Henry Ravenscroft, or Harry as he’s known to his closest friends, is a man of letters, a scholar of some renown, and, unfortunately for him, a bit of a pushover. He’s got that absent-minded professor thing going on with his tweed jackets and unruly hair, but he’s also got a heart as soft as butter left out on a hot day. His wife, the former Victoria Stevens, is a different kettle of fish altogether.
Victoria, or Vicky as she insists on being called, is a force of nature. She’s a whirlwind of energy, a lightning storm of passion, and a smile that could light up a thousand dark rooms. She’s also a wandering eye, but we’ll get to that momentarily.
Harry and Vicky have been married for what feels like an eternity. They met in college, fell in love over shared texts and late-night debates, and have been together ever since. But, as often happens, the fire that once burned so brightly has dwindled to a quiet ember. Harry’s lost in his books and lectures, and Vicky, well, Vicky’s been looking for a spark to reignite her flame.
Enter Justin Case, the strapping young lad about to set our little tale in motion. Justin’s a student at the college, a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed English major with a penchant for poetry and a body that looks like it was carved from marble. He’s the kind of young man who turns heads when he walks into a room, and, as you’ve probably guessed, he’s caught Vicky’s roving eye.
It all started innocently enough. Justin needed extra help with his thesis, and Harry, the dedicated professor, offered to lend a hand. But it wasn’t Harry’s hand that Justin ended up holding. No, it was Vicky’s, and before long, those hands were all over each other.
Now, Harry’s not entirely naive. He’s seen how Vicky looks at Justin and how her eyes linger on his firm, young body. He’s heard the laughter from the kitchen when Justin comes over for his ‘study sessions,’ the way it turns into a low, sultry murmur. He’s even found a stray sock or two, forgotten in the rush to get dressed and out the door. But Harry’s a man who likes his comfort and routine, and he’s terrified of the scandal that would ensue if he were to confront his wife and her young lover.
So, he does what any self-respecting, spineless man would do: he buries his head in the sand and hopes the problem will disappear. But, as we all know, issues can fester when left unattended. And this problem, well, it’s not going anywhere. It’s getting worse.
Vicky’s growing bolder, more brazen in her affair. She’s not even trying to hide it anymore. She’ll call Justin while Harry’s in the room, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she arranges their next tryst. She’ll leave the door to the bedroom open while she’s getting dressed, giving Harry an eyeful of the lingerie she’s bought for her lover’s benefit. She’s playing a dangerous game, and Harry’s the unwilling participant, caught in a web of lust and humiliation.
He’s tried talking to her about it, of course. He’s mustered up his courage, taken a deep breath, and said, “Vicky, dear, I can’t help but notice…” But she always cuts him off, her eyes flashing with anger and defiance. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” she’ll snap. “You’re imagining things.” And then she’ll storm out, leaving him alone with his thoughts and fears.
And Harry, well, he’s a mess. He’s torn between his love for Vicky, his fear of scandal, and his growing, grudging arousal at the thought of his wife with another man. He’s started to notice things, things he can’t unsee. The way Justin’s shoulders fill out his t-shirt and his jeans hug his thighs. The way Vicky’s face flushes when she talks about him and her breath catches in her throat. He’s started to imagine things, things he shouldn’t. The way Justin’s hands must feel on Vicky’s skin and his body must move against hers. He’s started to wonder what it would be like to watch them together, to see the passion and desire missing from his own life for so long.
But he can’t. He won’t. He’s a coward; he knows that. He’s a coward and a fool and way over his head. But he can’t stop the thoughts, can’t stop the images that play out in his mind like a dirty movie. He can’t stop the way his body responds, his heart races, and his breath hitches. He can’t stop the way his cock hardens, straining against his pants, begging for release.
So, he does the next best thing. He buries himself in his work and loses himself in his books and lectures. He throws himself into his teaching, research, and and anything to keep his mind off the mess of his personal life. And, for a while, it works. He can lose himself in the rhythm of the academic year, the comforting familiarity of the classroom, and the hushed silence of the library.
But then, one day, it all comes crashing down. He’s in his office, grading papers, when he hears a noise outside his door. A soft moan, a whispered laugh. He freezes, his pen hovering over the page, his heart pounding. He knows that laugh. He knows that moan. It’s Vicky. And she’s not alone.
He creeps towards the door, his body moving almost independently. He presses his ear against the cool wood, listening. He can hear them, Vicky and Justin, their voices low and intimate. He can hear the rustle of clothing and their bodies pressing together. He can hear the wet, hungry sound of their kisses and the sharp intake of breath as their hands explore each other’s bodies.
Harry’s heart is pounding so hard he’s sure they must be able to hear it. He’s torn between the desire to flee, to run as far and as fast as he can, and the morbid fascination that keeps him rooted to the spot. He can’t move, can’t tear himself away from the sound of his wife’s infidelity.
And then, suddenly, he hears his name. Vicky’s voice, husky with desire, whispering, “Harry…”
He freezes, his blood running cold. They know he’s here. They know he’s listening. He’s about to push open the door to confront them,when he hears Justin’s voice, low and urgent. “Vicky, no. Not here. Not like this.”
And Vicky’s laugh, that wicked, wicked laugh. “Why not? He’s probably getting off on it. I know I would be if the situation were reversed.”
Harry’s stomach churns. He feels sick, but he can’t move. He can’t stop listening.
“Vicky, come on,” Justin says, his voice pleading. “He’s your husband. We can’t do this to him.”
“He’s a coward,” Vicky snaps. “He won’t do anything. He’s too scared of the scandal. Too scared of losing me. He’ll sit there and take it like he always does.”
Harry’s heart sinks. She’s right, and they both know it. He is a coward. He is scared. And he will sit there and take it because he doesn’t know what else to do.
And then, he hears it. The soft, unmistakable sound of Vicky’s moan, the rustle of clothing being removed, the wet, slick sound of their bodies coming together. He can picture it, can see it in his mind’s eye, every explicit, erotic detail. He can see Vicky’s body, curves, and soft, smooth skin. He can see Justin’s body, his muscles, his hard, eager cock. He can see them together, their bodies entwined, their mouths locked in a hungry kiss.
And he can see himself standing there, listening, his cock hard and aching in his pants. He’s pathetic, he knows that. He’s a coward, a fool, a cuckold. But he can’t stop listening. He can’t stop imagining. He can’t stop the way his body responds, the way his cock throbs and aches, the way his balls tighten and draw up, ready for release.
He can hear them, che way their bodies slap together, the way their breath hitches and catches, the way their moans grow louder and more urgent. He can hear the way Vicky’s voice changes, the way it grows increasingly insistent, the way she cries out Justin’s name as she comes. He can hear Justin’s voice grow more profound and more guttural, as well as as he grunts and groans as he finds his release.
And then, finally, it’s over. He hears them dressing, their soft laughter, and whispered words. He hears their footsteps as they walk away, leaving him alone in his offic.e One of the things Harry has always loved about his office is the way it overlooks the quad. He’s spent countless hours gazing out that window, watching students hurry to class, professors strolling in deep conversation, and the occasional squirrel scampering up a tree. But today, as he stands there, his heart pounding like a kick drum in his chest, he can barely see the familiar view through the haze of his confusion and desire.
He watches as Vicky and Justin walk away, their bodies close, their hands brushing against each other. He watches as they disappear from view, swallowed by the crowded campus. And then, he turns back to his office, his eyes scanning the room as if seeing it for the first time.
His gaze lands on the couch, which Vicky insists on bringing in to make the room feel more “homey.” He remembers the way she laughed when he raised an eyebrow at her choice of decor and teased him about his lack of style. “It’s perfect for afternoon naps,” she’d said, a mischievous glint in her eye. And now, as he looks at it, he can’t help but imagine the two of them, their bodies entwined, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss.
He can see it, can see them, their naked bodies writhing on the soft cushions. He can see Vicky’s legs wrapped around Justin’s waist, her heels digging into his firm, muscular ass. He can see Justin’s hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her soft, supple flesh. He can see their bodies moving together, their breath mingling, their moans filling the air.
And he can see himself, standing there, watching. His cock was hard, his balls aching, his body desperate for release. He can see the way his hands shake as he unbuttons his pants, the way his breath hitches as he wraps his fingers around his throbbing erection. He can see the way his hips jerk, the way his body moves in time with theirs, the way his cock pulses and throbs as he brings himself to orgasm.
He’s a voyeur, a pathetic, desperate voyeur, getting off at the sight of his wife and her lover. He’s a cuckold, a coward, a fool. But he can’t stop. He can’t stop the way his body responds, the way his cock hardens, the way his balls tighten and draw up, ready for release.
He sinks onto the couch, his body shaking with the force of his arousal. He can feel it, can feel the way his cock throbs and pulses in his hand, the way his balls ache and tighten. He can feel the way his body moves, his hips jerking, his breath hitching, his heart pounding. He can feel the way his orgasm builds, the way it races through his body like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.
And then, finally, he comes. His cock pulses and throbs, his balls tighten and release, and his orgasm spills out of him, hot and sticky and messy. He comes with a force that leaves him gasping, his body shaking, his mind spinning. He comes with a force that leaves him drained, empty, and utterly spent.
He sits there for a long time, his body limp, his mind racing. He can’t believe what he’s done, can’t believe what he’s become. He’s a voyeur, a cuckold, a pathetic, desperate mess of a man. But he can’t deny the thrill that courses through his veins, the dark, twisted pleasure that comes with the knowledge that his wife is being satisfied, that she’s being fucked and pleased in a way that he can’t manage.
As he sits there, panting and spent, he hears the soft chime of his office phone. He reaches for it, his hand still shaking, and brings it to his ear. “Professor Ravenscroft,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and rough.
“Harry, darling, it’s me.” Vicky’s voice is like silk, smooth and sultry. He can hear the smile in her voice, the satisfaction and the triumph. “I just wanted to let you know that Justin and I are going out for dinner tonight. We won’t be home until late, so don’t wait up.
He swallows hard, his throat dry. “Vicky, I… I don’t think…”
She cuts him off, her voice sharp and commanding. “Harry, don’t. Don’t ruin this. Don’t be a coward, not now. You’ve always known what I need, what I want. And you’ve never been able to give it to me. But Justin can. So, let me have this. Let me have him.”
He’s silent, his mind racing, his heart pounding. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t believe what she’s asking of him. But he also can’t deny the way his cock stirs, the way his body responds to the thought of Vicky and Justin, their bodies entwined, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss.
“Vicky, I…” he starts, but she cuts him off again.
“Harry, please. I need this. I need him. And you need this, too, whether you want to admit it or not. You need to see me satisfied, to see me fucked and pleased. You need to see me happy.”
He’s silent for a long moment, his mind racing, his heart pounding. And then, finally, he speaks. “Alright, Vicky. Alright. I… I won’t stand in your way. But I need to see it. I need to see you, him, and the two of you together.”
He hears her sharp intake of breath, the way it catches in her throat. “Harry, are you sure? You want to watch?”
He swallows hard, his throat dry. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse and rough. “I want to watch. I need to watch. I need to see it, to see you, to see him. I need to see the way he fucks you, the way he makes you come. I need to see the way he makes you happy.”
He can hear the smile in her voice, the triumph and the satisfaction. “Alright, Harry. Alright. You can watch it. You can see it all. But you have to do something for me first.”
He swallows hard, his throat dry. “What? What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to strip for me, Harry. I want you to strip naked and send me a picture. I want to see you, to see your body, to see your cock. I want to see how you look when you’re hard, aching, and desperate for release.”
He’s silent for a long moment, his mind racing, his heart pounding. And then, finally, he speaks.