Chapter 1: The Blindfold Slips
The silk was cool against his skin. Simon shifted in the reading chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. He was naked, bound at the wrists and ankles with the soft, faux-fur-lined restraints she’d bought for their anniversary. The world was a deep, velvety black, the blindfold pulled tight. He could hear her, though. The rustle of fabric. The soft pad of her bare feet on the floorboards.
“Stay still, darling,” Elena whispered, her breath warm against his ear. He could smell her perfume, the jasmine one he loved. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, down his neck, over his collarbone. They were trembling, just slightly. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“You know I do,” he breathed, his own voice thick with a mix of arousal and apprehension. This was their game. A new one. A dangerous one. The fake cuckold, she’d called it. A theatre of betrayal played just for them.
He heard the door click open. A floorboard in the hall groaned under a weight that was not Elena’s. Simon stiffened.
“Who is it?” he asked, his voice dropping to a hush.
“Shhh,” Elena soothed, her hand flat on his chest now, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “Just a friend. A stranger, really. Someone we’ll never see again. Part of the show.” He heard the soft thud of a duffel bag hitting the carpet. A zipper. The sound of a man undressing.
His cock, already half-hard, twitched against his thigh. The shameful, electric thrill of it shot through him, confusing and potent.
He felt Elena move away. He heard her footsteps, then a different set, heavier, approaching. The air shifted, carrying a faint scent of soap and clean sweat. The stranger. He was close. Simon could feel the heat radiating from another body just inches from his own exposed skin.
Then, the delicate, unmistakable sound of a string being pulled. A gentle pressure released from the bridge of his nose. The blindfold didn’t fall, but it opened, like a curtain being drawn, a narrow slit appearing just at the bottom edge.
His breath hitched.
The view was limited, a sliver of the room. But it was enough.
He saw their bed, the rumpled grey sheets. And in front of it, directly in his line of sight, was Elena.
She was naked, her skin glowing in the soft lamplight. She was squatting, her back to him, her perfect, round ass hovering just inches above the floor. Her thighs were spread wide, trembling with the effort of holding the position. And between them, from his angle, he could see the dark, neat triangle of her pubic hair, the glistening pink folds beneath, swollen and open.
Positioned directly behind her, also in his narrow field of vision, were the legs of a man. Powerful, hairy thighs. And between them, jutting out, was an erect cock. It was thick, veined, the head a dark, ruddy purple. It was aimed. It hovered, motionless, a hairsbreadth from Elena’s exposed sex. The tip just barely, barely, kissed her outer lips. He saw her flinch, a tiny, involuntary contraction of her muscles, as the hot flesh made contact.
“Elena…” Simon groaned, the sound torn from him. He strained against the restraints. They held firm.
She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, dark pools of conflicting emotion—mischief, lust, a flicker of what looked like real fear. A bead of sweat traced a path down the valley of her spine.
“You see him, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You see what he wants to do to me?”
Simon could only nod, a strangled sound catching in his throat.
“He’s so big, Simon,” she moaned, not taking her eyes off her husband. She lowered herself a fraction of an inch. The stranger’s cock didn’t move, but the contact intensified. The broad head pressed, not penetrating, but spreading her. Simon saw her lower lips part, glistening, around the insistent pressure. “He’s just… right there. I can feel how hot he is. I can feel him pulsing.”
“Stop,” Simon breathed. It was barely audible.
“What was that, darling?” Elena taunted, a wicked smile playing on her lips. She rocked back, just a tiny, obscene grind. The cockhead slid through her wetness, slicking itself with her arousal. The stranger let out a low, guttural hum of appreciation. “You haven’t stopped me yet. You’re just sitting there, watching. Tied up. Letting him.”
She closed her eyes for a second, a shiver wracking her body. “God, it feels… it feels like he’s mine to take. And you’re letting me.”
“Elena, please,” Simon begged, his voice cracking. The sight was the most erotic, the most devastating thing he had ever witnessed. His wife, offered like a feast to another man, and him, powerless to claim her. His own cock was painfully hard, aching, a traitor to his jealousy.
“Beg me,” she said, her tone shifting, the taunt melting into a desperate plea of her own. “Beg me to stop. Before it’s too late. Because I want to, Simon. I want to feel him fill me up. I want to feel him split me open right in front of you. Makeme stop.”
She dropped another inch. The tip of the stranger’s cock pressed more firmly, beginning to breach her. Just the very crest. Simon saw her body tense, her back arching, a silent cry on her lips. He saw the stranger’s hands come up, not to grab her, but to hover at her hips, his knuckles white with the effort of holding himself still.
The room was silent except for their ragged breathing. The air was thick with the scent of sex and anticipation.
“Please!” Simon shouted, tears of frustration and desire stinging his eyes. “Elena, stop! Don’t let him! Don’t you dare!”
For a long, excruciating moment, nothing changed. The tableau held: his wife, impaled on the very tip of a stranger, her body quivering on the edge of surrender.
Then, Elena let out a shuddering sigh. A sigh of relief, or of disappointment, he couldn’t tell.
Slowly, trembling, she pushed herself back up. The stranger’s cock slipped free from her clinging wetness with a soft, wet sound that echoed in the silent room. A string of her arousal connected them for a second before snapping.
She stood, her legs shaky, and turned to face Simon fully. The stranger took a deliberate step back, his erection still prominent, glistening with her.
Elena walked to Simon, her expression unreadable. She knelt before him, her face level with his. She was flushed, her nipples hard peaks, her skin sheened with a fine sweat.
“You stopped me,” she whispered, her voice raw. She reached a hand between his legs, her fingers wrapping around his achingly hard length. He gasped at the contact. “My brave husband. You saved me from myself.”
Her hand began to move, a slow, deliberate stroke. But her eyes flicked back over her shoulder, to where the stranger stood, watching.
“But he’s still here,” she murmured, her gaze returning to Simon’s, a new, darker heat in her eyes. “And he’s still so very hard. And I’m still so very… empty.”
Her hand tightened on him.