“An Extended Invitation #1” [MF, Cuck]

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**| ONE:** *as_requested.jpg*

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A couple of years back — this was when I was still in university — I had an affair with a woman twice my age. She was a hairdresser, named was Susan.

At the time, I very naively assumed that fucking a married woman behind her husband’s back would be without complications. *After all,* I reassured myself, *she has a powerful incentive to keep things discreet.*

I was wrong, of course. But I’m already starting to get ahead of myself.

It started online — as most extramarital affairs do now-a-days, I suppose. After a few weeks of exchanging messages back and forth, Susan finally found the courage to send a photo of herself to my inbox. Even now, I can still remember the lump I had in my throat when I saw the attachment icon next to her email.

I clicked on the file — titled: *as_requested.jpg* — then a few seconds later, the image of a blond, middle-aged woman appeared on my screen. *This is Susan,* I realized. *And she’s gorgeous…*

That was also the moment when I realized that her and I already knew each other; or, at least, we’d met before. Susan was my hairdresser and had been for nearly a year, ever since I’d moved to the city and become a freshman.

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This may be unnecessary for me to note right now, but I feel compelled to share this piece of context with you regardless: never before in my life have I ever asked for a hairdresser by name, or even bothered to make an appointment for myself before showing up; that is, not until Susan.

The experience of having my hair cut was always a gruelling one for me to endure; painful like a visit to the dentist, only twice as exhausting. This aversion of mine to hairdressers is ninety-nine percent due to the ceaseless small talk they inevitably force upon me; all that stilted conversation: *about family, about travel plans, about approaching holidays*. I’d rather have a tooth pulled any day of the week.

But, Susan was unlike any hairdresser that I’d ever had before. She didn’t ask me directionless questions and she always seemed more than comfortable to share silence with a stranger. When Susan leaned forward to run her fingers through my hair — which she did *often* — her heavy breasts would rest on-top of my shoulders, sending shivers up my spine. More than once, she caught my eyes attempting to wander in the mirror, but said nothing about it.

She was *perfect*…

I returned to the salon a month and a half later, asking for Susan by name. Susan greeted me with a playful smile, so I guess she remembered me, too.

During my second haircut, something unprecedented occurred: *I enjoyed small talk…* And consequently, I learnt a lot about Susan.

She was forty-three and living a comfortable lifestyle with her husband, who was a pharmacist. Susan told me that every Summer, they went on a road-trip together to las Vegas, where her husband gambled too much and drank too much and watched pay-preview movies, while Susan attended some annual seminar — the name was something New Age sounding, I forget.

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Anyway. After spending a few minutes staring at Susan’s picture on my computer screen, with my eyes wide and my jaw unhinged, I noticed there was a message included, too:

*”How does Thursday after 4PM sound?”*

The lump in my throat started to swell.

*Should I even reply to her?*

I wrote Susan a long reply that night, but eventually decided not to send it. My plan had been to make an excuse regarding Thursday, then simply *ghost* her, never responding to another email.

But the following morning, I reconsidered. It was a shitty thing to do, anyway. Instead, I wrote a much shorter response, telling Susan the whole truth:

*”We’ve already got an appointment for Wednesday, at half past noon.”*

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**| TWO:** *Susan’s Loophole*

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Susan and I began meeting with each other two or three times a week, depending on her schedule. It was everything I had ever daydreamed about as a teenager: *a series of clandestine rendezvous with a blond bombshell twice my age; meeting in cafes just before their closing time, or in vacant parking lots, after the street lights had all been turned off.* It really was the stuff of fantasy.

But, there was a hitch — *of course*. Susan had this one rule and she was deadly stubborn about it: there was going to be absolutely *no* fucking. Of course, this prevented the two of us from actually ‘having an affair’, per say.

Her reasoning for this rule was, and I quote, that she didn’t want me “stretching her out.” *(I’m larger than her husband and he would have noticed, she claimed. I was skeptical about this and didn’t realize until much later how true it was.)* This lead to the two of us toward finding a loophole, which then resulted in copious, copious oral; like, *an extraordinary amount of oral.* And for the time-being, that was enough for me. I was content.

I guess if I had to label this first phase of the affair, I’d call it the ‘cock worshipping phase’. I mean that rather literally, actually.

Over time, our affair became some perverted, quasi-Religion to Susan. The ceremony of it: *sneaking out of her apartment late at night, wearing nothing but her night-gown, without her panties or a bra, then meeting me just around the corner, where I waited in my car — the short walk on a cold night would often make her nipples stand stiff, I still remember that.* The ritual was always the same, too: *Susan bending over my cock, as if she were bowing at an alter, then lapping away at my cock with her tongue, while my free hand separated her pussy lips, sampling the wetness there.*

I never pushed Susan to go beyond oral, even if she was a terrible tease about it. This was because I knew that sooner or later, her defences would crumble all by themselves, without much effort on my behalf — it seemed inevitable, really.

And besides, Susan sucked my cock with an enthusiasm that was startling, unlike anything that I’d ever experienced before. *(You would have thought she managed to get to the age of forty-three without seeing a cock before.)* As I said, for the time-being, I was content to simply enjoy my time inside her mouth for what it was.

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One afternoon, I picked Susan up from the salon — she had told her husband it was a co-worker giving her a ride home, *of course;* I think by this point, Susan was becoming addicted to the thrill of lying to her husband. And across from her apartment building, there was this perpetually empty parking-lot, where we often stopped before saying goodnight to each other. I found the darkest stall, then Susan climbed into the backseat and pulled her top off.

She was bent over her shrine, polishing my cock between her lips, when I felt my balls begin to throb, readying to empty themselves. Instead of cumming between Susan’s lips, I put a finger below her chin, lifting it up so her eyes met mine; then, I asked her if “hubby had ever fucked her ass before.”

Her mouth opened around the tip of my cock, like someone miming shock; then finally, she answered: “no.” I asked her if anybody had ever taken her ass before and again, she said, again: “no”, averting her eyes this time.

“Not ever?”, I asked. Susan’s face turned ember red, then her cheeks began to radiate heat. This was when I learnt something very interesting: Susan and her husband had been high-school sweethearts, once upon a time; and that through-out her whole life, Susan had only been with one man — well, three if blowjobs counted, which I told her they didn’t. I also learnt the name of the man I had been cuckolding, which at the time, I really could have done without knowing: *Craig…*

Susan told me that the idea of trying anal had come up prior to their honeymoon, back in their early twenties, mostly because Susan’s husband “wasn’t very well hung”; but then, inevitably, the notion had been abandoned and Craig never brought it up again.

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I filmed the whole thing with my phone.

The video starts with my cock pushing against the virgin bud of Susan’s ass, causing it to wink back at me hungrily. Her body tenses into stone, then you can hear Susan whispering back to me over her shoulder: “be gentle, please.” Her voice has a purr to it that is unmistakable.

In response, I caress Susan’s arched back with my free hand, then slowly insert the head of my cock. The delicate flesh grips onto me tightly, pulsing to the rhythm of Susan’s racing heart-beat. She turns her head over her shoulder again, now with an alarmed expression on her face. You can see Susan open her mouth to speak, but she says nothing. Then, I ask if she’s okay. Re-watching the video, it’s clear that her eyes answer ‘no’, but after a brief hesitation, she whispers back: *”Yes– Break me in. Get it over with.”*

After that point, the camera work becomes considerably less steady.

I closed my eyes, reminded myself that Susan was another man’s wife, then savoured the sensation of her asshole stretching around my shaft. With every inch I thrust deeper inside of her ass, Susan’s moans seemed to increase exponentially, until her cries reverberated off of the glass windows.

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Later that night, just when I was finally ready to fall asleep, I got a message from Susan. It read: *”Send me the vid, pls. I can’t sleep.”*

So I did, without trimming a single second of the six minute duration. The attachment I replied to her email with was titled *”as_you_requested.mov.”*

Susan didn’t respond. Not that night, anyway; but she did stay up till morning, playing and replaying the video, occasionally pinching her fingers together to zoom-in on her own, gapping asshole. She told me the whole thing felt surreal, as if she were watching it happen to somebody else, even though Susan still felt sore — and likely would, for at least a couple days to come.

After watching the video for a few hours, stopping once in a while to message me, all while her husband slept soundly beside her, Susan opened the bed-side drawer and retrieved her headphones. Listening to her own squeals was an intoxicating experience, which gave the video she’d already watched countless times a renewed power. She listened so long, it became impossible for Susan to remember which yelps had been out of pain and which had been out of pleasure.

She rolled her head to the side, making sure Craig hadn’t woken up, then lowered her phone onto the bed and reached her hand below the sheets. Susan felt the thick, concentrated wetness gathered between her lips, while still listening to the sound of her own cries through the headphones. And that’s when Susan began to rub her clit.

She came, twice. After checking one last time to see if Craig had woken up, Susan reached her hand further down and felt around the rim of her asshole. It was still blown-out and puffy feeling, but nothing that she thought wouldn’t be gone by the morning.

While watching the video one last time before bed– now with the screen permanently zoomed-in — Susan’s finger-fucked her ass. First with a single finger, because she was anxious, but then with two.

Eventually, she buried them all the way down to the diamond on her wedding-ring, reliving the moment I had taken her anal virginity. By the time the six minutes were over, Susan’s wrist was wet from her gushing cunt.

After wiping herself down with the bedsheets and making a note to clean them tomorrow, Susan fell asleep.

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***TO BE CONTINUED…***

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Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/4pp2no/an_extended_invitation_1_mf_cuck