I Became the Submissive Woman My Wife Was Cheating On

I’ve been turning this over in my head for a long time, and it was a friend who finally pushed me to write it down. I need to get out what I’ve carried alone for years, that weight nobody teaches you to carry because nobody educates you to accept it. I’m going to tell it as faithfully as I can. The names aren’t real and I’ve changed a few details to protect the people I’m talking about, but everything that truly matters happened exactly as I’m telling it.

My name is Marc and I’m about to turn forty-seven. I’ve been married to Núria for fourteen years; she’s forty-one, and we have two daughters. We’ve always lived in the same town on the Costa Brava, near Palamós. She works in insurance at a bank branch and I run my own accounting office. Like any marriage, we’ve had good times and bad, but I have no doubt there was a lot of love, and in some way there still is.

Núria is beautiful and takes incredibly good care of herself. Elegant, always looking perfect, with a personality that over the years became more confident and open. She’s brunette, slim, does yoga and hiking, and naked she looks amazing: small, firm breasts with very dark nipples, a perky ass from all that mountain walking, and a pussy shaved almost completely except for a tiny strip above the clit. She’s liked nudism in discreet places since long before she met me. I, by contrast, was always the shy one of the two. Polite, too trusting, incapable of standing up for myself. I’m almost six foot tall, I try to eat healthy, and for years I’ve liked shaving myself completely, including my balls and my ass, though she doesn’t like that much.

Because for a long time I’ve felt things that are hard to explain. As a teenager I was already confused. In the football changing rooms I’d shower with my trunks on, or hide in the individual showers, while I watched the others’ bodies get stronger, hairier, more manly. That change never came in me, or I didn’t feel it was mine. I let three or four girls I genuinely liked slip away simply because I didn’t dare to get close. I didn’t know how to name it until many years later.

I lost my virginity very late, at twenty, with Patricia, a girl who used to spend summers in the village and stayed on after her parents split up. She was studying nursing and was cheerful, fun, much more experienced than I was. The first time was at one of her friend’s place, with a blanket, a movie playing in the background, and her guiding me step by step. She yanked my jeans and boxers down in one pull, laughed softly when she saw my cock already rock hard and trembling with nerves, and without saying a word she took it all the way into her mouth. I felt her tongue wrapping my head, her saliva dripping onto my balls, and within seconds I was already close to coming from that alone. She noticed, pulled my cock out with a wet kiss, and climbed astride me, guiding me with her hand until she lined me up and slid me into her soaking pussy. I barely made two or three thrusts before I came inside her with a spasm that shook me whole. I remember her saying “already?” with affection, her hand stroking my cheek, and my insane urge to hide under the blanket. I loved her madly, but that old curiosity came flooding back without warning.

When I’d go to wait for her at her city apartment, I’d end up opening her underwear drawers. And her roommate’s too. Some of the pieces were gorgeous, and I could feel my body heating up just from holding them. I’d end up trying them on alone in her bathroom, getting instant erections that strained the thong’s fabric, with my cock peeking over the waistband and already dripping pre-cum onto the lace. I’d look at myself in the mirror, touch myself over the panties until I stained them, and cum in spurts against the sink trying not to get a single drop on the clothes I’d have to put back where I found them. Afterward I’d force myself to stop, mortified. I gave it up completely when a friend told me Patricia was cheating on me with a classmate at university. She admitted it. It destroyed me and I moved to Barcelona to study.

***

Those years alone in Barcelona changed me without my understanding why. I missed a woman’s affection, or that’s what I told myself. One day, I don’t really know how, I started buying things. Earrings, a dress, underwear. I bought the clothes in person as if they were a gift for someone else; the makeup, wigs and a few toys were delivered to me by courier. The first time I truly saw myself in the mirror I felt something I’d never felt before: good and bad at once, but unable to stop being her. I stroked my fake tits over the bra, slipped my hand inside the black lace panties and touched my hard cock until I came over the silk, biting my painted lip so I wouldn’t moan too loudly. I kept everything in a cardboard box high up in the wardrobe and, very occasionally, I let that woman out to breathe for a while.

Then I met Lorena at a company dinner. She was from the area, coming out of a messy relationship, and we clicked right away. I was twenty-six and she was twenty-two. She found in me the support she was looking for and I found, once again, an excuse to cover the other thing up. We moved in together, rented a flat, and for a couple of years it seemed like everything was fine. Until I caught myself rummaging through her drawers again, choosing her prettiest lingerie with a shiver running down my spine, keeping in my head the moment she’d leave the house and I could put it on.

Before we were parents there were already things that didn’t work. In bed, Lorena barely showed whether she liked anything. I’d ask her and she’d tell me that like “that” she didn’t feel anything, and we’d keep changing positions until we gave up on half of them. We had the girls early, and that focused us on being good parents while the desire between us went cold. I kept stealing her underwear in secret. Sometimes she asked why she found her drawers in disarray. “No, of course I haven’t touched anything,” I lied, burning with shame while inside I was thinking about her thong from that morning in my backpack, still carrying her scent on the crotch.

Sex became scarce and frustrating. When we fucked, my cock would slip out of her pussy because, she said, she couldn’t feel it properly inside. I’d push harder, change the angle, put her on all fours and spread her ass cheeks to drive deep into her, but after a few minutes I’d start going soft, as if her impatience were sucking the blood out of my cock. She’d pull it out, take it in her mouth to revive it, suck me twice halfheartedly and climb back on, and the same story again. Over the years she became the active one: before I used to go after her, now she came after me, sat on top of me in bed and rode me trying to force out an orgasm that almost never came. Until one day, with all the love in the world, she told me that nearing thirty-five I wasn’t satisfying her, that I was too small and that she needed “something else.”

***

We decided to buy toys together. One big one arrived, with a suction base, about eight inches long and two inches thick, with prominent veins and an enormous purple head that made me swallow hard the moment I took it out of the box. One summer night, before a trip we’d take without the girls, she whispered in bed that she’d already tried it in the shower and loved it, that she’d come twice in a row leaning against the tiles. She went to get it, asked me to sit upright on the edge of the mattress, and stuck it with the suction cup to the bedside table. She got on it facing away first, slowly worked it into herself, opening her pussy with two fingers, and began lowering her ass until it swallowed the whole thing. I watched that chunk of silicone cock disappear inside my wife, watched her lips stretch around the base, and heard her gasping with her mouth open things she had never said to me. She turned around, sat back down on it looking me in the face, and started riding it, bouncing up and down, her tits bobbing, biting her lip, her hand on her clit, and came twice in a row, screaming without caring about anything. When she was done, she got off, knelt between my legs, and finished me with her mouth in less than a minute, swallowing my cum whole without taking her eyes off mine. It felt strange and at the same time I loved it immensely. It was better than anything we ever did ourselves, and I told myself it was fine.

What happened was that it stopped being an exception and became the norm. The toy was always between us. I started, knowing it wasn’t right, pretending I couldn’t get hard so she’d take it. Watching her surrender to it, using it standing up against the dresser, on the sofa with her legs open, on the living room floor face down with her ass up while she shoved it all the way in, all while I touched myself watching from the corner, became our way of having sex. I heard her moan “so big, so big, like that, like that,” and part of me melted because I knew she had never said that to me. When she’d say, “now you, baby, come here,” I’d climb on top and put it into a pussy already beaten up, stretched out, slippery, feeling that I was too small for it, that I barely brushed the walls, that she’d laugh lovingly and tell me “come inside, go on,” and I, far from getting upset, would fly and come after four thrusts, humiliated and happy. That same night I took her panties again from the laundry basket, brought them into the bathroom, put them over my head to smell the trace of her pussy and the toy, and jerked off thinking about her and about anyone more of a man than me.

That summer, on a nudist cove, I started fantasizing about some man watching us. Seeing her, beautiful, feminine, lying on her back with her legs barely apart and her shaved pussy shining in the sun, and me beside her, my cock shriveled by the cold water, wanting another man to desire her and wanting her to want another man. Imagining myself reduced, humiliated, the husband they both laughed at while he fucked her two meters away from me and made me watch. Something clicked in my head and in my body that never came back. My morning erections disappeared and in their place stayed a stinging heat in my ass, a different kind of emptiness that needed filling. On my “work” trips I started planning my waxing, buying clothes, losing myself completely in hotel rooms where nobody knew who I was.

One weekend when Núria went away with the girls, I took her toy. I cleaned it well, looked online for how to prepare so I wouldn’t hurt myself, gave myself a warm enema in the bathroom and waited patiently, emptying myself out completely. I put plenty of lube on my ass, opened myself with one finger first, then two, feeling that delicious burn that would never leave me again. I stuck the toy with its suction cup to the bathroom tiles, at just the right height. I could see myself straight on in the mirror, shaved from top to bottom, nipples hard, cock dripping against my belly, and an old friend from the gym came to mind, one of those well-built guys with a pretty wife, the kind who cross your path in the locker room with a towel over one shoulder and a dark, thick cock hanging down to mid-thigh. I imagined him fucking my wife face down on our bed and having me there on the bathroom floor, his. I pushed my ass back, slowly at first, feeling the silicone head forcing the ring open, inch by inch entering me until it filled me from within in a way no handjob had ever given me. I started moving, then faster, impaling myself against the wall, watching in the mirror how my imagined tits moved, how my cock bounced hard without being touched, how my face contorted with pleasure, mouth open. I felt the orgasm rising from deep in my belly, a lash that went through me from the inside out, and I came in streams against the mirror without having touched my cock once, moaning that friend’s name through clenched teeth. Something I’d been dreaming about for half my life. I was never the same again.

***

For about three years I lived like that, in secret. I had my own clothes, my own toy, a smaller dildo for everyday use and a thicker one for special occasions. We loved each other and respected each other, but there was almost no sex between us. I could think of nothing else but her with another man, a real cock blowing her pussy apart while I, kneeling at the foot of the bed, waited my turn for that man to fuck my ass too. More than once, filled with rage and fear, I threw everything in the trash. “This isn’t right,” I told myself. “No, this isn’t.” And a few weeks later the desires would come back and I’d buy everything again, looking for the moment to be myself. They say you have to be careful what you wish for.

One dawn, Núria left her phone charging in the dining room. I know it was wrong to look at it, but I did. And that’s how I found out she’d been with another man for eight months. Raúl, a bank client, divorced, older than me, someone from the village I’d always disliked because of the reputation he dragged behind him. Night after night I read the messages, saw photos of his huge veiny cock resting on my wife’s hand, saw short videos of her sucking him on her knees in some hotel, eyes shining and face smeared with saliva, the daily voice notes in which he told her “today I’m going to split you in two, slut” and she answered laughing “yes, daddy, do whatever you want to me,” talking about me between the lines as the poor idiot who didn’t suspect a thing. I cried. I didn’t know what to do. I saved screenshots I still have, unable to believe she had hidden it from me instead of being honest, instead of saying “I’d like to try with someone else.”

A few days later she noticed I was acting strange, distant, and asked me about it. I told her everything. “I’m sorry, forgive me, it’s not what you think, it was only sex, I love you.” We argued screaming, I wanted to leave the house and she wouldn’t let me. We spent months sleeping separately, hardly speaking. And all the while, they kept messaging every day. She had told him she felt unsatisfied with me, that he dominated her in a way I never had, that he fucked her ass something she had never wanted to try with me, that she came three and four times every afternoon with him. I read it all. I saw that she was mad about him, that they saw each other on Thursdays, that they booked hotels when I went away “on business” and turned into a woman in another hotel in another city, sometimes only a few kilometers from where she was letting her lover open her up.

The hardest thing to admit is what I discovered about myself in that pit. I had a terrible time, yes, she insisted on fixing things and to me it seemed impossible. But beneath the pain there was something else I didn’t dare look straight at: I liked it. I read their messages in the bathroom with my panties on and jerked off imagining her nailed to Raúl’s cock, screaming his name while he emptied his balls inside her and I, afterward, went to lick her pussy dripping with another man’s cum. I adored feeling like that. A submissive, cuckolded woman who loves her wife and, at the same time, wants to give in, spread her legs, offer her ass, swallow. That contradiction is me, and it took me years to be able to name it without hating myself.

They say time heals almost everything. We started talking again, tried to be intimate like before, and it even worked for a while because she makes an effort: she rides me, she sucks my cock patiently until it gets hard, she lets herself be fucked slowly in missionary with her legs on my shoulders, and some nights she ends up asking me to take out the big toy and put it in her while I watch her come. But I’ve got all of that too deeply carved inside me. Today I’m telling it for the first time and I feel a little lighter. So much so that in a few days I’ve arranged to meet, privately, with a wonderful woman I met. It will be my first real encounter as who I truly am, and I hope I won’t be too nervous when I spread my legs for her and at last offer this shaved body I’ve spent so long saving for someone who knows how to look at me for what I am. I love my wife, I adore her, and I’m going to fight to stay by her side. But I’m never going to hide the woman I’ve always been again. Kisses, girls.