Honeymoon Cuckold

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“Yup next time. I got their number.”

The first four days of our honeymoon had been a whirlwind. Following our wedding reception we’d decamped to a honeymoon suite in the same hotel where the reception/dinner had been held. The next morning we were off to Hawaii, via San Francisco.

Once on the island it had been nonstop sightseeing, swimming, eating, drinking (LOTS of drinking), sex and shopping. Shoot me over this last part but…that’s what my newlywed wife Laurie wanted. And Laurie tends to get what she wants. Just ask her parents.

All of this furious activity (well, aside from the sex) recorded for posterity by Laurie on her iPhone’s camera, which she then uploaded to our Facebook page or sent directly to her countless address book relatives and friends. I swear, over those first four days Laurie, what with her magic flying fingers, spent more time manipulating her phone than she did interacting with me. Everything we did or saw, no matter how mundane (“Oh wait! Before you eat your shrimp lemme snap a pic!”), became subject for a photograph, which then had to be either uploaded, texted or emailed.

It was exhausting, believe me. On two of the four nights I arrived back at the beachfront hotel too tired, and drunk, to even have sex. And wasn’t that the whole point of a honeymoon? Sex? And lots of it?

On one of those two nights I’m pretty sure, in my alcoholic haze, I heard Laurie say, as she stomped off to the bathroom: “Oh, what difference does it make? You don’t satisfy me anyway…”

Or did I dream she said this?

At any rate, on the morning of day five I awoke way too early, and with a wicked hangover. I was vaguely aware I was alone in the king-sized bed. I was also vaguely aware someone—Laurie, obviously—had been bustling around the room for the past half hour. The shower had been running; then not. Things were being stuffed into something else. Vaguely, it sounded like someone was packing. After showering and getting dressed. Was I dreaming? Again?

“My taxi’s waiting,” Laurie announced brightly.

The sun was also bright. I shielded my eyes. My mouth was dry. “Whuh?”

“My taxi. I gotta run.” She bent over and pecked my stubbled cheek. “See you in, like, three days.”

I bolted upright. I chewed air trying to generate some saliva. But “Whuh?” was all I managed a second time. Laurie turned back. She looked bright as the sun itself. And as pretty and colorful as a plumeria lai. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tail, which served to emphasize the blaze of her blue eyes, her high cheekbones, and red gloss on her lips. She wore a cleavage-baring buttton-down pear-green blouse that terminated just above her pierced navel, in a knot. Her chocolate-brown hiphugger shorts bared hipbones above and every inch of her sleek, athletic legs below. Sandals with a little flower decoration on top bared her perfect size sevens with their aqua-painted nails. Every inch of her bared flesh—and most of her was bare—glistened with cocoa oil. She was ready for the beach.

She was ready for something else as well. From her right hand the handle of an overnight bag hung—the very bag I’d insisted prior to mainland departure was overkill, given all the other suitcases she’d insisted on packing. I wiped my face. In disbelief.

“Whadaya men…tree days?”

Laurie’s smile had lost none of its luster. “I told you. Remember? Brad was flying out? And I was going to spend a few days with him? He’s staying at this really cool place right on the beach on the other side of the island. I mean right on the beach. You walk out the door and you’re in the water.”

(Tsunami for reason entered my foggy mind.)

“He texted me a pic of it last night,” Laurie continued. “It’s awesome. Anyway, toodles,” she added, folding her free hand in a little wave.

“Wait!” I jumped, landing—sort of—in the same naked sitting position. “Whuh…?”

“I told you,” Laurie insisted, stamping a sandaled foot. “We discussed this. My cab’s waiting.” She sighed. “Brad’s come out and I’m gonna spend a few days with him. I told you all of this, like, two weeks ago. Or were you too drunk to remember?”


Another sigh. A horn sounded. “My taxi’s waiting.” A hand combed thick blonde hair. “Anyway, it’s only a couple of days then…,” smile returning, “I’ll be back here and we’ll still have, like, four more days together. Three anyway. Sober up. You look terrible. Bye!”


But she was gone. Out the door. The taxi 50 meters down the road by the time you reached the jalousies, after stubbing your toe on a chair. Your first reaction: “Ow!” Your second: WHAT?

Your third: Copious tears as you dropped to your knees. 3a) A throbbing erection. “What’s wrong with me!” you shouted at no one in the otherwise empty honeymoon suite.

Laurie may’ve taken her travel bag with her; but that meant she left behind six pieces of hefty designer luggage. You found panties, just in time, in the second suitcase you flung open, and it was this skimpy little emerald thong you came in, and through, into your hand, the overflow dripping to carpet—Who gives a shit!—as you, another pair of Laurie’s panties a figure-eight around your ankles, ran, sort of (It reminded you of an elementary school sack-race), for the bathroom.

“OH!” you cried latently, the rush of shower water washing more tears from your face. Fortunately for you the in-room mini-fridge still contained one last bottle of California bubbly. You opened it and drank—from the bottle. It was 7:45 a.m., Hawaii time.

Brad. Two-time all-state quarterback for your highschool football team. Laurie: all-state cheerleader for the same. They made quite a couple. The BMOC paired with, arguably, our school’s cutest girl. They dated. They broke up. They dated…

They broke up. Neither, it was rumored, was particularly monogamous.

Come college and the roles reversed, slightly. Laurie rose to become head cheerleader while Brad never advanced beyond second-string QB. Maybe the asshole wasn’t so big afterall? Did I say big? Great, I mean. Great.

I say asshole. It was Brad who’d once pointed at my genitals in the men’s shower and made a joke. Another time he told me to bend over while, in front of several of his laughing teammates, he performed simulated anal sex on me. Very funny. But I can still feel that semi-limp slong of his bumping against my wet crack. He was well-hung. That part was undeniable. “Faggot!” he called me afterwards. I’ll leave the psychology of this to others…

So one day I’m walking across the campus quadrangle and I feel a hand tugging at my elbow. It’s the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen (up this close at least). Laurie, books pressed to her boobs, said: “Hey, how come you’ve never asked me out?” I stood there. I stared, open-mouthed. I was speechless. Was this a joke?

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