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5-STAR POSTS!!     |
11/04/2016
I love my boyfriend. In the 2-3 years of our romance, I have wavered quite a bit on whether I want to actually be with him, because we live in different countries, and the path to being together is so arduous that any little tension can become an excuse to avoid embarking upon it, to my mind. And cuckolding has been a source of tension. Of pleasure too, to be sure, but nevertheless a problem of minor yet persistent annoyance.
It began as a mutual interest. To fuck someone else—hell, to fuck a lot of someone elses—has been intriguing to me since I was younger quivering in the night with the covers tightly squeezed between my bare thighs. (That was pretty much every night. It was a while before I started using my hands, and even now I can fit just one finger inside.)
In real life I was not merely conservative but cold. I formed few connections with other people, real or utilitarian, at least partly because I read people quickly and understood that we couldn’t get along on any level that was satisfying to me, which meant we couldn’t get along at all.
But my fantasies were always at the other end of the spectrum. In a way it makes sense because the women in my fantasies were objectified by themselves and others to the point that sex was the only interaction they had with people, and that behavior was a rejection of the possibility that better kinds of interaction were attainable. Yet it was different enough from who I am as a person that I’d never thought about acting upon my lecherous thoughts.
When my boyfriend took my hand, it was the first time I’d ever held hands. I never wanted to. Cuddling as a concept had seemed foreign and repulsive to me. But when he touched me it was electrifying. Whenever I think back to that moment, and indeed any moment we touch, I realize that I never want anyone else to lay a hand on me. If they did, I would need a way to think of them not as a person but as a faceless tool of my desires.
Yet the desires did exist. I can’t remember how exactly it began. But it was not long into our relationship (and the sex in it is in itself a long story, but suffice it to say that I was delighted by it, and my boyfriend has the prettiest penis I’ve ever seen, hahaha) we discovered that he was interested in seeing me with someone else, and I was, on top of my original lechery, of the opinion that my sensations would be heightened immeasurably if he were watching.
I thought I was purely submissive. But now I wanted to shame him, to make him purr at my feet. And I did, in other ways. (An hour later he could pin me down by the wrists and put four fingers in my ass. At the end of the day I don’t lean one way or the other, even if at 6’5 he seems built to dominate me.) Yet this was the pinnacle; we were always discussing it, always taking steps towards achieving it, always feeling a warmth in our nethers as we did, always finding some setback in the end.
Somewhere along the way my passion began to dim. Cuckolding became, instead of the most appealing fantasy as it was for him (and something he wished to make increasingly real), simply one of a number of things that aroused me equally, and did not need to be carried out. More importantly, my attempts at finding candidates to carry it out with were met with disappointment, and I’d stopped short of arranging a date/time. It goes back to how I am as a person: cold, judgmental, quick to disconnect. A few sentences into a conversation with a potential bull, and I already realize I couldn’t proceed.
What’s more, through the course of these attempts, I end up in a haze of self-hatred, wondering how I’d gotten to this point as someone who’d hardly ever had so much as a crush—certainly none that were sexual. I mean fuck, at my request even my boyfriend hasn’t fucked my pussy, but only stretched my ass. Yet I was so enthralled with cuckolding that I sometimes felt I’d let a bull have what my boyfriend cannot.
And there’s no way of knowing what that could do to our relationship. Our feelings have overcome many obstacles; we are insanely well-matched. But what would it mean for my body, which no one but him had ever touched, and which I’d never wanted anyone but him to touch, to now be penetrated by someone else? When I give him a call and he hears my rapturous moans punctuated by the slapping of flesh on flesh, besides the humiliation and the arousal and the jealousy, what else would he feel? I know I’d feel I’d somehow betrayed him, even by doing what he—and what I—wanted. I worry I’d think he’d given me away. I worry it isn’t something we can recover from.
And I shouldn’t forget that the few times when I tried to set something up were in part a desperate cry for alternate companionship in the hours when he was asleep. I’d never let emotions get in the way of sexuality early on, but somehow the emptiness I felt when he was out of reach just came to overwhelm.
So what do you guys think? For those that have actually gone through with it, would you do it if you were in my shoes? Do you have any advice as to making the most of it? I know my boyfriend reads this sub sometimes, and it’ll be good if/when he sees this post as well.
And I suppose, for anyone who’s made it down this far, this post can also serve as a solicitation for bulls who might persuade me. I’m on the east coast.
FUCK MY WIFE!
CLICK BELOW TO FIND A BULL
It began as a mutual interest. To fuck someone else—hell, to fuck a lot of someone elses—has been intriguing to me since I was younger quivering in the night with the covers tightly squeezed between my bare thighs. (That was pretty much every night. It was a while before I started using my hands, and even now I can fit just one finger inside.)
In real life I was not merely conservative but cold. I formed few connections with other people, real or utilitarian, at least partly because I read people quickly and understood that we couldn’t get along on any level that was satisfying to me, which meant we couldn’t get along at all.
But my fantasies were always at the other end of the spectrum. In a way it makes sense because the women in my fantasies were objectified by themselves and others to the point that sex was the only interaction they had with people, and that behavior was a rejection of the possibility that better kinds of interaction were attainable. Yet it was different enough from who I am as a person that I’d never thought about acting upon my lecherous thoughts.
When my boyfriend took my hand, it was the first time I’d ever held hands. I never wanted to. Cuddling as a concept had seemed foreign and repulsive to me. But when he touched me it was electrifying. Whenever I think back to that moment, and indeed any moment we touch, I realize that I never want anyone else to lay a hand on me. If they did, I would need a way to think of them not as a person but as a faceless tool of my desires.
Yet the desires did exist. I can’t remember how exactly it began. But it was not long into our relationship (and the sex in it is in itself a long story, but suffice it to say that I was delighted by it, and my boyfriend has the prettiest penis I’ve ever seen, hahaha) we discovered that he was interested in seeing me with someone else, and I was, on top of my original lechery, of the opinion that my sensations would be heightened immeasurably if he were watching.
I thought I was purely submissive. But now I wanted to shame him, to make him purr at my feet. And I did, in other ways. (An hour later he could pin me down by the wrists and put four fingers in my ass. At the end of the day I don’t lean one way or the other, even if at 6’5 he seems built to dominate me.) Yet this was the pinnacle; we were always discussing it, always taking steps towards achieving it, always feeling a warmth in our nethers as we did, always finding some setback in the end.
Somewhere along the way my passion began to dim. Cuckolding became, instead of the most appealing fantasy as it was for him (and something he wished to make increasingly real), simply one of a number of things that aroused me equally, and did not need to be carried out. More importantly, my attempts at finding candidates to carry it out with were met with disappointment, and I’d stopped short of arranging a date/time. It goes back to how I am as a person: cold, judgmental, quick to disconnect. A few sentences into a conversation with a potential bull, and I already realize I couldn’t proceed.
What’s more, through the course of these attempts, I end up in a haze of self-hatred, wondering how I’d gotten to this point as someone who’d hardly ever had so much as a crush—certainly none that were sexual. I mean fuck, at my request even my boyfriend hasn’t fucked my pussy, but only stretched my ass. Yet I was so enthralled with cuckolding that I sometimes felt I’d let a bull have what my boyfriend cannot.
And there’s no way of knowing what that could do to our relationship. Our feelings have overcome many obstacles; we are insanely well-matched. But what would it mean for my body, which no one but him had ever touched, and which I’d never wanted anyone but him to touch, to now be penetrated by someone else? When I give him a call and he hears my rapturous moans punctuated by the slapping of flesh on flesh, besides the humiliation and the arousal and the jealousy, what else would he feel? I know I’d feel I’d somehow betrayed him, even by doing what he—and what I—wanted. I worry I’d think he’d given me away. I worry it isn’t something we can recover from.
And I shouldn’t forget that the few times when I tried to set something up were in part a desperate cry for alternate companionship in the hours when he was asleep. I’d never let emotions get in the way of sexuality early on, but somehow the emptiness I felt when he was out of reach just came to overwhelm.
So what do you guys think? For those that have actually gone through with it, would you do it if you were in my shoes? Do you have any advice as to making the most of it? I know my boyfriend reads this sub sometimes, and it’ll be good if/when he sees this post as well.
And I suppose, for anyone who’s made it down this far, this post can also serve as a solicitation for bulls who might persuade me. I’m on the east coast.
 TAKE MY WIFE |
 FUCK ME |
Poster:
Mrs Y