My Husband's Adventures Read online

  My Husband’s Adventures

  Confessions from the Wife of a Cuckold Bull

  Alex Hathaway

  Fanny Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.fannypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  My Husband’s Adventures

  Copyright © 2016 by Alex Hathaway

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-601-4 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-602-1 (eBook)

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  As girls turn into teens, we fantasize about gallant husbands who make us weak in their arms. Somewhere along the way, we think about children. We wonder if the same men who sweep us off our feet can be the ones to calm the baby at 4 a.m. and have the sack lunches ready. Doubt creeps in as we start dating. Eventually, it dawns on us: it’s hard enough to find a great lover, much less a lifetime companion.

  Well, I found a husband. And he fit the bill on almost every count. But it wasn’t enough. We lost our way, and almost lost our marriage. Then we found our way back again—I think. As for how we did it … well, I can’t think of a single therapist who would support it.

  I don’t have anyone I can tell the whole story to, so I thought I’d write it down here. If you’re reading this, I took it further than I ever expected.

  I met my future husband when I was twenty-three. I was in love with another man at the time—or so I thought. The other man, Daniel, even bought me a ring, though he hadn’t proposed. I found the ring in his sock drawer.

  I’m reluctant to tell you much about myself physically; I’m not sure it really matters. I’m pretty tall, about five feet nine. White, though my skin browns reliably in the summer. You can put your pornographic fantasies away, because I don’t have huge tits or anything like that. I’ve always worn a B cup and wished my breasts were bigger. I envy women who have breasts that dangle confidently in front of them, even if time can be cruel to the danglier ones.

  When I was thirteen, I thought I was going to have huge breasts—much to my mother’s consternation. She even took me to a doctor to talk about how I might cope, socially and medically, if my breasts got bigger. She had constant back problems by the age of forty due to the size of her bosom. But after I reached the age of fifteen, my breasts did not get any bigger. That was me, fully grown.

  Even though I topped out early, having large breasts for my age educated me into the ways of men early. I got used to swatting men like flies. I soon learned that the more ruthless and dismissive I could be, the better off I was. Guys had a tendency to read “yes” into every smile I gave them.

  I recently found a picture of myself in a bikini at age sixteen. I remember how awkward I felt in that bikini, with its itchy red fabric, nothing like the sex symbol men seemed to think I was at the time; I was uncomfortable in my bones. What stands out for me in that picture is how wide my hips were—nothing like a little girl’s hips. A few years later, my first serious boyfriend would refer to “your impossible curves.” It made me red in the face.

  How I looked then or now shouldn’t matter, but there is something you should know. I’ve always been aware of a certain power I had over men—most men, anyway. I’ve always despised the girls who used that power to their advantage. So I tried not to … most of the time.

  At age sixteen, I didn’t really dress in the shorter skirts or tight jeans of my friends. My pants were mostly baggy. I thought that if I went for a tight fit, my wide hips would make me look fat.

  I was always damn good at math. I soaked up every math class I could, even taking geometry and algebra in the same year as a sophomore. It was the only way I would get all the way to calculus before graduating. I was the only girl in my class to complete our math curriculum with straight As.

  Taking those classes put me in contact with some freaks and geeks; I felt right at home. Eventually they got used to me. Most of my best friends, male and female, came from that geekier crowd. Already outcasts, they weren’t afraid to be seen as smart. They were happy skipping a kegger to go to an all-night diner and talk about Doctor Who versus Star Trek, or even serious shit like pill-popping dads or alcoholic moms.

  If I’m giving you the impression I was a bookworm, that’s not right either. I dated a lot of guys, but I went about it quietly. I learned a sneaky trick from older girls in my town: be friends with guys from your school, but date guys from other schools. This strategy protected you from the worst of the rumor mill. It worked especially well for girls like me who didn’t just want to kiss guys, but wanted to fuck.

  I was considered a conservative girl around my school, which helped me get away with whatever I wanted outside of it. Even in college, I played it that way. There were two colleges nearby in Vermont where I went to school, so I would date off campus and keep that part of my life more private.

  By college, I wasn’t as awkward. I had figured out how to get my sexual needs met. But I had already decided one thing about a career: I didn’t want to use my slinky charm to take me further professionally. And no, I didn’t sleep with any professors.

  I wanted to earn my stripes. After graduating, I refused a job my roommate got me through her parents. I moved to San Francisco instead and found my own way. I got hired as an Accenture consultant-in-training and began a successful career in predictive analytics, which is all the rage in business circles these days. Companies don’t just want to know they have a leak; they want to know why. They want to know how they can predict what their customers will want to buy next—and I can help them. My ability to wear a power suit and work a room filled with stiffs comes in handy too. Eventually, I turned those skills into a sales role—technically, it’s called pre-sales. I bring the meat and the charm.

  There is one really big change about me professionally, though. These days, I am totally confident in my brain power as the source of my achievement. As a result, I am not afraid to assert myself sexually.

  I don’t dress provocatively, but I do wear power suits that are custom fitted—usually with skirts that accentuate my hips down into my legs, which stay muscular enough thanks to my gym rat tendencies. Wow, I sound like a superficial brat right now, sorry.

  I still have some insecurities about my body; I do miss the competitive swimmer muscle tone I had when I was eighteen. But all powered up in my work suits, I know my hips/ass/legs are still imposing to men. I like seeing them stutter and avoid eye contact when I am speaking or presenting. I can tell they are wondering if they could ever please a woman like me. When I see that “she’s out of my league” doubt on their faces, I give them a stern look over my wire-framed glasses, as if to say, “Yeah, you don’t have a shot. And don’t bother trying.”

  I was a bit of a slut in college, of the unashamed variety. But after college, I had an emotional relapse. By that I mean, I started to crave a deeper connection to the men in my life. I wanted to feel close; I wanted to feel taken care of. I’m not sure what caused that. Maybe it was the uncertainty of my post-college existence and being far away from my best girlfriends. Maybe it was because my father died when I was twenty-one, leaving me disoriented.

  I reverted into a snuggle bunny. I dated geeky guys who weren’t afraid to just be with me, whether we had sex
or not. I liked guys who would listen, who would write me poetry or dedicate songs to me at open mics. I liked guys who could cook a great omelet and who were secure enough to be completely happy eating pussy all night long, not fucking at all if I didn’t feel like it.

  Then, at twenty-three years old, I met my future husband, and that was the end of all that.

  Chapter 2

  When I met my future husband, Jackson, I was already engaged to a lovely young man—the aforementioned Daniel. Daniel was a PhD film student who taught me about the history of cinema. Not to mention gave me some of the best fingering I ever had. The cliché is that girls love oral sex, but let me tell you, a guy who can work his fingers is heaven. Daniel definitely had magic fingers.

  We were very much in love … or so I told myself. Daniel told me all his secrets; he cried in my arms over the loss of his kid brother. For me, it was my father, and my struggle to move on from a man who was no longer alive but whose stern looks and impossibly high standards still weighed heavily.

  Daniel was a beautiful person inside and out; I could imagine spending the rest of my life with him. He carried my secrets so well—most of them anyway. But there was one secret he didn’t know. Poor Daniel. Jackson knew that secret the moment he first saw me.

  Daniel was a skinny dude with bushy red hair. His indifference to his appearance was part of his charm. I was hardly the only girl who found his modern-geek-meets-throwback-gentleman mix catchy. But I wasn’t concerned about the other girls. I had blown Daniel’s mind enough times in the sack to have him right where I wanted him.

  In the summer of 2001, Daniel got a teaching job in Toronto. For PhD candidates, those early teaching gigs are crucial. You don’t bicker about location—you go where the work is. Daniel was ecstatic. Teaching film to high school students would be a blast; he planned to sneak in three weeks on horror and three weeks on science fiction appreciation. More importantly, those who taught at this program often found their way into big-time teaching positions down the road. You could make great contacts there.

  As a traveling consultant working part-time out of Boston and the rest on the road, I figured I could visit Daniel often. It wasn’t hard to fly in and out. So Daniel left town and left me to my own devices, which I thought would mostly be working, traveling, and eating solitary frozen dinners.

  Then, at a ridiculous party, everything changed.

  I was only there to pick up my friend Montana. It was some kind of birthday party for who the hell knows. Montana was not around when I knocked. A hippie-looking girl blowing on a kazoo welcomed me in.

  I wandered down a hallway, Jay-Z pounding through distorted speakers. In the kitchen, I saw Jackson. I’m not sure I can describe this without making you laugh, but even at first glance, I was overpowered by the force of his masculinity. Jackson was a strong-looking, squared-jawed son of a bitch with light-brown skin and a twinkle in his eye. I can’t even tell you why he had this power, because he didn’t say much of anything to me.

  I looked Jackson in the eye, and he stared me down without the slightest hint of intimidation. I knew instantly I would be spreading my legs for him. The shocks in between my thighs could have powered a shopping mall Christmas tree. Five minutes later, when Jackson matter-of-factly asked me for my phone number in front of about ten people, I scribbled it down with a urgency that must have looked incredibly slutty. For the first time in my life, I actually felt my pussy leak from being hit on.

  I handed him my number in front of all those people and blushed like crazy, but it was done. Two nights later, Jackson was giving me the best orgasms of my life. I surrendered my pussy to him with complete abandon—a far cry from the painfully slow courtship I put Daniel through.

  Two hours into our first time together, I was lying next to Jackson, dripping in sweat. I was still coming down from wailing orgasms that must have been a real treat for my condo neighbors. I suddenly had this horrible (and horribly true) thought:

  You and Daniel have made love many times, but you have never really fucked—not like THIS.

  Ugh. Jackson and I fucked every night I was in town for the next month. I even called in sick three days in a row, something I never do. Also: I figured out excuses not to visit Daniel.

  A month into Jackson, I was washing dishes, savoring that well-fucked feeling throughout my entire body, loosey-goosey and happy as all get out. Then I had a moment. Daniel was due to call that night.

  Sadness flooded me. What would I say? I had never talked to Jackson about whether we were even dating. As far as he knew, we were sport fucking. We’d been out of the house together only once—I didn’t want to waste his magnificent body on dinner conversation. Daniel, though … I was still engaged to Daniel. Or about to be. He owned my heart.

  Then I had another one of those terrible, dirty thoughts:

  But how can Daniel own your heart if Jackson owns your pussy?

  Jackson did own my pussy. I could always hold my own with Daniel in bed. But Jackson could simply reach in and scoop my orgasms out, leaving me quivering in his wake.

  Like most girls in my situation, I assumed Jackson was a slutty phase I would soon grow out of, like that decadent banana split you gorge on until you are repulsed.

  So I did what any sensible career woman would do: I told Jackson I was about to be engaged, kicked him out of my life with a big, regretful kiss, and tried to put that episode behind me.

  A third of the way through the summer, Daniel managed to get a long weekend off from his summer course. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he sensed something. He found his way home.

  The weird thing was, after all the great lovemaking we had done, we both tried to fuck that night. Daniel literally ripped my clothes off, even tearing my good work blouse. Instead of his usual expert foreplay, within a couple of minutes he was pushing his dick inside me.

  The fuck didn’t go that well. Daniel had a difficult time staying hard. Without the foreplay, my pussy was dry. He had trouble getting inside me. With Jackson, I had been so wet the first time we fucked that my panties were soaked before they came off.

  Prior to that bad sex with Daniel, I had never thought much about penis size. Sure, I had a few female friends who were crazy about big dicks. And sometimes I joined in the laughing stories of the little-dicked guys we had the misfortune of sharing beds with.

  But I always had a soft spot for the little guys. Many were really sweet, and there were plenty of things to enjoy besides fucking … take Daniel and his magic fingers. Nor did the size issue really bother me. It was just something to joke about with my girlfriends, or a way to make fun of jerks who were likely overcompensating.

  But that night, once Daniel managed to get himself erect and we started fucking, I couldn’t really feel him. I flashed to Jackson’s big thick penis, and how from the second he put that thick head inside me, I was intensely, blissfully aware that I was being fucked. God, I missed that feeling. But did I miss it enough to wreck my life?

  Before Jackson, it had been a long time since I had fucked a big cock. In college, I was always experimenting with different things, even anal, and I was afraid of taking something too big in there. I prided myself on being sexually compatible with anyone I was attracted to—male or female. If two people wanted each other, you just had to be creative.

  Yet looking down at Daniel pounding away without result, I found myself thinking about Jackson, wishing it was his big cock stretching me open. It occurred to me that even at this moment, another girl was likely screaming and cumming all over Jackson’s big penis. I felt a flash of anger and resentment. The resulting months were chaos.

  A year later, Jackson was putting a ring on my finger. A year after that, we were married. A year later, a baby girl, Chelsea, or “Chels” as we call her. Our first and so far, our only. She’s eight years old now, and pure spitfire. Fortunately she is the school’s problem for seven hours a day, longer when she has drum practice. Yes, she plays the drum in the marching band. It’s the only band o
f its kind in the country that I know of, at least for kids her age.

  And no, breaking things off with Daniel did not go well. Nor did he take it well. Frankly, I didn’t blame him. I put him through hell; I’m sure I made him feel he wasn’t worthy.

  I still have his ring. With bitter tears, he made me take it. I wanted him to keep it for another woman, but he insisted that the “ring go down with the ship.” Last time I checked, it was still in my sock drawer, an homage that underneath his anger, I think Daniel would appreciate.

  You may wonder why I left the love of my live for my sexual crush. You’re not the only one. Most of my girlfriends thought I was nuts. But it wasn’t that simple. After three months of seeing Jackson as much as possible, I told him I loved him. Well, actually, I told him I loved him about three weeks into our relationship, but that was when his cock was making my pussy scream with happiness. I made a point of taking those words back immediately, after all that cumming was over, letting him know I spoke out of sexual joy and not from the heart. I was still trying to save that part of my body for Daniel.

  Jackson laughed when I told him that. Noting how my arms leaned submissively on his barrel chest, he probably didn’t worry too much about my devotion. The amused look on his face pretty much said, “I’ll get you in time.” Three months later, he did. By then, Daniel and I were in hot water anyhow; angry long-distance phone conversations had become the norm. He knew something was amiss.

  Chapter 3

  Here’s how I fell completely in love with Jackson. About three months after we first had sex, I heard an unexpected knock at my door. I thought maybe it was Daniel, back in town to find out what the fuck was going on and stare me down.