You watch them all the way to the top of the stairs; watch them disappear out of site and hear the bedroom door close. The night of your cuckolding has finally arrived.For a few minutes you just stand there as if transfixed to the spot. There is a moment when you feel like pinching yourself to see if all this is for real and then you hear the creaking of the bed and you know that this is for real. This is the night of your cuckolding.You wanted to watch of course; you always wanted to watch her. They were a tradition, and some traditions were honored because they were traditions, not because we necessarily liked them. I’d sent out perhaps three dozen cards to family and friends, making sure I sent them to my friends in Sweden, especially the ones I didn’t talk to or write very often. I’d sent one to Karin, along with a small gift. She’d done the same for me. Reading her card reminded me that she and I had a date with destiny in June — one where, more likely than not, we’d agree that. Wainwright did, though. He didn’t say anything, he just paused at my desk during lecture until I looked up to him. He had a concerned look in his eyes and I thought he was going to say something about why I had my math homework out in history, but he didn’t.Everything was fine. No one knew that I had tasted my brother’s cum. No one knew how completely fucked up I was, letting an old man grope me for money. Here, I was back to being a nobody, and I was okay with that, I guess. Except, being. We reached the bed, and he leaned down and unhooked the chain from my collar. The bed was huge, Gothic in its dark wood and posts. Leather straps hung from the corners. “Wait,” he commanded. Instinctively, I knew the rules. I knelt, legs slightly parted, my head down, arms at a ninety degree angle, palms up. My need to please him was overwhelming. From this position he could see my shame, he could see the desperate need between my legs. He knew the power he had over me, my treatourous body that.
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