Even though the lights in our hotel suite are on, I can barely see my wife, Christie. I know she is naked; I see flashes of her silver hair, glimpses of a sheen of sweat on her skin, but she is hidden beneath a big, muscular black guy, slowly moving himself in and out of her, also naked and glowing with the sweat of his effort. She is grinding right back into him, making cute little whimpers.
And where am I, her husband of 25 years? In a chair next to the bed, stroking myself for at least the third time tonight. I've been cumming ever since Christie first touched and stroked this man's huge shaft earlier tonight. The sight alone drove me over the edge.
She wraps her arms and legs tightly around him as they both near climax. The wedding rings I put on her finger years ago glint in the light. As does the delicate chain I put on her ankle tonight, with its little silver charm reading "hotwife" on it, the collar she wears with its little black spade pendant on it.
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I know the picture I've described sounds insane. And It is. When I think about how we got here, I can only remember fragments, moments, images, stray conversations. No complete narrative, just points along the way of our inevitable and wonderful slide.
1.
The beginning was fantasy, and roleplay. I remember buying her lingerie, toys, dildos, blindfolds, and handcuffs. But nothing too kinky.
Until I noticed some random porn image while surfing online, and I just couldn't shake it -- a hung stud with an enormous cock fucking a MILF in glasses a lot like my own wife. And then something revolting and strangely alluring at the same time: "cuckold" porn. Husbands watching, stroking themselves. I spent hours combing cuckold/hotwife websites, drinking in videos and photos. Absorbing. Processing. I wanted to stop, to turn it off. But I couldn't. My hand wouldn't respond. It was too busy jacking off.
I found a strange subset of this world where people were obsessed with finding African- American men to fuck their wives, whom they called a Queen of Spades. It seemed like the cheesiest, lamest, most casually racist thing. But there was something about the man doing Christie, being another race, that stuck in my mind's eye -- like, if the man was bigger than me and had a completely different skin color, it registered even harder in my brain that he was another man.
And then (ugh), Christie found my porn. I had idiotically left a browser open on my computer to one of these sites. Or maybe deep down I wanted her to find it. Who knows. I was hugely embarrassed. I tried to downplay it, didn't mention the interracial crap. She was confused, even angry at first, but then realized ultimately it was harmless.
She asked, "That's what you fantasize about? Seriously? And do you want to...what do they call it...roleplay that with me?"
My hard dick gave my answer.
I secretly bought some items from stores that specialized in this lifestyle. A slutty little crop top that read "Hotwife," some bikinis that had little "Queen of Spades" symbols on them, and I even bought a big, thick, incredibly lifelike black strapon dildo. I kinda couldn't believe I did any of it. But the power of the kink was strong.
I would ask her to dress up in the slutty outfits. Although I avoided telling her everything, like what those spade symbols on the bikinis were, I just claimed that was the brand name. And then I would strap on that big black dick and pretend to be a masseuse giving her a "special massage," or some guy she brought home from a club, or some similar cheesy-ass fantasy.
She would roll her eyes and call me a pervert, but it became part of our routine. We even named the dildo -- Hank. Ha. I know. So stupid. But what wasn't stupid was what would happen when I fucked her with Hank. It was so hot seeing her take that big black dick, wearing all that slutty lingerie.
Once, she begged me, "Please, I just want you inside me."
"No," I said.
"No?!" She was shocked.
"Hank goes first, hubby last."
And then I thrust all the way balls deep. Something about that made her cum so hard she yelped. I immediately went down on her, licking her, soothing her. She loved it.
Then finally it was my turn for "sloppy seconds," But just as I put in the tip, I was so turned on I came everywhere like a firehose.
And that became our thing, our kinky routine. Hank, a cuckold cleaning, and sloppy seconds.
Just like a walking cliché, I bought her a "hotwife" anklet and a sexy collar with a queen of spades charm on it. Again, I brushed off the symbol, saying it was just the label of the company that made them. The whole thing was kind of a joke, because by this point I had researched enough to know that no true hotwife ever really wore them; it was just stupid porn shit.
But if Christie ever put any of it on, never mentioning it, silently teasing me with it walking around the house, it was like a fucking red cape to a bull. I couldn't stop myself.
"I love how much this turns you on, honey," Christie said one night as we cuddled together. "I mean, it's strange to me that Hank fucks me more than you do, and it's been that way for a while now, but you seem happy, and I know it feels good to me. But this is all fantasy, you know this, right?"
"Oh my god, of course," I said. Stunned she would even ask.
2.
The next thing I remember was our big anniversary vacation to a luxury resort in the Bahamas. Just the two of us for a week off the grid. I peeked in the bag as we were packing and saw she had thrown in the anklet, and all that slutty lingerie, and some slutty minidresses, and Hank, of course.
At dinner the first night, in the darkened corner of a nightclub, she crossed her legs under the table and holy shit, there was the anklet. It was the first time she had ever worn it out in public. I literally looked around the place to see if anyone noticed. Which of course they didn't because who fucking cares. My jaw must have literally dropped because she chuckled and told me, "Just enjoy dinner. It will still be there when we get back to the room. Unless I pick up someone else on the way."
Dinner was a blur, and then, back in the room, lovemaking, Hank doing his thing, talk dirtier than we've ever done.
"Tell me how much you love this big cock, honey. You want it, don't you? You want it," I said as I thrust in and out. I had to bite my tongue from saying "big black cock."
"I want it," she yelped as she came.
Usually there was this kind of invisible wall between what we did in the bedroom and what happened outside of it. We never spoke of it, and we never mixed streams, or even hinted about it privately to each other while we were out. That night with the anklet was the first tiny crack in that wall ever, after years of this. Maybe I should have paid more attention to it.
3.
I don't recall if it was the next day Christie went for the massage, or a couple of days later. I should remember it vividly, shouldn't I? Considering what happened?
I didn't think twice about it when she left. I was just sitting on our balcony reading. She sauntered off in her typical beach cover-up and said she'd be back in an hour.
A few minutes later, my world turned upside down with the bing of a text.
"Heading in...,,
" it read, "Luv u!" And then there was a selfie.
And that's when my heart leapt, and sank, and my cock twitched, all at once. She was wearing that Queen of Spades thong bikini, blowing a kiss to the camera; behind her, the masseuse was prepping the table. A huge, muscular black dude.
Of course, fucking of course. What the hell. Why did she grab that one from the bag? What should I do?
I couldn't tell her about the bikini. How could I? How would I even explain it? Oh, by the way, hon, that symbol on all your lingerie and your anklets is a crypto-racist kinky sex thing? And if some black guy sees it, lord knows what they will think of it?
But like the anklet, in all likelihood no one would notice a thing. It's such a stupid little corner of a subculture of a kink. Best I could do was say nothing and just cross my fingers the masseuse wouldn't say anything, and I would have dodged a bullet.
And that's how the hour of her massage went. Panic, fear, cold sweats, then reeling it all in and telling myself I was being crazy. And all the while my cock was as hard as steel. Idiot.
And then the hour kept going. Another 20 minutes. Another 40 minutes. Where was she?
When I heard the beep of the key card, which meant Christie was back, I desperately tried to keep my cool. Hide my panic, hide my erection, play it cool. Looking back, I should have noticed something had happened. She was all flushed. Her hair was a bit of a shambles. She was no longer wearing that beach dress. Just that damned Queen of Spades bikini.
"How was it?" I asked, desperately trying to be casual.
"Oh, he was great, very hot," she said, in a dreamy, faraway voice.
"Christie! You shock me," I laughed.
She didn't laugh. There was an awkward silence. I tried to fill it.
"So all was good?" I asked nervously.
"You already asked that."
"I...uh..." I just trailed off, at a loss.
"It was. He truly treated me like a queen."
And that's when I knew. She knew. He knew. A pause that seemed to stretch forever.
"Oh god. Honey, I'm sorry. I am mortified. I can't imagine how embarrassing..."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because..." and I gestured at the bikini.
"You mean for buying me a bikini covered in symbols that tell the world I am a slut who only fucks black men, and then sending me out in it to get a massage from, oh, right, a black guy? All without telling me?"
"Well, I never meant for you to wear this out...this was just for us...and then I didn't know what to...I'm sorry, Christie. I don't know what to say."
I sank into a chair. I felt just horrible.
"Well, don't be sorry, honey. Truly."
She sounded so placid. I couldn't believe it. I knew she must be livid.
"Don't be sorry, because something happened with him. With the masseuse."
I froze. I thought I misheard her.
"What are you...Christie, why are you saying that? I know you're mad."
"I'm not mad at you. Oh, I was at first, when Mark noticed what I was wearing. That's his name, Mark. And he Googled a few things and showed me what this all means. What you really wanted me to be. And maybe being mad is why I let... things... happen. And maybe then I was mad at myself for a moment for letting things happen..."
I gulped, "Stop this, honey. I get it. You want me to think things happened to punish me. And I deserve it. I give up. Uncle."
Christie knelt and put her hand on my crotch. "But that's what I'm saying. I know it's not punishment. I know you are ok with it. So there is no reason to be upset."
She felt that I was rock hard in my pants. "I mean, let's say I did what you wanted, I was a mindless slut, and I let this big black guy touch me, and let's say I touched his dick, and maybe I even sucked it. I mean, just the thought of me with him is making you hard, isn't it? I can feel it growing."
"Yes," I admitted through my shame. I could hardly look at Christie. I tried to look her in the eye but had to quickly look down. I shook my head. I didn't know what to say.
"Whelp, you got what you wished for," Christie said.
She turned my face up to look at her. And I could have sworn I saw something on her neck -- was that a hickey?
"Oh god... no," I whispered. As I felt myself begin squirting cum into my bathing suit.
Christie realized why I said it when she looked down and saw my penis spasming rapidly and a wet spot growing and growing.
"It's okay, honey. He said this would happen."
"Who said... what..."
"Mark said you would cum in your pants without me even touching you, just from the thought of him being with your wife. And that's how I'd know you really wanted me to be a black cock slut wife."
But then it hit me. No way she would ever say that. No way this was true. She was getting back at me. And I deserved it. I looked up again.
"Okay, enough, Christie. I don't know whether he coached you on what to say. Or if you are doing this on your own. But I promise to never put you in that position again. "
"So you don't think anything I just said happened?"
"No way," I said, though stunned, heavy breaths. "That wasn't real. You would never..."
She shrugged mildly and grinned. "Ok fine, then. It didn't happen. Let that be a lesson to you, you perv. Now let me wash up before dinner"
As she strutted by, I stopped her and kissed her. She leaned in and kissed back hard, hungrily.
And that's when I tasted it. A strange flavor in her mouth. When she pulled away, a little strand of cum dripped from her lip.
I looked closer, and there were clearly thin lines of cum around her mouth. I hadn't noticed it until I got in close.
My wife had come home with another man's cum all over her face.
Everything she had said, it was all true. I looked at Christie a moment, stunned, silent.
She started to speak, but I stopped her by kissing her hard on the lips. I tasted another rope of cum. We both kissed each other hungrily, licking and tasting it as we did, both licking the cum off of each other's lips.
"Are you happy, honey?" Christie asked. "I made your fantasy come true."
"I love you... more than anything."
Christie's whispered back to me with sexy cum-covered lips, "I love you too."
There was a beat as we looked at each other, her cum-speckled face, my pants soaked from my own mess, and then we just burst out laughing. "We had both better go get cleaned up, " Christie said. "We have a lot to talk about."
4.
The next moment I remember is her first date with another man. There's something about the first time that continues to just blow my mind. A friend of a friend of a friend of that masseuse from the Bahamas, I think, who lived in the big city near us.
I helped her get ready, picking out what she was going to wear -- it was so wild and perverted, I still can't quite believe it. Putting on that spades lingerie again, of course, which had become sort of an in-joke for us by this point, then some tiny minidress she was way too old for but fuck it. Her body was still rocking, and when she leaned over, her thong-covered ass would peek out a bit. It was just fantastic.
She looked like a fucking hot club-slut. And she loved it. She giggled and said she hoped nobody she knew would see her. But then, she mused, maybe it would be a turn-on to know that people saw her with an attractive black guy in a club, dressed like a total slut.
"How do I look?" she asked, as she finished her makeup and strapped on some ridiculous stripper heels.
"Amazing. I'm not sure he will be able to wait until after dinner to have you."
"Alright, darling, now'syouru last chance to bail out of this. We've had a great time, and I'll never forget it, and if you now say you don't want to go through with this, I could live with it. But we'd never raise the subject again. But if you want to go through with it, there won't be any going back."
My dick was hard and hot like a white-hot sun.
"And what makes you think I'd give you permission?" I said.
"Oh, I'm sure you won't give me permission," Christie said. "You're a good protective husband. You would never let your wife go out all alone to make love with her sexy, virile black lover. Isn't that right, honey?"
She sat beside me, put her hand gently to my crotch, and stroked. I was involuntarily humping my wife's hand as she stroked me.
"You wouldn't let your wife get all dressed up like a little slut, would you? Baby, you know his big black cock makes me lose my mind. You'll make me stay home, won't you darling?"
"Uhhhh," I said. She could feel my dick swelling up. I started cumming buckets.
"I guess that means I have your permission?"
I went in to kiss her, and she turned her head. "On the cheek, sweety. I don't want to mess up the makeup.
After she left, the angst and arousal and confusion and exhilaration were intense. I've since talked to other husbands in this lifestyle who send their wives out on dates, and all described similar torment. But torment is the wrong word, for I was hornier than I had been since my teenage years, desperately trying not to masturbate to thoughts of my slut wife, as I waited for a text, a call, headlights in the driveway meaning Christie was home. With her date. Crazy.
I remember when they did actually return. His name was Dave. He was a massive bodybuilder. They were holding hands as they walked up the driveway. I remember looking around to make sure none of the neighbors could see.
I remember them making out on the couch, her lipstick smeared, her dress riding up, his hands in her panties, smirking at the symbol on them. Christie moaning like a true slut.
"That's right, baby," Dave said. "You can't control yourself. You're a brainless slut for big black cock, and you love it." Then to me: "Buddy boy, why don't you feel how wet your girl here is."
I reached down and felt Christie's panties. Dave was right. Soaked
"I can't believe what a bad little wife I am. I feel like I'm tumbling down a hill and nothing can stop it; there's too much momentum, there's nothing I can do," Christie teased, with a smile to me. "No matter how I resist, Dave is gonna win in the end and make me do something bad."
I knew exactly how she felt because I was horny too, unbelievably horny. I was rubbing my hardon through my pants, and Christie saw it.
"It's okay," I said. "I understand what you're going through. I love you no matter what."
As we were talking, Dave was unfastening his belt and freeing about 11 inches of cock. I could see Christie's eyes widen, and look back at me, almost frightened. I kissed her, rubbed her back, and then ever-so-gently pushed her down to him.
She took the hint, and then took him into her mouth. While I held her hair back and stroked her back. After a minute or two of groaning and sucking...
"That's enough," Dave said. "Let's see you naked. Get hubby there to give you a hand."
Christie sat up obediently. "Undress me for him; I want you to give me to him," she said as she turned back to Dave.
I felt myself step forward and gently placed my trembling hands on her waist. Christie met my eyes again, studying my face. Her cheeks flushed and her breathing heavy.
"Show me off, hand me over to him." Without a word, I started to remove her dress, but she interrupted me. "Slower. Show me off proper."
I very slowly pulled down her dress, unhooked her bra, gently helped her step out of her queen of spades panties, leaving her in nothing but her stripper heels. She never once looked at me, only watching Dave now.
"Honey, why aren't you doing anything to stop him?" Christie said coyly with a teasing smirk, positioning her naked body on David's lap so she could rub her pussy against his cock. She started passionately kissing him while she suggestively slid her horny pussy up and down his whole length.
Dave growled, hauled her up into his arms, and then spun her around so she was resting on the couch, and positioned himself behind her. I sat there stunned, my heart hammering loudly, as he slowly rocked his hips and entered her.
It had happened.
Christie had been blacked.
"Your pussy feels so good on my cock, babygirl." Dave kissed her shoulder as she lovingly cradled his face to her.
As he pushed back inside her, Christie's sounds changed from passionate and sweet to animal-like. I could see Dave's monster organ pummeling my wife's pussy. And then she shuddered in an enormous orgasm. I looked down and realized I had already started jacking off without even realizing it.
Christie caught sight of me and held her hand out to me. "Hold me," she said. "Hold me up while he fucks me, sweetie. It's so goooooood..."
