Slow Boil Pt. 01

Thanks to Playlover for editing and reviewing the this story. Their input and advice was truly appreciated.

&&&

I'm standing here, naked, my little dick in my hand, throbbing away. In a few minutes, a big black man with a bigger black cock is going to come through the door. He's going to fuck my wife.

She wants that big black cock so bad. Eight inches and thick as a beer can. She's been dreaming of it. The love of my life, and she wants me to watch her give herself to a black man.

He wants me to watch him take my wife from me.

And then afterwards?

I guess after that, it's over for me.

They'll have each other. Happily ever after for them.

And me? Gone I guess. Disposable and disposed. Surplus to requirements. Discarded.

I don't know what happens afterwards.

I think maybe, there is no afterwards for me.

Where did it all go wrong?

&&&

"A man sat next to me today on the Subway," my wife, Ayla, said. Ayla was cheerful as always, bubbly, enthusiastic, full of life.

"Oh?" I asked, not terribly concerned. She wasn't upset, so I assumed that he wasn't some kind of masher, or harasser. "What was significant about him."

"Oh nothing really," she said. "His name was Mark. He was a lawyer, he was very charming and funny. We had a nice little chat. It's nice to talk to someone, rather than just listen to earphones or scroll on your phone. We both enjoyed it."

I smiled.

"That sounds really nice. I worry about you on the Subway sometime. You hear about stuff happening. Muggers. Crazy people."

She laughed, and threw her arms around me, reassuringly.

"Oh honey," she said. "That's only in the big cities. Not around here."

"We are a big city," I told her. "We need a subway to get around."

&&&

"I sat next to Mark again today," Ayla told me. "We had a nice chat again."

I nodded.

"This is the third time in the last two weeks?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess we've both been riding at the same time, and only noticed lately. You know how it is, it's a crowd. They're faceless. If you start to recognize someone, they jump out."

"That sounds likely."

"I get on before him," she told me. "So I saved a seat for him, next to me. When he came on, I waved. You should have seen him smile. He was so cute."

"You say I'm cute," I teased.

She giggled.

"Of course you are. So is he. You know what the two of you have in common? You both have the greatest smiles."

"Cool," I said.

"So if you're saving a seat for him, I guess the two of you will be sitting together a lot more regularly."

She shrugged.

"Probably, unless our schedules change. I really think it'll be hit and miss sometimes. But you never know," she looked concerned, "That doesn't bother you, does it? My sitting with a strange man? Mark is really nice. You'd like him."

I nodded.

"Oh I'm sure I would," I said. "No, of course it doesn't bother me. Actually, I think it's good that you have a Subway friend. It makes me feel like you're safer."

"I'm glad, honey. I know you worry," she said. "Mark is a pretty big guy actually. He's tall, six four at least. And not skinny, broad shoulders, muscular. So I doubt that anyone would want to bother me if he's around."

She laughed.

I'm only five four. Five three and a half, actually. I'm just slightly taller than Ayla, by half an inch.

"But he's a pussycat though. Totally harmless."

&&&

"Honey!" Ayla announced loudly, coming home, as I was preparing for the night shift. "Mark had the greatest idea today."

"Oh yes?" I looked up, attentive.

"Yes. You know how it's so hit and miss, riding the subway. Sometimes we're in the same car at the same time. Other times, we miss each other? Well, he suggested that we exchange numbers, so we can text each other when we get on."

"Cool," I told her carefully. "That makes a lot of sense. And I feel safer for you, when he's around. But exchanging information like that? Are you sure he's safe?"

"Oh honey," she said, "he's a lawyer, not an axe murderer. He works for a law firm. He doesn't even go to court, he's a corporate lawyer. He's safe."

I shrugged.

"Well, as long as he knows you're married," I said nervously.

Ayla laughed.

"Of course!" she said. "It's literally the first thing I told him, when we started chatting on the subway. Happily married. I even showed him our wedding picture on my phone. He thought we made a cute couple."

"I'm just silly," I said.

I paused, not quite insecure, but just slightly uncertain.

"So," I asked her. "This Mark, you told me he's a lawyer, and tall. Anything else?"

Ayla chewed her lip thoughtfully.

"Hmmm," she said. "Well, he's single, out of state - no family around, a little lonely I think. That's why he enjoys our morning chats. He plays sports, all kinds. That's how he got to go to school - athletic scholarship. His family was poor. He reads a lot..."

She looked at the ceiling, trying to think of something else to say.

"He's black."

"Oh," I said, and for the first time, I felt genuine misgivings and insecurity. Immediately, I caught myself, hating the instinctive racism hard wired into our culture. It was perfectly fine that he was black. In fact, he sounded like an all round nice guy.

"Is something wrong?" Ayla asked.

"No," I said. "Nothing at all."

I kissed her, ready to go to work.

"As long as he knows you're taken," I tried to make it sound like a joke.

"Yours forever."

And then I was out the door for my shift at the coffee shop. It wasn't a great job, and the manager was difficult. We had staff coming and going all the time, and as the steadiest employee, I was always filling in for shifts. It was kind of a pain, and it cut into Ayla's and my time together.

She had a regular job, with steady hours. Where lately, my shifts were all over. She actually made more money than I did.

But the coffee shop needed to run, our clients needed their coffee.

Eventually, like everyone else, I'd move on to something better.

All through the shift, I thought about Mark, Ayla's new friend.

&&&

Mark had scholarships. According to Ayla, he'd been quite the college athlete - soccer, baseball, football, wrestling. He'd been much in demand, it could have gone to his head. But his parents insisted on a judicious approach, and so he'd gotten his undergraduate degree, graduated with honors, and went on to law. He'd moved out here at the blandishments of a big firm. According to Ayla, everyone said he was going places. Someone to watch.

It sounded nice.

I'd played soccer in high school. Briefly. Very briefly, as it turned out.

It had been a run down inner city high school. I'd been getting beaten up. My father talked the counselor into putting me on the soccer team with my bullies, the counselor thought it would help us bond properly. My father thought it would make a man of me. The coach hated it.

Final game of the season, one of our own team T-boned me in the middle of a play, snapping my leg in two places. We got penaltied, and lost the game. It was my fault, everyone said so - I'd wandered off position, into the wrong place, even though I hadn't moved.

I remember my father's look of disappointment as I was carried off the field. You can't ever forget a look like that. Sometimes, when I dream, I see that look.

Everything turned out okay though, after years of physio, I could walk and run without a limp. Missed the prom though, it's okay, I wasn't welcome there anyway - no one wanted to be around the somebody who lost the season.

&&&

It became a steady routine. Mark and Ayla's work schedules didn't entirely coincide. Mark often worked late. So mainly, Mark and Ayla sat together on the Subway in the morning, a for twenty-five minute trip. They got on at different times. Sat together a little. Ayla got off earlier, Mark was two stops later.

It seemed harmless. Ayla had a Subway buddy.

Mark became a regular subject of conversation. When she returned home each evening, she'd mention sitting with Mark, what they'd talked about, ideas, ambitions, thoughts. Television shows they had both seen, or books one of them read. She always had a funny story from him - some joke he'd told her, never anything off color, or some funny story from his youth or his college days or his co-workers.

In turn, she shared her day with him, telling stories, discussing books or movies or current events, and simply chatting away at inconsequentialities.

It got to be that Mark was the first subject of conversation, whenever she turned home. Mark did this, or Mark said that. She smiled when she talked about Mark, she bubbled away cheerfully.

I couldn't help it. I was a little jealous.

Sometimes, when the shifts were bad, and piling up one on top of the other, I 'd have no time at all. I'd come home exhausted and frustrated. Particularly with back to back shifts, I wasn't getting overtime, which irritated me. And all these extra duties would get put on me, which required me to come in early or go late, and I wasn't getting paid for that.

I really needed to find another job. But worst of all, sometimes, I'd just come home tired, worn out, unable to really contribute. I felt ashamed. Ayla was the best thing in my life, and sometimes I felt our time together was being stolen.

I envied Mark his regular, daily half-hour with Ayla, even if it was just sitting and chatting on a noisy subway car.

"Does Mark have a girlfriend?" I asked. "Is he seeing anyone?"

Ayla paused and looked thoughtful.

"You know," she said, "he never mentions anyone. It doesn't really come up. He knows I'm married, we don't discuss relationships I suppose. Well... I talk about you a lot! But he never mentions anyone. I should ask..."

"Oh don't ask," I said quickly. "It will make him think you're interested."

She laughed as if that was the silliest thing, and I blushed. My insecurity had leaped out of nowhere.

She paused.

"I'm always telling him how wonderful you are."

She pulled me close, and ran her fingers through my hair.

"Honey," she said, "I know things are tough for you right now. But I promise, they'll get better."

&&&

Ayla is the light of my life. The one absolute, unadulterated piece of goodness in my existence. I had just buried my mother, and my sister was handling the estate. I had some idea then that there would be some money for me, enough for me to go back to university and finish my degree.

I had gotten off a long shift at the Care Home. I was supposed to be off at four, but someone didn't show up, and there was a hole in the schedule. We were already short-staffed and no money for overtime, so I volunteered to do a half shift.

I got off at eight, and went to a little Deli, to see if they had a late menu. Ayla was sitting there reading. She looked up, our eyes met, and one thing led to another. We started talking, and suddenly, they were closing the place up around us and I'd completely forgotten about food.

She was magnetic, sparkling, her laughter was like music, she was quick witted, talented in every way. She could have had everyone in the world. But all she wanted was me. We were together constantly, going out, going to events, dancing, movies and concerts. Sometimes we'd sit and hold hands.

Our first time in bed together was magical, we were both inexperienced, but everything fit together perfectly.

Afterwards, as we laid together, looking into each other's eyes, she whispered, "Promise me you'll never go away. I want you to be with me forever."

I whispered back, "I promise."

She said, "I'll never let you go."

And a few months later, we were married. It was a small wedding. Her family, it turns out, didn't really like me. They didn't hate me or anything. But apparently I wasn't the sort of husband we were hoping for.

My sister couldn't come either, she was busy that day, but she sent a text.

&&&

"Mark asked me out for coffee," Ayla told me.

Ice gripped my heart.

"What did you say?" I asked carefully.

"I said no, of course," she said. "I'm married, there are boundaries. We agreed to be Subway buddies, and that's it. I told him, the only way we'd never meet outside the Subway, is if you were there with us, for every second of it."

My relief was so palpable, I had to sit down.

"I felt bad," she said, "for having to shut him down like that."

She paused.

"So I did allow him to flirt a little," she smiled naughtily. "And flirted back a little. It was just in good fun though. Neither of us were serious."

"Well," I said, "as long as it's not serious."

"You're not threatened, honey?" she asked with concern.

I laughed.

"Why would I feel threatened? You spend every morning chatting around a tall, muscular, rich, well-educated, well-dressed, professional black man."

Ayla reached out and impulsively hugged me.

"Oh honey! You are threatened?" she kissed my cheek. "Don't be. I'll love you forever and ever, and I'll never let you go. You're my special one."

&&&

I watched Ayla getting dressed to go to work. Usually, I had to be up early, to open the coffee shop. But there had been a rat infestation, so I was on unpaid holidays while it was being taken care of.

"That's a really nice dress," I noted. It fit her form very well, showing off her curves. The top displayed a little cleavage, but not enough to be unprofessional.

"Thank you," she said. "Picked it up for a song. I think Mark will just die when he sees it."

It seemed a little short to me, but she had very nice legs, so I didn't want to say anything.

"You're dressing for Mark, now?" I asked, feeling like such an asshole

She finished applying her lipstick. Since when did Ayla wear lipstick? She laughed and smiled at me.

"Of course not, Silly," she replied. "I dress for work. But Mark has a very good eye, so I enjoy him seeing me look good. He's given me good advice."

"Like what?"

"Like lipstick, for example, and make-up," she said. She beamed at me. "And he makes suggestions as to clothes. What I should wear. What goes well with what. Seriously, he could be a fashion designer, he has that kind of eye. Perhaps he's gay?"

She laughed at her little joke.

"What sort of suggestions?" I asked.

"Well," she said, "about looking good, really. Appearance counts for a lot, it's about how people judge you, and I guess I'd never thought much about it. I'd go to work in jeans or slacks. Not a very good impression, I'm afraid."

She shuddered.

"Mark wears thousand dollar suits. He's a very sharp dresser. He's very stylish, even when he's casual, his pants are pressed, his shirts are designer. He's really inspirational."

"I see," I said. "So no more jeans?"

She laughed.

"Not for work, of course," she said. "Around the house. That's fine. But these days - skirts and dresses. He put me onto this seamstress who can do wonders with fitting."

"I do like to show off for him," she said, "but it's only fitting, since he's been so helpful."

I wasn't sure where to go with that. Everything she said made total sense. But at the same time, something felt off. No matter how I wrestled with it, it still felt like she was dressing up for Mark. Wanting to say something neutral, I decided to change the subject.

"The pantyhose is really nice," I said.

Ayla laughed sweetly.

"Oh these aren't pantyhose," she told me, pulling up the side of her skirt. I felt my heart race with excitement at the glimpse of pink flesh. "They're stockings."

She caressed her bare thigh.

"I'm wearing a garter belt with them. Matching panties and bra. Mark says that the underwear is as important as the outerwear for the right kind of attitude. Even if no one else sees it, you know you're wearing it, and it makes you feel more confident."

She grinned.

"Of course," she said, "someone does see my underwear, and I really enjoy that."

"Who?" My throat seized up.

"Why you! Silly!" She told me. "Do you think I show Mark my underwear? On a public subway? Of course not."

My relief was short-lived.

"I just tell him about it."

&&&

After that, I tried to dress better myself. I cleaned up. Tried to make sure my clothes were presentable. I took more time and more care with grooming. After all, I was competing with Mark, a man I'd never met.

It was hard. I wanted Ayla to see a better version of me. Ayla was beautiful, her presentation was effortless.

Now that I was watching though, I noticed that Ayla was dressing very smartly indeed. She seemed to be wearing make-up now. And her skirts were getting shorter. Sometimes, when she dressed, the skirts were so short they rode up a bit, and you could see the tops of the stockings.

I tried to point this out, and she only laughed.

"Oh Mark has noticed too," she said. "I enjoy giving him a little thrill now and then. The poor dear has no one in his life. It's just harmless."

Her tops and blouses were more low cut, scalloped and V-necks. Sometimes with spaghetti straps, or clasped behind the neck, with bared shoulders.

"For Mark, of course," she admitted. "I know it's naughty, but I do enjoy teasing him. He says it brightens his morning, and starts the day right. That makes me happy. But it's harmless. Flirting, that's all."

On another occasion, she wore a midriff-baring top, and I had to say something.

"Oh hon," she said, "of course you're right. This isn't appropriate for the office. I have another top, for when I go in."

"Then why wear it?"

"Mark of course," she said. "He's got a big case coming up, and I wanted to give him some inspiration."

"I'm really not comfortable with that," I said. "It's not just Mark, I don't think you should be on the subway dressed like that."

"Honey," she said, "you should see how some of the women on the subway dress."

"It's still a bit much," I complained.

She nodded.

"You're right, no problem," she said. "I'll change."

&&&

"How did it go?" I asked her that evening.

"Oh terrific," she laughed. "I flashed him my panties. He was shocked. We had a great laugh about it. It totally made his day. Just the right way to start."

There was often a weird sense of dislocation. Her rides with Mark were first thing in the morning. But I only heard about them at the end of the day, if I heard about them.

It felt to me like he had her to himself all day.

I would imagine the way she smiled when he sat down, their animated conversations, the little bits of intimacy. Did their hips and thighs touch? He was a big man. He must crowd out of his seat.

Ayla talked with her hands, gesturing, waving, touching. She smiled and grinned and sparkled. I imagined her touching his hand, his arm as they chatted. Did he ever touch her back?

She showed him her panties? How? Did she stand up to flash him? Pull to give him a look? Did she tease, whisper to him what was coming? I wanted to know every detail.

But I already knew too much.

&&&

After that, she became provocative. She'd come home and excitedly tell me about her flirtation. How she'd flashed her stockings, or her panties, or given him a deep look into her cleavage, or a glimpse of naked thigh.

She's laugh about it, talking about how surprised and delighted he was each time.

How once she'd actually sat on his lap.

"You sat on his lap?" I spat out my cereal.

"There was a little old lady," she said. "It was really crowded, we were all wedged in like sardines. Standing room only, we were all packed in and she looked so sad and tired. So I stood up to offer my seat, and Mark, of course, was a gentleman, so he stood up at the same time. It was actually pretty funny."

"Yes," I agreed tonelessly. "Funny."

"It was very cute, actually," she told me. "Anyway, we gave the old lady my seat, and then Mark had the idea that he could sit too, and then I'd sit on his lap. So that's what we did."

"Wow."

"She was a nice little old lady, I talked with her all the way. Mark didn't have much to say, but the old lady, Deb, we got on like a house on fire. After Mark got off on his stop, we kept chatting away, right to the end of the line where we got off together. I helped her up the stairs. It was nice."

"That was really very sweet of you," I said. "I'm glad you helped out the old lady."

"I think I gave him an erection," she confided, with an evil glee.

She giggled. And her next words made it worse.

"It felt like he was pretty big!"

&&&

Your wife sits on another man's lap and feels his erection. There's no way that I could let that pass. But I didn't know how to bring it up. Finally, after two more days, when she was talking about Mark, I broke down.

"About you sitting on his lap," I began.

"You mean today?" Ayla asked.

She sat on his lap again today?

"Oh honey," she said, "it was just that the car filled up fast, and there were no seats for Mark. So rather than have him stand right in front of me, where I would be staring at his... you know, I suggested he take my seat, and I sit on his lap."

Wait, I thought. What?

"So you were sitting down," I said carefully. "And you got up, so he could sit, and you could sit on his lap? I don't know about that Ayla."

"Honey," she said, "you're being unreasonable. Was he supposed to sit on my lap? He's huge! That wouldn't have worked."

"Well," I complained, "he didn't have to sit at all!"

"Oh," she said, "and then standing he's looming over me. And worse, his pants are practically in my face and I can't help looking at his genital area. I'd rather not do that often."

Wait! Not often? How many times had that happened?

She stopped, and thought.

"Honey, what's wrong? Something is bothering you."

Her eyes were full of concern.

"Uhm..." I hesitated. "The other time you sat on his lap..."

"Yes, when I was talking with the old lady... Was there something about that?"

"You... uhn... said you made him hard, and he was... big."

"Oh that!" she laughed. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Mark was so embarrassed. Practically ashamed. I was just so engaged talking to the old lady, Deb, that I guess I was moving around on his lap, and he reacted without my even noticing. He stopped talking, he was blushing and nervous, and I kept trying to bring him into the conversation. He looked so uncomfortable and awkward, and I had no idea it was my fault."

She continued.

"I didn't realize until the end, when I figured out what I was sitting on. And then when he sat up to leave at his stop, it was right in front of my face and practically busting out of his pants. The poor man, he was trying to cover it with a newspaper."

"He apologized the next day. He felt absolutely terrible about it."

She paused.

"You don't think I did it deliberately, do you? That would be crazy. I'm married to you. I wouldn't go around deliberately touching other men. I didn't even notice for most of it. I only touched it by accident, as he was standing up."

"It really was just funny and accidental," she said, "even if it was embarrassing for Mark."

I felt a sigh of relief. Now that she'd explained it, it sounded so innocent. A silly thing that had happened. I actually felt for Mark, having been in that sort of embarrassing situation myself back in high school.

Wait, did she say she touched it?

Ayla threw her arms around me and gave me a hug.

"I'm so sorry you took the wrong impression and it got you upset. I should have been paying more attention to you."

I hugged her back and decided to just let it go.

"I'm sorry I got upset."

"It was funny," she said. "Deb noticed too. I think she appreciated it much more than I did. She was such a card. She told me that Mark and I made a great couple."

&&&

"Honey, I'm home," Ayla called.

They were messing around with my shifts gain, but now at least, I could be home when Ayla arrived. I'd had the chance to clean up around the apartment and plan out a wonderful dinner. Leaving the kitchen, I walked into the living room, took her in my arms and kissed her.

"Now that's the kind of welcome I love," Ayla purred, as our bodies pressed together.

Something was odd. I looked down, her button up, red silk, blouse had the first few buttons undone, exposing cleavage, and something more...

"Wait," I said, "are you wearing a bra?"

"No silly!" she giggled. "No bra today! I went to work without it. It was so liberating!"

"Really?" I asked. "You weren't self conscious? I suppose it's okay. But..."

The red blouse wasn't tight by any means, it hung loose on her body, and it was in no way sheer the way you could sometimes see bra colors or straps through some blouses.

"They're uncomfortable sometimes, you know. And I'm always so repressed. I just decided to go free today. I can't tell you what a relief it was. I was nervous at first, but then I just relaxed..."

Her breasts were full, and if she moved in a certain way, they might move and reveal more than intended.

"Someone might have noticed," I pointed out.

"So what if they did," she said boldly. "Oh relax, no one noticed, except Mark, and even there I had to tell him before he noticed."

Again, that shiver.

"You told him?"

"It was his idea, silly," she said.

"His idea?" I asked nervously.

"Oh yeah," Ayla replied. "We were just talking like always. Flirting a little. And he told me he never wears underwear, and how free and comfortable he feels. He said I should try going without a bra one day."

She stepped back, swinging her shoulders slightly left and right, grinning and undoing a button.

"So I thought about it, and thought about it, for a few days," she said. Another button undone. I couldn't tear my eyes away.

"And I decided to give it a try!"

Another button, she was practically open in front of me, the blouse revealing her cleavage all the way to the undersides of her breast.

"Do you think I'm bad?" she teased. Another button went.

"Perhaps I want to be bad for you?" She took my hand and slid it up into her opened blouse, her nipple was already hard.

"Do you approve?"

What could I say?

"I definitely approve, fondling her breasts now with both hands.

"Yay," she said, "that's two votes for no bra! Let's go upstairs and show me how much you approve."

Giggling, she raced up the steps, and I followed after her eagerly.

It was only much later, that it occurred to me - he'd told her he didn't wear underwear?

&&&

The next day she wore a bra, and a very tight top. And the day after. The third day, end of the week, she wore a loose blouse and no bra.

The next week, she didn't bother at all, leaving the bra at home. At first, she opted for loose solid tops, but towards the end of the week... well there were buttons, and buttons were slightly undone. She finished Friday with a scandalously tight long sleeve black turtleneck. Nothing was exposed, but it was very clear that it was her.. Natural assets.

I wasn't entirely sure about this innovation. I enjoyed it, of course, when she came home. She was more ebullient, more cheerful, this bit of mild daring seemed to leave her in a perpetually ecstatic mood. She danced as she walked, we sang together, twirled around each other.

I took every opportunity, of course, to grope her, to feel her up, to remind her and show my appreciation, and she basked happily in my attention.

Of course, in the back of my mind, there was the thought that Mark was also a beneficiary of her free-breasts state, and her elevated mood. In the face of her happiness, it was such a petty little quibble, I was almost ashamed to think of it.

One day, as we were playing and flirting, I was kissing her neck as she giggled, and I whispered.

"Maybe one of these days you'll go without panties?"

Ayla laughed happily.

"I've been thinking about it," she replied, surprising me.

"But if I do," she continued, "you'll be the first to know!"

A musical giggle.

"Or maybe the second!"

&&&

Her clothes got tighter and more revealing. Her skirts and dresses became so short that when she sat, you could easily see the tops of stockings, and sometimes bare skin above them. She started wearing high heels.

When I mentioned that this might be a little much, she simply laughed sweetly. I didn't have the heart to provoke a discussion.

Mark, of course, only encouraged this. Every other conversation seemed to begin with how much Mark liked this outfit or that, how her legs looked especially good in those particular stockings.

Sometimes, she revealed, he ran his hand along her leg to feel the texture of the particular brand of stocking.

She'd giggle as she'd tell me about how she would casually undo an extra button or two while they sat together chatting away, enjoying his attention, and sometimes even his discomfort as was forced to adjust his pants.

I couldn't help it, I had to ask.

"He's black," I said. "Very dark?"

"Oh very! His grandparents were from Kenya," she said. "He showed me their pictures on his phone. Very nice people."

It disturbed me how much she knew about his life.

"I've heard that black men are very well endowed."

She shrugged.

"I wouldn't know, I never paid attention to that kind of thing. Except Mark of course. Very hard not to notice - every time he stands up, there it is inside his pants. If he's even a little bit excited, it's very noticeable."

"Is he often excited," I asked.

Ayla smiled impishly.

"I do like to tease him now and again, I enjoy it so much," she confided. "The poor dear has no one in his life, so he's very susceptible. I think he likes a little tease, I'll be so disappointed when he finds someone. I'm surprised he hasn't already."

I couldn't help it.

"How endowed do you think he is?" I asked. "More than me?"

Her eyes opened wide with surprise, and she uttered a peel of delighted laughter. But I could take no offence as there wasn't a trace of malice.

"You're jealous!" she said. "Oh my darling sweetheart, there's no need. You're the only one for me, and that will never change. Anyway, it's not even a contest!"

And so, I was relieved, for the moment. But afterwards, I couldn't help thinking back on our conversation, and her final words. 'It's not even a contest.' What had she meant by that?

Perhaps this was my mistake. Perhaps this was my undoing, the moment I opened a door, or set our feet upon a path to ruin. Maybe if I had held my insecurity in check, it would have been all right.

Or maybe it was already too late.

She had stopped wearing panties, and had been doing so for a week before she thought to mention it to me.

She'd told Mark the minute he sat next to her on the first morning she'd gone without.

&&&

We were laying in bed cuddling after having made love.

"Honey?" Ayla asked thoughtfully.

"Mmmm?"

"What would you think if my pussy was shaved?"

That got my attention. Ayla had a lovely soft blonde pubic thatch, but sometimes it went untrimmed. Shaving?

"That's... exciting. Where did this come from?"

"Mark suggested it," she said. "He knows I go commando these days. He's always teasing me about it, trying to get me to show him. Well, I gave him a little peek. Nothing risque, just loosened the top of my skirt and held my breath, and he saw the hair, and he suggested that you would love it if was shaved."

She gave him a peek?

"He said 'I' would love it?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied, "he said all men love a bald pussy, so he knew you would too. He said it would energize our sex life."

She took my hand, guiding it down between her legs, drawing my fingers through her golden down.

"Would it excite you, if I was smooth," she whispered.

But her free hand, on my penis, already gave her the answer, the way I hardened.

I swallowed.

"He had another idea for you," she said, "he thought you might like it if..."

I waited, she was almost giddy.

"If you were to do the shaving. He said a lot of couples did that, and it brought them together."

I was speechless.

"What do you think, honey?" she whispered. "Do you want to shave me bald?"

"Now?"

She smiled flirtatiously.

"Why not?"

Well, I jumped out of bed and ran for the scissors and razors and shaving cream. She sat on the edge of the bed with her legs spread wide, and I knelt in front of her. She was so incredibly wet when I touched her. I went down right away, and after she came, I clipped away the long hair with scissors, then carefully applied shaving cream and scraped until she was smooth. I cleaned her off with a damp facecloth, dried her and applied moisturizer, and then my tongue, taking her to ecstasy again.

My cock was raging throughout.

"Take me, sweetheart," she cried, "take me smooth, I want to feel you."

I thrust inside her, so excited I came in a minute.

But it didn't matter. We embraced each other, laughing like excited children, rolling around on the bed. I brought a mirror so she could see, and she watched herself touching herself in it, parting her lips and teasing her clit. I was hard three or four more times, and each time, we had sex. When I wasn't in her, my face was between her legs.

&&&

The night being a spectacular success, it turns out that Mark heard all about it the very next morning.

That evening, Ayla told me how pleased he was that he had made this contribution to our sex life. She said it made him feel like he was a part of our relationship.

I was relieved when she volunteered that she hadn't given him another peek.

I felt odd about these intimate details being shared with him, a complete stranger. It felt transgressive that a man I had never met should hear so much about our sex life. I imagined Ayla relating it to him, with her customary enthusiasm.

I imagined Ayla, in her tight red dress, no bra, no panties, her pussy freshly shaved, sitting with a tall muscular black man, excitedly telling him about how her husband had shaved her bald, and how they'd had sex.

I wondered if she'd been wet when she talked about it.

&&&

Ayla, it seemed, kept few secrets from her Subway buddy. A steady sexual undercurrent had slipped into their relationship, from her occasionally sitting on his lap, to his glimpses of bare leg above stocking, or deep cleavage. There was flirting. He put a hand on her thigh

I confessed to her that these things sometimes made me uncomfortable.

It was hard not to show my insecurity. It came out in remarks, in pauses, in nervous hesitations.

I wondered aloud if this Subway buddy arrangement was the best thing, and expressed my fears.

Ayla simply hugged me and reassured me that I was the only one for her. She would never do anything behind my back.

&&&

"Honey!" Ayla called breathlessly. "Honey, I have something to show you!"

I was in the bathroom, showering. It had been an awful day at the coffee shop. One of the roasting containers had shattered. Glass everywhere, fortunately no one was hurt. I was covered though, with thick grounds, a coffee-like sludge in my clothes and skin. I'd been allowed to leave early, to clean up.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around, and came down the stairs, dripping wet.

Ayla looked me up and down, and smiled lasciviously.

"Mmm," she said, "if you came down the stairs like that more often, I think we'd spend a lot more time going upstairs."

Maybe we should have just gone back upstairs.

Instead, I said "what's up?"

She shook herself.

"Oh right! Yes! Come on down and join me on the couch. You're going to laugh at this."

I scampered down the stairs and joined her on the couch, where we sat hip to hip. She was wearing a form fitting white dress, tight enough it was clear there was no bra, and white stockings that exposed bare thigh with her short skirt. She sat with her knees pressed firmly together.

She took her phone out of the purse, and scrolled to text messages, then covered it with her hand. She turned to me.

"I didn't realize this was a thing," she said, "I guess I've been sheltered. But apparently, a lot of men like to take pictures of their penises and share them. Sometimes with their male friends, or with women they're dating or interested in."

My heart sank. I knew what was coming.

"Mark mentioned it once," she told me, "but I thought it was gross and said so. Anyway, we're friends, only friends, and he'd never presume on our friendship to send me such a thing."

She paused.

"But the other day," she said, "as he and I were talking, I remembered our conversation and how concerned you were... well, not concerned... jealous? Curious? I didn't want to make a big deal of it. But I mentioned to him that you were interested, and if he had a picture he could share..."

Oh my god, I thought to myself. She asked for a penis picture. And she told him that I wanted it. This was a nightmare. What would he think?

"I admit," she said, "he was surprised by the request, and confused. But we had a nice long talk about it."

Worse and worse.

"And he understood. At first, he was concerned, he didn't want to make trouble for you and me, and a gentleman, especially a black gentleman, sending penis pictures to a married woman. Well, that could be taken the wrong way."

"But I reassured him that there was no perverted intent," she said, "just curiosity."

She kissed me, and took my hand.

"Once you see it, you'll feel a whole lot better. I promise," she said, "then we can put this silly thing away forever and just move on."

I smiled ruefully, not really convinced.

"Are you ready?"

I guess.

She took her hand away from the phone, and then I was looking at an image of a black man's very erect penis, cradled loosely in his hand. It was very black, and uncircumcised, very straight and thick looking. Beneath it, around it, tangles of thick dark pubic hair. It was completely intimidating.

"Oh!" I said.

"See," she said, "it's really very ordinary. Except for its size."

As I looked, I realized he was holding one of those tall beer cans beside it for comparison in his free hand. It was quite close, thick as the can, but taller. I was sick to my stomach.

"Is that real?" I asked weekly.

She shrugged.

"I think so, I can't say for sure," she said. "I've never actually seen it all. Just sort of the shape of it in his pants. So it could be fake, but I don't think so. I think it's authentic."

My heart was racing.

"Wow," I said. I was sweating, my heart racing, fight or flight reflex kicking in just looking at it. Fight? Who was I kidding? I wanted to run away from that thing. But I couldn't stop staring at it. Her remark came unbidden to my mind. "That's hard to compete with."

"Sweety!" She was noticing my reaction, and looking quite concerned, my reaction wasn't what she had expected it seems.

"I guess it's true what they... That looks really big."

She put an arm around me and put the phone down.

"Honey," she said, "relax. It's just a silly picture."

"It's real."

"Of course it's real," she said, "but it's silly."

"It looks pretty serious," I said.

A black man had just given my wife a picture of his gigantic cock this morning. She'd had it on her phone all day, looking at it and looking at it. I felt dizzy.

"Oh honey," she said. "You don't have to worry. It's all okay. I showed you this so you wouldn't be jealous."

I barked an involuntary laugh.

" It would never happen. It couldn't happen. Look, here..."

She pulled out a sheet of paper, and the calculator function on her phone.

"It's so much bigger than me," I whimpered.

"Yes, she said. He told me his measurements. I asked. It was quite embarrassing for both of us, but he understood, I needed it for you. He's about eight inches, and going by the beer can - I looked it up - his circumference is about seven or eight inches."

"Okay," I said. That wasn't making it better.

"Now you, remember when I had that measuring tape from my sewing kit...."

I winced.

"You're four inches, and a little over three inches circumference. Call it three and a half. And entirely enough to satisfy me completely. We talked about this. All the nerve endings for a woman are in the first third of the vagina? You have what counts, all the rest is unnecessary surplus."

We'd had that conversation. But now it felt hollow and false, a lie we'd told each other to escape what suddenly felt like crippling inadequacy.

"Look," she said. "It's simple. Volume of a cylinder. Four inches erect, and three and a half in circumference. Find the radius from the circumference, then square the radius, multiply by length, then pi, gets volume. You have a total volume of about four cubic inches... give or take."

She smiled brightly.

My sweetheart was always a math whiz, she knew formulas forwards and backward. She could have done this in her head, but she wanted to mark up a piece of paper to show me so I could verify her work.

"Okay, now him? You can see from the picture, the comparison, he's almost as thick as a beer can - a slender one. That's a seven to eight inch circumference. Find the radius. Then eight inch length. Apply the formula... And voila! The volume of his penis is thirty-nine cubic inches."

"Somehow that doesn't make me feel better," I told her sullenly.

"Honey!" she cried eagerly, "Don't you see!"

"I see how much bigger he is," I replied.

"He's not just bigger! He's ten times your size! His penis has ten times your volume. That's not bigger, that's orders of magnitude. That's a completely different creature from you. It's apples and oranges honey! Or apples and freight containers! Don't you get it!"

She paused.

"It's crazy, think of the mass. Human flesh is less than two thirds of an ounce per cubic inch. Point six. Now, a penis, probably heavier with rigidity and blood saturation. For you, that works out to less than three ounces. For him, over two pounds!"

"Two pounds!" she exclaimed. "That's practically a baby's weight! That would be like putting a whole baby back up into a woman, repeatedly!"

"I'm built for your penis! Yours fits me! I couldn't take something ten times your size. It could never fit. It's physically impossible. It's ridiculous. We can never be anything more than friends, him and I. A sexual relationship is completely inconceivable. You're worried for nothing."

She kissed me enthusiastically. It made sense in a weird sort of way. My heart was still pounding, but perhaps the most important thing was her conviction. She really didn't see it as a realistic sexual object, but more as an impossible freakish parody.

She and I fit together, as we'd proven many happy and delightful times.

No way he'd ever get that thing in her. Not in a thousand years.

I smiled wanly back at her.

"I guess if you say so," I said carefully. "I'm convinced. If he really is that big?"

"Oh no!" she said enthusiastically, her eyes wide. She nodded emphatically. "He really is that big. I've seen it."

"What?" I said. "How, you just said?"

She'd seen his actual physical penis? When? Where? Surely not on the train? Had they gone somewhere, where he could take it out privately? Had she touched it? I felt sick to my stomach again.

"Silly!" she said. "How foolish do you think I am? Of course I saw it. I wasn't going to take his word on just a picture. I made him unzip his trousers, so I could see it."

"You said," I remembered, "that you'd only seen his pants. It poking in his pants."

"Something this important to you," she said, "I wanted proof. It wasn't out or anything, and I could only see a little of it."

"Oh," I said weakly.

"Now," she said sweetly, "take down your pants and let's get you nice and hard. I need to take a picture of yours for him."

"What?"

"Well, Mark was really concerned. He felt it awkward to give up a picture like that without getting anything in return. So he made me promise, if he gave me a picture of his, I would show him a picture of yours. Of course, I didn't have any of that. So I had to promise to get one..."

She beamed at me.

"Silly, isn't it," she said. "But it was worth promising, so I could set your mind at rest."

She looked at me.

"Otherwise, it just wouldn't be fair!"

"At least," I said, searching for some light in this dark tunnel, "he didn't ask for a picture of yours."

Ayla giggled.

"Well," she said, "he did ask. But I had no such pictures."

Pause.

"So I just showed him!"

&&&

To say that I was upset and showed it, does not do things justice. She had exposed herself to another man? It took her a moment to calm me down. She reassured me it was the quickest flash, he would have seen practically nothing, a bare subliminal impression.

Besides, he already knew she was smooth and hairless now. What was the harm?

And remember, he had embarrassed himself for us himself for my sake. He had literally exposed himself on the subway, and shared some very private pictures.

I relented.

&&&

And now, the tables were turned. Ayla took me to the bedroom and insisted on my nudity. She was entirely demanding, relentless in her exuberance and cheer.

At first, I was fitful, reluctant. Thoroughly intimidated. There's no other possible state to experience, when you're exposed to an erection twice the length, triple the girth and ten times the volume of your own. Your cock measures in ounces, his in pounds. How is a man to cope with that?

But Ayla was irresistible. There were kisses and coaxing, and my clothes fell away. She went nude herself. I went down on her, and then she on me. We sixty-nined.

Her touch was full of love and joy, and I could see in her eyes the pleasure looking at my body gave her.

By degrees, I stopped thinking about Mark, and more about us. I became hard.

Slowly, my shame dropped away for the woman I loved. I spread my legs and held myself open for her. With her encouragement, it became exciting, even sensual.

Slowly, I found pride in my steadfast four inches, it's perfect fit to her vagina, the way it could bring her joy in minutes.

I displayed myself wantonly, while she giggled and cheered me on, and took her fill of pictures. We experimented with poses and positions, full body and graphically close. I even posed my pale pink erection with an object for comparison - a salt shaker from the kitchen table, something that, somehow we found hilarious.

My boundaries broken, I asked to take pictures of her, and she eagerly agreed, posing in any wanton way I asked. I took close up pictures of vagina, having her hold her lips open or stroke her clit. Images of her licking her fingertips. Spreading her legs with and giving teasing expressions. On all fours. With her face in the pillows and ass up.

We laughed endlessly, we flirted and teased. We sucked each other, me her vagina, and her my cock. I came in her mouth, and she came over and over on my face. We cuddled and rolled and snuggled.

And finally, exhausted, we just basked in each other's presence.

I found I didn't care about how much bigger Mark was than me. Ayla's graphic calculations had allayed my logical side. But the emotional side? That question was solved by the pure love we shared.

As I fell asleep, I mused how odd it was that her Subway Confidant had so revitalized our sex life, had added such spark and zest. He was not a threat, but an inspirer.

I promised myself to be a better man, to put myself beyond racism, insecurity, jealous, all the demons that haunt us. To accept that I was loved, and to give back all the love I had.

&&&

Of course, Ayla reported that he complained of being cheated. Not harsh, not bitterly. It became a running gag between the two of them.

So she took one of the pictures I took of her, and gave it to him one morning. An image of her smooth vagina, lips parted, moisture visible, clitoris clearly erect.

She revealed her act, and she showed the one to me later on, that evening. I asked why she hadn't shown me first, or told me of her intention before she even took the picture.

Cheerfully, she explained, it had been a completely spur of the moment impulse. She noted that I would have been upset and objected. I could only agree.

But for her, this represented a balancing of the scales between us - all three had now shared our pictures.

Me of my pathetic humiliation, him of his magnificent pride, and her... of her... excitement.

Still, her love was solid.

And if, from time to time, she seemed to hint that was not the only picture she might have shared... well, I did not want to ask.

&&&

"You know that I showed him a picture of you," she said. "I mean, why wouldn't I show him a picture of my darling husband, the man I'm in love with, forever and ever. So he could see how beautiful you are to me."

I looked up with my 'deer in the headlights' look. I was wearing that quite a lot these days.

Which picture? A regular picture? From our wedding, of me clothed, of regular activities.

Or was it from the series where I had posed nude, where she had coaxed me into masturbating to full erection. Why bring it up now?

"Oh?" I asked. "Which picture?"

She smiled.

"Honey! Why do you always look so worried? He liked the picture. He thought you were very handsome."

"Oh."

She pulled at her lip thoughtfully.

"Actually, he didn't use the word 'handsome.'"

"Oh?"

"The word he used was 'pretty.' He thought you were very pretty. Pretty... Handsome... same thing really," she said confidently.

"I see."

It wasn't the same thing.

"He thought you had good bone structure," she said. "He was very complimentary. Exquisite bone structure. Delicate, he said. It was all very positive... and complimentary."

"Uh huh," I replied, blushing.

"Oh," she said, "and I've been meaning to mention... I showed him the other picture, or I suppose pictures, I took of your erect penis and things?"

"Pictures?" I asked. "More than one."

"Not many," she said, "just enough for him to get a sense of you."

"Close ups?"

"Yes."

"The salt shaker?"

"Yes, that too."

I was sweating, thinking of the other close ups, and the images of my nude body. Surely she wouldn't have shown those? Hopefully not too many?

"I see," I said, with nothing else to offer.

"He thought it was cute," she said. "He was quite impressed. He said it looked just like a real cock. Very dainty, he said. He thought it was nice, and told me I was a lucky woman to have a husband like you."

"Thanks," I said uncertainly.

"Just one thing?" she said.

"Yes?" I said even more uncertainly.

"He made a suggestion, it was a while back. I've not been sure how to bring it up. But..."

Cold dread settled over me.

"Go ahead sweetheart."

"He thought your pubic hair was rather unsightly, sparse and uneven, the hairs too long, it made you look smaller in comparison, and unkempt."

"I see...."

"He suggested that since you're shaving me, I should return the favor and shave you. It would be a couples thing, he said, to bring us closer together. And he thought I might enjoy you more that way... And to be honest, it is unsightly."

"And..."

"I'm actually quite intrigued. I've actually been sitting on it for a while, not sure how to bring it up. I didn't want to offend you. But he asked me to ask."

"Oh," I said, "so you didn't show him all the pictures just now?"

The idea that it wasn't fresh, that it was from a week or so ago that he'd looked, that he didn't have them now and they were not fresh, was like a balm. Small comforts, I suppose. I breathed with relief.

"You want to shave me?"

I had shaved her now over a dozen times. Each time, it was a delight. To be made hairless, I supposed, was an emasculation. Was this a trap? But Mark's advice had only enlivened our lives. I decided to trust.

"Let's try."

It was an exquisite experience to be handled so lovingly. This time I sat at the edge of the bed with legs wide, while she knelt. Her touch was supple, gentle, she explored me in ways I had never imagined. I was hard every second, leaking copiously. I watched as she efficiently swept every hair way, made me smooth and velvet. She finished me in her mouth, and I blew like a volcano.

Again, that night, our sex was energetic and breathless.

&&&

The humiliating thing was that he was absolutely right. It's true, I had some trepidation being shaved. It was a learning experience for her. There were a few shaving cuts. But there was also a sensual pleasure in being touched there, handled and fondled, a kind of joyful intimacy that I relished more than I realized.

Afterwards, I confess, it looked so strange to be hairless down there. She'd rendered me completely bald

&&&

For a while, everything went back to normal, or as normal as it could be. We shaved each other smooth, each time glorying in the exploration of each other's bodies, finding delight and arousal. We made joyful love each time, endlessly. We walked naked around the house, reveling in the sight of each other. She dressed for me in lingerie, in impromptu fashion shows.

We chased each other around the rooms, giggling madly. We sang to each other.

Sometimes, when she slept, I'd wake and just watch her, drinking in her beauty and innocence. How could I ever doubt her?

Ayla's wardrobe became more provocative, the clothes tighter and more revealing, the skirts shorter, the blouses low cut, the fabric making it clear she was without a bra.

As provocative as she could get away with at the office. Or couldn't get away with. She reported twice that she'd been criticized for her clothes, and had to dial back.

She took to wearing jackets and coats, stylish, but which concealed when she wore. Daringly she bared her midriff once or twice and got away with it.

She wore fishnet stockings to work, laughing at the eyebrows it raised, and how much Mark had enjoyed running his hands along them.

Every evening, she'd come home and relate her day, always talking about Mark, what he'd said, how they flirted, their conversation in detail.

She had to sit on his lap occasionally, but always told me about those occasions. She'd squirm on him, twisting about as they flirted, occasionally his hand might accidentally touch her breast.

Neither of them wore underwear, it amused her to talk about how only two thin layers of cloth were between them.

I didn't find it funny at all.

She laughed and simply hugged me. Then she led me off to bed, and all my fears and insecurity vanished away...

Until, inevitably, they returned.

&&&

"He had a suggestion?"

"Oh."

"For our sex life."

"I see," I said. Inwardly I flinched. Somehow, a man I had never met, a black man, continually made me feel off balance and inadequate.

Even if he was not a sexual threat, I was jealous of the openness she seemed to have with him. Some things should be between a husband and wife.

But they talked about everything it seemed. I struggled with it, not wanting to appear jealous.

I tried to think of it as a girlfriends-style relationship. Besties. BFF - Best Friends Forever, sitting together on the subway, laughing and giggling, sharing everything, especially secrets.

It almost worked, and then I would think of the pictures of him at the beach, and of his immense endowment, that her BFF was a 6'4", muscular, athletic, accomplished black man. And somehow, I couldn't quite convince myself that everything was okay.

I couldn't quite put away my insecurity.

&&&

"I flashed him," she said carefully. She watched my reaction with concern.

"Excuse me?"

"It was an accident," she told me. "The subway was crowded, and I'd gotten on first as usual. Well, it filled right up, and the seats next to me were taken. All of the seats were taken by the time he got on."

I stared. She licked her lips nervously.

"So anyway, I got up, to give him my seat..."

"So you could sit on his lap?" I asked.

She nodded. A brief flicker of a smile.

"Well," she said, "as I was turning around towards him, to say something, just before I sat down... my skirt lifted accidentally and..."

"You flashed him?"

She nodded, her expression sad.

"He saw... everything?"

She blushed, her head bobbing as she nodded. She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

All I could think was: She didn't wear underwear!

"Everything!" she whispered, her voice almost breaking.

"I was so embarrassed!" she whispered, on the edge of tears. "Right out there in the open. He looked right at it."

"We were both embarrassed," she continued. "I couldn't possibly sit on his lap. I decided I had to stand. I didn't know what to say. He felt awkward too. He stood and insisted that I sit. He was a gentleman like always."

My mind was all over the place. She'd sat, and he stood in front of her. Her eyes at the level of his hips.

"It ruined the whole ride," she said. "We couldn't talk. We couldn't even look at each other."

"Oh Jay," she said, "this ruins everything. We're not that kind of friends. I feel horrible. I don't know that I can ever sit beside him again. I feel like I've lost someone over a stupid mistake."

Mistake? I thought. Not accident? But still, she was upset, and It pained me to see her like this.

"Hon," I said, "it's okay. It's okay. It was just an accident, that's all. No big deal. I'm sure he's seen lots..."

Just not my wife's.

"And you said he was a very... forgiving. I'm sure he understands it was an accident," I assured her.

"I just don't know," she said sadly. "I worry that he'll get the wrong idea."

"He won't," I assured her.

She wiped away a tear, and smiled at me.

"Really?"

"It will be okay," I promised.

He'd seen her pussy, I thought. She'd flashed him, not an accident, a mistake. Then she sat, while he stood in front of her, his crotch at her eye level. All these things went through my mind, and I buried them all, because she was upset and vulnerable, and she needed my unconditional love.

Inwardly, I was relieved.

It felt like she had been shocked into an awareness. A shock therapy had interrupted the slow drift of their friendship and flirting. Had woken her. It reassured me.

Perhaps now Mark would not be part of our lives? Or his place in her life would be more restricted? Confined within manageable borders?

Or even gone completely? I could only hope.

And it sort of worked. For three days, they did not sit together, awkwardly and nervously maintaining distance. She started wearing panties again.

But then, at the end of the week, they sat awkwardly side by side, barely daring to look at each other.

I listened as she related her discomfort, her nervousness and ambivalence. She was genuinely upset, and it spilled over into her work in slight ways, and into our home life. She was restless, feeling guilty and regretful.

Then through the next week, the ice thawed, they began speaking. They warmed, chattered, gossiped. Soon they were back to their old friendship, prattling away, laughing and flirting.

By the next week, she'd stopped wearing panties again.

&&&

The suggestion.

"Tantric play!" Ayla said, as we laid together, cuddling on the couch. "We don't have sex with each other all week."

"That doesn't sound like fun," I said. Since our recent experiments with pictures and shaving, our sex lives had taken on a wonderful vitality.

"But it is," Ayla twisted on top of me, reaching down to tease me to urgent hardness. "Here's how it works. We do everything. Except penetration. Or oral insertion. Or coming. Those three are off the list. Everything else? We play with each other constantly, we get naked, we rub, we touch, we tease. We spend all week doing that. And then on the weekend...."

"So we wait for the weekend to have sex?" I asked.

"Exactly."

"Why?"

"It's all about anticipation!" she blurted. "Erotic tension. It's about heightening desire."

"My desire is already at heights for you," I tried to flirt my way out.

She laughed and kissed me.

"We should try!"

I had been looking forward to sex tonight.

"Can we start tomorrow?"

"Silly! What's the harm?"

"The harm is no sex tonight," I pointed out quite reasonably.

But she wore me down, and in the end, I agreed to this game.

&&&

There is something about not having something that makes you want it. We discovered together that this applied to sex. Sometimes, we had gone a week or more without sex, too tired, too distracted, life in our way.

Now that it was off the table, I could think of nothing else but her pussy. When she spoke or smiled or laughed, I'd stare at her lips and imagine them around my cock. Every movement, every gesture, seemed drenched with sexual tension, with invitation and denial.

Ayla felt the same, she had the urge to tease me, to rub herself against me. Her wardrobe became even more provocative and risque, and I was elated because I knew that this time it was for me. We kissed constantly, even small pecks would turn into marathon sessions.

I was erect more than a dozen times a day. When she came home, Ayla's first act was to run her hands along my trousers, or to lift her skirt to expose herself to me. We handled and licked each other's private parts. We had an insatiable urge to bring each other as close to orgasm as we could bear.

When the weekend finally arrived, we were ravenous. We made love a half dozen times Friday evening, Five times all day Saturday. Three times Sunday.

The love making was joyful, frantic, we couldn't get enough of each other.

Her BFF Mark had steered us right

&&&

"I told him all about our weekend," she said.

I knew that she would. Ayla kept absolutely no secrets from Mark, that had become clear.

"It turns out, we'd made a huge mistake."

I wasn't sure what to say. A mistake? It had been perfect. More than that, it had been amazing. It had been the greatest weekend of my life.

"We were only supposed to do it once!" She explained. "Not a bunch of times. That's proper Tantric."

"What?" I asked, confused, and not happy with what I was hearing.

"Yeah," she said. "It's Tantric, something about channeling the bodies chi, doing it a bunch of times dissipates the sexual energy, makes it cheap and casual, so it doesn't mean as much. The way it's supposed to happen is you save up for the whole week, and you do it once, knowing that it can only be once, so you appreciate it so much more, and there's so much more sexual intensity."

"I don't know," I said desperately. "The weekend was great. Why can't we just do that again..."

"I promised him I'd get it right this time..." she said. "He was so disappointed. He blamed himself for not explaining Tantric properly."

"Well," I said, "I'd rather... I mean, I just think it would be better if--"

"I promised," she cut me off, stubbornly.

She promised. Fuck.

Ayla absolutely lives by her promises. That was why I had such faith in her. She'd promised to love me forever. She promised that she would never go behind my back. And with every fiber of my being, I believed and relied, I lived her promise. So if she'd made a promise to Mark, well, that was the end of it.

She made a promise to an absolute stranger about our sex lives.

Well, a stranger to me. He was her best friend, and knew everything about her, she had confessed every secret, every urge, had taken his guidance and suggestions over and over. She'd seen his penis, showed him her vagina.

Still, the thought of Mark's influence over us filled me with dread and disquiet. What right did he have to exact promises from her? Or force them on us? Wasn't this private, between the two of us?

Maybe I could talk to her about it.

&&&

Next Saturday, finally, came time for sex according to Mark.

I had been going mad all week, the understanding that instead of a weekend of sex, there would only be one single encounter, ratcheted up our feeling and teasing to insane levels.

We decided to wait until Saturday, so we could spend the entire day in bed.

I came in twelve seconds flat. In, and just a few thrusts, desperate with pent up tension from the entire week, frustrated at having our sex lives dictated, knowing this would be the only opportunity.

The orgasm was like an explosion of white light tearing me to pieces. My vision blotted out, I couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think. It was the strongest come of my life.

Afterwards, I lay gasping for breath, Ayla curled up against my, cuddling, stroking my hair and kissing my cheek softly. She laid a palm on my chest.

"Wow," she said, "I can still feel your heart pounding away? Intense?"

I nodded, still panting. I was deeply ashamed at my performance, if it could even be called that.

"Intense," I forced out.

"I guess Mark was right," she said. I hated hearing that name in this intimate moment. "Aren't you glad I kept my promise?"

"I... I guess," I said, feeling forced to agree, but hating it.

She laid her head on my chest.

"I love you so much," she said. "I'm so glad I could give you this."

Twelve seconds, I thought, with a mixture of shame and disappointment. An orgasm like a nuclear explosion, yes. But twelve lousy seconds of sex, and then no more.

"I love you too," I swallowed. "I'm so sorry."

She lifted her head and kissed me.

"Sorry," she asked with genuine openness, "whatever for? I loved how hard you came, how intense it was for you."

Despite my shame, I felt her absolute and unconditional love.

"But I didn't last, you didn't come," I worried.

She laughed.

"Oh shush...!" she said. "You're worth it. You know you're worth it. You're everything to me."

"But you didn't..."

"Yeah, well..."

"We should both come," I said urgently. "I think that's the rule. If I came it doesn't mean you can't."

She bit her lip thoughtfully.

"What are you thinking?"

Carefully, I slid my hand down between her legs, parting her lips, drawing a finger tip up. Oh my god, she was so incredibly wet. Like me, the erotic tension had been building all week. She was dripping.

She sighed, and her eyelids fluttered.

"Ohhh," she whispered. "I think I know."

"Yes," I said.

"Well," she whispered, "I think it's all right. Technically. Within the rules..."

But I was already going down, my tongue slipping between her folds. She arched her back.

I did my best to make it last for her. But keyed up as she was, she didn't last at all.

Afterwards, we faced the week of sexual torture.

&&&

"Honey?"

"Mmmm,"

It was Monday, after. The first day back at work. First day back on the subway.

"I checked with him."

"Oh?" Of course she would. I knew she would. Resentment flickered, but by now it was pretty worn out. I'd expected this all weekend.

"He says it was just fine," she told me, "the way we did it. Absolutely fine. We can keep doing it."

"Great!" I only had to fake my enthusiasm a little.

"We can do it that way, if it happens again..."

She meant another twelve second ejaculation, but was too nice, too loving to say it out loud.

If he'd told her something else, if he'd said 'no' or 'do something different' or 'cut him off for longer' she'd have done that, instead. Fine. Whatever. At least this was something. It could have been worse.

It probably would be.

&&&

Mark had a solution for me, as it turns out.

"He gave me a gift to give to you," she said. "He's so thoughtful! He's never even met you, he just knows you through me. But he cares. He really cares."

She hands the package to me.

"Special order," she said proudly. "He made sure they were your size."

My size? I winced.

I opened the box. Condoms in foil wrapped packages. I didn't recognize the brand. The label read 'sensitivity issues.' There was something odd, they felt thicker than regular condoms, heavier.

"They're extra thick latex," she pointed out. "More than twice as thick. And the interior is coated with a film of desensitizing gel. Non-toxic! It's for men with... Err... Sensitivity issues."

Just like it said, right on the package.

"Also, he said I should go off birth control, it will help me with responsiveness."

I looked up sharply.

"He told you to go off birth control?"

She blushed and looked away.

"It was just a suggestion. He thought it would improve our sex life, let me feel better. And you'll be wearing these condoms. So..."

"So you're going to do it."

"Yes," she admitted. "Just to try it out. See how it is. You'll be wearing the condoms. So it's safe. Nothing's getting through those rubbers."

&&&

The damnable thing was, he was right. With the condom on, even with a week of abstinence and anticipation, I lasted a whole twenty-four minutes. I made her come three times in a row with just my cock. She wrapped her legs around my hips, and cried out her love and joy, and I could just about almost feel her pussy squeezing my cock through the extra thick latex and its numbing gel.

I couldn't come though. There wasn't enough sensitivity.

But afterwards, when she'd recovered, she crawled down, pulled the condom off, and gave me a long, loving blow job that seemed to last forever, gagging only a little at the foul taste of the residual gel.

Afterwards, exhausted, sated, blissful, we slept in each other's arms.

She told him all about it, because of course she would. I wasn't surprised or even annoyed, when she reported his approval back to me. There was no point. A big black man I'd never met, but whose giant penis I was now intimately aware of, was the remote Master of our sex life.

Ayla didn't see anything wrong with this. Or strange. Or unusual. Was I weird that it bothered me? To her, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

And the fucking thing was, it worked. We hadn't felt so sexual, so sensuous, so alive in years. I couldn't stop looking at her, I couldn't stop wanting her. I'd think about her at work, and I'd get hard, I got hard constantly. We phoned each other up, our voices bubbling with lust, just to hear each other, to tease and tempt. We made extravagant promises of things we'd do and how we'd do them at the end of each waiting period.

And the sex? Oh my god, it was volcanic. It was exciting, dynamic, we tried all sorts of positions, through an encounter. We made it last an hour. She came while I fucked her, sometimes multiple times. I could never come in the condom, but she always finished me off joyfully, orgasms like nuclear explosions.

Of course, sometimes we fell off the wagon. A week is a long time, and in our sexually supercharged environment, now and then, sometimes we erred. My cock found its way joyfully to her pussy. My tongue on her clitoris, or her lips around my cock head.

If anything, these lapses were even more exciting, we were captivated by the notion of our naughtiness, of breaking the rules. I didn't last long, but it was satisfying. Of course, she reported these lapses, but Mark seemed to take no issue, merely admonishing, as she apologized and promises.

He even relented, granting her a pass on clitoral orgasms, so long as there was no penetration, and as long as she didn't go entirely overboard. I was granted no such license, but to be fair, she came so much more easily than I did.

It was so good, within this strange landscape of restriction, our passions running so hot, our love so heightened, that I even tried to lie to myself. To tell myself it was a good thing after all.

But I feared that this was just the calm before the storm. A sort of training period for both of us. That eventually the big black man, with his big black cock would come to take my wife away.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'd wake up my cock breathlessly hard, and look across the bed at the sleeping love of my life, an angel, all I'd ever wanted and needed out of life, and I would wonder if she was dreaming of him.

&&&

Our fight began with a kiss.

"He kissed me," she said casually. A little too casually.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

She seemed a little nervous.

"I mean," she said, "we've kissed before. Little pecks, you know. Nothing really."

She swallowed.

"But this was a kiss," she said.

"How much of a kiss?" I demanded.

"A real kiss," she nodded.

"On the lips?" I asked.

Nodded again.

"French?"

She shook her head.

"No... not really... sort of..."

And nodded.

"A little."

"How did it happen?"

"We were just sitting," she confessed. "Talking like always. Flirting a little. His hand was on my knee. And he said something funny. I laughed. And then we kissed."

I wanted to throw up.

"He kissed you," I asked. "Or you kissed him."

"Yes," she said, guiltily. My stomach fell.

"And yes," she finished. I wanted to throw up all over again.

"Ayla," I snapped. "Come on! We're married. You're my wife. I love you. This wasn't right!"

"I know," she cried tearfully. "I know. I feel terrible."

I was becoming angry.

"You should," I said. "You should feel terrible. You crossed the line."

"I know," she whimpered. "It will never happen again."

"Not good enough," I was almost furious with hurt and jealousy. "It's not good enough. I mean, I've been patient. I've been understanding. I've tried to be tolerant. But I could see it coming. Just coming closer and closer to the edge, and not even realizing."

I took a deep breath.

"Well no more!" I said. "I don't want you to see him. Just stop. Stop everything. This has gone too far. I'm putting my foot down. It's over."

"What?" she asked, stunned.

"I don't want you to see him any more," I said.

"But... But..." she seemed confused. "It was just a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. So did he. I told you because I always want to be honest. And you want me to end my friendship?"

"I don't know that he thought it was a mistake," I said heatedly. "There have been too many mistakes, like you showing him your pussy." I was gratified by her shameful blush. "I'm not asking. I'm telling."

She seemed shocked.

"You're telling me?"

"I'm telling you."

"Over this?" she was incredulous.

"Over everything."

She looked horrified, then her expression hardened.

"How dare you!" she replied, her voice rising in pitch.

"I dare," I said, "I'm telling you. It's over."

"You dare?" she snapped, starting to become angry. "You're... you're... giving me orders? Our whole marriage, we've talked, we've made every single decision together, we've shared everything, It's always been... us. And now you're giving me orders like I was some... servant?"

"Ayla," I said, still angry, "you did wrong. You admitted it was wrong. It has to end. It's gone too far."

"You're treating me like an... object? A slave? I'm not your slave! How dare you! I didn't have to tell you. I didn't have to say anything. I could have kept it to myself."

"And kept on kissing him," I snarled. "What's next after that? You share our sex life with him. You flash him. You dress for him. You let him touch you. I'm not stupid, Ayla."

"How dare you!" She picked up a cup and flung it across the room. "I can't believe this. You think I'm stupid? You think I'm some stupid girl? A black man just looks at me, and I go to pieces?"

"It was a mistake," she yelled. "I knew it was a mistake. We both knew it was a mistake. It's never going to happen again, I decided that right then and there. He agreed we would never do it again, and even if he hadn't agreed, it wouldn't matter. Because it was never going to happen again."

"I'm married and I love you. You're my whole life. I would never betray you. Never ever. And you treat me like this, Jay? My partner in life... and now, what? I'm your slave? Your property, that you can just dictate!"

She burst into tears, and fled to the bedroom.

I just sat there, feeling my anger dissipate, replaced by a hollow sludgy blackness that weighed down my stomach.

It was the first fight of our entire marriage, and it broke my heart.

I went up to knock on the bedroom door, but I heard her sobbing. I knocked anyway, and then after a moment, I entered. She lay on the bed, crying so piteously. I went to her, took her in my arms, and she clung to me like a drowning rat. I began to cry myself. We didn't talk, neither of us knew what to say, so we held each other and slept when exhaustion took us.

The next day was awkward, the both of us bristling with resentment and insecurity. Finally, towards the evening, she spoke.

"You hurt me," she said quietly. "I never imagined you could hurt me. But you did."

"I'm so sorry," I told her.

She nodded.

"You hurt me too," I whispered. "Hearing that. I'm glad you told me, it would have been worse if you didn't. But it hurt so much."

"I never ever meant to hurt you," she whispered quietly. "I would never want to hurt you."

"I know," I said. "But it hurts. You're the greatest thing in my life, and I guess I'm a little insecure. You tell me things and I... I can't help but worry. He changes you..."

"How?"

"You're sexier, more dynamic, more alive."

"You don't like that?"

"I love that!" I replied hastily. "I love you when you're happy, when you're like that. I love you when you're alive and vibrant. I'm just insecure."

She hugged me.

"You are my life," she said, "I love you. I'll never let you go."

"I know," I said.

I paused.

"I'm sorry I tried to give you an order," I said. "That's not who I am. It's not who I want to be. We are together, partners. I should never have treated you like that. It was wrong."

She kissed me on the cheek and hugged me closer. It was like an explosion of tenderness sweeping over me.

"Forgive me," I asked.

"Forgiven," she said, "always. Forever."

Relieved, we left the bedroom and went back down the stairs to our living room. We cuddled up together on the sofa, and she laid her head against my chest.

She hesitated.

"I would have obeyed," she said, "It would have torn me apart, it would have poisoned me. But I would have obeyed. I love you that much."

"I would never want you to hurt like that."

I felt her nod, she laid her head on my shoulder.

I sighed.

"So what do we want to do about Mark?" I asked.

She shrugged.

"I'll tell you one thing," she said and laughed. "I'm never ever ever ever going to kiss him again. Not unless you're right there with us, watching and giving your approval. And even then..."

"I know he's your friend," I said patiently.

"And you're the love of my life," she replied.

"I know you're close," I said, "and I can't help but be jealous, but I know what we have and I believe in it..."

I took a deep breath.

"You enjoy his company," I said.

"I do."

"And," this was hard for me to say, "I think he brightens your life."

"So do you."

"I don't mind," I said carefully, "just... No more accidents, okay? No more mistakes?"

"Never."

"But if there are," I said, "you tell me, we don't ever hide anything. We talk about it. And we agree. We make boundaries."

"Agreed."

"Also..."

"Also?"

"No more sitting on his lap?" I said. "It's creepy. You're not eight years old, and he's a grown man who can stand."

She laughed.

"Agreed!"

She kissed me on the cheek, and I kissed her back. We looked at each other, and her eyes were so warm.

"One thing," she said.

"Yeah?"

"This Tantric denial thing we've been doing?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"It drives me crazy sometimes. It's hot," she said, "it's so hot. And our sex life now... wow! Incredible... but..."

"But?"

"Maybe now and then," she said, "we could take a holiday from all this Tantric stuff, and just have fun."

"We could do that," I agreed. "When would you like to?"

"How about now?" her eyes were merry and shining.

I grinned.

She grinned back.

"Race you back to the bedroom!" she called, tearing off her clothes as she went. But I was right behind her, hopping out of my trousers, tearing off my shirt. We were both laughing wildly, as we fell into bed together. We made love, talked, laughed and made more love.

We promised to never fight again.

And we never did.

&&&

We set boundaries, and Ayla abided by them, I truly believe that. She was too loyal, too honest, too loving to ever deceive. She explained the boundaries to Mark, and he understood and agreed.

For a while, we were all careful.

Almost defiantly, we abandoned all of his advice, purging him from our sex lives. Our pubic hair grew back. We abandoned all the Tantric practices.

But the thing was, they were exciting. They were fun, there was an element of subversion, of the exotic, of being dangerous and kinky.

The condoms were helpful. We used them, especially when I wanted to perform especially hard for her. Sometimes we didn't bother. But it was nice to have the option.

One night, dissatisfied with the feel of me, the scratching or feel of my pubic hair, she shaved me bald again. I'd missed the intimacy of being shaved, the pleasure of being smooth. So of course, I returned the favor and shaved her, and it was splendid.

We practiced our Tantric now and then, but without the previous discipline, undermined by our laziness, it was exciting, but not nearly as much. Still, we thrilled each other.

We discussed what we would share with Mark about our sex lives, and reassured by Ayla's love, we were quite open. Once again, he felt like a friend, a confidant to her. He felt like a friend to me, albeit a friend I had never met, but only knew remotely.

&&&

I struggled with jealousy, off and on.

"Oh look," she said, "you don't have to be jealous of him. I've told him all about you. He thinks very highly of you. He admires you, he told me himself."

My warning bells went off.

"Oh yeah," I said carefully. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him how wonderful you were," she said, "how kind and giving."

You told him I had a four inch penis, I thought, but restrained the impulse.

"Anything else?"

"I told him how you had to leave university, to look after your parents when they got sick," she said. "And what a sacrifice that was. But you were always so giving and caring."

She told him I was a dropout. I'd never been able to go back. Instead, I'd had to start paying student loans. That had been a dream, to go to university, to make something of myself, to become someone. Instead, I'd done the right thing, and become a loser.

"And how your sister got everything, after they died. How unfair that was. I told him the whole story, and he agreed it was completely unfair."

That was not quite accurate. My sister hadn't gotten everything. Her children had. My sister was the success story of the family, she'd become a big time lawyer. Mom and Dad had been so proud of her. They never stopped talking about her. Even when I was changing their bedpans and diapers. She'd had kids early, and they were thrilled by grandchildren. She never visited, except once in a while with the grandkids, showing them off like pedigreed pets. They left everything to their grandchildren. I supposed they thought the grown up children could look after themselves.

That and they thought I was a disappointment. They never stopped talking about that, either. Anyway, they died. We buried them both. My sister paid half the costs for the funerals, that was fair, even if she made ten times the money I did. And the estate went into trust for the grandchildren.

You might think I'd be angry or even resentful. But I'm not, really. It was a long time ago, and there's no point in holding onto grievance.

They were old and declining, and they needed help and I was around to give it to them, and that was really all there was to it. You have to do what is needed. Someone had to. And there wasn't anyone else, not really.

That had nothing to do with inheritances. The issue of inheritances was completely separate. I would have looked after them regardless of where I was in the will, whether I got everything, or something, or as it turned out... nothing.

And if they thought I was a failure, well hey, I thought that too. So it turns out, once in our lives, we agreed on something. I just didn't think about it, and I didn't let it bother me.

I just... I just really wish she hadn't told Mark about all that.

"How you worked for a care home, and worked so hard. How you took all these extra shifts to pay for my University degree."

I smiled at that. It was one of the few worthwhile things I'd done in my life. I still had her graduation picture in my wallet. I hadn't been able to attend, I'd been working a double shift. But she'd told me all about it. There had been so many milestones in her life during those days that I'd missed because I'd been working. But I felt pride, because my work, all those extra days, the overtime, the exhaustion and poverty had helped make it happen for her.

"And how you were in line to be the supervisor at the care home," she said, "but the Director put his niece in charge over you."

Two weeks, and promoted to department head. Years of work, a promotion that should have been mine. I'd had it. I had it in the bag. Ayla had actually thrown me a promotion party for when I came home that day. I'd had to tell her what happened. The party had fizzled out pretty quickly.

"And then they let you go on trumped up claims. It was so unfair."

After that, I couldn't get a job in my field. They'd made a point of poisoning the waters. It was the failed promotion. They worried I'd sue or be resentful or something. So they couldn't just leave me where I was, they needed to get rid of me, and they needed to do it in a way that wouldn't come back to bite them. So... they wrecked me, my name, my reputation, they put the word out.

A year later, I ran into the Director. He came in for coffee at the shop where I worked. He apologized when he saw me. Well, he didn't actually apologize. He just looked at me and said it wasn't personal. He didn't bother to leave a tip.

"I told him how hard you work at the coffeehouse now," she said, "while you're looking for something better. And how awful your boss is. How long you've worked there. How everyone there loves you."

You told him, I thought, that I work at a shitty minimum wage menial service, where I get to do all the shit jobs, because no one else sticks around long enough to learn to do them. Everyone else is always moving onto something better, except me.

"Really," she said, "he thought you were admirable. He didn't use that word exactly but..."

But I'd stopped listening. Her eyes were bright and warm, and her face was animated, and she was full of absolute love and enthusiasm.

The problem was that she believed in me. She didn't see.

My darling, my sweetheart, you told him I was a dropout, a loser, a failure, an also-ran, and second rate. You told him I was so pathetic my family didn't love me. That my career had been a descending succession of shittier jobs, all the way to the bottom where I was stuck. You told him how worthless and useless I was to anyone but you.

He doesn't find me admirable. He didn't use that word exactly, she'd said. I suspected the word he'd used was closer in meaning to pathetic.. More like... abject. Or irrelevant. Someone beneath you, in his eyes. Someone beneath him, so far beneath him. A speck to be swept away.

He's going to take you, and I'll be discarded, and nothing of value will have been lost. That was the thought that went through my head for the first time. I wanted to run away. I wanted to hide. I wanted to cry.

She continued on cheerfully, and I just smiled and nodded.

&&&

I admit, I was depressed after that. It sounds stupid, but some shred of privacy was the one advantage I'd had over him. He might be well educated, a professional, a lawyer and partner in a firm, an athlete, practically a master of the universe...

But all he knew about me, apart from my physical inadequacy, was that Ayla loved me, that I was worthy of her love.

Now? Well, now he knew everything, my entire life's story of failure and inconsequentiality. He was the black god of Olympus, and I was exposed, inadvertently, as a little white gnat.

No contest at all, actually. Nothing at all.

And honestly, if he wanted her, and I couldn't imagine he wouldn't, and if she wanted him, and she definitely did, no matter what else she said, there was nothing standing between them. Certainly not me.

The only bit of comfort I could take was that they'd be really good together.

Not really good for me. But it wasn't like I counted. And I loved her with all my heart. So, when she made her inevitable choice, well I'd just do my best to be happy for her, and then just do whatever else I was supposed to do, and be wherever else I was supposed to be, which I guessed, would be away.

And yes, my heart was breaking. I felt like every morning, I'd take it out and smash it with a hammer until it shattered, and then later on in the day, she'd come home talking nonstop about him, and I'd take it out again and smash it with a hammer, and the worst ones were the nights, laying beside her, listening to her sleep, with nothing to do but calculate the time left until the end, and once again, take out my heart and smash it to pieces with a hammer.

How many times can your heart break? As many times as it needs to, every single day.

&&&

He gave us a present.

Ayla placed it on the kitchen table, and we unboxed it.

"A cock cage?" I asked, looking at the components.

"That feels so... inappropriate?" Ayla said.

I was glad she was the one to say it.

"So what is it for?" I asked. "What's the point of it?"

"Well," she said, "kink.. I guess? Mark said it was to help us with tantrics?"

I shrugged.

"How?"

"Well," she said, "we have been kind of goofing off in terms of the abstinence thing."

I smirked. She smirked back at me.

"He said that if you wear this, it will help with denial."

"It would," I agreed, holding up a small metal tube. "I don't think I could even get hard in this thing."

"That's the idea."

"Well," I said carefully, "it's good for the denial thing. But then what?"

"He said we take it off when we're ready."

"So we can just take it off any time we want?" I said. "Doesn't really make a difference then."

"That's true," she said, "mostly, I think it's just for kink. But Mark's idea was that if we had to add an extra step, a little more effort to it, that would help."

"Oh," I said, "like if you started wearing underwear again, we'd have an extra step where you had to take them off, and that would allow time for second thoughts and to get control of ourselves."

She stuck her tongue out at me. I laughed.

"Do you want to try?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Do you?"

"I might," I said carefully.

"You might?"

"Just to see," I said, "if it works, then okay. And if it doesn't, forget about it. But there's a condition."

"A condition!"

"A condition," I said smugly.

"What is this condition?"

"I'll tell you."

"Go ahead."

"You want to know?

"I insist," she said, "suddenly, I really want to see you in that contraption."

I smirked.

"Any time I wear this," I said, "you have to wear panties!"

"OH COME ON!"

"Granny panties!"

"OH MY GOD!"

In the end, we agreed to try it out, and we compromised on regular panties.

It turned out to be just my size, I wasn't sure whether to be impressed or insulted. And true to form, it was impossible to get an erection in that pipe contraption. Not that my body didn't try its best.

Ayla turned into a cat in heat around it. Now that I couldn't do anything, the minute she'd get home, she'd strip off her clothes, change into new lingerie or simply get naked and spend all her time rubbing her body up against mine. We touched and teased, we kissed frantically, searching out every erogenous zone. The excitement came back.

We quickly learned that my having the key didn't help much. It worked a little better if she had the key, it added that extra step, allowed for a little extra second thought, as to whether to gratify immediately, or escalate tease and denial.

It became part of our play.

It inspired us to experiment, whether it was sexy dancing for each other, or dirty dancing together, bondage or role play. We did succumb to temptation now and then, the cage come off, we fucked wildly.

But mainly, we enjoyed the reinforced tease and denial.

Ayla related our initial trepidation to Mark, and passed on our eventual thanks. Daily, they sat together on the subway twenty minutes each weekday, sharing everything. And she shared everything with me. I learned a great deal about Mark's life, his sex life, his former girlfriends, his ambitions, his family, his struggles. Of course, he heard all my secrets as well, but I accepted that.

Sometimes we would pass messages to each other through Ayla. Nothing important or significant. My well wishes if he had a difficult case. His sympathies when my employer was particularly obnoxious.

I would not say I was completely comfortable with Mark's presence in our lives. But I was happy. We were happy.

I could live with it.

&&&

"I gave the spare key to Mark to hold," Ayla told me one day.

I was surprised.

"Why?"

"Well," she said, "if I leave it around you... we have accidents."

I smirked.

"You haven't complained," I said, "in fact, you've been responsible for a few of them."

She nodded.

"But it defeats the purpose," she said, and turned smug, "I have a lot fewer accidents with your cage. Superior will power."

"Then keep both keys," I said. "But Mark? Why?"

"I worry," she said. "If something happens to me, what happens to you? Are you stuck in that thing? What do you do? I realized, I needed someone we could trust, someone who would understand."

"And so... Mark?"

"Mark."

Glumly, I thought about it.

"Was this his idea?"

"No," she said, "it was mine."

I thought it over.

"It's a little weird," I said.

She reached out across the table and took my hand.

"It is," she said. "But who else could we trust in an emergency?"

"Mark?"

"Mark."

I sighed.

&&&

"Mark was telling me about Tantric Yoga," Ayla volunteered. We were cuddled up on the couch, watching TV.

"He's mentioned it before, hasn't he," I asked.

The relationship with Mark was getting closer. The thrill of seeing each other had a sexual element.

Ayla made no secret that he excited her.

"I like it when he looks at me like he's undressing me," she admitted once. "It makes me want to dress for him."

Another time, she said, "sometimes, when he touches my leg or feels my stockings, I get wet, and part of me wants him to just open them."

They never kissed, they wouldn't. There was no more lap sitting. The boundaries were definite and inviolable.

"Sometimes, when we're having sex, I think of him. This huge black man over me."

I absorbed that without comment.

The truth was, that sometimes as we had sex or even flirted or played, I thought of him with her. His massive athletic black body and her petite white one, naked and grinding together. The thought, the images made my heart race, sent butterflies through my stomach. It was an intense sensation, between arousal and terror, and out of the cage, it always made me hard.

These thoughts came to me more and more.

"How often do you have these thoughts," I asked her.

She looked away.

"More and more," she admitted.

I laid my hand on top of hers, until she turned her head back to look at me.

"It's okay," I told her.

But it wasn't okay. Honestly, I didn't know what it was.

Ayla poked me, disrupting my train of memories.

"Tantric yoga?" I repeated, returning to the conversation we were actually having, desperate to escape the terror and arousal of these recollections. "What's that?"

"Mark explained it," she said. "It's a form of posture and display exercises meant to arouse the viewer and enhance the performer's sexual energy and potential. He showed me some of the poses on his phone."

"Oh," I said. "I didn't know what to think. On the one hand, it was more of the terror of Mark's continuing encroachment into our private lives. On the other hand, that encroachment had benefitted our sex life. Was this new thing too much? It seemed... tame? But was it?

"I tried one for him," Ayla said proudly. "A pose. Want to see?"

"Wait," I said. "You posed for him."

She laughed.

"I didn't kiss him or anything like that," she said. "There are rules. But the poses looked like fun, sensual and sexy. And the subway car was almost empty, so I thought... why not? Want to see?"

I wasn't sure about this new development at all, or about what it signified. But even as I thought it over, Ayla was enthusiastically slipping off the couch, taking a position in front of me and descending. At first, I thought she was going to kneel.

But instead she squatted on her haunches, on the balls of her feet, her heels elevated and pressed together, spreading her thighs as wide as she could, exposing her pussy fully, the lips parting open. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts out, and reached behind with both arms, lifting and bending to the back of her neck, lacing her fingers.

Suddenly, her nude body was on complete display, presented like a gourmet course or a rack of meat to my astonished gaze. Her nipples gloriously rigid... and was that slickness I saw between parted labia? I was suddenly breathless.

She sucked in breath, flattening her stomach, her brow furrowing as she wobbled, struggling to maintain her balance.

In that moment, as her nude body was splayed out to me, her pussy on display, her posture submissive, two things occurred to me. The first was that she was utterly beautiful, utterly sensuous, the pose gave her an almost unearthly desirability, and I wanted her badly.

The second, was what she must have looked like to Mark. I knew she'd worn a short white skirt, stockings, red blouse and white bolero jacket. When she'd posed for him, knees spread wide, balancing on the balls of her feet, her skirt would ride up her hips, and her pussy would have been completely on display for him, framed by her stockings and garter. The hands clasped behind her neck would have thrown open her bolero, thrusting her breasts forward against the red silk louse

She wobbled again, and finally lost the position, her heels going flat on the ground, and hands coming down.

"It's hard!" she said. "It was a little easier with high heeled shoes. I maintained it a little longer."

"How long," I croaked.

"Almost thirty seconds," she said proudly.

Thirty seconds, with her pussy on full display for him, submissively, in a public place. The other passengers watching curiously.

"Did you get wet?" I asked, as she climbed onto my lap, straddling me.

"Very," she said. "I was dripping the rest of the ride."

I reached between her legs, she parted willingly. My fingers blushed over her clit, bringing a shiver and a moan. And then I slid two fingers up inside. Her body shuddered with pleasure.

"You're dripping right now."

"Yes," she gasped.

My cock was straining in the cage.

"Do you have the key?" I asked.

"Bedroom next to the condoms," she gasped.

"Want to?"

"Oh god," she moaned, she'd already taken my hand and was pulling me up the stairs, "do you even have to ask?"

&&&

Afterwards, as she laid in my arms, sleeping like a baby, I stared up at the ceiling, her pussy juices all over my face, contemplating the mysteries of life.

A stranger had brought her to orgasm, yet somehow, I was the beneficiary. We had made love joyfully, every touch frantic and eager. Her body had never been more responsive. The lightest caress brought shivers and moans.

I had fucked her to orgasms with my penis, something quite rare now, and brought her off many more times with my tongue, and she in turn had finally pulled off the condom, and sucked me with ravenous enthusiasm.

It had been one of our best love making sessions ever. Afterwards, we'd held each other and cooed like lovebirds.

I held her in my arms as she drifted off to sleep, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything else than the feel of her warm sweaty body, wrapped around mine.

&&&

Tantric Yoga became her new fascination and soon, a part of every day was the two of us nude in our home, struggling to master each new pose as revealed to her from Mark's phone.

True to agreement, he never texted her outside of the subway beyond the most perfunctory questions and answers respecting time and schedules. But sitting together they shared images and texts, he sent files. It was circumspect, there were no more nudes, any picture was strictly family friendly.

But she amassed a collection of Tantric Yoga poses and videos. Some easy, some difficult. The objective was to assume a pose, of submission, of display, of offer, proudly presenting breasts or exposing vagina or thrusting ass. Heads were bowed, the position of hands, placement of knees, all critical.

Some of these positions I knew very well from pornographic magazines. The all fours stance, spine curving like a drawn bow, knees spread precisely one point six times the width of the hips, head pointing straight down, pussy pushed out. That was straight out of hustler.

Another position, similar, but face on the floor, wrists crossing behind the back, feet straight. Submissive and pornographic. The position's name? Use.

Another, called Nadu, knees and toes posed to form two sides of a perfect equilateral triangle, buttocks resting on heels, back straight, breasts thrust - so many variations of Nadu, the heat bowed or bent, hands resting on thighs, palms out or back.

I searched online and found another name - Slave positions. I shared this with Ayla, the name did not trouble her, but she loved the more detailed information, the greater nuance in describing and perfecting the positions.

Was it disturbing? That Mark was teaching her the postures and positions of sexual submission? Of course. I had misgivings, and spoke of them quietly.

Ayla would laugh and kiss me, showering me with her love and affection. And then she continued. We continued, practicing together, timing each other, assisting each other in perfecting, assisting her in perfecting her positions... for him.

The future was bearing down, and there was nothing I could do except ignore it and embrace the present with everything I had.

I could not even complain. The sexual tension, the dynamic, ramped continually. We were both in a state of perpetual arousal. Regularly, we reached these peaks of excitation, where by mutual urgency, we reached for the key, undid the cage and tossed it away, to make wild and passionate love.

Perhaps it was the awareness that this was our twilight, that night would inevitably fall and the world would end for me. But in these moments, there was a sweetness to our intimacy, a perfection and joy to every touch, a hunger and excitement for each other that I had never imagined.

&&&

"I gave Mark my key," she announced casually, as we warmed up to practice our Tantric positions.

I stared at her perfect naked body, almost distracted by the subtle play of muscles beneath the skin, the golden symmetry of elegant curves and swells that were her body.

"You what?"

She didn't quite meet my eyes.

"Well, you know," she said carefully, "we've been falling off the program a lot."

She grinned then, and I couldn't help smiling back.

"Not that I regret any of it," she continued. "But if we're going to do this Tantric denial thing, we need to be more disciplined. So I was talking about it with Mark, and he suggested that he hold my key for me for the week."

"So you gave him your key?" I was genuinely upset. "Without asking me?"

"Well, it is my key," she said defensively. "And he'll give it back on Friday, so really, this is just about getting us back on schedule. Back on the program."

"I see," I said. There wasn't much I could do about it, so I simply sighed and nodded.

"Oh," she said, "and we've scheduled the exact time for sex - Sunday, from nine o clock to ten. Mark says choosing a specific time will heighten anticipation."

Again, not happy, but there was nothing to do except accept.

&&&

I confess to have had some terror. But Mark did indeed return the key on Friday, and the anticipation of the specified time did indeed heighten our arousal to the point we were both climbing the walls by eight fifty-nine.

The next week, it happened the same way, and was satisfactory.

On the third Friday, Mark forgot the key. He was traveling out of town, there would be no way to return it before Monday. Ayla was livid, and told him so. The key was duly returned on Monday, that experiment was ended.

I spent a glorious week outside the cage, and frantically we fucked constantly, at every opportunity and occasion.

Then later, as exhaustion set in, the cage went back on - we settled back almost gratefully into the elevated sensuality of desire, denial and positions.

Life went on, and though you may not believe this, we were happy. I was happy.

How could I not be happy? I was with the love of my life.

&&&

"You'll never believe what he did today! Oh my gosh! I couldn't believe it! I've been waiting all day to get home and tell you!"

"What""

"He made me cum!"

I froze, it was as if a knife of ice had stabbed through my heart. He had touched her, perhaps fucked her. A complete stranger had brought my wife to orgasm. I couldn't speak. I could barely think.

"We were sitting in our spot," she explained, bubbling over with excitement, "and of course I wasn't wearing panties. I never do these days. And he just casually reached under my skirt. He whispered to me to spread my legs just a little and lean forward... so I did. And he touched my clitoris and played with it... And then I came."

"Oh," I said, unenthusiastically, "it was so amazing! I was in shock. And of course, he had this big smile, like the cat that swallowed the canary. Such a scamp!"

She grabbed my arm.

"Quickly now. Let's not waste this! Let's get you out of that cage? Do we still have some of those special condoms? Let's go right up to bed! I can't wait to have sex with you!"

&&&

But here is the paradox, the opposite side of my happiness, as I occupied both states at once. Or perhaps it was a progression.

They say that if you put a frog in a pan of water and slowly bring it to a boil, the frog won't even notice it's cooked. I felt like that frog. Despite misgivings all the way, somehow I'd remained in the pan until slowly the water had boiled, and now a stranger was in complete control of my sex life.

Here I was, shaved smooth, caged and helpless. Someone else dictated every facet of my sex life, even down to masturbation. The timing, when I could have sex, what kind of sex, it was all decided for me.

Not even by my wife, although she was the happy messenger of my submission, relaying orders, detailing every minutest aspect of my existence. A man I had never met controlled every aspect of my sexuality and sex life.

In some ways, nothing had changed. My wife was as affectionate as always, as cheerful, as loving. When she looked at me she smiled with pure happiness. She touched me, kissed me, cuddled me.

But she would not so much as touch me sexually, without instruction.

And although she promised she had been faithful, at night, she masturbated regularly, as I laid beside her pretending to sleep.

I knew she wasn't masturbating for me.

I was rendered impotent and sexless. My sexual identity had been chained up, rendered irrelevant and inconsequential, even while hers seemed to blossom.

I felt like some essential part of my identity was being gradually taken away from me. I wasn't a cuck or cuckold, although that thought came repeatedly. My wife had not been claimed by another, she was adamant about that.

She would not fuck him behind my back, she assured me, with a sincerity so intense it was painful. That was infidelity. That was betrayal, and she could never do that.

When it happened, she promised I would be in the room to watch.

I think she thought that this promise would make me happy, and would reassure me that our marriage, our love was sound.

She was confident.

I was not.

But all I could do was smile and kiss her, treasuring each moment of her company, like a man on death row, counting down the minutes, waiting for that final long walk to the gallows.

Each night she undressed, and I found myself worshiping her naked body, staring at her, touching her, teasing until she permitted me between her legs, to lick her to the edge of orgasm.... The edge... never over. That was a rule, I was no longer allowed to give her an orgasm. I could only lick her, right to the edge, and then when I got too close, she'd push my head away and use her fingers, thinking of him, working herself frantically. Her eyes would close, her breath would come in pants, she would never say his name, but each time, I watched her lips move, shaping sounds they did not speak. They never shaped my name.

Later, when she thought I'd gone to sleep, she'd lay there, spreading her legs, repeating the process. It turns out, I was completely unnecessary. Instead, I'd pretend to sleep, going over everything in my head, over and over, wondering how I might have intervened, might have somehow stopped this? Maybe right at the beginning? Or perhaps I should have been more firm when I put my foot down? Held out longer? Been more emphatic? Could I have warned her? Persuaded her? Dissuaded her? Should I have begged and pleaded? Warned and given an ultimatum? What was the point where I should have put my foot down, or pressed the panic button, or burst into tears? A hundred steps on the way from there, the first time he sat down beside her, to her, while she brought herself to gasping release. I thought about it each night, what I could have done differently? And every time, I ended up in the same place.

I thought of the pictures she'd shown me of his gigantic erection, her laughing calculation as she'd casually graphed its superiority in every possible way. Ten times the volume of mine. I wasn't in the same league. I'd been beaten before I'd ever started.

&&&

"Oh honey!" she said, bursting into the coffee shop, near the end of my shift. "Honey! Wonderful news! You'll never believe it! It's amazing!"

I looked up, startled, from doing the inventory.

Tyler, the manager, looked up as well.

"Who is she?"

"My wife."

"Honey," Ayla is saying, "let's leave early. I can't wait to tell you."

"Can I--"

"Sorry," Tyler says, "you finish out your shift or you don't get paid today. It's only twenty minutes, stick it out, Jay."

He shrugged.

"Or don't. I'll save a day's wages off you. No skin off my teeth."

He glanced at Ayla.

"If she sticks around, she has to buy something. No freeloaders."

I made her a Macchiato, paying for it out of my share of the tips. I don't really make much in tips. Tyler takes half for the coffee shop, and then the rest gets split among the entire staff. Tyler keeps track for everyone. But I had enough for a Macchiato, so it was all good.

Ayla sat in a corner, grinning, squirming, throwing flirty looks at me. It was hard not to smile back. Of course, because she was here watching, Tyler was an especially big prick to me. He's like that. I've learned not to take it personally. The clock ticked down. Finally, shift was over.

"I should make you clean the mess you made on the counter before you leave," Tyler groused. But I ignored him. The time card was punched. I swept Ayla into my arms, and kissed her passionately.

"No public displays allowed," Tyler called. But we were already out the door. Walking hand in hand.

"So," I asked her, "what's the good news?"

"It's Mark," she told me. Of course it was. Everything is always Mark, these days. "He's going away for a week, next week. Some sort of conference. He'll be receiving an award for humanitarian work. Isn't that exciting?"

That was good news! Him being away for a week, not the award. The award was good too. But mainly it was the other thing, him being away, out of our lives, having Ayla to myself.

And then I'm ashamed at how petty I am for thinking like that. As much as Mark makes me feel threatened, she really does treasure his friendship.

"I see."

"But we agreed, when he comes back, after he settles in... No more waiting. He'll be coming to the apartment."

Abruptly, she stopped dead and hugged me, wrapping her arms around me as tight as she could.

"You'll finally get to meet him!" she cried. "Oh god. He's going to be in our home! In our living room, our kitchen, our bedroom! I can hardly wait! I'm so excited, it's unbelievable!"

&&&

Any hope that I might have had that this would somehow be a normal casual visit, or that things would proceed slowly was dashed that weekend, when the cage didn't come off.

"Silly!" she said. "What are you thinking? If it comes off, we might have sex. Mark is coming. We can't have sex before he comes. We need to save ourselves, we need to build up tension. God, can you imagine? Mark arrives, and I'm soiled? I'd be so embarrassed."

She hugged me, and kissed me.

Soiled? Sex with me would be soiling herself? I held my tongue. She was so happy, I didn't want to start a fight.

"Don't you see, it'll be so much better this way, for all of us. He's promised to be good, no girls, no one night stands, not even masturbation. You should have seen him. He was so sincere. Such a commitment. I was so honored. I made the promise too."

"I didn't promise," I said desperately.

She giggled, as if I'd said something sweet but funny.

"Oh sweety," she said. "You're in it too! We're together! Remember?"

She kissed my forehead.

"Relax, the week is going to fly by. And we'll have so much to do to get ready before he comes."

She let me go, and began to walk to the bathroom.

"You're going to have sex with him," I accused her.

That stopped her. She turned and stared at me, with a serious expression.

"Honey," she said, "don't be gross."

Beat.

"We're going to make love."

&&&

She was true to her word. Sex didn't happen. She didn't even masturbate, well, not to orgasm. It was like she was in a continuous state of heat, involuntarily touching herself, constantly rubbing her body unconsciously against any surface.

But instead, along with my mounting dread, a sexual tension became palpable. Wearing the cage now full time, my body constant was constantly aware of its restriction. It seemed every stray thought or movement produced the beginnings of an erection. I was in sexual torture.

Ayla, on the other hand, was a dynamo. Mark's impending visit, the deadline counting down, left her a frantic dervish. Everything had to be cleaned, to be washed, all the clothes, the bedding were laundered three times. Everything was scrubbed until it shone, and then scrubbed again.

Every morning there was an urgent list of chores and tasks to make things ready for Mark's arrival, to prepare the apartment, to prepare ourselves. All the food in the fridge and cabinets were discarded. Replaced with new brands, specially chosen, the containers and cans polished and pristine.

She led us through hours of Tantric sex position drills, maintaining arduous positions till sweat dripped down our aching bodies. No more fun, this was serious, everything had to be perfect. Our bodies were examined minutely for blemishes of any kind. Stray hairs were found and plucked. She scheduled manicures, pedicures and hairdresser appointments.

She was brimming with excitement, she spoke in rapid sentences leaping from topic to topic. She couldn't sit still. Ayla meticulously agonized over everything. What to say when he arrived? What to do? Conversation? What subjects? Offer coffee? Wine? Something harder? Or just go upstairs? Candles in the bedroom? How many? What color?

We were often naked as we prepared. Practice, she said. Her body was exquisite, she constantly radiated sexual energy, her nipples hard as diamond, her muscles a symphony of eroticism under her skin. Every movement was hasty, yet graceful, urgent, yet sensual. Sometimes as she walked by, or as we lay in bed, I could smell her arousal, taste the lingering scent of her pussy's wetness in the air.

Her body screamed of sexual tension, of a need to get fucked, and fucked hard.

Just not by me.

Sometimes I just stopped and watched her, breathing in her beauty, in love with her all over again. Her skin seemed luminous as if shining with inner light, smooth as velvet, her legs curved in all the right ways, from exquisite heels, to rounded calves, the arch of thigh and swells of her round ass cheeks, the curve of her back. I adored her flat belly and the perfect globes of her breasts.

She'd catch me watching her, and she'd smile, a knowing grin spreading across her features. In steps, she would slow down, and eventually she'd stop and turn to embrace me. Our bare skin would touch. She'd wrap her arms around me.

There would be a gentle kiss.

"It's going to be all right," she would whisper.

And in those moments, I'd believe her.

That it was going to be all right. That there wasn't a big black man with a cock ten times the volume of mine, coming to fuck her. Or if there was, it somehow didn't matter.

Sometimes the dread would come on, paralyzing and terrifying. Especially when I was away from her. At work. Or waiting at the apartment for her to come home.

&&&

Her excitement rose daily. She stopped sitting with him on the Subway, by mutual agreement. But instead of cooling, it seemed his absence left her even more worked up. The sexual tension rose and rose.

"Oh my god!" she said. "Look at me. I'm so nervous. Can you imagine? It's happening. It's finally going to happen.

Then suddenly, she went still and thoughtful.

"You know," she said, "everything's going to be different after. All kinds of different. Physically... haha... forty cubic inches to four. After that, wow! I probably won't even feel you inside me any more. I mean everything,"

She stopped and looked me in the eyes.

"Are you going to be okay? Can you handle that."

"What if I said no."

She went still.

"Are you saying no to me?"

I couldn't read her expression.

"Is this what you want? What you really want?" I asked. Please no, I thought. Please just say it's a joke, that it's a prank. That you're not serious. Say you've changed your mind. Say anything but yes.

She smiled shyly.

"I've never wanted anything more in my whole life," she said sincerely.

I think I died a little inside. Or maybe I died a lot inside. But I put on my warmest smile.

"Then I'm going to be okay with it. Don't worry, I can handle it."

"Promise?"

"Hope to die," I said softly, keeping the smile going with every ounce of will power.

She threw her arms around me impulsively, hugging me so hard and so surprisingly, she knocked all the breath out of me.

"Oh I love you so goddamned much!!!"

Then, just as quickly as it came, it was over. She stepped away with the nervous energy of a hummingbird.

"Oh geez!" she said. "There's so much to do. I don't know how we're going to be ready."

She grabbed my hand and thrust it between her legs.

"Feel that? Feel that? I'm so fucking wet, just at the thought of him, of what he's going to do to me, I'm dripping everywhere I walk. It's crazy. It's totally crazy."

She was right, she was incredibly wet, she was gushing. A naughty smile came over her face, and she thrust my fingers back and forth against her soaked, drenched pussy.

"Feel that?" she said wonderingly. "So tight. After tomorrow, I'll never be tight again."

&&&

"Is my hair okay?" she asked frantically. "My lipstick? How do I look? Are my nipples hard enough? I should get ice cubes. Is my face shiny? Maybe I should powder?"

"It's all right," I said. "You like fine."

Ayla wasn't convinced.

"You only get one chance to make a good first impression," she told me.

"I think you'll make a fine impression."

"Do the black stockings look good? He loves the black stockings when I'm wearing a dress. But will he like them when I'm naked? Maybe I should be completely naked? The stockings aren't too much are they?"

"I'm sure he'll love them."

"Are we smooth?" she stepped close, putting both hands on my scrotum, moving swiftly and expertly, feeling for any trace of stray hairs or stubble. "Okay, you're good."

Then she grabbed my hand, putting between her legs. The heel of my hand mashed against her lips forcing them apart. She was incredibly wet! She was dripping!

"Is it okay?" she asked urgently. "Is it smooth? There's no rough, is there? Do you feel anything?"

I couldn't help it. I pulled her to me, wrapping one arm around her waist, and held her head in my other hand and kissed her hard. I pressed my lips to hers, and kissed her with everything I had, all my romance and tenderness and desire and despair and terror, I poured my heart and soul into that kiss. For a moment, she stiffened, and then she relaxed, yielding to it, kissing me back.

And for a fleeting second, I was happy, the world was all right, it would all be all right.

Then the kiss ended, and with it, the world.

"Wow!" she said, smiling sweetly. "Where did that come from?"

"I love you," I said quietly.

"Oh honey," she said, running fingertips along my jawline, from earlobe to chin, "I love you too, you know that."

Idly, she wiped a little lipstick off of me. Then her eyes widened.

"Oh shit!" she said, "Oh shit! Now I've got to redo my lipstick all over again. Shit! Shit! Shit!"

And with that, she scampered up the stairs, her round ass bouncing.

"Honey," she called. "You wait for him here, okay? Just let him in, take his coat and stuff, and bring him upstairs. I'll be waiting!"

Then she was gone.

I could hear her bustling upstairs, almost dancing with eagerness.

I was alone downstairs, with nothing but the ticking of the temple clock on the mantlepiece to keep me company. It was an old fashioned clock, a legacy of my grandparents. The only thing I had of theirs. Mom and Dad had let me have it because it was broken. I spent more than it was worth to get it fixed.

Four minutes to eight.

She said he was absolutely punctual. How did that even work? Would he just arrive early, and wait, counting off seconds on a stopwatch? I walked through the house, checking that everything was absolutely perfect. That had been so important to Ayla. We'd cleaned and straightened up frantically for two days, she'd been at wits end.

In the kitchen I repositioned a vase, checked the silverware to make sure it was all shiny. Walked into the living room. Turned the flowers a little, so the angle was just a bit better from the front door.

Three minutes to eight.

What was I doing? Why was I doing this? This stranger was going to walk into my house and take my wife away from me. Stop him. Do something. When the door opens, tell him she changed her mind. March up there, put your foot down, tell her the game is over and she has to stop now.

Tell her that if she doesn't obey, it's over. No, tell her that if she does this, then we're over. Tell her I can't do it. I can't live with it. Tell her if she goes through, I'll have to say goodbye.

But in my breaking heart, I already know what she would say.

Goodbye. It's too late. It's done. She's made her choice. There's no going back.

Two minutes to go.

Exhausted, filled with futility, I feel like a prisoner on death row. The second hand on the clock ticks away. It's too late to do anything but wait.

Was there ever a point I could have stopped this? Some essential moment, a dividing line, somewhere between where it stopped being trivial and inconsequential and already too late. Some point where it hung in the balance, and I could have said no, we could have made a different choice. It seemed to me that there was no such moment.

This had been like a single continuous drop, day after day, year after year, a steady slow stream of droplets, wearing down a mountain. You could never identify the particular drop of water that shattered the mountain, there was no such drop. No point between the mountain whole and the mountain shattered. Rather, there was a sense of inevitability to it all that made resistance seem futile.

Glumly, I sit down.

Maybe at least put on clothes, I thought, assert for myself a shred of dignity? But she wants us both to greet him naked, for whatever reason has gone through her head. This is what she wanted, her dream scenario, we are both naked for him, I'm part of her surrender.

I shouldn't go along with it. I should have a little dignity, for one moment in my life. But I love her more than anything. I have always loved her. She's everything. She's my life. And I want her to be happy, to have whatever she wants. Even if that's not me. So I wait, naked.

One minute to go.

Have you ever loved someone so totally, so completely, with all your heart and being, that she was everything, that she was everything worthwhile in your life, your past, your future, your whole universe? If you had that, if you felt that love, and she wanted something how could you deny her? Even if it hurt you, it wouldn't matter, you would not deny.

Even if it destroyed you, it wouldn't matter.

I had hoped that she would not. That hope had been futile. So be it. I loved her unconditionally, and so I refused to judge her. If this is what she wanted, then that was all that mattered to me.

The best part of me was loving her, the best part of who I was, was my love and capacity for love.

I look at my life, at the endless stream of failures and humiliations, and it occurs to me that maybe it was a fluke that she was ever in my life at all. That maybe I'd never been meant to have her. That it had all been a wonderful accident, and this was merely the universe setting itself right, things turning out the way that they'd always meant to be.

Perhaps what I'd had with her had simply been an unintended gift, a miracle in my life, unearned, undeserved, but mine nevertheless. How could I regret the loss of of someone I had never been entitled to?

If it was ending, perhaps I should simply treasure that I had ever had it.

And if this was the end... well, okay.

I stand again, unable to sit. The second hand seems to have sped up, ticking away one after the other. My cock is hard, I hate that it is.

I'm standing here, naked, my little dick in my hand, throbbing away. In a few minutes, a big black man with a bigger black cock is going to come through the door.

He's going to fuck my wife and take her away from me forever.

She wants that big black cock so bad. Eight inches and thick as a beer can. She's been dreaming of it. The love of my life, and she wants me to watch her give herself to a black man.

He wants me to watch him take my wife from me.

And then afterwards?

What happens then? What happens to her?

To me?

To us?

Is this it? The point of no return?

Do we have a future?

Or will this be the end?

I pretend to myself that I don't know.

But that's just a lie I'm telling myself to get through this night.

You know the truth.

And I know too. And there are moments, as I wait, that I'm almost brave enough to admit it.

There's a knock at the door.