Author’s note: This isn’t an indictment on open or poly relationships, simply a story meant to tell one couple’s experience, which—like with monogamous, monogomish, or really any other relationship configuration you can form—comes with its own unique set of challenges and triumphs. And, I swear, there's a happy, sexy ending. I promise. As always, I hope you enjoy.
There are things in life that you will never plan, but still have to live with anyway. You’ll think, as you drive the familiar road as if by rote, that this is just another one of those things that must be muddled through, one step at a time. You’ll be so sure that—once you’re in the middle of it—it won’t be so hard.
You will, of course, be wrong.
The car’s silence will irk you—you need noise at the best of times, if just to drown out the nagging reservations you’ll have left unspoken.
Because you love her.
You’ll flip on the radio with more impatience than required. You won’t know quite why. And because Fate hates you, an inappropriate story will be on. The one about the preacher or the politician’s aide doing something they weren’t supposed to. Involved in things they would’ve been better off not touching.
Never compare your life with theirs. It will just depress you.
Turn the station to music, something classical or jazzy—something without words or codes from Destiny.
She’ll sigh or tap her fingers impatiently—she needs her noise too—and make you look at her. She’ll look wrong in your car; an anachronistic legend—like Andromeda or Athena—crouched uncomfortable in your cramped Corolla. You’ll wonder—not for the first time—what the hell she’s doing here? With you?
And then it’ll hit you.
She’s not with you.
Sitting in your car, next to you, she won’t be with you. Not really. You won’t be her husband. She won’t be your wife. You’ll be her driver. Her ride. Just a fellow passenger along the way.
You’ll ride in silence in the car—your music and her tapping filling the car like a conversation you’ve never really had but almost had a thousand times over. You’ve not talked about it to death.
As you arrive at Donovan’s—a place you’d always thought of as your place, a place where the two of you could always come together—you’ll walk in at least three steps behind her, feeling for the first time since you stepped foot in the club—for the first time since you’ve known her—reluctant.
“You’ll like him,” she’ll tell you as she slows her steps. “He’s a great guy.”
Don’t say anything. Don’t even make a sound. Really, there isn’t a good response to this.
“Be nice,” she’ll admonish in that tone that makes you feel five. “Really,” she’ll insist, a slightly disgruntled sulk morphing her mythically beautiful face, “he is. You’ll see.” She’ll pause as she tries to reach for your hand, her quick, perky smile seeming plastered and full of plastic hope. “But I love you.”
You’ll spend far too long wondering what she means by that. Trying to solve the word problem seemingly Scrabbled in that phrase. You’ll waste hours—days—entire lifetimes—wondering if a three-letter word negates a four-letter one.
Don’t.
Just…don’t.
Your hand will slip like sand through her grip as you both push through the heavy, happy-hour crowd, leaving her holding nothing. Her frown—pretty, pouty lips—will kill you. It will also change nothing.
You’ll know the second she sees him, her eyes—sweet and soulful, a brown as rich and deep as the earth—will light up like they used to for you. She’ll make a sound—somewhere between a squeal and a laugh—as she rushes through the crowd toward him, leaving you to be swallowed up by the throng.
But she loves you.
You’ll think about leaving. About slinking through the crowd. You have the keys. You drove the car. You’ll imagine what it would be like to just walk away.
But you won’t.
You’ll stand there—dumbstruck—as they make their way back to you, her hand in his. Your teeth will grind, a rough screech in your head. Your nails will dig small crescent-shaped resentments into your palm like Braille as your fists form.
You’ll want to hit him. Kill him. End him.
Shake his hand instead as she makes introductions.
He’ll have a stupid name, something fake-sounding that couldn’t possibly be real. Or maybe a bastardization of a given name. Like Deek or Fin or Wen. Or Rand.
He’ll be bigger than you. Of course.
Comfort yourself in the fact that, at least, you’re better looking.
You think.
You’ll shrewdly study him, from the top of his shaved head—maybe smirking at the hint of a receding hairline—to his broad shoulders and barrel chest. You’ll take in the athletic breadth of his torso and toned length the of his legs.
He looks…expensive, you’ll think as you take in the muscled wall of black silk and leather. Tall. Dark. Tailored. Manicured. Like a man in a costume from a movie a decade old. A really good costume, but still.
He’ll look like an honest-to-God, spitting-image, leather-bound Dom.
You’ll look like a CPA.
You’ll turn to her—your wife of five years—and wonder if this—this testosterone-laden, brick shithouse of a giant dressed in the Hollywood guise of a messiah—is what she likes.
They’ll talk, trade compliments and jokes you neither understand nor care to. You’ll tune it out as you signal a waitress, something pretty and young. You’ll smile and lean in as she takes your order—a rail drink; whatever’s her recommendation. It’ll make you feel better.
Until you notice that your wife and Rand have left.
Again, the nagging need to leave will hit you. She’s got Rand; you’ll think, I’m unnecessary at this point. Superfluous. Spare. One man too many. You’ll think of your bed—the bed you’ve shared with her for six years—and long to huddle warm under its covers.
But you know you’ll head to the dungeon.
Because you love her.
And she loves you.
You think.
Besides, if you leave, you’ll leave her with Rand. You’ll imagine her, upon seeing you’ve left, leaving with him. Going to his home. Going to his bed. You’ll picture her writhing around with him in tailored, manicured, perfect sheets, not stained by midnight snacks or pre-washed pets. You’ll imagine him taking an interminable time with your wife, not rushed after late nights at the office or sluggish before early morning runs.
Stop this immediately.
Instead, flag down your waitress and take your drink, even though intoxication of any kind is discouraged in the dungeon. If you’re going to do this, you’ll damn well need a drink.
Feeling ten kinds of a fool, you’ll head through the crowd and into the private hallways that lead to the dungeon further back. The darkened cave-like halls weave. You’ll feel like shielding yourself, mussing your hair in your face maybe, so no one you know will see you. Every face you pass will take on shades of family and friends—their faces filled with contempt, judgment, spiteful laughter, or—worse—pity.
Take a drink. A deep one. Maybe two.
You’ll sneak through the dungeon door, trying to be invisible and quiet so no one will notice you.
You will fail completely.
You’ll feel every eye on you as you enter the room. The collective turn of their heads will sound deafening to you. You’ll curse every Norwegian gene in your body that makes you flush choir-boy red. You’ll think you hear snickers—some sniggering gossip being spouted behind you as you move.
You’ll think you’re going crazy.
You’ll wonder which, really, is worse.
You’ll see them together, sitting as they wait for an open space. She’ll wave at you—wave you over.
Your brain will stall. Your lip will curl as your body literally revolts at the thought of sitting there while you all wait, the weight of your discomfort and the suffocatingly crowded space pressing all three of you tightly together.
Take another sip. Then suck it up and sit with them.
But you won’t. And you know it. Instead, with a casualness that fools only you, you’ll shake your head and stand far off.
She’ll frown again—her lips better suited for a smile or a kiss will wilt. You’ll wonder how to fix this.
But then he’ll whisper in her ear and make her smile again.
Problem fixed.
Take a drink.
You’ll study your now half-empty glass and think about ordering another.
Do it.
The booze will buzz you enough to not notice as they step up to an open space. Even though nothing can dull the sound of her laughter—like bubbling joy—as he leads her forward.
You’ll turn—against your better judgment, you will.
The room will glow red as you see his hands on her as he pushes her—practically shoves her—down onto the kneeling bench, her slim, willowy waist connecting hard against the edge—stealing her breath.
About to step in, you’ll stop as her gaze—direct and denying—hits yours, her head shaking as her glorious curls shudder with the slight shake of her head. You’ll step back, even though it feels wrong.
You’ll do it because you love her.
Remember. You love her.
You’ll force your stiff muscles to stand down. You’ll force your ready feet to still. You’ll tell your eyes that they’re seeing lies, watching a game—talked about and agreed upon. You’ll try to tell your heart and head that this is what she wants.
You will almost succeed.
He will strip her. In a humiliating fashion, he’ll rip, rend and ruin, her clothes from her, baring her beauty like trash to the room full of spectators. You’ll grimace as her gilded olive skin is roughly handled. Grabbed at with careless, hard paws that bruise and batter.
You’ll think it impossible that someone—anyone—could look at the goddess before them and abuse her.
But you’d be wrong.
He will strike her. Her shoulders. Her back. Her ass. Her legs. He’ll use his hands—those calloused and tough slabs of meat—a long-tailed beast of a whip that bites at her beautiful skin, a long wooden paddle that mars the golden sheen of her skin.
All the while, you’ll hear her cries. Her sobs. Her pleas. And, feeling bound, trapped, tied to the wall, you won’t be able to help her, held still by your word. You’ll see her tears and feel your own threaten behind unblinking eyes. You’ll peer closer, worried that things have gone too far—farther than you should have let them ever go.
You will regret this.
The telltale signs—the sighs that escape her Cupid’s bow lips, the heated flush of her flesh, the arch and curve of her body as it stretches for ecstasy—will all be there. Plain, as if on display.
All the show of struggle and the play of pain will vanish—melt under the light of your scrutiny. Her breasts—heavy and full—will thrust out, begging for a touch that he’ll give—stinging as it pinches—that you never had and you’re not sure you ever could. Your eyes will try to deny—try to blind themselves to the fact—that there between her tense and taut thighs will be a peek of wetness gathered along the impossibly soft skin.
Your heart—and cock—will twitch.
She’ll scream, the sound agonized and orgasmic, a familiar, undeniable sound. You’ll feel it like a slice to the heart as that seductive sound reaches out to stroke the men in the room. The knife you feel chest-deep will twist as her body tenses under Rand’s rough contact so different from your own careful, meticulous touch.
Brace yourself for the betrayal. It will hurt.
But not nearly as hard as the need burning involuntary inside. A Pavlovian reaction to the sight and sound of her pleasure. A Pantalone violation, your own body’s added element—the very last, damning ingredient—to your public humiliation.
The same scorch of desire incinerating you will light with lust in the eyes of the crowd as they watch her naked form twist and thrust mindlessly, helplessly against Rand’s relentless hands. Your eyes won’t be able to ignore as men touch and adjust and appease erections rising as she pants and pleads. Your dry eyes will tear as you feel their need like your own as you listen to her beg for release.
Leave.
Please. Get up and leave the room.
Leave the club, if you can…
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Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/41t3dd/watching_your_wife_with_another_man_mfbdsm