The Beginning Of My Cuckold Existence - Sex Stories

The Beginning Of My Cuckold Existence

... explain it; but when I’d see a guy licking his lips while ogling her crotch, I’d spring a boner. More than once, I had to rush to the locker room to hide my growing erection.

On one such occasion, I hurried to the locker room, figuring I’d stand at the urinal until my arousal abated. While I stood there nonchalantly looking at the tile and mildewed grout, two college-aged guys came laughing into the dressing area.

“Man, did you see the pussy on that cute little MILF?”

The response: “See it? I could almost smell and taste it!”

“I’d like to hop on that and give it a good fucking. How ‘bout this? I’ll doggy her while she sucks your cock.”

“She’s wearing a ring. I’m betting her old man can’t keep up with that.”

I couldn’t take anymore. Without bothering to cram my junk back into my Adidas shorts, I pulled away from the urinal and entered the last stall. I pulled my shorts down around my ankles and squatted, facing the plumbing and wall. I could feel my scrotum and eggs touching the no-doubt filthy porcelain. I didn’t care. I needed to relieve the wicked built-up tension in my nads. I closed my eyes and envisioned the two studs pleasuring Sherry. I should have been pissed, but I was far from it. I jerked my love stick feverishly in cadence as the two muscle boys in my fantasy fucked her mouth and cunt. Within seconds we all three came, my load splattering the tile.

Sherry and I developed a date night routine. It gave us an excuse to get out of the house ...

... and dress up a little bit. Sherry called it “acting like adults”.

Not too far from the house was a multi-use complex with a golf course, a dozen corporate headquarters, several higher-end hotels, and at least six or eight casual restaurants. We particularly liked the happy hour at Callahan’s, a smallish piano bar and bistro at the Grand Hyatt.

Sherry and I would hit the stools at the bar and order a glass each of the house Sauvignon Blanc. The pours were generous and at $6.50 per glass, it was hard to beat. Usually, by five-thirty or so, we’d be on our second glasses and feeling mellow. To slow down the effects of the alcohol (particularly on tiny Sherry), we would order a flatbread and perhaps the carpaccio.

On one such afternoon, we valet-parked our classic 1963 Volvo at the hotel and headed across the lobby toward Callahan’s. I was crossing my fingers that the kid taking the keys would be able to park without incident. He appeared more than distracted by Sherry. I had to admit she looked hot. She wore a ruffly, white off-the-shoulder top that was cropped halfway between her braless breasts and the top of her Capri pants. Completing her ensemble, were CFM (come fuck me) four-inch wedges.

I wasn’t upset by the valet ogling Sherry, nor the gentlemen sitting around the lobby undressing her with their eyes. No, in fact, I began to develop an erection.

Finding open stools at the bar wasn’t much of a challenge. Most people were sitting at the scattered tables, ...