You Will Be Cuckold 3 (Wife Swap)

I didn't like the woman that came into our home.

By the way she looked at my husband, I already knew that she was going to leave him out to dry, even if he might not have realized it yet as he tensely clutched his Manhattan that the her husband had so deftly prepared for him.
 
At present, he was trying to keep a lukewarm conversation alive with her, but that polite smile of hers, that precise nodding head at anything my husband pronounced, and those casual long side gazes as she assessed the curtains and furniture of our living room, all led me to believe that she had made up her mind not to fuck my husband.
 
This presented me with a dilemma.
 
Opusillon Smith continues the tormented tale of a husband and wife as she strives for sexual freedom!

Now available... You Will Be Cuckold 4 (That Black Guy)!

I honestly couldn't make up my mind if my loving wife was a whore or a slut. Being very attentive to details, I consulted various on-line dictionaries and it seemed to me that slut was more indicative than whore. After all, she didn't hump men for money, even if after the fact, some offered her small tokens of appreciation which she always gracefully refused. All except flowers. These she always eagerly accepted.

I think this made her feel innocent, as if the splendid colors and fresh fragrance aired out her mind and vented away the grimy lust ingrained in her conscious. Then again, I could be wrong. "Well?"

I realized at that moment that my mind had wandered off and that I had not been paying attention. I squirmed uncomfortably
in my seat, feeling very much like an unprepared school boy at the start of
interrogation. The sharp dressed man was staring straight at my face. I felt no compassion in his eyes for me, no hint of empathy for the sorry state that my wife had reduced me to, and this surprised me a little.

I didn't expect him to scold my wife in front of me, that no, but to at least grace me with a slight sympathetic nod as my wife spoke of the men she fucked while wearing my ring would have made me feel better. A simple gesture of compassion, among men, that would have given an electroshock to my manly ego which lay on a deathbed would have been welcomed. Anything, but anything to make me feel understood by the world!

My eyes flickered nervously down to the exaggerated name plate strategically positioned on an angle at the side of his deep colored mahogany desk which appeared to stretch a mile across. Rex Raddler, Sex Therapist. Deep inside my mind I wondered what credentials a sex therapist needed to
practice his profession.