I will admit I was starting to lose control of things a little. It began as a very simple transactional cuck/cukoldress/bull relationship that started and ended in the bedroom but had very quickly transformed into whatever this was.

The one rule in cuckolding - well, swinging in general - is not to catch feelings. I knew this. You know this. Grace knew this. But here we were.

I wrote my last story partly while lying in the bed I have shared with more women than I’d like to admit. I don’t mean to brag but some of those others have been more attractive, funnier, dirtier, better in bed, or had more in common with me. The vast majority have been single.

And yet, I found myself lying on Grace’s pillow trying to discern her smell, having reluctantly changed the crusty sheets. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m not a relationship wrecker, and I don’t fancy getting into some ménage à trois. I know there are many other fish in the sea.

I got incredibly drunk on New Year’s Eve at the rugby club and sent a long, rambling New Year message to Grace. I reread it the following morning with regret, laying next to one of those other fish, a club groupie whose name I can’t remember. Grace had replied simply:

😘

I left the blonde bombshell in bed and sat on the toilet seat. It wasn’t the full love heart, but a kiss with a heart, and then another kiss. Was that OK? Had I upset her? Maybe I should call. No, it was too early.

For fuck’s sake, I’d been trying to simplify things, and ignoring a hot single girl lying in my bed obsessing over my cuckoldress was not helping. We’d complicated things by saying we loved one another and I slammed my phone on the sink in frustration, then panicked at the crunch, although it wasn’t smashed. I sent a message on the group.

Sorry drank too much

Happy new year guys x

I went another round with the sleepy girl in my bed and got rid of her by telling her I was out for lunch (which was true). I pretended to take her Snapchat, which suited me fine. Because I’m not 14, that ranks below smoke signals as an effective method of contacting me.

Lunch was lovely and when I got home, my hand hovered over my wearable blanket, the one Grace had worn. I moved it aside, grabbed my dressing gown and fell asleep.

Monday night I got roped into playing darts, another activity I’m crap at, although about average for our club team. I propped myself on a barstool with a diet coke and watched Van Gerwen on TV scything through a whole set to each of our legs, which invariably resulted in a battle for a D1 checkout.

It gave me time to check through my matches on another app as I was scolded for being antisocial. I disappointed a girl I was chatting to for the simple reason that my car was running on fumes and as I discovered on the way home there was nowhere to fill up.

Tuesday night I met my match as agreed and had some fun, then she came back and slept over on Wednesday night. Her favourite position seemed to be doggy, which was fine (although a bit impersonal I always think) but she kept moving away from me, like I was hurting her. I asked if she was OK and she confirmed yes, all fine, but then I’d find her slowly crawling forwards again. In the end, tired of chasing after her round my bed, I grabbed her hips and held her in place against the headboard so she had nowhere to crawl to.

It was OK, and she’s very pretty and athletic. But it just wasn’t like Grace. I didn’t feel those butterflies, that magnetic sense of attraction, that carnal desire.

Grace called me on Thursday and I nearly jumped with excitement. I composed myself and answered. She had that same sing song voice.

She was as ever glad to hear from me and invited me out for a drink on Friday night in Coventry. Two things struck me as unusual; first the fact that she called, where normally we’d just message, and secondly that it was for a “drink”, rather than explicitly to stop over. That said, I clarified that I’d drive. I rearranged plans with another couple I’d arranged to meet.

Friday night

I met Grace at the door and she looked stunning as normal. White oversized cardigan, over a black low cut top, black skirt and black tights. We had our normal kiss in their tiny hall and I said hello to the cuck, who didn’t give me his normal hug but was polite enough.

I offered to book a taxi but Grace grabbed my hand and led me out the door, not seeming concerned about their neighbours. Even this, this little thing, was one of the things I missed about Grace; her sense of fun and adventure, how outgoing and carefree she is.

I took a second to admire her walk, that familiar swing of her hips exaggerated by her heels. We walked about half an hour through some cricket pitches and then into Coventry city centre.

I’ve heard all the jokes about Coventry; the Luftwaffe improved it and it was rebuilt as a concrete castle, them being shit at football. But I have to say, it’s actually pretty smart. Lots of posh bars, not too many betting shops, pretty fountains. Grace led us into a place called the Metropolis, which was beautiful, and they very kindly accommodated Grace’s request to be on the mezzanine slightly out of the way, although this early in January it was fairly quiet anyway.

We had the conversation that we’d been needing to have (recollections of which may vary, but this is what I recall). I won’t put all the details down as some of it’s private, but in essence Grace loves the cuck but she feels her relationship with him is more like brother and sister, rather than boyfriend and girlfriend. They’d talked and he feels the same way.

I feel for them hugely. They’ve been together since they were in school having grown up around each other as their mothers were and are best friends. Grace is the younger of the two but her mother expects a lot of her including that she look out for the cuck. They’re chalk and cheese, which I’d very much noted.

He’s never had any other girlfriends or been with anyone besides her (and in fact Grace has only been with three other guys) and Grace felt that leaving him would devastate him. And, in fact, her. And their parents, although she insisted their feelings were a separate issue. But nor does she have any sexual desire for him. I asked if that was why she’d made a point of his appearance, and she said it was to an extent, but more that she wanted him to look after himself for his own sake. She said she hoped he might meet other girls and spread his wings a little, rather than live under her coattails.

She said I’d been able to give her what she’d not had from him (or “not with any heart”, I think she said); which was partly sexual (we’d had more sex in the six-ish weeks we’d known each other than they’d had in literally years) but partly romantic, a feeling of being wanted and loved. The cuck’s love for her, which she felt was genuine, was more platonic than romantic. He was a good listener and very attentive, in many ways her best friend. But he’d tried to want her sexually and she him, without success (which was obviously not to say they hadn’t had sex, it was just there was no joy in it for either of them).

We talked about his sexuality. She thought his bicuriousness was more a manifestation of his confusion about his lack of desire towards her, rather than homosexual feelings towards men - although she was at pains not to dismiss them out of hand or relate them solely to their relationship, which I thought was fair.

She said she had nobody to talk to, or at least tell the whole story to, about her relationship except me and him. She could talk to her mum and friends about their general struggles but not about the unusual solution she'd found for it. I tentatively asked whether she'd considered breaking up and being friends (I genuinely don't want to drive a wedge between them), and she said she'd tried in their first year at university but they'd found themselves drawn together in their mothers' shared orbits, and them being apart had made the cuck miserable; which I already knew.

She asked what I wanted. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve and I’m not good at articulating my feelings at the best of times, and when I came to speak I realised I’d listened to her for over an hour while drinking and only occasionally interjecting, so my words slurred a little.

I found myself saying I wanted whatever she wanted, that I was along for the ride. But it sounded facile even as I said it. They were the same words I'd used in London when we were eating Dominos and they'd not sounded convincing then.

I deliberately considered it carefully and we sat in silence for a minute or two. Grace didn’t interrupt, and I could see her at the top of my vision waiting patiently for my real answer.

In the end I was honest with her. I told her how she made me feel and I apologised for not being a good bull. I’d entwined myself in their relationship and had encouraged her to take things too far without thinking - or maybe caring - about the consequences. It had felt good in the moment to do and say things and I’d taken advantage of our (all three of us') lack of desire to stop.

Ironically, the cuck had been the only one to at least try to tap the brakes after the first meet (and, yes, in doing so had behaved unreasonably) but in response I’d pinned him against the wall and threatened him. It had seemed fun at the time, playing the part of the alpha male bull dominating the cuck. And after that, he’d not dared to step in the way, our weird tripartite relationship had set off like a runaway train to fuck knows where. Despite everything, and to torture another metaphor, he’d ended up blamelessly on board too, loving every second and egging the whole thing on.

But for me, and for now, it was worth it. I got to have fun but ultimately meaningless and disappointing sex with random girls (I’ve never hidden the other girls from Grace) and occasionally Grace would come back to me and I feed my addiction. I said I could carry on like this for now, providing the sex and romance, while the cuck did the mundane everyday stuff. Despite my longing for Grace when she wasn’t there (I realise I described the cuck in my last story as a lost puppy, but don’t I look the fucking idiot when I’m the lost puppy the 90% of my life I’m not with Grace), it was okay.

I wasn’t going to drive my coach and horses through their relationship and fuck everything up for them. Grace was an addiction and enjoying a night together was harmless in of itself. It was enough for now, but it wouldn’t always be - I needed the mundanity and the boredom and the meeting of parents and the inane chatter and deep discussion and all the other parts of a normal relationship.

But the perfect needn’t be the enemy of the good, and I was happier having some of Grace than none. My dad used to love Baz Luhrmann's Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen), which said not to be careless with other people's hearts and I always promised I wouldn't. I looked into my drink and said if my being there was hurting her or the cuck I’d go.

Grace had been listening to me ramble and I’d been avoiding her eyes. But when I looked up they were wet. Fuck, I’d made her cry. I stood up and she met me, and we hugged awkwardly as I stepped round the table trying to avoid knocking the drinks over. She rested her head on my shoulder and her tears became a flood. She said she didn’t want me to go.

The room behind Grace seemed to blur in my vision and a waitress rounded the corner to our alcove. I blinked the blur away and smiled as she gave me a look of sympathy and retreated, leaving the empties for now. I was glad of our secluded spot.

Eventually Grace broke our embrace and kissed me. She said she loved me and I said it back. We both knew exactly what that meant.

Grace needed to tidy up her mascara and I needed fresh carcinogenic air, so we went our separate ways for a second. I stepped out into the cold and seemed to be able to think clearly again. It had started raining but the full moon was poking through the clouds and lighting the cathedral.

I do love Grace. She's a beautiful, broken, complicated person surrounded on all sides by a situation she was born into, and I can't save her, not without hurting her and the cuck. I thought back to the Grace who'd nervously stepped into the room at the Premier Inn in November and wondered whether I'd been a positive influence on her life since.

I had to have been. Every smile, every bite of her lip, every flick of her hair, every night spent sleeping soundly together, each spine tingling orgasm we'd shared. Every silly joke we’d laughed at, every song we’d discreetly danced to on the train, every ride we’d giggled on in winter wonderland and the way her hand had fallen into mine when we walked back to the hotel. I'm not just a merchant of upset and heartbreak. This wasn’t just hedonism. Grace deserved to be happy and if any of those little experiences made her situation, which had started long before I'd arrived, less desperate, surely they were a good thing.

My cigarette had burned down to the filter and I chucked the butt over the railings. I fucking hate thinking too much.

I went back inside and ordered more drinks. Grace emerged from the toilet looking refreshed and we ordered food. A huge sharing board of meats and cheeses and sides of dirty fries, all of which was incredible. Grace seemed to rally and her smile came back as we ate. I kicked off my shoe under the table and stroked her leg with my foot.

I thought how beautiful she looked, eating a piece of halloumi or something and then regarding her delicate fingers with those big blue eyes and delicately licking the sauce off them before selecting her next morsel.

The other diners seemed to dribble out below us and the place grew quiet. The bar staff began to clear tables and it was clear it was time to leave. We thanked them and waddled out, had one or two for the road in the Wetherspoons, the old men in there checking out my girl, and then ambled back hand in hand along the now quiet high street.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked her.

She nodded and kissed my neck, and I caressed her hand with my thumb. There wasn't much more to be said, and we walked back slowly, the sound of Grace's heels clicking and echoing.

Home

I don’t exactly remember the conversation, but I’d drunk far too much to drive home. Grace tried to talk me into coming to bed with her but for the first (and I decided last) time in my life I declined; I said she needed to go and be with him. Every fibre of my being said I should go and turf the cuck out of their bed and make love to her, but it was all wrong. I’d be taking advantage.

Eventually Grace relented, and we staggered drunkenly around their house finding a spare towel and shampoo and a toothbrush with Grace fussing over me. I found my way into their shower (I’d never been upstairs in their house before), and when I came down in my boxers Grace had fashioned their sofa - yes the sofa we’d fucked on twice - into a bed. I kissed her goodnight against the door frame and for a moment thought again about taking her hands and collapsing onto the makeshift bed together, but I let her go.

Although I normally have no trouble sleeping after drinking, I couldn’t drift off. I listened to Grace climb the stairs, shower, then pad around their room above me, then heard the springs on their mattress as she joined the cuck in bed. Muffled voices for a few minutes - I’d love to know what they were talking about - and then quiet.

I was left with nothing but the red standby light on the TV, the fridge compressor churning, and an occasional passing car. Wind and rain outside. Everything we’d talked about rolled over and over in my head and I analysed each bit I remembered, thought of things I should have said, things I should have said differently, things I’d overshared and shouldn’t have said at all. I made some notes, partly for this story but partly just to keep things straight in my head.

I must have fallen asleep but I woke two or three times, firstly to get a drink and rinse my dry mouth out. I then found myself walking around their house in the dark, looking at framed photos in the street lights. Grace and the cuck at Disneyland, at their graduations dressed in mortar boards and gowns, on holiday standing in front of Durdle Door. The trinkets and memories of a happy relationship I’d seen from the inside.

I eventually fell asleep again and morning mercifully came. I’d expected the cuck to be up and about early but instead they lay in; and I wondered if they’d forgotten about me.

I tapped a few more notes out on this document of what had happened and the things we spoke about the night before so I wouldn’t forget them, then played with my slut T and talked to a few girls on other apps who happened to be up, allowing myself a wank on their sofa, and ran my battery down to 5%. Eventually there was movement above me.

I listened to the footsteps coming down the stairs, trying to judge whose they were. The door handle turned and it was Grace. Bed headed, make up mostly removed, in her pyjamas. She wore pyjamas when she slept with him…of course. She was beautiful, framed by the light from the bay window, and she smiled at me.

She came over and kissed me, lifted up my blanket and slid in on top of me burying her head on the pillow next to mine. Her body was warm and soft and she smelled like sleep.

We cuddled for ages and I think I might have fallen back asleep, but when we woke up I realised I needed to ask something; an idea I’d been given by a member on another site whose advice I very much appreciate.

“I want to take [the cuck] out tonight,” I said.

I let the words hang there. Grace turned to me and looked at my face and frowned. She knows I have a strained relationship with him. Maybe ‘strained’ isn’t the right word, but I’ve certainly never volunteered to spend time with him.

“I could help him meet new people.”

I spoke the words and the clouds lifted from her expression. Her eyes seemed to move around as she made calculations and drew inferences.

“Okay,” she said.

I thought she knew what I meant but I needed to be absolutely sure. “Would you be OK with him,” I paused, “meeting”, I searched her face, “new people?”

She nodded.

Let me explain. For a start, Grace can’t really object to him meeting girls (or guys, if that’s his poison) and we all know that. It would be totally unreasonable and Grace is not even slightly unreasonable. She’d mentioned it the night before.

Some may say my motives are insincere and that I want to break them up, that if I set the cuck up with someone it makes the whole thing a lot easier for Grace who’d no longer feel the need to stay with him out of sympathy. They’d say I’ve said I’m not a relationship wrecker or a girlfriend stealer but that I’m a massive hypocrite because that’s exactly what I’m proposing.

Well, fuck those people. I’d been chewing it over all night and it seemed to me that Grace had found an outlet for her desires, in me, but he hadn’t. Why shouldn’t he be happy too? It’s not like there was anyone else in the world who could help him: to everyone else they’re a happy couple.

And what’s the alternative? Two young people in the prime of their lives stay together in a sexless pseudo-relationship and pretend to be happy for the benefit of their mothers more than anyone else, when they could just be good friends with partners more suited to them. The former is tragic, but the latter makes sense to me.

That said, I realised I’d crossed a line I’d not crossed before and I needed to bring Grace with me. I asked if he’d be up for it and she hesitated. I asked why, was it that he wanted to reconcile with her? No. Just shyness. I realised I was proposing something that would fundamentally change the nature of our relationship (the three of us), and I’d thought in the night about whether I actually enjoyed the cuck being there; whether my infatuation with Grace was about her or whether it was just the situation - of dominating and playing bull - and if that situation no longer was, I’d lose interest. I decided it was Grace.

The cuck came downstairs and hovered momentarily, not knowing where to sit, given we were snuggling on his sofa. But to his credit he decided to sit on the opposite corner along from our heads, where he’d sat when Grace and I had had anal on the sofa before Christmas. Grace asked him about my plan while I massaged her bum cheeks under her pyjamas (silk pants underneath them too), and he gulped and nodded.

We talked about where we should go. Coventry doesn’t have a lot of nightlife and what there is are clubs packed full of students. Yes, they fuck like bunnies, but you don’t want to be with one for more than an hour lest they drive you mad with TikTok skits and fucking organic mocktails. And the cuck, bless him, had zero chance of pulling there, which would just make things worse.

The object of the exercise wasn’t necessarily to find him a new girlfriend, just to pull the wool from his eyes and make him realise there was a world out there outside the familiarity of his childhood playmate-turned-girlfriend.

We arranged for Grace and the cuck to taxi to mine and we’d go out in Birmingham. I needed to go and play rugby, then I’d meet them at my house. Grace didn’t want to come out with us so the cuck and I would taxi or train into town, see what happened, and he could use the spare room if he got lucky.

Before I left I quietly spoke to Grace. I wanted to make sure she was definitely OK with this, and I knew I’d sprung it on her. She said she was. I realised she’d potentially end up sharing a house with me, her boyfriend and a girl he pulled, and asked if she’d rather stay at home. No, she’d rather be there with me. I kissed her deeply, I understood what she meant.

Snobs

I just had time to change into something smart after rugby when their taxi pulled up and I invited them in. I booked a second Uber and I poured the cuck some shots for Dutch courage; we weren’t going to Snobs sober.

As we left I gave Grace a big kiss. The cuck followed me and she hugged him. I watched her as we climbed into the Uber, standing in my doorway. This situation was insane; what had I got myself into?

Uber made a killing out of me that night. £32 for the one I booked for Grace and the cuck to get to mine, and then pretty much the same again from mine into town; but at least it dropped us outside the door.

On the way there I tried to give him some tips, but I didn’t know what level to start at and I’d never claim to be some pickup artist. I realised I was talking to a complete amateur; he’d never pulled before. I gave him some basics but I could see him getting more and more uncomfortable as I gave each piece of advice. My main one was definitely to never ever mention Grace. He looked even more nervous at the dishonesty, and I could see I was scaring him so I stopped.

It wasn’t busy when we got there. The students weren’t back at university yet and this early in January it was pretty quiet. I paid for our entry and bought him a beer.

I was actually proud of him. He did exactly as I said; picked out a couple of girls and made eye contact with them. A couple I warned him away from as he had no chance. But after a couple of misses, he hit; a tall brunette glancing at him and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and looking away. I stepped in as wingman and led him over, him in front, to her and her friend. I positioned myself such that he was talking to her friend initially.

I spoke (well, shouted) to the girl he’d picked out and said the normal things - she looked great - although she’s not my type at all. Then I turned to the cuck and shouted at him to introduce me, which he did. I gave her an air kiss and I introduced the cuck to the brunette, and he followed my lead. The greetings had caused us to subtly shift positions, and I pretended to step out of someone’s way to end up next to her friend, and leave the target and the cuck together.

So far, so good. We shouted at each other over the music for a couple of minutes and I theatrically finished my drink, and pointed the plastic bottle at the cuck. His round. He looked at them and they accepted his offer of a drink, and he disappeared to the bar. The brunette said she’d help.

I chatted some more with her friend, a shorter blonde. On another night she’d have been a decent pull and I’d have put some graft in, but I made a show of checking a nonexistent message from my nonexistent girlfriend. The cuck and the brunette (Sophia, or it might be Sofia, I have no idea) returned with our drinks, we cheersed and ended up dancing together.

Having decided I was off the market, Sophia’s mate started to look elsewhere and attracted a few other guys, which was fine. One of them seemed interested in Sophia too but I placed myself in front of him and shouted into his ear that I swore I recognised him (I didn’t), just long enough that when I looked back, the cuck, yes the cuck was dancing with Sophia.

The other guys sloped off, one of them now having pulled Sophia’s mate (who she would occasionally look over at to check in on) and I relaxed a little, my work done for now.  I leaned back against the speaker and sipped my beer, checking the dance floor for anyone else I needed to look out for. There was nobody and I let the bass of the subwoofer vibrate my skeleton, vaguely wondering again how my life had got me to this point.

The song faded into the next one and I decided I needed to help things along. I meandered through the crowd to the cuck and mimed a cigarette at the cuck, then at Sophia. They nodded and we went upstairs into the fug of smoke. I slipped the pack into the cuck’s hand as we rounded the corner, he needed to give her one and I needed to look like the freeloading mate - “keep hold of them,” I instructed.

Looking like someone who’d never handled a box of fags before, he fumbled them and passed my lighter around to me and Sophia. He coughed and looked awkward for a second so in the relative quiet of the smoking area I asked Sophia where she was from, and I drew some tactful connections between them; they both worked in procurement (kind of), and I slightly exaggerated the cuck’s career achievements.

I’m not sure the finer points of financial control and purchase orders are panty droppers but it was the best I had. I finished and said I’d go to the toilet, check on the blonde, and meet them back downstairs.

I paid the attendant to spray me in cheap aftershave and probably stain my shirt, and, standing at the urinal, checked my messages. Grace had sent me a picture of a big spread of Chinese on my coffee table, with her sexy legs and freshly painted toenails and a glass of wine. I shook my head and realised between those sexy legs was where I should have been.

I found the blonde dancing downstairs with a bunch of guys and asked if she was OK. She was drunk and looked at me as if at a stranger; I’d obviously made no impression at all. I didn’t fancy her but I needed to distract her and allow her to sober up a little so as not to draw Sophia’s consternation so we danced a little.

I was obviously there for longer than I thought. I’d not seen the cuck for ages, so messaged him. I waited a few minutes but there was no reply. I scanned the room looking for him and worried he’d gone home. Sophia was nowhere to be seen either so that was possibly a good thing. After a search, I eventually spotted them stood together in the smoking area exactly where I’d left them. I thought she might be looking to escape but as I watched from the haze of smoke, she was staring intently at him as talked, running her teeth along her bottom lip.

Fuck me, fair play cuck. At any rate, they'd been talking for ages and I figured he needed help taking it to the next level. Drinks.

I went to the upstairs bar and bought three Jägerbulls - everyone loves Jäger - then met them back there and feined surprise. I pinched another of my cigarettes from the cuck and thanked him for his enormous generosity, then slipped in that I'd checked on Sophia's mate who was dancing. I was running a risk there: really I wanted her to forget about her mate but I also wanted to get them back inside with the music.

Sophia took the hint and asked the cuck if "we" should go back. I allowed myself a grin. They went back downstairs and were dancing within minutes. The cuck actually has moves. I'm alright with a slight sway of the shoulders but otherwise I look like a frightened horse on a frozen lake, but to his credit he was dancing with her close to him. The song changed and she looked up at him, they both hesitated for a second and kissed.

I propped myself on the railing by the cloakroom and watched for a few minutes - well, not 'watched', that's more his thing than mine, but I checked my phone and realised it was 2:30. After a long day and a pretty sleepless night on the sofa I was tired, but I couldn't leave first.

I managed to get rid of the blonde into a taxi outside. She'd drunk a lot and judging by her smudged lipstick had got off with a guy who’d thought better of her after realising how wasted she was. It was the least I could do to pop her in the taxi and wish her goodnight. I don’t think they were particularly good mates as they’d not spoken for hours, but realising what a sinister thought it was, I decided I’d removed Sophia’s last line of defence against the cuck’s advances.

I smiled with satisfaction and turned to go back in, only to find the cuck and Sophia walking out, unsteady on their feet. The cuck, face covered in hot pink lipstick, was holding her heels and she was walking barefoot on the wet pavement. I explained I'd just put the blonde in a taxi, which Sophia already knew, she'd had a message. I briefly worried I'd done wrong by letting her go by herself and I'd binned the whole night but Sophia herself wasn't an argumentative drunk. She thanked me for looking after her.

"You off?" I asked them.

"Sophia's going home," the cuck replied, looking straight at me.

I had 10 questions I needed to ask straight away. ‘Sophia’ was going home? By herself? Why was he letting her go? He could have fucked her, easily. I mean, the Holiday Inn was just over the road, a building full of rooms pretty much designed to fuck in. Cheap ones. 24 hour reception. I’d have given him a condom out of my wallet. And then one or both of them could have gone home. They could have had a fucking shower first if they wanted. And a free instant coffee. What the fuck?

I couldn’t ask any of these questions in front of Sophia. I'd just done all this and I might as well have stayed at home. I glared at the cuck. What a cunt.

He walked past me to the taxi stand holding Sophia’s waist, assured the driver she was OK, opened the sliding door and helped her in. She told the driver her address and kissed the cuck once more as he closed the door.

Fuck me, she must think he's gay. Maybe he is. I should have taken him to Hurst Street. This had been a fucking waste of time. Wild horses couldn't have dragged me away from fucking her but he was putting her in a taxi like some Victorian gentleman.

The taxi drove off and I stormed over to him. I’d have hit him if there hadn’t been so many police milling around. He held his hands up to calm me down and stepped back.

He knew what I was going to say, and even drunk (or maybe because he was drunk) he cut right through me. He didn't need to actually fuck her, he was happy knowing he could have done. That was the point of all this, wasn't it? To show him there were girls other than Grace and they might be interested in him. He'd pulled, mostly under his own steam. And he'd got her number. So I could take Grace away, but he knew he'd be ok. He wasn't just a fat loser cuckold watching "the girl I can't love" being taken away. I was the only one who wanted him to get laid, because I'd be one step closer to taking her away and doing what I'd promised I'd never do.

I listened to him spitting out the words. I felt an inch tall.

He leaned back and sat down heavily on the low wall by the steps. He was partly right I suppose. Fuck. I demanded my cigarettes back and lit the last one.

I took a long drag and looked at the taxi rank where she’d been. "But… did you not see her tits?" I laughed.

He didn't look up but laughed too and sighed. “Yes, I saw her fucking tits.”

We got big greasy kebabs from the Turkish place down the road and another taxi home.

Home

When we got back Grace was still up. I'd not messaged her, and I don't think the cuck had either. I opened the door and she looked between us carefully, as if deciding what to do.

Fuck the cuck, I'd earned a kiss. I went in first and she backed away from me. Another wrong move.

"What happened?"

The cuck explained everything to her while I sat awkwardly in my own house. It was the first time I'd really heard them talk to each other properly. They'd spoken a bit that morning and before the new year also in my lounge when I'd been making breakfast. For the first time, I felt like the spare wheel.

The cuck laid it all out for her. Everything that had happened. Say what you will, they don't keep secrets from each other. Grace tucked her legs up under her and listened, calmly asking questions to clarify things, having the benefit of being largely sober.

When he finished talking she went to him and hugged him for a while and I thought she might be crying, but when they broke their hug she was OK. They’d ignored me as if I wasn’t there and I didn't know what to do. I realised that while I felt like a guest in my house I was still very much a guest in their relationship. I'd had a window into two lives and fooled myself into thinking I knew everything, but now I saw I knew nothing.

My six-ish weeks with Grace meant nothing against their decades and I felt ashamed for my arrogance. While telling myself not to be careless with their hearts (thanks Baz) I’d decided there was no relationship to be careless with, and I was dead wrong. I thought I could fix things with one night in a club and push them into things they weren’t ready for, and I’d been an idiot.

It came to bed time and the cuck said she should sleep with me. That was big of him, I'm not sure I'd have been as generous. Grace agreed and we showered and went to bed. Grace had my t-shirt on and her silk pants and I slid in next to her, not knowing what the situation between us was.

I waited for her to speak for ages. Fuck, please say something. Tell me I'm a cunt. Hit me. Something.

She rolled over to face me and her face looked soft. She kissed my neck and simply said "I still love you". I tried to disguise my shoulder dropping as I relaxed. Phew. I said I loved her too.

I started to explain how sorry I was and how foolish I'd been, but Grace politely asked to speak about it another time. She put her arms around me and I swam in her smell and the softness of her skin and her warm breath and I slept the sleep of the dead.

Morning

I woke up by myself pretty late in the morning. Grace's clothes were still there and I wandered downstairs in my dressing gown to find the two of them, pottering around my kitchen eating leftover Peking duck and pancakes.

I had to remind myself that last night he'd told her in great detail about snogging a girl in a club and now they were chatting good-naturedly about why it's not called "Beijing duck". I felt like I'd stepped into an alternate reality. The more I saw the less I knew.

Grace came and gave me a kiss and handed me some orange squash, and I joined them at the breakfast bar. Honestly, in all the time I'd known them I'd never seen them so chatty, it was like a switch had been flipped.

They both had work on Monday and I’d been summoned to my mother’s to prove I still existed (I’d not seen her since Boxing Day) so they taxied home again. I tried to talk to Grace before she left as she was dressing in our - my - bedroom, but she placed her finger on my lips and said we’d speak another time. She kissed me deeply as they left.

The cuck followed her out and he hugged me too, his normal bear hug. But this time he thanked me for my help and patted my back as we hugged. Grace waved as their taxi pulled away.