My Wife’s Big Mouth Ch. 04 by Jordan45
Explore the thrilling depths of desire in 'My Wife's Big Mouth Ch. 04.' This steamy erotic sex story dives into tantalizing fantasies and unexpected encounters that will ignite your imagination. Join the journey of passion and intrigue today!<br/>
“My wife signed the contract? Because I don’t see it. Let me get some better light.” With that, I stepped over, pulled out a Zippo, and lit the offending piece of paper on fire. Bridget and Rocco just stared as it burned like trash. “Nope… I was definitely right. That wasn’t her signature. So, what were you saying about a release? Because now we’re back to rape…”
…is what I should have said and done. I should have called their bluff. That’s what a man would do. Me? I’m Big Pussy. I’m the king of coming up with a killer riposte after the fact. In the moment, I grab my little weenie and hide. I turtle. Not that it matters. Burning the contract wouldn’t change a fucking thing. They wouldn’t give me Cindy’s original signature page — not unless they had already taken a photo of it. There’s no easy way out of this shit. Believe me, I would take it.
As I got behind the wheel of my car to pick up my son from his sleepover, the cinema of my mind flickered. I didn’t see through the windshield; it became a screen on which I projected my pain as resentment I thought I had healed returned with a vengeance. I obsessed on the small details of my wife’s infidelity. Somehow it was always the little things that seemed to get under my skin like a splinter. The way my wife maintained perfect posture while she sucked a cock — keeping her shoulders rounded and her back straight, pelvis and spine in alignment, arms loose and still by her sides while her active neck does all the work. Or the way she seemed to subconsciously lean in when she took a slap — like her body couldn’t wait to feel the sting.
But nothing could distract me from the foul truth that had been revealed in that locker room video. Cindy’s threeway with Bridget and Rocco in the hot tub was not the first time she stepped out on me. And I had no reason to think that her little “try out” with Matt and Todd was the first time either. She drained two dicks more like a seasoned veteran than a nervous rookie. That wasn’t a one-off mistake or us experimenting together, as a loving and committed couple, with opening our relationship to cuckolding. No, that was Cindy doing whatever she wanted to gratify her sexual needs, while ignoring her husband’s and violating his sacred trust all at the same time. I get off on my beautiful bride being a slut for other men. I want to see her taken by big dicks, but my wife is always on her knees behind my back and then acting like it never happened.
After watching the locker room security cam, I knew that whenever my wife’s big mouth wasn’t stuffed with some other guy’s cock, or two, it was spewing out lies to me. When we had The Talk, I put everything on the line, telling her things about my fantasy life — things about me — that I had never told anyone or even allowed myself to admit. I was more vulnerable than I had ever been with anyone before in my life. I let that woman see my soul.
Now I knew that Cindy hadn’t let me see hers. There was a part of her that was fake — a part of her that she didn’t want her husband to know about. It made me question how much she had cheated before. I found myself interrogating our history as a couple, reflecting back on some past situations that I thought were innocent at the time, but which now seemed like possible signs of infidelity. There were a few. More keep popping into my head.
The most fucked up thing of all was that Bridget had me wondering whether my son is really even mine. Do I need a DNA test? Would the results show that Sam is a Sarducci, not a Rosen? No, that’s crazy. My paranoia is running wild but I can’t let myself get carried away. Rocco couldn’t possibly be Sam’s father. Cindy and I just met him at the beginning of the hockey season. That might seem like it was eleven years ago, but it was actually about eight months. Besides, the kid looks just like me. He’s all mine. With my DNA, I thought to myself ruefully, the test would show that he’s 100% that bitch.
Despite my grim mood, I laughed a bit at my self-deprecation, but then I had another crazy thought about what my wife might be hiding — something that had never occurred to me before. As if a bolt of lightning had dramatically forked through the darkness, for an instant I saw everything anew. I had a working theory; now I needed to test it.
Lightning may not strike twice, but in that flash of insight I had a second epiphany. The need to test my theory about Cindy made me think back to my sociology professor from college, of all people. The man was as witty as he was erudite and he had some delightfully irreverent things to say about testing scientific theories — particularly in the social sciences, where the subjects of our theorizing are free to act in ways that may confound us. I can hear him now, lecturing in his thick Polish accent.
“Imagine how sorry would be the plight of the natural scientist,” my professor would say with a playful gleam in his eye, “if the objects of his inquiry were in a habit of reacting to what he says about them: if the substances could read or hear what the chemist writes or says about them, and were likely to jump out of their containers and burn him if they did not like what they saw on the blackboard or in his notebook. And imagine the difficulty of testing the validity of chemical formulae if, by repeating them long enough or persuasively enough, the chemist could induce the substances to behave in accordance with them — with the danger, however, that they might decide to spite him by doing exactly the opposite. His task would be even more hopeless if the chemicals could see through his tactics, organize themselves to guard their secrets and devise countermeasures to his maneuvers — that is what the student of human affairs has to face.”
That sums up the challenge that I had to face. If my theory was correct, then Cindy had been deceiving me from the very beginning. I had to assume she would continue to use all her feminine wiles to guard her secrets and devise countermeasures to keep me from uncovering the truth. To overcome that, I need to stop being so predictable and reclaim my agency. Take back some control. Bridget and Rocco — maybe even Cindy too — think they have me all figured out. And they probably do. Bridget and Rocco have been a step ahead of me this entire time. The way my bet with Bridget is playing out, it’s pretty much inevitable that Rocco completely dominates my wife and makes her carry out all 40 of those humiliating challenge cards. The goddamn game is rigged. The only way to win is to break the rules. Flip a table over. I have to do something they aren’t counting on; like those scheming, self-aware chemicals my professor rhapsodied about, I need to jump out of my container and burn these bitches.
Just then, serendipity took the form of a song. My satellite radio was playing rock music quietly in the background when I faintly detected opening chords I hadn’t heard in years. I turned up the volume. When the singer started really going in, I turned it up some more and began nodding along. The music stimulated my primal instincts for aggression and in no time I was banging my head to the blistering beat.