Treating the Wife: 5 stories about hotwife cuckolds by JL Sanders

Author:JL Sanders [Sanders, JL]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: PMI
Published: 2022-10-07T00:00:00+00:00

My Friend's Girlfriend

Here she comes again. She invades my mind like locusts sweeping a field.

The noise of traffic lifts and the murmur of the sidewalk cafe hushes. The aria of a heavenly choir rises in my mind and light fills my small and quiet bookstore.

I can hardly control myself when she comes in.

“Hey,” I started with hesitation the other day with her boyfriend Cal. We were hanging one of his paintings on the walls above my shelves. “What’s your girlfriend’s name, again?” I pinched one of the nails from my tight lips and went a step further up the ladder. Cal was a local struggling artist. I was doing my part to help him out. I swear to god there was no other motive for me to invite him to try showing his work in my bookstore.

“Wen?” he said over his shoulder opening his arms around the frame of his six-foot-wide dark abstract and turning around awkwardly toward me with it, waddling like a fat penguin with his painting riding on his toes.

“Yeah,” I said with carefully casual disinterest, beckoning him over my shoulder to come toward me with his painting. “She was asking about a book. I wanted to put her name on it in case I’m not here,” I said.

That was a lie. Cal was in his early 20s and so was his girlfriend, a music teacher at the local community centre. I spied on her whenever her and Cal were out in the hood or dropping into my bookstore, but I kept my gaze appropriately averted.

She was what I could never have for a lot of reasons: She had a boyfriend, for starters. She was known around the hood as well — it’s not a small city, but its neighbourhoods can be cloistered. Cal and Wen showed up a couple of years ago as the intensely artsy couple, he the painter, she the singer. I was far too known in the hood to sneak around with anything that noticeable. My bookstore might be small and tucked away in a poorer area, but it had a reputation, as did I.

That was all just the fantasy talking, though. In reality, Wen was like those girls back in college — far too hot for the likes of me. Entirely wrong league. She was the kind of girl I choked up around when I was younger. She’s still the kind I choke up around today. Just catching sight of her without getting caught staring like a perv was all the joy that guys like me were ever going to get with girls like her.

Besides, I was married, so there was that.

The week before, Wen came into my bookstore alone and spent a long time with an over-sized Caravaggio hard-cover art book. I leaned over my sales counter as though deeply involved with what appeared on the screen of my laptop, but I slid sideways over the glass counter until I was in line with the shadowy aisle Wen stopped in.

She leaned

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