This is a cuckold story told through an initially reluctant wife’s point of view. The husband and wife are an older (47 yo) Spanish couple living in Barcelona when a handsome 18-year-old man moves in next door. The story is slow in the beginning to build up the romance between the wife and her lover, so if you are looking for a quick fix, this may not be for you. For anyone still interested, I hope you enjoy.
******
My husband, Oscar, folded the La Vanguardia newspaper and slammed it down on the kitchen table in frustration, so hard it shook our cups of café con leche.
“How is a man supposed to read the morning newspaper in peace with all that racket going on?’ he complained.
“It’s coming from the apartment next door,” I replied. “It’s been empty forever. I think maybe someone is finally moving in,” I said, a little excited at the prospect of new neighbors.
“It’s only 9 AM on a Saturday morning, Irene. Can’t they let people sleep in and enjoy the weekend. People work hard all week; they should let them rest in peace and quiet and not be disturbed by all this ruckus,” Oscar continued in exasperation.
I love my husband dearly, although he can be cantankerous like most older men tend to be. We’ve been together for over 17 years and married for the last 15. We’re both 47 now, and we live comfortably in an apartment complex in Barcelona, Spain.
“Perhaps if it is someone new, you should offer to help them move in,” I advised my husband. “After all, they will be our neighbors, and I’m sure they would appreciate the gesture of goodwill.”
“Can’t I at least enjoy my morning café and breakfast before my day is interrupted?”
“Suit yourself,” I answered, “but what else do you have planned for today?”
“Barça are playing later.”
“Or course, your precious futbol,” I said as I rolled my eyes. Oscar is a diehard fan for our city’s La Liga team, FC Barcelona.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to nag,” he said, putting down his newspaper again. “I’ll go see if they need any help if it makes you happy.”
“Immensely. Thank you,” I said with a smug smile.
Our building is a modest apartment complex near the seaside in Barcelona, Spain. The Mediterranean Sea is only 2 kilometers away, and there are many nice shops and restaurants in our neighborhood. We live a comfortable life, and many of our neighbors are similar to us, 40-something people in similar life situations. I have an office job, but it is expensive living in the city, so money is sometimes tight, but we have everything we need.
Our two daughters are still asleep in their bedrooms. Typical teenagers, always they are staying up late messaging to all their friends. They tend to retreat into their own world and spend most of the day locked away in their room, only emerging when hunger and thirst strike.
“Thank you, Oscar,” I call out as he leaves, barely acknowledging me with a dismissive wave. He is a good man, although he is a little overweight at 5’9″ and 240 pounds. I wonder if he’ll even be much help for the new neighbors moving in.
Oscar can be a little cranky when his routine is interrupted, but he and I are a good match. I once had a nice figure, but two daughters and a few decades later have left 152 pounds on my 5’3″ body. Like any couple who has been together for years, the romance has cooled down, but I am a happy wife and accepting of our lot in life.
A few minutes later, Oscar returned to our apartment and marched back over to our dining table.
“Back so soon?” I inquired.
“You are right. We do have a new neighbor. Marco is his name. He is young, I think only 18. His family must have money for him to afford the apartment. He is going to start university soon nearby.”
“Oh, that is interesting. So young. Everyone else in our building is our age. Maybe it will be nice to have some youth, someone vibrant in the building. But did you not offer to help him move in?”
“Yes, but he has movers helping him, so he does not need any help moving in,” Oscar clarified as he picked up his newspaper and resumed reading. “I just hope he is not a party boy playing loud music and having parties at all hours.”
“At least try to give the poor boy a chance. You always assume the worst,” I pointed out to him.
Oscar acknowledged my request with a grunt as he flipped the newspaper page.
******
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The next few hours were filled with the loud bumps and scrapes that come from moving large furniture and boxes. In the afternoon, however, our tv volume drowned out the rest of the world as my husband’s beloved Barça played their match. Luckily, they won against Real Madrid, so it brightened my husband’s mood.
That night we canoodled in bed. Oscar often has a high sex drive, much higher than mine. Every night he attempts to initiate sex with me, and I hate to disappoint him, but often I would rather just roll over and sleep. I rebuffed his advances the past few nights, and I took pity on him that night, jerking him off until he had an orgasm.
It is foreign to me to enjoy sex. Oscar obviously enjoys it, which is why he is always asking for it. I, on the other hand, can’t say I derive the same pleasure from the act. When I let him inside me, the pleasure is all his. I have tried to enjoy it, and I even wish I could. It looks like fun, and God knows the movies and tv portray it as a magical and passionate act, but, sadly, sex has become like a chore, something that I do with my husband about once a week, not unlike doing the laundry.
Sometimes I feel guilty over this. In every other way, Oscar is a good husband. He works hard and provides for our family, and we get along well, even though sometimes it can feel like we are more like roommates in some sense than lovers.
“Maybe you don’t want me anymore,” Oscar has lamented. “Or maybe you want another man.”
“No, no,” I’ve reassured him. “You are the only man for me.”
“It makes me feel like less of a man that I cannot satisfy you,” he often complains.
He has tried to initiate different sexual ideas, and I have tried to accommodate him on some of them. It is obvious he is much more adventurous in sex than I am. I suppose maybe I am too traditional or prudish, but I can’t change who I am. Besides, I am a 47-year-old woman now, far too old to parade my body about as if I am some type of model. I do try to exercise at the gym to keep myself in shape, but it is hard when I work full time and am trying to raise a family. I have gained weight, but a lot of it has gone to my breasts and hips, so I am, as my husband likes to remind me, curvaceous.
Nevertheless, I don’t know how my husband always has the energy to seek sex. After working a long day and taking care of our daughters, there just is not a lot left of me to give to him. He still seems to find me desirable, which is flattering, I suppose. I worry if he may eventually cheat on me with someone else, so I try to give him sex weekly, even though I do not enjoy it, but I also don’t want to lose him.
I have tried to dress in sexy lingerie for him, but I am conscious of my imperfections. We have tried to do role play, but I have no desire to sleep with a stranger, even if it is just pretend. He has suggested to buy toys, but how is a piece of rubber supposed to make me feel good. I really do care for my husband and feel bad for him. I do not want him to cheat on me, but I also know that I am not able to satisfy him as he would like. I worry sometimes about it, but we seem to have settled into our lives and are okay to go on as we have, and maybe that is ok.
******
The next morning, I carried the trash out of our apartment to the chute at the end of the hall. As I walked down the corridor, someone also walked out our new neighbor’s door. He was the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome, maybe 6’2″ and an athletic well-built 180 pounds body. He had a mess of dark hair on top and a pleasant, friendly face.
“Excuse me, are you Marco?” I asked, figuring it would be neighborly to introduce myself.
“Yes, I am. I’m sorry, do I know you?” he replied in confusion.
“I’m Irene,” I replied. “We’re neighbors. My husband, Oscar, stopped by yesterday to ask if you needed any assistance to move in.”
“Ah yes, yes, I remember. You are his wife, then?”
“Yes, I am.”
“”Very well. It is very nice to meet you, Irene.”
“And you, as well, Marco. You know, if you have free time, perhaps we could have you over for dinner one night to welcome you to the building. It is always nice when neighbors can get along.”
Marco took less than a second to consider the offer. “A home cooked meal. I would love that, if it’s not a bother. I’m not much of a cook, so I’m afraid I am mostly take-out and instant foods.”
“Nonsense, it’s no bother at all. How about Tuesday night?” I offered.
“I’ll be there. Is 7:30 pm ok?”
“it sounds lovely. We look forward to it.”
I remember when we first moved into the building over 10 years ago, one of the neighbors at the time invited us for dinner in a similar fashion, and it helped us feel welcome. I figured this was just our way of paying it forward and helping Marco to feel welcome in our building, so that he can make it his home, also.
******
I told Oscar that night how I invited our new neighbor over for dinner.
“Why would you do that?” he complained.
“Don’t you remember when Roberto and Elena did the same thing for us when we moved in?” I pointed out to him.
“Yes, but that was different.”
“Different how?” I wanted to know.
“They were like our age. Marco, he is just a kid. We will have nothing in common. What will we talk about? It will be awkward.”
“Maybe he’s a Barca fan,” I said, hoping it might cause Oscar to reconsider.
He just kind of grunted in frustration, but Marco was already invited, and Oscar knows there was no way to rescind the invitation, so he was resigned to dinner on Tuesday night with our new neighbor.
*******
Come Tuesday night, I prepared a meal of seafood paella and albondigas. I had just finished laying out the plates and silverware when we heard a knock at the door. My husband answered it and invited Marco into our humble abode.