A Descent Into Madness

Steven was the love of my life.

We met in college by accident, bumping into each other at a friend's apartment party. Our relationship began as a whirlwind: I was irresistibly drawn to him, as if our connection had been predestined. Two years later, we moved in together.

He was the perfect boyfriend, caring, doting. He remembered every anniversary, every birthday. We never argued.

Yet, I worried. I didn't feel good enough for him, and I worried that he was unsatisfied.

My rational side would say that my anxiety was unfounded. I was devoted to him. As his boyfriend, I did my best to meet his needs. I was determined to give him everything he wanted.

It started with the smallest of gestures: a vague smile, a missed phone call, a lingering glance in another direction. Doubt persisted in my head. I never caught him receiving any suspicious texts, never found any weird links in his internet browser history, never heard from the neighbors that they'd seen him with anybody else. I knew he loved me. Still, something nagged at me in the back of my mind. I felt like I was going insane, as if I were fabricating problems where none actually existed. This went on for months.

It was a Thursday when I came home early. I had finished work ahead of schedule, and I rushed home to take the rest of the day off. When I reached our front door, I saw Steven's shoes at the entrance, which wasn't out of the norm; he had often been coming home earlier than me in recent weeks, when he would have the place to himself.

I don't know if it was my intuition--up until that moment, I still wasn't sure if something really was wrong between us--but I paused. Something felt different, but I couldn't figure out why.

So, I decided to enter as silently as possible.

I stood there in the foyer, listening intently. The place was mostly quiet, but I thought I could hear some muffled sounds coming from upstairs: a thumping, almost rhythmic, like something bumping against the walls.

I stilled myself, straining my ears to hear. I couldn't tell if the thumping was still there--did I imagine it? I felt my heartbeat racing, thundering in my ears at the same tempo as did what I thought I heard upstairs. Had I confused it for something else entirely?

Silence reigned once more. It's possible that I had let my imagination get the best of me. I turned and set my things aside--and then I heard a bump from above.

Dread slithered through me as cold as ice. My fears returned in full force, and I began to shiver. Something was terribly wrong.

I needed to know. I wanted so badly to be mistaken.

I tiptoed upstairs, taking care to stifle my footsteps, just in case. I didn't want him to know I'd already come home. As I ascended, the noises became more pronounced. I thought I heard a voice; adrenaline sped through my veins.

What if it really was him with someone else? My mind spun. I didn't want to think about it, but, deep down, I think I already knew. Some truths are universal, after all.

The door to our bedroom was slightly ajar.

I crept over to it and crouched down to listen. Hushed voices floated through the opening.

"--feels so good--fuck--right there--"

"--can't hold back anymore--"

My heart sank.

I cracked the door open just enough for me to see inside without being noticed.

There, on my bed--our bed--and facing away from the door, they were. My boyfriend and some twink I didn't recognize.

I froze.

The twink was laying on his back, his legs spread, his knees held to his chest...by Steven.

They were fully undressed.

I could make out the pile of clothes on the floor, and the dim light illuminated the bottle of lube and condoms on our nightstand.

Fuck.

It felt like a knife was slowly pressing into my heart. The pain wasn't sharp or immediate; it was agonizing, a dullness that slowly spread from my chest throughout my body until I felt even my fingertips go numb.

I knelt there and watched my boyfriend fuck the twink in missionary.

We hadn't had sex in weeks. Steven was always either too tired or just not in the mood, forever promising to make it up to me later. It felt as though the passion in our relationship was fading, slipping away like sands in an hourglass. He'd still say he loved me when he'd kiss me, yet, here he was, mounted atop someone else in the bed we shared, finally confirming the worst of my suspicions.

"...I can't hold back anymore; I've wanted you for so long," Steven was saying.

From my vantage point, I could see everything. Steven shifted his weight so that he was on his knees and forearms atop the twink. It's a maneuver with which I'm intimately familiar, Steven's specialty, his favorite position because it gives him total control in fucking, in the amount of body weight he can impart into his thrusting, in making love.

He was making love to this twink.

"I've wanted to fuck you for so long," Steven cooed at him. "Every time I saw you, I knew you wanted me, but I just couldn't betray Andrew, I couldn't do that to him..."

At the sound of Steven saying my name, I felt mixed emotions. I knew something like this would happen eventually, I just didn't want to believe it. I was devastated. But I could forgive him, right? After all, every guy cheats. A man feels the urge to spread his seed. It's biological. At least he was wearing a condom. I could forgive him.

And, despite myself...I was unbearably hard. I'd never before fantasized about being a wittol, but in that moment I didn't want to admit to myself that I was unfathomably turned on.

I don't know how to describe it. Every emotion pulled at me: fear, despondency, anger, arousal, excitement...

I was turned on by the smell of sex, the combination of Steven's natural musk, his cologne, the faint scent of the poppers that the twink must have needed to be able to take Steven's cock; the sound of fucking, the consistency in tempo as Steven slammed his pelvis against pussy, the wet slop of a fully lubricated hole being used; the sight of Steven's broad figure, dominating a twink, a Greek god in the midst of his revelry.

"Daddy," the twink suddenly moaned, "please, breed me."

No.

Oh no.

"Yeah? You want my load?" Steven slapped the twink's ass.

"Yes, Daddy, please," the twink whined, his voice needy.

"If we do this, we can't go back," Steven warned him. "I'm going to have to breed you all the time."

No.

"Yes, please, Daddy...cum in me. Take it off."

Please.

Steven came to a stop and pulled out. For a fraction of a second, a complicated emotion flitted across his face. A million considerations--desires, consequences--ran through his mind. He hesitated.

I dared to hope that he wouldn't.

Then, as if in slow motion, as if time suddenly decided to draw itself out and extend my torture--Steven's right hand went to his cock, slid the rubber off, and tossed it aside.

And, then, this time without hesitation, he slid himself back inside the twink, inch by inch, raw.

A crushing weight began to collapse my heart. Not only was my boyfriend making love to someone else, he was doing it bare, unprotected, with every intention of giving himself to him, just as he used to give himself to me.

I watched Steven deliberately prolong the fuck, as if for my sake, as if he knew I was there watching, slowly thrusting himself in and out of his twink slut, dragging the lips of the twink's hole down the full length of his cock, milking every inch. I don't know how long I was there, transfixed. I don't know how much time passed by. I couldn't look away, despite the cold creeping into my chest, a lazy permafrost icing my heart--I was mesmerized, petrified. I needed to bear witness to what could potentially be the end of my relationship. With every stroke, I could hear the twink cry out, begging for more.

"Yeah? You love my cock, don't you?" Steven was asking. He pulled out again, intentionally pausing, teasing, the tip of his cock positioned directly against the twink's hole, waiting for the sensation of emptiness to sharpen the twink's begging before plunging himself back into him. "Tell me how much you want it."

"Please, Daddy, give it to me, I want it so badly, I need you inside me," the twink babbled. It was pure gibberish, spurred by the ecstasy of sex.

"Good boy," Steven whispered into his ear. Once more, he was fully sheathed within this boy.

I wanted to stop it, I did, I really did. I wanted to jump out there and wrestle that slut away from my boyfriend.

I didn't move.

I watched Steven descend into pure carnality. He began to fuck deeper, faster; I could tell Steven was getting close. He set his back straight so that his hips could press further into the boy underneath him. Every thrust ensured that the full length of his cock slid in and out of the twink--he was milking himself with the twink's body as if it were a fleshlight.

Steven began to tense. I knew he was feeling that swell within him, that pressure that was building in his abdomen. He was growling, speaking filth to the twink, losing command of his body to his most primal urges. I watched him bring his hands to the twink's neck, choking him as they kissed, as they made love in that dangerous limbo between life and death.

I knew what was about to happen. I couldn't look away.

"I'm going to cum," Steven said.

His thrusts intensified. I watched as he pounded away, causing the twink's eyes to roll backwards. Finally, with a cry, Steven pressed into the twink one last time before collapsing. He fell onto him, their bodies melting into each other's, two becoming one as Steven released himself into the twink. I watched my boyfriend's cock twitch as he pumped load after load into someone else.

I felt something wet in my fingers.

I looked down, surprised. While I was distracted, focused only on what was happening inside my bedroom, my hand had slipped between my legs to grip my erection, and I had cum at the same time as Steven did.