I was standing close enough to the stunningly beautiful woman to see the band of gold on the third finger of her perfectly manicured left hand as she handed the ticket agent her boarding pass. I was struck by her beauty. Her brown hair was in a conservative business woman's style. Her face, well her face would be envied by any actress or super model. The stylish dove- grey suit did little to hide her perfect figure. Her long legs were encased in dark nylon, her feet in high heel pumps. Before she entered the jet way, she looked over her shoulder directly at me. Her big blue eyes couldn't conceal what seemed to be a mixture of excitement and fear. She took a few long graceful strides and was swallowed up in the jet way. My thoughts were interrupted by the announcement over the airport's PA system. "Final call, Delta flight 308 is now ready to depart for Atlanta, all passengers should be on board."
There was a lump in my throat as I walked slowly down the long concourse to the short- term parking garage. My thoughts lingered on the breathtakingly beautiful creature who had boarded the plane for Atlanta—but I knew that Atlanta wasn't her final destination, she would be at the airport just long enough to make the connection for her flight to Charlotte, North Carolina. I also knew she had never been to Charlotte.
She was dressed as if she would soon be conducting important business. She could have been a successful attorney, an accountant or an investment banker. But I knew she was none of these. I knew that her name was Cheryl, she was a thirty-five-year-old wife, a mother of two children and who, until recently, worked as a receptionist in a real estate office in Scottsdale, Arizona. I knew that she had been married for nearly sixteen years and even that she went to her marriage bed as an innocent virgin and had remained faithful to her wedding vows ever since.
I was one of only three people aware of a carefully kept secret; she was flying to Charlotte to spend the weekend with a man who was not her husband, a man she had never even met. How did I know all of this? Because she is my wife, the woman that I love more than anything, more than life itself. I'm Dan, Cheryl's husband the person responsible for everything that led up to her trip.
As I walked to my car, I was reminded that in two days, on Sunday, I would be returning here to welcome Cheryl back. The lonely drive to our suburban home in Tempe took less than fifteen minutes. The passenger seat in the four-year-old Honda Accord was empty, as was a place in my heart that was only full when she was physically present. But this weekend I would spend alone because our children, two girls ages 11 and 7, had left three days ago for two weeks at summer camp.
Just two days ago I couldn't have imagined that Cheryl would actually board the plane for her adventure. This morning, as I watched her dress for her journey, I kept thinking that at some point she would surely change her mind. But she didn't change her mind. At the airport I thought the odds were good that she wouldn't get on the plane, but she did. Even now, I wondered if she would make the connection in Atlanta? And, if she did choose to go on, when she arrived in Charlotte would she renege on her promises to me and to Thomas? Would he even be there to meet her?
As soon as I closed to the door to the modest tract house that had been our home for 8 years, exhaustion overcame me and I laid down on our bed hoping to take a nap. I remembered that it was on this king-size bed that the salacious thoughts that led up to all of this began to take shape.
Three years ago we traveled to the Carribean for a convention. It was there that I saw men openly and lustfully ogle her as she stretched out in her little bikini trying to catch some rays. And, though I knew what they were thinking, I found their lusting after her indescribably exciting. That night, after we made love in our tropical hotel bed, I confessed my feelings to her. As you might imagine, she didn't believe me. At first, she thought I was surely joking.
As time went by this became a recurring theme for our lovemaking. When she understood how hot it made me she went along with the fantasy. For a couple of years it was fairly mild stuff, her with one of our friends, or her with a movie star or an NFL quarterback. Then, to keep the excitement at a fevered pitch I began to talk about her being with more than one guy at a time, wearing sluty clothes and much, much more.
During this phase of her transition I discovered Penthouse Letters, a monthly magazine that featured letters from readers, and I learned that a high percentage of those letters were from men who shared their wives with other men, or at least wanted to. I devoured these letters and waited anxiously for the next issue to appear. On those few occasions when Cheryl could travel with me I encouraged her to read my new source of stimulation. As she read them without comment, nevertheless, I sensed that some of the letters were also a turn-on for her.
It was a few months ago, and with some trepidation I'll admit, that I suggested we make my fantasy a reality. Frankly, I wasn't at all surprised when Cheryl said, "Danny, pretending while we're making love is one thing, actually doing any this stuff you fantasize about is another. Just forget it, I'll never be with another man. Will you please stop bugging me about it? Okay?" Well, I didn't pay much attention to what she said. The next time we made love I started where we left off and encouraged her to make it happen, as I did every time thereafter. Over time, it became obvious that she was enjoying my fantasies which were intensifying. I would say things like "don't you ever think about fucking other guys? Wouldn't you love to have a huge cock in your pussy? It would drive me crazy to know you were spreading your legs for someone else. I really want this to happen, Cher!"
Then a couple of months ago I discovered the Internet and some of the sites. I found that other husbands, countless husbands, it seemed, wanted the same thing for their wives that I did for Cheryl. They wanted them to be attractive and desirable to other men, men who would not be threats to their marriages or to their families. I discovered "Hot Wife" forums, postings of raunchy wife pictures, stories and more. I finally mentioned all this to Cheryl. Her response was "you're all sick."
The night before I left on my last business trip to Denver, as we laid naked against each other, I had been pushing her hard and saying how fascinated I was by the women who fulfilled their husband's fantasies. The more slutty their behavior, the greater my fascination with them. She seemed exasperated as she nearly shouted, "Danny you just don't see it, they're all tramps, nothing more."
"Bullshit Cheryl! They just love their husbands a hell of a lot more than you do me. You know this is something that I really want and you're unwilling to do it for me."
"If you really loved and respected me you couldn't possibly want me to!" She nearly shouted..
We seemed to be going in circles, then I crossed a line when I said, "I don't think that's it at all, I don't think you have the guts to do what those other wives do for their husbands."
She recoiled, almost as if I had slapped her. She was very quiet for a few seconds and then very seriously asked, "Did you say what I thought you said?"
I didn't think there was much to lose so I shrugged my shoulders, turned off the light rolled away from her and muttered, "you heard me . . . you just don't have the nerve to do it."
The next morning, before the sun came up, I was awakened by her sucking on my cock. When it was rock hard, she climbed on. We faced each other with her left leg over mine, our mouths locked in a lingering wet kiss and with our bodies joined. I don't remember when she had been more enthusiastic. Finally we exploded at the same time.
In the afterglow, with her head on my shoulder she whispered in my ear, "Danny, if I ever did the crazy things you insist you want me to do you'd probably hate me, divorce me and never let me see the kids."
I was surprised, realizing that for the first time she was actually thinking about doing it. "Oh, no honey, you've got it all wrong, not only would I not divorce you, I'd love you even more, if that's possible." I paused for a moment and then asked, "Does this mean you'll do it?"
She was biting on her lower, as she did when she was troubled then said, "It's so complicated. I'd just die if anyone ever found out." She paused for a few seconds before continuing, "I know I could never do anything here . . . if it's ever going to happen, it has to be out of town," she said softly.
The years of sharing my naughty thoughts with her seemed to be paying off. She implied that she would fuck another guy, but only out of town. I thought I should strike while she was in this compliant mood.
"Hey, babe, that's no problem, I've got frequent flyer points that I'm going to lose if they're not used. And, I can't think of anything better to use them for. Let, me ask, how far are you willing to go? I haven't been bashful about telling you, you know what I want." And she did know. Hardly a time went by when I was buried inside her moist vagina that I didn't encourage her by saying, "you're the hottest women in the world . . . this is the best pussy . . . wouldn't you love to have a parade of giant cocks . . . wouldn't you love to be a whore." Romance wasn't part of my fantasy, just hot sweaty sex. And then I would go on, "wouldn't you love to have a big black cock . . . lots of big black cocks." She never answered these questions directly with words, but I noticed that she increasingly answered with a moan, a sigh, an intensified movement, a griping of her inner muscles, or pulling my lips to hers for a wet kiss.
She was silent for a long time and then surprised me by saying, "if I'm going to do anything, I might as well do everything."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It needed confirmation. I thought I should try to close. "So, you'll get on a plane, meet a guy, a black guy, fuck him and let him peddle your pussy?"
She sat up in bed, looked down at me and asked, "is that really what you want me to do?"
"You know it is," was my nearly breathless confirmation.
Nothing much was said as I finished packing for my trip. We drove to the airport in silence. After I parked at the curb in front of the Delta terminal, I could tell that she was still in deep thought. I turned to her and asked, "so Cheryl should I try to set something up, or not?"
"I thought I was the perfect wife. Now after all these years we're talking about you making arrangements for me fly away and do who knows what?"
"Not who knows what . . . fucking guys," I corrected. "Well?"
We sat there for several minutes. The cop patrolling the parking area walked past twice and I knew I had to leave soon, finally her silence was broken, she was still looking down at her lap and quietly gave me the permission I never expected to receive by simply saying, "okay."
Even though I was exhausted I couldn't sleep so I decided to hit the Internet for a while. Ironically, without the Internet, Cheryl wouldn't be on her way to Charlotte.
++++++++ \ My hand seemed to have a life of its own as it moved the mouse on the pad controlling the arrow, clicking and bringing me to my destination. This was a frequent destination for me the last two weeks, a chat room that I had stumbled across. It was in this very chat room two nights ago when I first became acquainted with Thomas. It was here that I shared with a complete stranger the most intimate details of our life and even my most secret dreams. I logged in with the handle that I always used, "CherylsHub."
After a few seconds, the list of those in the room scrolled down and my handle was added to the long list. I had entered the room. I recognized many of the handles: blkck4wf, 11inches, BM9, Darkman, MWF and then familiar names, Tyrone, Reggie, Leon, Teri and Cathy among others. This room, Darkroom Two, was a place where white women or their husbands came to chat with black men who, for some reason, preferred white pussy to black. One handle that I saw for the first time just two nights ago when I Logged on from my hotel room in Denver was missing, as I was sure it would be. I didn't see listed among the dozen or so handles, Thomas' handle, pimp4wwives." I confess I was shocked, but also very intrigued, when I read it for the first time Wednesday night, just two nights ago. I remembered being beyond curious as I selected his handle, checked the "private" box so that others would not read what we were saying, and typed the following: Hi, Dan here, we live in Phoenix, where's home for you?"
Because the room was full, about twenty-five people, I assumed he would be busy and I really didn't expect him to answer, but he did, almost immediately. PRIVATE TO CherylsHub, Hey Dan, Thomas here, live in Charlotte, NC."
Now what, I wondered? I didn't have to wonder long because before I could type anything he was back with: "Tell me all about Cheryl." This was somewhat familiar territory for me. I had chatted here before and answered this same question in cyber shorthand many times. So, I typed, 35yo (years old) 5'8," 123 #s, long brown hair, blue eyes, 36,24,35."
"Cool man, any pics?"
I was sure this would be asked very soon, it always was. "No, no pics, this is a new thing, being very careful, don't want photos of my wife posted all over the net. Also, you should know that we don't give out our e-mail address or our telephone number. Hope that's not a problem."
"No prob, that's smart, lots of assholes here. I'm serious as a heart attack about this and hope you are too." This seemed unusual. Most people who chatted wanted photos, email addresses and phone numbers, Thomas seemed to be willing to spend some time and get acquainted without pressure. He went on, "How long has Cheryl been fucking blacks?"
"She's never been with anyone but me. It's a fantasy that I hope will come true."
"That's cool, what makes you think she will?"
"I've been after her for a long time to do it. The black thing is sort of new. She kept saying no, no, no. Then, out of the blue, just this morning, she said that if she did it, it would have to be out of town."
"Hey guess I qualify on that part, I'm certainly out of town. Now tell me Dan, what exactly is your fantasy?
"When I pressed and asked if she would do everything, she said something like, if she was going to do anything, she might as well do everything."
"Wow, that's fucking hot. I'd sure like to help. By your description she might work out but let me ask is her face pretty? Is she well groomed? Does she love sex? Any STD? Well?"
I was beginning to think this guy might be for real. I typed, "She's truly gorgeous, really the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She drains me and is always ready for more. I haven't had that much experience but I've never been with a woman who seems to love it nearly as much as my Cheryl does. She's never had a sexually transmitted disease.
"So, do you think she would come here?" Thomas wanted to know.
I couldn't believe that this might actually be happening. I thought about his question and all I could answer was, "she might, I hope she will." There, I said it. "How would this work?" I asked.
PRIVATE TO CherylsHub: "What I do ain't no secret. I got me a place twenty miles outside the city. Always looking for help. Had good luck with married white gals. I'm kinda desperate and need help now. That's why I'm here, sort of recruiting. Looking for local gals but could fit Cheryl in if you're interested."
This seemed almost too good to be true. As my fantasies developed, they seemed to consolidate into just one: Cheryl getting on a plane, flying to a distant city where she would be met by a pimp at the airport, returning a few days later eager to share the most intimate details of her adventure with me. In my recent fantasy the pimp is always black as are the nearly endless parade of faceless customers with gigantic black cocks. Could it be that the person writing to me from a computer nearly three thousand miles away, Thomas the Charlotte pimp, would be the one to bring my fantasy into the realm of reality?
"PRIVATE TO CherylsHub:" flashed on the bright screen and Thomas continued. "The way I see it man, if we can work things out, I mean if you get her here for the weekend, she wouldn't really have to bring anything. I'd take her to a store my ladies use and buy her some frilly things, drive her out to the house, take her for a test drive so to speak . . . fuck her . . . if everything's cool, I'll put her right to work. I'd send her back to you on Sunday, sore but with a smile. How does that sound?"
"Have you done something like this before?" I asked.
"Not from as far away as Arizona, but yes, most of the white gals have been married. I have one now who's a school teacher and works weekends. She's been off for two weeks and won't be back for another month. The brothers are pissing and moaning and sure miss her."
"Does her husband know about this?"
"Fuck yes man. They live in Raleigh he's the one who set it up in the first place and made the arrangements. I think he loves it." Thomas explained.
For some reason that I can't explain, I trusted this stranger. I believed he was telling me the truth, don't ask why. "So, how do we make it happen?"
"I understand why you don't want to give out your home phone number, caller ID and all that shit. I don't need to know your last name, address or anything like that, but I do need to talk with Cheryl before we go much further. Fuck, I trust you man, but I'd sure hate to make plans get the guys all excited about fresh meat and then get to the airport and find out I'd been a fool. Does that make sense, Dan?"
"Of course it does. I just don't have a clue how we proceed."
I waited for his reply which was slow to come. "How about if you get her to come on and chat. She there now?"
"Sorry, I didn't explain. We live in Phoenix but I'm in my hotel room in Denver and won't be home until tomorrow night."
Again his response was not immediate. "Well how about this? Give her a call, have her log on and we can talk." This was moving much faster than I had anticipated. "Can't hurt to try I guess. I've asked her to chat with other guys before but she wouldn't."
"Then go for it man! Give her a call. What have you got to lose? Hey, I'll talk real sweet to her and then you and I can chat after and see if we have a deal. Have her log in as ThomasWW."
"What's WW?" I wanted to know.
"Why, white whore my man, what else? Get the fuck off the computer and call her quick, I'll wait"
"Might take a while, give me half an hour?"
"You got it. By the way don't you have to describe me to her?"
"Shit, I'm not thinking, of course I do," I said feeling stupid.
"I'm 55, 6'3" 250 lbs., shaved head and 10 X 7. Used to drive a truck before Rosie, my wife, and I started this business. She died about a year ago, sure miss her."
"Sorry to hear that," I said.
"Thanks. Most of my customers are black truck drivers who make it a point to schedule their trips so they can stop here. Hurry man, talk with Cheryl."
"Okay, talk to you later." With that, I logged off, disconnected the phone line from my notebook PC and plugged it back into the hotel telephone.
I remembered that it had been nearly 10:00 p.m. in Denver, 9:00 at home and midnight in Charlotte when I punched in the familiar numbers. The phone rang three times before I heard her beautiful voice say, "Hi honey." Obviously, she had looked at the caller ID and saw that the call was placed from the Holiday Inn in downtown Denver where I always stay.