with you. Not in the way I should have. I didn’t even know what I was missing. I thought it was just… the way it was for women like me. And I told myself love was enough.”

He pressed his fingers to his temple, his breathing uneven. “Jesus.”

She leaned forward slightly. “I’m not blaming you. I’m not saying you didn’t try. It’s just that you will never please me in bed the way that Mark can.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, finally, he asked, “So… what now? We just… don’t? Ever again?”

She nodded slowly. “No, never again. It’s just not fair to me to get no pleasure from sex.”

He let out a long breath. “And if I can’t?”

Leslie looked at him, eyes soft but clear. “Then we figure out who we are without that part of our relationship. Or we figure out if that’s something we can live with. But I can’t keep offering up my body out of guilt. That’s not love, Greg. That’s just self-abandonment.”

He looked down at his hands. “It’s hard not to feel like I’m being left behind.”

“You’re not,” she said. “But I am choosing myself. Not over you—but with myself, finally. I didn’t know I was missing something until I felt it. And now that I have… I can’t go back to pretending.”

He was silent again, his chest rising and falling with slow, shallow breaths. Then: “It’s hard to know how to be your husband if I’m not your lover.”

She met his eyes. “Then maybe we redefine what that means. Or we talk about what kind of closeness is possible for us now. But it has to be real. And right now, sex between us isn’t real—it’s painful.”

Greg wiped at his eyes, quickly, almost self-consciously. “This isn’t where I thought we’d end up.”

Leslie gave him a sad smile. “Me neither. But maybe it’s not the end. Maybe it’s a different kind of truth.”

He nodded faintly, though his shoulders slumped under the weight of it. “I need time to think about what this means for me. For how I see myself.”

“I know,” she said. “Take all the time you need. I’m still here. But I’m not going to lie to myself anymore just to make this easier.”

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t walk away either.

And in the heavy quiet of the room, something raw and unfinished lingered between them—not bitterness, not closure, but the start of something real. A truth neither could ignore anymore.

And maybe, however difficult, that was better than silence.

[cuckold writer]

Leslie sat cross-legged on the couch, the soft hum of the TV filling the room but doing nothing to quiet the storm in her mind. Greg was in the kitchen, the rhythmic clinking of dishes a familiar soundtrack to their evenings. But tonight, the air between them felt different—charged, like the calm before a storm. She couldn’t stop thinking about their recent conversations, about the way Greg had looked at her when he’d asked for… more.

She twisted the edge of her sweater between her fingers, her heart pounding as she replayed his words in her head. “I want to be part of it, Leslie. I want to feel connected to you, even when you’re with him.” His voice had been steady, but there was something in his eyes—raw, vulnerable—that had made her chest ache.

The sound of his footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. Greg appeared in the doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, his hands still damp from the sink. He looked at her, his gaze soft but searching. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Leslie nodded, though her throat felt tight. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the room in a way that made her skin tingle. He sat down beside her, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was heavy, weighted with unspoken words and lingering questions.

Finally, Greg broke the silence. “About what we talked about… do you think we could try it? Just once? To see how it feels?”

Leslie’s breath caught. She knew what he was asking. He wanted to be part of her intimacy with Mark, but not in the way she’d expected. He didn’t want to join them—he wanted to clean her afterwards. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, not out of disgust, but out of something else. Something she couldn’t quite name.

“Greg…” she started, her voice trembling. “I don’t know.”

He reached for her hand, his fingers warm and steady against hers. “I know. And if it’s too much, we don’t have to. But I just… I want to feel close to you. Even if it’s in a way that’s not… typical.”

Leslie looked down at their joined hands, her mind racing. She thought about Mark, about the way he made her feel—desired, alive, free. But she also thought about Greg, about the man who’d stood by her side for so long, who’d supported her even when it hurt him. Could she do this for him?

“I need to think about it,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not a no. I just… I need time.”

Greg nodded, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. “Take all the time you need. I just want you to know… whatever you decide, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

A few days later, Leslie found herself standing in front of Mark’s apartment, her heart pounding in her chest. She’d come straight from work, her mind still buzzing with the conversation she’d had with Greg that morning. He’d brought it up again, casually, as if it were nothing more than a suggestion for what to have for dinner. “Just think about it,” he’d said, his voice calm but insistent. “It’s just… an option.”

She knocked on the door, her stomach twisting in knots. When Mark answered, his dimpled grin immediately eased some of her tension.

“Hey, you,” he said, pulling her into a hug. Leslie melted into his arms, letting herself relax in his familiar embrace. “You okay? You seem… tense.”

She forced a smile, stepping inside. “I’m fine. Just… a lot on my mind.”

Mark raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Instead, he led her to the couch, where a glass of wine was already waiting for her. She took it gratefully, sipping the rich red as she tried to sort through her thoughts.

“So… you wanna talk about it?” Mark asked, his tone casual but his eyes full of concern.
Leslie hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s Greg,” she said finally. “He… he asked me something. Something big.”

Mark leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “What’d he ask?”

She took a deep breath, her cheeks flushing. “He wants to… clean me. After we’re together.”

Mark’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t seem shocked. If anything, he looked intrigued. “Okay,” he said slowly. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know,” Leslie admitted, her voice trembling. “It’s… it’s a lot. But I think… I think he just wants to feel connected to me. To us.”

Mark nodded, his gaze steady. “It’s your call, Leslie. Whatever you’re comfortable with. But if it’s something you’re considering… we could make it happen.”

Leslie’s breath caught. The way he said it—so matter-of-fact, so willing—made her chest tighten. Could she really do this? Could she let Greg into a space that had always been so private, so… hers?

She looked at Mark, her heart racing. “I… I think I need to talk to Greg. But… thank you. For not making this weird.”

Mark chuckled, his hand resting on her knee. “Hey, I’m here for whatever you need. Always.”

Later that evening, Leslie sat across from Greg at their kitchen table, her hands shaking as she gripped her mug of tea. He looked at her, his expression calm but his eyes full of anticipation.

“So…” he started, his voice soft. “Did you… think about it?”

Leslie nodded, her throat dry. “I did. And I… I think I want to try it. Just once. To see how it feels.”

Greg’s face lit up, a mixture of relief and excitement shining in his eyes. “Really? You’re sure?”

She nodded again, her chest tight. “I’m sure. But… we need to talk about it. About what it means. About boundaries.”

Greg reached across the table, his hand covering hers. “Of course. Whatever you need, Leslie. This is about us. About being closer.”

Leslie’s eyes welled with tears. She squeezed his hand, her heart pounding. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s do it.”

[cuckold writer]

Leslie lay on the bed, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. The room smelled faintly of sweat and sex, the air thick with intimacy. Mark was beside her, his dimpled grin wide as he traced lazy circles on her bare arm. She turned her head to look at him, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “You’re insatiable,” she teased, her voice still breathless.

Mark chuckled, his fingers trailing down to her hip. “Can’t help it when you’re like this,” he said, his voice low and warm. “You’re… magnetic.”

Leslie rolled her eyes playfully, but her heart fluttered at his words. She was still adjusting to this new dynamic, to the way Mark made her feel desired and free. It was thrilling, but it also weighed on her. She couldn’t shake the thought of Greg, waiting in the other room, wanting to be part of this.

As if on cue, the door creaked open. Leslie’s breath hitched as Greg stepped inside, his eyes meeting hers. He looked… nervous, almost shy, as he approached the bed. Mark glanced up, his expression unreadable, but he shifted slightly, giving Greg space to sit beside Leslie.

“Hey,” Greg said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand trembled as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “How was it?”

Leslie hesitated, her cheeks burning. “It was… good,” she said finally, her voice wavering. She couldn’t bring herself to say more, not with Greg’s gaze so intense.

Greg nodded, his eyes dropping to her lips, then lower, to where the evidence of her encounter with Mark lingered. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Can I…?” he started, his voice catching. “Can I clean you up?”

Leslie’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected him to ask so directly, so soon. Her mind raced, torn between the part of her that wanted to protect Greg from this and the part that wanted to give him what he craved. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Greg nodded again, more firmly this time. “I’m sure,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “I want to feel… connected to you. To this.”

Leslie hesitated, her eyes flicking to Mark. He gave her a small nod, his expression unreadable, but his hand squeezed hers reassuringly. She took a deep breath, her heart pounding, and nodded. “Okay,” she whispered.

Greg’s lips parted, and Leslie could see the mix of anticipation and apprehension in his eyes. He leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. She shivered, her body still sensitive from earlier, and her fingers tangled in the sheets.

Greg closed his eyes and leaned in, his tongue hesitantly brushing against her folds. The taste hit him immediately—salty, slightly bitter, with an underlying tang that made his stomach roil. He grimaced, but forced himself to keep going, his tongue probing deeper, tracing the contours of her sensitive flesh.

Greg tried to focus on the sensation of her skin against his tongue, the taste of Mark’s cum was overpowering. He gagged slightly, but forced himself to keep going, his tongue lapping at her eagerly, trying to distract himself from the unpleasant flavor.

Greg’s tongue darted out, tentative at first, as he began to lick the wetness from her skin. Leslie’s breath hitched, her stomach twisting with a strange mix of arousal and discomfort. She could feel his hesitation, the way his body stiffened slightly as he tasted the bitter saltiness of Mark’s release.

His face contorted for a split second, a flash of disgust that he quickly masked, but Leslie saw it. Her chest tightened, a pang of guilt and revulsion washing over her. How could he do this? she thought, her stomach churning. How could he willingly…?

Greg’s breath hitched, his face twisting slightly as he encountered the taste and texture of Mark’s cum. Salty. Bitter. Gooey. His stomach churned, his body recoiling instinctively, but he forced himself to push through, his hands gripping the sheets tightly. This is what I wanted, he reminded himself, though the reality was far more unsettling than he had imagined.

Greg’s movements were slow and deliberate, his eyes squeezed shut as he focused on the task at hand. He could feel Leslie’s gaze on him, the weight of her concern pressing down on him. She’s watching me, he thought, his cheeks burning with humiliation. They’re both watching me. His heart raced as the humiliation intensified. He’s seeing me like this, he thought, his stomach twisting. Weak. Vulnerable.

But Greg didn’t stop. He couldn’t. This was what he had asked for, what he had wanted to be part of. He had to see it through, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. His hands gripped the sheets tighter, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he continued, his body trembling with the effort.

Leslie caught sight of his face. Her breath caught in her throat. There, in the dim light, she saw it—Mark's cum, smeared across Greg's cheek. The sight was visceral, almost obscene, and yet Greg didn't seem to care. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. The image of Greg, her husband, willingly licking another man's cum from her body was burned into her mind. It was something she would never be able to forget, something that would haunt her.

She stared at him, searching his face for some sign of the man she thought she’d married—the strong, confident, man she’d fallen in love with. But he wasn’t there. This man kneeling before her, his hands on her thighs, his eyes pleading, was someone else entirely.

Greg sat back, his breathing still uneven, his face flushed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes avoiding Leslie’s. “I’ll… give you two some space,” he muttered, standing up abruptly.

Leslie watched him go, her chest tight, her mind racing. She felt… lost, conflicted. She wanted to comfort Greg, to make sure he was okay, but she couldn’t shake the image of his face, the way he’d looked when he’d tasted Mark’s cum.

Mark’s hand tightened around hers, pulling her attention back to him. “Hey,” he said softly, his dimpled grin returning. “You’re okay.”

Leslie swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Am I?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Mark’s smile faltered, and he leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “You will be,” he murmured. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Leslie closed her eyes, her chest aching. She wanted to believe him, but the weight of what had just happened pressed down on her, suffocating her. She felt… trapped, torn between the man who had just tasted her and the man who had just given her pleasure.

Leslie’s eyes fluttered shut, and she focused on the warmth of his hand, the rhythm of her breathing. But the image of Greg’s face, the way he’d looked when he’d tasted Mark’s cum, lingered in her mind, haunting her.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them, something irreversible.

But as she lay there, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, she couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.

Something profound.

And she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready to face it.

She stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The room was cool, the air fresh, and she leaned against the door, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. She could still smell Mark on her skin, could still taste him in her mouth, and the realization made her stomach churn.

She turned on the shower, the water cascading down in a steady stream, the sound loud enough to drown out her thoughts. But as she stepped under the spray, as the water washed over her body, she couldn’t escape the image that haunted her—the image of Greg on his knees, his tongue moving deliberately, Mark’s cum smeared across his cheek.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the soap, lathering it between her fingers, scrubbing at her skin as if she could wash away the memory. But it was no use. It was there, burned into her mind, searing and inescapable. And with it came the realization that she could never look at Greg the same way again. That she could never see him as the man she’d fallen in love with. That, in some way, he’d been diminished in her eyes— reduced to someone she wasn’t sure she could respect.

She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, the water streaming down her back, her body trembling with a mix of emotions she couldn’t quite name. And as the tears finally spilled over, mingling with the water, she whispered the words she’d been too afraid to say out loud.

Leslie let out a shaky breath, her body sagging with relief. But it was short-lived. Because even as she stood there, alone in the bathroom, the water cascading over her body, she couldn’t escape the truth. The truth that, no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t go back to the way things were. Not after this. Not after what she’d seen.

[cuckold writer]

Leslie stood at the kitchen sink, her hands submerged in lukewarm soapy water, though she had long forgotten the plate she was holding. Outside the window, the light of the late afternoon stretched lazily across the lawn, turning the edges of the grass golden. The trees swayed gently, their leaves whispering in the breeze, uncaring and untouched by the tension building within her chest.

She hadn't moved in several minutes. The stillness of the house pressed in around her, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock above the stove and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Meanwhile, Greg moved through the grocery store on autopilot, tossing tea bags and fresh lemons into the cart without really seeing them. The list was short, but the air around him felt thick, pressing into his thoughts like fog. He replayed the other night over and over again in his mind, as if by sifting through the memory slowly, he could make sense of what had happened—and more importantly, what Leslie might be thinking now.

The thing was, he didn’t regret it. Not really. Not in the way that people usually meant when they said that. He had wanted to be close to her, and in that moment, it had felt like the truest expression of his devotion. But the look in her eyes afterward—subtle, almost imperceptible—had twisted something inside him. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was distance. Like a shadow falling across a window you thought was open.

No one ever talks about the fear of being left behind in your own relationship. People think
the danger is outside, some stranger who sweeps your partner away. But Greg knew better. The real danger was standing beside the person you loved and feeling the space between you grow, invisible but vast.

He’d known he was crossing a threshold that night. There was nothing performative about what he did—no showmanship, no trying to provoke. It had come from somewhere deep and honest. He wanted to connect with her, to show her that no part of her experience frightened him. That he could be present with her in ways few partners would dare. That he could handle it.

But when he looked at her after, glowing and spent from being with someone else, and she let him come close—that's when something cracked inside him. Not because of shame, but because of how far he was willing to go not to be left on the outside. The act hadn’t felt humiliating in the moment. It had felt sacred. Like a vow.

Later, alone in bed, staring up at the ceiling while Leslie quietly turned away to sleep, the echo of that act felt different. Not because he regretted it, but because he suddenly wasn’t sure if she had seen it the same way.

He hadn’t asked her how she felt. Part of him was afraid of the answer. He wanted to believe that his vulnerability had moved her, deepened their connection. But that flicker in her eyes—like she couldn’t quite look at him the same way—haunted him.

Greg paid for the groceries and loaded the bags into the back seat, taking a moment to rest his hands on the steering wheel before turning the key. The hum of the engine filled the quiet, and he drove home slowly, fingers tapping the steering wheel, his mind spiraling.

Was he trying too hard? Was he forcing himself into spaces that Leslie needed to process on her own? Or worse—was he becoming someone she couldn’t respect?

That thought hit him like cold water. Respect. It was something he had never questioned between them. But now, in trying to show her how open he could be, he wondered if he’d stumbled into territory that neither of them knew how to navigate.

At home, he stepped into the quiet warmth of the house, bags in hand. He called out a greeting and caught sight of Leslie in the kitchen, her back to him. The air between them didn’t buzz with tension, but it didn’t feel relaxed either. It felt... careful.

He smiled and tried to keep his voice light. "Got your tea," he said, lifting one of the bags. "The kind you like."

He watched her from the corner of his eye—her movements smooth but distant, like she was holding something back. He wanted to reach for her. To ask what she was thinking. But the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to put her on the spot. Didn’t want her to feel like she had to comfort him.

So he stayed quiet, humming a little tune under his breath, pretending everything was fine.

But inside, he was reckoning with the truth: he had offered all of himself, and now he wasn’t sure what was left for her to hold.

Greg didn’t feel humiliated. Not exactly. He felt exposed. Like someone who had walked into a room naked, believing they were welcomed, only to find the lighting had changed. The warmth had gone.

Still, he didn’t regret the choice. If the alternative was being left on the outside of Leslie’s life—her needs, her desires, her real self—then he would rather kneel. He would rather risk being misunderstood than become a polite stranger to her.

But that didn’t make it easier.

He glanced at her again, this woman he loved beyond words. He had imagined that vulnerability would be the glue. That by baring everything, they would only grow closer. Instead, he was learning that love’s tests don’t always come with clear answers.

He sighed, setting the last of the groceries in the pantry. Leslie was still standing at the counter, arms folded, gaze far away. Whatever she was thinking, it was a storm she hadn’t invited him into.

Yet.

He wasn’t giving up. He could wait. He could be patient.

Because real love, he reminded himself, isn’t about pride. It’s about staying present in the silence, even when you’re afraid you’ve said too much.

Even when you fear you’ve changed something that can’t be changed back. Greg was out picking up groceries, an errand that gave her the solitude she needed. Or thought she needed. Now, left alone, her thoughts crowded in like uninvited guests, loud and insistent.

She tried to focus on the mundane. The scent of dish soap, the clink of the plate against the sink, the faint ache in her arms from standing still too long. But none of it could silence the looping images in her mind—images of Greg, kneeling, gazing up at her with eyes full of longing and submission, moments after she'd returned from being with Mark.

It was the messiness of it that stayed with her, not just physical but emotional. The intensity of it, the raw vulnerability in his actions. Watching him in that position, doing what he had done, not out of obligation but desire—it was something that unsettled her in ways she couldn't quite name.

She had known Greg to be many things in their years together: supportive, intelligent, humorous, solid. A man who fixed broken faucets without a second thought, who reached for her hand during movies, who stood quietly by her side in hospital waiting rooms. There had always been a steady confidence to him, a sense of calm control. But that night, something changed.

She didn’t question his intentions. He had wanted to be close to her, to share in her experience in a deeply intimate way. And she had let him. She had said yes, and he had looked at her as if she were made of light. But afterward, she couldn't shake the feeling that something sacred had been shifted. Like seeing a statue of a beloved figure toppled and cracked, no longer the same shape.

Was it wrong to feel this way? To look at the man who loved her, who cherished her enough to be that vulnerable, and feel a thread of distance pull taut between them? She hated the thought. Hated the quiet voice in her head that whispered, "He shouldn't have done that."

But she couldn’t deny what she saw. The way he had offered himself with so much openness, so much surrender. There had been no hesitation in him, no reluctance. It was as if, in that moment, he had placed her on a pedestal so high that he had shrunk in her eyes by comparison. She hadn’t wanted that. She hadn’t asked for it.

She rinsed the plate and set it carefully in the drying rack, her fingers trembling slightly. Her reflection in the window caught her off guard—eyes shadowed with doubt, lips pressed in a tight line. She didn’t recognize herself. Or maybe she did, and that was the problem.

She remembered the way Greg had smiled afterward, proud, content, as if he had been given a gift. And she had smiled too, unsure what else to do. But the smile hadn’t reached her eyes, not really. Inwardly, something had cooled. A layer of confusion had settled over her like frost, delicate and dangerous.

She didn't feel anger. It was more subtle than that. Disorientation. Sadness. Even guilt. Greg had shown her a side of himself she had never seen before, and instead of meeting him there, she had recoiled. Quietly, inwardly. And now she didn’t know how to return to the man she thought she knew.

Was it about masculinity? About some unspoken expectation she had carried into their marriage without realizing? She prided herself on being open-minded, progressive. But here she was, grappling with the sight of her husband in a posture of complete submission, and wondering what it meant.

It had been raw. Exposed. Greg had stripped away all pretense and met her where she was—and in doing so, he had unmoored something in her.

She turned off the water and dried her hands slowly, methodically. The towel hung limp in her grasp as she leaned against the counter, trying to catch her breath.

What did she feel for him now?

Love, yes. That hadn’t changed. Respect? That was more complicated now.

She still saw his kindness, his thoughtfulness. The way he looked at her like she was the center of his world. But she also saw something else. A man she didn’t fully understand anymore.

And maybe that was the hardest part. Not the act itself, not even her reaction to it, but the unknown that followed.

She took a breath, steadying herself. She wasn’t ready to talk about it, not yet. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to say.

[xian2014]

In reality this marriage is over and has been over and for Greg to keep trying to please this woman is just pitiful, she has thrown out every thing that was them for just some dick and an orgasm, never in their entire marriage did they have any conversations about sex to try and be better or address any concerns they went straight to finding someone to replace Greg, but this is a fictional story so the direction is up to the author.

[nnjcpl2002]

Seems as though Greg is in for some tough sledding!

[cuckold writer]

It happened gradually—so slowly Leslie couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when Greg stopped feeling like a husband and started feeling like… someone she lived with.

A roommate, she thought. That’s what he is now.

The thought came to her one morning as she loaded the dishwasher, a half-drunk cup of Greg’s coffee still sitting on the table, next to a folded napkin and a banana peel. The quiet domesticity of the scene should have felt familiar, grounding. But instead, it struck her as painfully ordinary—something she might see in a shared apartment between two acquaintances who tolerated each other more than they understood each other.

She heard Greg’s footsteps upstairs, the slow rhythm she’d once been able to recognize from across the house. Now it just sounded like another background noise, indistinguishable from the hum of the fridge or the creak of the back door.

Mark had stayed over the night before. Again. And Greg, as always, had quietly moved himself into the guest room without comment.

But this time, things had felt different.

She saw it in his eyes afterward—how much he wanted to be needed. To be allowed a place. But that place no longer felt connected to her in the way it once did.

The act didn’t bring them closer.

It emphasized just how far apart they’d grown.

Leslie paused for a moment and let herself feel the disgust that had been crawling beneath her skin for days. The sight of Greg cleaning Mark’s cum from her eroded her opinion of him.

He sunk lower and lower in her eyes as the days went on. Now she could barely look at him without feeling a pang of something sharp and mean. Not pity. Not quite. Something closer to disdain.

What kind of man willingly reduces himself to clean another man’s cum from inside his wife?

She looked out the kitchen window and saw Mark in the yard, shirt off, trimming the hedge by the fence. His motions were confident, purposeful. The morning sun caught the curve of his shoulders. There was nothing hesitant about him. Nothing held back.

And Leslie felt it again—that warmth that started in her chest and spread through her limbs. Mark moved through the world like he was allowed to take up space. Like he knew what he wanted and didn’t ask for permission to want it.

She admired that. Craved it, even.

With Greg, everything had always been careful. He was thoughtful, yes—but to the point of erasure. He’d wait for her to speak first. Let her pick the restaurant, the movie, the rhythm of their lives. He saw it as respect.

But to her now, it read as absence.

And the truth was, she no longer wanted a man who sought her approval in every decision.

She wanted someone who chose her, yes—but who also chose himself.

Mark had that.

He’d come into her life with a kind of clarity that startled her. He never played games. Never tiptoed. And when he touched her, it was like he believed she was already his—not in an entitled way, but with certainty. A quiet, grounded claim.

That confidence bled into everything.

The way he stood. The way he spoke. The way he looked at her like she was something he didn’t just admire, but desired.

And she felt herself responding to it more each day.

With Greg, intimacy had become a performance of the past. A nod to the idea that they once belonged to each other. Now it felt like an echo. A memory playing on loop, growing fainter each time.

She hated herself a little for thinking it—but even the acts meant to keep them close only drove home how far they'd drifted. Especially those acts.

Each time she saw Greg afterward, he looked more hollow. More distant. Like a man hoping his selflessness would earn back something already lost.

But it wouldn’t.

Because it wasn’t about guilt. Or obligation. Or even kindness.

It was about desire.

And hers had moved on.

She rinsed the last of the dishes and wiped her hands on a towel. Mark was still outside, now crouched by the flowerbed, inspecting something with mild interest. She felt the corners of her mouth turn up, almost unconsciously.

She wanted to go out there. Not to talk. Just to stand near him. To feel him in the way she no longer felt Greg.

And that’s when the realization hit her—not as a sudden thunderclap, but as a quiet truth that had been circling her for weeks.

Greg wasn’t her husband anymore.

Not in any meaningful way.

He was someone she used to share a life with. Someone she still shared a roof with. But emotionally, physically, intimately—they had become two parallel lines. Close. But never intersecting again.

She didn’t hate him.

That might have been easier, in a way.

But she couldn’t unsee the gap that had opened between them.

And worse—she no longer wanted to close it.

[cuckold writer]

The morning Leslie told Greg everything, the weather was deceptively calm—blue skies, a cool breeze wafting through the trees, and sunlight slicing across the kitchen tile. Greg was already up, reading the paper he hadn’t truly read in weeks, sipping coffee that had long gone cold.

Leslie came down the stairs without makeup, dressed in one of her older hoodies. Her steps were slow. Deliberate. Not cautious, exactly, but burdened. She had rehearsed this moment in her head so many times. Still, there was no clean way to do it.

He looked up as she entered.

“Hey,” he said, watching her face carefully.

“Hey,” she returned, sitting across from him without touching her usual tea.

Greg felt it in his chest before she said a word.

Something final.

She looked at him for a long time. Her mouth moved once, then stopped.

And then finally, “I need to tell you something that I should’ve said a long time ago.”

He set the newspaper down slowly.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” she said. “Actually, if I’m honest, maybe years.”

Greg felt his palms begin to sweat.

“Greg… you and I—we had something real. I’m not trying to rewrite history or pretend it didn’t matter. It did. You mattered. But... I’ve changed. And I think you know that.”

He didn’t speak. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Her voice shook slightly. “I’ve tried to stay… careful with you. Not because I pity you, but because I didn’t want to break you. I didn’t want to break us, even though we’re already not what we used to be. But I can't keep pretending.”

Greg stared into his mug, his pulse now loud in his ears.

Leslie took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t fulfilled in our relationship. I haven’t been… not in a long time.”

Greg looked up, stunned.

“I mean emotionally. Physically. All of it. And I know that sounds cruel—God, I don’t want to sound cruel—but it’s the truth. I buried it for so long because I loved you and thought that should be enough.”

“You never said anything,” he whispered.

“I didn’t know how,” she said. “At first, I thought it was a rough patch. Then I thought it was me—that I was just too tired, too distracted, too broken. But then I met Mark and realized that it wasn’t that I couldn’t feel… I just couldn’t feel with you anymore.”

Greg felt a strange coldness descend through his body.

“I’m not trying to humiliate you,” she said. “But I need to be honest. I found something with him I never had with you. And maybe I never will.”

He looked up at her. “And what does that mean? That we’re just done?”

Leslie hesitated, then nodded.

“I think we’ve been done for a long time. We just didn’t know how to say it.”

They sat in silence. A deep, impossible quiet filled the room.

Greg broke it first. “So, is that it? You’re choosing him.”

“I already did,” she said softly. “A while ago.”

He stared at her, hollow.

She hesitated, then said the next part.

“He’s moving in.”

Greg blinked, slow and stunned.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

The words echoed around the kitchen like a shot fired in a quiet forest.

“You’re moving him into our house.”

“It’s my house too,” she said. “And I want a future with him.”

“And where does that leave me?” His voice cracked. “Am I supposed to just… step aside? Keep living here like some roommate who lost his place in the story?”

“You can stay,” she said. “If you want to. I’m not asking you to leave. But this… us… it’s over, Greg.”

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping back.

“This isn’t just over. This is cruel.”

Leslie didn’t rise to defend herself. She simply met his gaze. “It’s honest.”

He took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. “Leslie,” he began, his voice low and hesitant, “can I still… clean him out of you?”

Leslie’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile.“Then yes,” she whispered. “You can. But only if it’s something we both want. Not just you.”

Greg’s heart skipped a beat. We. The word sent a rush of warmth through him, a strange mix of relief and desire. He turned to face her, his eyes searching hers. “Do you want it?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice husky. “I want it. But not just because it turns you on. Because it makes me feel… connected to you. Even when Mark is with me, I want to know that we still have this.”

Mark arrived a few days later. He didn’t bring much—a few bags, a suitcase, and a quiet confidence that made Greg feel all the more obsolete. There was no grand entrance. No confrontation. Just a new rhythm that slid into the household like it had always been meant to be there.

Leslie greeted him at the door. There was a hug, a soft kiss. She wore a blouse Greg had never seen before—something stylish, low-cut, nothing like the Leslie he’d known for years.

Greg watched from the hallway. Unseen, or at least unacknowledged.

Boxes were carried in. Mark’s shoes joined theirs by the door. His toothbrush appeared beside Leslie’s in the bathroom. A drawer in the dresser disappeared.

The master bedroom became theirs.

And Greg stayed.

Not because he was okay with it. Not because he forgave it.

Because he had nowhere else to go. And maybe, in some bruised, broken corner of his heart, he wasn’t ready to leave the last fragments of his marriage behind.

So he stayed.

In the same house.

Sleeping under the same roof.

Listening through the walls.

At first, they were discreet.

Mark stayed in the bedroom late. They kept their conversations low. But intimacy has its own volume—an unspoken closeness that echoes in subtle sounds: soft laughs through drywall, footsteps at midnight, the quiet sigh of shared comfort.

Greg would lie in the dark, eyes open, feeling more alone than ever.

They didn’t ask him to move out of the bedroom. Leslie didn’t push him to the guest room. But she stopped coming to bed.

Gradually, without ever saying it aloud, the room became his, and hers became theirs.

He would hear the click of the lock some nights, followed by the faint rhythm of laughter. Once, he caught the sound of music playing, low and intimate. A different soundtrack to the life that was once his.

Days became routine. Awkwardly shared spaces. Conversations that skirted around truth. Greg drank more coffee. Left the house early. Took walks that lasted hours. Came home later than he needed to.

Leslie thrived. It was impossible not to notice. She laughed more freely. She dressed with intention. She started making breakfast again—for Mark.

She and Greg rarely fought. What would be the point? Their marriage had hollowed into politeness.

And Mark? He never made Greg feel unwelcome. He didn’t have to.

Mark belonged. Greg didn’t.

One night, Greg couldn’t sleep. He went to the kitchen for water and stopped when he heard voices from the master bedroom—Leslie’s voice, soft and candid.

“…I never felt like this before. Not really. Not with him,” she said. “I tried to be content. I thought maybe I just wasn’t built for passion. But now I know I was just with the wrong person.”

Mark murmured something low and comforting. Then silence. Then a laugh.

Greg turned around, heart hollow.

It wasn’t betrayal. Not anymore.

It was replacement.

Later, she knocked on his bedroom door.

He opened it.

She stood there, arms crossed. “Can I come in?”

He nodded.

She sat in the desk chair. He stayed by the door.

“I wanted to say something,” she began. “I know how impossible this all feels. I know it’s not fair.”

“You think I don’t know that I failed you?” he asked quietly.

Leslie blinked, caught off guard.

“I know I didn’t give you what you needed,” he said. “But I thought I had time to fix it.”

She nodded slowly. “I did too. For a long time.”

“Then why this?” he asked. “Why bring him here? Why not end it cleanly?”

“Because I didn’t want to destroy what we still had,” she said. “I thought we could… coexist. That you’d understand eventually.”

“I do understand,” Greg said, voice low. “You outgrew me. You found someone who sees you. I just wish you’d had the courage to walk away.”

“I didn’t want to lose you completely.”

He nodded. “But you already did.”

And still… he stayed.

Because sometimes loss doesn’t look like leaving.
Sometimes it looks like staying—and realizing the door has quietly closed behind you.

He lived in the house like a forgotten page in a book someone else had picked up and kept reading.

And every night, as he passed by the master bedroom, he heard the future happening without him.

And he kept walking.

[cuckold writer]

Greg stood in the narrow hallway, fingers grazing the frame of the guest bedroom door. It was smaller than the master, with a low ceiling and a window that barely let in the morning light. A single twin bed, a dented nightstand, and a lamp with a flickering bulb. It wasn’t the room he’d imagined ending up in after ten years of marriage.

From down the hall, he heard laughter—Leslie’s. Light and unguarded, the kind of laugh she hadn’t shared with him in months. It was followed by Mark’s deeper chuckle. They were in the kitchen, probably making coffee together, maybe brushing hands by the coffee pot like a couple from an ad. He had once stood in that same spot, cracking jokes while Leslie made eggs, her bare feet curling against the tile.

Now, he avoided the kitchen in the morning.

Greg stepped inside the guest room and closed the door softly behind him. The space smelled like old books and lemon-scented cleaner. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, and stared at the blank wall.

It had started as a conversation—a wild idea, Greg had thought, spurred by curiosity or boredom. “What if you… saw someone else? Just once? Might be exciting,” he’d said, half-joking. Leslie had blinked, tilted her head. Then she’d asked, “Like actually do it?”

He hadn’t said no.

What followed hadn’t been a betrayal, technically. It had been mutual, even planned. Mark was articulate, easygoing, charming. Greg had felt a strange satisfaction watching Leslie smile again in the days after she first met him. But it had changed—faster than Greg anticipated. Her smile stopped turning toward him.

Now Mark’s shoes sat neatly beside the door, where Greg’s used to be. His cologne hung in the bathroom. The master bedroom was theirs now. Leslie and Mark.

Greg got up and pulled open the closet. Half the space was still cluttered with boxes of old sweaters and photo albums. One box was labeled “Christmas 2018.” He opened it, pulling out a photo. Leslie in a red scarf, his arm around her shoulder. They were at the tree farm that year, sipping hot cider. She had kissed his cheek just after that photo was taken.

He slid the photo back in and closed the lid.

In the living room, Mark was watching some crime drama, one leg stretched across the couch. Leslie sat beside him, their hands lightly entwined. Greg paused in the hallway, his coffee mug empty in his hand, uncertain whether to speak or slip past like a ghost.

“Morning,” Mark said cheerfully, spotting him.

Greg nodded. “Hey.”

Leslie turned and smiled politely, like you might at a coworker in the break room. “Coffee’s still warm,” she said. “If you want some.”

“I already had a cup,” he lied.

She turned back to the screen. Mark chuckled at something the TV detective said, and Greg stood there a moment longer, mug clutched like a shield, before heading out the door.

He went for a walk to the corner café where they still knew his name. He’d stopped coming here with Leslie after she started spending more time with Mark. Now it was a place he could be just Greg, without the awkwardness of three’s a crowd.

At a small table near the window, he nursed a fresh coffee and stared at the people passing by. Couples, mostly. A mom with a stroller. A guy walking a dog. Ordinary scenes, but lately they felt like glimpses into a life he used to have.

He pulled out his phone. The screen was empty of new messages. He scrolled through old ones. Leslie’s name was near the top. Most recent: “Can you grab milk on the way home?” Before that: “Mark’s cooking dinner tonight.” And: “Can you give us some privacy this weekend?”

He sighed, slipping the phone back into his jacket.

When he returned home, the living room was quiet. The sound of a shower running upstairs. He walked into the kitchen, noticing the dishes had been done—Mark again, probably. Greg had always been terrible about those. Funny, he thought, how easily someone could step in and smooth over the little gaps you didn’t realize you were leaving.

He opened the fridge, poured himself a glass of water, and stood silently for a long moment. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Mark appeared in a towel, fresh from the shower, grinning as he passed.

“Hey man,” he said casually.

Greg forced a smile. “Hey.”

Leslie followed a moment later, dressed and brushing her damp hair back. She gave Greg a brief nod, then started rummaging through the pantry.

He cleared his throat. “You’ve been happy lately,” he said.

She froze, just for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

Greg took a sip of water. “That’s good.”

She turned slowly to face him. “This… wasn’t the plan, Greg. Not like this.”

“I know.”

“I thought maybe… we’d stay close. That you’d still be part of this.”

“I’m still here,” he said quietly.

“But not with me.”

Greg looked at her, eyes lingering on the curve of her expression—so familiar and now so distant. “No,” he said. “Not with you.”

A long silence passed. The clink of a spoon from upstairs, the distant buzz of Mark’s music starting up again. Leslie stepped forward, as if she might say more, then stopped herself.

“I hope you’re okay,” she said.

“I’m figuring it out,” Greg replied.

And it was true. The days were different now. Lonelier. But also… clearer. He no longer waited for the sound of the front door to tell him how to feel. He didn’t wonder if tonight would be one of the good nights. He didn’t measure his worth by Leslie’s moods.

He had become a roommate in his own marriage. But he was still a person. He still mattered.

That night, Greg read in bed by lamplight, the guest room dim and still. A new book, one Leslie wouldn’t have cared for. He made tea just the way he liked it. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t listen for laughter from down the hall. He simply turned the page.

[cuckold writer]

Greg hadn’t intended to become the third person in his own story.

The first time he tagged along with Leslie and Mark was an accident. Leslie had mentioned that some mutual friends were getting together at a local wine bar—people they had known for years. Greg, assuming the invitation included him, said he’d love to go.

She hesitated. Just a beat. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. But then she smiled and said, “Sure, you can come.”

Mark didn’t protest. He just gave Greg a quiet nod when he showed up in the foyer that night, buttoning his shirt sleeve.

It wasn’t a disaster.

But it wasn’t comfortable.

They arrived together—Greg in the backseat, Leslie up front with Mark, her hand resting easily on Mark’s knee. Greg stared out the window, focusing on streetlights, brick storefronts, anything that wasn’t their shared intimacy.

The wine bar buzzed with warm energy—candles flickering, glasses clinking, laughter rising from corners and booths. Familiar faces greeted them, and for a moment Greg relaxed. These were people he’d shared dinners with, holidays, birthdays.

But as introductions floated around, Greg felt a shift.

It began with Leslie.

She was radiant. Laughing, quick to touch Mark’s arm when she spoke, comfortable in the skin she used to hide. She didn’t shy away from affection. Didn’t try to downplay the new dynamics.

When an old friend—Michelle, from Greg’s college years—raised an eyebrow after seeing the trio walk in, Leslie said plainly, “Oh—Mark and I are together now. Greg and I are more like… close friends these days.”

She said it kindly. With a soft smile. As if it were just a fact—like the weather, or the shape of a glass.

Michelle turned to Greg, unsure whether to laugh or apologize.

Greg nodded. “It’s all good.”

It wasn’t.

He sipped wine and smiled through conversations, but his stomach churned with every affectionate glance exchanged between Leslie and Mark. They weren’t inappropriate. Just natural together. And that was the worst part.

People looked at Greg differently. Not cruelly—just curiously. As if trying to solve an unspoken riddle: Why is he still here?

That night became a template.

There were gallery openings, mutual friends’ house parties, the occasional dinner at restaurants they used to frequent as a couple.

Leslie didn’t exclude Greg. But she didn’t protect him, either.

She introduced Mark as her partner. Explained to anyone confused that she and Greg were still living together “for now,” but their relationship had evolved. Sometimes she softened it with humor—“we’re one of those modern households”—and people would chuckle awkwardly and move on.

Each time, Greg died a little more inside.

He noticed how people directed conversations to Mark now. How the laughter shifted toward his comments, how Leslie’s body turned instinctively toward him. Greg became background—less guest, more furniture.

Still, he kept showing up.

Why? He didn’t even know.

Pride? Hope? Masochism?

Or maybe because it was easier than sitting alone in the guest room while the sound of their life together echoed down the hallway.

The worst was at a birthday dinner.

A long table. Fifteen people. Candlelight and white linen napkins and too many forks.

Leslie sat beside Mark. Greg ended up across from them.

Halfway through the meal, someone raised a toast.

“To enduring couples,” a voice said. “Old love, new love. Love that survives.”

Leslie raised her glass and leaned toward Mark. “Here’s to new love.”

Mark smiled, kissed her temple. Softly. Naturally.

Greg stared at his glass.

Someone—Liam, from Leslie’s old yoga class—turned to Greg, trying to include him.

“You two still sharing a roof, huh? That must be… interesting.”

Greg smiled thinly. “It has its moments.”

“Hell,” Liam said, laughing, “if I had to live with my ex and watch her cozy up to some other guy under my roof, I’d lose it.”

Mark laughed politely.

Greg chuckled, too. Quietly.

But later, in the restroom, he gripped the sink and stared into the mirror, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

Who are you?

A man who brought a bottle of wine to the table where his wife toasted someone else.

A man who still paid half the mortgage while her lover used the master bedroom.

A man with no clear exit, no plan, and no dignity left to barter with.

At home, things were no easier.

Mark was polite, always. Courteous. He never rubbed it in. But that only made it worse.

He fixed the leaky faucet in the kitchen. Put up shelves in Leslie’s art room. Grilled on Sundays and offered Greg a plate with a quiet, even voice.

And Greg took it. Every time.

Not because he liked Mark.

But because Mark belonged, and Greg… didn’t.

Once, Greg heard Leslie on the phone with a friend.

“He’s handling it so well,” she said. “I give him credit. It can’t be easy. But he’s still part of my life in a way that matters.”

Greg stood in the hallway, holding a laundry basket, listening like a ghost to his own obituary.

One night, Leslie knocked on his door.

“Hey,” she said. “We’re going to Elise’s on Friday. You’re welcome to come if you’d like.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“Only if it feels okay,” she added.

He hesitated. “Do you… want me there?”

Leslie looked at him for a long time.

“I don’t want to erase you,” she said. “But I also need you to know—people will see what we are now. I’m not hiding anything anymore.”

He nodded again, more slowly.

After she left, he stared at the closed door and whispered, “I know.”

Friday came.

Elise’s backyard was lit with string lights, the table set for twelve. Mark and Leslie moved together like a pair of dancers—graceful, synced. They mingled with ease. Told stories together. Finished each other’s jokes.

Greg lingered on the edge of every conversation.

He said the right things. Smiled when prompted. Ate the food, drank the wine. But inside, he was unraveling thread by thread.

Someone asked Leslie a question about her “husband.”

She laughed gently and pointed at Mark. “Oh—I’m not married. Not anymore, really. Greg and I… we’re more like family now.”

She said it without malice.

Greg looked at the fire pit and nodded.

Late that night, Greg sat on the front porch alone. The others were inside, finishing dessert. The sound of Leslie’s laughter filtered through the screen door.

He watched the street—quiet, still, familiar.

And he realized something.

He wasn’t part of this chapter. He was a footnote. An epilogue.

A living reminder of a version of Leslie that no longer existed.

When they left the party, Mark drove.

Leslie sat in the front, head turned slightly toward Mark as he talked.

Greg sat in the back, alone in a car with two people in love, his silence the only thing he still controlled.

The streetlights flickered overhead. The night rolled on.

And no one said a word.

[cuckold writer]

The room was thick with the scent of sex, the air heavy with satisfaction and something else—something unspoken. Leslie lay on the bed, her naked body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, her chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths. Mark stood beside the bed, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening with the remnants of their coupling. He looked down at Leslie, a lazy smirk playing on his lips.

Greg stood in the corner, his heart pounding in his chest, his stomach twisting into knots. Mark turned to Greg, his smirk widening. “Your wife’s pretty amazing, you know that?” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. Greg didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth.

Leslie propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes flicking to Greg. She didn’t say anything, but there was something in her gaze—something that made Greg’s stomach churn. She looked at him like she was waiting for him to do something, to prove himself in some way.

Mark stepped closer to Greg, his cock still jutting out proudly. “You want to clean this up?” he asked, his tone casual, like he was asking Greg to pass the salt at dinner. Greg’s eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at Leslie, searching for some kind of reaction, but she just stared back at him, her expression unreadable.

Greg’s mind raced. He could say no. He could walk out of the room, out of the house, and never look back. But then what? Leslie would stay with Mark, and he would be alone. The thought of losing her was too much to bear. So, despite the humiliation burning in his chest, Greg nodded silently.

Greg could smell the mix of sweat and sex on him, and it made his stomach turn. But he didn’t back away. He couldn’t. He dropped to his knees, the cold floor biting into his skin, and stared up at Mark’s cock. It was thick, veiny, and still partially erect, the head slick and shining. The smell was overpowering—musky, primal, and undeniably masculine.

Mark chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down Greg’s spine. He didn’t move, didn’t even look at Greg. He just stood there, his cock still hard, still glistening with the slickness of Leslie’s arousal. Greg’s stomach churned, but he couldn’t look away. His wife’s scent was all over Mark, and the reality of what he was about to do was crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

Greg hesitated for a moment, his stomach twisting in knots. But then he leaned forward, his tongue darting out tentatively to lick the underside of Mark’s cock. The taste was salty and bitter, a mix of Mark’s essence and Leslie’s arousal. It was overwhelming, and yet, there was something deeply humiliating about it that sent a jolt of shame coursing through him. He could feel Mark’s eyes on him, watching him, judging him, and he could feel Leslie’s gaze too, cold and unyielding.

He licked again, this time more firmly, his tongue flat against the shaft as he dragged it upward. Mark let out a low groan, and Greg felt a surge of something he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t pleasure, exactly—it was more like a twisted sense of satisfaction at being able to elicit a reaction from the man who had just fucked his wife. Mark’s cock twitched in response, and Greg’s stomach tightened. He opened his mouth wider, taking the head of Mark’s cock between his lips, and sucked gently. The taste was even stronger now, the bitterness coating his tongue, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He knew he had no choice.

Mark’s hand came down to rest on the back of Greg’s head, his fingers tangling in his hair. Greg froze for a moment, his heart racing, but then Mark pushed him down, forcing his cock deeper into his mouth. Greg gagged reflexively, his eyes watering, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. The humiliation was almost unbearable, but there was something else too—a strange, masochistic thrill that he couldn’t quite deny.

He gagged as he took Mark’s cock deeper into his mouth, the thick length pressing against the back of his throat, but he didn’t pull away. The humiliation burned through him, but so did the pleasure, the warmth of Mark’s cock filling his mouth, the weight of it on his tongue, the taste of Leslie mingling with Mark’s musk.

Greg’s eyes watered as Mark’s cock hit the back of his throat, but he didn’t fight it. He didn’t want to. The humiliation was intoxicating, the feeling of Mark’s cock in his mouth, the taste of Leslie on his tongue, the sound of her moans filling the room—it was all too much. His cock throbbed in his pants, aching for release, but he didn’t dare touch himself.

Greg moaned around Mark’s cock, his tongue swirling around the thick shaft, his lips tightening around him as he sucked. The taste was overwhelming—bitter and salty and sweet all at once—and it made his head spin. He wanted to pull away, to scream, to rage, but he couldn’t. He was trapped, caught between the humiliation and the arousal, and he didn’t know which one he hated more.

Greg’s eyes fluttered shut as he bobbed his head, his lips sliding up and down Mark’s length. He could hear Leslie’s soft breathing from the bed, and the sound of it only made the humiliation burn hotter in his chest. He was doing this for her—to prove that he could be what she wanted, to prove that he could be enough.

Leslie watched from the bed, her hand trailing down her body, her fingers slipping between her legs. “Oh, God,” she moaned, her hips rocking as she touched herself, her eyes locked on Greg. “This is so fucking hot.”

Mark stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. “Not bad,” he said, his tone almost surprised. Greg didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He just knelt there, his head hanging low, his hands trembling at his sides.

Leslie finally spoke, her voice soft but laced with something Greg couldn’t quite place. “You did good,” she said, her eyes still on him. Greg’s heart clenched at her words, a mix of relief and shame washing over him. He had done it. He had done what she wanted. But at what cost?

He could still taste Mark on his tongue, the bitter reminder of what he had just done. He could feel the weight of Leslie’s gaze on him, the unspoken expectations hanging heavy in the air. He didn’t know if he could do it again, but he knew he would try. For her. For Leslie. He would do whatever it took to keep her. Even if it meant kneeling on the floor, cleaning another man’s cock with his mouth.

Mark chuckled, pulling Greg out of his thoughts. “You’re a good sport, Greg,” he said, patting him on the shoulder before turning back to Leslie. Greg’s eyes followed him, his stomach twisting as he watched Mark climb back onto the bed, his naked body pressing against Leslie’s once more.

Greg’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the humiliation burning hotter than ever. He had done what they wanted, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had lost something in the process. Something he might never get back.

Leslie’s voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade, soft yet deliberate. Her eyes flickered toward Greg, who was still kneeling on the floor, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. She didn’t even have to phrase it as a question. It was more of a statement, a challenge, something she already knew the answer to but wanted to hear from him anyway. “Greg,” she began, her tone almost casual, as if discussing the weather, “do you want to clean Mark’s cum from inside of me?”

Greg’s breath hitched. His throat felt dry, his tongue heavy with the lingering taste of Mark still clinging to him. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. Clean her. He had done it before. He knew what it entailed. But this... this felt different. More intimate. More humiliating. His eyes darted between Leslie and Mark, who was lounging casually on the bed, a smug grin plastered across his face. Mark didn’t say a word, but his eyes spoke volumes. He was enjoying this. Every second of it.

Greg’s gaze settled on Leslie. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—a faint glimmer of expectation, of dominance. She wasn’t asking. She was telling. And Greg knew he couldn’t refuse. Not if he wanted to keep her. Not if he wanted to stay in this twisted dynamic they had created. He nodded slowly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes.”

Mark’s grin widened, and he shifted on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “You heard the man,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “He wants to clean you up, Leslie.”

Leslie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she shifted her position on the bed, spreading her legs slightly in a silent invitation. Greg’s heart pounded in his chest as he approached her, his movements stiff and deliberate. He could feel Mark’s eyes on him, watching his every move, and the weight of that gaze made his skin crawl. But he kept going. He had to.

When he reached the edge of the bed, Leslie’s hand reached out, her fingers brushing against his jaw, tipping his head up so their eyes met. “You know what to do,” she said softly, her voice almost soothing, as if she were coaxing a nervous animal. “Take your time. I want you to do it right.”

Greg’s cheeks burned with shame, but he nodded again, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the bed for support. He lowered himself to his knees once more, his face level with Leslie’s thighs. The scent of her, mixed with the sharp tang of Mark’s cum, hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to focus, to block out the humiliation and concentrate on the task at hand.

He leaned in slowly, his breath warm against her skin. Leslie let out a soft sigh, her hips shifting slightly as if encouraging him. Greg hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering up to meet hers. She gave him a small nod, her expression calm but unyielding. He took a deep breath and pressed his tongue against her, his movements tentative at first.

The taste was overwhelming—bitter and salty, with the faint sweetness of Leslie beneath it. Greg’s stomach tightened, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He focused on the sensations, the way her body responded to his touch, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly as he worked. He could feel Mark’s cum coating his tongue, and he hated it. He hated how it made him feel, how it reminded him of his place in this arrangement. But he kept going, his movements becoming more purposeful as he tried to block out the thoughts swirling in his mind.

“That’s it,” Leslie murmured, her voice soft but firm. “Just like that.”

Mark let out a low chuckle from his spot on the bed, and Greg’s humiliation intensified. He could feel his cheeks burning, his entire body flush with shame. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He focused on Leslie, on the way her body was responding to him, on the faint sounds she was making. It was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Leslie’s hand found its way to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. She didn’t pull or guide him, but the weight of her hand was enough to remind him that she was in control. Greg’s hands gripped the sheets tightly, his knuckles turning white as he continued to work, his tongue darting in and out, lapping up every last drop of Mark’s cum.

“Good boy,” Leslie whispered, her voice laced with approval. Greg’s heart clenched at the words, a mix of pride and shame flooding through him. He hated how much he craved her praise, how much it meant to him. But he couldn’t deny the way it made him feel, the way it spurred him on.

Leslie’s grip on his hair tightened slightly, and he could feel her hips rocking gently against his face, urging him on. His tongue worked faster, more eagerly, as he tried to please her, to prove himself. He kept going, his tongue lapping at her, until she finally pulled his head back, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her eyes met his, and he saw something in them—something he couldn’t quite place. Pride? Approval? Satisfaction? He wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. He had done what she wanted. That was all that mattered.

Leslie finally released her grip on his hair, her hand falling to her side. She gave him a small smile, her eyes soft but still holding that unyielding dominance. “You did good,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I’m proud of you, Greg.”

Greg’s heart clenched at the words, and he nodded slowly, his throat too tight to speak. He could feel Mark’s eyes on him, watching him, judging him. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was Leslie. Her approval. Her pride. That was all he wanted.

[xian2014]

This is how serial killers are made.

[cuckold writer]

Anxious to hear everyone's thoughts on the direction of the story so far.