tagLoving WivesThat's No Lady - That's My Wife

That's No Lady - That's My Wife


(Fair warning: this is a cuckold story. The guy's wife cheats on him, and really rubs his face in it. If you hate that type of story, you'll hate this one.)


After Lewis had been dating Deborah for about four weeks, he took her to dinner to meet his best friend Theo, and his date Sara. Theo and Sara had been together for a year already; Deborah was the new kid on the block.

Just after dessert was ordered, Deborah's phone rang, and she stepped outside to take the call. The others took the opportunity to compare notes.

Lewis smiled expansively. "As you can probably tell, I'm quite taken with her."

"You two need to get a room," Theo said. "I could barely keep my food down."

"Theo!" Sara scolded. Though she also had an acerbic sense of humor; perhaps she was most upset because she didn't think of it first.

"Do you guys like her?"

"I don't," said Sara, with a straight face. Lewis knew her well enough to recognize when she was teasing. "She's too pretty, too smart, too funny, too classy... I can't stand people like that. So, um, thumbs down. Sorry."

Lewis and Sara glared at each other at a standoff until she broke, laughing. "Okay, she's cool. She is too good for you, though."

"Okay, so Sara is a declared bitter rival... Theo, I'm not sure if I want to know, but what do you think?"

Theo's answer was uncharacteristically noncommittal. "She's got a lot going for her. I don't think I've ever seen you happier. Don't let her get away."

Sara was a little puzzled at this, and looked to him for clarification, but he didn't offer any. She turned to Lewis. "So... are you going to pop the question?"

"It's only been four weeks," he protested. But he knew. The first night he had taken her home he knew.

They had stepped inside his apartment, nudged the door shut, and started embracing and serious kissing for the first time. Her lovely body pressed snugly against his, not just as a goodnight hug, or a slow dance, but in a manner hungry, exciting, and promising. She had told him earlier that night: underneath her silky deep blue dress, she wore only a sheer thong, practically nothing. His imagination had been on overdrive all evening. Now, with her finally in his arms, desire overwhelmed him. His penis quickly grew hard, and without warning, way too soon, he climaxed in his pants.

He felt betrayed, sucker-punched, violated. Everything was over before it had even started.

Then Deborah rescued the night, and their future. "It's not always like the movies, is it?" she said, not in ridicule, but commiseration. "Let's get these clothes out of the way and get to bed."

She seemed to have cleared her memory of that event; and his dick didn't appear to be traumatized either. After a minimum of foreplay, she guided him inside, and from then on the night was perfect. The next morning he knew that some day he would ask Deborah to marry him.

Now Sara wasn't ready for that sort of intimate detail, he guessed. His answer was much less personal. "She could be. If so, you'll have to find a way to make peace with her."

"I'll try," she said, sighing dramatically. "She'll have to meet me halfway."

Dessert arrived, Deborah returned, and the conversation drifted to other things.

The next day, Lewis called Theo.

"Did I put you on the spot last night? It seemed like you were holding something back."

"Not really. I meant what I said, but..."

"You can tell me now."

"Just be careful. Your girl is exceptionally beautiful, and things can get kind of weird if you don't keep an eye out."

"What are you talking about? I mean, Sara's pretty too; should I be telling you the same thing?"

"No, Lew. Sara's cute. I like her a lot, but she's cute, and Deborah's gorgeous. There's a big difference. Other guys are going to take risks around her. And she's human, and she's going to have temptations as well."

"How can you say all this, when you don't even really know her."

"You're right. We just talked for a couple hours. And man, nothing's wrong with her at all. In your shoes, I'd be doing the same thing. But it's going to be different with her. That's just part of dating a super-hot girl."

"I don't think it's going to be a problem, Theo."

"I hope not. And I'm not going to say any more. I hope you get everything you want out of this, all the happiness in the world. Just watch your back."

The conversation was starting to really annoy Lewis, and he cut it short. "Thanks, Theo. Talk to you later."

Was there any truth to what his friend said? Certainly there was no shortage of cynics and nay-sayers on his side. Wasn't it Mencken, or Bierce, or somebody who said that only misery lay in store for a man with a beautiful woman? No, that was bullshit. Biased, sour, uninformed; might as well have come from a horoscope. Too general to apply to every single case.

Theo was on the mark about Deborah's looks. She was exceptionally good-looking: leggy, tall, slender, with spectacular breasts and a refined, softly angled face. She had a bright, wide smile that in private situations she could quickly turn naughty; and her green eyes could give a look that would bring a man's blood to a boil. Dark auburn hair extended to the middle of her back, and though she had never colored it, in certain lighting conditions quick highlights of red would appear, like spears of lightning from miles distant.

Lewis, on the other hand, considered himself just merely above average: in decent shape, just under six feet tall, a freelance writing career, and a decent sense of humor. Was there a danger of Deborah being enticed away by another man, lured by better looks, more wealth, more power? That seemed to be Theo's point. But Lewis insisted that there was little reason to worry about this.

* * *

The following October, he asked Deborah to marry him; when she accepted, he felt like no substantial misfortune could ever befall him again. The next day, his Red Sox were eliminated in the playoffs; eighty-four years of frustration and counting. Maybe when they finally win it all, he thought, it'll feel almost as good as when she said yes.

Now engaged, and living with her, Lewis expected to feel completely secure, yet there was still the tiny mustard seed of doubt, or a pebble in the shoe, the little voice wondering what if his fiancee was tempted and gave in? Everyone desired her; Lewis saw this all the time when they were together in public. What if someone else offered something he could not?

He decided to quell his fears by confronting them almost head-on. While getting ready for a formal art gallery opening, Deborah stepped in front of the mirror wearing a backless, deep-cut, partially sideless evening gown. "Wow," he said, marveling at the expanse of skin showing. "I'm worried some rich young stud is going to carry you off."

She faced him in the mirror, applying some eyeliner. "That's why I have you at my side. To protect me."

So that was that: a running joke between them, which she didn't seem to mind, and helped put his mind at ease.

Theo was best man at the wedding. His speech praised the groom but saved the real laudatory language for the bride. True to his word, he had never raised any doubts about their relationship since that day Lewis called. He wished the happy couple all the best, and sat down to a round of applause.

Lewis took the mike and informed everyone that Theo was also engaged, nearly two months as of today, and his bride-to-be was among the bridesmaids, second from the left, could you please stand up, Sara.

After the wedding, Deborah still kept in touch with a few male friends, and he sometimes felt a twinge when one of them gave her an affectionate hug, or a kiss on the cheek. He imagined any straight guy would harbor at least some sexual desire for her. That was excusable, as long as it was never acted on. She noticed Lewis's response a few times, and assured him he had nothing to worry about.

Shortly after their first anniversary, the running gag of "you're going to get swept off your feet" ran one time too many. "Don't worry so much, honey!" she snapped. "It makes you sound really insecure. Like you don't even trust me."

"Just teasing," he said, backpedaling. Evidently this had bugged her for some time; he scolded himself for not noticing that. "I do trust you, honey. I'm sorry." He never joked about it again.

Aside from that little seed of doubt that wouldn't go away, he saw no reason for mistrust. Even if she wanted to, finding the time to sneak off with a man would be some feat: her marketing job at an up-and-coming firm required long hours. She always called to let him know when she'd be heading back, and caller ID always confirmed, just in case he ever felt the need to check, that she was indeed at the office.

Ironically, his freelance writing career, and home office, gave him much more opportunity to fool around. That was a knock on the door he left unanswered.

Sometimes she would arrive home as late as nine in the evening, interested in nothing more than a light dinner, some quiet time with her husband, a little TV perhaps, and then she would lead him into bed. Or, into the sunroom, all lights out, making love by starlight.

* * *

Nearly three years after they were married, on a Tuesday afternoon, she called him, giddy with good news. Her company had closed a major deal, the fruit of several months of hard work, and there would be bonuses and vacation days for all involved. "Thanks for being patient all this time, sweetie," she said. "In a month or two, we could finally have the great honeymoon you deserve." Right after the wedding, during lean and precarious times for the firm, she had been able to spare only three days for a quick trip to California.

"In fact," she said, "Fiona is throwing a big party at her house this weekend. I'll have to shop for an outfit."

"Do I know Fiona?"

"Probably not. I think you've only met Tom and Leigh, that one time you met us for dinner?"

"You're right," he said. That was over a year ago. In essence, he didn't know anyone she worked with.

"They're no longer together."

"Ah, that's too bad," he said. "Actually, this party will be a great chance to meet some of your coworkers."

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "I'd love to have you come along, but I'm worried it won't be very interesting. We'll be in our little cliques, talking shop."

Her reluctance surprised him. They went together to everything, except the occasional girls' nights and guys' nights. "It can't possibly be as dry as those publisher parties," he said. "I've survived those; I'll be able to mingle without hanging onto your arm for dear life."

"That's true..." she admitted.

"Don't worry, I'll be on my best behavior."

Her resistance suddenly melted away. "Oh, honey, of course you can come. It'll be semi-formal. Maybe that black Italian suit you have. I'll get something to match."

On Friday night they got dressed to go. Deborah's mood was bubbly, even a little frenetic. In the hall mirror she made last-minute fixups to her lipstick, and gazed warily at her eyebrows, with a bearing so grave Lewis had to hide a smile. She probably had jitters about having to introduce her husband to everyone in the office; worrying about whether people she liked and respected would have a good impression of the man she loved. He could understand that; it was almost like taking a prom date to meet the parents.

He looked dapper in black suit and silver-gray tie. Big deal, he thought. Look at her.

Deborah looked ravishing in perhaps the sexiest outfit he had ever seen her wear in public. He was always reluctant to second-guess her decisions -- he hated it when others did that to him -- but he couldn't resist saying "Are you sure that's appropriate for the party?"

"Sure it is," she said. A black silky ruffled miniskirt bared her legs almost entirely, and her gauzy black sleeveless top wasn't see-through, but suggested that if you looked closely enough, it could be. A sexy yet not obscene neckline showed just a couple inches of cleavage, enough to pique a man's interest. As she turned, he could detect bra straps under her top: barely noticeable, but definitely there. Seeing this reassured him.

"We've all worked so hard the past few years, that it's nice to be able to dress up and really celebrate," she explained. "I know it's a little risqué, but it's a chance to have some fun."

He had to concede that this seemed reasonable.

"Besides, you're the one I'm going home with," she said, with a naughty smile. "If anyone wants to feel envious, let him."

Now that's something to look forward to, he thought, feeling himself blush a little. His imagination fast-forwarded to a few hours later, when they would return and he could strip this sexy outfit right off her. He would take his time, and savor every sight.

"Okay," he said jovially, taking her arm. "For a night, I can feel like Donald Trump."

"There you go, honey. We're going to have a great time."

They arrived at Fiona's opulent estate just as the sun was beginning to set. Several BMWs, Porsches and even a Ferrari were parked along the winding drive inside the property gates. "This house is a palace," Lewis said, awestruck.

"She got it in the divorce," Deborah said. "More than five thousand square feet, all for herself."

As they walked along the flagstone path, the evening air still warm, she cautioned him. "Honey, I'm just saying this so you don't get freaked out. You might see some guys flirting with me, or a little hug here and there, a dance or two. That's just because of all the hard work, all the bonding we've done, and now it's a chance to let off a little tension. So I just wanted to tell you in advance."

"That's okay," he said. She seemed more apprehensive than he was, anyway. "I'm not going to keep you on a leash." He grinned. "But I do get to show you off, though."

"Of course."

Deborah rang the doorbell and Fiona Gray welcomed them in. She was a stunning tall redhead, maybe 30 years old, wearing a green dress that lovingly hugged every bit of her enviable figure. "Hiiiii, Deb! You look fantastic! " she said, hugging her. "And you must be Lewis! I'm so glad to finally meet you!"

"My pleasure," he said, accepting a quick hug. Fiona wore a delicate, captivating fragrance. Was she wearing anything else underneath that dress?

"I've heard so many good things about you from Debbie! I'm sorry we've been keeping her away from you all these nights."

"Well worth the wait," he said, putting an arm around Deborah's waist.

"Debbie, you've done very well," Fiona said. "Come in, come in."

Lewis beamed. She certainly had a way of making a guy feel good. It might have been a pleasantry she tossed any guest's way, but it sounded absolutely sincere. To overanalyze a compliment from a beautiful woman seemed silly anyway, and he stopped trying.

At least fifty people were there already, mingling among rooms and dotting the hallways in twos and threes. Lewis figured the ratio to be four men to one woman, as if many of the wives had not been able to attend. Maybe their husbands had warned them away like Deborah did. Or, some of the men, who on average were in their twenties and early thirties, were single and hadn't brought dates.

Deborah introduced each person they met, and Lewis quickly found it difficult to keep track of all the names. There was Tom, a handsome blond guy, in a sharp wool suit but would look equally at home in a wetsuit with a surfboard. They quickly embraced and she gave him a peck on the cheek. A guy named Brad had tight curly hair, and the attire and attitude of a young investment banker.

Then there was Nick: handsome, dark, Mediterranean-looking guy, more muscular than the others, wearing a more expensive suit. Nick's handshake was excessively, impolitely firm. He radiated the insolence and privilege of a man who had effortlessly attracted women his entire life. Lewis glanced at his wife, and noticed subtle signs that of all the men he had met, she found Nick the most appealing. She laughed a little more enthusiastically at one of Nick's bon mots; she showed no offense when Nick checked her out, head to toe, after a hug that lasted a little longer than the others. Worst of all, Nick also gave Lewis an appraising look, clearly questioning how an average guy like Lewis could snag a hot chick like Deborah. That smarted, and Lewis fought to keep a poker face. Sorry, honey, he thought. This guy Nick you like: he's a serious asshole.

Were there any ugly people here? Lewis wondered. The women were as a rule good-looking as well. Perhaps the plain Janes hadn't been invited; or simply didn't get hired. One willowy blonde named Tricia wore a memorable white dress, held by spaghetti straps baring her shoulders. The thin, satin material didn't cling to her figure, but draped off her curves just enough to strongly suggest, if not prove outright, that she wore nothing beneath. No panty lines marred the contours along her bottom; and no bra straps spoiled her appearance above the waist. The continuous smoothness of her elegant, unfrilled dress made the points of her nipples even more apparent.

Lewis had to settle for handshakes with these women instead of hugs, as he didn't know them as well as Deborah knew the men. Now this is totally unfair, he thought, facetiously. It's an outrage.

He had to admit that seeing his wife enjoy interacting with men that all seemed better looking, smoother, and wealthier than him was a bit intimidating. Yes, being her husband trumped all that; but given an even start from scratch, competing for her interest against these others, would he have had any hope to prevail?

He tried to dismiss these insecurities as they reached the bar. The bartender poured their drinks, flirting casually with his wife. He fished out a tip, which was waved off. She touched his arm. "I'll be right back, honey. If you're not here, I'll look for you." She stepped into a crowd of well-dressed revelers and disappeared from view.

He waited for a while, watching people go by, trying to place names to faces he recognized. There goes Tom, he thought. Tricia passed by, the woman in the white dress; she was easy to remember. Another man stopped by for a drink, and even said Hi Lewis, but his name had faded from memory. He saw Fiona cross a far corner of the room. She spotted him and gave him a warm smile before returning to her rounds.

When he had finished sipping his drink, his wife still had not returned. He went looking.

He found her in a large formal room that had been cleared for a dance floor. Three couples danced to ballroom music, one of them Deborah and a tall blond man he couldn't remember meeting. Ballroom was becoming a lost art; more people were watching than dancing. She didn't notice when he entered the room.

Lewis wasn't a skilled dancer, but he knew roughly where the man's hand should rest: at the woman's waist, to guide and steady her. These men needed to work on their technique; their hands roamed along the woman's side. Sometimes up high, almost under the armpit, and at other times low, at her bottom. Deborah's partner, Tom, was no different: he deftly twirled her around, and then his hand rested on her bottom. He might have even given her a squeeze; in any case, she laughed and repositioned his hand. Lewis considered this too presumptuous, taking advantage of the close quarters in which dancing brought partners together.

He watched them finish the song, keeping a close eye on Tom. He wished his wife had worn something less tempting. Her top wasn't blatantly revealing, but it did tend to draw the eye to her chest. Much of the time, Tom's gaze was fixed there. And when she spun on her feet, her miniskirt would flare up, showing brief glimpses of her lacy black panties. Even at rest, her legs were attention-getting, from her high heels up to the too-short skirt. Maybe Tom was imagining her in even less clothing. His hand couldn't keep still, inching up and down along her side.

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