The Tightening 2: Heather Cuckolds Pete 2


Read Part 1

Part 2…

“Hiya, buddy, have a minute?” Harry Pendling asks, sticking his head in Pete’s office.

Two weeks since Pete overheard Harry say he’s going to fuck Pete’s wife, Heather. Pete believed Harry, despite his wife never indicating the slightest tendency to cheat. Harry struts up to Pete’s desk as Pete scans him, head to toe. This is the guy he’s contemplating letting into his wife? (Or at least not doing anything to forestall him gaining entry.) Harry is impressively dressed: shiny shoes, slick suit, a haircut that probably cost hundreds of dollars. He was well put-together, but Harry wasn’t the most impressive male specimen.

Fit, middle-aged, moderately balding, with undistinguished features. Determined in the eyes, with a rakish smile. Combined with his personality, you’d call his looks attractive, but his body alone you’d call plain. Pete witnessed Harry’s manhood in the locker room, an environment he was reluctant to think about. His wife, due to the new trends inspired by the Vartan Procedure–the vaginal tightening surgery that had set off a mania for undersized men–encouraged him to flaunt his small penis whenever he was allowed to be naked in public. As Pete flaunted himself, he took to noticing others; his wife had conditioned him to think of social interactions in terms of penises.

Harry’s dick wasn’t overwhelming. Average, Pete would say. But he never saw it hard. According to Harry’s reputation, plenty of women had seen it hard. Including employees of the firm. Pete wasn’t privy to girly office sex gossip, so he doesn’t know the whole story. But they were all still friendly with Harry, so he must have done something right.

“Yeah, sure, what’s up?” Pete responds.

“I have a lead on a new client, but I’m drowning. Thought I’d throw it your way.”


Harry never passed on new business. His dad, John Pendling, was a senior partner at the firm. Harry was always scrambling to impress him, and landing clients were the only part of the job he was any good at.

“I know you worked hard on the Stone account, and I feel bad we couldn’t keep you onboard. But, you know, other guys were on the business from the beginning,” explains Harry.

“No need to apologize,” Pete chips in on grunt work for the good of the firm, and doesn’t mind missing out on the rewards.

“Anyways, an old school friend will be in town next Thursday. Supposed to meet him at the University Club for dinner, but I’m booked. Nothing fancy, just dinner. My girl will fill your girl in one the details.”

“But Harry, what—”

“Can’t stay, gotta go. Seriously, no big deal. You’ll get the skinny from my girl.”

With that, Harry was gone, as abruptly as he dropped in. The two were never buddy-buddy, and though Harry was habitually casual, he didn’t usually talk to Pete as an equal. He wasn’t imperious, but he was subtly condescending and occasionally bullish. Something was up. It hits him like a punch to the gut. Pete is suddenly sure Thursday dinner time is when Harry will fuck his wife. Harry’d know right where Pete would be; what better opportunity? Pete didn’t know whether Harry had even approached Heather, let alone seduced her.

But he was sure it was going to happen, and there was nothing he would do to stop it. The question remains: does he want it to happen? Does he want Heather to cheat on him, as his other serious girlfriends had? Does he want to catch them? Watch them, even? Yes. It makes him sick to his stomach, but yes. He wants it to happen. He wants to see a bigger dick go into his wife.


Weeks back, at the firm’s preferred country club, Pete tagged along on a golf outing with Harry and John Pendling. John needed help with Harvey Stone, retail clothier, and problem client. He believed in throwing bodies at problems: the more lawyers working on your case, the more important you are. That was the idea. Pete could barely swing a stick, but they needed someone with a handle on the particulars of the case Harv Stone had any questions. Pete put aside his own pressing work for weeks in preparation. Turns out Harv didn’t want to talk law. He was in search of the sunshine, open air, and a chance to brag about all the pussy his millions bought him, overweight, sallow, and domineering as he was.

“I tell ya, it’s getting tough, though,” admitted Harv.

“What, less lead in your pencil?” joked Harry.

Harry and Harv had an easy give and take, which John, a generation older and contentedly married for forty years, didn’t share.

“Ha, no. I mean these new girls, the ones that had work done. You know, ‘the Procedure.'”


We all knew. The Vartan Procedure caused a mini-revolution in sexual relations that apparently didn’t sit well with Harv. “They don’t appreciate a guy like me much as they used to,” said Harv, obviously hinting about his penis size.

“I know what you mean. It’s as if they’re afraid I’m gonna spoil the work. Come on, lady, you’re supposed to stretch to accommodate, you know what I’m saying?” said Harry.

Harry and Harv both wanted us to know they were bigger than Vartan girls were comfortable with, though they didn’t come out and say it. John remained silent, but Pete knew he was uncomfortable. The conversation drifted to the inevitable: “That bitch Cherry,” said Harv.

Again, we knew what he meant. He didn’t have to spell it out. Pop singer Cherry was a Vartan girl who publicly cheated on her stud of a husband with a smaller-dicked man, which convinced lots of girls who’d undergone the procedure that small dicks were a better fit.

“Yeah, she made it hard for a lot of us, that’s for sure. I always have that extra bit of convincing to do, if you know what I mean,” said Harry.

John frowned, and his son noticed. “I guess dad disapproves.”

“I just think you should settle down, give Mary and I a coupla grandkids,” said John.

“Plenty of time, John. I had my last when I was 53,” said Harv.

“You were married at 21. I was at the wedding,” countered John.

“First time, yeah.” “How many times for you, Harv?” asked Harry.

“Twice. Total waste, if it weren’t for the kids.”

“But you have the kids,” said John, “and there’s no substitute.”

“Whether or not I chain myself down, I dunno. But I’ll have kids when the girls stop paying attention to me,” said Harry.

“You can divert their attention whenever you want. Stop going to nightclubs, dressing up, stalking them like prey. I know what you’re up to. You must spend a fortune on…”

John was on a roll, but Harv interrupted. “Now, now, what one man spends his money on, another…I’d resent having anyone dictate how I spend a nickel,” said Harv.

“And you don’t get it, dad. They give it away. Practically throw it at you,” said Harry.

The talk petered out from there. The group was on the ninth hole anyway, and from there it was on to the clubhouse. Harvey Stone and John Pendling retired to the bar to discuss whatever it is millionaires discuss with each other.

Harry pulled Pete aside briefly. “Hey, sorry if our talk made you uncomfortable,” he said confidentially.

“No, I was fine. Here to help…Why, what do you mean?” asked Pete hesitantly.

“The stuff about Vartan girls and Cherry. We get carried away, Harv and I, and, well, we all know about you. Everyone at the office that is. You’re a different kind of guy. That’s cool and all, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Pete felt as though Harry did want to make him uncomfortable. He had cornered Pete in the hallway near the bar and was pressing into Pete’s personal space as he delivered this aggressive apology, this inconsiderate consideration. Passersby interrupted the pair with piercing laughter. A group of girls, 18-19, diverted Harry’s attention. He didn’t retrieve the thread of his apology, and the pair headed toward the locker rooms in silence. Pete was tight in the chest, dreading his husbandly duty to show off his lack of manhood. Loitering near the laundry basket just inside the door is Tony and Mark, two third-year lawyers from the firm. Tony runs with Harry on the pickup scene; Mark is a hanger-on. Tony and Harry leaped immediately into shop talk (sex, not law) as Pete undressed and hopped in the shower. The pair were out of earshot until Pete situated himself under a showerhead. Then he could hear them over the partition.

“Aw, she’s a prude. Too much work,” said Tony.

“Work is good for the soul. Anyway, you can crack her. Don’t believe the prude act. It’s a defense mechanism,” said Harry.

“So there aren’t any actual goodie-goodies in the world?” “Out dancing on a Friday night, flirting with you? No.”

“Ha, yeah. I guess she coulda stayed home if she was worried about her virtue.”

“Instead, she’s out teasing you. Prudes are teases.”

“I’ve known teases,” said Tony.

“This is different. They put up a wall, and…”

“You still don’t get it. It’s not a wall, it’s car keys in front of a dog. Teasing is an invitation.”

“I guess I don’t get it because that’s nonsense,” said Tony.

“Look, if I can’t explain it, let me demonstrate. Show me a goodie-goodie, and I’ll show you a girl ready to fuck,” said Harry

“A challenge?”

“Yeah, okay…”

The water pruned Pete’s skin, and its tepidness shrunk his penis more than usual. But he had to stay to hear the rest of the conversation. Looking back, he didn’t know why he chose to keep eavesdropping. Perhaps God wanted him to hear what came next.

“Who?” asked Tony.

“I dunno…” There was a pause. Later, Pete imagined Harry looking around to ensure privacy. He wasn’t successful. “What about Pete’s wife, Heather? She’s a tease; I’m gonna fuck her.”

There they were. The words that would first obsess, then haunt, then excite Pete. The words that would monopolize his thoughts until Harry dropped a potential new client in his lap. After that, Pete stopped obsessing about the words and started planning how to catch Harry fucking Heather. Not to punish them, but to see it. He had to be a witness to the downfall of his goodie-goodie wife’s virtue. But first, he has to call his sister. Pete had taken to confessing every little thing to her openly, ever since the bathroom incident. You know, the night she inspected his penis to ensure his worthiness for Heather, with whom Gail set him up. That night cast a spell on Pete, whereby he could only tell the truth to his sister. Moreover, he was compelled to speak the truth even when he didn’t have to, like that movie, Liar, Liar.

“That bitch!” says Gail, after Pete laid it out for her.

“Come on, be fair. We don’t know if I’m just making it up yet,” says Pete.

“You didn’t make up what Harry said, bro. I met him at that breast cancer event, by the way. He’s a slickster.”

“Even so, we don’t know for sure.”

“Well, if it isn’t him it’ll be someone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. You can’t expect her to live with nothing but you ’til she dies.”

“Are you saying I deserve it?”

“In a way, yes. I love you, bro, but guys like you, you have to expect it,” says Gail.

Pete is devastated. “Guys like me?”

“Yeah. You know I know. The bathroom…” she has the fact not to finish.

“But the procedure…”

“The procedure can’t take away a woman’s natural urges. Nothing can replace a, forgive me for being so blunt, nice, big cock.”


“I’ve been telling any girl who’ll listen. Even Cherry stayed with her man, ultimately. We don’t have to settle for small dicks.”

“So you’re saying I deserve it? That Heather’s justified?”

“No, she’s a bitch. If she goes through with it, she’s dead to me.”


“I’m saying you should expect it, that’s all.” So much for sisterly comfort.


Thursday arrives. Pete has been preparing. Though Heather disapproves of doing anything to jeopardize his career, and a solid new client would give him a leg up, he calls Harry’s lead to cancel their dinner appointment. Stomach flu. That frees him up for the night. Pete hopes to catch Harry and Heather in the act, assuming there will be an act. But he can’t stake out separate locations or surveil them, and won’t hire a private detective. So he gambled that they’ll do it at his house. Pete’ll take the chance that either he’ll catch them there, he’ll catch her coming home, or he’ll know when he sees her. Their assignation could just as easily happen in the middle of the day or any day. Somehow, however, Pete knows it’ll be this Thursday evening. He slinks away from work early, which normally never happens. Heather is nicer to him in bed when she knows he’s staying late and working diligently. (She rightly never suspects he might be out late for extracurriculars). He stops at a bar, which also normally never happens.

There’s time to kill, and Pete expects he’ll need liquid courage. Hours and several girly cocktails later, Pete is back on the road, driving a bit dangerously, considering his intake and inexperience with booze. But he’s not thinking of road safety. He’s imagining Heather’s slim, tight body underneath Harry’s weight, him pounding into her. Her moans and their sweaty bodies. As Pete pulls up to his gate, she writhes in the height of pleasure in his mind’s eye. Up his long driveway, Pete o extra cars. He opens the garage, and nothing in there but Heather’s. He parks and walks around back, tripping the security light. Pete doesn’t want to make too much noise, but he’s tipsy. Round back, the sliding glass door by the dining room swooshes open silently.

No sign of life. The maid left the house clean, as usual. Much cleaner than Heather could possibly leave it, were it left to her. No wine on the kitchen counter or dishes in the sink. No sounds to be heard. Pete goes through the foyer to his winding, split staircase and heads up the right side. No clothes strewn on the steps. Upstairs, Pete hears no sounds and sees no indication of activity. Through the large bay window in the living, he peers down to the pool area. No one skinny dipping, no one laying in the lounge chairs. He turns his head to the right to see the deck empty, as are the tennis courts. Heart pounding, the bedroom looms. No one there. No one in the bathroom.

The guest rooms and guest baths are empty. The downstairs den is all that remains. After delaying the ugly truth that must be waiting somewhere, room after room, Pete feels no relief. Doom lies ahead. He descends the stairs with blackness in his stomach, of booze or anxiety he doesn’t know. He flips a light switch. The bare pool table looks at him, and the bar mocks him. Down a narrow hall, he goes, and finally a sign of life. A bathroom door left open a crack, emits light and steam. Pete moves toward it robotically, his mind more on nausea in his gut than what he might find when he opens the door.

“Oh! You startled me,” Heather says after Pete charges into the bathroom.

She sits up in the tub, tiny pink innie nipples pointing out of her flat chest. She is sweaty from the heat. Pete can tell it’s not just bath water. It’s Heather’s own body moisture, which he’s tasted countless times. She’s a picture of sexiness, but his libido can’t take that in presently.

“Why are you home so early? How was dinner?”

“Couldn’t make it. Felt sick.”

“Poor honey. Why don’t you go lie down? I’ll be up as soon as I’m done here.”

Pete truly does look sick. He catches himself in the mirror over the sink. Palid, with bags under his expressionless eyes. Either a result of his drinking binge or the emotional frenzy he worked up within himself, followed by the precipitous decline when he discovered Heather alone. Pete couldn’t believe she and Harry hadn’t fucked! All those sick thoughts, all that obsession. What did it amount to? Nothing. He resolves to vomit, then never to doubt his wife’s status as a good Vartan girl again. Vomiting is unnecessary.

Pete manages to climb the stairs, undress, and pass out on his king-sized, fluffy bed. Heather peeks in on him fifteen minutes later, dressed in her silk robe. She insists upon Pete sleeping in the nude, both because she likes easy access when he’s earned a reward or punishment and because she finds it reinforces her dominance over him. He can’t help but feel embarrassed, she surmises, when she sees his frightened turtle head or when he shows off his little stiffy in the morning. She sees him now, spread out on his stomach, snoring already. Too bad, she wanted to catch a glimpse.

Oh well, maybe later. It occurs to Heather that Pete will need dinner, passed out or not. So she heads back down to the kitchen. The maid doubles as a cook when they dine in, but she’s off for the night. Heather must apply her meager homemaking skills to prepare her loving husband a bowl of broth with chicken bouillon. That much is within her power. As she cooks, Heather puzzles at a coincidence. The same day she succumbs to Harry and meets him at that hotel downtown, Pete comes home early. Hmm. He seemed genuinely ill and had no reason to suspect her, so far as she knows. Heather had been a faithful, devoted wife every second of their marriage, up to today.

Yet Pete, who couldn’t know–could he?–falls sick, misses an important appointment, and comes home early as if he did know. Or as if the betrayal affected him without his knowing. Curious. The soup simmers to its proper heat, and Heather transfers it to a handy Tupperware container. As she makes her way back upstairs, she resolves (Pete was always making resolutions, and she adopted the habit) to be more careful. She’s going to require bigger cocks occasionally; she knows that now. But Pete must never find out.


Three weeks prior, Harry volunteered at a charity event, one of many, thrown by the firm’s wives. He hadn’t attended before, but plenty of the partners lent a hand. It was a community effort. Luckily, Harry’s workload was slight and shiftable; he could stay all day. Harry finagled his mother into assigning him to Heather’s table, and she sensed what he was after, even if her conscious mind wouldn’t admit it. Flirting commenced immediately. This was a breast cancer awareness event, and Harry joked that at least Heather wouldn’t have to worry, indicating her flat chest.

Heather wanted to be offended, but the way he said it, she giggled. They got along well the whole day, with his subtle teasing and bravado coming off to her as part of his personality. Heather didn’t think much of their time together, but she also kept it from her husband. She didn’t know why. Other girls talked about Harry as a cad, about how annoyingly confident he was, and how he talked down to women. That wasn’t

Heather’s experience, and next time his name popped up in conversation, her instinct was to say, “He’s not that bad. You don’t know him like I do,” though she didn’t.

Wasn’t much opportunity to work on Heather on Harry’s end. But he was on an expedited schedule, so he approached her directly. Heather was stunned as he handed her a keycard with a standing offer to meet him at the Royal Plaza any time she wanted. He told her he knew about Pete’s condition, and that he had something she’d be interested in. That’s how he put it: ‘Pete’s condition.’ The gall! Honestly, though, Pete’s ‘condition’ was on her mind lately. The Vartan Procedure ensured tightness no matter the size of your lover, and Pete filled her adequately. He had also improved in other aspects of love-making, but there’s something about a big cock.

Heather never saw a small one in her dating life prior to Pete, and she missed the old ones. She wasn’t sure she could live without a decent-sized dick the rest of her marriage. Not that she put it to herself in those terms. Howe, the idea of taking a superior lover, loomed behind her conscious thoughts. When she talked confidentially and in the abstract (couldn’t sully her good girl reputation) to her girlfriends, they recommended she should go for it. Life is short, and other cliches. She did, to her profound surprise, and jumped in all at once. No hesitation. She felt like another person.

That’s how she justified the decision to herself: it wasn’t Heather [blank] planning to fuck Harry Pendling. It was some other girl. Tuesday that week was her choice. Harry pushed it back to Thursday, during the day, while Pete would be at work. The dinner he set up at the University Club wasn’t a ruse, by the way. Nor was it an honest gesture, really. More recompense for the wrong he was destined to commit in secret. Harry responded to Heather’s texts, when she finally took the leap, perfunctorily. Like Pete, he proceeded as if fucking Heather was a foregone conclusion.

Royal Plaza hotels are mid-market. Not flop houses, but definitely less than Harry can afford. He was obviously avoiding running into their class of people. On the elevator up to Harry’s floor, key card in hand, Heather wondered how he looked naked, how he compared to Pete. How her previous lovers looked, and whether Harry would measure up to them. Harry instructed her to walk right in, and she did, finding him at play with a cell phone game. He sprung from his chair and offered the correct pleasantries. Harry wore a robe and nothing else, Heather guessed.

She was in a heavy coat with a slinky black dress and a teddy and nylons underneath. He poured a glass of champagne from the bottle he had on ice. She excused herself to the bathroom to get ready, emerging three minutes later in her underwear. If he wasn’t wasting time, she wouldn’t either. The atmosphere was quiet and casual. Not awkward, but not very sexy, either. Harry was business-like. He had done this before, Heather knew. But she didn’t guess it would be old hat.

Harry complimented her outfit and moved to kiss her. He was sure of himself and took control of the encounter. Much more confident than Pete ever was, even after all their time together. Firm lips, talented tongue. Heather was in expert hands. He backed off a bit and dropped the robe. His dick bobbed in front of him. Semi-hard, it was at least twice the size of Pete’s. Heather smiled. They fell on the bed. Harry nearly ripped her lingerie. Her tits were smaller than he imagined, and he imagined them as tiny. Pete and she were a match, after all, ha-ha. Her little concave nipples were cute, though.

His hand on her sex, he felt her wetness. What had been a glistening for Pete was a fountain for Harry. She was ready. He applied protection and mounted her. They rutted for ten or fifteen minutes. Heather felt tight to Harry, and Harry felt full to Heather, just as the Vartan Procedure promised. He felt the same to Heather as Pete, frankly, but the simple idea of a manlier partner had Heather close to the edge as soon as he entered her. She came twice as he pounded away. Aggressive lovemaking wasn’t Pete’s style. Harry went at her with abandon, and was as selfish as the lovers she experienced before Pete, Heather thought. That lent a sense of familiarity to the scene. She didn’t know she missed it. There was no kissing or tenderness of any kind, and as soon as Harry finished he dismounted, excused himself to the bathroom, dressed, and left.

He invited Heather to stay, but she had no interest. The tryst turned cold suddenly, traceable to the moment Harry came. Heather predicted, lying in bed during Harry’s precipitous exit, that their sexual relationship was over. She would not repeat. In future when they met, as they inevitably would, they wouldn’t acknowledge a thing. They’d both know, but it would be as if it never happened. Not just in action, but in their minds. Driving home, dreading facing the maid based on what a mess she left the pool area that morning, she considered her future in adultery.

Heather already gambled with high stakes by fucking Harry. If it came out, well…she didn’t trust Harry fully, but somehow she knew he’d be discrete. Or if he bragged to his buddies, it would stay as locker room gossip. But danger remained. She didn’t need the women, especially, to know she two-timed her undersized husband with a known womanizer. Fear followed her the rest of the day, until halfway through her bath, when it faded away. She was content there in the bubbles. Now she knew she was capable of cheating. ***** That was shortly before Pete barged in.

The rest of the night, after a bit longer soaking herself in her lack of guilt, Heather tends to Pete’s phantom illness. He woke with a start when she sat on the bed, soup in hand. He was always a light sleeper. The sight of his little pee-pee bouncing when he turned delights her. Pete seems to her drastically improved, and they chat as he sips his dinner. She wonders if her husband was ever sick at all. They speak of nothing in particular. He is inwardly glad to have such a faithful partner and hates himself for doubting her. She is sure she’ll require another big cock eventually.

For now, she’s content.

To be continued…


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