A gay story: The Newly Minted Cuck I looked up from the book I was reading — Danielle Steel’s latest creation — and let out a sigh. My husband of six years and counting Dominic — Dom to his mother, and to me only in the heat of orgasm — was pruning his beard, turning his etched face this way and that, catching the slightest hint of gray in his sculpted fuzz. I stifled in a snigger at the sight of this tall 40-year-old hunk of a man preening like a school girl getting ready for her prom date.
“You look gorgeous already babe,” I intoned, ever the supportive husband. And I meant those words. Look at him, my husband: 6′ tall, slightly bookish — due to his age-defying flop of russet blond hair — with broad shoulders, pronounced delts and biceps — no tattoos, thank the goddess — massive thighs from his years of rugby in prep school, and in the juncture of those tree trunks the most delicious piece of male organ this side of Atlantic, with delicious balls that always manage to churn out such delectable concoctions every time we had sex.
“I know,” my husband answered back, flashing me one of his famous grins and holding the pronounced bulge of his grey boxers. “So you want a piece of this, uh, you wanna piece of me?” And I had to laugh because despite his handsomeness, this sudden randy transformation looked absurd in a hot way, like watching a schoolmarm teacher perform a pole dance. My husband laughed too, despite himself.
“Okay, now I just have to dress myself, and off I go to — what’s his name again?”
“Chojun. C-H-O-J-U-N.”
“Right, Mr. New Colleague’s party. Whatever.”
“Don’t be like that. He’s going to be in your team for the next five years, and considering how your company’s turnover rate is, that–”
“Yeah I know. I’m just messing with you.”
“Humph.” I watched him pull on his dress-shirt and black pants. It was going to be a casual affair, but I insisted he dress up to the nines, because he was going to be the team leader after all. “I’m sorry I can’t make it. It’s this damn flu, I can’t seem to shake it off.”
“Don’t worry babe, just get a good rest and I’ll be back from the party in no time.”
“I love you. Don’t kiss me, you’ll get sick.”
“I know.” He grinned, and blew a kiss at me from the door. Then he was off to the party, leaving me in the safety of my cocoon of blankets.
After a couple of hours, I got restless and pulled up my tablet. I logged into Instagram and took a look at the pictures my husband and his work friends uploaded of the party. The party looked certainly fun, with a Polynesian theme, at which my husband’s formal kit clashed seriously with the rest of the get-ups of Hawaiian shirts and flowery fabrics. I giggled at the pictures of my husband looking like Dracula amongst his more theme-concurrent colleagues. Well that’s one on me I guess.
As I swiped over the pictures and the reels I paused when I saw a picture of the new colleague. I read his name: Dr. Cho-jun Seo, a new transplant from South Korea. He looked stunning in a blue shirt, open halfway down his chest, which was smooth as a baby’s bottom. He looked young, like how Asians tend to be, but not so young that it would be creepy. He had a mischievous look in his eyes, like they were twinkling in some dirty joke that only he could understand. He looked tall, at least not dwarfed by my husband in the pictures in which they were together. His hair was jet black, styled in a conservative way.
I did not know why but looking at my husband and his handsome new colleague made my heart race slightly, and not from my flu. The pictures kept coming in, and I watched in real time as my husband got closer and closer to Cho-jun, eating together, drinking together, talking with heads down together — a big thing with Dominic. I watched them standing close together, smiling for the photographs and videos. In some of those reels, my husband looked at Cho-jun with a rare sparkle in his brown eyes, much like how he would gaze at me after a deep satisfying bout of sex.
What would they talk about, I wondered. Work, definitely. Cho-jun looked like someone who went to the gym regularly, so that could be another topic they commiserate on. Maybe music, though I knew my husband loathed the popular music coming from Korea — overproduced banalities, he called them. He did like some Korean ballad singers I listened to, for instance Roy Kim. I wondered if they could have talked about music, my husband and Cho-jun.
The next moment I came to it was already late, in fact it was 2 a.m. There was a low mumbling in the general direction of the front room, like my husband had a company. That was when I saw his shirt and his pants lying haphazardly on his side of the bedroom floor. My heart lurched in my throat, imagining the scenario in which this could have happen.
My husband Dominic was raised in a Southern Baptist household, rife with religion and tradition. He attended the church weekly with his parents and brothers until he was off the college, where he discovered his sexuality and later came out. Although he was no longer practising the mores and values instilled in him was still very deeply entrenched. He was a strictly monogamous lover, for example, and had initial difficulty embracing hook-up culture. We looked, we made jokes, even suggestive nods, but monogamy had always been the tenet in our relationship.
All that belief was shattered as I tiptoed silently across the hallway towards the front room, where my husband was groaning quietly. The words were more clear now than it was the first time I heard them.
“Fuck, you really can suck a mean cock.”
“I know,” a new voice replied. “Better than your husband, right?”
Dom let out a moan before answering: “Better than my husband any day.”
A slurp, and a gentle lick. Mild choking sounds. All adding to the cracks around the edges of my soul. I took a thick breath before peering round the turn of the wall.
Dominic, my husband of six happy years, had his grey boxers around his mid-thighs. Apart from that flimsy piece of fabric he was totally naked, standing in the middle of our front room, his glorious erection that had given me so much pleasure and love and warmth over the years now awash in someone else’s oral secretions. Even I felt a stirring in my loins as I gazed upon the tall muscled torso of my husband, his leonine head lifted up, sweaty hips arched in a display of sensuous readiness to launch his cock into a hole, any hole available for him to hunt and to mark.
Perched below him in supplication was Cho-jun, who had already divested off all of his clothes. His smooth alabaster skin provided a contrast to Dom’s hairier body, which must had felt wonderful for skin against skin. It certainly looked wonderful from my vantage point, like a young hero worshipping an elder God. Cho-jun’s cock was also not to sneeze at, standing ardently between the shadow of his thighs, red and dripping already.
I watched as Dominic pull Cho-jun up against him and gave him a deep soul-searing kiss, before throwing away his boxers and bending Cho-jun away from him, presenting that delectable ass. “Fuck, it looks so pink, so innocent,” Dom whispered theatrically before bending his head to ravish that pulsating hole, complete with his trick of buzzing his lips like a trumpeter against the sensitive anus, a trick I had experienced and adored many times.
It was Cho-jun’s turn to let out his moan, which was throatier, more raw than Dom’s, like his voice was somehow dirtier. I guessed in a way it already was, seeing he had sucked Dom’s cock just a few minutes ago. Dom continued bringing his A-game in analingus, the treatment that had been previously reserved for me only, while gently pulling on Cho-jun’s uncut Asian cock.
After what seemed like an eternity of lavishing love to that treacherous homewrecking hole, Dom stood up straight, groaning from the slight pain on his back from bending down so long. Despite the situation I let out a tiny grin. Then Dom pulled Cho-jun up for another kiss, passing the musk of ass between those two sinful mouths. “I can taste myself on you, on your lips, on your mouth, on your beard, fuck man,” Cho-jun murmured.
“Your ass tastes so sweet,” Dom countered.
“So when are you going to fuck me already.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” They clambered over to the long couch. Apparently Cho-jun must had lubed himself beforehand because Dom immediately pushed his cock head into his waiting, ready hole. “Fuck, your hole’s so tight, so smooth, like fucking silk, so warm,” Dom let out a huff before launching deep thrusts to win purchase inside that Asian hole. “You’re still wet from before,” Dom whispered, before giving in to a kiss. That was how I know this was not the first time they fucked, that they had fucked back at the party, that most probably Dom’s friends and colleagues had known that I was being made into a cuck by the new guy.
The shame and the indignity of it all thickened in my lungs, making it harder to breathe. Tears were streaming down my face as I watched my beloved husband rock someone else’s world with his cock. Despite the chokehold in my throat the stirring in my loin I felt before had blossomed into a full-fledged erection, angry and wet with precum. I turned my head back, looked up in an effort to collect myself, and against my will heard those damning words:
“Fuck I’m cumming, cumming up your ass again, cumming up your cunt, your Asian cunt, fuck fuck fuck FUCK FUUUUUUCK!”
Never did anything else felt as ridiculous and as hot as cumming hands-free to the sound of your husband getting his rocks off with another man. But that was what happened to me, the vibrations in my balls pushing the semen up its channels, spurting like a volcano, crushing the glans of my cock in its delicious aftershocks. All before the darkness took me.