Free Reluctant Cuckold by David McManus Page B

conversely, the implication was, my dick is smaller.
     
    How fucking big was it, Ashley? Obviously it wasn’t just marginally bigger, or you would have told me that. Was it seven and one half, eight, eight and one-half? Was it porn-star big?
     
    Had she really misunderstood my original question? Did I have to squirm and actually have to say, “Was his penis bigger than mine?”
     
    Do you not see how humiliating and embarrassing that was?
     
    Good God Ashley, how fucking big was he?
     
    I got out of bed and went to the hallway bathroom.
     
    I knew I shouldn’t, but I had gotten hard just thinking about it and felt compelled. I was back on the sink again with my boxers down. My wife had just admitted to fucking Jim Murta that night and strongly implied that his cock was significantly bigger than mine.
     
    Had Ashley stared, mesmerized by its size, as Jim Murta stroked it in front of her? Was it irresistible? Was she so intrigued and tempted by the prospect of feeling it inside her that she didn’t care her own husband was outside? Had knocked on the goddamn fucking door?
     
    He had stroked it, pointing his big cock right at her, as he looked down on her in the bathtub, staring at her tits. When Tamara asked, “Which one of us do you want to fuck?” was Ashley hoping Jim Murta would pick her? That she would have the honor and privilege of being fucked by Jim Murta and his big, fat, cock?
     
    God fucking dammit, Ashley. You let him take you bare. You let him drain his big fat balls inside you. You let that horse-cock fucking seed your pussy.
     
    And then I came hard.
     
    This is so fucked up , I said to myself.
     
    “What kind of a pussy are you,” I whispered as I looked at myself in the mirror.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    “I think I’m breaking my bike out” Ashley said the next morning, “it’s a gorgeous day.”
     
    I offered to join her, telling her I could rent one from a place nearby.
     
    An hour later, we were riding through Central Park. She was wearing snug white shorts, and I just looked at her small, firm ass as I followed behind. Soon, we were darting through city streets, making our way to a bike path on the East Side.
     
    We stopped at a Dog Park, twenty or so dogs running around in a fenced-off area as their owners sat on benches.
     
    “What a big old party,” Ashley remarked. “Look at little Napoleon; he may be runty and small, but he ain’t taking shit from no one.” When Napoleon started humping another, much bigger dog, she burst out laughing.
     
    We rode uptown, crossing over to Wards Island. Neither of us had been there. It was like a sanctuary—picturesque, full of trees, and free of people. In the distance we could see the Hell Gate Bridge.
     
    “That’s the bridge you and your dad used to picnic by, right?”
     
    “Yeah,” I said. “When I was five years old it was my favorite bridge. I mean it’s kind of ridiculous, picnicking by a bridge, but my dad indulged me.”
     
    “Aww, that’s all cute,” she said.
     
    We biked right up to it.
     
    The Hell Gate Bridge is a steel railroad bridge that crosses the East River. I didn’t think it was even still in use, until we watched an Amtrak train glide across.
     
    The area was quiet, almost eerily. We were talking about the castle-like structure that supports both sides, when a park employee came up from behind and startled us. He seemed to have a certain fondness for the bridge himself. Ashley told him about my boyhood fascination with it.
     
    “It was remarkably constructed” he said, “Made to last.”
     
    Then he told us that if humanity went extinct tomorrow, virtually all the bridges in the world would collapse within three hundred years from lack of maintenance.
     
    “But that bridge,” he said, “would be the very last to fall. It would take one thousand years.”
     
    Ashley looked at him funny.
     
    “I’m not making it up,” he said. “Look it up on Wikipedia.”
     
    He was an older man,