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I wanted her to be free, and she was suddenly glad of the freedom. That first man showed her what fun the hotwife could have, and barely a week went past when she was not being fricked by men other than me. In fact, I was barely getting any s*x, as my wife lost weight, gained confidence and started dressing in risque outfits.

I adored her more and more, especially as some of her regular men -- the bulls -- wanted me to be present. They loved to see me tied to the chair to watch as they impaled their uncovered peepees into my wife, and then feel the satisfaction of my love as she groaned with every parting thrust. They filled her, and they moved their hips to a rhythmic sensual beat. It was s*x but suave and powerful, not the frantic and frenetic intercourse I gave her.

The two intertwined lovers were at one with each other; rhythmically in tune, as his glistening prick glided in and out of my wife and my bride swooning with lust as the orgasmic rush of relief repeatedly swept through her. And then I'd watch as his c*m leaked from her kitty, flowing onto the bedclothes as my exhausted lady cuddled her powerful bull.

Of course, the bull would want to hurt me; vicious words, slaps around the face. I'd be called weak and pathetic, small-cocked and all. Some even wanted to see me in womens' panties or push their c*m-covered prick in my mouth. It was part of the game, I had to accept it.

But the real change was when she met the experienced Sam Hyde. He was a sales director, a few years our senior with slightly graying hair, but a muscular body with tonal definition. Unlike most of the men she had, I met him before they got down to business; he bought us a meal in the pub on his expenses and talked to us both. What did I want out of the games?

In truth, I had no idea; he made us think and we talked. I loved the submission from allowing my wife to play away while I finished housework or did my work. I adored her coming home from her trysts sated and exhausted, laughing as she collapsed into the bedroom and recounted tales of never ending debauchery.

It wasn't enough; when Sam played, he wanted both partners actively involved or else he wasn't interested. The aggressive bulls was something I was never fond of: I liked my wife to be sexually satisfied, I didn't mind submitting to her or him, but the slaps, the cross-dressing and the trash talk was too much for me.

He picked my wife up in his sports car and gave me a list of instructions as he left. My heart thumped as I opened the envelope, feelings I'd never experienced ran through me as my sexy wife wiggled into his convertible.

His instructions: enjoy your evening, don't masturbate, we'll be home at ten.

It felt anti-climatic because it was. I'd expected demands to have the bedroom dowsed in red rose petals or me to be waiting with iced champagne; just "enjoy myself" didn't cut it as "normal" for a cuckold relationship.

Only when he returned, my wife was frantically kissing him, his hands running underneath her dress as they scandalously flirted in full view of our neighbours. I saw curtains twitching, foresaw gossiping for days, months or years. I saw the public branding of my wife as a trollop or our house as a place of disrepute. I saw ... my wife smiling, and laughing. Pulling Sam into our hallway with an enjoyment not born out of uncontrolled lust but excited anticipation. "Let's go upstairs," he said, as much as a demand as a suggestion.

I was powerless not to follow as he seduced my wife into our master bedroom, pulling at her clothes as they energetically undressed each other. It was hot; she was insatiable as their tongues twisted and their clothes were tossed aside. "Tell him," he whispered into her ear.

Her eyes twinkled as she looked at me, licking her lips as my lingerie-clad wife beckoned me into the room. "Get undressed, little boy!" Her voice hovered over the word "little," emphasising my lack of size: in fact I wasn't that "small" but we had always played the role that I was tragically poorly endowed and she needed to go outside the relationship for bigger partners. It was part of our game. Sam rolled his eyes and looked away as I mumbled a response, before I frantically scattered my clothing to the side of the room. Was I getting s*x too?

No.

She commanded me underneath her, her voice barely breaking as I lay on the bed, with my lady positioned on top of me. She groaned appreciatively as my tongue swirled against her clit, my hands exploring her body as I waited for her lips to clamp around my peepee; was this a 69?

It wasn't. She put a pillow over my crotch and lay her head on it, twisting her body with every flick on her button.

I wanted to feel her lips sliding down my peepee, the suck on my tip and the brush of her hands against my balls. I wanted to feel her do anything but just rest her head on a pillow, pushing against my prick. Rejecting me.

A pinch of my nipples had me squealing, digging her nails into the skin had my legs thrashing. "Do it property," she demanded; I wasn't used to the dominant wife. My tongue kissed and caressed her pearl with firmer movements, sliding over her slickness as Sam towered over us, pushing his peepee along her crack and against my lips.

"Kiss it," he barked as I shied away from his manhood; a further dig of her nails flooded my nerves with pain and I gave his erect peepee the merest of pecks. I saw the veins throb angrily as he lined himself against my wife and pushed gently forward, coating his erection in her slick wetness.

She was wet; grunting with every thrust of his peepee to fill her, my tongue swirling against her as his balls brushed over my face.

I saw every hair, blemish and droplet on his peepee as he rammed it into her, making her legs quiver and her hands grab at my skin, squeezing tightly as her kitty quivered to the rhythm of his powerful thrusts.

My peepee was painfully erect, but my wife was tripping on repeated orgasms, her body trembling with every poke of his tumescent prick. My tongue traced a message to my lover, crying and groaning as pleasure consumed every pore of her body.

But Sam wasn't wearing a condom; his balls vibrated and several streaks of c*m landed in my wife's kitty. I saw it leak out from within, running down her c*nt as he withdrew. "Eat it," he demanded. "'Cos there is plenty more where that came from."

I screwed up my face as his c*m rolled against my lips, determined not to let his spunk into my mouth. A quick squeeze of my nipples changed my mind as I sucked the musky semen from my wife.

He seemed satisfied, watching as I cleaned up his mess. I had surrendered the last shred of dignity to him; I had consumed another man's spunk directly from my wife's quivering c*nt. I felt two inches tall yet swimming with lust and desperate for orgasm.

My wife rolled the cushion from underneath me and made some gentle strokes with her hands, sliding my peepee between her fingers.

I stared into her c*nt as my mind swam with her delicate touch. I grunted and my peepee twitched, desperately thrusting my hips into her waiting hands.

She withdrew them as I tripped past the point of no return. She pinned my hands to the bed as I twisted to get free, my orgasm slipping away as c*m dribble