clean, I was honest,” Ashley might reply.
“How honest?” Tamara would come back. “You told him Jim fucked you?”
“Yeah, I told him we had sex.”
“And what did Dave say?”
“It was weird,” Ashley might say, “he was all nervous, stumbling and bumbling, but mostly he just thanked me for being honest.”
“He didn’t get mad or look like he was going to storm off?”
“Not at all.”
“Ashley—you admitted to fucking Jim, and he didn’t have anything more to say other than ‘Thank you for being honest’?”
“Well, it seemed like he already knew, but he looked a little nervous and shaken. He wanted to know if I still loved him, and I said I did.”
“That’s great,” I could hear Tamara replying. “You didn’t even need to explain yourself? I guess he’s wrapped around your little finger.”
“He asked a question about Jim.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Well, after I admitted it—”
“Yeah,” Tamara would break in, “after you admitted to your husband that another man fucked you, yeah? He asked what?”
“He asked if he was bigger.”
“That is too funny,” Tamara would laugh. “Tell me, how did Dave say it?”
“He stammered and sweated and then asked if he had a bigger penis.”
Tamara would have a belly laugh over that one.
“Were you honest with him? Did you tell him ‘Oh fuck yeah he was bigger’?”
“Of course not. I couldn’t tell Dave that. I just told him that he was.”
“Did you tell him how much of a better fuck he was?”
“I didn’t rub it in by going into specifics.”
“I know, you’re so nice,” Tamara would say. “So, how did Dave react when he learned his cock in no way measured up?”
“He quickly changed the subject.”
“So there were no consequences? Dave gave you no grief?”
“No, just stuff about how he understands getting caught up in the moment.”
“Wow, he’s more of a pussy-whipped doormat than I even imagined.”
“There’s something else,” Ashley might say.
“Oh do tell, girl,” Tamara would reply.
Then Ashley would tell her how I creamed my boxer shorts from a lazy handjob. “He was pretty red-faced embarrassed about it,” she’d say, “so I didn’t say much afterwards, but I was barely stroking it and he ejaculated right into his boxer shorts.”
If ever there was an uproarious laugh from Tamara, I pictured it coming then. “What is Dave, like a pubescent boy?”
Fuck you, Tamara, I thought.
****
I got on my laptop and went to the porn search engine. Among the assortment of recent videos on the main page, I saw the heading “big cock stroking.”
Looking at other guys’ cocks hadn’t ever been my thing. I never sneaked a peek in the locker room or gym showers. I just wanted to imagine what Ashley had that night with Jim Murta.
The guy in the video had the camera zoomed up close to his cock, pointed up at the ceiling, as he sat in a chair. He never let his face show. He had a cock any man would be proud of, which is why he was probably filming himself and uploading it for the world to see. He was at least eight inches, probably nine.
Trent Reznor began singing, “I want to fuck you like an animal” in the background and the guy started stroking.
I began stroking myself.
The slit on his head would tilt down to the camera, before jerking up with the rhythm of his hand.
That’s the kind of cock that fucked my wife, I thought, the kind Ashley watched being stroked in front of her, that she wanted in her pussy, bare, despite knowing I was right outside. I’m looking at Jim Murta’s cock.
When the scene switched to him stroking hard over a wooden table, I knew he was about to cum. He had the camera on the other side of the table. His cock pointed directly at it. He removed his hand for a moment, letting it dangle and pulsate. And then
“How honest?” Tamara would come back. “You told him Jim fucked you?”
“Yeah, I told him we had sex.”
“And what did Dave say?”
“It was weird,” Ashley might say, “he was all nervous, stumbling and bumbling, but mostly he just thanked me for being honest.”
“He didn’t get mad or look like he was going to storm off?”
“Not at all.”
“Ashley—you admitted to fucking Jim, and he didn’t have anything more to say other than ‘Thank you for being honest’?”
“Well, it seemed like he already knew, but he looked a little nervous and shaken. He wanted to know if I still loved him, and I said I did.”
“That’s great,” I could hear Tamara replying. “You didn’t even need to explain yourself? I guess he’s wrapped around your little finger.”
“He asked a question about Jim.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Well, after I admitted it—”
“Yeah,” Tamara would break in, “after you admitted to your husband that another man fucked you, yeah? He asked what?”
“He asked if he was bigger.”
“That is too funny,” Tamara would laugh. “Tell me, how did Dave say it?”
“He stammered and sweated and then asked if he had a bigger penis.”
Tamara would have a belly laugh over that one.
“Were you honest with him? Did you tell him ‘Oh fuck yeah he was bigger’?”
“Of course not. I couldn’t tell Dave that. I just told him that he was.”
“Did you tell him how much of a better fuck he was?”
“I didn’t rub it in by going into specifics.”
“I know, you’re so nice,” Tamara would say. “So, how did Dave react when he learned his cock in no way measured up?”
“He quickly changed the subject.”
“So there were no consequences? Dave gave you no grief?”
“No, just stuff about how he understands getting caught up in the moment.”
“Wow, he’s more of a pussy-whipped doormat than I even imagined.”
“There’s something else,” Ashley might say.
“Oh do tell, girl,” Tamara would reply.
Then Ashley would tell her how I creamed my boxer shorts from a lazy handjob. “He was pretty red-faced embarrassed about it,” she’d say, “so I didn’t say much afterwards, but I was barely stroking it and he ejaculated right into his boxer shorts.”
If ever there was an uproarious laugh from Tamara, I pictured it coming then. “What is Dave, like a pubescent boy?”
Fuck you, Tamara, I thought.
****
I got on my laptop and went to the porn search engine. Among the assortment of recent videos on the main page, I saw the heading “big cock stroking.”
Looking at other guys’ cocks hadn’t ever been my thing. I never sneaked a peek in the locker room or gym showers. I just wanted to imagine what Ashley had that night with Jim Murta.
The guy in the video had the camera zoomed up close to his cock, pointed up at the ceiling, as he sat in a chair. He never let his face show. He had a cock any man would be proud of, which is why he was probably filming himself and uploading it for the world to see. He was at least eight inches, probably nine.
Trent Reznor began singing, “I want to fuck you like an animal” in the background and the guy started stroking.
I began stroking myself.
The slit on his head would tilt down to the camera, before jerking up with the rhythm of his hand.
That’s the kind of cock that fucked my wife, I thought, the kind Ashley watched being stroked in front of her, that she wanted in her pussy, bare, despite knowing I was right outside. I’m looking at Jim Murta’s cock.
When the scene switched to him stroking hard over a wooden table, I knew he was about to cum. He had the camera on the other side of the table. His cock pointed directly at it. He removed his hand for a moment, letting it dangle and pulsate. And then
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