Ron and Nadine Ch. 01

Ron and Nadine

[Author's Note: This story grew from a comment I received via email through the Literotica system. I responded, as I do to every email comment I receive, and the guy told me of his cuckold fantasy. He asked if I was interested in story suggestions and I said, "Sure." So here it is. I'm not sure where this story is headed, but Ron's (I have changed the names at the guy's request) future, I am pretty sure, is headed down a pretty kinky path. As with all of my stories, I see this as primarily a love story. Sex, of course, is part of love, and a line that appears in all of my stories is something I pretty much live by in the real world as well as here in fantasyland - Good sex is often messy but NEVER dirty. So come along, Gentle Reader, and let us see how Ron adapts to his new role in the family.]

Chapter One

In Which We Meet Ron and Nadine

I sat, alone in the quiet darkness, picturing them together. I felt tears wetting my cheeks and warm mucus on my upper lip as my nose ran. Yes, I'm an emotional train wreck, but there it is.

I was not allowed to have music playing or the television on after I tucked the girls in. At 15, and now in High School, Alicia had lobbied successfully for a 10:00 p.m. bedtime while Marylouise, 13, and still in Middle School still faced lights out at 9:00. I glanced at the clock on the cable box and saw it was 2:15 a.m. so I had been sitting here, waiting patiently, dressed only in the athletic cup Nadine insisted I wear around the house for a little over three years now.

She would be home soon from her date, and my emotions bounced around like some hypercharged pinball in a machine plugged into a 220-volt outlet rather than the 110 it was designed to handle. I was jealous, almost crazy jealous, as I pictured her legs wrapped around him, her head thrown back in that way she used to do with me, crying out her pleasure. But I was happy for her too, happy that she found what I couldn't give her anymore. Under it all there was pride. I was proud to be married to this beautiful woman who, as she approached a half-century, could still attract a man less than half her age.

Yeah, I was a train wreck.

So I sat, alone with my thoughts, my two daughters asleep less than 50 feet away, and waited.

The flash of lights across the curtain told me she was home. I felt a rush deep in my belly.

"Is this the night she brings him home?" I wondered, "The night I will be relegated to the small bedroom in the basement?"

We had talked about that, Nadine and I, when she started dating. In those final seconds, as I heard the garage door operating while I stood by the door, waiting for her, there was a timeless moment and I replayed the conversation.

((Three years ago))

"No, Honey, God, no," I said, brushing the tears away, "it's me, it's ALL me. It's not you. You're beautiful and desirable but, well, things just don't quite work like they once did."

We were both crying. I was holding her, still captivated by the feeling of her body against mine. But my worthless cock wouldn't respond.

"It's me," she said, sobbing, "I'm getting old and just don't attract you anymore."

"No, Nadine, no," I said again, "You're beautiful. It's me."

And it was me. I was never what you'd call over-sexed, hell, I was barely sexed at all. But for the past three years, my always-iffy libido had been waning and now, well, even the Viagra I took with a quietly whispered prayer, left me limp and worthless.

"You know," I said, and what I was thinking gave me a twinge in my groin but it passed quickly, "I understand you have needs and if you wanted to, well, you know....." and I trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Hell, Not sure if I wanted to finish that sentence.

Her eyes got big and she sat up suddenly.

"WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?!" she asked, her voice sharp.

"Nadine, I love you," I said, capturing her hand and kissing it, "but I'm not meeting your needs and I know it. So if you, well, wanted to try someone else..."

She slapped me.

"I'm NOT A WHORE, Ron," she said, "You know you were my first," and she kissed me, "and my only."

"I know, Baby," I said, "But I NEVER want you to be, well," and I felt foolish as a blush spread across my face, "be left unsatisfied."

She held me that night, while I cried in my frustration. When she offered her breast I suckled like a hungry baby and went to sleep with a lullaby in my ear.

It was almost a month before she broached the subject again.

((Tonight))

And now, three years later, I greeted her at the door, dressed in my athletic cup, wondering if she was bringing her boyfriend home.

When she came through the door she had that look I used to be able to give her. Her hair was, not what you'd call a "mess," but it was, well, unkempt. Her face was flushed. She looked terrific as she smiled at me.

I could smell the sex on her as I kissed her and took her hands.

"God, I love you," I said.

She smiled and said, "I love you too, Baby, now take me to bed and clean me up."

She wore her little black dress for date night so I undid the dozen tiny buttons down the back and shook it out, folding it carefully before taking it into the laundry room. My eyes lingered on the white stain where she sat, and I had an image of all of the news reports of Monica Lewinsky's stained blue dress. I would wash it carefully in Woolite tomorrow.

She still looked too good for her 47 years. The only hint of two pregnancies was the light tracery of stretch marks on her belly and across the tops of her breasts, visible above the bra she wore. I unhooked her bra and tossed it into the dirty clothes hamper. I couldn't help but notice that it was sweatdamp.

Her breasts did show that she was closing in quickly on a half-century. Her bra was a 38D and her breasts sagged as they will on any woman who has given birth and breastfed. Her areolas are oversized, about the size of the top of a coffee cup, and her nipples are in proportion, like inch-long hot dog ends. The hot dog is an apt description for another reason. Her areolas and nipples are very pink. I couldn't help but notice five small circular bruises on her breasts and could picture her cry as he had squeezed hard enough to leave those. I felt a stirring in my groin and wished I had been able to watch that.

I got to my knees then, holding her right foot in my hand as I unbuckled the ankle strap of her fuck-me pump. Her hands on my shoulders for balance were an intimacy I missed. I did the other shoe and then and then rolled her panties down.

Nadine is a redhead, well, an auburnhead shading to red. Her pubic hair matches what's on her head and it's thick and coarse and very curly. I keep it closely trimmed for her and now I could see how swollen her labia were. She was bruised slightly, in that way she had come home before. I could picture how hard he slammed into her to do that.

And she was leaking slightly.

"Okay, Baby," she said, crawling up onto the bed, giving me an interesting view of her ass and leaking pussy, "Clean me up."

She rolled onto her back, bent her knees, and parted her legs. Her labia were full and plump, and after the sex she had obviously had earlier, her delicate inner lips dangled well down the crack of her ass. They were pink and the thick white semen from earlier liberally coated them.

I didn't hesitate to give her what she wanted. What she needed to cement our relationship.

I used my fingertip to very gently open those delicate inner lips. I licked the top coat of the mixed semen and her natural mucus and the product of her Bartholin's and Skene's glands. The oily taste of his semen overwhelmed her natural womantaste of salt and spice and that slightly bitter aftertaste of her sex.

She sighed, a long slow breathy release, and said, "That's nice, baby."

As I licked her clean she stroked my hair, almost like she was petting me.

I sucked then, very gently, drawing the tissues of those inner lips into my mouth, my tongue washing her like a cat as I sucked the last of his semen and her lubricant out, swallowing it like fine honey.

"Easy, Baby," she said after a few seconds of that, "I'm a bit tender, you know."

So I kissed her pussy, thinking how beautiful it looked right then after her date night of sex and excitement, things I could no longer give her.

His scent mixed with hers as I kissed my way up her body until I finished by kissing her lips gently.

"Thank you, Baby," she said, kissed me gently, and turned onto her side, her back to me, and fell asleep almost immediately.

I lay beside her for a few minutes, making sure she was asleep, waiting for her soft snores, almost purrs to me, to signal deep sleep.

When she was purring I rolled carefully out of bed and padded, still in the athletic cup, into the hallway. I listened carefully but heard no stirring.

In the kitchen, I pushed the athletic cup down and carefully laid it on the center island. Then, standing in only the night light, naked, I pulled the 8-inch Santoku knife from the knife block, tested the blade, and found it razor sharp as I knew I would, and began using the cold steel, the dull side, to caress the base of my scrotum.

"Go ahead," I whispered to myself, "do it. Cut the damn things off. They're worthless anyway and maybe without them, without the hormones they pump out, you can be a better husband to her."

For an instant, I turned the knife and laid the sharp blade high on my thigh.

"Oh, God," I thought, "This is the night I do it."

But my courage failed, as it always does, and I put the knife back.

I wasn't hard, but I wasn't exactly soft either so I masturbated furiously, pulling my worthless cock until I finally ejaculated, a teaspoon of my thick white semen caught in my other hand.

I licked my palm clean, my taste different from His, and then washed my hands in the kitchen sink.

I put the athletic cup back on, went to the bedroom, crawled in beside my wife, kissed her back very softly, and then rolled onto my side, my back to hers, and cried myself to sleep, her soft snoring a soporific to me.