My Cuckquean Wife Wants Me to Sleep With Her Bully in Reverse World

Milk sloshes in my bowl as I stare at the handwritten list clutched in my fingers. The morning sunlight streams through our kitchen window, turning Sabrina's blonde pixie cut into a golden halo. These quiet Saturday mornings feel sacred somehow, like we've carved out this small pocket of normalcay in the chaos our lives have become lately.

"Okay, number one on the conversation topics for tonight," I announce, tapping the paper with my spoon. "Would I seem interesting if I told people that I think maybe Epstein did in fact kill herself?"

Sabrina nearly chokes on her coffee. She sets the mug down carefully, pressing her lips together in that way she does when she's trying desperately not to laugh. Her eyes dart away from mine, focusing intently on her toast as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

"I mean..." she starts, voice strained with suppressed laughter, "maybe save that one for after everyone's had a few drinks?"

I nod seriously, making a small notation beside the first item. "Fair point. Alcohol first, conspiracy theories second. Got it."

A week has passed since the motel incident with Tara, and something has shifted between Sabrina and me. Not in a bad way, quite the opposite. We've been existing in this bubble of domestic bliss, cooking together, watching movies curled up on the couch, making love with an intensity that reminds me of our early days. It's like we both needed to recalibrate, to remember who we are together without the complications of her kink coloring everything.

"Now, what's number two?" Sabrina asks, reaching for her coffee mug again.

"Number two..." I clear my throat dramatically, flipping my wrist to present the next item with flair. "I could tell people I absorbed my twin in the womb and that I absorbed all of it's power."

Sabrina's eyebrows shoot up as she sets her coffee down with a decisive clink. "Absolutely not, Leo."

"What? It's a great conversation starter!" I protest, trying to keep the grin off my face.

"Need I remind you what happened at O'Malley's last month?" She leans forward, her blue eyes narrowing. "Everyone at the bar started calling you 'Twin Killer' for the rest of the night, and you spent the entire Uber ride home complaining about it."

The memory floods back, me, three beers in, dramatically telling a group of strangers about my "cannibalistic prenatal origins" while Sabrina watched with that mixture of horror and amusement I've come to cherish.

"Right," I concede, drawing a thick line through item number two. "Good thinking. That night got weird fast."

I tap my pen against my lips, considering the remaining items on my list. Tonight's party at TechVance Solutions is important to Sabrina. As a senior project manager there, she's worked hard to build her reputation, and I want to be the perfect husband, charming, witty, but not the guy who makes her colleagues uncomfortable with stories about fetal absorption.

"Maybe I should stick to asking people about their hobbies?" I suggest, suddenly doubting my entire approach to social interaction.

Sabrina reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "You're overthinking this, babe. My coworkers already like you."

"They've only met me a handful of times," I remind her. "And I was on my best behavior."

"Just be yourself," she says, then quickly adds, "But maybe not the 'I ate my twin' version of yourself. More like the 'helps old men cross the street' version."

I glance down at my list again, just as Sabrina's eyes drift to item number three. Her expression shifts from amusement to something more complicated as she reads 'Firefighters are gay?' silently to herself.

Without a word, she reaches across the table, gently pries the paper from my fingers, and drops it directly into the trash can beside the refrigerator.

"Wait, I…" I start, but the words die in my throat as I realize how that must have looked to her. "That wasn't, I meant it as a question, not a statement. Like, do firefighters statistically identify as gay more often than other professions? I was genuinely curious."

Sabrina returns to her seat, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Let's just commit to what I said before, okay? Be yourself, but the version that doesn't make my coworkers file HR complaints."

"Alright," I say, raising my hands in surrender. "No weird questions or conspiracy theories. I'll be charming, but normal."

I fidget with my coffee mug, suddenly struck by another potential conversational landmine. "Wait, what if someone brings up 9/11 to me, though? I've been reading this fascinating theory about how the…"

Sabrina's hand covers mine instantly, her fingers wrapping around my knuckles with gentle but unmistakable pressure. Her expression shifts to that particular mix of affection and exasperation I've come to know so well.

"Leo," she says quietly, her thumb stroking the back of my hand, "you're not allowed to talk about 9/11 anymore, remember? We agreed after the dinner with my parents."

The memory flashes back, her father's reddening face, her mother's shocked expression, the awkward silence that followed my innocent questions.

"You're right," I concede with a sigh, slumping slightly in my chair. "No 9/11 talk."

Sabrina takes a thoughtful sip of her coffee, those blue eyes watching me over the rim of her mug. When she sets it down, there's a new glint there, something excited that makes my stomach do a little flip.

"You know," she says casually, tracing the rim of her mug with one finger, "if you really want to make a good impression tonight, there might be another approach we could take."

"I'm listening," I say, grateful for any lifeline at this point.

She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to that silky register that usually precedes something that will either thrill or terrify me. "Victoria's been asking about you, you know."

"Your boss?" I blink, confused. "What about me?"

"She thinks you're..." Sabrina pauses, a small smile playing at her lips, "charming. In fact, if you wanted to be a really good boy tonight, you might consider propositioning her."

I choke on my coffee, coughing violently as the liquid goes down the wrong pipe. "I'm sorry, what?" I sputter, eyes watering. "You want me to hit on your boss? At your company party?"

Sabrina's expression doesn't waver. If anything, her smile grows more pronounced, that familiar hungry look creeping into her eyes. "She's single. Attractive. And I've seen the way she looks at you."

My mind reels, trying to process what's happening. Just when I thought we were taking a break from this whole arrangement, here she is, casually suggesting I seduce her boss at a professional event.

"Sabrina," I say carefully, setting my mug down with a controlled motion, "you can't be serious. This is your workplace. These are your colleagues. Your career could be…"

"Victoria's divorced," she interrupts, as if that's the only relevant objection. "She's mentioned several times how hard it is to meet men."

I stare at my wife, searching her face for any sign that this is an elaborate joke. "And what exactly am I supposed to do? Walk up to her and say, 'Hey, Victoria, my wife thinks we should hook up'?"

Sabrina laughs, that musical sound that still makes my heart skip even after all these years. "Of course not," she says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. "Just get her alone when she's had a few drinks, compliment her a little, and then..." She pauses, lowering her voice to a sultry whisper, "just ask if you can stick it in."

My jaw drops. "You can't be serious."

"I am," she insists, taking another sip of coffee with casual confidence. "No woman with a brain would turn down a good dicking from my husband."

Her words hit me like a physical force, not just the crude suggestion, but the absolute conviction behind them. The unwavering belief she has in me. Despite everything, I feel heat rising to my cheeks, oddly flattered by her assessment of my... abilities.

"And if that somehow doesn't work," she continues, setting down her mug, "just hint that I'm not properly putting out at home. That'll do the trick."

"That's so embarrassing," I protest weakly, my voice cracking slightly. The thought of telling her boss such an intimate lie makes my stomach twist with anxiety.

Sabrina rises from her chair with fluid grace, circling the table until she's standing over me. Her eyes have darkened with that familiar hunger that both thrills and terrifies me. She leans down, one hand bracing against the table, the other cupping my chin to tilt my face upward.

"Baby," she whispers, her lips hovering just above mine, "it would make me so happy if you fucked my boss."

She closes the distance between us, capturing my mouth in a kiss that's equal parts tender and possessive. I can taste the coffee on her tongue, feel the heat of her desire radiating between us. When she finally pulls away, I'm breathless, my thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.

"I'll try my best for you," I murmur against her lips, my resolve melting like ice cream in summer heat. "But if Victoria says no, there's only so much I can do without coming across as a psycho."

Sabrina pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, her fingers still warm against my jaw.

"Don't undersell yourself, Leo," she says, brushing her thumb across my bottom lip. "I believe in you. Completely."

My stomach tightens with a familiar mixture of anxiety and determination. That look in her eyes, that unwavering confidence, it gets me every time. For Sabrina, I would climb mountains barefoot. I would swim oceans. I would proposition her boss at a company party.

"Okay," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'll do it."