My wife and I have been married for five years, but our relationship is a house built on sand. For years, she’s had affairs, and I’ve always found out after the fact. It’s like a macabre game of discovery, with her carefully placing the clues and me, the ever-oblivious husband, stumbling upon them. The number of men she’s been with is a tally I keep in a dark corner of my mind, a ledger of her betrayal. So far, the count is eighteen. But this story isn’t about the past. This is about the guy who would become number nineteen.
He was a building contractor, a local legend in the construction world. He owned his own firm, specializing in high-end projects—the kind of guy who built dream homes for a living. That’s how he and my wife met. She was an office manager for a golf pro, working on course developments. He was the one who turned the pro’s vision into reality. My wife, a beautiful woman with a body that could stop traffic—tall, with endless legs, a perfect derriere, and a smile that could melt steel—began her familiar game. She told him she was single, no kids, and played hard to get, a dance she’d perfected. He fell for it, and I can’t say I blame him. She has a way of making a man feel like he’s the only one in the world.
Their clandestine affair began, a torrid mix of lies and lust that had been going on for two months when I finally caught on. Unlike the other times, I wasn’t finding out after the fact; I was living it. She lied one night, saying she was going to a friend’s place, but I saw right through it. When I confronted her, she denied everything and stormed out, threatening not to come home.
I knew where she was. I’d seen her phone bill, seen the repeated calls to a number I recognized. I had met this man before, a month earlier, a chance encounter in a parking lot. He had no idea who I was, but I knew who he was.
I called him. His voice was laced with anger. “She told me you were divorced,” he said, accusing me of lying. He told me she was coming over for dinner and hung up.
I knew what I had to do. This wasn’t about revenge; it was about control. I went to the closet and retrieved my .12 gauge shotgun. I knew I wasn’t going to use it, not for murder. But it was a statement, a way to ensure I had the final word. A CO2 pellet gun lay next to it, and I grabbed that, too. You can never be too prepared.
I drove to his place, the shotgun resting on the passenger seat. As I pulled into his long, winding driveway, a security light illuminated the front of the house. I realized how conspicuous the shotgun was in my hands. Knocking was pointless. The front door was locked. I walked around to the back, admiring the pool and hot tub, imagining the nights they’d spent there. It was all so perfect, a life built on my wife’s lies.
The back of the house was all glass French doors. I saw no one inside. The first door I tried was unlocked. I walked in, silent as a ghost, and heard the television upstairs. I crept up the stairs.
Halfway up, he emerged from a hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. He saw me, saw the shotgun in my hands, and his face went white.
“Look, man, blah, blah, blah…” he began.
“Shut the fuck up,” I said, my voice low and steady. I marched him back into the master bedroom. It was the only room with its door open. My wife was nowhere in sight, but I heard the shower running. The bathroom door was closed.
“Get on the bed,” I commanded. “And don’t move.” He did as he was told.
I kicked the bathroom door open. My wife was in the shower. I motioned for her to come out, and she did, a towel wrapped around her, her eyes wide with fear. I guided her to the bed.
“Sit,” I said. “Don’t fucking move a muscle.”
Then, I looked at her. “What is it about his dick that is worth all this bullshit?” I asked. “It must be some dick. Take off your shorts, hotshot. Let’s see what she’s so enamored with.”
He resisted at first, but the shotgun pointed at his head soon had him stripped naked. He sat on the edge of the bed, trembling.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” I said, looking at his soft, limp manhood. “But then again, you don’t seem too excited either.”
I turned to my wife. “What gets him hard, baby? I bet you sucking him like I know you can get him hard as a motherfucker in no time flat.”
I turned back to him. “She does, doesn’t she?” I asked. “I know she’s good at it, so I know you know what I’m talking about.”
I told them my deal. If he could suck me hard and swallow my cum without getting a boner himself, I wouldn’t kill him. There were ten minutes of protest and pleading from both of them. I was called a “sick fuck” a hundred different ways. I had to lay down the law. “Do what I say or get the butt of the shotgun hard against your skull.”
Soon, he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead and struggling to sit up.
I told my wife to grab his cheeks and force his mouth open. I told him if I so much as felt a single tooth on my cock, I’d blow his dick off. My cock was surprisingly limp, a testament to the surrealness of the situation. I rubbed it on his lips, until his saliva began to get it wet. As it became slick, I started to feel a sensation that I was getting aroused.
A few moments later, I was slightly stiffer, so I pushed the head of my cock past his lips and moved it from side to side with my free hand. I could feel my cock stiffen and grow little by little. I pushed further into his mouth and felt his tongue on the underside of my cockhead. It felt good, and I began to stiffen more and more. I was hard enough to push more of my cock into his mouth.
“Your mouth feels good,” I said. “Warm and wet, like a nice pussy.” Then I told him to start sucking with my thrusts or I was going to blow his dick off. A few good pokes with the shotgun barrel on his balls, and he complied.
“That’s it. Suck my cock,” I said. More pokes got him sucking like an amateur on her first audition. I was about three-quarters hard at this point. I didn’t want this to go on for more than ten minutes. With my free hand, I grabbed the base of my cock and told him to lick the head. He gave up. He did what I told him. He licked the head, sucked the head, licked down the side of my cock. Soon he was sucking like a professional.
Watching him give up, give in, and just start sucking my cock was enough of a turn-on to get me the rest of the way hard. When I told him to swirl his tongue around the head of my cock while it was in his mouth, I could feel the urge to come building in my balls. I grabbed the back of his head with my free hand and pressed the shotgun barrel into his crotch as I prepared to shoot my load.
He knew what was about to happen. He placed both his hands on my thighs as if to grip them in anticipation. I came right then. He took the first blast, choked on the second, and grasped my cock with his right hand to steady and control the flow for the third and fourth shots. Then he began to jack me off, sucking my cum from the tip of my cock.
He collapsed back onto the bed. It was then I noticed, as did my wife, that his cock was as hard as it could be. It bent slightly to the left, but it was a good seven inches.
I looked at my wife and asked, “What the fuck? I’m bigger and straighter.” She offered no response.
I told her to spit on his cock. When she did, I told him to jack himself off as I moved around to the end of the bed and placed my softening cock into his mouth. I told him to suck me hard again. He took me into his mouth, began to suck, and started to shoot his load all over his chest. I withdrew and looked at my wife with a sly grin.
“Get dressed,” I told her. “If you ever see my wife again, you’ll be known by everyone as a willing cocksucker and cum swallower.”
We left.
I hear he sucks cocks now.
