Heating Up the Husband -- Prologue

It was my wife's idea that I start seeing other women.

My dating record was short and spotty when we started going out in college. Heather wasn't exactly a wild child growing up, but she took pride in being a lot of guys' first something-or-other. Could you blame her? She liked them shy, she exuded charisma (she still does), and she made extensive use of a number of Catholic loopholes throughout high school.

I, on the other hand, didn't attract anyone's attention until I was halfway through college. That situationship was intense enough for me to get my first kiss and my only blow- and handjobs -- otherwise, the less said about it, the better. The only jealousy it aroused in Heather was that she hadn't gotten to me until a year later.

But what Heather and I had went slow, steady, and strong. We survived revelations about past infidelity and two years of long-distance love. We gave each other our traditional virginities on a somewhat painful Fourth of July. We moved in together and eventually adopted a puppy we found abandoned outside a summer camp. We don't genuinely argue often -- we still play fight and take "hard" positions on stupid shit like "is a hot dog a sandwich" or "is this anime just trash or legitimately terrible" -- but when we do, we do it to find understanding, not to tear each other down.

For the seven years before Heather married me, I thought I'd unlocked Relationship Easy Mode. Not a whole lot's changed after the wedding, either -- we still watch memes and video essays late into the night, order takeout when we're both too lazy to cook, and get extra lovey-dovey to make old, staring racists uncomfortable. In fact, aside from taxes and legal options, I'd say the biggest thing that's different is our sex lives.

I don't know what those old sitcoms and stand-up comedians are on about. Married sex absolutely tops dating sex.

Our wedding night alone was a sensational fuckfest. We absconded to our rented cabin immediately after the reception and before long, Heather was sloppily gagging herself on my mahogany cock.

Heather had started the night with her dark brown hair curled and secured with tasteful bumblebee barrettes to frame her round face and pointed chin. She wore makeup, too, although I was hard-pressed to tell beyond some extra rosiness in her usually pale cheeks and ruby red lipstick. But by the time I pushed her back onto the bed and started suckling her clit, her hair had come loose and her makeup was running in erotic trails down her face.

Her howls of ecstasy filled the cabin as I gorged myself on her musky pussy. She came in writhing bucks, grinding the short lawn of her mound against my trimmed beard until she settled flat on her back. I lapped up the last of her nectar, kicked out of my pants, and climbed onto the bed to kiss my bride, my wife, my partner in life. Unlike the romantic, but restrained, kiss at the altar, this kiss was the summation of our relationship: passionate, messy, and, above all, honest. When I pulled back, we shared a look that we were both too out of breath and brainpower to say out loud.

God, I love you.

I nestled my cock head against her lower lips. Heather's jaw dropped slightly, her eyes fluttered shut, and she sang a long high note as I slid up to my hilt inside her. I gave a guttural sigh and savored her snug warmth for just a moment, stroking her face in a moment of gentle affection.

Then I clasped my hands at the back of her head and went to town.

Heather and I had made love, fooled around, had sex, fucked. But none of that approached the experience of pumping in and out of Heather's cunt with her ivory, flower-themed wedding gown hiked up to her hips. It was as spiritual as it was animalistic.

Her tunnel, slick and soft, gripped and yielded to my shaft in the rhythm of our slapping flesh. Each plunge back in forced another breathless gasp from Heather's open mouth. The scent of our mixing juices wafted around like an intoxicating incense, and I was lost in our sauce. Eventually Heather found the clarity to form a single, whimpering sentence.

I hardly registered them as words, but they were enough to bring my focus to her half-closed green eyes. Heather stared back at me and, between through lust-clenched teeth, repeated herself.

"Fucking cum for me, Bruce."

Anything for you.

I pressed my torso to hers and ground anew, briefly bitter that my shirt and her gown denied full-skin contact. But the soft, ribbed texture of Heather's gown under my palms was just what I needed to fulfill her request.

I grunted aloud when my first load launched into my bride's depths. I nearly blacked out, it hit me so hard. The next half-dozen jets were accompanied by only my usual quiet, but heavy, breathing. I clambered up to my knees, shivered, squeezed out the last few drops, and fell sideways onto the bed.

Heather was panting and running her hands up and down her torso as she came down from her second orgasm. When she grazed the still-hiked hem of her gown, the cloudy stream of our efforts dribbled out from her parted labia onto her thigh. I didn't get to see it often by then, so, whether she meant that show or not, it was a special treat for a special night.

And that was just the first time. We went at it again that night, and once again in the morning. By the end of the weekend, we'd boned in all three bedrooms in the cabin, not to mention getting busy in the living room and fooling around in the hot tub. Sometimes our clothes came off, and sometimes they stayed on. But our wedding rings stayed on our fingers that entire weekend.

After our second time, when we finally ditched our clothing, we lay spooning and holding hands. Her pale fingers clasped my dark hands, and our rose gold rings shimmered against the contrast. I remember thinking that this was just the beginning of a lot of good things. That even though we'd have to go back to our too-small apartment and our unsatisfying jobs in this late-stage capitalist hellscape, at least we'd have each other and the best dog in the world to see us through.

A couple months after our late summer wedding, I started applying for jobs up and down the state that would pay better than my position at the college print shop. Not because our spending habits changed -- that was just the next part of the plan. Heather always had great luck at getting a job, so she could find one if she needed to. Since my social struggles made it harder for me to land work, we figured I should be the one to get hired first.

Just after New Year's, a modest clothing wholesaler offered me a steady wage to pack orders in their warehouse. It wasn't the administrative assistant position I'd applied (and was much better-suited) for, but they offered to pay for the moving expenses to get us into the metro area halfway between Heather's and my families. After a little research into the company and much discussion, I accepted and we shipped out.

Our newly rented house was in a nice neighborhood just close enough to the train tracks to keep the rate manageable. It was a one-story affair with a fenced-in backyard that I insisted on for Dawson to get his zoomies out, as well as three bedrooms, which Heather insisted on so we could each have some private space. We took a few days to unpack, settle in, and get acquainted with the area.

We christened the house on a Thursday. Our immediate neighbors were all gone for work or school, so Heather was as loud as she wanted to be. After her final shuddering convulsions, we collapsed onto the bed in a gasping heap.

Heather sighed and wrapped herself up in my arms. "Fuck me, I wish I could share you."

"Ohhh, nooo," I wailed sarcastically, "you're having too much good sex. If only another woman could come take me off your hands."

"God, I know, right? I could use a second opinion on that dick, too." She reached back and stroked my still-tender member, making me flinch.

I thought she was just being flirty, reveling in the glow of new opportunities in a new town.

It wouldn't be too long before I found out how serious she was.