The Cuck

The Cuck

The Deputy Prosecutor's wife.

Author's notes: Everyone in the story is over eighteen. It is fictional. Fair warning for those that do not like stories about adulterous liaisons especially when the female strays, this story is not for you. This is not a loving wife story. Please vote and comment constructively. That is how I learn.

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I was at a party. Usually, I don't go to parties. As a widower, it is hard to know what to do with myself. Most attendees are couples. The single person is the odd man out. If you ask a woman to dance, the chances are she is married to someone in the room, and you can never know how that will play out. If the woman is not presently married, she is either divorced and looking to get a husband to prove the breakup wasn't her fault, or she will be so bitter she will piss on any single male's shoes.

Adele, a friend of my late wife, Margaret, threw the party. She had been trying to hook me up with someone for over a year. It was hot and summer, and I just gave in to my idiot side and accepted. As is usual with my luck, at least lately, when I arrived, Adele was all apologetic that the woman she had hoped to hook me up with, although she never used that phrase, had the flu and couldn't come. Her description of her had been interesting, physically somewhere around Raquel Welsh in her heyday, intellectually on par with Madame Curie and spiritually close to Mother Teresa while in her fifties. Curiosity got the better of me, and I came to see this female wonder of the world.

I shrugged and said, "There is no need to apologize, Adele." And then I lied, "I kind of needed a night out. It will be fun."

Frankly, I did need a night out, but not to one of Adele's swareys. There were lawyers, bankers, insurance people, government people, high brows, and plain old stuffed shirts. They bragged about their money, jobs, and elite status in society. I much rather would have raised a glass at the local watering hole watching a baseball game, but Adele and her husband Biff, yes, that was his fucking name, were friends.

I didn't plan to stay long, and thankfully, I was already nearly an hour late to the party, you know, fashionably late. So, I went for some of Biff's Scotch, his twelve-year-old Glenmorangie, and got two fingers over ice from the bartender. Good stuff! As is always the case, some guy was talking, with a small crowd surrounding him. The conversation looked animated, and although I am now classified officially as old, I would have enjoyed it if it had broken out into a brawl. It is always a gas when the elites act like peasants.

The guy was tall, handsome, in good shape, and a blue suit. The word lawyer should have been stenciled on his forehead. He was seriously thinking of putting his hand in the ring, a political ring. Damn, I would have enjoyed a good fight. He and another guy, fiftyish, well-dressed, dumpy, red-faced, and out of shape, were discussing some current political crisis and trying to save democracy as we know it, obviously on opposite sides.

"You are just a damn Nazi, Herb," the guy who was in better shape said way too loud. "You want to..."

"I'm a Nazi, you fucking communist," the other guy cut him off and abruptly turned and walked away.

The good-looking guy then turned and shrugged, saying, "Damn, conservatives just will not debate. They just run off."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"What?" the guy bellowed, looking right at me.

Now, I am a mild-mannered grandfather. I haven't been in an actual fight since Vietnam. I had no idea what the two were arguing about and could have cared less, but this guy's attitude rubbed me the wrong way.

"You called him a damn Nazi, I believe. Pejorative language and personal invectives have no place in civilized debate. You, sir, were the one that stepped outside of the purview of proper etiquette in debate," I said remarkably calmly to the oohs of some of the crowd as they shrank back.

Now, I am still determining where I came up with the calm or the fancy language, but the effect was immediate. The good-looking guy got red-faced, and I saw him clench his fists.

As calmly, I took a sip of my Scotch, the ice cubes tinkling in the glass, and said in an air of supreme confidence, "Careful, son. Don't let the white hair make a fool of you."

The look on the faces of the crowd was of shocked surprise. The man just turned on his heels and walked away.

A man beside me whispered, "Do you know who he is?"

Looking at the man, I replied in a conversational tone, "No idea."

"He's Kenneth Stokes, the county prosecutor," he whispered.

"Well, good for him," I replied and walked away.

I found an overstuffed chair to sit in and plopped down, intending to finish my drink, have another, and find Adele and Biff to say goodbye. As I enjoyed myself sipping Biff's, did I say good Scotch, and listening to the music, she caught my eye. It was subtle but an unspoken acknowledgment accompanied by a sexy smile and nod. Unsure if she was looking at me or someone behind me, I played a dirty trick. I yawned. Yawns are catching, and if you are in a situation where you don't know if someone is intent on you, give it a try. Most of the time, if they are looking at you, they will yawn themselves. Sure enough, that is what happened. Her surprised look as she moved her hand to cover it and attempted to stifle the yawn was cute.

I smirked, knowing what I had done, and then I was surprised because she rose with her glass of white wine, her eyes locked on mine, and walked across the room toward me. She was about five feet four inches tall, blond, with long hair framing her lovely countenance. She had more than ample breasts, a slim waist, and rounded hips shown off nicely in the red midi-length party dress. It was very low-cut, form-fitting in one of those stretchable type fabrics. A short slit up the side of her left leg enhanced the sensualness of her walk, carefully placing one foot directly in front of the other causing her hips to undulate like a runway model and so very seductively and slowly, causing her hem to edge up. Matching stiletto heels with a delicate gold chain around her left ankle topped off her outfit.

She stopped in front of me as I rose and smiled with her left hip thrust to the side, seductively opening the slit to its max, her hem ending quite some distance north of its starting position.

"I see your mother brought up a gentleman. That is so rare today. Do you mind if I sit here," she cooed, pointing with the glass to the overstuffed chair next to me. It was placed at a ninety-degree angle with the arms almost touching.

"Sure," I croaked, intrigued, but let us face it. The woman looked in her forties, and I was in my late sixties. Oh shit, I can't lie, in my early seventies, and she was obviously married to someone in the room. I knew this was something with no future.

She smiled and turned to sit. I remained standing, allowing her to sit first as not my mother but father had pounded into my head long ago. As she sat, she did not scoop her dress underneath her in what my mother had hammered into my sister's head, nor did she demurely cross her legs at the knees. The woman did close her knees but pointed them at an angle toward my seat, not away. In the process, the hem of her dress slid north again about mid-way between the original midi length and her crotch.

"Sorry, where are my manners?" I began. "I am Jim Bolton. Nice to meet you," I said as I reached my hand to shake.

She took it and replied, "Catherine Stokes. Nice to meet you."

"Oh, shit. This may be fun," I thought sarcastically.

Truthfully, the woman did not look upset and calmly took a small sip of her wine, finally looking up and saying, "Please, sit."

Realizing I had been standing there looking the fool, I smiled and reseated myself.

"How do you like my husband?" she asked, a brazen smirk on her face.

For a moment, I contemplated acting stupid and saying something like, "Who is your husband?" But I knew that with the look on her face, she knew of the incident.

"The county prosecutor is opinionated and a bit rude when discussing politics. If he truly wants to seek public office, I would encourage him to take the edge off," I replied.

"An honest answer. How refreshing," Carolyn replied, her eyes brightening. "In truth, he is half-trashed already and will be fully zombie-like by the time we leave. So, in reality, my husband is an asshole. A drunken asshole," she said bluntly.

Shocked, I stuttered, saying, "I am...so sorry."

"Sorry? For what? I haven't begun the litany of his faults. Not only does he drink to excess, but he has also cheated on me several times and is currently in a torrid affair with one of the young paralegals his daughter's age in the office, which he isn't even trying to hide. He hasn't touched me in over a year and also gambles. So, I believe if he is fully qualified to be anything, it is an asshole," she finished with a touch of sadness now in the timbre of her speech.

What do you say in a situation like this?

"I'm...sorry for your situation," I replied, taking a hefty pull of the Scotch, its smoky, peaty fragrance and taste warming my insides. Did I say Biff's Scotch was good?

She sat, and we talked for over an hour with a refill of our glasses. Bright, a lawyer in her own right, we discussed all sorts of things, often on opposite sides of the issue but always respectfully discussing the issues in the way of genuine debate. It was fun and something I hadn't done in ages. As we talked, her skirt continued to work its way slowly up her thigh, and her knees began to part, exposing her inner thighs. I know that, at my age, I should be able to overcome such distractions. I may be old, but I am not dead yet. My eyes seemed to jump from breasts to crotch until the telltale triangle of white panty began to show, and I had a nearly unobstructed view of her panty-clad pussy.

Suddenly, there was a disturbance. We saw Kenneth Stokes trying to pick himself up from the floor where he had fallen.

"Shit," Carolyn spat out, rising and placing her glass on a convenient side table.

As she rose, I rose and followed her to see her husband rolling around on his back in a drunken state, mumbling some nonsense.

Sighing an all-consuming sigh, a heartbreaking sigh, an oh for god's sake, not again sigh, she reached down to help him.

"Here, let me help you," I said as I attempted to gather up the drunk and get him to his feet.

Drunks and people who have passed out are a lot of dead weight. They can't stand or help you, and getting him up was quite a feat.

"How am I going to get him home?" the desolated and humiliated Carolyn whined.

"I have a van we can load him in, and I will help you get him home," I volunteered.

"You would do that after the way he treated you?" she replied incredulously.

"Of course, my dear," I replied.

By now, Adele and Biff were there, and Carolyn and I said our goodbyes as I muscled her husband out the door to my van. I loaded him rather unceremoniously into the second seat passenger side and fastened his seat belt, hoping he wouldn't puke. The smell of Biff's good bourbon filled the van. Vans are a bit high to get into, so I helped Carolyn into the front passenger seat and asked her to belt herself. Her dress rode up scandalously high, and she did not attempt to work it down. With instructions and directions, I began to pull out.

"He can come back and get his fucking Porsche tomorrow," she growled. Then she let loose with, "Damn it, Jim. I am so sick of this humiliation every time we go out. You don't know how much I want to divorce him."

Then the female waterworks began, and I tried as much as bucket seats with a console in between would allow me to hold her and comfort her. She balled for some time, but finally, just sniffling, we pulled into the gated community and stopped at the guard shack.

"Good evening, Tim," she said as pleasantly as she could to the guard.

"Mr. Bolton is helping me get my husband home. He is ill."

Scrutinizing us, the guard, a young man in his mid-twenties, finally smiled and replied, "Fine, Mrs. Stokes. I just need to copy down his license plate."

"Do you really have to? My husband is quite ill and may get sick any minute," she pleaded.

"OK, fine, Mrs. Stokes," he said, stepping back and motioning me to continue.

We drove to her house; a huge one I would call a mansion. There was a curved drive that went right up to the front steps. I parked and managed to get Kenny out as Carolyn unlocked the door.I had put his right arm over my shoulder. When she returned, she put his left arm over her shoulder.

"I can get this," I stuttered.

"Don't worry, I've had to do this many times alone. I thank you for your help tonight," she replied curtly.

So, between the two of us, we got him up the steps and into the house.

"You don't have to help anymore. I can get him to bed," Carolyn offered, sighing and beginning to sniffle again.

"I am in for the duration," I replied light-heartedly, trying to perk up this drastically lousy situation.

She smiled a sad smile and, taking his arm like a yoke, proceeded to head towards their bedroom, which was upstairs, of course. I must admit it was a struggle, but we did eventually get him up and into the bedroom, where I, to my shame, deposited him rather roughly onto the bed.

Carolyn stooped, her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Worried, I helped her to sit on the bed and rubbed her back to comfort her. Her knees were wide, and her dress rode up under her bum again, giving me a view of her white panties, lacy and sheer. I stared too long but eventually came to myself and averted my eyes.

Panting, she said, "Can you help me get him out of his suit and shoes?"

Well, I have never undressed a man, but what the hell? She needed help, and I felt so bad for her.

Sure," I said, removing his shoes and putting them underneath the bed.

I put his coat and pants on a side chair along with his tie and loosened his collar, concentrating on what I was doing and not what Carolyn was doing.

"There," I said, turning to find Carolyn sans dress in only a sheer, nearly transparent minimal bra and equally sheer white lacy panties.

"Thank you. Could you help me with this?" Carolyn asked, turning, her hands pushing out the bra's clasp. I hesitated, and she pleaded, "Please."

I stepped forward and unclasped the bra, and she flung it in a low arc towards another side chair and turned to me. Her breasts were beautiful, large, and pear-shaped, with long, hard nipples and large areolas. I was breathless and looked at Kenny. She took my chin and turned it to herself.

"He will be out for hours. There is no need to fear," and with that, she pushed my jacket off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

Then she unbuttoned my shirt, pulling it from my pants, and it too soon fell to the floor. Next came my T-shirt, and then she rubbed those luscious tits on my chest, her hard nipples drawing erotic patterns. I crushed her to myself, and we kissed open-mouthed, seeking each other's tongues and the far reaches of our mouths. Our tongues danced in a strange mixture of our entirely different needs, surfacing like a breaching whale as we moaned this need to the room and each other.

When our kiss finally parted, she worked frenetically on my pants, pushing pants and briefs to the floor in one motion taking my now stiff cock into her mouth. She looked like a child slurping on a frozen popsicle on a hot July day. I held her head for support while kicking off my shoes and pants and, naked after just a minute or so, pushed her off, pulling her to her feet. She squealed as I picked her up and carried her around to the other side of the king-size bed. I put her on the bed and, with one stroke, yanked her panties off, exposing her well-waxed pussy that, if I had my way when I got done, was going to be well used.

She reached for me, but I dodged her arms and settled down my face in between her legs to her squeals of surprise. The musky smell of her very wet pussy filled my nostrils, stoking my lust as I, at first, tentatively licked her inner thighs and then her outer lips.

Carolyn arched, wailing as my tongue first found her clit.

I flat tongue licked it a half dozen times when she squealed and almost sat straight up screeching, "Fuck," amid her orgasm. She convulsed as I held her tightly and continued flat tongue licks to her clit until she begged, "Please, stop. I can't take it anymore," which I, of course, didn't do.

She continued to wail, and as I introduced a couple of fingers in a come-hither motion, she desperately tried to disengage. I didn't let her, and when she came, she arched and screamed unintelligible gibberish, convulsing and squirting. Greedily I lapped up her fluids and encircled her very erect clit. I sucked hard. She orgasmed again, squirting. At this point, I started relenting as she shuddered and squirmed, finally collapsing onto her back, panting.

"Oh, my god, I have never orgasmed like that before," she said, panting.

She reached down and pulled me up between the valley of her thighs and tits and hugged me, wrapping her arms around me and her legs.

"Thank you," she whispered into my ear.

I ran my right arm under her left upper arm and then grasped her wrist, trapping it next to her ear. She gave me a questioning look. When I ran my left arm under her right arm, I smirked and nodded at her wrist.

With that, she presented her wrist to me, and I clasped it, trapping it next to her ear. Her eyes opened wide, realizing what I was doing, and she murmured, "Yes."

I smiled and adjusted so my hard cock was at the entrance of her sex and stopped, looking at her, the question written on my face because I am no rapist.

She shifted in such a way as to give me full access and pleaded, "Yes. Yes, fuck me."

As I slid my cock slowly into her sloppy wet pussy, she arched open-mouthed, squealing, "Oh, god."

I started slowly in long strokes, taking my time. As I progressed, I thrust faster and faster and harder and harder. Carolyn's moans and groans started intermittently and finally became constant with each stroke. Waves of flesh ran up her body, and her tits bounced sometimes side to side in concert, sometimes up and down in concert, and sometimes seemingly in all directions at once. Before long, she was squealing and screeching, begging me to continue, not to stop, never to stop. The expensive king-sized bed bounced, the springs complained, and the headboard went thump, thump, thump against the wall.

She closed her eyes and arched, squealing, "I am going to cum."

"Open your eyes," I bellowed. "I want to see your O face. I want to see the moment when I make you cum on my cock with your Cuckold son of a bitch lying right next to you."

With that dirty talk, she arched, lifting me off the bed, squealing, "Fuck," in one long hiss.

I could feel the squirt as it hosed out around my cock. I could feel the muscles of Carolyn's pussy contracting and squeezing my cock. I could feel her entire body harden and convulse. It was some ride. But I hadn't cum and continued to pound her pussy without slowing. When she had come down enough from her orgasm to realize this, her expression was almost terror-like. I was close, though, and as I frenziedly rammed her, I could tell she was not far behind.

"I am going to cum," I began. "I am going to cum in you. "I am not asking permission. I am just going to take you. My cum is going to fill you and leak out of you, and your Cuck is lying right there, and there is nothing you or your Cuck can do about it."

Her eyes widened, and I grunted as I felt cum rush up my rod, throwing stream after stream of cum into her naked pussy. She screamed her orgasm, convulsing and squirting, arching impossibly hard. We struggled there on the bed, my body willingly filling her and her body welcoming the filling. When we finally came down from the mountain, we sought each other's mouths in passionate delight.