Cuckolded by our Cat (?) Pt. 01

*I wrote this for a reader. It's a curious tale for more than the obvious reason. About five weeks ago I received an email from this man - asking me to write about him, and roughly describing his experiences. A couple of emails followed, and then his wife began to email me, elaborating about their situation. She is a remarkably beautiful and sexy woman, I found. We've exchanged many emails since then, and I wrote this. I changed his name, but Carol insisted I keep her name, since she is proud of what she is. They both approve of this first part, and I even have a standing invitation to their house, should I ever travel 808 miles in that direction (oh yes, I checked) I hope you enjoy it.*

There's something about cats that a lot of people aren't aware of, especially those who fall under their spell. We hear about 'cat people' all the time. Our reactions vary. Some of us wrinkle our noses and scoff; some openly proclaim, "I don't understand the whole cat thing." And some people just dismiss it as an annoying internet category. But there *are* cat people, like my wife. It's a real thing. Believe me, Ive lived it. And it led, though indirectly, to where we are now.

First of all, my wife wants you to know her cat's name. It's Bernie.He is, as you've guessed, a male cat. Neutered, spayed; whatever you call it with male cats. We had it done shortly after adopting Bernie. It was me who had to take him in for his appointment with "The Castrator," as I jokingly called the vet at the time. My wife was horrified, though she had agreed to it. We both knew it was the responsible thing to do, but she wouldn't discuss it other than to call it 'his procedure' and to make sure I knew she didn't want to think too much about it. When the time to take him in came, she went in to her office.

Some days I wonder if she'd more readily have agreed to *me* having the procedure done than the cat. That's me feeling sorry for myself, of course. She wouldn't. But the way it has turned out, it's had the same result. Bernie seemed to control our sex life from then on. Or, more precisely, the lack of it.

So, yes. My wife is a 'cat person'. By that I don't mean she collects cat videos, or has a houseful of them. God forbid, Bernie is bad enough! She doesn't feed the neighborhood strays; in fact, she thinks Bernie is far superior to them in every way. She often expresses that to me. What is unsaid is that she obviously feels that Bernie is far superior to ME. I've brought the point up a few times in our arguments, and she always laughs at that idea. But not very strongly or convincingly. As in, "Oh, don't be silly. He just requires more attention than you, Steve. And that's a good thing." As in, "It's not that strange at all that if you're both in the same room, I need to pay more attention to Bernie than you. He's a cat, Steve. Animals need our constant approval, don't you agree? Besides, we get plenty of time together."

But we don't. All our time together after we got the cat was in groupings of three -- my sexy and attractive wife Carol, Bernie the 'needy' cat, and me. He's always in the middle, between Carol and myself. Literally and emotionally. It began the first night he came into our house, even before The Castrator did her thing. I think he hated me even then; perhaps it was my lack of fawning affection over him. I'm not a 'cat person'. Never have been. I'd much rather have a dog, but even they are a big investment in time and attention, so I've resisted the urge to get one. When Carol and I got married and bought a house we briefly discussed it.

Our marriage. That's the real point of this rant. It's been a wonderful three-year voyage up to now, it really has. My world spins on an axis named Carol. She's beautiful, the sexiest woman I've ever known. She's taller than my own five foot four inch - by six full inches, but that never bothered either of us; at least in the beginning. It only seems relevant now. She's always been lean and willowy, but she was blessed with breasts that a girl much heavier than her one hundred twenty-five pounds should have. Lovely full boobs that hang tantalizingly because of their own weight. They're somewhat of a magnet for most of the men she comes into contact with. She jokes about it sometimes. Often, lately.

Carol works at an insurance agency in a high-rise office building in our fair-sized city, which brings her into contact with many men, I'm sure. But she was always faithful to me, as far as I knew. She was the kind of girl your mother wants you to marry. Carol was what you'd consider 'down to earth' -- completely NOT self-absorbed. But do any of us know *everything* about those we love? She jokes about being gangly, but that's not her.

The first time I saw her she was wearing gym shorts, something she hated but had to wear, for her phys ed class. She was a vision, out on the soccer field. My gaze immediately went to her lean legs, and the open area between them. Then to her boobs. That she was taller than any of her classmates only served to make her even more attractive to me. Dressed in heels and a slinky dress for office functions, she's a vision. But I'm digressing.

Back to the cat, Bernie. Even thinking his name causes my gut to clench! As I said, from the first moments, he gravitated to Carol. And that was okay; she's the one who wanted him, and as I've come to realize, what Carol wants, she always gets. *Or in my case, learns to live* without. She dotes on that animal, and after his procedure he hardly left her side, nestling into her embrace as soon as she pulled his groggy self from the carrier. Now, a year later, he follows her step for step, unless she's carrying him. Which is often. The worst part has been his intrusion into our sex life.

We didn't have sex the day of his procedure, but that wasn't unusual. We had ceased having sex every day once we were married. The stress of learning to live together, and of buying and moving into our first house, combined to leave both of us physically and emotionally exhausted a lot of nights, and so our sex life fell off for a while. It had picked up again before we got the cat but waned immediately after. It seemed like every time I tried to become intimate with my wife, the cat was there. It slept in our room, usually curled up next to Carol. And it had this annoying habit of insinuating itself between us every time we'd kiss or caress each other.

At first she just laughed about it. "Bernie just wants to feel close to us," she'd say. But Bernie could care less about me; he only seemed to want to prevent me from getting close to Carol. If I tried to push him out of the way, he would hiss at me. If I rolled over and gave up, he would purr loudly and snuggle up to my wife. Once, when Carol was in the shower and I decided to masturbate, he jumped up onto the bed and swiped at my dick with his claws. I ended up with three horizontal scratches, which bled. I'm fairly certain he knew I was thinking about the days before he came along, when I could freely play with my wife.

Those days have been few and far between, since. Carol didn't seem to suffer from a lack of sex; in fact, her mood seemed happier than ever. She credited the cat with her sense of calm, while I blamed Bernie for my increasing tension.

"Can't we put the cat out of our room for a while tonight?" I asked her one night. I had a hard-on that wouldn't go away, and she had worn just a t-shirt and panties as she read, stroking the cat instead of me. Her nipples were even hard: I could clearly see them pushing the shirt out. She put the book down and turned to me, her cute mouth turned up into what I've come to call her 'cruel grin.'

"You're so funny," she whispered. She looked down at Bernie, curled up against her hip. "He's almost asleep," she said dreamily. "Look at him. You want me to just stick him out in the hallway, when he's so adorable?"

I began to mount my argument that he was, after all, a cat; whereas I was her husband and lover, but she shushed me with a look. She stared at me for long seconds, then grinned. Again, that cruel grin. She should patent it!

"If you didn't bother him," she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "you could play with these..." She looked down at the t-shirt, and her obviously erect nipples. And though it wasn't what I really wanted, just getting the opportunity to play with them again would, I hoped, get her aroused enough to push the cat out of the way and let me make full-on love to her. By then, it had been two agonizing months, plus.

I was keeping track.

I reached over and palmed her breast, feeling its warmth. But as I leaned over to kiss her the cat woke up. Whether it was the movement of Carol's shirt or my shifting on the bed as I leaned into her, it alerted Bernie. With a sigh, he wheeled around so he was on his back and extended one paw upwards to her tit, effectively blocking my own caress. One claw hooked in the fabric of her shirt as he relaxed again, and his paw stayed there.

"Awwww, look at that," she cooed, nodding down at him. She then looked at me and grinned again. "He knows where the good stuff is too, doesn't he?" She laughed softly. "I'm sleepy anyway, baby. Maybe tomorrow." She laid her book aside and turned out the light. Another month went by. But the next time was the straw that finally broke my back.

Carol got home late. I'd begun to worry, as she was usually home well before me. Bernie had remained curled up asleep, not wanting anything to do with me, even though he usually got fed when Carol first got home, around 5:15. By 7:30 it was dark out. Her headlights swung into the drive just as I checked my phone again. When she walked through the doorway she didn't seem herself.

"What's the matter, honey? You look frazzled."

My voice seemed to startle her. She recoiled slightly, and then brushed her hand down over her tummy, smoothing the front of her dress. It was, I saw, one of her more form-fitting ones; it also offered the maximum of cleavage appropriate for office attire, I thought. To be honest, she looked sexy as hell!

"I... I had to stay late," she said, then seemed to compose herself. Bernie came into the room, purring, but she ignored him for a change. She took the few steps between us, then stopped and looked down at me. In those heels, she towered over me.

"That's not entirely true," she said. "I didn't *have* to stay late. I chose to."

"Okay..." I didn't know where this was going. Her perfume seemed to envelope us both. "I got dinner ready," I offered, when she didn't immediately say anything more. "Are you hungry? It's chicken cordon bleu, fresh from the oven."

She stood for a few more moments, looking into my eyes. I saw that cruel grin begin to form, and my stomach clenched. What was this about? Then she put her forefinger on the tip of my nose and wiggled it. "Sure. In a minute," she said, and headed for the bedroom to take her heels off. Bernie followed, meowing at her.

I got dinner on the table and poured her a glass of wine. I figured she could use it, given the kind of day she'd probably had. When she returned she was wearing a short robe, and when she bent to pick up the cat's dish I saw she was wearing a thong. My god, that ass looked enticing! She picked Bernie up and carried him to the kitchen, where she scooped food into his bowl while holding him. He looked completely content hanging over one arm, even though I knew he had to be hungry. His eyes never left me, though.

When Carol sat to eat, she seemed contemplative. I tried to make small talk, but she wasn't receptive. She stared at her plate as she ate. I had the feeling that something was wrong. Finally, I had to say something.

"You didn't get fired, did you?"

She exploded in laughter. "God, no!" she said, turning at last to me. "In fact, I think I just got another raise." She put on her cruel grin, the one that both turned me on and worried me. I never knew exactly what she was thinking when she did that.

"You know how you're always blaming Bernie for our not being... intimate?"

Alarm bells went off in my head. Still, I only nodded, wondering where this was leading. I didn't want to argue tonight.

She hesitated, then shocked me further when she asked if I'd noticed the dress she'd worn to work. I said I did, and that I thought it was sexy on her.

"Hmmmm. Well, so does James." She grinned again, then went back to looking at her plate.

As she took a bite, I asked, "James? You mean Mr. Broissard, your boss?"

"That's the guy," she confirmed, not looking at me.

"So... What did he say?" My guts were churning by now. Any thoughts of finishing my dinner abandoned me; I thought I might hurl. Carol didn't answer immediately, and my mind filled with possible conversations they might have had, and images of him leering at her over her desk. I never trusted him to start with!

Finally, she spoke. "It's not so much what he says as what he does," she replied levelly, still not looking up. "I mean, is it proper for your boss to put his hands on you every time you're together?"

Now my temper flared. "Put his hands on you?" I practically yelled. "What the fuck did he do?"

At that, she turned to me and laughed out loud. "Oh, he's been doing that ever since I got hired," she told me. "I mean, I'd gotten used to that. I even kind of invited it, to be honest. That was months ago..." She leaned over and picked the cat up.

"This guy," she continued, stroking Bernie's fur with one hand, "was just my way of keeping you at arm's length while I figured out where I wanted it to go." She nuzzled his face up against her nose. "And you did such a good job, didn't you?" she cooed, as he purred contentedly at her.

"Wait. You mean..." Suddenly I was having a hard time forming words. My pulse was pounding in my ears. "What are you saying?"

She continued to nuzzle Bernie, rubbing her nose against his, while her eyes stayed on mine. Then she grinned again. "It's been a while, hasn't it? For you, I mean." She put the cat down at last, but he stayed next to her feet, purring loudly. She was staring at me as if expecting a barrage of questions, but I remained silent. My mind was scattered, trying to comprehend what she was hinting at. 'For me?' What was that about? She continued to stare at me, that cruel grin on her face. She spoke at last.

"Your face..." She chuckled slightly, as at some private joke. "You know," she said, "I really expected you to swat Bernie out of the way some nights, but you never did." She shook her head grimly. "You never did."

I spoke, hesitantly. "You... always seemed preoccupied, and that damn cat seemed determined to stay between us..."

She laughed, louder now. "And you let him," she said, her eyes never leaving mine. "I mean, what's it been? A month? Two?"

"Ninety-four days," I said in a low voice.

That made her laugh even more. "Jesus, Steve! You've been keeping track? That's kind of pathetic, you know." Her laughter subsided, but her grin remained. "I guess, as an accountant, you'd do that," she said softly, "but, still..."

"Carol, I don't know what this is about. If you're just teasing me about the cat, okay. I should have done something about him a long ti..."

She laughed again, throwing her head back and ending with an "oh my god!" She fixed me with her eyes again and said, "Seriously, Steve? You're manning up about Bernie, at last?" She let the implications sink in. But what had she expected me to do?

"Believe me, baby, the cat is the *least* of your worries. And you couldn't even handle that!"

"Carol," I began...

She reached for my hand and held it as she spoke to me. "Honey, I need to tell you something. You haven't lost out to Bernie. You lost out shortly after we got married, and I started working at Broissard Law."

She hesitated, rubbing the back of my hand with her thumb. Collecting her thoughts, I could tell. My stomach clenched. 'Lost out?' Three years ago? My own mind was running in circles, but hers was now focused. She began to speak.

"Remember when you said we should host a cookout for my new bosses? You were all about, 'oh, we need to establish you right up front. Your career depends on it.' And so we did, and James and Burt and their wives all came over to our little house and acted like they were thrilled to be here. We introduced them to brats, remember?"

I nodded, still not knowing where this was going.

"Baby, you've heard about their houses. James lives in what's practically a mansion, and Burt and his wife have condos here *and* in Reno." She chuckled. "I've been to both their places here, and believe me, this little hovel wasn't going to impress anybody!"

I grew defensive immediately. "Wait a minute," I argued, "this is our home. You've been excited about decorating, and... and starting a garden. Are you saying you're not proud of what we have here?" I was even more confused, now.

"Of course I am," she said calmly. "It's nice for what it is. But when I was showing Burt to our bathroom that first afternoon he whispered in my ear, something that let me know exactly where I stood in the office hierarchy, and what I needed to do to overcome that."

"What did he say?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear this, but I needed to understand. My world was crumbling, but I didn't know why. Or what had caused it. Brats?

Carol hesitated, still nervously rubbing my hand with her thumb. It felt like she was wearing a hole in my skin, but I couldn't pull my hand away. I needed the personal contact, and I felt like she did, too. She had something to tell me, and it was difficult.

"He said, 'you're a hot little number, Carol. I hope your husband doesn't hold you back.'" She stared at me. "At first, I laughed. I was shocked. I mean, he's so much older than me! But then he pulled me into the bathroom with him, closed the door and kissed me. He said, 'we need you to be available to us. Can you do that?' And I told him I could."

"Wait. I thought this was about James," I interjected.

How naive was I? Suddenly I realized this was even more than I had feared; that the cat, whom I had been fixated on for so long, wasn't the thing that was keeping my wife and me apart. Was I being cuckolded? By her bosses?

She was regarding me with that same cruel smile. She shook her head. "You just don't get it, do you?" She put both hands on mine, now. "Baby, I need you to think about what I'm saying. THINK! Haven't you noticed *any*thing?"

Oh. My. God.

"Carol? Are you saying you're having an affair with your bosses?" I took her hands in mine now. I stared into her eyes for a moment, then I couldn't. Without her saying anything, I knew. She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, then pushed my hair back over my ear. She leaned in.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "but I'm really not. I mean, I needed this, you know?" She drew back, still looking at my eyes, but I couldn't bring my own up to face her. "I love you, Steve," she said, "but you just weren't enough."

I began to cry. I know; it's a sign of weakness, but at that moment I felt my world crumbling around my ears, and all I could do was allow the tears to flow down the sides of my face. Carol leaned her forehead against mine as I sniffed and gasped, my tears coming faster.

"Go ahead," she urged, "let it out, baby. It's not an easy thing, admitting that you're not enough man for your wife."

That was the second time she'd hinted that, and it finally hit home for me. I was almost 7 inches; that wasn't enough? She went on, our foreheads bumping together as I began to sob. She tried to explain.

"I wish you were," she said, "I really do. But now that I've felt so many other superior men inside me, I can never be satisfied with a normal relationship. Do you understand?"

I collected myself enough to look into her eyes. "No, Carol, I don't! What is it? Am I not big enough for you?" I began to speak faster, pleading my case. "You know I'm better than average! Hell, I'm two inches bigger than average, and I always make you cum. I always make sure you get to cum! Just what do you need?"