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by hardk » Tue Sep 16, 2025 3:33 pm
It has been several months since I last posted anything. I have thought about it almost daily, but every time I thought about it and I sat down with the intent to get back to my writing process, I froze. Not from a lack of material, but because there is so much material, so much has changed. The spring became something I couldn't process in real time. Back in April, everything was already teetering, already shifting. But the past months changed it. And I wasn't ready to write out the true narrative while things were happening. I needed to have distance. I needed to understand it on my own. But of course, I couldn't. Not really. It has felt as if it all has been creating within me, and now I was in a place and finally needed to write it down for myself more than anyone else. This is where I left off:
May 2025
May was the month that the businessman came back into her life and into her orbit early in the month, and the way she came home from that hotel date was enough to remind me why he has always been the most dangerous one for me emotionally, her coming through the door glowing, her body loose, her cheeks flushed immediately put me on notice. Then she whispers to me that he "always knows" when she is about to give in, and that his patience with her body makes her feel completely free to let go. I felt the familiar cocktail of jealousy, arousal, and feelings of awe that I am stuck with. The knowledge that he was inside her and ostensibly without a condom, in a shared act that creates an intimacy that is different than we have, but the fact that she trusted him with her body says all of it makes me feel both dismissed that I am no longer the only one and proud of how far we have come, and emotional.At the same time, the thread involving the professional cyclist was beginning to activate. What had started as a fleeting moment at the café patio back in April turned into a handful of texts in May, and probably more, though these are the ones I actually noticed, and recall. He had called her “a distraction.” She sent him a sweaty bathroom selfie after a ride, the straps of her bib shorts falling down, her sports bra damp against her skin. She later told me in bed, almost shyly, she wanted to feel his young, fit body pressed against hers. It was the first time she had allowed herself to say it quite that way about him. She also shared with me that part of why he was currently in her head, noted a previous way she had to circumstances she could have the same freedom to experience as a young person in her twenties, the younger guys she never said yes with, the adventures she was too shy to run after when she was settling into living in North America. I thought that visibility meant more than the photo. It was more than a momentary encounter. He was already living rent free in her head.
It's during the month of May that I began to see more clearly how much she appreciate the stark contrasts. She told me she loves being intimate with me, the closeness, how much I understand her rhythms, but she needs more. More sizes, more shapes, more ways of being used. Not unkindly, matter-of-factly. Almost lovingly. And yet, I saw it was tearing off something in me, while it lit me on fire too.Though she had indicated these needs previously, she had never explicitly articulated it: my body, as beloved as it is, is not sufficient. She needs a spectrum of sex the way humans need oxygen, for valid and worthwhile reasons. It stirred up memories from April, when she began to verbalize that she was feeling restless, that our coupling was not always sufficient to appease her cravings. That was not fully resolved by May and had been surfacing, at times uncontrollably, under the heat of touch.
Sometimes, when I slid inside her, I felt her body squeeze tight in ways that were telling; she was thinking, precisely, about someone else or the men she had during her twenties. Jealousy took her place and made me half hard, and the arousal made me more dizzy. As she lay curled tightly into me afterward whispering that she loved me, I remained awake with images that had been planted in my head. As that chatter played, I began wanting to pull away from my body, my claws sinking past my want to take her, and instead want to sit in the space of releasing my energy and letting go. I imagined simply allowing her want for my energy to rise and swell without my generous attempts of softening the embrace of her body against my body; wanted to see her move her hands away and instead use an arm against the solid weight of my hips. I imagined moving around that same space, although lust isn't contained. I wanted her to feel less frumpy and vulgar and tell me where she wanted to earn her ethos of sex drive. The pictures started replaying: her, bent over haphazardly a hotel bed, skin flushed and shivering beneath someone's hands; her, mouth wide to keep the man erect, moaning into the phone for it; her act so visible and steep in braveness, her body spread and giving, filled in ways I could only speculate and be privy to.They were jagged, intoxicating, and impossible to sweep under the rug. We were both attempting to integrate it into our new reality, but the fissures kept appearing, erotic and painful simultaneously.
In May, I began to feel her stepping further into herself. While she was still shy about voicing her hunger, the awkward edge of it slipped away. I could tell in the way she carried herself, the extra sway in her hips, the longer pauses when men's eyes remained on her, especially when I was around. Of even greater significance, when together, she would sometimes smile almost coyly as if challenging them to keep staring. It was the same subtle shifts I began noticing in April, only now they had a little more bravado, a harder to ignore degree of confidence. And it bothered me, I didn't like how cavalier she seemed to invite sympathy worldly gazes when I was right there next to her, it made me feel small as a mere spectator to my wife's allure. I felt turned on by her brave gestures, yet part of me resented it, hated how she made me feel unnoticed even in her company. This month was when she first started to design the testing of her power in the open with me by her side, in small but undeniable ways, and I was left half pursuing half pushing away.
June 2025
June brought forward all the tension of May, only to state feeling less hypothetical and more considered.The businessman had seen her twice during that month, both times at the hotel: both times she came back marked by him in ways that it was impossible for me to ignore. Smudged lipstick, her hair hastily pinned back, that glow that lingered in her body for days. She was blunt when I asked, and anal again, with no condom, and that she had multiple orgasms each time. Details she didn't dwell on, but she also didn't censor herself. I felt caught between wanting to hear the details and being afraid how much I'd lose my shit if she gave them to me.
The firefighter did too, a quick afternoon rendezvous at his apartment after dropping off the kids on the last day of school. That was when he surprised her by suggesting a threesome with another woman. She laughed when she told me but later admitted it troubled her much more than she'd anticipated. She said being touched by a woman made her nervous but that it also intrigued her. What bothered her even more was how his suggestion made her feel objectified, like she was reduced to part of a sexual object for his fantasy. She said there was tension in her because she recognized she was objectifying him too, their connection had never been about like, or affection: it was for sex only.She mentioned that his suggestion pushed her to face that reality more directly, and once the information was verbalized it was a door she didn’t realize she wanted to open, but could no longer close since it was broached. She only saw him that one time that month. In fact, it turned out to be the quietest month since she had started up again in fall of 2022, with the least amount of extramarital sex over the entire time she had been engaged in it. She had seen the businessman twice and the firefighter once, so a total of three encounters and we had sex together two times that month. At home, she was restless, but also quite tender, physically affectionate with me in everyday day-to-day interactions, touching me as she walked by in the kitchen or curling up on the couch with me, but often holding back from sex itself, as if saving her energy or keeping her body in that heightened state. Around this time, she was also starting to track everything in an app called “Sex Tracker by Nice.” She said some of it was to see how her desire ebbed and flowed, but also for my sake. She mentioned she wanted to see the data laid out, to be able to understand herself better. The very act of tracking only illustrated how much sex, in all of its forms, had become a defining axis of her life.Here's an example from her first log entry:
Date/Time: June 7th, 4:30 PM- 2:00 AM
Partner: **** (Businessman)
Location: **** hotel
Protection: None (IUD)
Activities: Deep kissing, oral (received), vaginal, anal
Ranking: 8/10
Notes: "Came 2x vaginally, 1x anal. The guy took forever, I felt like I was right on edge the whole time. Felt completely open like his the whole night. Steady, calm, knew what he was doing. SUPER tender next day, thighs + ass sore lol"
Another log...
Date/Time: June 29th, 11:30 PM
Partner: Husband
Location: Our bedroom
Protection: None
Activities: Riding on top, long cuddling
Ranking: 6/10
Notes: "Needed closeness. Didn't finish (but felt safe n loved). Wanted to ride on top and stay close. So slow and calm (kind of diff vibe than other nighttime things) Just more touchy and cuddly than sex. Good for me."
The cyclist's texts also got a little bolder. He sent a low-angle photo of himself, amazing cock print visible (and she teased back with words that she later admitted were very wet to her). When she admitted that, I realized he was quickly becoming something greater than a flirtation. I started imagining what it would be like to hear her with him, the wet slap of his hips against her; her sharp gasp in her throat, her voice breaking as she begged him not to stop. I could picture her nails raking through his back; her legs trembling around his waist; her sweat glistening on her chest as she abandoned to his rhythm. The details of him taking her in amazing ways that I do not could invade my thoughts so vividly that I was somehow jealous and hard at the same moment. But at the same time, it felt different than the others. He was younger and less threatening, and there was a strange sense of pride that came with knowing my wife was being "wanted" by a professional athlete. It was not like the businessman, who came with a sense of permanence for her, nor was he the firefighter, who was all raw dominance. With the cyclist, it was more fun to see her being wanted by someone so young, so physical but in my mind not competing with me at the same level.
By June, I felt still stuck between the man who could not stand seeing his wife invite attention in front of him, and the man who could not stop envisioning seeing her with them in my head; particularly the cyclist.
July 2025
In July, everything began to intensify. It was mostly business-as-usual with the businessman, I saw him only once in the middle of the month at the usual hotel. She came back looking a hil just a bit unkempt, a slight dishevel. Her makeup was faintly smudged, and she had that unmistakable glow to her body. She mentioned to me that she had come three times, once vaginally, and the other two times during anal. There was no hesitation when she described her latest encounter, more like she was reporting new information, matter-of-factly, about her day.
The real change was the cyclist. After weeks of flirting and sending messages, she was finally going to meet him for what she termed a "training ride." As the day drew closer, I was tightly wound, anticipating and worrying. I watched as she laid her kit out the evening before: the black bib shorts that hugged her curves and her fitted jersey and even her cycling glasses. She was humming to herself while getting her gear bag ready. I asked if she was nervous to meet him, she shrugged, and said, "A little, but only because I know I can't keep up with a pro", but I thought there was another reason behind her eyes. She probably already had a sense it would be more than that.
She left the following morning just after five that morning. The entire house was still asleep. When she got up, she was totally naked. I lay there in bee silence, silently roused. She moved with the relaxed confidence I had observed several times; she was not rushed, but deliberate. She stood right at the foot of the bed, and pulled a pale grey sports bra out of the draw.For a few moments, she merely held it, running her thumbs over the band, her thoughts clearly wandering. I sometimes wondered what her thoughts were about, what would become of it in the end – crumpled on the floor, soaked with sweat after she had been ravished by him, or half-tugged off as he pushed her down.
She raised her arms and slid it over her head, her perky breasts, enhanced by the businessman bull since we were married, rising slightly before being compressed by the fabric, with her already visible nipples outlined by the morning light. She adjusted the fabric with both hands, fingers spreading the fabric as she lifted herself and settled in too, all with absentmindedness. Then she turned in the mirror and paused. Just looking. I knew right away that look. It wasn’t vanity. It was readiness. A readiness that led to anticipation.
Then came the bibs. I watched from the bed slowly in the dim light as she stepped into the bibs, one leg at a time, the tight Lycra clinging to her thighs, practically like a second skin. There was no rush. Pulling them up, I watched the tight Lycra stretch and rise over her thighs. As they slowly rose, they covered her mound, smooth and completely shaven. She hadn’t had pubic hair in years since the businessman paid for her laser hair removal. I used to think it was just for me. I was wiser now and knew better, it was a bit more complicated since she did embrace non-monogamy.Watching the black lycra stretch over her pussy, taking shape over each contour with nothing underneath, did something I couldn't put my finger on. I imagined that same fabric darkening with sweat later on, or being pulled down around her knees, forgotten on some strangers floor later on. My desire coursed through me, though still, I did not move; I was already hard. I just lay there, shallow breath, watching her become someone I did know and didn't know. She still didn't know I was awake. With practiced precision, she tugged them back up, her hips shifting slightly as Jesus not only renovated the house he had practically built on some stranger's floor, but also rebuilt the fabric high and snug over her ass. Then the jersey, navy, fitted, zipped. I could see the firm respite of her breasts. Next she pulled her hair into a high ponytail, tight and smooth; her Korean neck slender and long, she worked glamorously with her helmet straps and then slipped her sunglasses into place. She was silent and focused, but there was a hum under everything, that low, charged energy I had learned I could count on whenever she was preparing herself to do something transgressive. My breath caught as she clipped on her watch. Then, for the first time in all the time I'd known her, I saw her reach for a wedding ring. A ring that had been there since a friend had put it on her finger that one time and it forgot to come back off. She held the ring literally between her fingers for a moment, hesitated, and then she slid it off until it came to rest gently into a small drawer amongst other jewelry. Just that, a small gesture. Small, quiet, not announced or spoken about. But I felt it like a punch in my aesaphagostomy. She had never done that. Not even for the businessman, not for the firefighter.But she was about to go off riding and meet someone new, someone young, someone raw, and something about this one seemed to entice her to be... unclaimed. Or maybe just unseen. I felt my mouth get dry. I didn’t say anything. I just watched her as my heart roared in my chest, as she zipped up and walked out the door. I didn’t say anything. I just watched her move, with that fluid, athletic confidence that always leaves me aching in my stomach.
I was in knots.
Over the next few hours, I couldn't concentrate. I kept refreshing my phone, waiting for a text, monitoring her location on Find My. I kept fantasizing about the moment they finished riding, and the next step(s), the looks, the mutual excuse to touch, how he might grab her wrist just a beat too long.
Once she was still out riding later that day, I went into the bedroom by myself. I don’t know what drew me there, but with a prolonged moment I opened the drawer I recalled seeing her putting her wedding ring in that morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, and held it. The tiny circle of gold sitting into my palm, almost as if trying to talk to me. I turned it over in my fingers again and again, thinking about how easily she had rolled it off. How free she seemed. I didn’t feel mad. Sad wasn’t it. Conflicted. I didn’t panic. But something hollow was opening.I remained seated, still affected, keeping her ring in silence. Nevertheless, the tension of my body was unrelenting. After an eternity, I squeezed the ring in the palm of my hand and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. My cock had been hard all morning, ever since she'd zipped herself into that kit, and slid the ring off her finger like it was nothing. I grabbed myself slowly at first, letting images come to the forefront: her sweaty skin, her jersey half unzipped; the look she gave at herself in the mirror before she pulled her tight pony-tail back. Then, her stepping into the apartment, still flushed from the ride, the tension of her body melting upon letting him take what I hadn't touched in days. The thought of her gripping the cushions of the couch as he pinned her thin Asian frame under his athletic white body, the sound of her gasp as he filled her harder than she could take, no thoughts filtered. Just fucking. I was gone then. I didn't make it very far, biting down on my jaw and breathing like an animal.
Then I was clarity. The new and sharp post-release silence in my chest. The images were still there but dim. What replaced was colder and heavier. A wave of embarrassment, of helplessness. My wife is out there doing this for real.I had fantasized about her being taken, and in that moment, alone with her ring in my hand and evidence of my own arousal, I felt more like a bystander rather than a husband. It wasn't shame exactly. It was the heaviness of knowing that while I burned to imagine her, someone else may have truly had physical release.
In reality they rode hard for just under two hours before sailing back to his apartment where she said everything changed the second the door closed. She later told me that he barely said a word, just kissed her, peeled off her kit like he was a kid hoping to get to the candy, and pushed her hard against the couch of his tidy little apartment. They were still damp with sweat when he entered her bare, no question, no preamble. She described there was little foreplay. She told me her body responded instantaneously, and in a way that nearly embarrassed her, like it had been waiting for him to take action. She said she came within the first minutes.
She described him holding one hand at her throat while he thrust, not really choking her, just keeping her in place, with her legs over his shoulders, heels dragged deep into his back. The sweat from the ride was still in between them, mixing with the new kind of heat. She remarked that he grunted into her neck when he came, and she could feel it deep, thick, sudden, unparalleled pleasure. The largest quantity she had ever experienced.Ever since I met my wife, she expressed that a woman's greatest enjoyment of vaginal sex is having cum shot inside of her. She even went to the point to say this was the best sex she had ever had.
That made it all the more difficult, because I did not know it had happened, not at first. I thought it was just a training ride. I wasn’t going to push; I learned that lesson too, and too recently. When she came home, she was about as late as I expected, somewhere around 9 AM, as the kids were getting up and feeling lazy during a summer morning. She said she had brunch, and took her time getting back to normal. She was flushed, yes, and she had typical salt stains on the back of the thigh of her bibs, but nothing, that would raise a red flag. She was casual, sweet, kissed me on the cheek, was quick and witty with the kids, showered, and then we made lunch together. I remember watching her stir the pot by the stove, barefoot, freshly showered with her clean long hair falling down her back, and I asked myself if she can still look so untouched if she had just been wrecked by someone else merely hours before. I checked the app. There was no entry.
Then, it wasn’t until the following night, when we were laying in bed and I asked if she had seen him again, did she finally share it with me. She rolled on her side, and pressed her face into my chest and stated softly, “You want to know?” I nodded. Her voice hardly split the air in my ear to share the truth.I listened intently, as she relayed the story, calmly tracing shapes with her fingers on my chest as if nothing she said might break me. I was clenching my fists inside to keep from showing the impact of what she said to me.
Some part of me didn't want to know. Some part of me wished she would have lied. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. I had asked. And once she started talking, I didn't feel like i could stop her and honestly, I didn't want her to stop. I needed to hear it. I needed to sit in the reality of what she did, what I asked for, and what I couldn't take back.
The next day, I checked the app and she had updated it.
Date/Time: July 2nd, 7:15 AM - 8:45 AM
Partner: **** (this was the Pro-Cyclist)
Location: His apartment
Protection: None (IUD was in place)
Activities: vaginal, missionary
Ranking: 10/10
Notes: "hot, fast, not talking. lean body, crazy fit, way more athletic than ** (firefighter). biggest/hardest cock i've ever had prob. still sweaty from ride, i came almost right away. he was rough but steady, i loved how he held me down n fucked me. came deep inside, no pulling out. best missionary sex ever, reminded me of **** (danish guy from college). simple, basic, but soooo good. my legs were shaking going home. i would def do that again."
I didn't sleep with her for a few days, but this was because I knew I wouldn't last, and she did not offer. I felt stripped down but I also couldn't stop picturing her.I would quietly please myself after she fell asleep, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about how she looked in her cycling gear the morning she left. Picturing how she peeled that off for him while still flushed from the ride. The imagery continued to haunt me, his young large cock stretching her open, her back arched to take it. I was fixated on one specific thing she said: "He didn’t ask, he just took me." That line haunted me, turned me on, and broke me. She was in her mid-30s, but looked like she was in her 20s. He was in his early 20s, a full decade apart, yet he was the one who made her legs shake, the one who made her forget she wasn't wearing her wedding ring. The surreal part was that it wasn't just the act, it was seeing the woman I built a life with, the mother of my children, become an object of fantasy for a man ten years her junior, a professional athlete. Yet even with the ache I felt, there was this bizarre, unspoken pride in me. That she was desired like that. That he wanted her like that. I couldn't explain it. It changed something in me, not just about how I saw her, but how I saw myself in comparison to her. As if she stepped outside of our life, if only for brief moments, and became something other than my own. Something mine, but not mine.There was something I used to glorify and admire, but, at this point, I could not claim it in any form. I had zero comparable sexual experiences with a woman a decade younger than me or with a pro athlete.
The firefighter came and went in early July, but again, he struggled to get the job done. She admitted this left her frustrated. It only demonstrated just how much he was fading when in comparison to either other possibilities. His prior mention of being a part of a threesome was still lodged in her mind, but it was clear that his grasp on overcoming her desires was weakening. She later told me, with some mild embarrassment, that being with the firefighter had always, and only ever been, about raw physicality, the size, the strength, the way he just took her. She told me (with some shy embarrassment) that this was the reason she selected him on Ashley Madison, and he was also the first man she ever fucked behind my back, when she was still married. But she said it was starting to feel theatrical. It was starting to feel repetitive. She told me that he often couldn't stay hard, which is more than enough to leave someone frustrated, more than once, and the things she found alluring, his bookended shoulders, his gym tone, had started to feel more like a costume than chemistry. She did say that when she compared it with the body, the difference was staggering. The firefighter pinned her down. The cyclist made her feel like a woman who was being sought for lust. She said that with the cyclist, there was no performance, no physicality that met a constraint for lust. His hunger was not a role or an act; his hunger felt real.She remarked that the cyclist's youth and actual athleticism provided him a level of focus, and therefore physical energy that, as a gym-going older firefighter, she couldn't claim for herself. She remarked that the cyclist was always capable of sexual performance, and that this wasn't ever a concern during their relationship. The cyclist could even go multiple rounds, a feat I hadn't been able to manage since the first year of our courtship. She said that being with this guy made her feel like the fantasy. Like she was being genuinely craved, rather than merely used.
At home, while we were tense, we were still able to manage. We made love three times in the month after I had learned of her relationship with the cyclist. Each time we made love images would come to mind that I was unable to eliminate completely. Sometimes I felt the urge to hold her tightly when we made love to reclaim her and reestablish my possessive feelings. Increasingly, though, I found myself conflicted in response to my current jealousy, I would intentionally want to hold back and create room for her to demonstrate just how much she could actually hunger. In July, it was difficult to even discern whether I was motivated by jealousy or lustful desire. It was such a strange, disorienting thing to want her to have intercourse with that cyclist. I think I wanted it almost as much as she did. As I told her after their "arrangement", I felt a certain sense of pride. It was an odd, dishelming word of pride. I felt small and lucky at the same time. Like I was married to someone that other men only fantasized about and that she came home to me.The opposition clouded my thoughts at every slow moment, each time she glided past me in the hall, vitally each time I touched her and returned to those images of first. I understood then in the surreal that my wife was quasi-dating a pro athlete, a man whom she hadn’t known even a few months previous, a man who, if I calculated things correctly, was at least a decade younger than her, at his physical peak, with a sponsorship, organized life built around his physicality, and she was now part of that schedule. She didn’t frame it in the context of a relationship, but it acted like one in so many respects: recurring meets, a private rhythm, gradual familiarity. I noted how each time she returned home she put her wedding ring back on, without comment, slipping it back on like she hadn’t taken it off. But I could see it each time she met him, carefully placed in the drawer of jewelry. Like everything around me, my wife and I never spoke about that—but still that was there, the act of taking it off lingered but the quiet ritual of returning it, returning it as if nothing had altered something. I couldn’t tell if that was comfort…or delusion.
She met him again two more times in July. Once (what she calls a "coffee ride")—now I understand it ended at his apartment. She didn’t give me too much information—just the write up in the app and as ever.
Date/Time: July 15th 7:00 AM – 9:30 AM
Partner: ***** (Cyclist)
Location: His place.
Protection: None (IUD in place)
Actions: vaginal, cowgirl, missionary, oral received.
Rating: 8/10
Notes: "Post ride. still kinda gross and sweaty, he was hard when I got there lol, didn't even undress all the way, pulled leggings down, climbed on, came pretty quick. stayed hard though, did me again, the second time slower, no talking. left kinda shaky and stretched. hair was a mess. sat in the car outside for a little before going in. didn't feel ready to go back to normal yet."
The third instance was a midday rendezvous after he completed his cycling. She chose not to ride this time, but to go to his apartment. She let me know what was happening. After she dropped the kids at summer camp, she went to his place. I remember watching her prepare that morning. She was wearing slate gray leggings that fit her hips and thighs like a second skin, and a long white windbreaker that was zipped up just enough to hide her white halter top that did not have a bra underneath. Her hair was still wet from the shower, twisted in a low ponytail, and her lips were without makeup, but she did not need it. There was something about her softness that morning, that quiet confidence, that came off slightly cruel in how natural it looked. She kissed me on the cheek when she left, and it felt like nothing. Then she was gone. She returned just after lunch, bright-face, soft-spoken, and physically relaxed, still wearing her same leggings but the windbreaker was partially unzipped, and her full cheeks were flushed in a way that did not strictly come from being out in the sun. Later that afternoon, she logged the incident into the app with the following information:
Date/Time: July 18th, 11:00AM – 12:30PM
Partner: **** (commonly referred to as cyclist)
Location: **** (His apartment)
Protection: None (IUD already in place)
Activities: deep kissing, oral performed, missionary vaginal
Rating: 8/10
Notes: "no ride obv. no bra. got there a little early. lobby was quiet. felt nervous, but a little buzzing. he showed up after training still sweaty, and said no words. just kissed me, held me up. we did not undress all the way. i wore my leggings, he kept his shirt on. i remember being on top once, missionary. i remember it being slower than usual. deep. focused. it felt different once i was lying back down on his chest. he was still hard. could not stop looking. first time going down on him, he came in my mouth. swallowed before i even though about it - it felt nice. rinsed off briefly. left hair messy. drove home slow."
I will continue in August/September when I have a chance to do its justice...
Last edited by
hardk on Fri Sep 19, 2025 9:41 am, edited 2 times in total.
. I think that means it's not that great 
. And here I thought I was a decent writer.