Seriously. That’s what we called it. The Sex Report. It was my wife’s way of telling me what she’d done with the other men she’d fucked.

I was all for the arrangement. I hadn’t gone into our marriage with any illusions. Tiff liked sex, she liked variety, and she liked to have her options. We had, of course, discussed all of this long before taking our wedding vows.

I didn’t regret anything. Not at all. I loved Tiff, and she loved me right back, with the same incandescent zeal. We were made for each other… just not, you know, exclusively. It was an unconventional marriage, I’ll grant you. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Tiff made her arrangements on her own. She was a sociable creature, very attractive, and men — and women — tended to flock toward her. However, she didn’t take just any random guy who came around panting. Her selective extramarital activities occurred, on average, once a month.

And when they did, she wrote it all down. Tiff had a sharp, clerical mind, good at organizing and descriptions, which was handy in her office job. It also served her well as she detailed her carnal antics.

Our central belief was this: If you tell your spouse about your “cheating,” then it isn’t really cheating, after all.

As time had gone by, Tiff’s written accounts got more and more explicit. This was because she saw how turned on I got by them. I would read them over and over, and every time I would want to take my lovely wife to bed and bang her like crazy.

She put them together pretty quickly. By now, her sex reports read almost like professional-grade porn — with the added bonus that her stories were all true! Tiff didn’t skimp, and she didn’t lie.

I’d kept every single one of those sexual chronicles. They were treasured possessions. I loved reading about a strange man’s hands on my wife’s breasts, his tongue licking her flesh, his cock stroking in and out of her wet and ready pussy. They made me feel like I was that stranger, experiencing Tiff for the first time.

Some of those men got hooked on her and pleaded to see more of her. But Tiff had an ironclad rule: one and done. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a steady side lover. She had a husband, who she loved and desired dearly.

Recently, I was eagerly awaiting her next report. I knew how she operated. The preliminaries to these adventures were familiar. Tiff met guys in cafés, at coffeehouses, sometimes at bars. Sometimes she happened on random men on the street. She picked her playmates carefully, but she could make her assessments quickly.

My imagination wandered. I imagined my wife out in the world, quietly prowling, her keen eyes picking out this man and that man, judging and discarding those who didn’t meet her standards. She never had to settle. She had the body to back up her selectivity. Guys were lucky if she showed them any attention.

I, myself, wasn’t wired like her, and that was okay. I felt no yearning to fuck another woman. Tiff was all I needed. The fact that I occupied the central place in her life sustained me. She was my wife and no one else’s — mine alone. I was content with that.

But as I paced around our apartment, I sure wished she’d get on with it and fuck someone. I wanted my dose of written excitement, wanted to savor the words she’d set down for me. This was part of the joy of our peculiar situation: the shivering expectation of Tiff’s brief affairs, with the salacious details pending.

My cock was halfway hard, just from waiting on her.

When I heard her key in the lock, my heart raced. She was home late. That was a good sign. Maybe she’d picked up somebody that day. Maybe she’d spent the last few hours screwing some guy’s brains out.

Smiling, she came into the living room. Her clothes were tidy, her hair neat, but I could tell she was a little disheveled, a bit… used.

My mouth went dry, and my cock throbbed. Had she?

I asked, “Did you have some fun tonight?” It was our code phrase. All good marriages have their own secret language.

Her smile deepened before she confessed, “Yes, I did.”

A thrill hummed through me. Of course, I would have to wait for her to put it all down on paper, but knowing a new sex report was on its way made me tremble.

“I was wondering,” she murmured, putting down her bag and suit jacket, “if I could tell you about it in a different way.”

“Different?” She looked lovely in her skirt and dress blouse.

She held my gaze for a moment, her eyes smoldering as she proposed, “How about I tell you what happened?”

Tell? No written record? I was so used to perusing her finely turned words. I wasn’t sure how I felt about a change.

She bit her lip, and then begged, “Please, I really want to.”

I could see it was important to her. Maybe she’d been thinking about this awhile. I took a seat on the couch and replied, “I’m listening.”

She went right into it, deftly setting the scene. At the local coffee shop, she’d caught the eye of a guy with handsome features and a good build. It played out typically. A half hour later, they were back at his apartment, in Ron’s bedroom. His name was Ron.

“We stood at the foot of his bed. Tension crackled between us. His eyes were ablaze, and my pussy was already damp. He moved toward me and started unbuttoning my blouse.” With that, Tiff unfastened her top buttons, and a surge of excitement hit me.

She continued, “He peeled the blouse off my shoulders, then reached around and undid my bra.” She unsnapped it herself. As it fell to the floor, her glorious breasts were revealed. Her nipples were tight, firm points.

Upon seeing her naked boobs, my cock uncoiled in my pants.

“I unbuttoned his shirt.” Her hands moved in the empty air, but I could see her doing it, could picture this Ron. “When we were both naked from the waist up, we finally kissed.” She mimed it, her tongue swirling past her lips. I could imagine it touching Ron’s tongue — and my own.

Next, Ron unzipped her skirt and skinned her panties down her legs. Tiff now stood nude in our living room. She undid his fly, and as he shucked off his pants, his hard cock sprang out. She grabbed hold of it, and Ron moaned.

Just then, I moaned myself as pleasure and excitation filled me. I’d been a little dubious about her oral presentation, but her retelling was awesome.

“We got onto the bed, and I felt the heat coming off him. We kissed again, and he pressed his cock against my belly. I ground my pussy on his strong thigh. Desire pulsed through me in hot electrical beats, each one more powerful than the last. He squeezed my tits, and I kneaded his luscious ass. I had to get a taste of him.”

Heat consumed me, and my cock was tenting my pants.

Tiff kept the story going: “I pushed him onto his back and squirmed down between his legs. His cock reared up before my eyes as I lowered my head. First, I cradled his balls in my hand. Then I flicked my tongue against his cockhead, and he shivered.”

I trembled on the couch, feeling like I was baking in my clothes.

“I guided my tongue around his fat cockhead, and then closed my lips around him. As I dropped my head lower and lower, his girth stretched my mouth wider. I took him straight into my throat, which made me cough and gag a little. But I managed to hold him there, having swallowed him whole.”

I could see it. I could feel it. I fucking had to get out of my clothes. Yanking open my fly, I sighed as my cock was freed.

Tiff — beautiful naked Tiff — went on acting out how she’d gone down on Ron. She bobbed her head, her mouth open in a cocksucker’s circle, her tongue flicking like she was working on a real live cock.

I shucked my shirt, then tore my pants down and kicked them away. Even nude, I was still roiling with excited heat as I took myself in hand, slowly pumping my erection.

“Ron pulled me off him before he blew his load. He said he wanted to taste me. Well, what could I do? I lay back, spread my legs.” She leaned back against a table, with her legs wide and her head tossed back. She groaned with pleasure and reached for the invisible head between her thighs. She described Ron’s tonguing techniques, how he traced her outer lips before plunging inside.

I jerked my cock harder as that phantom tongue zeroed in on my wife’s swollen clit. Tiff told me how Ron batted her love nub with his stiff tongue tip until she was crying out. She also cried out as she spoke in the living room, as her own hands cupped her breasts and she pumped her hips.

It’s possible she actually came as she performed that earlier orgasm for me. Certainly, her body appeared to tremble like it did when she climaxed, and her pussy was gleaming with her juice.

I nearly shot my own wad. But I wanted to hang on and hear how things ended.

“Well,” she panted, “well, now we really had to get down to it, didn’t we? He had to fuck me. I wanted him from behind, and I wanted him to do me doggy-style. I got onto my hands and knees without another word.”

She turned about, still standing, and braced her hands on the edge of the table. She thrust out her ass — that lush, sculpted, unbelievably perfect ass.

She looked at me over her shoulder, and her eyes burned directly into mine. “And he got behind me. And he started fucking me.” Then for good measure, she added, “Fuck me, Ron, fuck me!”

I realized in that moment I was meant to be Ron. She wanted that from me. I sprang to my feet and hurried in behind her. As she continued to narrate her liaison, I shoved my needy cock into her streaming pussy.

I slammed her deep, and she cried out again. I stroked in and out, moving at a blazing speed. The Sex Report was done. She wanted it hard and fast, and I gave it to her.

As I pounded her and jetted into her snatch, she stopped calling out for Ron. And my name was the one on her lips.