Quean for a Day 2
If I think she’s beautiful, it’s only because you’re beautiful.
In part 1, Livia shared her cuckquean fantasy with her husband, Ben. He agreed to find a woman to help her fulfil it.
Three weeks later he surprises me.
He’s sitting at the table using the laptop while I lie on the couch in my PJs bingeing on Bake Off. He asks me to pause Freya’s upside-down cake then blurts out, “I’ve found a unicorn.”
I don’t know what he means at first. “It’ll just be a photoshopped horse.”
“No, a unicorn: a single woman hoping to meet a couple. She wants a threesome. I don’t think that would be the best idea, but she might be okay with your scenario. Shall I message her and ask?”
Him actually finding a potential third scares me a little — some of the best fantasies can do that when they begin to take on shape. The thing is, whoever he finds, whether it’s this woman or someone else, he has to fancy her. I’m comfortable with that, but what makes the fantasy work is also what makes it dangerous. The other woman has to be attractive, but not too attractive.
I need details. “Is she younger than me?”
He nods. “A little.”
“If she’s under twenty-five that’s risky territory. No reckless, unstable young adults, please.”
“She’s four years younger.”
“Four is okay. There’s four years between me and Ingrid, and she’s just about got her head screwed on these days.”
His nod is more cautious this time, like he’s only agreeing reluctantly. I can understand that: when he first met my sister she was a hot mess, and in some ways she still is, but most women her age are more sensible.
Youth isn’t the only risk factor, though. “Is she better looking than me?”
He was okay with my fantasy, but he seems uncomfortable now. “I wouldn’t say she’s more beautiful, necessarily. As beautiful, perhaps, but differently. Although she does look a bit like you. Not identical, just… similar. So if I think she’s beautiful, it’s only because you’re beautiful.”
“Oh for god’s sake! Just show me her picture.”
He stares at the table as he turns the laptop round.
He slept on the couch. I didn’t tell him to; I suppose he knew I’d need some space. And I’m glad I was alone: I usually enjoy masturbating for him, but last night I couldn’t have made myself come while he watched me… not while I fantasised about watching my sister make him come.
Ingrid and I have never been close. I was Daddy’s princess until I was four, and maybe that spoiled me, because when a rival for my father’s affection came along I’m told I became a holy terror. I don’t remember any details, I only have a hazy memory of resenting the screaming goblin who’d invaded my home.
She wasn’t a goblin, though. There are photos to prove it; lots of photos, many more than there are of me. Ingrid was an angelic baby, a cherubic toddler, a beautiful child, and a teenager I grew wary of letting my boyfriends meet, because she flirted with all of them, and it seemed like I caught half of them reciprocating. That bruised my ego, but it was a good way of filtering out the creeps.
Perhaps I was spoiled until Ingrid came along, but she’s been spoiled her whole life. As a kid she could do no wrong in my parents’ eyes, whereas if I ever strayed from the straight and narrow I was a ‘bad influence’ on her. So I tried hard to be a good influence, or ‘prissy bitch’ as Ingrid called it. When she started going off the rails as a young adult my parents blamed me, not her choices.
So when Ben turned the laptop and I saw her picture on the screen, my blood ran cold. Except it didn’t, not really. It got warmer, it just all seemed to run to one place. That’s the weirdest feeling, when your whole body’s frozen except for a surging heat in your pussy, and a suddenly throbbing clit.
I wanted to be disreputable, and I could hardly be more disreputable than allowing — encouraging! — my husband to fuck my sister. If he ever cheated on me I’d be heartbroken, but I’d survive… unless he cheated with Ingrid. That would shatter me. But what if he didn’t cheat? What if I not only allowed him to fuck her, but asked him to, and actually watched it happen?
I enjoy transgressive fantasies, and while I’ve orgasmed to much worse ideas than being a cuckquean, I did think that would be the most disreputable thing I could do in real life. But including Ingrid in my fantasy would be doubly disreputable. Transgression squared. Awful to the power of awful. Horrifically, humiliatingly hot.
When he turned the laptop round, and I saw my sister’s face on screen, I stopped seeing anything except her and my husband, together. My mind was deluged by a fast-cut montage of shockingly seductive images:
- Ben opens the door, and on the other side is a woman who opens her coat. She’s wearing nothing but stockings and suspenders underneath it. Her face is clear — it’s Ingrid — but her body is a blur, because apparently my brain isn’t ready to imagine my sister naked and horny.
- Cut to our living room, and now her body is clear but I can’t see her face, because she has her back to me and he has his tongue down her throat. She’s straddling his leg, humping it like a bitch in heat, leaving a damp stain on his trousers.
- Now she’s throwing back her head in ecstasy as his mouth mauls her breasts, sucking on her nipples, tugging with his teeth. His hand is between her legs, but I can’t see what he’s doing. I don’t want to see.
- I did want to see, but his hands are on her shoulders now, pushing her to her knees. He’s dropped his trousers, and I still can’t see my sister’s face because my husband is fucking it. I can hear her gagging and spluttering around his cock, and his quiet encouragement: “Good girl. Take it all.”
- She’s on her belly, and he’s lying between her legs, his buttocks clenching with every powerful thrust. There’s a bottle of lube next to them. I can’t look at anything but that, and her left hand beside it, and the way her fingers claw, over and over, at the carpet, their silent desperation overruled by her gasped demands of “Harder!” during each slow withdrawal.
- He has a fistful of her hair, pulling on it so she’s forced to raise her head and arch her back. He’s not moving now; he’s just holding himself deep inside her as he grunts out an orgasm.
- They’re lying side-by-side, exhausted. Ben’s on his back, his cock as limp as Ingrid. She’s still on her belly, her legs spread, his cum — that ought to be mine — oozing out of her ravaged asshole.
“Do you want any help with that?”
My husband’s voice interrupted my reverie, and made me aware my right hand had crept inside my pyjama pants. I’d been subconsciously stroking myself to the most awful images, and he’d caught me doing it.
I blushed. I never blush, but I could feel my face catching fire. “No! I just… I… I had an itch.”
His raised eyebrow said he knew exactly what that itch was.
“Now I’ve got a migraine! I’m going to bed!”
Quean for a Day continues in part 3 with some tricky negotiations before an understanding is reached.
More from Marsha…
Another tale by Sophia Dublin