Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“In cuckolding, the wife has most of the sexual power, around eighty percent to be specific. She decides what happens during the scene, who she does it with, when, and where. It usually involves a lot of BDSM dynamics with Femdom,” he tells me, and I scowl and give a dramatic shiver.
“That’s a no from me, dawg,” I reply, and he lets out a bark of laughter, his eyes twinkling as he looks at me. My scowl instantly flips, my belly filling with butterflies at his reaction. I feel that familiar glow, knowing I’m the only one who can make him laugh so easily.
“Agreed. Because it also says here that the husband is usually submissive and has very little of the sexual power. He wants her to tell him what to do, while the bull fucks her.” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t even come close to my fantasy.”
I lift a curious brow. “So I wonder which one yours falls under.”
He faces the article and reads quickly, and I see his full lips move even as he takes in the words silently. And then he explains the next category.
“So in hotwifing, the wife and husband have an equal power dynamic. She will approve the bull or partner, but it might be from a couple of options the husband has presented her with. Often, the husband is an equal partner in the scene.” His expression tells me he wants to hear what I have to say about that before he gives me his own opinion. Something he learned a long time ago to do if he wants my unbiased thoughts, knowing I tend to go along with whatever he thinks.
I’m in no way a doormat; I just don’t have very strong opinions on a lot of things, like where we eat for dinner, the color of… well, anything, nor the non-sexual activities we do in our spare time. I’m very go-with-the-flow in nature, a personality trait that formed when I started dating Roman and discovered how much I loved letting him take the wheel. He’s always so considerate of me, and he pays close attention to all my likes and dislikes, so anything he decides on—food, things we go do or see, or if he picks anything out for me—it’s basically a given that I’ll love it because of all that “data” he’s collected about me and stored for future use.
But if there’s something we’ve never confronted before, a question we’ve never been asked or a subject that hasn’t come up in conversation in the past, he makes me take the lead—to collect new data, as he calls it.
And it’s the reminder of just how considerate he has always been of me and what makes me happy—never once complaining or making me feel guilty if there was something he was interested in doing that I’d rather skip—that feels like a sudden splinter of shame starting to throb in my heart for my inconsideration of his desires. Because I know if it were me who had some wild fantasy, no matter what it was, he’d have the scene planned out and ready to play in a matter of hours—no questions asked.
But I’d never, ever fantasize about him being with someone else, the voice from the past eight months inserts, and I mentally shoo her off. The unhelpful, nagging, petty brat apparently gets off on not moving past pain, wanting to marinate in it instead.
I clear my throat and finally answer his unspoken question. “I think that would be a must for me. The approving of the partner, I mean. And I refuse to call anyone I sleep with a bull. That’s just… too animalistic-sounding for me.”
His expression visibly brightens, and it takes me a moment to register that it’s because I so casually mentioned “anyone I sleep with” in my response. I have mixed emotions over that same fact.
“But I still don’t think this quite fits,” he replies. “Because it says the dynamic between you and me is equal. I have no problem allowing you to approve of whoever we choose. I would never even think to force you to touch anyone you absolutely didn’t implicitly agree to. Again, that would defeat the purpose of my fantasy, to spoil you with pleasure, when you’d never be able to gain pleasure if the man wasn’t someone you approved of.”
I reach behind my neck and knead it with my fingers, trying to relieve the tension there. His words put such a strong, clear image of a faceless male between my legs, my husband watching from the chair in the corner of our bedroom, that my entire body tightened at the thought. And the tightness isn’t wholly… negative. If my mind and heart weren’t in a power struggle with my body at the moment, I might be able to admit that tension feels remarkably like… arousal.