That Tingling Feeling

We were at a cocktail party together, my wife Tara and I. She hung onto my arm, the warmth of her delicate hands seeping through my shirt sleeves. I was already a little hot; the room was large and the evening chill, but nonetheless the sheer mass of people created something of a stifling humid atmosphere, and Tara's warm grip wasn't doing much to cool me down. I didn't mind, though. I felt I was her protector here; though it was an event for her line of work, the afterparty of an academic conference where she had starred, a glow of pride swelled in me that I was her shield and her support in such an overwhelming place. This was all about her, and her achievements, and her intelligence, but I was proud that I could still serve a role as her masculine protector.

She looked beautiful tonight. Always a little mousy, with her petite frame, pale skin and auburn bangs, the addition of dark eyeliner and red lipstick gave a decidedly sexy edge to her her natural, wide-eyed cuteness. As I gazed at her, I silently worshipped, drinking in the sight of my goddess and feeling a little heady with attraction and devotion.

She wasn't looking back at me.

I followed her gaze to another man, standing some distance away, engaged in intense conversation with a few of Tara's colleagues. He was a head taller than me. His muscles weren't bulging, he wasn't a caricaturish strongman type, but his whole body gave an impression of robustness and graceful, easy strength. A broad frame, a casual, effortless pre-eminence over the men around him. I felt my wife tug my sleeve and I leant down to her.

"Tingles" she whispered needily in my ear. "That one gives me tingles."

I met her eyes; soft and brown beneath her bangs, but with a quickening spark in them. Her pupils were dilated.

A deep, hot feeling began to settle beneath my chest. I wasn't sure whether it was fear, or arousal, or perhaps both.

Pussy tingles. That was what my wife had called it when we had roleplayed together; the feeling of her vagina responding involuntarily when she saw a tall, sexy, dominant man. It was all my fault of course, I had prompted and encouraged her to tell me, to share it. I was naturally jealous, but something about the idea of letting another man use her made my heart race. I had wanted to know.

"I can't help it," she had said, in her quiet, breathy sex-voice, pausing every time I thrust. "It's kind of like, anxiety, but a good kind. Like the butterflies. But I can feel in in my pussy."

Sliding slowly in and out of her, hanging onto every word, I had understood the unspoken implication. I didn't give her the pussy tingles. She loved me, she was aroused by me, but that undeniable physiological reaction was reserved for a certain class of man.

Shakily, I had replied.

"Who gives you them?"

She had giggled. Girlishly, teasingly.

"Wouldn't you like to know...? If I tell you, will you cum?"

I had bitten my lip and tried to hold back. I knew my body would betray me, but I shook my head anyway.

She had gripped the back of my hair and pulled me in closer. Her sweet, warm breath brushed across my cheek and her lips caressed me softly.

"My boss does," she had whispered, almost inaudibly.

Then I had felt the lust overtake me, and I had grabbed her wrists and pinned her down, and come hard while I growled into her lips.

And now here we were, at this cocktail party, all dressed up with her clinging onto my arm, and I knew that despite my protective demeanor towards her, she was getting those tingles while thinking about fucking another man.

She pulled me down and wheedled in my ear again. "Don't I deserve a reward? On my big night?" And then, a little lower:

"Can't I have him?"

I gazed into her eyes once more. Her huge, brown, pleading doe-eyes, that I had never been able to resist.

I smiled. "Of course you can have him, babe."

She bit her lip and gripped my arm all the tighter. This wasn't the first time we had done this dance. I knew what I had to do now; make the introduction.

Sidling us over, naturally, through the crowd; picking up a drink, smiling and nodding to academics I recognised from previous events. Catching the eye of Tara's boss, who I now saw was the person engaged in deep conversion with the tall man. His face lit up.

"Ah! Tara and James! Where have you been? I haven't even had the chance to congratulate you yet, Tara!"

And with his warm smile and open manner, we were suddenly at the centre of this new group, and introductions were made.

The tall man was Max Fadden, a researcher Tara evidently knew by name but not by sight. He was an American, rarely in Britain except for the odd conference, but he had heard of Tara too - and was at pains to make his admiration known. Strikingly, he even mock-bowed and kissed her hand, naming her as "the belle of the evening" - and my wife, taken with his forwardness, blushed deeply.

I, too, was shocked by his confidence; it was like he already knew the role we had in mind for him, and had already begun to play it with commitment. Inwardly, I was wracked with a mixture of intense jealousy and delight that we had picked so well. A part of me hated that he was so bold with my wife, and that, playing my own role, I was not permitted to stop him. But another, deeper, shameful part of me was thrilled with the way they looked together; he, tall, at ease, in control; and she, vulnerable, feminine, visibly nervous and bashful in front of him. He spoke with a smooth, deep voice, and I could see she hung on his every word.

Pay attention to me, not him! I wanted to shout. But it excited me that she was enraptured with this new man.

Now, the next part of my role. I manoeuvred Tara's boss away, engaging him on his hobbies and interests. We had always got along very well, but I knew him even better than he realised. He was of course the subject of a secret crush by Tara, and she often gushed about him to me at my prompting, while I masochistically savoured every word. Yes, by proxy, I had got to know him very well indeed. It added an extra jealous thrill to drawing him away from her; using the knowledge I had gained in our little marital jealousy games to keep him involved.

Occasionally I flicked a glance back towards Tara and Max. He stopped a waitress and got Tara another drink. She, a little flushed, leaned into him, giggled, and touched his upper arm as she laughed. I wondered if she was consciously feeling his bicep. It reminded me that even though I was no slouch, I also couldn't compete with him; his strength was natural, a result of his build, and I could see that Tara's attraction was completely involuntary and animalistic. He was simply more than me - I was tall, but he was taller; I was masculine, but he was like an warrior of myth who had been dropped into a suit; I was clever, but the details of my wife's research were lost on me. I could tell by her animated expression that he, on the other hand, not only understood it but was testing her, probing her. Why wouldn't she be more attracted to him than me? It was just biology. The tingles were the proof. And I had my own proof of how suited he was to her: I was rock hard watching them.

Some more time passed. Tara's boss was a bachelor, and sometimes it seemed like he forgot that I wasn't one also. The chat became laddish, and I was sucked into conversation with his other bachelor friends. Tara and Max were flitting from group to group, but never separating. Once, she caught my eye, and blew me a kiss in a visible and obvious way. I beamed, not just because it was sensible of her, to not be too blatant about her new beau, but also because it meant she remembered me. I was a part of why this was so exciting for her. I love you, she mouthed. I love you too, I silently replied.

Now I had to play the next part of our little scene - the stage direction: exit James. I made my way over to Tara and Max. I had to head off early, I reminded Tara, as I had a flight early the next day. I wouldn't make her leave with me, though; this was her big night after all.

"Stay safe and text me when you get back to your hotel room," I said, and then, to Max, jokingly: "Make sure you look after her."

Except I wasn't joking at all.

Tara's eyes were swirling with a mix of emotions; gratitude, excitement, anxiety - and love.

***

I followed the protocol we had agreed for nights like this. I stayed in the hotel room, with my phone on loud. Depending on whether she would go to his hotel room or he come to ours, I might need to make my escape at a moment's notice, to keep up the fiction that I was blissfully unaware and the room was hers alone. That meant no sleeping. Instead I paced, unable to focus on the late-night programming on the room's tiny TV, or settle my mind long enough to read a book.

I felt anxious and sexually frustrated. Another agonising rule of our game was that I wasn't allowed to cum until I reconnected with her after her tryst. I knew the value of that rule; it kept me craving her, needing her, and it kept my jealousy just on the right side of the border between arousing and sickening. But it didn't help for the moment. The hot coal at the bottom of my abdomen burned and burned; I felt wired, unsure if I was horny or just terrified.

This was our fourth time playing our game, and I felt the same anxiety this time as I had the very first. The idea of her "tingles" was an irresistible one for me. There was something primal and animalistic about it; the fact that her body unconsciously responded just to the presence of a dominant male near her. My enjoyment of it, of course, was fundamentally masochistic. The tingles made my shy wife horny, made her slutty and flushed and aroused - but not horny for me. Though we both got enjoyment out of it, my enjoyment was merely vicarious; it was hers that was visceral.

When her pussy tingled, it was preparing itself for the entry of another man, a rival male. To be the loser of the competition for her sex was arousing but also humiliating. We played this game rarely, because it was a very dangerous one.

My phone pinged. I started and seized on it immediately.

"We're going to his room. I'll come back to you afterwards. Will be back by 2AM. Love you <3"

So my hotel room wouldn't be the site of their lovemaking. I was a little relieved. The last thing I wanted to do was go for a long walk in the cold while I waited for them. But - 2AM! I looked forlornly at the ticking clock on the wall. It would possibly be another four hours until she returned to me.

Four hours in which she would be totally his. I knew the kind of sex my wife liked. She would want him to call the shots. To be in control, direct her. That made it more gut-wrenching, and more arousing, for me. That she wouldn't just have sex with him - she would submit to him. For four hours, he would own her; she would be his personal slut, not my wife, and I would have no claim on her.

I imagined it, as I always did. He would pin her down with his long, muscular arms and the weight of his torso. She would look so vulnerable, so yielding; her doe-eyes wide no longer, but instead rolled back in ecstasy as he restrains her with his hard, masculine strength. Unable to move her hands but nevertheless locking her feet behind his back, pulling him into her. Kissing him desperately as she takes him into her, pulling him deeper, begging him with her moans and gasps to cum inside her.

Yes, I could imagine it very well. My cock was hard almost to the point of pain. I took another look at the clock. Five past ten. This would be a long night.

***

It was a quarter past one when I heard the soft beep of the keycard against our hotel door. I had been dozing but leapt to my feet at the sound. My heart thumped in my chest, so hard and fast that the beat felt almost irregular. She was back - my princess was back.

The door opened, and Tara stepped gingerly and silently in. She was barefoot, her heels in her hand, and my eyes was immediately drawn to her bare legs, stretching lusciously from the hem of her short black dress all the way to her painted toes.

I raced over to her and gave her a hug. Momentarily the joy of her return made me forget why she had been gone, and her warm embrace back was filled with love. And then -

"Don't you want to know what I've been up to?"

Her voice was teasing, seductive, purring. Normally so meek and quiet, I loved the confidence she exuded in the aftermath of one of our games.

I drew back and looked at her more closely. She bit her lip alluringly, and I could see a mocking look in her eyes. Her lipstick had rubbed off. Her bangs were a mess, pushed all out of place, and in places sweatily plastered to her forehead. The teasing look in her eyes was juxtaposed with dark rims of her smeared mascara. Runny makeup! That told me straight away that he must have been vigorous with her. I hoped he hadn't been too rough to my princess. But I could tell from the expression on her face that even if he had, she had revelled in it.

"And haven't you noticed what's in my hand?"

I had seen her heels in her left hand. What was that in her right? Was it...?

"Those are cuffs!" I said, dumbfounded. "You let him cuff you?"

"He was very persuasive. Some would even say forceful. I didn't have much of a choice." She fluttered her lashes at me, playing innocent even as the slutty evidence was written all over her face and body.

They weren't just any cuffs. They were proper, leather, BDSM cuffs.

"He just had these to hand?" I asked, still hearing the dumb confusion in my own voice.

When she replied, her voice was full of the confidence and assurance missing from mine. A playful note danced behind her words, which told me that she was trying to push my buttons, to spark my jealousy and my lust.

"He's a bit of a dom, you know. He has loads of these. He said he could tell straight away that I would like using them... and he also said I was such a good girl for him that I could keep them."

A good girl. For him. God, those were the most awful and thrilling words I had ever heard.

"Isn't it funny, that even though I'm cuffed by you," she continued, tapping her wedding ring, "I still enjoy being cuffed by him even more?"

That was it - her teasing was working. I had to have her right that second, to take her back from him. I seized her, took her in my arms, prepared to throw her to the bed -

"Stop," she said, with a commanding and firm tone. I immediately froze in place, like a dog called by its owner.

"Down." I gently released her and knelt in front of her, as I was used to doing when she entered such an imperious mode. I was awed at how quickly she could change; from playful one moment to authoritative the next, skilfully toying with me, demonstrating her incredible hold over my body and soul. She gently touched my face and I gazed up at her. Not for the first time, I saw that she was in her element here - usually so shy and mousy, hiding behind me for protection at social gatherings, struggling to assert herself in arguments, here she was transformed. With a confidence inspired by the lust of two men, she had become mistress of her desires, and mistress of me.

"He can command me and manhandle me," she said sumgly, "You can't. Not until I tell you, anyway."

I nodded, and bent my head low to kiss her toes, submissively and devotedly. Tara knew I needed this. Perhaps as a submissive herself, she knew the joy of bending your will to someone else, and during our games, she delighted in being that someone for me. As I kissed the tops of her toes, a little sweaty from walking around in heels, the nails still painted glossy black, I felt a twisted kind of pride. I knew that this was reserved for me. No tingles would allow another man into these depths of our game. She was no man's goddess but mine.

"That's better. And the other foot, too," she commanded, but more softly now. "I'm glad you've remembered your place. Now, I want you to listen to me carefully. I want you to undress me slowly, and kiss me all over. Leave my panties on - they're holding something in."

At this, I briefly paused my devotions, and then forced myself to continue.

"When you're done worshipping me, I want you to cuff me again. I'll show you - just how he did it. You can pick up right where he left off."

I gave her toes once last kiss, and then began to slowly work my way up her leg. I kissed her shins, the backs of her knees, the inside of her thighs. As I neared the hem-line of her dress, I could smell the heady scent of their sex, and the "something" that she was holding inside her. My heart pounded ever stronger at the knowledge that he had cum into her, without protection. The thought of my wife's sluttiness, to allow a stranger to manhandle, cuff and even ejaculate inside her, just because he was tall and muscular, sent me wild, but I managed to restrain myself to a chaste kiss on the damp front of her panties before moving on with her instructions. I lifted her dress over her head and then continued kissing all the way up her; I kissed the light trail of hair leading up to her belly button, the tips of her fingers, the underside of her breasts, the stubble of her armpits. Everywhere I kissed, I could smell him on her; the alien, masculine scent of his sweat and pheromones, so different to the familiar smell of her. It excited me to know that she was marked by him, even defiled by him. The presence of his scent meant that she had been his to own, however briefly.

Tremblingly, I cuffed her to the bed, as she directed me with her calm, seductive voice. Spread out, on her back; that is how he had had her. Legs apart, arms helplessly restrained.

"Oh, you're being so much more gentle with me than he was," she breathed.

Before I tied her legs apart, an ankle to each bedpost, I removed her underwear with excited, shaking fingers. The panties visibly peeled off her, damp, filled with his sticky semen. Her pussy was unshaven, the way I liked it, but through the dark curls of hair I could see that the skin was reddened, and her labia puffy and swollen. The hair was matted with their combined fluids, and I could see that at the entrance to her vagina, a thick stream of cum was beginning to leak out. The raw, primal scent of it was overwhelming. I didn't know whether I wanted to lick or fuck her. I just knew that this view, of the sticky evidence of his dominance over her, was irresistibly alluring.

But I forced myself to continue as per her instructions. Hands cuffed above her head, legs spread apart. She looked helpless, vulnerable. She had looked this helpless for him, too. With a frisson I realised how risky this had been; she had allowed this man she only just met to put her in an incredibly compromising position. That she had been horny enough to do it was incredibly arousing.

"Come and kiss me," she commanded.

I did. I kissed her lips for the first time since she had come back, and I tasted his semen there as well. I could smell it on her hot breath as she whispered to me.

"Aww," she pouted. "I can feel his cum leaking out of me..."

I waited with bated breath.

"Be a good hubby and fuck it back into me?" she pleaded, quietly.

I didn't need encouraging. I immediately rolled onto her and kissed her passionately, my aching hard-on standing ready to attention.

"One more thing, though," she gasped, "wear a condom. I want you to push his cum deeper into me, not add you own. I want to keep it inside me forever, just his cum, not yours. Maybe it'll even make me pregnant..."

She looked into my eyes again, and though I saw the teasing look, knowing that she was on the pill, I also saw that the fantasy of it was burning lustfully in her gaze. She really was turned on by the idea of him breeding her. In that crazy, horny moment, the result of four hours of lonely anticipation, I was turned on by it too. I wanted his cum inside her, I wanted it deeper inside her womb, I wanted her to be fertile and receptive to him. The ultimate submission of her body to his. The idea was driving me crazy.

I rolled the condom on and could wait no longer. I thrust into her, but carefully, collecting his semen that was leaking out of her pussy and gently fucking it back into her, making sure it was going deeper. She was loose and there was little friction for me. He must have been hung. I was decently-endowed, but clearly this was another area in which he was just that little bit better.

Her petite, feminine form trembled with pleasure underneath me and I looked at her momentarily through his eyes. No longer a goddess, no longer a shy wife, but a tied-up, submissive, slutty woman, wild with the primal joy of being fucked hard by a stronger male. For a moment I could pretend to be him, feel her soft skin underneath me and pretend I was the first one to run my hand across it that night, grip her auburn hair as it it wasn't already sweaty with the lovemaking of a few hours prior. But the illusion couldn't last long. I was getting his seconds; I was giving her only aftershocks, after his earthquake of the last few hours. And the shameful fact was that I enjoyed it more this way.

"Fuck... him... into... me..." Tara gasped, her voice wild with need. Now I was struggling to remain gentle. I was rutting into her, his cum as my lube and my target, revelling knowing that his remnants were still coating the walls of her cunt even as I was denied the contact of my bare cock against it. And then I exploded, not deep inside her but into latex, as I cried out and buried my face against the skin of her neck, covered with hickeys left by Max.

***

After that, we were husband and wife again. Tara nestled into my arms and we began to drift off into a doze.

She attempted fruitlessly to shake the sleepiness from her head. "I need a shower," she protested gently, "I've been on my feet all day and I've had sex like three times. I absolutely stink."

"I like the way you stink," I murmured, and pulled her in closer to kiss her head.

"Don't you want me to wash him off me?" she asked.

I thought for a moment, and then kissed her head again.

"No, my love. I don't."