The Boarder Stole My Wife: Part Two

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Whispers in the Night

Carl’s tie was strangling him by the time he pulled into the driveway, like some corporate leash that reminded him he was nobody’s master. Eight hours of mind-numbing spreadsheets and ass-kissing conference calls had left him feeling like a hollowed-out shell, desperate for the illusion of safety his house was supposed to offer. But even as he stared at the place, curtains drawn, Jeremy’s piece-of-shit truck parked crooked in the drive like he owned the place, Carl felt a sick twist in his gut. He sat there, white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying to convince himself that last night was just a bad dream. Just his pathetic imagination, jerking him around again.

He gathered his briefcase and laptop bag, the familiar weight of them somehow comforting. Normal. This was his routine. This was his life. He’d walk in the door, Laurel would ask about his day, maybe there’d be dinner cooking. Maybe Jeremy would be studying at the kitchen table like he was supposed to be doing.

The front door was unlocked, because of course it was. Carl stepped inside, setting his bags down like some obedient little husband. The house was dead quiet, except for a sound he couldn’t quite place—something soft, wet, and rhythmic. His heart started pounding, a sick, familiar dread crawling up his spine.

“Laurel?” His voice came out uncertain.

No response. Just that sound continuing from the living room.

Carl moved toward it, each step feeling like wading through deep water. The hallway seemed longer than it should be. The afternoon light filtering through the curtains cast everything in amber and shadow, softening edges, making the familiar strange.

He reached the archway and froze.

They were on the couch—his fucking couch, the one where he pretended to be a man every Sunday watching football, the one where he read his little devotionals like a good boy. Laurel was pressed up against Jeremy, practically melting into his side. Jeremy’s tattooed hand was clamped around her bare arm, like he owned her. She’d ditched the modest blouse she wore to see Carl off, now in a tank top that barely contained her tits, no bra in sight. Her hair was down, all done up, like she was auditioning to be someone’s slut instead of Carl’s wife.

But it was their mouths that held Carl paralyzed.

They were kissing. Not some innocent peck, but a full-on, pornographic tongue-fuck right there on his couch. Jeremy’s mouth was wide open, his tongue sliding into Laurel’s mouth like he was trying to claim her from the inside out. Laurel was clutching at Jeremy’s shirt, her other hand creeping up his thigh, pinky finger practically stroking the fat bulge in his jeans.

The wet sound Carl had heard was this. The slick slide of their tongues. The soft moan escaping Laurel’s throat as Jeremy tilted her head back, deepening the kiss, claiming her mouth with aggressive confidence.

Carl’s cock betrayed him instantly, going rock hard in his slacks, pressing up against his zipper like it was desperate to announce his humiliation to the world. He was tenting his pants so obviously that even a blind man would notice. Blood rushed south, his body making a mockery of whatever dignity he had left.

He tried to say something. Anything. Maybe, 'What the fuck are you doing?' or 'Get your hands off my wife.' But all that came out was a pathetic, strangled groan, some mix of shock and sick arousal, a sound that made him hate himself even more.

The groan broke through their absorption in each other. Laurel pulled back from Jeremy’s mouth, her lips swollen and glistening with saliva. Her cheeks were flushed deep pink, her eyes glazed with lust. She looked at Carl over her shoulder, blinking as if surprised to find him there.

“Oh. Honey.” She didn’t move away from Jeremy. Didn’t adjust her clothing or show any shame. “You’re home.”

Carl’s mouth opened and closed. His briefcase slipped from nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Jeremy turned to look at him then, those piercing blue eyes assessing Carl with open contempt. The young man’s arm stayed around Laurel’s shoulders. If anything, he pulled her closer, his hand sliding down to rest just above her breast.

“I—what—what’s going on here?” Carl finally managed.

Laurel smiled, that same casual, easy smile she gave him when discussing grocery lists or church schedules. “Honey, I’m just giving Jeremy some lessons about girls. It’s important for him to learn.” She gestured vaguely at Jeremy. “You know, he didn’t have a good home life. No one to teach him how to properly kiss a woman, how to touch her. I’m helping.”

The words didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. Lessons. She was calling this lessons.

“Why don’t you go start dinner until we finish,” Laurel continued, her tone brightening as if she’d just had a wonderful idea. “We’ll probably be another hour or so. Jeremy’s a very dedicated student.”

Jeremy’s eyes dropped straight to Carl’s crotch, zeroing in on the obvious tent in his pants. The kid’s mouth twisted into a slow, cruel grin, like he’d just caught Carl jerking off to his own humiliation.

“Dude.” Jeremy jabbed a finger at Carl’s crotch, voice dripping with mockery. “Look at this shit—cuck’s got a fucking hard-on watching his wife get kissed!”

The word hit Carl like a fist. Cuck. Cuckold. The ultimate humiliation for any man, reduced to an insult that Jeremy threw at him as casually as commenting on the weather.

Laurel’s eyes followed Jeremy’s finger, landing right on the pathetic bulge in Carl’s pants, the wet spot where his cock was leaking precum like some desperate teenager. And she giggled. She actually fucking giggled.

His wife giggled at the sight of her husband’s humiliation, like it was the funniest thing she’d seen all week.

The sound was girlish, delighted, as if Jeremy had told a particularly clever joke. Her hand came up to cover her mouth, but not before Carl saw the gleam of amusement in her hazel eyes.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, still laughing softly. “Jeremy, you’re terrible.”

But she didn’t defend Carl. Didn’t tell Jeremy he was out of line. She just laughed.

Carl’s face was on fire, his whole body burning with shame so raw it felt like his skin was about to split open. But his cock just stayed hard, throbbing in his pants, as if the humiliation was the best aphrodisiac he’d ever tasted.

This couldn’t be happening. This violated everything—his marriage vows, basic decency, the sanctity of his home. He should be raging. Should be throwing Jeremy out, demanding explanations from Laurel, reclaiming his dignity and his marriage.

Instead, Carl found himself nodding.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“What was that, honey?”

“Okay.” Louder this time, though his voice still shook. “I’ll…I’ll go start dinner.”

Laurel’s smile widened. “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re so understanding.”

Carl turned, his legs weak and unsteady. Behind him, he heard the wet sound resume as they returned to their “lesson,” Laurel’s soft moan mixing with Jeremy’s grunt of satisfaction.

The kitchen felt impossibly bright after the amber shadows of the living room. Carl stood at the counter, his hands braced on the cold tile, trying to catch his breath. His erection throbbed, demanding attention, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Not here. Not now.

He opened the fridge and stared inside, not seeing a damn thing. What the hell was he supposed to cook for dinner while his wife was in the next room tongue-fucking a teenager? The thought was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh, but what came out was more like a choked sob.

Carl pulled out ingredients mechanically. Ground beef. A jar of marinara sauce. Pasta. Simple. He could make spaghetti. He could focus on the concrete task of boiling water and browning meat while his world collapsed around him.

The pot filled with water from the tap, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. Carl set it on the stove, twisted the burner to high. His hands were shaking. He tried to open the pasta box and fumbled it, dried spaghetti scattering across the counter.

From the living room came Laurel’s voice, breathy and encouraging. “That’s good, Jeremy. Just like that. Use your tongue more.”

Carl’s cock jumped in his pants. His hands gripped the edge of the counter hard enough to hurt.

This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. He was a man of faith, a deacon in his church, respected in his community. He provided for his wife, gave her a good home, lived according to God’s commandments.

And there she was, in the next room, teaching some punk kid how to kiss her while Carl played housewife in the kitchen, making dinner like the obedient little cuck he was.

The water began to heat, tiny bubbles forming at the bottom of the pot. Carl stared at them, watching them rise and pop at the surface. How long did kissing lessons take? Surely they’d be done soon. Surely this madness had limits.

But minutes passed. Five. Ten. The water reached a boil, rolling and violent. Carl added the pasta, stirred it with wooden spoon, his movements automatic.

He should stay here. Should finish dinner like Laurel had instructed. That was the rational thing to do.

But Carl found his feet carrying him back toward the living room archway, drawn by a compulsion he couldn’t name and didn’t want to examine too closely.

***

Carl positioned himself at the edge of the archway, his body pressed against the wall, and leaned forward just enough to see into the living room. The scene that greeted him drove all breath from his lungs and sent his heart hammering against his ribs hard enough that he thought it might burst through bone and flesh.

The air was thick with the musky scent of arousal, heavy and undeniable. It invaded Carl’s nostrils, coating his throat, making him hyperaware of every shallow breath he took. The late afternoon light had deepened to gold, casting the room in warm tones that somehow made everything worse—more intimate, more real, impossible to dismiss as nightmare or hallucination.

Laurel knelt on the carpet between Jeremy’s spread legs.

His wife. His Laurel, who’d worn modest dresses to church every Sunday for the fifteen years they’d been together, who blushed when the pastor made jokes about marital intimacy, who’d insisted on keeping the lights off during their infrequent sexual encounters.

That same Laurel was now kneeling on their living room carpet, mouth stuffed full of another man’s cock, looking every bit the obedient slut she’d never been for Carl.

Jeremy’s jeans were bunched around his thighs, boxers tangled up, his cock jutting out like a fucking battering ram—thick, veiny, and so big it made Carl’s own sad five inches look like a joke. The head was dark and swollen, vanishing between Laurel’s lips as she tried to swallow him whole.

She worked him with obvious enthusiasm, her head bobbing in a steady rhythm as she took him deeper with each downward stroke. Saliva glistened on Jeremy’s length, running down to pool at his base where Laurel’s delicate fingers were wrapped around what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. Her other hand cupped Jeremy’s balls, rolling them gently as she sucked.

The wet sounds of her mouth were obscene. Slurping. Gagging slightly when she pushed too deep. The pop of suction breaking when she pulled back to swirl her tongue around the head before diving down again.

Laurel moaned. The vibration of it must have felt incredible because Jeremy’s hand tightened in her hair, his hips jerking upward to thrust deeper into her throat.

“Fuck yes,” Jeremy groaned. “Just like that. Take it deeper.”

And she did. Carl watched in horrified fascination as his wife forced herself down Jeremy’s length until her nose pressed against the young man’s pelvis. She held herself there, throat working, before pulling back with a gasp. A string of saliva connected her lips to Jeremy’s cock, stretching and breaking as she caught her breath.

“Good girl,” Jeremy murmured, his voice thick with pleasure. “You’re learning so well.”

Laurel looked up at him with adoration, her hazel eyes glazed with lust. “Thank you,” she whispered, before returning to her task with renewed vigor.

Carl’s cock was a steel rod in his pants, the front of his slacks damp with precum. He was shaking, arousal and shame knotted together so tight he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. His wife—his wife—was on her knees, servicing another man’s dick in their living room, and Carl was so hard he could have pounded nails with it.

He must have made a sound—a whimper or gasp—because Jeremy’s head snapped toward the archway. Those blue eyes locked onto Carl with immediate recognition and contempt.

“Aren’t you supposed to be making dinner?” Jeremy’s voice was flat, conversational, as if Carl had interrupted a business meeting rather than catching him getting his cock sucked by Carl’s wife.

Carl’s mouth worked soundlessly. He tried to form words, excuses, demands. What came out was a strangled, “I was just—”

“You were what?” Jeremy cut him off harshly, his hand still buried in Laurel’s hair. She continued sucking, seemingly oblivious to the confrontation happening above her. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care. “Standing there like a pervert looking at my dick?”

My dick. Like Carl was the intruder here, like Jeremy’s cock was the rightful owner of Laurel’s mouth and Carl was just some loser who’d wandered in by mistake.

“No, I—” Carl tried again.

“Dude, we’re busy.” Jeremy’s tone turned commanding, authoritative. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. “Go do what you were told.”

The dismissal hit Carl like a physical blow. The power dynamic was unmistakable and absolute. Jeremy—nineteen years old, a guest in their home, someone Carl was supposed to be mentoring—was giving him orders. Telling him to leave. To go back to the kitchen like a child sent away while the adults handled important matters.

And Carl’s body jumped to obey, cock throbbing and leaking into his underwear like he was some horny teenager. The humiliation of being bossed around in his own house by a kid who was balls-deep in his wife’s mouth didn’t kill his arousal—it cranked it up to eleven.

“Yes,” Carl heard himself say, the word barely audible. “Sorry. I’ll just—”

He fled before Jeremy could say anything else. Fled like a coward, his face burning, his erection bouncing painfully with each step back to the kitchen.

The pot of water was boiling over, starchy foam spilling onto the stovetop with a hiss. Carl grabbed the pot with a dishtowel, moving it to a cold burner, not caring that some of the boiling water sloshed onto his hand. The burn was almost welcome—a concrete pain to anchor him against the surreal nightmare his life had become.

He dumped the pasta into the colander, slopped jarred sauce into a pan, hands shaking so bad he knocked over the garlic powder and sent it everywhere. The whole thing was a sick joke—playing chef while his wife was on her knees in the next room, choking herself on some other guy’s cock.

But that was the whole fucking point, wasn’t it? Carl had been demoted to housewife while Jeremy took everything that was supposed to be his—his wife, his home, his balls.

Through the walls came the unmistakable sounds of Laurel’s continued oral worship. The wet slurping. Jeremy’s grunts of pleasure. And worst of all, Laurel’s enthusiastic moans, the sounds she’d never made for Carl in all their years of marriage.

“That’s it, baby,” Jeremy’s voice drifted from the living room, muffled but audible. “Suck that cock. Show me how much you love it.”

“Mmmmph,” Laurel responded around the mouthful of dick, the affirmative sound vibrating with pleasure.

Carl braced himself against the counter, head bowed, cock aching in his slacks. He should be raging. Should be destroying that kitchen in righteous fury. Should be dragging Jeremy out by his neck and reclaiming his wife.

Instead, Carl found his hand drifting to his crotch, pressing against the rigid length straining his zipper. The contact sent electricity through his nervous system, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

He was a cuck. Jeremy had nailed it. Carl was the kind of pathetic loser whose wife fucked other men, and instead of getting mad, he got hard. Some broken, twisted part of him got off on the humiliation.

The realization should have destroyed him. Maybe it did. But it was also a relief, in a sick way. This was who he was now—the guy who made dinner while his wife gagged herself on a better man’s cock in the next room.

Carl’s hand rubbed slowly over his erection, the friction even through fabric enough to make his legs weak. He could hear them still. Laurel gagging, choking herself on Jeremy’s length. Jeremy praising her, encouraging her, telling her what a good little cocksucker she was.

The pasta sauce bubbled on the stove, filling the kitchen with the smell of tomatoes and basil. Such a normal, domestic scent. It mixed with the musk of arousal drifting from the living room, creating an olfactory confusion that matched the chaos in Carl’s mind.

How long was this going to go on? Surely Jeremy would finish soon. Surely he’d cum down Laurel’s throat and then this nightmare would end and they could all sit down to dinner and pretend this hadn’t happened.

But the sounds continued. Five minutes. Ten. Laurel working Jeremy’s cock with dedicated enthusiasm, her skills clearly exceeding anything she’d ever shown Carl in bed.

Carl mechanically stirred the sauce, his other hand still pressed against his aching cock. He should set the table. Should get out plates and silverware and act like a proper host, even though the guest was currently using his wife’s mouth as a masturbation tool.

The absurdity of it struck him again. The sheer wrongness. But his body didn’t care about wrong. His body wanted more. Wanted to see. Wanted to watch his wife reduced to a willing set of holes for Jeremy’s pleasure.

Carl found his feet carrying him back toward the living room archway once more, drawn by a gravitational pull he couldn’t resist and didn’t want to examine. Whatever was left of his dignity could burn. He needed to see. Needed to watch his humiliation and his wife’s betrayal play out to its inevitable conclusion.