u/Cuckold_Obsession

The truth is, I don't even know if there's a specific name for this kind of fetish. I imagine there is, because within human sexuality there's practically everything, but I've never found a definition that fits exactly what I experience. Nor do I think it should necessarily be confused with cuckolding. Although there might be some points in common, I feel that my thing is different.

Let me explain.

My fetish is unfaithful women. I feel an enormous curiosity about a woman who has cheated on her partner, and the mere fact of knowing this can provoke enormous arousal in me. It could be my own wife, a friend's wife, an acquaintance, or even a woman I barely know. What I find especially stimulating is discovering that, behind the image she projects, there's a story of infidelity.

And there's an important detail: I don't necessarily imagine myself with her.

In fact, many times the exact opposite happens. It excites me to imagine her with another man, to think that she's cheated on her partner and that there's a part of her sex life she keeps separate from that relationship. I don't need to be part of the fantasy for it to be exciting for me. Sometimes, simply knowing that a woman has been unfaithful is enough.

In fact, many times the exact opposite happens. It excites me to imagine her with another man, to think that she's cheated on her partner and that there's a part of her sex life she keeps separate from that relationship. I don't need to be part of the fantasy for it to be exciting for me. Sometimes, simply knowing that a woman has been unfaithful is enough.

I think that's where I find the difference with cuckolding. In cuckolding, at least as I understand it, the central element is usually related to the man who plays the role of the betrayed partner and the arousal derived from watching or imagining his partner with another man. In my case, the interest seems to be much more focused on the unfaithful woman herself: on knowing that she has cheated, that she's having an affair, or that she has deliberately crossed that line.

It's something I've been developing for years, although for a long time I didn't even want to admit it. At first, I thought I was simply drawn to certain stories or specific situations.

That's why I'm curious to know if anyone else experiences something similar.

Is there a specific term for this fetish? Is it a variation of cuckolding, or is it considered something different? And, above all, are there other people who find it particularly arousing when a woman is unfaithful, even without necessarily wanting to participate in that infidelity?

I'm especially interested in hearing about the experiences of people who have discovered something similar within themselves.

It seems so obvious to me that most of the stories told here are pure fantasy. So my question is, have you read any stories here that you genuinely think actually happened?

Let me explain. From what I’ve been reading here, and from the admittedly limited amount I know about the subject, it seems to me that the term cuckold covers a pretty wide range of fantasies and relationship dynamics.

Some couples are looking to bring another man into their relationship on a more or less regular basis, sometimes even to the point where the wife develops an emotional or romantic relationship with him. Others are into being present and watching everything, while some are interested in much stronger humiliation or submission dynamics. And for some people, all of this becomes an important part of their identity as a couple, to the point where they describe it as a lifestyle. All of that is perfectly respectable. We’re adults, and as long as everyone involved is on the same page, people should be free to structure their relationships and sex lives however they want.

But that’s precisely where I struggle to find people I can really relate to. I don’t want to turn this into our lifestyle or change the nature of our relationship. I don’t want our relationship to start revolving around other men either. For me, it would simply be a sexual game that we play occasionally and then leave behind.

In fact, I find it difficult to understand why it necessarily has to be considered a “lifestyle.” I wouldn’t say that using sex toys, wearing certain lingerie, enjoying a bit of exhibitionism, or having any other sexual fantasy automatically turns your relationship into a different way of life. Those things can simply be part of your sexuality without defining it. That’s exactly how I see this. A couple can play tennis together every now and then without tennis becoming the defining feature of their relationship. I see this in much the same way: something we might do because we enjoy it and find it exciting, not something we organize our lives around.

The fantasy I have in mind is actually fairly simple. I haven’t even managed to tell my wife about it directly yet, although we have talked about some related things. She knows, for example, that I enjoy other men noticing her, and I’ve told her that seeing her flirt with other men turns me on. For me, that’s probably the most important part of the whole fantasy: seeing another man desire her and, even more importantly, seeing that she enjoys being desired.

What I imagine is something occasional. Every once in a while, we could take a trip somewhere, step outside our normal routine, and allow ourselves to play with the idea. Maybe she could reactivate Tinder for those few days and flirt with whoever catches her attention. Or we could go to a bar together and she could have the freedom to flirt with a stranger. What excites me most is being around for that part: watching someone become interested in her, seeing him try to win her over, watching how she responds, and seeing her enjoy the attention.

And if at some point she wanted to take things further and leave with that person, I wouldn’t necessarily need to be there. Interestingly enough, the voyeuristic side isn’t essential to me. I don’t need to see everything or somehow be involved. What really attracts me is everything leading up to it: the tension, the flirting, seeing another man become interested in her, and knowing that she has the freedom to decide how far she wants to take it.

Afterwards, the game would be over and we’d go back to our normal life. I wouldn’t be looking for that man to become part of our relationship, for him to become a regular presence, or for us to establish some permanent arrangement. I wouldn’t even want this to happen particularly often. In fact, I think part of the attraction for me is precisely that it would be something exceptional: an experience we could allow ourselves every now and then because we both enjoy it and because it adds something different to our relationship.

That’s why, reading a lot of the posts here, I sometimes feel like I’m looking for something quite different. I see many people interested in making cuckolding an ongoing relationship dynamic, with clearly defined roles and a regular presence of other men, whereas I imagine it as an occasional fantasy within a relationship that, outside of those moments, would remain exactly the same.

So I’m curious whether there are other people here who experience it or imagine it in a similar way: not as an identity or a lifestyle, but simply as a game that a couple can enjoy occasionally and then put away until they both feel like playing again.

First of all: I’m a married man, and I’m perfectly aware that fantasizing about this kind of thing behind my wife’s back isn’t exactly the most appropriate thing in the world. I’m not trying to justify it or turn it into something it isn’t. Some fantasies just show up uninvited, and ever since I found this out, I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.

For a bit of context, I’ve known this couple for about fifteen years. They’re not close friends, more like friends of friends who, over time, have become part of the regular landscape of our social circle. We probably see each other six or seven times a year: birthdays, dinners, weddings, parties, the occasional weekend away, and a couple of trips we’ve taken as part of larger groups. So I know them well enough to have a fairly clear picture of who they are, but not well enough to know the private details of their relationship.

They’re both around 35 and have been together for practically forever. They got married about seven years ago and, from the outside, they’ve always struck me as one of those surprisingly stable couples who almost function as a unit. They share a lot of hobbies, have plenty of friends, and lead a pretty active social life. Judging by Instagram, they’re constantly doing things: traveling, going out for dinner, working out, taking weekend trips... They’re both really into CrossFit (or something similar, I’ll admit I don’t know much about that world), and I also think they’ve been doing salsa or bachata for a while.

They’re also both pretty attractive.

He’s tall, handsome, very fit, and has the kind of defined physique you get from training almost every day. He’s very sociable and comes across as extremely confident.

She’s a brunette, Spanish, very beautiful, with a body that has clearly been shaped by years of exercise: slim but athletic, strong legs, a firm butt. She’s had breast implants, although they’re quite subtle. Nothing exaggerated or artificial-looking, they simply suit her very well.

In short, yes: I’ve always thought she was incredibly hot.

And that’s precisely why she’s one of the women in my social circle I’ve fantasized about the most since I’ve known her. I know exactly how that sounds, considering she’s someone I see regularly and I’m in a relationship myself, but there wouldn’t be much point in telling this story while pretending I’d never noticed her.

The funny thing is, I don’t even think her looks are what attract me most.

Her personality contrasts enormously with the impression she might give at first glance. She has absolutely none of the stereotypical behavior of an incredibly beautiful woman who knows everyone is looking at her and acts accordingly. If anything, she’s the opposite: slightly shy, very sweet, and quite reserved. She never seems to want to be the center of attention.

Years ago, someone told me that she’d been quite overweight during her teens and into early adulthood. Then she discovered exercise, completely changed her habits and, judging by the way she lives now, seems to have made fitness a central part of her life.

Psychologically, she seems to have retained something of that girl who probably didn’t get much attention because of her appearance. I don’t really know how else to explain it. Sometimes she seems almost unaware of the effect she has on other people.

She’s also extraordinarily thoughtful. She’s the kind of person you might casually mention to one day, in the middle of some random conversation, that your father fell over and hurt his leg. Six months later, you see her again at a dinner and, before talking about anything else, she’ll ask, “By the way, how’s your dad? Did he recover properly from that fall?” That sort of thing.

It may sound trivial, but that combination is precisely what I find so attractive: someone physically stunning who at the same time has this shy, approachable and genuinely kind personality.

The thing is, I’ve masturbated quite a few times while looking at her Instagram photos. More times than I should probably admit. By now, I practically know her profile by heart, and I know exactly which photos catch my attention the most.

And speaking of her Instagram, there’s something about it that I’ve always found curious and that, after what I discovered, suddenly started to seem much more significant. I’ll come back to that in a moment.

Because there’s quite a striking contrast between what she’s like in person and the image she projects on social media.

Her Instagram presents a completely different person.

She has quite a lot of bikini photos: on beaches, by pools, at hotels or in hot tubs, many of them with fairly suggestive poses. She also has a few photos where she’s topless with her back to the camera, looking out at the sea or standing somewhere in a hotel, where technically you can’t see anything but where, obviously, the entire effect of the photo comes from the suggestion.

The woman who slightly lowers her eyes when you compliment her in person is the same woman who later posts a photo of herself practically naked from behind on a beach.

I’ll admit that contradiction fueled my fantasies quite a bit.

There’s something else about their social media that has always caught my attention: both she and her husband are constantly photographed with other people. There are lots of pictures with other couples. Dinners for four, weekend getaways, beaches, trips, nights out. Sometimes they’re pictured with another couple, other times she’s hugging another woman or he’s posing with some male friend.

The thing is, incredible as it seems in hindsight, for years I never managed to connect the dots. I’d seen all those photos, had a general idea of the kind of social life they led, and had often noticed the contrast between how reserved she was in person and how uninhibited she could seem online. But it never once occurred to me that there might be anything more behind it. To me, they were simply an attractive, very sociable couple with a busy lifestyle.

Until a few weeks ago.

I was having drinks with my wife and another couple we’ve known for many years. The guy is also a mutual friend of the couple I’m talking about (let’s call them Juan and Noelia) and he knows them considerably better than I do. At one point during the evening, while our wives were talking to each other, he leaned toward me slightly with that expression people get when they’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you some gossip.

“You have no idea what I’ve just found out.”

From the way he said it, I immediately assumed whatever he was about to tell me was going to be interesting.

“What?”

He stared at me for a few seconds, almost enjoying the fact that he had this information.

“Someone saw Noelia and Juan at a swingers’ club.”

My first reaction was to assume he was joking.

“What??”

“I swear.”

And then he started explaining where the story had come from.

Apparently, a friend of his, someone I don’t know, is a regular in those circles. He isn’t particularly close to Juan and Noelia, but he knows them well enough to recognize them immediately. According to what he’d told my friend, when he walked in, he saw them there casually having a drink, as if they were in any ordinary bar. At first, he apparently even doubted whether it was really them because he simply hadn’t expected to run into them in a place like that.

He hadn’t caught them doing anything specific, simply seeing them inside a swingers’ club was revealing enough.

As my friend told me all this, he still had this expression of disbelief on his face. I probably looked even more ridiculous.

Because suddenly, a whole series of little details that I’d spent years treating as completely unrelated started popping into my head all at once.

And my immediate reaction was exactly this: How the fuck had I never realized it before?

All this happened only a few weeks ago and, ever since, you can probably imagine what my head has been like.

I haven’t been able to stop myself from going back to her Instagram again and again, looking at the same photos I already knew by heart but now from a completely different perspective. Photos that used to seem merely suggestive, trips with other couples I’d never thought twice about, certain poses, certain comments... Suddenly, everything seems open to a different interpretation.

Knowing that Noelia and Juan might have this whole side to their lives that I never would have suspected has multiplied the fascination I already felt toward her tenfold. Now I open her profile and catch myself searching for details where previously I saw absolutely nothing, going back through old photos and wondering how many things she might have done over all these years.

I’m probably constructing an enormous story in my head based on very little information. But ever since I was told about it, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

From almost the very beginning of our relationship, my wife would occasionally joke about one of her exes who, according to her, was "gigantic." She's quite petite—about 5'1" (154 cm)—and I'm not especially tall either, around 5'9" (175 cm), so for a long time I assumed she was just exaggerating.

Until one day, while we were joking about past relationships, I don't really know why, but I asked whether that famously gigantic ex was proportionally gifted as well. She immediately blushed and burst out laughing. She tried to dodge the question, and for a few seconds she genuinely looked like she didn't know where to hide. Naturally, that only made me push a little harder.

Eventually, she admitted it.

Yes. According to her, he was pretty big "down there" too.

I should admit that, instead of satisfying my curiosity, that answer awakened something in me that only grew stronger over time.

Not long afterward, I started doing a little investigating. Nothing particularly sophisticated—looking through old Facebook photos, tags, mutual friends, posts from years ago. She had never shown me a picture of him, and somehow he'd become a mysterious character in my mind.

Then I found him.

He was in an old photo uploaded by one of her friends, with my wife tagged in it. I still remember exactly how it felt when I saw it.

She was hugging him around the waist, almost at the height of his backside, because she literally didn't seem to reach much higher. He must have been around 6'6" (200 cm), maybe a little shorter, but the difference between them was almost absurd. And it wasn't just his height—he had broad shoulders, a massive build, the kind of man whose presence takes up half the photograph.

I saved the picture, and it gradually became one of those small secrets you never tell anyone about. The more I tried to rationalize why it fascinated me so much, the more often I found myself going back to it.

There was something about that size difference that stirred a feeling I could barely explain. Jealousy, certainly. Insecurity too. But above all, a strange kind of fascination.

Years passed.

I'd almost accepted that this man would remain nothing more than a forgotten Facebook photo and the occasional fantasy.

Then it happened.

My wife and I were walking through a shopping mall when, some distance away, I noticed an exceptionally large man standing out among the crowd. He was impossible not to notice. Almost immediately, I recognized him despite the beard.

I literally felt a knot in my stomach.

It was him.

My wife had no idea that I knew what he looked like, so I didn't say a word. I kept walking beside her, trying to act completely normal, while inside I was anything but.

Then I realized she'd seen him too.

I could tell she was nervous. She didn't do anything dramatic, but after so many years together I know her expressions perfectly—the way she looks away, starts talking a little faster, that particular look she gets whenever something catches her completely off guard.

I have to admit, seeing her reaction only made my own nerves worse.

A few moments later, she stepped away from me and walked over to say hello to him with a huge smile.

Seeing them together in real life was far more striking than that old photograph.

She looked even smaller beside him than I remembered. Almost like a doll. He was enormous—broad, imposing, physically overwhelming. I watched them from a few yards away as they talked, and I felt an incredibly intense mix of jealousy, embarrassment, curiosity, and... something uncomfortably close to arousal.

Eventually I walked over. My wife introduced us as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. We shook hands, and as silly as it sounds, I still remember the size of his hand wrapped around mine.

We exchanged a few words, talked for maybe a couple of minutes, and then each of us went our separate way. But for the rest of the afternoon, my wife seemed slightly different—quieter, more lost in her own thoughts.

Then again, I was probably exactly the same.

Ever since that day, the scene has replayed in my mind over and over. I've visited his Facebook profile several times; it's private, and he doesn't even have a profile picture. More than once I've hovered over the button to send him a friend request, but I've never gone through with it.

And yet the question won't leave me alone: what if I did? Will I ever actually dare?

(First, I apologize if this isn't the right forum to share this. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a few days, but I have no one to talk to about it. I’m new to this scene, so I apologize to those with more experience for bringing up something that might seem trivial but has really stirred things up inside me)

It’s something I’ve always been aware of: my wife is a very beautiful woman. She’s 38, Latina, with tan skin, slightly almond-shaped eyes, a few freckles, an amazing ass, and a small but very pretty chest. Physically, I’ve always felt that she’s quite a bit out of my league. It was never really a problem for me, it was just something I had quietly accepted. What had never happened before was hearing someone else say it out loud.

A couple of weeks ago, we went out for drinks and ended up sitting at a terrace. At the table next to us were two women who were clearly having a great time, laughing and chatting loudly. My wife is extremely outgoing, so before long she started talking to them. I’m much more introverted, so I mostly stayed quiet while the three of them talked, joked around and got along surprisingly well.

At one point, my wife got up to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with the two women.

Then, completely out of nowhere, one of them looked at me and, with complete seriousness, said to me:

“Your wife is way out of your league.”

She wasn’t laughing. It didn’t sound like a joke, and it had absolutely nothing to do with whatever we had been talking about before. She just looked at me and said it.

The truth is, it made me uncomfortable. It caught me completely off guard. I had thought something similar myself plenty of times, but hearing it from a complete stranger felt very different. It was almost as if someone had suddenly said out loud an insecurity that had always existed privately in my head.

A few minutes later my wife came back, the conversation carried on as if nothing had happened, and eventually the two women left. I didn’t tell my wife what had been said.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

At first, whenever I remembered it, I mostly felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. I kept wondering what exactly that woman had noticed, why she had reached that conclusion so quickly, and why she had felt the need to say it to me.

But the more I replayed the moment in my head, the more that discomfort started turning into something else. A strange kind of excitement.

I found myself going back over the scene again and again: the way she had looked at my wife during the evening, the way she then looked at me, how confident and matter-of-fact she sounded, and the fact that my wife was only a few metres away, completely unaware of what had just been said.

What made me uncomfortable in the moment gradually became more and more of a turn-on.

I don’t know whether it’s because she touched on a real insecurity, because a stranger had confirmed something I had always thought privately, or simply because there was something strangely intimate and humiliating about another person being able to see it so clearly from the outside.

Either way, it’s been a couple of weeks now, and I’m still thinking about that moment far more than I probably should.

It’s something I’ve always been aware of: my wife is a very beautiful woman. She’s 38, Latina, with tan skin, slightly almond-shaped eyes, a few freckles, an amazing ass, and a small but very pretty chest. Physically, I’ve always felt that she’s quite a bit out of my league. It was never really a problem for me, it was just something I had quietly accepted. What had never happened before was hearing someone else say it out loud.

A couple of weeks ago, we went out for drinks and ended up sitting at a terrace. At the table next to us were two women who were clearly having a great time, laughing and chatting loudly. My wife is extremely outgoing, so before long she started talking to them. I’m much more introverted, so I mostly stayed quiet while the three of them talked, joked around and got along surprisingly well.

At one point, my wife got up to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with the two women.

Then, completely out of nowhere, one of them looked at me and, with complete seriousness, said to me:

“Your wife is way out of your league.”

She wasn’t laughing. It didn’t sound like a joke, and it had absolutely nothing to do with whatever we had been talking about before. She just looked at me and said it.

The truth is, it made me uncomfortable. It caught me completely off guard. I had thought something similar myself plenty of times, but hearing it from a complete stranger felt very different. It was almost as if someone had suddenly said out loud an insecurity that had always existed privately in my head.

A few minutes later my wife came back, the conversation carried on as if nothing had happened, and eventually the two women left. I didn’t tell my wife what had been said.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

At first, whenever I remembered it, I mostly felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. I kept wondering what exactly that woman had noticed, why she had reached that conclusion so quickly, and why she had felt the need to say it to me.

But the more I replayed the moment in my head, the more that discomfort started turning into something else. A strange kind of excitement.

I found myself going back over the scene again and again: the way she had looked at my wife during the evening, the way she then looked at me, how confident and matter-of-fact she sounded, and the fact that my wife was only a few metres away, completely unaware of what had just been said.

What made me uncomfortable in the moment gradually became more and more of a turn-on.

I don’t know whether it’s because she touched on a real insecurity, because a stranger had confirmed something I had always thought privately, or simply because there was something strangely intimate and humiliating about another person being able to see it so clearly from the outside.

Either way, it’s been a couple of weeks now, and I’m still thinking about that moment far more than I probably should.

My mother was a very beautiful woman. Obviously, I am her son and might not be the most objective person to say so, but it wasn't just my perception. From a young age, I noticed that she really caught men's attention.

She had long, dark hair, large eyes, a lovely smile, and a very curvaceous figure. She was slender, with round breasts that were well-proportioned to the rest of her body. She was always well-groomed and took great care of her appearance. She could easily have been a model or something similar.

But I think what drew people to her wasn't simply her beauty; it was also her personality. My mother was very sweet, polite, and friendly. She would talk to everyone, usually with a smile. Whenever someone spoke to her, she gave them her full attention and responded kindly.

My father, on the other hand, was always a fairly ordinary-looking man. I don't mean to say he was ugly; he just didn't particularly stand out. I remember wondering, even as a child, what my mother saw in him and how they ended up together. It was probably a rather childish way of understanding relationships, but at the time, it seemed strange to me.

The truth is, from a very young age, I noticed how other men looked at my mother. I remember it bothering me a lot. I felt jealous seeing her receive so much attention and, above all, seeing her talk to men who weren't my father.

In addition to being very attractive, my mother was an extremely sweet and polite woman. Whenever a man spoke to her, she would respond kindly. I am convinced that this manner of hers—which likely meant nothing more to her than simple courtesy and natural friendliness—could have led more than one person to interpret things differently.

I have one particular memory that had been all but forgotten for a long time. I don’t know to what extent it matches exactly what happened, or how much my memory has filled in the gaps over the years. The truth is, it’s a rather hazy memory.

I must have been about eleven or twelve years old. That summer, my parents rented a beach house to spend part of their vacation there. My father, however, couldn't stay the whole week because he had to work. He drove my mother, my little brother, and me there, helped us get settled, and spent a few days with us before heading back home.

For the rest of the week, the three of us stayed there on our own.

The house was part of a fairly quiet residential complex—at least, that’s how I remember it. There was a communal pool surrounded by various houses and apartments. We spent almost the entire day outdoors, moving between the beach and the pool. My brother and I pretty much did our own thing and paid hardly any attention to the adults around us. Sometimes we’d run into a neighbor; we’d exchange greetings, and that was about it.

But there was one man I do remember.

I don’t recall his name, and I couldn't even describe him very well. Nor do I remember how he started talking to my mother. I suppose they met there—perhaps at the pool, or simply because they kept crossing paths. What I do remember is that, over those few days, I saw him talking to her on more than one occasion.

At the time, my mother was around thirty-five, while the man must have been about fifty. Although, come to think of it, he might have been a bit younger—in his mid-forties, perhaps. After all, I was only eleven or twelve, and at that age, I was pretty bad at guessing adults' ages.

The thing is, that man kept hovering around my mother, and it drove me crazy. What bothered me most was that she seemed completely at ease with him. They talked naturally; she laughed at his jokes and—from my child’s perspective—seemed to enjoy his company.

I don’t recall him doing anything particularly brazen in front of us. He simply showed up too often for my liking. If we were at the pool, he would eventually end up talking to my mother. If we ran into him around the complex, he would stop to chat with her. I might be conflating encounters that happened on different days, but my general memory of that week is that the man was paying quite a lot of attention to her.

Up to that point, really, nothing out of the ordinary might have happened. My mother was on vacation; she met a neighbor and talked to him. Viewed that way, there isn't much to explain.

However, there is one episode from that summer that I remember much more clearly.

One night, after my brother and I were already in bed, for some reason I looked out the window and saw my mother leaving the house. It must have been close to midnight. I remember perfectly the strange feeling I had watching her leave at that hour—especially since my father wasn't there and she was leaving us alone.

I don’t know what made me get up and look. Maybe I heard the door. Maybe I wasn't asleep yet and simply saw her from the room. What I do remember is seeing her walk out and immediately wondering where she was going.

At first, I thought she would be right back. Maybe she was going to take out the trash, get something from the car, or have a quick word with someone. But a few minutes passed, and she didn't return.

That’s when I got curious.

I got up, careful not to wake my brother, and looked out the window again. From there, you could see part of the complex, though I don’t recall exactly how much. I looked for my mother and eventually spotted her some distance away from the house.

And she wasn't alone.

She was with that man. That is one detail I am quite certain about. At the time, I didn’t think, "My mother is cheating on my father." I don’t think my mind worked that way yet. What I thought was something much simpler: my mother had left the house at night to be with that man.

And I didn’t like that at all.

I stood there watching for a while. I don’t know if it was thirty seconds or several minutes. From where I was, I could see them talking, and I remember trying to understand what was going on.

Then something happened that made the situation seem like more than just an ordinary conversation.

They moved very close to each other.

And this is where my memory becomes less reliable. I have an image of the two of them bringing their faces close together, and I am almost certain they kissed. Or rather, I remember thinking they were kissing. I couldn’t see them clearly from where I was—it was night—and I don’t know how long I watched them. They could have kissed on the cheek, they could have been talking very close together, or exactly what I now think I remember could have happened.

All I know is that, at the time, it looked like a kiss to me. I remember getting very nervous. I didn’t fully understand what it meant, but I knew I didn’t like it and that, if my father had been there, it probably wouldn’t have happened.

After that, the memory becomes much hazier. I have the impression that I saw them walk away together and enter one of the houses in the complex. I think it was that man’s house, though I’m not even entirely sure of that.

And this is where I stop trusting my memory altogether. I have a fairly vivid image in my head, but I don’t know if it’s actually a memory. It could be a dream I had back then or years later. I’ve even wondered if it might be the memory of a scene from a movie I saw—something I eventually, for some reason, came to associate with that night.

In that image, I am outside the house, looking through a window. I don’t remember how I got there or how much time had passed since I had last seen them together. Nor do I recall whether I had to look for them or if I simply knew where that man lived.

Inside were my mother and him.

I have fragmented images of the two of them hugging and kissing. In that memory, they were standing; he had his arms around her waist, and she had hers around his neck. They were kissing.

I remember his hands beginning to move over her body. First her waist, then her back and hips. Then he moved them up to her breasts and began to caress them over her dress. At some point, he started undressing her. I remember his hands fumbling to remove the dress and her helping him. Once he had taken it off, he kissed her again. She let herself be caressed while touching him in return, running her hands over his shoulders, back, and chest.

Then he began kissing her chest. She kept one hand on his head and the other resting on his shoulder. I also remember his hands moving down toward her waist, hips, and thighs.

I don’t recall exactly how long they stayed like that. All the while, I remained outside, looking through the window. I stayed there a few moments longer, watched, and then left.

I don’t remember confronting my mother. I don’t remember asking her where she had been when she returned. Nor do I remember telling my father anything.

And perhaps that is why, even today, I doubt my own memory so much. If I really saw what I now believe I saw, why didn’t I say anything? Why did that episode practically vanish from my mind for so many years?

The simplest answer is that I was eleven or twelve years old. I understood that I had seen something wrong, but I didn’t necessarily grasp all the implications.

The first time I had anal sex with my wife, something caught my attention. Judging by her reaction and the natural ease with which she handled herself, I got the distinct impression that this wasn't new to her. She didn't exactly seem like an expert, but neither did she seem like someone experiencing it for the first time.

It never bothered me. Quite the opposite: over the years, I grew increasingly curious about who the lucky guy might have been, though I’d ​​never dared to ask her directly.

Until a few days ago.

We had been out for drinks and ended up in bed, feeling pretty amorous. One thing led to another, and we started talking about past experiences; I thought it was the perfect moment to ask.

Her reaction was immediate. She turned bright red and started laughing out of sheer nervousness. She tried to change the subject several times, which, naturally, only piqued my curiosity further. After a little prodding, she finally told me that the story was far more unusual than I had likely imagined.

It happened one summer when she was around twenty years old. She was on vacation with her parents and had wandered into a clothing store. A man much older than her, well over fifty, approached her to ask for her opinion on some garments he was considering buying for his daughters.

They started talking. By all accounts, the man was charming and a good conversationalist; he managed to turn a completely trivial interaction into a rather long conversation. Before saying goodbye, he joked that, given how well she had advised him, perhaps he should hire her as a personal shopper. He gave her his work number and told her she could call him if she ever wanted to take the job.

It was obviously an excuse to give her his number, and it worked.

My wife kept that slip of paper for weeks. She knew perfectly well that the man was much older than her, and he had even mentioned his daughters, so the situation struck her as both absurd and intriguing. Several times she was on the verge of throwing the number away. But in the end, curiosity won out, and she wrote to him.

From then on, they began talking quite frequently. What started as innocent conversations gradually took on a different tone. There was a huge age gap between them, and that was precisely what made the whole situation feel even stranger and more exciting.

Finally, she worked up the courage to meet him. She didn't want to give me too many details about that first date, she only told me she arrived incredibly nervous, acutely aware of the age gap and the fact that she was about to turn what had been nothing more than conversations and fantasies for months into reality. He, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease and knew how to use that difference between them to take the initiative and set the pace of the encounter. According to her, that confidence was precisely what attracted her most: she essentially let herself get swept up in the moment, and they ended up sleeping together that very night.

That first date evolved into a clandestine relationship that lasted for about a year. They didn’t see each other very often, she estimates they met up a total of seven or eight times, so each encounter felt exceptional and illicit. Over time, the initial insecurity faded and their confidence grew, she even ventured to explore things with him that she had never tried before. It was precisely during one of those encounters, well into their on-and-off relationship, that she had her first experience with anal sex.

When she finished telling me, she was still completely flushed, apparently expecting a negative reaction from me. But my reaction was the exact opposite: my cock was rock hard.

(I’m not sure if this post is a good fit for this subreddit. It’s a true story, and I’m not quite sure where I should post it. If you’re expecting an explicitly sexual story, there’s no need to keep reading, this isn’t one.)

I'm pretty new to all of this. It's something I started thinking about last summer, and in fact, I could almost pinpoint the exact moment when, so to speak, a whole new world opened up to me.

I was on vacation with my wife. One morning we were on the beach, and suddenly, as if by chance, she took off her bikini top. It wasn't the first time she'd gone topless. She'd done it a few times when we were younger, but it had never made me feel what I felt that morning.

I started noticing other men looking at her. Most were quite discreet, although some were much less so. And that gave me a very strange feeling: a mixture of embarrassment, jealousy, pride, and prurient curiosity, all at the same time and with an intensity I hadn't expected.

As the days passed, I began to dwell on those feelings. At first, I simply thought about the way those men looked at her and what they might be thinking as they watched her. But, little by little, that curiosity evolved and began to awaken in me a fantasy related to the idea of ​​being cuckolded.

The strange thing is that the feeling of seeing other men looking at my wife, or simply seeing her talking to them, ended up leading me to remember something I had experienced many years before and that, somehow, I had completely forgotten. My mother was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She had a striking presence, and, objectively speaking, I can easily imagine her as a model: long, dark, and well-groomed hair, large and expressive eyes, an especially sweet smile, her feminine and natural curves. Her breasts were round and well-proportioned, with soft shapes. But it wasn't just her physical appearance; she had a way of moving, looking, and interacting with others that was incredibly attractive. My father, on the other hand, was always a fairly ordinary man. In fact, for many years I wondered what my mother had seen in him and how they had ended up together.

The thing is, from a very young age, I was aware of the way other men looked at my mother. I remember that it bothered me a lot. I felt jealous seeing her receive so much attention and, especially, seeing her talking to men who weren't my father.

Besides being very attractive, my mother was an extremely sweet and polite woman. Whenever any man addressed her, she always responded kindly. I'm convinced that this way of being, which for her probably meant nothing more than politeness and naturalness, could have led more than one person to interpret things differently.

And it was precisely when I began to reflect on what I felt for my wife that those childhood memories started to surface.

There's one in particular that had been practically forgotten for a very long time. I don't know to what extent it corresponds exactly to what happened and to what extent my memory has filled in the gaps over the years. The truth is, it's a rather hazy memory.

I must have been about eleven or twelve years old. That summer, my parents had rented a house at the beach to spend part of their vacation there. My father, however, couldn't stay the whole week because he had to keep working, so he took my mother, my little brother, and me there, helped us get settled, and after spending a few days there, returned home. During the week, therefore, the three of us were alone in the complex, and he came and went as he pleased.

The house was located within a complex that, at least as I remember it now, was quite quiet. There was a communal swimming pool and several houses and apartments surrounding it. We spent most of the day out, mainly between the beach and the pool, and he barely paid attention to the adults who came and went. Occasionally, we'd run into a neighbor, exchange a greeting, and that was about it.

However, there is one man who has stayed with me. I don't remember his name or where he appeared from. I also don't remember exactly how he met my mother. I only know that he was staying in the same housing complex and that, during those days, I ran into him several times. What I remember most is seeing him talking to my mother.

I don't know if those conversations were frequent or if my memory has simply given them more importance than they actually had. What I do remember is that, every time I saw him near her, I noticed him. Perhaps because he was quite a bit older than my mother, and from my child's perspective, the age difference caught my attention.

At that time, my mother was around thirty-five years old, while that man must have been around fifty. Although, thinking about it now, perhaps he was a bit younger and in his forties; after all, I was only eleven or twelve years old, and from a child's perspective, any adult approaching fifty could seem much older.

The thing is, that man kept hovering around my mother, and it drove me crazy. What bothered me most was that she seemed completely at ease with him. They talked naturally, she laughed at his jokes, and from my child's perspective, it seemed like she enjoyed his company.

Up to that point, it might not have been a big deal. However, there's one episode from that summer that I remember with a clarity unlike any other. One night, when my brother and I were already in bed, for some reason I looked out the window and saw my mother leaving the house. It must have been around midnight. I perfectly remember the strange feeling I had seeing her leave at that hour, especially since my father wasn't there and she was leaving us alone.

I don't know how long I was awake, but I remember waiting for her to come back. It must have been two or three hours before she finally returned. And there's another detail that stuck with me: when she realized I was still awake, she got very angry with me. That particularly infuriated me. From my childish perspective, I thought I was the one who had reason to be angry with her, not the other way around.

The thing is, as the years have passed, I've come to wonder if that night I might have unwittingly witnessed something I was then unable to comprehend: perhaps my mother's infidelity. But the truth is, even I don't know to what extent that interpretation corresponds to what actually happened. It's possible I'm reconstructing those memories from my current perspective, and that by relating them to my fantasies and everything I've thought about my mother and my own reactions to other men, I've ended up assigning a different meaning to situations that, at the time, could have been completely innocent.

Something happened shortly afterward that made my suspicions, at least for me, seem somewhat plausible. When my father came to pick us up and we returned home, after a few days I began to notice a strange tension between them. I don't remember any specific argument or either of them explaining what was going on, but it was clear that something was wrong.

My parents were angry with each other, and from what I remember, it wasn't just a passing argument. For several weeks, they barely spoke to each other. They lived under the same roof, but the tension between them was so palpable that even I, still a child, could sense it perfectly. I didn't fully understand what was happening, nor did I have enough information to draw any conclusions, but I think that even then, my mind began to connect the situation with what had happened that summer. I remember even thinking that perhaps it all had something to do with that man and the possibility that my mother had been unfaithful to my father.

The thing is, as the years have passed, I've come to wonder if that night I might have unwittingly witnessed something I was then unable to comprehend: perhaps my mother's infidelity. But the truth is, even I don't know to what extent that interpretation corresponds to what actually happened. It's possible I'm reconstructing those memories from my current perspective, and that by relating them to my fantasies and everything I've thought about my mother and my own reactions to other men, I've ended up assigning a different meaning to situations that, at the time, could have been completely innocent.

Something happened shortly afterward that made my suspicions, at least for me, seem somewhat plausible. When my father came to pick us up and we returned home, after a few days I began to notice a strange tension between them. I don't remember any specific argument or either of them explaining what was going on, but it was clear that something was wrong.

I think that, in some way that's hard to explain, all those experiences may have influenced how I've approached romantic relationships throughout adulthood. Over time, I've come to think that perhaps I developed a kind of unconscious attraction to women who, because of their personality or the way they interacted with others, seemed more inclined toward infidelity (my first girlfriend cheated on me). I don't know to what extent this is actually a pattern or an interpretation I'm making now in hindsight, but it's a possibility that I find increasingly difficult to ignore.

I wonder to what extent all these events may have influenced my current fantasies.

(I’m not sure if this post is a good fit for this subreddit. It’s a true story, and I’m not quite sure where I should post it. If you’re expecting an explicitly sexual story, there’s no need to keep reading, this isn’t one.)

I'm pretty new to all of this. It's something I started thinking about last summer, and in fact, I could almost pinpoint the exact moment when, so to speak, a whole new world opened up to me.

I was on vacation with my wife. One morning we were on the beach, and suddenly, as if by chance, she took off her bikini top. It wasn't the first time she'd gone topless. She'd done it a few times when we were younger, but it had never made me feel what I felt that morning.

I started noticing other men looking at her. Most were quite discreet, although some were much less so. And that gave me a very strange feeling: a mixture of embarrassment, jealousy, pride, and prurient curiosity, all at the same time and with an intensity I hadn't expected.

As the days passed, I began to dwell on those feelings. At first, I simply thought about the way those men looked at her and what they might be thinking as they watched her. But, little by little, that curiosity evolved and began to awaken in me a fantasy related to the idea of ​​being cuckolded.

The strange thing is that the feeling of seeing other men looking at my wife, or simply seeing her talking to them, ended up leading me to remember something I had experienced many years before and that, somehow, I had completely forgotten. My mother was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She had a striking presence, and, objectively speaking, I can easily imagine her as a model: long, dark, and well-groomed hair, large and expressive eyes, an especially sweet smile, her feminine and natural curves. Her breasts were round and well-proportioned, with soft shapes. But it wasn't just her physical appearance; she had a way of moving, looking, and interacting with others that was incredibly attractive. My father, on the other hand, was always a fairly ordinary man. In fact, for many years I wondered what my mother had seen in him and how they had ended up together.

The thing is, from a very young age, I was aware of the way other men looked at my mother. I remember that it bothered me a lot. I felt jealous seeing her receive so much attention and, especially, seeing her talking to men who weren't my father.

Besides being very attractive, my mother was an extremely sweet and polite woman. Whenever any man addressed her, she always responded kindly. I'm convinced that this way of being, which for her probably meant nothing more than politeness and naturalness, could have led more than one person to interpret things differently.

And it was precisely when I began to reflect on what I felt for my wife that those childhood memories started to surface.

There's one in particular that had been practically forgotten for a very long time. I don't know to what extent it corresponds exactly to what happened and to what extent my memory has filled in the gaps over the years. The truth is, it's a rather hazy memory.

I must have been about eleven or twelve years old. That summer, my parents had rented a house at the beach to spend part of their vacation there. My father, however, couldn't stay the whole week because he had to keep working, so he took my mother, my little brother, and me there, helped us get settled, and after spending a few days there, returned home. During the week, therefore, the three of us were alone in the complex, and he came and went as he pleased.

The house was located within a complex that, at least as I remember it now, was quite quiet. There was a communal swimming pool and several houses and apartments surrounding it. We spent most of the day out, mainly between the beach and the pool, and he barely paid attention to the adults who came and went. Occasionally, we'd run into a neighbor, exchange a greeting, and that was about it.

However, there is one man who has stayed with me. I don't remember his name or where he appeared from. I also don't remember exactly how he met my mother. I only know that he was staying in the same housing complex and that, during those days, I ran into him several times. What I remember most is seeing him talking to my mother.

I don't know if those conversations were frequent or if my memory has simply given them more importance than they actually had. What I do remember is that, every time I saw him near her, I noticed him. Perhaps because he was quite a bit older than my mother, and from my child's perspective, the age difference caught my attention.

At that time, my mother was around thirty-five years old, while that man must have been around fifty. Although, thinking about it now, perhaps he was a bit younger and in his forties; after all, I was only eleven or twelve years old, and from a child's perspective, any adult approaching fifty could seem much older.

The thing is, that man kept hovering around my mother, and it drove me crazy. What bothered me most was that she seemed completely at ease with him. They talked naturally, she laughed at his jokes, and from my child's perspective, it seemed like she enjoyed his company.

Up to that point, it might not have been a big deal. However, there's one episode from that summer that I remember with a clarity unlike any other. One night, when my brother and I were already in bed, for some reason I looked out the window and saw my mother leaving the house. It must have been around midnight. I perfectly remember the strange feeling I had seeing her leave at that hour, especially since my father wasn't there and she was leaving us alone.

I don't know how long I was awake, but I remember waiting for her to come back. It must have been two or three hours before she finally returned. And there's another detail that stuck with me: when she realized I was still awake, she got very angry with me. That particularly infuriated me. From my childish perspective, I thought I was the one who had reason to be angry with her, not the other way around.

The thing is, as the years have passed, I've come to wonder if that night I might have unwittingly witnessed something I was then unable to comprehend: perhaps my mother's infidelity. But the truth is, even I don't know to what extent that interpretation corresponds to what actually happened. It's possible I'm reconstructing those memories from my current perspective, and that by relating them to my fantasies and everything I've thought about my mother and my own reactions to other men, I've ended up assigning a different meaning to situations that, at the time, could have been completely innocent.

Something happened shortly afterward that made my suspicions, at least for me, seem somewhat plausible. When my father came to pick us up and we returned home, after a few days I began to notice a strange tension between them. I don't remember any specific argument or either of them explaining what was going on, but it was clear that something was wrong.

My parents were angry with each other, and from what I remember, it wasn't just a passing argument. For several weeks, they barely spoke to each other. They lived under the same roof, but the tension between them was so palpable that even I, still a child, could sense it perfectly. I didn't fully understand what was happening, nor did I have enough information to draw any conclusions, but I think that even then, my mind began to connect the situation with what had happened that summer. I remember even thinking that perhaps it all had something to do with that man and the possibility that my mother had been unfaithful to my father.

The thing is, as the years have passed, I've come to wonder if that night I might have unwittingly witnessed something I was then unable to comprehend: perhaps my mother's infidelity. But the truth is, even I don't know to what extent that interpretation corresponds to what actually happened. It's possible I'm reconstructing those memories from my current perspective, and that by relating them to my fantasies and everything I've thought about my mother and my own reactions to other men, I've ended up assigning a different meaning to situations that, at the time, could have been completely innocent.

Something happened shortly afterward that made my suspicions, at least for me, seem somewhat plausible. When my father came to pick us up and we returned home, after a few days I began to notice a strange tension between them. I don't remember any specific argument or either of them explaining what was going on, but it was clear that something was wrong.

I think that, in some way that's hard to explain, all those experiences may have influenced how I've approached romantic relationships throughout adulthood. Over time, I've come to think that perhaps I developed a kind of unconscious attraction to women who, because of their personality or the way they interacted with others, seemed more inclined toward infidelity (my first girlfriend cheated on me). I don't know to what extent this is actually a pattern or an interpretation I'm making now in hindsight, but it's a possibility that I find increasingly difficult to ignore.

I wonder to what extent all these events may have influenced my current fantasies.

Before anything else, I should say that I'm quite new to this, so if I say anything inappropriate, I hope you'll forgive me.

As I said, I'm pretty new to all of this. It's something I started thinking about last summer, and in fact, I could almost pinpoint the exact moment when, so to speak, a whole new world opened up to me.

I was on vacation with my wife. One morning we were on the beach, and suddenly, as if by chance, she took off her bikini top. It wasn't the first time she'd gone topless. She'd done it a few times when we were younger, but it had never made me feel what I felt that morning.

I started noticing other men looking at her. Most were quite discreet, although some were much less so. And that gave me a very strange feeling: a mixture of embarrassment, jealousy, pride, and prurient curiosity, all at the same time and with an intensity I hadn't expected.

As the days passed, I began to dwell on those feelings. At first, I simply thought about the way those men looked at her and what they might be thinking as they watched her. But, little by little, that curiosity evolved and began to awaken in me a fantasy related to the idea of ​​being cuckolded.

The strange thing is that the feeling of seeing other men looking at my wife, or simply seeing her talking to them, ended up leading me to remember something I had experienced many years before and that, somehow, I had completely forgotten. My mother was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She had a striking presence, and, objectively speaking, I can easily imagine her as a model: long, dark, and well-groomed hair, large and expressive eyes, an especially sweet smile, her feminine and natural curves. Her breasts were round and well-proportioned, with soft shapes. But it wasn't just her physical appearance; she had a way of moving, looking, and interacting with others that was incredibly attractive. My father, on the other hand, was always a fairly ordinary man. In fact, for many years I wondered what my mother had seen in him and how they had ended up together.

The thing is, from a very young age, I was aware of the way other men looked at my mother. I remember that it bothered me a lot. I felt jealous seeing her receive so much attention and, especially, seeing her talking to men who weren't my father.

Besides being very attractive, my mother was an extremely sweet and polite woman. Whenever any man addressed her, she always responded kindly. I'm convinced that this way of being, which for her probably meant nothing more than politeness and naturalness, could have led more than one person to interpret things differently.

And it was precisely when I began to reflect on what I felt for my wife that those childhood memories started to surface.

There's one in particular that had been practically forgotten for a very long time. I don't know to what extent it corresponds exactly to what happened and to what extent my memory has filled in the gaps over the years. The truth is, it's a rather hazy memory.

I must have been about eleven or twelve years old. That summer, my parents had rented a house at the beach to spend part of their vacation there. My father, however, couldn't stay the whole week because he had to keep working, so he took my mother, my little brother, and me there, helped us get settled, and after spending a few days there, returned home. During the week, therefore, the three of us were alone in the complex, and he came and went as he pleased.

The house was located within a complex that, at least as I remember it now, was quite quiet. There was a communal swimming pool and several houses and apartments surrounding it. We spent most of the day out, mainly between the beach and the pool, and he barely paid attention to the adults who came and went. Occasionally, we'd run into a neighbor, exchange a greeting, and that was about it.

However, there is one man who has stayed with me. I don't remember his name or where he appeared from. I also don't remember exactly how he met my mother. I only know that he was staying in the same housing complex and that, during those days, I ran into him several times. What I remember most is seeing him talking to my mother.

I don't know if those conversations were frequent or if my memory has simply given them more importance than they actually had. What I do remember is that, every time I saw him near her, I noticed him. Perhaps because he was quite a bit older than my mother, and from my child's perspective, the age difference caught my attention.

At that time, my mother was around thirty-five years old, while that man must have been around fifty. Although, thinking about it now, perhaps he was a bit younger and in his forties; after all, I was only eleven or twelve years old, and from a child's perspective, any adult approaching fifty could seem much older.

The thing is, that man kept hovering around my mother, and it drove me crazy. What bothered me most was that she seemed completely at ease with him. They talked naturally, she laughed at his jokes, and from my child's perspective, it seemed like she enjoyed his company.

Up to that point, it might not have been a big deal. However, there's one episode from that summer that I remember with a clarity unlike any other. One night, when my brother and I were already in bed, for some reason I looked out the window and saw my mother leaving the house. It must have been around midnight. I perfectly remember the strange feeling I had seeing her leave at that hour, especially since my father wasn't there and she was leaving us alone.

I don't know how long I was awake, but I remember waiting for her to come back. It must have been two or three hours before she finally returned. And there's another detail that stuck with me: when she realized I was still awake, she got very angry with me. That particularly infuriated me. From my childish perspective, I thought I was the one who had reason to be angry with her, not the other way around.

The thing is, as the years have passed, I've come to wonder if that night I might have unwittingly witnessed something I was then unable to comprehend: perhaps my mother's infidelity. But the truth is, even I don't know to what extent that interpretation corresponds to what actually happened. It's possible I'm reconstructing those memories from my current perspective, and that by relating them to my fantasies and everything I've thought about my mother and my own reactions to other men, I've ended up assigning a different meaning to situations that, at the time, could have been completely innocent.

Something happened shortly afterward that made my suspicions, at least for me, seem somewhat plausible. When my father came to pick us up and we returned home, after a few days I began to notice a strange tension between them. I don't remember any specific argument or either of them explaining what was going on, but it was clear that something was wrong.

My parents were angry with each other, and from what I remember, it wasn't just a passing argument. For several weeks, they barely spoke to each other. They lived under the same roof, but the tension between them was so palpable that even I, still a child, could sense it perfectly. I didn't fully understand what was happening, nor did I have enough information to draw any conclusions, but I think that even then, my mind began to connect the situation with what had happened that summer. I remember even thinking that perhaps it all had something to do with that man and the possibility that my mother had been unfaithful to my father.

The thing is, as the years have passed, I've come to wonder if that night I might have unwittingly witnessed something I was then unable to comprehend: perhaps my mother's infidelity. But the truth is, even I don't know to what extent that interpretation corresponds to what actually happened. It's possible I'm reconstructing those memories from my current perspective, and that by relating them to my fantasies and everything I've thought about my mother and my own reactions to other men, I've ended up assigning a different meaning to situations that, at the time, could have been completely innocent.

Something happened shortly afterward that made my suspicions, at least for me, seem somewhat plausible. When my father came to pick us up and we returned home, after a few days I began to notice a strange tension between them. I don't remember any specific argument or either of them explaining what was going on, but it was clear that something was wrong.

I think that, in some way that's hard to explain, all those experiences may have influenced how I've approached romantic relationships throughout adulthood. Over time, I've come to think that perhaps I developed a kind of unconscious attraction to women who, because of their personality or the way they interacted with others, seemed more inclined toward infidelity (my first girlfriend cheated on me). I don't know to what extent this is actually a pattern or an interpretation I'm making now in hindsight, but it's a possibility that I find increasingly difficult to ignore.

I wonder to what extent all these events may have influenced my current fantasies.

The truth is, I don't even know if there's a specific name for this kind of fetish. I imagine there is, because within human sexuality there's practically everything, but I've never found a definition that fits exactly what I experience. Nor do I think it should necessarily be confused with cuckolding. Although there might be some points in common, I feel that my thing is different.

Let me explain.

My fetish is unfaithful women. I feel an enormous curiosity about a woman who has cheated on her partner, and the mere fact of knowing this can provoke enormous arousal in me. It could be my own wife, a friend's wife, an acquaintance, or even a woman I barely know. What I find especially stimulating is discovering that, behind the image she projects, there's a story of infidelity.

And there's an important detail: I don't necessarily imagine myself with her.

In fact, many times the exact opposite happens. It excites me to imagine her with another man, to think that she's cheated on her partner and that there's a part of her sex life she keeps separate from that relationship. I don't need to be part of the fantasy for it to be exciting for me. Sometimes, simply knowing that a woman has been unfaithful is enough.

In fact, many times the exact opposite happens. It excites me to imagine her with another man, to think that she's cheated on her partner and that there's a part of her sex life she keeps separate from that relationship. I don't need to be part of the fantasy for it to be exciting for me. Sometimes, simply knowing that a woman has been unfaithful is enough.

I think that's where I find the difference with cuckolding. In cuckolding, at least as I understand it, the central element is usually related to the man who plays the role of the betrayed partner and the arousal derived from watching or imagining his partner with another man. In my case, the interest seems to be much more focused on the unfaithful woman herself: on knowing that she has cheated, that she's having an affair, or that she has deliberately crossed that line.

It's something I've been developing for years, although for a long time I didn't even want to admit it. At first, I thought I was simply drawn to certain stories or specific situations.

That's why I'm curious to know if anyone else experiences something similar.

Is there a specific term for this fetish? Is it a variation of cuckolding, or is it considered something different? And, above all, are there other people who find it particularly arousing when a woman is unfaithful, even without necessarily wanting to participate in that infidelity?

I'm especially interested in hearing about the experiences of people who have discovered something similar within themselves.

These kinds of situations have always really turned me on. If you know of any cases, please go into detail. It doesn't necessarily have to be your partner; it could be a friend's partner, a coworker, or anyone else. I'd also appreciate it if you read about it on Reddit and linked to the post.