Most husbands cannot predict when such is going to happen, even though they have been expecting (hoping) something like this would since they got married. When it does, it often comes with stunning surprise. There is no harbinger, no sense of something being amiss the days prior. It could have begun without you ever being wiser—you simply stumbled upon it by accident.
And let’s say that that’s the accident awaiting you as you return home: you let yourself into your home, surprised at how quiet it was. You called out your wife’s name, but stopped when you entered the living room. There was an opened bottle of wine with two glasses on the table. A pungent smell filled the air; the smell seemed familiar—marijuana. You left your suitcase and quietly went up the stairs.
Your wife’s clothes littered the floor. But not just her clothes; there are men’s clothes, too. A gnawing fear grows in your chest. Weird images come alive in your mind. But you don’t want to believe them; you say to yourself it can’t possibly be true. Your feet take you towards the bedroom that’s standing open. There’s voices coming beyond the doorway.
You edge closer to the door and you stare inside . . .
There is your wife in bed. Except she isn’t alone, and she’s far from being asleep. Another man lies in bed with her. A Black dominant figure. You recognize him as the young fella who regularly comes to clean your swimming pool. Cleaning your pool seems to not be the only thing he’s been doing in your home; he’s cleaning your wife, too!
You stand there numb with shock, stunned out of your mind, watching your wife cavort shamelessly with the Black dom. You listen to her lustful cries as the Black dom sucks her tits; her groans as he mounts her from behind; her whimpers as she straddles him. You stand slightly away from the door hoping they don’t spot you. You listen and peep the man fucking your wife hard, call her foul names—‘Dirty whore!’; ‘fuck slut!’—names you’ve never before dared call your wife. Not in a million years.
Disappointment overwhelms you as you turn around and slink back downstairs. You stop to pick up your wife’s panties. Into your pocket it goes as you then slip out of the house as quiet as you arrived. You go and sit in your car. You still there holding onto the wheel, thinking about what you just saw inside. You take your wife’s panties out of your pocket and press it against your face. You inhale her body fragrance; the smell of her snatch.
Despondence soon gives way to happiness. Your happiness is euphoric, downright outrageous knowing finally all what you have been striving for has eventually worked out fine for you.
This is the day plenty of wannabe-cucks are looking for to happen in their home. All those days of endless sweet-talking to the wife. All those hurting hours of trying to convince her to see things your way, especially of her snapping back and give you a flat no . . . those days that you thought you were the big fool for ever attempting to share your secrets with her.
They have finally paid off!
