【Her · Wife】
My name does not matter. My students call me Ms. Shen; I teach high-school art, twenty-nine years old. I know what kind of woman I am — in life-drawing class I explain anatomy to my students, the turn from collarbone to the line of the breast, the weight of the hip bone, explaining it all without a blush or a skipped beat. Yet on the way home, when the subway glass reflects my own shape wrapped in a knit dress, I will suddenly remember the outline of some man’s crotch as he passed me, wondering what that thing would be like if it were real, if it were big. The thought is like pigment seeping into rice paper — the more you wash it, the deeper it sets. For half a year I simply stopped wearing underwear to work: nothing at all beneath the dress, sitting in my swivel chair at the office, only I knowing I was empty, wide open, that unnoticed wantonness leaving me walking wet all day long.
So later, when I told him the whole thing — the first time another man touched me, handed over by my own husband — plainly, and watched him harden at the three words “wearing the cuckold’s horns,” I should not have been so surprised. What surprised me was the process. What surprised me was that a woman could be deceived that far by the person she trusted most, over four years, with a single blindfold.
Before we married I had no idea he had this fetish. He was refined, an engineer, slow of speech; when he courted me he did not dare take my hand until it was through a sweater. It only surfaced slowly after the wedding. First, in bed, he liked to ask: “What if it were someone else — would you come harder?” I took it for spice and laughed, covering his mouth. Then came the films. He began, late at night, to play things on the projector; at first I thought they were ordinary, but two minutes in I realized they all followed one line — a wife led by her husband before another man, the husband watching from the side, even helping.
The first time I saw that kind of film, I half-jokingly pounded him: “You could bear it? Bear your wife being fucked by someone else?” I waited for him to blush, to turn it off and say he was teasing me. He did not. He only gave a small smile — a smile I remember to this day, warm, carrying an expectation I could not read, like a child finally taking out a sweet he had hidden a long time to show you. He said: “I just want you.” I did not understand then how much weight that word “want” carried.
【Husband · The Cuckold】
I admit I schemed deep — so deep that sometimes even I was afraid of myself. But you must first understand one thing: it is not that I do not love her. It is precisely that I love her too much, to a degree others will never grasp — I wanted to see her fed soft to the bone by another man, to see her lose control screaming under another cock, and then turn her head, eyes wet, still searching for me. That feeling — fucked by someone else yet her heart still growing on me — is more addictive than any exclusivity. I hid this thought half my life, hid it through a girlfriend, hid it into marriage, and only then dared to try it, bit by bit, on her.
Before the wedding I did not dare say a word. She was so respectable — an art teacher, parents all politely calling her Ms. Shen. I was afraid of scaring her off. Only after we married did I start, very slowly, very lightly, like sketching the underdrawing on a stretched canvas, a thin layer of nearly invisible lines. The films were the first step. I did not click at random; I had sequenced them — from the mildest, where the husband is merely cuckolded, to the ones where the husband presses his wife under someone else with his own hands, each heavier than the last, ten days or half a month apart, so she would think her own taste was changing on its own.
The first time she asked me “you could bear it?”, I hardened so hard I nearly gave myself away on the spot. I held back and answered only, “I just want you.” That line was the key. After that, every time she played along with a film while we did it, I would add one more thing in her ear: you are so young, your body is so good — showing it only to me is such a waste. While you still can, let someone else see how beautiful you are too, all right? — I never forced. Forcing is the stupidest thing. I only let that line, like a drip of water, fall one drop a day into her ear.
【Single Man】
I am the one who was called in later; the first half of the story has nothing to do with me. But when Bro found me he laid it all out, and only then did I learn how long this scheme had run. He said his wife was a proper teacher, thin-skinned, that it had to go slow, that he had spent nearly two years laying the groundwork. At first I did not quite believe it — two years? For one night? Later I believed it, because the day I met her in person, that look of hers — wanting and afraid at once — could not be faked. It was something bred out of a person, coaxed out little by little.
Bro had shown me a photo of her, the face blurred, only the body bared — not tall, thin-waisted, soft flesh over the hips, plainly the kind of figure usually wrapped up tight, the kind you only learn is that alluring once it is stripped. He drove two points home with me over and over: first, she must not, at any point, know the man had been swapped — that was the line between the two of them, and if it was punctured it was all over; second, that night I had to last — he said he himself would finish in ten-odd minutes, but the night he wanted her to remember could not be that short. I said fine. On that count you can rest easy — sixteen, long enough, lasting enough. He laughed to hear it and said that was perfect: his was fourteen, she would not be able to tell them apart, and even ramming her deep she would only take it for me being in good form.
So if we are truly counting, that whole night, from start to finish, the one fucking her was never her husband — not once. The one in her mouth, the one she took to be her husband’s, was the husband’s. But all that comes later.
【Her · Wife】
He worked on me a long time. He used both the soft and the hard. When it was soft he would hold me and say things that set my face burning; when it was hard, it was in bed, where he would put the blindfold on me — I cannot even remember when it started, but later, when we made love, he always liked to cover my eyes. He said when you cannot see, the body is most honest. With the blindfold on, right at the edge, he would grip my waist and force me to speak, force me to cry out “I want another man’s big cock,” “I want more.” I was mortified, yet I truly did cry it out, and the instant it left my mouth I came harder than usual. He said, listen — this is what you want. I could not argue, because my body had already confessed for me.
The night I agreed to him, there was no earth-shattering turn, really. We had just finished again; I lay panting against his chest, and he brought it up once more, saying it would only be one person watching from the side, just looking at you, that is all, absolutely no touching, I promise, I will be right beside you and will not leave your side a single step. I had heard this line — “only watch, no touch” — too many times, and that night, for some reason, I gave a soft little hum of yes. His whole body went stiff for a moment, and then he held me so tight I could barely breathe. I thought that was him treasuring me. Now I think it was a hand that had waited a very long time, finally closing shut.