By the time my coffee is cold, he’ll have fucked her

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Recently I have been trying to get to grips with the idea of sending my partner off to go and fuck other women while I wait alone at home, ideally wanking and finding the whole thing very sexy, at the very least feeling happy that he’s happy: a brief flash of compersion . It is not easy, but one of the ways I am trying to become acquainted with it is to write erotic stories about it . Here’s one of them. Can I? Can’t I? By the time this coffee has gone cold, he’ll have fucked her. That’s a calm thought. A rational one. It’s easier to measure this time, this… experience … in tangible things. Wrap my thoughts around what he’s doing, like I curl my hands around the mug of coffee. By the time it’s gone cold, he’ll have fucked her. I’d describe her if I could, but I’ve lost the words. She is so wholly and completely not me that I can only think in terms of comparisons. She is not tall. She is not broad-shouldered. She does not have a mole on the right hand side of her chest, just above her collarbone. Her hair is not dyed, her fingernails aren’t long. The noises she makes when he pleasures her are breathy and quick and high-pitched, as if they could tip into giggles at any moment. I can hear them through the walls and by the time this coffee has gone cold… they will have fucked. I try out other ways to say it, as if different formulations might bring me new insight: she is fucking him; he will fuck her; they (plural) have fucked. I sip my coffee and listen again. Not glass-to-the-wall like I’m jealous, God no: just still and calm, like I’m in the garden trying to identify the call of a distant bird. I’m alert out of curiosity, not danger. Nothing I can hear will harm me. Muffled leather smacking against skin – that can’t harm me. Nor can breathy squeaks and occasional rustling. I try to lose myself in the rhythmic strokes of his belt against her flesh. Putting myself in the picture, where I imagine she is. Naked and lying face down on the crumpled bedsheets that I put on just this morning. I picture her – and me – gripping the duvet in teeth and fists, letting out those high-pitched noises every time he whacks her with the belt. When the smacking sounds stop, I wonder if the fucking has started. No, not yet. My coffee is still warm. He won’t fuck her yet. He’ll want to savour this opportunity. It may only ever happen once. He’ll be buried face-first in her cunt by now, I think. And as if on cue I hear new moans and gasps through the thin plaster walls, and I press my head against it. I don’t think I want to hear this, but I also know that I can’t close my ears, and that maybe embracing it will make it better. I picture him, from her perspective: his eyes glancing upwards at her body like it’s more precious than anything he has ever had before, and his lips sucking wetly at her clit. He will run his hands up her stomach the way he does with mine, only this time it will take longer. Because her body is not an everyday thing. It’s a day at the seaside after a lifetime in the city. It is Nike trainers and trips to Alton Towers and the chance to fly a fighter jet. I take a sip of lukewarm coffee, and hear more rustles from next door. I practice the face I’ll make when he comes in: yank my features into a neutral smile. Raise my eyebrows ever-so-slightly the way I do when he’s telling me about his day at work. My ‘listening’ face, which says I can’t wait to hear all about it. His moans mingle with hers. I smile. Then I try it again, but better. More convincing. I pretend I do not hear him let out a grunt . By now they are fucking. Loudly . I picture him sweating over her not-tall, not-broad-shouldered body, with a eager hunger in his eyes. I see her throwing her head back in blissful ecstasy, digging her short fingernails into the meat of his arse as she pulls his cock further inside. Then – scratch that – I realise they wouldn’t be fucking like that. Not missionary , not today. She’s face down on the bed, arse in the air, and he grabs handfuls of her not-short hair as he tears into her. Staring greedily at the sight of his own cock, which is framed so much better by this hole that isn’t mine. No. I don’t like that thought, so I pull it from my mind. I yank it from my brain the way I’d grasp a hair with tweezers and slowly draw it from my skin. There. It’s gone. She squeaks when she comes, like a startled animal, so I try on the sensation of finding it hot. I close my eyes, picture her face, and listen to the last few squeaks as she shudders her way to climax. Picture his hands grabbing at her thighs, spreading them apart for him. I try to sense what it would feel like inside his skin: to be the person who made someone cry out like that. In doing so, I get the briefest glimpse of a spark of pride: his own pride in himself, reflected back into me. I lent him to her, after all, so can i claim part of the glory? I stoke this pride fiercely and quickly, before it gutters and dies. Perhaps by the time my coffee is cold, I’ll be wet. He’s mine , and I let him go free. He’s mine, and I gave him away. His cock, his hands, his eyes, his lips: all mine. It was me who took his hand and placed it on her mound, pressing my fingers into his as she giggled encouragement, shoving him into her slit until he gasped at the wetness of her cunt. Me who looked into her not-brown eyes and grinned like we were the greatest of friends, urging her to grab his cock as if were mine to give away. I watched it swell so quickly in her grasp, and it made my stomach lurch with a kind of lust that scared me. I said “you two have fun” and gave that practiced, careful smile. He is mine, and so I will let him break my heart. Over and over and over. As my heart breaks I will hate myself for noticing that it has. For placing that heartbreak above the other things I feel: my pride. My lust. The feeling that it isn’t just him fucking her – I am too. We are doing this together, with his cock. His cock that belongs to both of us. I wonder how many times I will sit through this before I learn to love it. In answer, I tell myself that I already do. I must. Because why else would I sit here, with my head against the wall, listening to her squirm and wriggle on his cock? My coffee is stone cold, and her squeaks are over. I hear the gentle click of a door handle turning, then a knock at my own door. One, two, three raps, just enough time to compose my smile. He walks in, stark naked. Sweating and out of breath. Dick swollen beyond its usual proportions – special and different and new, just like today. And the relief that he is here, with me , could be enough alone to make me wet. He steps forward to where I sit curled on the sofa, and uses one thumb to gently open my mouth. I realise he’s not done yet, not come yet. And that realisation brings a flood of feelings: relief or heartbreak or arousal… or all three. I put down my cold coffee and wet my lips. I know I am not doing as well as I could, because I close my eyes while I suck him. I don’t want to see his satisfaction right now: it feels too raw. Too smug . I’m not ready. I haven’t done this right. He would want me to be hornier when he came back in: eager to tear into him, because he saved his spunk for me. I’m not ready yet. Not yet. I’m not good enough yet. Not practised enough at distancing myself, at seeing her as her instead of just not me . But I let him do it. I listened in. I conjured lust and I forced that smile and I sipped coffee while they fucked as if fucking was no big thing. And I did not gag at the taste of her as he came inside my mouth.