Cuckolding for Beginners Ch. 07

Chapter VII

Bryn

Erin tucked the rugrats in bed, and waited for the little ones to fall into an exhausted sleep before getting dressed; she wore a provocatively short skirt with a delightfully low-cut blouse and giggled as my cock strained her panties. “Do you approve?” She asked, pulling her bright red skirt up to her waist to reveal her garter belt and stockings — and nothing else.

My eyes fixed on her hairless pussy as it fleeted past my gaze, longing for the absence of her skirt to remain as it fluttered to her thigh. My attention was transfixed by the sexual power of my wife and dirtiness of her actions. Her lips curled into a sadistic smirk and her eyes sparkled with devilish mischief.

“I think you look gorgeous,” I stammered, meaning every word of my compliment. Her fingers swept gently over her lacy panties and the prominent bulge in the thin pink material.

“I can tell,” she replied, giggling. “But I think you look gorgeous too!”

She had never told me where she was going that evening, and I never asked. I trusted my wife, implicitly and explicitly and knew that I would hear every detail in the coming hours.

She straightened her clothing, blowing me a kiss from her perfectly painted luscious lips, shimmering with a glittery red glaze, as she left our bedroom.

I remained briefly for a few moments as my beautiful wife sauntered out of my view. Her long, stocking-clad legs striding confidently as I stood naked, except for my slippers and her pink, lacy underwear.

I had adorned my thick, warm dressing gown by the time I had reached our living room; Christina was impatiently waiting for my wife and dressed in the most provocative outfit I had seen in public: a short, shimmering red latex skirt with black fishnet stockings and a a top that left little to the imagination.

“A fiver says you pull more guys than me!” Erin teased, but our neighbour scoffed as she hurried my young wife to get her shoes on. They were going to be “late.”

Bryn was slouching on my sofa, sprawled in just a pair of underwear as he watched our wives flustering about the small house with shoes and coats. “You two,” Christina barked at us. “Practice your massages.” He glanced at a Hessian bag on the floor by her feet.

Erin cooed. “Oh yes! I’d love you to massage me properly!”

“Oh, and we’ll be back late. Don’t wait up!”

My fellow cuckold nodded deferentially towards his dominant wife leaving the istanbul travesti room. We waited for the front door to close sharply and he smiled. I recognised the scheming duplicity behind “that” look.

I guessed Erin and Christina were up to something, and to this day still believe that. Erin vaguely denied it when I asked, and she had no need to lie. I cared not that she had set me up, but it is clear, even now, how much my life and sexuality was been steered and manipulated by the kinky seductresses.

She had often alluded to but never explained her sexual past before we had got together and I had no doubt that she had bore witness to past lovers having same-sex relations. I’m sure she was keen to relive those experiences through me, or maybe allow me to explore that side of my sexuality with freedom.

“Beer?” I asked, to break the ice. He nodded and I returned from the kitchen with two glasses of pale ale.

He took the cool glass from my hands. “You done much massage before?”

“Ummm… sure.” It wasn’t a total lie; I often ran my warm, oiled hands over the tired skin of my elegant wife. His eyes gestured towards a towel he had spread out over the floor. “Lie down, face down. Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated; Bryn nodded. I didn’t know how to vocalise my objection; he called it “harmless” but there was an inner fear that it was wrong to be so exposed in front of another guy, who would be touching me.

“I’ll get naked too, if it helps!”

It didn’t, but the words of my dominant wife echoed in my ears: she’d “love me to massage her properly” and I relaxed enough to put my beer on the table. I lay face down on the blue towel, without my dressing gown covering my modesty.

I know Bryn giggled as I positioned myself on the soft cotton; I felt his firm hands pull the pink underwear to my ankles with a gentle nasal tut. My heart was beating furiously fast, my mouth dry as I heard him rustle in his Hessian bag.

And then I felt the smooth, gliding touch of his hands over my body; Bryn positioned himself over me, his cock flopped onto my lower back. I tensed when I felt it; Bryn soothed the tension, drawing his hands in warm, gliding motions over my skin.

Indeed, every touch was heaven as his elegant movements pushed the stress from my very pores and muscles. I started to relax, feeling the motions of his body against mine with every push on my slippery flesh with his greasy hands.

I travesti istanbul felt my consciousness drifting; I could barely focus on anything, losing myself in Bryn’s fantastic movements as oiled skin glided soothingly over oiled skin. I was barely aware of what he was touching; the kneading of my buttocks, the hands gliding against my thick thighs or the massaging of my agonising shoulders. His hands touched where he wanted to touch, his body pressing against mine.

I could feel his body heat and it felt reassuring and relaxing. I was being touched by another man and it felt good. And my mind and my conscience didn’t care. It felt unbelievably good.

“My turn,” Bryn called as his hands left my buttocks and I groaned. I didn’t want to move! The naked man lay alongside me, and he offered guidance. I poured a small stream of oil into the palm of my hand under his direction.

My first touch was tentative, pushing on his thick muscles as I knelt alongside him.

He want me to squat over him, leaning across his body as my cock rested on the small of his back. He purred as my fingers gripped pieces of his skin and swept over them to massage the tiredness from his exhausted body.

I got braver as I massaged palmfuls of oil into his skin, running my fingers down his flesh to grip his buttocks and cover his globes with a sheen of massage oil.

I know I wasn’t “good” at massage, but the content hum from our neighbour showed I wasn’t “bad” and as his skin could absorb no more, he told me to lie on my back.

“Every massage has a happy end,” he said with a wink. I felt all my inhibitions returning, but Bryn had a disarming smile with a reassuring demeanour. I felt at ease, as he poured more oil into his hand and applied his hands to my neck.

Every gliding touch was a tease. We both knew what he was going to do, we both knew what he wanted to do, but every touch was to evoke and taunt. He rubbed against my nipples, flowing seductively over my stomach and pressing the front of my thighs, each time brushing the top of my erect cock.

I realised later, that it was my first ever same-sex sexual experience, but at the time I was too lost in the massage to think. My eyes were closed, my mind was in another place as I savoured every greasy touch on my sensitive skin.

And every glide, grab, flick, knead, grip, slide and rub of my oiled body: Bryn was seductive at working my skin into a desperate lather istanbul travestileri of intense desperation. I wanted him to grip my cock with his slippery hands and if he wouldn’t, I’d freely tug myself to a feverish orgasm.

He did, when he ran out of my body to saturate in massage oil. My neighbour gripped my cock and slowly slid his hand down my shaft, and his right hand rubbed my balls.

I opened my eyes to see the filthy smile on his face as I shifted on the towel. He loved the groans and cries, his hard prick prominent in his lap.

But I adored the feel of his slippery fingers sliding over my cock, jerking me towards my peak. I grunted and groaned, writhing on the towel as my body sparkled with lust. I was hurtling towards the peak, desperately holding onto my orgasm as the point of no return neared and Bryn’s movements sped up.

Fast, furious, satisfying strokes; rubbing against my shaft as I squealed and muttered. Unable to resist the impending orgasm any more, I felt a cool wave of desperation engulf me and I released, squirting cum into the hand of my masseur.

He rubbed his fingers on the corner of the towel, wiping my cum from his hand as he sat back on his haunches, proud with his handiwork.

I basked in the relief I felt, unable to move from the overwhelming explosion of sexual relief I had spent.

It was his turn. And I didn’t feel nervous about touching him. I wasn’t apprehensive about siding my hands over his slightly overweight body or gripping his thick thighs with ease. Or trying to tease the grunting millionaire, as my fingers slipped tentatively over his cock.

“Grip it!” He grunted, sighing as he relaxed into the towel. He smiled as my reticence stopped me from grabbing hold of his erect member.

But I did; it was warm to the touch, delightfully hard and for the first time in my life I felt another man’s cock in my fingers. I did the same to him as he did to me, sliding my hand over his shaft to coat his manhood in lubricating oil and filling his mind with a smorgasbord of lustful thoughts.

I knew he was fantasising as I frigged him; I knew was thinking of other sexual situations because I did when he played with me, but as my hand glided gently over his thick, erect shaft he grunted and squealed.

He bucked his hips, impatient to meet the movement of my hand with his manhood; so eager to orgasm. I was curious what it would feel like in my hand, rubbing his cock quicker and quicker, he grunted and groaned, squealing as his dick pulsed in my hand and a small wave of cum left the tip and coated my greasy fingers.

I had, for the first time, made a man come.

And we both beamed; I felt fantastic.

But what would Erin say?