hoburgh
Male
THE RIGHT CLIENT 1.1.a
For years I’ve tried—in every possible way that I can think of—to persuade my wife to cuckold me... preferably with a black lover. But she insists (and I’ve come to accept) that it’s just never gonna happen. Not in real life.
But! My wife does like when I tell her a story about her being with a dominant black bull (if by “like” one means “rubs herself to orgasm while listening to said story”). So, in lieu of irl cucking, that’s what she and I do instead: storytime and role-play. The story series that follows is a very-very-elongated version of one of the stories that we currently have on heavy storytime rotation. Note: the two black guys that she once actually fucked in her actual real life (prior to our marriage) were guys that she met at a gym, so this story series (not at all coincidentally) exists in that same general setting.
Fwiw, my wife is in her mid-40s, but looks younger. I’m calling her Christy in this story series, but that’s not her actual name. Anyway, “Christy” is 5’9”, has beautiful 34” tits with a sexy round ass, a proportionate waist and solid thighs, thanks to her Pilates and running regimen. She’s got light blue eyes, silky shoulder-length brown hair, and a risqué smile, which usually comes with a tartish arch of her eyebrow. She’s been told she looks like (and has the voice of) Famke Janssen, if you know the actress. Anyway, trust me: this gorgeous wife of mine absolutely deserves a big black bull in her life. And so: the following story series, told to her (the fantasy hotwife) by me (the aspirational cuck husband)…
***
You’ve been looking for a workout routine to complement your Pilates, so you decide to check out that new gym that just opened up in town. It’s called Gym 68. Looks pretty upscale—you could tell just driving past—but I (your husband) have had a pretty good year, moneywise, in my gig as a code monkey at our friendly neighborhood dotcom. So you (my wife) feel okay about maybe giving this new gym a try. Plus, the more you work out, the more confident you tend to feel, and the hornier you tend to get, thus the more sex I tend to receive. So you’re pretty sure I’m not gonna complain about this particular line-item in the budget.
Sweats and baggy t-shirt on, you stroll a few blocks into town and walk into Gym 68 and the first thing you notice is: yes, wow, super upscale. The lighting, the décor, the tech. Somebody sunk a lot of money into this place. The membership fees won’t be cheap. And you already feel self-conscious in your sweats and t-shirt… somehow this place calls for something better. The next thing you notice: the clientele. It’s… well, um, somewhat disproportionately “urban”? Like mostly, er, African-American, maybe? Looking closer, you do see a few white women (mostly young, blonde, model types… and none of ‘em in sweats, that’s for sure!). But the men… they’re basically all black guys. Some of ‘em younger, some our age, a few even a bit older than us, but they’re all taut, and toned. And big. And black. Some tatted guys, some guys with dreads, some clean cut guys, but if there’s a white guy in this gym, you sure can’t see him. And the music in here reflects that. It’s all rap. Driving, with a thump, and loud, and raw. The one other gym you’ve ever been in streamed, like, Cyndi Lauper and Erasure and whatever. This ain’t that.
You start to wonder if this Gym 68 place is quite the right fit for you, but before you can back out, there’s a man at your side, talking to you. Honestly, you miss the first few words that come from his mouth… or rather, the words don’t register nearly so much as his voice: it’s deep. Smooth. Unhurried. If you’d never fully noticed quite how thin and (frankly) effeminate my voice is, the contrast definitely presents itself to you within the first three syllables from this man’s lips. Your breath catches just the tiniest bit (does he notice?) at the presence of this new, er, friend, and you look over… and then up. Fuck, this man is tall! 6’8”? 6’9”? Whatever it is, he’s definitely taller than me, with gorgeous skin the color of dark amber. As this man looms above you, you smile nervously and reflexively tuck a lock of hair behind your ear: just the most basic schoolgirl flirt maneuver in the manual (crap, did he notice that too?). “Been waiting for you”, the man says again (you realize now that’s what he said the first time), and your instinct is to maybe look away in modesty/shyness, but this man’s eyes… they basically won’t allow it. They’re behind rimless glasses, but no matter, these eyes are a deeper green than you’ve ever imagined possible, and sweetie, they have a complete hold on you. Like they know you… like this man, within seconds of looking at you, already knows every secret you’ve ever kept. Another slight breath-catch. He had to notice that one. But he continues: “A man in this business, he waits a long time for the right client to walk in. What took you so long?”
For years I’ve tried—in every possible way that I can think of—to persuade my wife to cuckold me... preferably with a black lover. But she insists (and I’ve come to accept) that it’s just never gonna happen. Not in real life.
But! My wife does like when I tell her a story about her being with a dominant black bull (if by “like” one means “rubs herself to orgasm while listening to said story”). So, in lieu of irl cucking, that’s what she and I do instead: storytime and role-play. The story series that follows is a very-very-elongated version of one of the stories that we currently have on heavy storytime rotation. Note: the two black guys that she once actually fucked in her actual real life (prior to our marriage) were guys that she met at a gym, so this story series (not at all coincidentally) exists in that same general setting.
Fwiw, my wife is in her mid-40s, but looks younger. I’m calling her Christy in this story series, but that’s not her actual name. Anyway, “Christy” is 5’9”, has beautiful 34” tits with a sexy round ass, a proportionate waist and solid thighs, thanks to her Pilates and running regimen. She’s got light blue eyes, silky shoulder-length brown hair, and a risqué smile, which usually comes with a tartish arch of her eyebrow. She’s been told she looks like (and has the voice of) Famke Janssen, if you know the actress. Anyway, trust me: this gorgeous wife of mine absolutely deserves a big black bull in her life. And so: the following story series, told to her (the fantasy hotwife) by me (the aspirational cuck husband)…
***
You’ve been looking for a workout routine to complement your Pilates, so you decide to check out that new gym that just opened up in town. It’s called Gym 68. Looks pretty upscale—you could tell just driving past—but I (your husband) have had a pretty good year, moneywise, in my gig as a code monkey at our friendly neighborhood dotcom. So you (my wife) feel okay about maybe giving this new gym a try. Plus, the more you work out, the more confident you tend to feel, and the hornier you tend to get, thus the more sex I tend to receive. So you’re pretty sure I’m not gonna complain about this particular line-item in the budget.
Sweats and baggy t-shirt on, you stroll a few blocks into town and walk into Gym 68 and the first thing you notice is: yes, wow, super upscale. The lighting, the décor, the tech. Somebody sunk a lot of money into this place. The membership fees won’t be cheap. And you already feel self-conscious in your sweats and t-shirt… somehow this place calls for something better. The next thing you notice: the clientele. It’s… well, um, somewhat disproportionately “urban”? Like mostly, er, African-American, maybe? Looking closer, you do see a few white women (mostly young, blonde, model types… and none of ‘em in sweats, that’s for sure!). But the men… they’re basically all black guys. Some of ‘em younger, some our age, a few even a bit older than us, but they’re all taut, and toned. And big. And black. Some tatted guys, some guys with dreads, some clean cut guys, but if there’s a white guy in this gym, you sure can’t see him. And the music in here reflects that. It’s all rap. Driving, with a thump, and loud, and raw. The one other gym you’ve ever been in streamed, like, Cyndi Lauper and Erasure and whatever. This ain’t that.
You start to wonder if this Gym 68 place is quite the right fit for you, but before you can back out, there’s a man at your side, talking to you. Honestly, you miss the first few words that come from his mouth… or rather, the words don’t register nearly so much as his voice: it’s deep. Smooth. Unhurried. If you’d never fully noticed quite how thin and (frankly) effeminate my voice is, the contrast definitely presents itself to you within the first three syllables from this man’s lips. Your breath catches just the tiniest bit (does he notice?) at the presence of this new, er, friend, and you look over… and then up. Fuck, this man is tall! 6’8”? 6’9”? Whatever it is, he’s definitely taller than me, with gorgeous skin the color of dark amber. As this man looms above you, you smile nervously and reflexively tuck a lock of hair behind your ear: just the most basic schoolgirl flirt maneuver in the manual (crap, did he notice that too?). “Been waiting for you”, the man says again (you realize now that’s what he said the first time), and your instinct is to maybe look away in modesty/shyness, but this man’s eyes… they basically won’t allow it. They’re behind rimless glasses, but no matter, these eyes are a deeper green than you’ve ever imagined possible, and sweetie, they have a complete hold on you. Like they know you… like this man, within seconds of looking at you, already knows every secret you’ve ever kept. Another slight breath-catch. He had to notice that one. But he continues: “A man in this business, he waits a long time for the right client to walk in. What took you so long?”