I came to accept our new situation, or should I say my new situation. Nothing had changed for her, at least not to her knowledge. The revelation of her life as a cheating whore was known to me alone. She could proceed with her dual life as if nothing were amiss, blissfully unaware that I, her husband, knew her terrible secret.

It was as if I’d married someone new. New, and exciting. Acceptance gradually gave way to the thrill of being married to a strong, sexual, confident, greedy hedonist of a woman. I embraced my role as silent cuckold, my own secret being kept from her just as she kept hers from me.

With my blindfold removed, I could now see how happy she appeared. She went about her days with a glow that, in my ignorance, I had overlooked. To my surprise and delight, her wanderings did not make her distant or detached. Quite to the contrary, she was warm, affectionate, and an incredible lover.

Granted, the frequency of our sex declined; since she was getting what she craved elsewhere she needed me less in that respect. In my past unenlightened state, I might have noticed it less clearly and would probably have chalked it up to our marriage having settled, as most do, into a tamer routine.

Which it had, of course. Her drug was her deceit, the thrill of breaking taboos. Once in awhile, I was able to find her unlocked phone, and I couldn’t resist reading in detail her messages to find some more details about her wanderings. She craved sex that was dirty and rough, and it was clear that cheating was a kink that consumed her, that gave her sexual fulfillment that she could never achieve at home, that completed her as a whole woman.

I shared her depravity through our sex, which, for me, became more and more intense. My own gratification increased. My wife, heretofore a pretty, conventional suburban woman, was now a sexy vixen, a wanton slut, an erotic beauty who took my breath away.

There were the nights when she would go out, her excuses varied, and I would be left to imagine who she might be with and what he was doing to her as I masturbated myself to climax with a whimper. After that first morning, she didn’t provide me with the opportunity to reclaim her. Not that I wouldn’t try. If I was still awake when she returned, I would greet her with trembling excitement and a massive erection, but she would either ignore it or beg fatigue at a late hour. Of course, I knew better – she was indeed worn out, ragged, fucked to within an inch of her life.

But on the other days, our sex had become, for me, incredible. She seemed more insatiable. She squirted freely, and prodigiously, so much so that we sometimes had to change the sheets. Her oral skills reached another level. She had never been able to deep throat, and now she could easily take me all the way down with no hint of a gag reflex, having been well experienced by now, and no doubt with cocks far bigger than mine. Her blow jobs were sloppy and intense, and she would often work my cock until her eyes watered.

She had also developed a penchant for dirty talk. She screamed streams of filth when I was fucking her, especially in doggie – fuck, shit, God, give it to me, that feels so good, slut, whore, cock, pussy, hard, balls, cervix, you name it.

And she began to beg for cum. Inside her, on her, everywhere, anywhere. She would scream when I came, overjoyed at the power it conveyed, the validation of her desirability. I was her husband, and so, of course, she should be able to make me cum, but it was the frightening intensity of my orgasms, the ferocity and massive volume with which they erupted, that so delighted her.

One weekend she went away; it was supposed to be a girls’ trip with workmates whom I didn’t know and thus would not have been able to verify with. I was restless the entire weekend, unable to stop thinking about her – where she was, who she was with, what they were doing at that exact moment.

I had come to love my new life, but the old hurt never completely disappeared. From time to time I would lurch into minor panic attacks, a deep pain in my midsection and a tightness in my chest manifesting my jealousy and my terror at the thought that no matter how much she might love me, she might come to prefer her secret life to the conventional one she lived at home with me.

There was one uncertainty that turned into a bit of an obsession. There was nothing in her texts that shed any light on whether she was using condoms or fucking raw. I came to assume she had abandoned protection; what woman in her state would want to compromise? Given this, my obsession was whether she let her lovers cum inside her pussy.

Nothing represented the knife edge of my emotions better than that question. On the one hand, I was exhilarated to think that she would let other men fill her with their seed. It perfectly completed the picture of her as a wanton, uninhibited, greedy, and even reckless slut. On the other, it was a punch to the gut knowing that the last barrier of intimacy had been set aside and that her infidelity, her abandonment of her marital vows, was absolute.

Then, one night, I got my answer. She had gone out, giving one of her usual excuses. As she walked out the door I wished her a good time, telling her not to worry about me and to stay out as late as she wanted.

When she was gone, I poured a drink and cast some cheating wife porn onto the big screen TV. At this point, I had a cache of videos featuring women whose body types and general age were a respectable match for my wife’s. It was also required that the actress be wearing a wedding ring. I had found a new one recently and hadn’t watched it all the way through. I was in no hurry, so I stripped naked and sat on the couch to watch, a bottle of lube and a towel at the ready.

The plot involved a woman who was cheating for the first time. She was meeting her lover at a hotel. She was nervous, twisting her engagement ring as she walked down the hall toward the room her bull had rented for the sinful act.

She was hesitant at first, but once he began to kiss her, her inhibitions gradually melted away. The video was well done; their clothes came off gradually, revealing bit by bit her beautiful, toned body. He took his time with her, awakening her desire until she was a smoldering inferno of lust. A brief nod gave him all the assent he needed, and he plunged into her.

She orgasmed over and over, crying as he took her, and he finished by honoring her begged request that he fill her with his cum. The scene concluded with a shot of his cum oozing out of her, down the space between her pussy and ass and onto the bed sheets before panning out to the two of them hugging side by side, gazing into one another’s eyes, and kissing passionately.

I managed to edge myself through the 45 minutes, and as I saw them embracing in the afterglow, my fist pumped my lubed cock to a furious explosion as I pictured my wife doing the same thing in some hotel or house across town.

She came home late that evening.  Very late, enough so that I was asleep when she finally tiptoed into our bedroom. She would have changed in the closet so as not to disturb me, and when she climbed into bed I stirred. In an instant, she was fast asleep. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table – it was past 2 AM.

I rolled to one side to face her. Her body smelled of sex – all hormones and sweat and what I suspected was cum. It had apparently been a long, intense evening, so much so that she hadn’t bothered to shower, which was very unusual for her. I leaned forward and planted a kiss on the back of her neck and licked her skin, wanting to savor a little taste of the skin she had bared for him.

She didn’t respond; she had descended into a deep sleep from which she would not be roused. Suddenly curious, I rose gently and walked to the closet. Closing the door behind me, I turned on the light and looked in the hamper. A black thong rested on top of the pile. Heart racing, I carefully picked it up and looked at the front. A large wet stain was the telltale sign.

I looked inside. There, toward the bottom, was the evidence I expected to see. A white glob was slowly dissolving into the fabric, but enough of it was still visible to clearly identify it. The tightness in my chest descended through my mid-section and settled into my crotch. My cock was raging.

I pulled down my sleepwear, turned the thong inside out, and carefully wrapped it around my swollen member, the gob of his sex cold and slick against the underside of mine. I began to jerk, slowly at first, and then more firmly. It didn’t take long for my orgasm to rise, and I pulled the thong off my cock and pressed it against my mouth and nose, inhaling sharply as jets shot out of me and hit the closet wall.

I stifled a yell as I emptied myself. Panting, wasted, I surveyed the scene of my torment. Thick gobs of my own essence dribbled down the wall, and a few wet spots were visible on the carpet at my feet. I hurriedly turned her thong back right side out and returned it to the hamper. I reached down further to find a pair of my boxers and used them to clean the evidence off the wall and mop the wet spots on the carpet as best I could before returning them to the bottom of the pile.

I turned off the light, walked back into the bedroom, and lay down again beside my wife, whose pussy I now knew was still oozing his precious fluid.