The Champagne Method: A Cuckold’s Plight (Part One)

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Cuckolding | Sexting | Hotwifing

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She orders champagne when she’s hunting. A single glass, bottle in ice. I order bourbon. We’ve been doing this for four months.

It started in bed. Her lamp on, mine off — the particular imbalance of twenty-two years. She’d been quiet long enough that I knew something was coming.

“I think we’ve gotten very good at being comfortable.” “I don’t want comfortable anymore.”

I turned to look at her. She was staring at the ceiling. Her profile in the lamplight doing what it always did to me.

“I want to feel wanted. Properly wanted. By someone who doesn’t know me yet.”

The honesty of it landed hard upon my chest. I didn’t speak.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” she continued. “I’m not asking permission exactly. I’m asking if we can figure this out together.”

“Maybe. Or something more limited than that.”

She turned to look at me then. Reading me the way she always read me — efficiently, completely, leaving nothing unexamined.

“I want to be with other men sometimes. And I want you to know about it. Not just know — I want you to be part of it somehow. Even from a distance.” “I want you to want to watch.”

The distinction landed precisely. She wasn’t asking me to endure it. She was asking if there was something in me that might meet her halfway across this particular distance.

I thought about it honestly. What she’d just said — properly wanted, by someone who doesn’t know me yet — had done something I hadn’t anticipated. Something that wasn’t quite jealousy and wasn’t quite desire but lived in the space between both.

She smiled at the ceiling. “No. They won’t.”

“We’d need something more controlled. More anonymous.” “I was thinking the same thing.” “A hotel. Out of town. Conference crowd — professionals, rotating, nobody local.”

She turned to look at me again. Differently this time.

I hadn’t been. Or I had, without knowing it — the way you solve a problem in your sleep and wake up with the answer already there.

I gave her words back to her. She received them exactly as I intended.

She kissed me. Turned off her lamp.

The hotel two states from home had been my idea — ironic, given I was the reluctant one. Conference center. Rotating population. Nobody from my department, nobody from hers. Anonymous in the way that only works when everyone is equally anonymous.

The ritual developed on its own. Rosalie dresses while I watch. I choose what she wears — the lingerie first, then the dress. She lets me. This is not nothing.

The cage was her idea. I wear it from the moment I lay out her clothes. My hands on her body while she prepares, knowing what the evening holds, the cage present throughout. She finds this clarifying. So, increasingly, do I.

She kissed me goodbye. I sat with the room for ten minutes — her perfume still present, the lotion still on my hands — and then I followed her down.

I took the corner booth. Good sightlines. Nobody connects us. I had an ample view of the mahogany space with flickering candles and mirrors and its jovial patrons sipping, laughing, striking deals.

Here I nursed my bourbon, neat, as my finger slowly circled the glass rim. It’s mid-evening. Post-dinner, when most people pursued aperitifs and others. Rain was in my forecast, for which gave wistful flutters in my chest.

The rain began to fall lightly when I looked past Rosalie through the window.

She ordered champagne.

Tonight the dress is Prussian blue, off her shoulders, satin — chosen because I wanted her seen. Matched lingerie underneath because I wanted this. The distinction matters. When I’m uncertain I choose gray. Mismatched. She reads it before she’s dressed and knows what kind of evening it is.

Tonight I chose vibrant. Matched.

She’s at the bar with a delicate elbow on the dark wood. Legs crossed. The champagne flute gold-rimmed. The bottle in ice beside her. She looks paradoxically commanding and vulnerable — which is the exact combination that gets her what she wants.

The condensation from the ice bucket matched the small beads of sweat on my brow. I gently wiped them away with a kerchief as I surveyed the bar for the men who would make an attempt.

Nearly as soon as she dismissed the Engineer like a failed rocket, another man immediately stepped into frame.

She dismissed him like a ledger deep in the red.

A few minutes passed. Then, approached. I could tell from this distance she was smitten. This one was all quiet and cocksure. Tall. Fit. A headful of sandy brown hair and sultry blue eyes.

The composure she’d weaponized on the first two — completely gone.

I looked up from my phone.

Then nothing.

I watched her from across the bar. Her hand moved to her hair.

She tucked it behind her ear.

There it was.

He wore an unassuming slim dress shirt that cut his physique and form-fitting slacks. I believe I could see the shadow of his manhood as he sat beside her. Manspreading. Taking up as much space as possible. Claiming his territory and looking to mark her as well. He was relaxed. Charming. I could tell by her body language — she was already caressing his forearm and he hadn’t even had a sip of her champagne.

He knew his way around women. He definitely won over my wife.

He paused to refill her flute, then claimed the other glass for himself. Rosalie alternated playing with her hair and stroking his arm. Eventually her fingers traced his palm. She placed the room key in his hand as he looked over her shoulder — right at me.

They put their glasses down. Rosalie leaned in to give the bartender some instructions. I suppose it was about my tab.

They rose from their spots and crossed the bar. She didn’t even look at me. She carried herself with eager anticipation. Face flushed. Breasts held high. The gentleman gave a slight nod as they passed. His hand on the small of my wife’s back.

As my head pounded, the bartender made her way over. She carried the bucket and the two flutes. She placed them at my table.

I watched her walk away.

There I sat. Alone. Confined to my booth. The ice melting, the cage biting. My cock wasn’t sure how to react. My heart was the only thing that throbbed. Heavy in my chest. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. It was agonizing knowing she’s going to our room with him. Knowing she’s going to surrender to him in ways she’d never yield to me.

My lust offset my agony. The idea of her taking a much bigger cock had me stirred in ways I hadn’t fathomed. We’d tried this before. The outcome wasn’t favorable. This was different — her agency, her selection, her champagne. I wanted her satisfied. I wanted her to take what she wanted.

I downed the remnants of my bourbon. Waved to the barkeep for another. I mouthed. She nodded. Gave a heavy pour.

Her next text arrived with the double bourbon. An image of his massive hand on her thigh. That was all. Her dress cinched, revealing her garter strap and panties. I could see how wet she was.

My throat tightened. My cock hardened. The cage a sudden painful conscription of want and need. I imagined that hand moving up, fingers peeling away her fabric and s preading her slick folds, pushing two, then three fingers inside her while she tried to keep her face neutral for control. Her biting her lip. Her breath catching as he curled them against that spot I could never quite reach the same way. Making her squirm on the bed.

I dreamed her tongue desperate. Down his throat. Moaning in response to his fingers working her eager cunt. Thumb across clit.

I’m sure she’s reaching to undo his belt right n-

The next text arrived. Her hand upon his flat stomach. His slacks wide open. Boxer-briefs tight with endowment. Thick. Heavy. And she hasn’t unwrapped him yet.

I’m sure she’s on her knees now. Sucking him, t aking as much of that thick cock down her throat as she could. Gagging. Eyes watering. Drool running down her chin onto that Prussian blue dress I chose for her. The wet, obscene sounds echoing in our hotel room while he held her hair and used her mouth like it belonged to him.

It’s her gag, I imagine, that undoes me. With a cock like that, this man will take what he wants. He will own her completely.

And she will let him.

He won’t go down on her. Men like him only get sucked and fuck.

And leave.

That’s what she wants. She doesn’t need his mouth. She doesn’t want his worship. She gets that from me.

She wants to be used.

Hurt.

I pictured him bending her over the bed the moment the moaned too loud. No foreplay. No tenderness. Just that heavy cock spreading her open in one long thrust. Her cry — sharp, shocked, grateful — as he bottomed out against her cervix. Depths I could never touch. Her legs shaking. Her hands fisting the sheets I helped her smooth that afternoon.

Every thrust would make her tits bounce. Every slap of his hips against her ass would remind her how much bigger he was. How much deeper. I could almost hear her moaning his name, the way she never moaned mine.

The ache in my chest was exquisite. A hollow burning I’ve come to chase. Her pleasure. My servitude. The beautiful, agonizing asymmetry of it all.

I let the scene play out. My mind making it worse. Making it evolve into something incredible. Her breaking. Her shuddering around him. Her collapse into that boneless, thoroughly-fucked state I’ve only ever seen glimpses of.

The rain picked up. I watched droplets catch the neon and slide down the windowpane in slow, distorted trails — small, ordinary things made grotesque by the light. Just like me, sitting here with my bourbon and my cage and my useless hard-on.

The pain. The ecstasy. The heaviness that swelled and burned. A longing I cannot drown.

The cars groan past as I swirl the copper liquid in my glass. I wonder how long I’ll remain here in this purgatory of want. When all I want to do is be reunited with my love. A longing that I cannot drown.

The bourbon was gone. I’d stopped counting how long.

My phone lit up.

Two words. The whole evening distilled.

I left the champagne bucket where it was. Settled my tab. Folded my kerchief. Rose from the booth.

The rain was still falling.

I began my ascension.

Thanks to Claire Torquil ♡ for looking this one over. And to the ravenous for allowing the character. Rosalie Fox {} Eroticist