Delight – chapters 1- 4 [Cuckold, humiliation, degradation]

1.

I was married on the fifth of April 1950 and even though it was only two months after my eighteenth birthday, I already felt like my marriage would be the happiest day of the rest of my life.

My wife was the same age as myself. In fact, we got married one day after her own birthday. It was, as far as I could recall, the most beautiful she had ever been. Her blonde hair; her blue eyes; her smile, like ivory; her graceful movements and the white dress, handsewn by her grandmother. She looked absolutely heavenly. My only regret was that I, a poor, Jewish boy could not give her the wedding she so obviously deserved.

Sarah was her name – now carrying the surname of Fritz – and she was everything a man could ask for. She was kind, humble, sweet and supportive. If there was a flaw in her character, it was in her Christian upbringing which only server to amplify her greatest qualities. She had grown up poor and thus did not ask for much other than my loyalty and devotion: two things I was more than willing to give.

Still, as a man, there were things I was expected to provide. So, on the very next day after we were married, Sarah and I moved into a small apartment together so that I could find work in New York City.

####

We found a small room for rent near the outskirts of the city, far from the busy business districts where community and quiet homes could still be found. It was a basement apartment – little more than four walls and a ceiling, with just enough space for a stove, bed, sink, and washroom – but small meant cheap and cheap was all we could afford.

With Sarah by my side, it was all I needed.

Our landlord and lady were a Mr. and Mrs. Jones. They were both there to greet us on the first day we moved in, little more than a suitcase each in tow, and helped us get settled in our own little corner of the city.

Mr. Jones was tall and muscular, with a body covered by coarse slightly-greying hair. He had a thick, well-groomed mustache which settled on his upper lip like a lining of fur and his hands always seemed dirty with grease or oil from his work. Despite his imposing figure he had a jovial air about him, his large gut – cultivated from years of beer and the homemade meals provided by his wife – making him seem more like a jolly giant than anything else. He had tired eyes and was the type of person who spoke in a slight Italian accent, even though he had never been to the country nor spoke the language. Sarah was intimidated by him when they first met but I always thought of him as a potential friend.

Just like her husband, Mrs. Jones had an aura of kindness about her. Both she and Mr. Jones were middle-aged and one could certainly tell that the raven-haired, older woman had been beautiful in her youth. Years of struggle and sacrifice had robbed her of her looks, but she still seemed absolutely stunning on most days as she seemed to put lots of effort into appearance. She had black eyes and large breasts that seemed to defy age and gravity. She was curvaceous, certainly full-figured, with a shape that absolutely dripped with exaggerated femininity. In all honesty, looking at her made me feel slightly uncomfortable – and guilty – especially since Sarah pinching my side made me aware that she had noticed my gawking.

Other than the Joneses, Sarah, and I, there was another tenant: a Mr. Sanders. He was an army veteran; the type of person who preferred to spend his time either indoors or drinking whatever was left of pension away at the nearby bar. I did not know it but, in time, he would become a part of my life with Sarah as well.

####

Sarah and I made love for the first time the second night of our marriage. On the first night, my nerves had gotten the best of me and as I feasted my eyes on Sarah’s nakedness – her full breasts; puffy, pink nipples and the tufts of soft, curly hair that covered her sex – it robbed me of all the firmness between my legs. Try as I might, I could not penetrate her. Yet, she was more than understanding. She even went so far as to cradle me to her chest and allow me to suckle on one of her nipples as I cried.

The second night I performed. Well, I performed as any virgin with a beautiful, young bride would be expected to perform.

I found hardness but my stamina was lacking. Seven thrusts; thirty seconds – however one wanted to measure my efforts – was all I could provide before my climax bubbled over and I shot my load between Sarah’s thighs. Once again, I was awkward and embarrassed but my wife held me close and comforted me. She even said that she felt proud to have made her husband orgasm so quickly and that she was satisfied.

Thinking back now, if I had determined the dishonesty in her voice, perhaps my marriage would have turned out differently. Back then, though, I was just a young man with a beautiful bride, and I was totally naïve to the kind of world that she and I were about to discover.

2.

The next morning, Sarah and I awoke to Mr. Jones’ presence in our basement apartment. The room was small enough already, but his massive frame and imposing attitude made it seem like he filled every bit of available space as he stood at the foot of our bed.

It was Sarah who awoke first, then quietly shaking me awake, she drew the covers around herself to hide her nakedness from the night before.

“Good morning,” Mr. Jones said. His tone wasn’t aggressive at all. In fact, he sounded rather listless, as though he had been forced to be where he found himself. He was semi-dressed, wearing white undershirt and a pair of stained trousers that looked like they’d never be clean, no matter how much his wife scrubbed.

“Mr. J-jones,” I stuttered, taking charge as my wife recoiled and attempted to retain some semblance of modesty. As was typical of her meek personality, she did very little to assert herself other than to clutch the sheets more tightly around her bosom. “What are you doing here?”

“Wife sent me. Says to make sure you two are…adjusted.”

As he spoke, Mr. Jones’ eyes wandered from my wife to myself. It was obvious that we had been intimate the night before and, as I got out of bed, dressed in only my underwear, I felt as though my inadequacies had been laid bare somehow. The meagre living conditions were something we were prepared to deal with but I was stunned at Mr. Jones’ nonchalant attitude after invading our privacy.

It was Sarah who spoke up about it, surprising me and, judging by his reaction, even shocking our guest. “Should we expect you inviting yourself into our living space more often, Mr. Jones?”

Her voice was as calm and gentle as always. I looked over to see that she had sat upright and now used one hand to hold the sheet up while she supported her weight on the other. The fabric was thin enough that her pink nipples stood out, even in the dim light, and the manner in which her long, slender legs were curled underneath her covering gave her a seductive – almost inviting – look.

Mr. Jones’ eyes wandered. I could sense that he drank in a lot more of my wife’s nakedness than she intended, yet I was powerless to stop him. “Pardon my intrusion,” he said after taking his sweet time to formulate his response, “I just assumed that you and your husband would be awake and dressed for the day already. Did not imagine you would sleep in on a Monday morning.”

I looked out the little window that sat near the ceiling – or the floor of the upstairs living space – and saw that the bright, yellow rays of the morning sun just barely filtered in. Sure, it wasn’t exactly waking with the sunrise but I would hardly call it sleeping in, either.

“Sorry,” I muttered, not exactly sure why I was apologizing.

Mr. Jones let out a gruff sound and made to turn away, though he stopped and faced me once more. “Have you found work yet?”

“Uh, no,” I admitted. “I was supposed to go out today, actually, to see if there’s anything available in the neighborhood.” When Mr. Jones’ brow furrowed, I spoke up quickly, saying, “But I have one hundred dollars I received as a wedding gift, so rest assured that your first two month’s rent is secured. I’m also prepared to work odd jobs until I find steady employment, sir.”

My words seemed to assuage Mr. Jones’ concerns as his expression softened. “Girl like you ought to have married an educated fellow,” he said. His words were directed towards my wife but they stung all the same. I didn’t detect any malice from them, rather a bluntness that clearly cemented what he thought of me. To my shame, I did not stand up for myself.

“There’s some things a school learning can’t teach you, Mr. Jones,” Sarah said as she scooted towards me. “If it concerns you, I’m more than willing to pick up any slack on my husband’s part. We’ll make sure your rent is provided as soon as it is due.”

“That’s a good wife you’ve found for yourself,” Mr. Jones said. “Be sure to hold on to that one; she’s more than you deserve.”

“I’m not exactly sure I get your meaning,” I said.

Mr. Jones laughed and clapped his hand onto my shoulder. The force with which he took hold of me was nearly enough to make my knees buckle and only further accentuated the disparity in our physical attributes.

While I was lanky, with a concave chest and slender limbs, Mr. Jones was the opposite. His palms were massive and I imagined that with hands the size of his, he would be able to easily crown my head if he wanted to. While I wasn’t exactly weak, or so I liked to think, seeing his forearms, which were covered in coarse, thick hairs and wrapped with iron-like, sinewy muscle made me feel somewhat insecure. If I had turned to my wife at that moment, I would have seen how she took note of the way bulging veins wrapped around his wrist and over the back of his knuckles. At the time, however, I was just glad that I hadn’t pissed myself from his sudden movement.

“What do you know about lumber, boy?”

“N-nothing, sir,” I said. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Good, good.” It was as though Mr. Jones didn’t listen to a single word I said. “I know a fellow down at the lumber yard. They always need new people down there, what with the sawing and splinters and all…I could put in a word for you, even get you some halfway decent pay.”

“Wow, sir,” I sputtered, “that would be…amazing. Thank you!”

“I do it,” Mr. Jones interjected, “for your lovely wife. She deserves someone who could at least afford to buy her a pretty dress every now and again. Don’t you agree, miss?”

“I was never one for pretty dresses, Mr. Jones,” Sarah said, “and I was never one to entertain men who weren’t my husband in my bedroom, either. If it isn’t too much trouble, I would appreciate some privacy while he and I prepare ourselves to face the day.”

The familiarity in Mr. Jones’ face disappeared as though he had been dashed with a bucketful of foul-smelling water and he took a step back. “Of course,” he said, repeating himself, “of course. Perhaps I did overstep some boundaries…Mr. Fritz,” he added, “meet me upstairs in ten minutes or so. We’ll head to the lumber yard together and I’ll introduce you!”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you, sir.”

With those words, Mr. Jones took his leave. My wife and I stared at each other, somewhat dumbstruck by the way he had invited himself into our apartment but, at the same time, the promise of a potential avenue towards steady employment washed away any concerns we might have had.

“That was certainly…something,” Sarah said as we both listened to the heavy footsteps of Mr. Jones as he climbed the stairs to the ground floor of the townhouse.

“Indeed,” I said. I looked towards her and leaned close, placing a sweet kiss upon her lips before I made to get ready for the day. Sarah remained as she was and I got the feeling that she was as reluctant to show me her nakedness in the light as anyone else.

Getting dressed was a simple task as I owned very little clothing. The suitcase I had brought with me had two pairs of trousers and a few shirts, with any accessories kept to only the barest of necessities. “What are you going to do today?” I asked Sarah as I straightened my cap and made sure that I had smoothed out as many wrinkles as possible using my hands.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe find a way to make this little place a home…use a few dollars and buy us some food so I can cook my husband some dinner.”

“Your husband, huh?” I smiled and stood beside the bed before reaching down to cup Sarah’s face. “I like the sound of that.”

3.

Walking with Mr. Jones that morning, I learned a great deal about him. He was nearing forty-five years old and had been married since he was sixteen or so. According to him, he couldn’t remember his own age, nor his date of birth correctly as he had an extensive drinking problem in his youth and had sustained, as he put it, about as many head injuries in brawls as he had drunken nights. He relied on his wife to remember most things and preferred life that way as it made things simpler.

Together, we made our way to the lumber yard where we met an old friend of Mr. Jones: a rotund gentleman who went by Scotts. He had a boyish face but dressed sharply, his three-piece suit making him stand out among the workers who mulled about before starting their day. He walked with the assistance of a cane but did not need it. Even before we spoke, I noticed that the hand which clasped over the cane’s jeweled pummel was malformed with knobby growths and thick scars covering his knuckles. While he and Mr. Jones greeted each other warmly, I got the feeling that there was more to Scotts than his youthful visage led on.

Regardless, with the assistance of my landlord’s good word, I was hired on the spot and given a broom to see to my new job sweeping up the copious amounts of sawdust that gathered on the floor of the mill. It wasn’t hard work, especially compared to the labor that took place all around me, but it was constant, with very little time to rest outside my lunch hour. I had not packed a lunch as we had no food of our own but, by the time I left the lumber yard that day, I had a crisp ten dollar note in my pocket for the day’s efforts.

Needless to say, I was elated and made my way home determined to thank Mr. Jones for the opportunity he had given me. When I arrived, I knocked on the front door of the townhouse instead of using the side entrance which would have led to the basement apartment. The door opened and, to my surprise, it was neither Mr. nor Mrs. Jones that answered but Sarah, instead.

She did not seem shocked to see me in the slightest and, as I entered the building and stood in the spacious hallway, Sarah seemed quite at home.

“What are you doing up here?” I asked in a hush tone.

“Mrs. Jones invited me,” she replied quickly. She spoke quietly but not in a rush, more out of respect for the quietness of the Jones’ household more than anything else. “Not long after you left, actually.”

Unlike our cramped space, Mr. and Mrs. Jones lived in quite comfortable living conditions. Everything from the furniture, the walls, the stairs, and rugs were well-maintained. Mrs. Jones seemed to be every bit as dedicated to keeping her house clean as one would imagine of a long-time and dedicated housewife.

“What have you been doing all day?”

“We’ve been chatting, dear,” said Mrs. Jones.

Her voice came from the room over and I peered around the corner to see Mrs. Jones sitting in what appeared to be their living room.

Today she wore a black dress that was hemmed just past her knees. The waist was kept trim so that her figure appeared both slimmer around the waist and wider about the hips. Her breasts sat upon her chest as invitingly as two large, soft pillows and I blushed as I realized she had noticed me staring at them.

“It’s, err, good to see that you two are getting along so famously,” I said quickly as Sarah moved past me. She sat opposite Mrs. Jones and I could see two teacups settled upon the small coffee table that stood between the two women.

Compared to Mrs. Jones’ attire, Sarah’s simple dress was much less impressive. Despite that, her youthfulness and more innocent appearance gave her the edge in beauty when compared to the older woman’s more handsome visage.

Only a few feet away was a large, wooden table which stood on varnished legs. Upon it were mountains of clothes, some quite stylish and others no more than a jumble of old and faded fabrics.

“What’s this?” I asked, walking over to inspect the pile.

“Don’t touch those!” Sarah squeaked.

Across from her, Mrs. Jones took note of the sawdust which dropped from my clothing and left a trail through her immaculate home. She said nothing of it and simply sipped her tea as Sarah rose to her feet, quickly approaching where I stood.

“Mrs. Jones was giving me some of her old dresses. I still have to sort through them and see which I can wear and which I can use to practice my sewing.”

I raised my hands and stepped away, making sure not to make a mess of the dresses that Sarah seemed so protective of.

“Some of those are quite expensive,” Mrs. Jones said, her words followed by the clink of her teacup as she placed it on its saucer once more. She stood up and straightened her clothing before walking over to us both. She took a position between Sarah and myself, digging through the clothes as though looking for something in particular.

“Ah,” she said, “I remember this one!”

In her hands was a simple, red dress. Despite how it looked to me, I could tell that it was something of quality by the way Sarah’s eyes became alight when Mrs. Jones held it up.

“It’s beautiful!” Sarah exclaimed.

“It is, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jones turned the dress in her hands and pulled at some loose strings. “Vincent, my husband, got me this dress almost twenty years ago…it’s quite faded now…”

“It’s still as marvelous as you are, dear.”

The three of us turned to see that Mr. Jones now stood where I had been only a few minutes earlier. The toll of his workday was displayed on his clothing which was drenched with sweat and covered in fresh stains.

“Oh, shush,” Mrs. Jones said. “The dress is old, like me, but” – she turned to Sarah – “it might just fit you. We did have a similar figure back when I was your age.”

“You think so?” Sarah asked.

“Sure,” she said, thrusting the fabric into Sarah’s hands. “Try it on.”

Sarah had barely managed to keep the dress from spilling onto the floor when Mrs. Jones’ words registered in her head. “R-right now?”

“Of course. You don’t have a problem with trying it on, do you?”

“No! Of course not!” Sarah squeaked, her mousy voice raising half an octave as she spoke. “It’s just,” she blushed, “I was going to try them on later…when we returned downstairs…”

“Oh, nonsense!” Mrs. Jones said. “You don’t have anything that your husband nor mine hasn’t seen before. Why bother heading downstairs when we can see how the dress fits now?”

“We’re practically family,” Mr. Jones said. Once again he clapped his hand onto my shoulder and I felt the sting of its weight, this time made worse by the soreness in my muscles. “Right, boy?”

At the time, I wanted to protest. Looking back now, if I were a better man as Mr. Jones had suggested, I might have done so. However, my desire to maintain a friendship with Mr. Jones and the fact that he was responsible for my being hired at the lumber yard meant that I held my tongue as his wife helped mine out of her clothing.

Sarah seemed speechless as Mrs. Jones approached her. True to her usual, conservative self she had no idea how to respond as the older woman used deft movements to unfasten the buttons at the front of Sarah’s clothing.

The first button fell open, then the second, then the third. By that time, Sarah’s instincts had kicked in and she attempted to cover herself.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Mrs. Jones said. “It’s fine… as my husband said, we’re practically family…”

I remained silent, especially after I saw how intrigued Mr. Jones was to witness my wife’s emerging nakedness. He had seen her in a state of undress earlier that day but this was different. It felt different – somehow – but as off-putting as the experience was, some part of me did not want things to stop. Looking at Sarah, she didn’t want it to stop either.

There was shame on Sarah’s face, much like she displayed when we were intimate in bed together. However, there was something else. Something I didn’t recognize because Sarah never once displayed it when it was just her and myself.

Her eyes fixated not in Mrs. Jones nor myself, but on Mr. Jones, who stood some distance away. Yes, Sarah was ashamed but there was a look in her eyes that made me question whether she really wanted to keep her nakedness hidden from him.

Mrs. Jones slipped the dress off Sarah’s shoulders and it fell, crumpled, to her feet. She stood in her mismatched bra and panties and half-heartedly covered herself up as Mrs. Jones squealed in delight.

“Look at how absolutely precious she is!” the landlady said with an elated tone. “You, young man, are incredibly lucky!”

“I guess…”

“What do you mean by that? Look at this skin,” Mrs. Jones muttered, tracing her fingertip along Sarah’s shoulder and along my wife’s slender neck, “and these breasts and this” – she pinched Sarah on the buttocks – “firm little backside.”

“Please,” Sarah whispered, “I’m quite embarrassed.” Despite her words, the flushing in Sarah’s cheeks betrayed something a bit more sinister than humiliation. Something I was not, at the time, equipped to recognize.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your body is beautiful.” Mrs. Jones took a step back and admired Sarah’s nakedness. “Isn’t she beautiful, darling?”

Mr. Jones, who had been standing silently throughout the entirety of Sarah’s ordeal, finally spoke. “She’s a looker, all right. Has nice pink nipples, too.”

My fingernails dug into the flesh of my palms as I balled my fists. I wanted to tell him off but didn’t know how, especially since things had already progressed this far. Instead, I waited for Sarah to stand up for herself and put an end to what was happening. She certainly would – any moment now.

“Pink nipples, you say?” Mrs. Jones sounded more than intrigued. “Mind if I see them?”

“Mrs. Jones!” Sarah said in a sharp tone. My ears perked up as the moment I had been waiting for finally came. Surely, Sarah would not allow things to go any further.

“Come on,” Mrs. Jones said. “It’s no big deal. You’ve seen them, your husband has seen them and, by the sound of things, my husband has seen them as well…”

“Only because he intruded while we slept!”

“Regardless,” Mrs. Jones said, “it’s hardly a trespass when your own husband has been leering at my body ever since we met.”

At Mrs. Jones’ words, I lowered my head in shame. I could feel Mr. Jones staring at me. It was though his eyes were burning a hole in my skull through which he could see every dirty thought I ever had about his wife.

“Honey?” Sarah’s voice was patient, yet I could detect a hint of disbelief in her tone.

I looked from her to Mrs. Jones, who had a smug expression on her face. “I’m sorry,” I muttered before catching Mr. Jones out of the corner of my eye. “I-it’s okay, Sarah. Mrs. Jones is right, I think, you should show her what she wants to see.”

The words exited my mouth and seemed to leave my tongue dry as they did. Silence filled the room followed by the sound of Sarah unfastening her bra as she not-so-reluctantly followed my instruction.

“Those are nice,” Mrs. Jones remarked as Sarah’s full breasts fell bare. Her nipples were puffy yet already stiff, and stood out against her pale skin as the orange glow from the gas-powered lamps danced across her body. “May I touch?”

Sarah clasped her hands at the small of her back and nodded as she stood in just her panties.

Mrs. Jones reached forward and took one of my wife’s breasts in each hand. She seemed to enjoy the firmness of them, how they seemed to cling to her palm as she groped and bounced back to their full shape when she released them.

Sarah gasped as Mrs. Jones touched her, much like she did during our clumsy foreplay the night before. This was more than curiosity; it was erotic. It was lesbianism.

I turned to Mr. Jones to see if he was offended or, at the very least, taken aback by his wife’s actions but that did not seem to be the case. In fact, he was intrigued and looked on hungrily as Mrs. Jones eagerly took things too far.

Sarah did not rebuff the older woman’s advances. Indeed, she seemed to melt under Mrs. Jones’ experienced touch, even going so far as to moan openly as our landlady’s fingers wandered downward over her soft stomach.

Within minutes, Mrs. Jones stood so closely to Sarah that the two almost embraced as lovers. Sarah had to lean against the edge of the table upon which sat the mountain of old dresses. Her small hands gripped the edge of it so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, yet the wandering hand did not relent as it crept ever closer to her crotch.

“Sarah,” I muttered pathetically, just as Mrs. Jones took my wife by the fork of her legs and squeezed lightly.

“Ah!” Mrs. Jones hissed, “you’re a bit damp in the panties, aren’t you? You would be hiding sinful thoughts, same as your husband, right?”

“No!” Sarah squealed, shaking her head in protest. “You…you just…no one as ever touched me like this…”

“Does it feel good?”

Sarah glanced towards me, her eyes meeting mine before she nodded, uttering a single word: “yes”.

Mrs. Jones let out a sound halfway between pity and excitement. “Would you like me to continue?”

“My h-husband,” Sarah muttered.

She didn’t say ‘no’.

“Don’t worry about him,” Mrs. Jones said. “He seems quite aroused by what he sees.”

Sarah’s eyes met mine before she glanced down and saw the stiff bulge that strained against my trousers.

Yes, as ashamed as I was to admit it, I was erect. Painfully so, in fact. I could not explain why, but seeing my wife made so easily aroused was exciting. Part of my wished I could have been the one that made her feel that way, yet another side of me – the side that remembered my embarrassing performance the night before – knew that might never be the case.

“Don’t look at him,” Mrs. Jones whispered. “This isn’t about him. It’s about you…do you want to feel good?”

Sarah hesitated for a moment, turning her attention from myself to the woman whose fingers were sinking into the soft, sensitive flesh between her legs. Finally, she nodded in the affirmative.

“Then relax,” Mrs. Jones muttered, leaning close so that her breath brushed against Sarah’s skin, “I’ll make you feel way, way better.”

Sarah gasped as Mrs. Jones’ fingers peeled the fabric aside to reveal her hairy sex. Light, curly hairs sprung from inside her panties and with them came the aroma of my wife’s wetness. It was earthy, overwhelmingly feminine, and was something I had never smelled before.

Gasps turned to light moans as Mrs. Jones worked her fingers along Sarah’s slit. The audible wetness was enough to make my cock throb painfully. It ached, but I dared not touch it lest Sarah came to think I was some kind of pervert.

Beside me, Mr. Jones showed no such restraint and reached deep into the front of his trousers to stroke himself. He totally lacked my awe and I began to suspect his wife’s proclivities weren’t exactly news to him.

“So tight,” Mrs. Jones remarked as her fingertip penetrated my wife. Sarah did not respond but gasped loudly, moaning even, as the first knuckle sank into her cunt. She parted her legs willingly, even thrusting her hips forward to give easier access.

Mrs. Jones was patient, gentle and, before long, was able to finger my young wife as her oozing hole dripped and soaked the fingers that toyed between her legs.

I had never seen Sarah like this. Her face, neck, and chest were flushed deep red and her cries were husky – womanly – and full of a sordid pleasure that I wasn’t even aware that she could display. With each passing moment, her moans escalated, growing wilder and more depraved until her thighs trembled.

Legs quivering until she almost lost the ability to support herself, I saw, for the first time, a woman experience an orgasm. Unlike mine, which built up and exploded within seconds of sinking into Sarah’s warm, wet flesh, the orgasm that Mrs. Jones gave to my wife was intense and overpowering. It was the product of an experienced touch, of a someone who knew a woman’s body well, and witnessing it only exacerbated the feelings of inadequacy I harbored towards my sexual performance.

As Sarah shuddered and climaxed, supported by Mrs. Jones so she did not collapse onto the floor, the front of my trousers became stained in wetness as I ejaculated without stimulation. I remained motionless, hoping that no one would see or notice. The shame that I experienced made me feel as though I would die if they did.

In it’s own way, it was magnificent.

4.

That night in the Jones’ living room would go on to define my relationship with my wife in the weeks to come. While I was at work, sweeping the floors of sawdust at the lumber mill, my wife and Mrs. Jones would explore their sexuality under the guise of mentorship.

At first, Sarah was more than happy to tell me about the things she did with Mrs. Jones while I was away, especially when she saw how stiff it made my cock to hear her describe the different ways in which the older woman would make her aroused and bring her to orgasm.

At night, when we would retire to our bedrooms, Sarah would try to coach me in doing the same but my inexperience, clumsy hands, and lack of sexual stamina meant that she would often – or always – end up unsatisfied, despite her best efforts. It wasn’t long until she stopped her coaching almost entirely and our sex life consisted of her laying with her legs spread while I would thrust into her cunt for ten or twenty seconds before I orgasmed pathetically.

Sarah never once made sounds with me as she did for Mrs. Jones. That only made things worse. Each failure compounded on itself until my desperate desire to please my wife, along with the arousal I got from knowing that someone else was capable of doing it easily, was almost too much for me to handle. By this time, I was not even able to make Sarah the slightest bit wet and she would have me service her hole with my tongue for almost twenty minutes before I was allowed to penetrate her.

It was something Mrs. Jones had thought her, and an act they had engaged in several times – both ways. She never failed to remined me that I couldn’t do it quite right and that Mrs. Jones was able to make her climax within a few minutes. This happened every time without fail, and it was a marvelous form of foreplay for myself.

I could only humbly apologize before taking my relief by shoving my stiff cock in her hole, often ejaculating within one or two thrusts.

The discussions about my wife’s sex life were not exactly a one-way street, either. Much like she discussed the exploits between Mrs. Jones and herself with me, she also expressed her frustrations towards our sex life with our landlady while I was gone.

Sarah’s complaints were not only about my clumsiness and my inability to last more than a few thrusts, but about my size as well. While I was the only man she had ever been intimate with, Mrs. Jones had filled her head with tales of Mr. Jones and what, by all accounts, was his gargantuan cock.

Finally, after weeks of frustration, an offer was made: Mrs. Jones would allow my wife – my sweet, loving Sarah – to have sex with her husband in order to help satisfy her sexual desires.

####

“Are you sure?”

I had asked that same question – those same three words – countless times now. Sarah sat beside me on the bed while wearing one of Mrs. Jones’ old negligees, and had just me that she was seriously considering the offer.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not like I don’t love you, but…”

“But?”

“Mrs. Jones told me something the other day…and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well,” Sarah wrung her hands as she seemed to struggle in finding the right words, “you have to understand that this doesn’t mean I don’t love you. And I love being your wife…but…”

“Sarah,” I said, turning towards her and laying on my side. I reached over and placed a hand on her thigh. “Sarah, I’m not going to be upset…not matter what you say.”

“You see, that’s the thing,” she said. “Mrs. Jones says that’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand,” I muttered.

Sarah took a deep breath. “Mrs. Jones says that there are two types of men…there are men like you, who are kinds, and gentle, and sensitive…all qualities I really love about you! But they don’t make you a good lover. Not like her husband.

I remained quiet, partially because I didn’t quite understand what my wife was saying but also partly because I knew what she said was the truth. Deep down, I knew I was never going to be able to sexually satisfy Sarah and now she was offering me a reason why that was.

Sarah reached over and took hold of my hand. “You see, darling,” she said, “Mrs. Jones says you’re not an alpha male like her husband; you’re a beta male, and men like you were never meant to sexually satisfy women or get them pregnant. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, or even that you can’t be a good husband. You’re just not built for it.”

My mind struggled to comprehend what my wife was saying but I knew it to be true, nonetheless. The dryness in my mouth and the stiffness of my cock as she described how nature itself had mandated that I would never be good enough for her was all I needed to cement in my mind that I would never satisfy her. And that I should be willing to let a superior man take that role in her life.

There was no fight in me. As she had said, not fighting was just who I was.

“When are you going to be with him?” I asked.

Sarah bit her lip. “Tonight,” she whispered. “Soon.”

I whimpered, feeling my cock throb until I almost erupted in my underwear. Sarah noticed my erection and placed her hand on my cheek. “I’m already close,” I groaned. “Just from this conversation, dear God, and I finally understand why.”

Sarah tutted. “You’re going to have to wait,” she said. “As a beta male, you have to learn to deny yourself pleasure until your superiors deem it necessary to give you release. Mrs. Jones says I can have sex with her husband and, only after that, should the beta male be allowed to orgasm.”

“How long?” I asked, looking on as Sarah stood up and moved to the door – to the stairs that led somewhere I couldn’t follow.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Apparently, Mr. Jones can last a very long time…”

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/fd1sh7/delight_chapters_1_4_cuckold_humiliation