Cucked By The Dead: Part 2 (Patreon)

Here's the second part of my horror erotica story, Cucked By the Dead.

💀 ☠️ 💀 ☠️ 💀 ☠️ 💀

I’ve got no idea what’s cranked Keith’s libido up so high but I’m not complaining. We spend all morning fucking, and then he fucks me up against the wall in the hallway that afternoon when he finds me in there hanging pictures. Then before bed he’s up for it again, throwing me down on the bed and giving it to me again. I can’t even get hard again after cumming that many times in a day, but he’s unstoppable. We haven’t fucked like that in years, and my hole is aching from it when I go to sleep.

But it obviously isn’t enough, because I wake up in the middle of the night he’s having another sex dream. I’m not sure what’s woken me: I think it was another dream like the one I had the night before: I’ve got that same feeling of dread. But I can’t remember what it was about, because as soon as I open my eyes it’s evaporated.

Next to me Keith is breathing deeply again. The sheets are pulled right down around his thighs so I can clearly see the shape of his dick standing erect. He’s mumbling, as though he’s talking to whoever it is he’s dreaming about. 

For a second I find myself hoping it’s me he’s dreaming of. But when I interrogate that thought a little more, I start to think that maybe it would be kind of hot if it was someone else. Someone he could only have in his dreams, where I couldn’t reach. The thought of it makes me kind of excited; my cock still hasn’t recovered enough to get hard again but I feel like it would if it could. I slide my fingers past my balls, along my taint, and find my hole. And I start to finger my still-loose hole while staring at Keith’s erection and listening to the noises.

“Mmmmmmm,” he growls, shifting a little in the bed next to me. His breaths are getting louder, each one a little grunt. And I can see his body tense and relax, in time with a rhythm that only exists in his mind. His cock is pulsing, bobbing up and down with a life of its own.

When it comes I’m not expecting it. He lets out a little “unnnff” and I see his cock spasm and release another load. I’m shocked, not just from the fact that he has another one in him after all the times he’s fucked me today, but also because I’ve never seen him have a wet dream before. I had no idea his dream was going to be strong enough to make him cum without even touching himself.

It makes me wild horny. I get my fingers as far up into me as I can from the angle they’re on, and I paddle my prostate as fast and hard as I can. I’m already spent though and I’m not going to cum again tonight. So eventually, as Keith’s cock deflates, I give up and try to go back to sleep.

I don’t remember falling asleep but it feels like I’m only out for a second before something rips me out of my sleep and wakes me again. I sit bolt upright, and for a split second there’s an image scored into my mind so clear I think it’s right in front of my face in the dark bedroom. A face, grinning, eyes full of malice. But before I can even commit it to memory it’s suddenly gone and my thoughts are all hazy. I’m breathing hard, and sweating. I look over at Keith and he’s still, in a peaceful sleep undisturbed by my abrupt awakening. 

☠️ ☠️ ☠️

I could get used to this: sitting on the tiny balcony that our bedroom opens out onto, drinking coffee in the early morning sun. Feeling freshly fucked, for about the eighth time this weekend.

There’s a single chair out here, left by the previous owners. Convenient because Keith and I don’t own any outdoor furniture yet; we’ve always lived in apartments. I think to myself that we’ll need to get a couple of nice chairs for out here. 

I look over the edge, down onto the thin strip of garden between our front door and the street. Right now it’s planted with cheap potted colour from the garden centre, which would have been done for the open homes. I wonder what I should replace them with: something a little less tacky, for sure.

Almost all the houses on this part of the street are the same style as ours, almost identical. Narrow houses stuck together in a row, each sharing a wall with the house next door. They were all working class houses, a hundred and fifty years or so ago, but now a million dollars wouldn’t even come close to getting you one of these. Keith and I have struck it pretty lucky getting this one for the price we did.

Every house is set about a metre back from the road, with a thin strip of garden behind a fence with a gate. Most of the houses along the street still have their original wrought iron fences, matching the wrought iron balustrades of the first floor balconies. Our house is the only one that’s had them removed, replaced with a low concrete wall that looks out of place among all the others. I’m thinking to myself that I should look into restoring the fence to its original style.

A guy walking his dog waves to me from the street below me. The dog looks like a wolf, only white, and smaller. “Hey man,” he calls out. “Welcome to the neighbourhood!”

“Thanks,” I reply. He seems to take it as an opportunity to stop for a conversation. I can tell by his vibe he’s definitely gay, which is not a surprise in this neighbourhood. Not really my type though. I wonder if he’s about to try pick me up, or if he’s just community-minded.

“You just moved in on Friday, right? You getting settled in okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Unpacking sucks, but it’s our first house which is kind of exciting.” I make sure to say ‘our’ house, just so it’s clear that I’m spoken for. Not that that necessarily means monogamous, so it wouldn’t necessarily stop the guy trying it on. But good to establish it upfront.

The guy looks a little disappointed by the admission that I’ve got a husband. And maybe a little worried too, unless I’m imagining it. “Like the place?” he asks, sounding almost suspicious.

“It’s great,” I tell him. “Neighbourhood seems nice too. You lived here long?”

“Years. ” He pauses, like he’s trying to decide what to say next. “Long enough to see this place change hands a few times.”

I feel like he wants me to ask more. But to be honest, I’m kind of just enjoying some peace and quiet with my coffee in the morning sun. I throw him a bone though: “Cool, maybe you should come over for a beer some time, you can tell us about all the previous owners.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He sounds noncommittal though. I don’t get it: he sounds like he’s fishing for a conversation, yet I literally invite him over and he’s suddenly reluctant. Maybe he was just hoping to get an invite when my partner’s not home.

“See you round.” He gives me a little wave and carries on, giving the lead a little tug to make the dog follow.

“Sure thing,” I reply, giving a little wave back that he doesn’t see because he’s already off down the street away from me.

I knock back the rest of my coffee, and then just sit there on the balcony for a while longer, empty cup in my lap. I think to myself that I need to make sure we get a table out here too — a little one, that’s all we’d be able to fit. Just enough to have somewhere to rest your coffee mug or your beer.

Eventually I get up to head inside. As I turn towards the open doors I catch the briefest flash of movement through the window, and I’m startled because I could swear it looks like a person, eyes looking at me and then turning away. But when I focus there’s nothing there. A second later a bird flies past behind me and its garbled reflection flickers its way across the warped old glass pane, and I realise that’s probably what I just saw. I step into the empty room, then head downstairs to the smell of Keith cooking me breakfast.

Two mornings in a row. I could definitely get used to this.

☠️ ☠️ ☠️

Sunday Keith’s still horny: he wakes up and rides my cock, bouncing up and down on me and slamming his ass down hard to take it as deep as he can. After that day it’s kind of over though. For me at least: he doesn’t seem to want to have sex with me again for over a week, but I know his libido’s still going nuts. He doesn’t think I can hear it when he’s jacking off in the shower, and he doesn’t realise that I’ve noticed his underwear in the laundry covered in cum-stains from where he’s used them to clean up after himself. He’s still clearly horny all the time, just not for me. 

And the dreams, the fucking dreams. One night I wake up and he’s lying face down, legs spread a little apart, moaning into his pillow like he’s getting fucked. Other nights I see his cock erupting untouched like it did that second night in the house. He’s getting louder, too — the moans aren’t just like the echoes of a dream anymore, it’s like he’s literally fucking right next to me.

Weirdly though, it’s never the noises he makes that wake me up. I always seem to be  jolted awake by a dream that I can never quite piece together, but that leaves me feeling sick and scared and horny, just as he’s getting started.

At first I think the whole situation’s kind of funny. And pretty hot. But as more nights go on with him moaning and mumbling at someone in his dream, then waking up and ignoring my advances, I start to get annoyed. Then angry. 

And jealous.

I want to know who the fuck he’s dreaming about.

I don’t say anything to him about it though. I can’t bring myself to bring it up. When I rehearse it in my mind it sounds so petty, being angry at him for a bunch of dreams he can’t control. But I’m starting to resent him, knowing that he’d rather go stroke his own cock in the shower than fuck his husband.

I can’t help but wonder if he’s cheating on me, if that’s why there’s another man he’s dreaming about each night. I’m not as hot as I used to be; I’d always thought I was still in decent shape, but now I’m starting to notice the backrolls starting to appear when I stand a certain way in the mirror, and the way my ass sags a bit more than it used to.

I wonder who it could be, the one who’s been getting his attention — and maybe his cock. I wonder if it’s someone at work; I think about all the good looking guys in his office, the ones that are younger and hotter than me. I fixate on that one guy — Warren? — the one that was flirting with him right in front of me at the Christmas party. I’m sure he’d try something if he thought it would work. That smug face, those perfect teeth, the shape of his torso under his business shirt. I think about him and Keith meeting in an empty meeting room, looking intently at each other, resisting the urge to pull off their clothes and fuck on the boardroom table. Or maybe not resisting it at all.

Or it could be one of his cycling buddies. Maybe they ride out to some deserted spot of the coast and then fuck in the shrubs. Or maybe in the forest, up at that cruising spot that’s up the top of the hill near the mountain bike track. I imagine him on his hands and knees among the pine needles and soft dirt, shorts pulled down just enough to expose his ass so it can get pounded by one of his friends. 

I switch between the two — plus a couple more far fetched scenarios. Constantly, over the next couple of days I keep coming back to them. It makes me feel panicky, like I want to make it to stop but I don’t know how. The weirdest thing though, is that it kind of turns me on too. And a few times, when I’m alone in the bathroom and I know Keith doesn’t even notice what I’m up to, I’ll stroke my cock thinking about him cheating on me. And then I’d shoot a huge load into a scrunched up wad of toilet paper, and I’d wonder what the hell is happening to me.