The Best Man I found out after I arrived was ridiculously handsome and of course conveniently single. I wasn’t in the wedding, except as a spectator, and I didn’t arrive until the last day, so most of the activities left me out and as I watched the last rehearsal, the night before the wedding, my wife and the Best Man strode down the aisle arm in arm, and I wondered at the time if she had already made it with him. It certainly seemed so.
As I watched them walk together, it certainly seemed as if they had already fucked in some hidden room far off in that huge house. I also figured she’d tell me whether she had done anything with him, since she always was totally honest with me about her sexual escapades. As I thought about them together, I really hoped she had. I expected her to, since we’d been married, and she would always tell me what she had done and with whom. She confessed, after visiting her mother our first year, that she’d been with and had sex with her high school boyfriend while she was back in her hometown. She admitted that it was good sex, and hoped I’d understand. I said I did and forgave her for her time with him. She even revealed to me what they had done, and I had to admit it aroused me to hear her telling about it so openly.
When she met a guy at a work convention, she openly admitted that he had taken her to bed, and she described what they had done. I watched her face, smiling and laughing up at the Best Man, her arm in his, and I was almost sure he had, sometime in the past few days, been in her, had held parts of her that for many years had been reserved for only me. I pictured him holding her bare bottom in his large hands, his mouth against hers, and I imagined his unquestionably large member sliding into her, her legs apart and her face aglow. I wondered, now that I was sure they already had had sex, how many times between rehearsals they had been together, what exactly they had done, and whether she would tell me about it. She had been at the wedding for two days already and I had come in that night, so she had plenty of time to be with him.
Her smile, her laughter, her body language said they had enjoyed one another more than once, and–for a reason I didn’t understand–that aroused me incredibly as I pictured them together, envisioned him sliding into her. Had she sucked him, as she loved to do, and swallowed his semen enthusiastically, gulping it down like tasty cream? Had she fucked him more than once since she’d been at the wedding weekend? I was sure she had. They would have lots of time for romance, for fucking and playing and making out in secret. I wondered if the bride knew. I wondered if anyone at the wedding knew of her fling with the Best Man. Did Claire and Betsy exchange knowing grins as my wife and the Best Man emerged from hiding with pink faces and rumpled clothes. Did other people see them together and guess what they had been off doing?
Will I be able to handle it if she told me like she had in the past? Will my wife’s fucking the Best Man be something I can accept like I have her other indiscretions? Will they meet up sometime after this event and have sex in some hotel up the coast like she did with her old pal from high school? Will I just consent to her affair with him as a given, like I have her others, as something that happens, without being outraged or hurt, without yelling at her or feeling rejected, or will I get angry and demand she never do it again? Especially when I know she will.
I watch them during the ceremony, watch their faces and body language, their obvious rapport, their intimacy, and I see them in my imagination as they rut together in a spare bedroom, some hidden meeting place, throwing clothes and caution to the wind, and I imagine him fucking her many times a day during the event, from early morning when nothing is happening until late at night after all has been finished and the night gives cover to their romance.
His name, I find out later, is Henry, and I’m told by those who don’t know who I am that he always beds someone in the wedding party. “A lucky woman,” they say. “Is your wife here?” they ask innocently, perhaps hinting that I may be the lucky husband to be cuckold at the wedding. “Which one is she?” they ask. I reluctantly point her out as the one walking down the aisle with Henry the Best man and they smile, knowingly, with an insightful nod. “Oh,” they often say, at a loss for words, somewhat embarrassed by their blunder. “She’s very beautiful,” they say, meaning she would be prime inducement for Henry’s charm. I don’t tell them that I know what they’re implying, and I don’t tell them it’s okay with me.
My wife tells me during the wedding dinner how much she has enjoyed being in the wedding party. She points out Henry, in case I have missed knowing who is the Best Man and says she walks with him during the ceremony, then she gushes how handsome he is and what a great personality, how fun to be with. He seems to be the kind first picked for schoolyard games, or always the one selected to be captain because everyone wanted to be on his team, and he is with my wife.
“Have you fucked him yet?” I wanted to ask. “Did you blow him? Does his cum taste bitter?” I think to myself. I wonder what exactly the exchange was like that won her over, to make her want to spread her legs for this handsome fellow, to be willing to allow herself to be unfaithful and fuck the Best Man at her best friend’s wedding. Had she been drinking and had enough to forget?
I remember thinking as I watched them dance after the ceremony that they looked like two people who had just had good sex, and I was sure that they had celebrated the act with intensity and passion. As they danced she laughed at something he’d said and put her head against his chest, resting against his body as they moved across the floor. It was an intimate gesture and I remember thinking it looked like a thank-you-for-the-great-fuck dance.
I imagined him telling her about some wonderful place on the grounds that she just had to see and encouraging her to go explore with him. I pictured them going off hand in hand and sharing a kiss in the secret confines of the secluded place in the woods. I figure she let him steal a kiss, then let herself go and returned it with intensity and a lingering bit of tongue.
I imagine his hands finding her breasts and she breathlessly wiggles beneath his touch, and finally gives in to them exploring beneath her bra, unbuttoning her top so he can get to them easily. He probably rolled her nipples between his fingers and his thumbs, then takes each in his mouth to suck and to kiss her tender buds. As he works on her breasts, I figure his hand goes under her dress and lifts up the hem until his fingers reach her panties.
I see his tips sliding under her underpants and finding her moist labia, moving them apart and pushing into her vagina, and I see her catching her breath as she fights to control herself, but still savoring the feel of his fingers inside of her. “Fuck me,” I hear her plead as he moves his fingers in and out of her.
She fumbles with his belt in my imagination, then unzips his pants and fishes out his already erect penis. She urges him as she turns away, spreads her legs, and lifts her dress, allowing him to slid himself inside of her.
“Oh god yes,” she surely cries as he fucks her from behind while she stands among the trees with her legs apart, bent over at the waist “I need to lie down,” she’d say and he’d help her to the ground, lift her dress up, and climb on top of her, sliding himself once again in her pussy. My wife and the Best Man would fuck like that for ten or fifteen minutes, then she would come and cry out and put her hand over her mouth, then stiffen and push up against him, holding him inside of her, pushing her pubic bone against his weight.
They would stay that way for a few minutes while they got back their breath and came back down. As I imagined it, I got an funny excitement from imagining my wife fucking the Best Man at their secret place off away from everyone. I even smiled to myself as I pictured it.
When she returned from their time together, had she smiled at her friend the bride, sharing a secret communication with her best friend, a moment of vicarious pleasure between them? Did Betsy know she had been off with the Best Man and let him inside of her?
On the way home I asked what she liked best about the weekend and she grinned and quietly said, “Being with Henry.” She was quiet for a while, and considering her blatant honesty I knew what was coming, then she turned to me and said, “I was a very naughty girl this weekend.” Then she smiled and looked at the floor. I looked over at her as I drove and waited for her to go on. “He asked me not to wear any panties during the wedding,” she said with a grin.
“And did you wear any?” I asked.
“No,” she said with a smile.
“Did you tell him?” I asked, becoming more and more interested as she talked about her affair with the Best Man at her friend’s wedding.
“I told him I wasn’t wearing any as we started down the aisle,” she said. “arm in arm. I said, ‘I did what you asked,’ and he just smiled and squeezed my arm.”
“‘I’d love to see,’ he said,'” she told me.”
“So when you were dancing together during the reception, you didn’t have any panties on?” I asked. She simply shook her head and grinned. “You were a naughty girl,” I said. “Did he ever see you without panties?”
“Are you upset with your randy wife?” she asked, “who fucked the Best Man?”
I told her I was glad she had such a good time and for some reason I really meant it. I also told her I certainly was not angry with her for what any woman would have done in her place. As we sat in the front seat and talked about the wedding and her time with Henry, I was amazed at how much I meant it and was actually delighted to hear her tell me about her affair at her friend’s wedding.