Dirty Rival: An Age-Gap Cuckquean Romance

I like to cheat on my wife.

There. I said it.

But don’t get the wrong idea. She knows. She wants it.

We’ve been together ten years, since I was twenty-eight and she was thirty-four, and I can tell you with a big, sick-ass grin, we’ve had a blast.

Morgan is deeply submissive. Always has been. She has no issue watching me bang other women. She’ll sit in a blanket-covered easy chair in the corner, or in the guest room next door, to watch and listen.

What can I say? I’m a lucky man.

But lately…

Well.

I’m pushing her a little bit.

You see, my wife is a dental hygienist at the office downtown. And her least favorite person in the whole world is the college girl who works reception after class.

You see where this is going, right?

Because that little receptionist, Bambi, just happens to be the sexiest little chick I’ve ever seen. And we’ve been texting. Ashamedly frequent. Only innocent at first. Nothing dirty until she turned nineteen last week.

But I have a thing for her.

And I’m going to fuck her.

I get why my wife doesn’t like Bambi. There’s the obvious physical factor. My Morgan is pretty.

But Bambi Bridges…

Bambi is mind-blowing.

She’s a five-foot-two, one-hundred-pound, blue-eyed bombshell cheerleader with perfect pearl teeth, honey-blonde hair, glassy, candy-scented lips, and the most perfect and heart-shaped ass I’ve ever seen.

She’s an angel.

An angel with fuck-me eyes and plunging summer shirts and skirts so short, they show off her shiny tan legs.

She’s a dream.

Then, factor in the attitude…

Bambi is a handful. (I don’t want to say “bitch.”) But bitch. She’s a sassy little princess with her middle fingers up to the world.

But no one calls her on it. She bats those mile-long, natural lashes, pouts the shit out of those luscious, natural lips, and crosses her arms to push up her massive, natural cleavage…and they fold. Every time.

Who wouldn’t?

So yeah. My wife isn’t a Bambi fan. At all.

Bambi flirts with the dentists. Bambi leaves the office a mess. Bambi leaves papers unsigned. I’ve heard it all.

Don’t care.

The first time I met Bambi, I was picking up Morgan from work and popped in to take advantage of the snack corner in the employee lounge when she told me she’d be running behind.

And bam.

There’s this girl.

She’s sitting in the patient waiting area, not behind the desk, wearing a white, cropped sweater that shows her lean, tan stomach, a perfect bellybutton adorned with a gem-stoned cherry, and her gravity-defying tits.

On the bottom, she’s wearing a short denim skirt crafted to show her long-ass legs and a cute pair of bubblegum-pink boots.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

And when she sees me, she jumps up, her big, perfect boobs bouncing.

“Sir! Hi. Sorry. I was just… taking a break.”

She tucks a strand of platinum through the stem of her cherry and bites into a peach bottom lip.

“You must be the new secretary.”

I chuckle. “Your secret is safe with me.”

She crosses the room and thanks me, squeezing my bicep, tipping into me with those playful, sapphire eyes. Her lilac eye shadow is glittery. She smells like strawberries and Clinique.

And I know it on the spot.

I want to fuck her.

She leans in, all appreciative, and I can smell her candy-scented hair, a peppermint blast of gum.

And then the kicker — she spins around to fix a pillow she’s discarded on the couch, and I catch a flash of sparkly-pink g-string strings riding above her waistband in a sexy, V-cut formation, and the rounded, flawless globes of her tan ass below them.

I’m sold.

That night, over dinner, when Morgan starts complaining about the new secretary, I imagine Bambi’s perfect features while I dig into my wife.

Only for the first of many times.

Since then, I’ve been heading down to the office on the regular.

I’ve helped Bambi with her English homework. I’ve assured her that Katie Patterson is, indeed, a bitch. I’ve watched her whip out her royal blue-and-silver pom-poms on Game Day.

I could live inside the five minutes I spend with her every day.

She’s so hot, so pretty, so perfect. She always brushes my arm, squeezes my biceps, throws herself at me in a big, boob-crushing hug goodbye.

I get what glimpses I can of her.

Her silky thighs. Her bee-stung lips. Her sky-blue eyes that are prone to performative eye rolls. Her tight, sweet ass. Her luscious stomach with sharp little duck-flap hipbones that poke out over the waistbands of her micro denim skirts and destroyed jeans, but not so much that I can’t spy the half-assed tan of a bachelorette bunny sticker indicating salon visits to Sun Kissed, up on Meridian.

“I can’t stand that new secretary,” Morgan tells me at home.

“Should have seen her flirting with Steven, Hank. Celia was crying again.”

I run my gaze over her white, wrinkled button-down. Her tan, baggy slacks and colorless lips and I can’t help but think of Bambi.

Months pass.

I start bringing Morgan lunch every day, chasing after the five perfect minutes with Bambi each afternoon. I can’t get my fill.

Then, in September, it’s her birthday.

“The office is throwing a party for that little bitch,” Morgan stirs a pot of noodles on the stove, the steam ballooning her hair.

The kitchen is spotless. I have a good wife. She keeps a clean house; she does what I tell her. (Told you I’m lucky.)

“How old is she turning?” I ask casually.

She rolls her small brown eyes. “Nineteen.”

“That’s a big one.”

She frowns. “I guess.”

“When’s the party?”

“Friday.”

“Mmm.”

“Mmm.”

I wanted Bambi so much, I didn’t even want to fuck other girls. I wonder if Morgan noticed. Not only that I stopped checking out women at bars—but stopped banishing her to the guest room to lay pipe with strangers.

I didn’t want to sleep with her, either.

It was Bambi or nobody.

I was in over my head.

Friday, I make my way down to the office, ostensibly to deliver Morgan’s lunch. Pink and gold balloons are staked to chairs and there’s a banner on the wall reading, Happy Birthday Bambi!

I’ve never seen them throw a party like this before.

Bambi enjoys special treatment. And hey, she deserves it.

The birthday girl is parked behind the front desk when I enter, wearing a short, pink dress that is as tight as a second skin, leaving nothing of her perfect figure to the imagination. The outline of her scrappy thong is visible. Her bra, too. I can tell she’s rocking her little heart-shaped belly ring.

“Mr. West!”

She leaps to her feet and hurries around the desk to hug me, her big tits bouncing in the process. I wrap my arms around her, smelling the peach fizz of her hair and the vanilla fuzz of her skin.

I want to pick her up and have her wrap those silken legs around my waist.

She doesn’t pull away from the hug, so I keep her wrapped up. If my imagination isn’t playing tricks, I think she burrows in tighter.

“This is your birthday? Happy birthday.”

She blinks up at me with these huge, earnest baby blues and damn near takes me off my feet. My balls climb for safety. My cock stands up and salutes.

I think she can feel it through my jeans. She’s so little, her head is only at my chest, but my dick is north of her bellybutton.

“Technically, I’m not nineteen until nine forty-five tonight,” she points out, furrowing her pencil brows. “But isn’t it nice of my coworkers to celebrate my birthday?”

She pauses to suck her lower lip.

“Not all of them wanted to.”

I step back and pet her slender, silk arms. “No.”

She shakes her head. “It’s true.”

A flicker of attitude, and she scowls up at me. “Your wife didn’t want to. She doesn’t like me. I can tell.”

I shake my head, discarding all the memories of Morgan bitching about Bambi at home. “I’m sure that’s not right.”

Bambi shakes her head and her shiny hair falls in front of her eyes. “It’s okay. Women…of a certain age…don’t like me.”

I push her out to get a look at her, exaggeratedly. “I can’t imagine why!”

Bambi giggles and crinkles her cute patrician. “You always make me feel good, Mr. West.”

Just then, someone clears their throat, and I look up to see Morgan in the hallway, looking over at us.

“You bring me lunch?”

She wades over, and I release Bambi, not happy about letting go of her soft skin. I pick up the takeout bag I dropped on the floor and hand it over.

She thanks me by kissing my cheek, her bony lips tight to the flesh.

“I’d kill to stay and talk, but I have to get back in there.”

“I know,” I pat her, real nice and gentle. “I’ll see you at home.”

She looks like she wants to talk, so I say, “Go on, now.”

Morgan shuffles dutifully down the hallway, her body as straight as a plank in the bright, clinical light. She’s always a good sport, following orders.

Bambi stifles a laugh, then catches my eye. “Sorry…I just…I don’t get women like her.”

Morgan disappears inside one of the exam rooms lining the corridor.

Bambi moves closer. I can see down her dress, into the cups of her bra that are holding up the heavy balloons of her chest.

“Thank you for wishing me a happy birthday,” she breathes, all sweet-like and innocent.

And she fits a hand with pretty pink nails around my throat and stands on tiptoes to kiss my cheek.

“It means a lot to me.”

I wonder if she does it on purpose. Mimics my wife. Asks for a comparison. Shows me how much better she is.

My cock is iron in my pants.

I