The Cuckold's Anthology of Infidelity: 6 previously published stories by Dylan Chase

Author:Dylan Chase [Chase, Dylan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PMI
Published: 2022-03-27T00:00:00+00:00

Stolen Wife

“Um, honey?” my wife Natalie came up to me and tapped with a single finger on the back of my shoulder.

I paused the conversation I was having with a couple of other engineers from other offices of our company by holding a finger up.

“Mm?” I said. We were at the big company party, the annual Founding Anniversary thrown by the company CEO at his palatial estate up in the hills. All the senior department heads and upper management and vps came from all over the world for this one big night. If you were seen at the party, you were inside track material. Media weren’t invited, but they covered it for days nonetheless, speculating on who was there, and who wasn’t.

My wife still struck me every time I looked at her anew. Tonight she was wearing a long off-the-shoulder black half-sleeve dress with a slit running nearly too high up the thigh, and cream-toned scarpin shoes. Every time I looked at her, I was reminded that I must have hit a lucky one out of the park in the wrong league the day I met her. She was 31 now, a very private, very demure accountant at some small unheard-of private investment firm.

She leaned in close to my ear to keep what she said private. Her coffee and vanilla aroma stiffened me. Her husky voice and Italian accent still gave me a sense of the illicit. Her dark eyes flashed from behind strands of her dark cinnamon brown hair. She held my forearm in her cool, light fingers and her nails, painted alabaster white, lightly dug into my skin. She did that when we made love too — sometimes uncontrollably.

She chuckled once in a whispery breath of air directly into my ear because she was too shy to ask. “You can say no,” she spoke barely audibly even with her lips brushing my ear. “But Mr. Frost would like to show me around his house,” she said. Frost was our CEO, the owner of the estate and host of the party. She straightened back from me and stood with her arms loose at her sides, her thumbs slightly pointed out, her feet perfectly together and straight forward. She had a dancer’s physique — an arched back, a jutting chest, chin down. “A tour,” she said, as though my delay was because I didn’t understand.

I took her wrist in one hand and wrapped my other hand around her waist and guided her away from the leering stares of the other guys I had been talking to. I guided her to the wall. “Anything you like, honey,” I smiled at her. “It’s the company anniversary. The slate is wiped clean tomorrow.” I chuckled and shrugged at the other guys.

Natalie was what I would call excessively risk averse. It got to the point sometimes she’d tell me it wasn’t just other people she didn’t trust, it was even herself.

I found the concept at the time odd. “What do you mean, yourself?”

We were eating breakfast together over the counter one morning.

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