How do you define ‘cheating‘? As a general rule, I wouldn’t use the word ‘cheat’ for the consensual, deliciously hot scene our guest blogger describes today. But as you’ll see when you read his story, I liked his title – ‘I watched my girlfriend cheat’ – because it says a lot more about the way this intensely filthy story is framed in his head, and what it means to him beyond just being exhilarating. Please welcome Eric…
I watched my girlfriend cheat on me, and it was exhilarating
We’ve all been there, probably. Especially at university. Even though I had slept with someone only the night before, I could hear that same girl again, upstairs, sleeping with my housemate. The unmistakable hammering, the sporadic cries of pleasure. I crawled up into a ball in my broken bed and I cried. I didn’t really understand how someone could be so cold. The next morning, she looked me right in the eye like nothing happened.
It’s not her fault. There were no expectations, really. She didn’t really mean anything to me. It was this fumbling drunken stupor with no meaning attached. The real issue was that my insecurities were suddenly illuminated like an x-ray. The light and space of university was like a Pandora’s box for my self worth. An abundance of casual sex was introducing me to experiences I’d never had, but it made me feel terribly inadequate. I felt jealous that I wasn’t experiencing as much as my pals or that I was ugly by comparison and therefore missing out. Really, I should have appreciated what I had rather than ache for what I didn’t.
What I really needed was quality, not quantity. I needed someone who made me feel safe and sound. I needed a protective barrier to explore myself, not some drunken headache with a stranger. Months later I would get exactly that.
She was far more advanced, both emotionally and sexually, than me. Meeting her was like the ocean floor gave way and the vast expanse of unlearned things were revealed to me. We had an immediate chemistry that I haven’t seen since and we fucked. A lot. Like, really fucked. And that’s great, but… sometimes when we’d send dirty texts to each other, I kept butting my head on something incredibly confusing.
I felt like she was so good at fucking me that I wanted her to… share it around. To share it with other men.
I tried to ignore it at first. After all, when you’re that wrapped up in someone, sometimes the fantasy is sexier than reality. But when I decided to open up about it to her, her jaw dropped.
“Oh my god!” She said, in awe, “I’ve always wanted to do that!”
She was wonderful about it. Her excitement and enthusiasm caused the lock on my mind to break apart and a door to swing open. A deluge of jealous self-esteem bled free into the sewers like some pressure valve. As we fantasized about it into the night, I actually started to feel high. It’s hard to quantify what sexual liberation feels like.
But to me it felt like a natural, drug-free high.
We had chosen her recently graduating housemate as her first plaything. A safe bet, for sure. They’d hooked up a few times before but considering he was moving country now she could really unleash.
It happened late one night like a 3am fever dream. We’d spent the night excitedly talking over the particulars until she lowered herself tentatively on to her knees in front of him and looked over her shoulder at me. She pretended to be pensive and coy, quivering like a blade of grass, all glassy and delicate, but she unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock. He was already hard. She glanced back at me again:
“Like this?” She asked, guiding his penis into her mouth. She glanced back at me in between taking heavy breaths and the sound of her mouth lapping at his cock. She was merely pretending to be shy. She was like a black widow playing with its food and she knew it was driving me wild. I began to feel light headed at the mere sight. My body was locking up in ecstasy. She asked again, directly this time: “Well?”
I was stammering and couldn’t hold it together.
“Yes” I nodded, “just like that.”
She giggled at me. She knew what she was doing. She was still guiding her mouth up and down on his cock with this fake shyness that I saw right through, but she had pressed my buttons too much. I couldn’t hold back now.
“But why don’t you show him what a whore you really are?” I said.
That was her ‘on’ switch. The W word. She grabbed his cock with greater resolve and slurped hard on the tip. Noisily, of course, to make a point, before taking huge mouthfuls of him. He moaned, swearing under his breath.
“Yeah, I think she’s definitely a whore,” he said. She purred in appreciation, muffled by his saliva drenched cock. I was still totally frozen in place and I remained so until she had totally finished him off, wiping the excess bodily fluids from her mouth with a devious giggle.
We retreated to our room afterwards, finishing the night off with a lot of intense fucking.
Recalling the event now is like a wild fever dream. Except it wasn’t imagined: it was real. It was a moment of liberation for us both. She used slut empowerment to smash taboos and I threw out the toxicity that had hurt my self esteem for far too long.
Isn’t it strange how the things we fear the most are sometimes the things which set us free?