I awoke with a heavy headache, eyes stinging and stomach in churn. I drank too much scotch last night, that was for certain. Worse, I had forgotten to mitigate the impending damage with any water. I also pumped out several orgasms, which had drained me of my testosterone. My physical ailments paled in comparison to what my real strife was, however. The memory of last night flooded back with unforgiving potency.
I glanced to my left, apparently Elizabeth had already awoken and left the room. The sound of the television slowly broke through the haze of my hangover, and I eventually realized she was downstairs. My wife had cuckolded me last night. The memory of it made me dizzy and flush with aroused confusion. Years of an unscratched itch had led to an explosion of interracial, extramarital lust. I was admittedly a willing participant in her dalliance. I don't know why, really. I suppose over our years together a lingering perversion had arisen in my mind as well. Deep down I knew she wanted to bed a well hung black man. Her years away at college had allowed her a window seat into that kind of sex. Her roommate at the time had craved it, cuckolding her own boyfriend regularly.
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