Another Cuckold Tale (5 book series)

Another Cuckold Tale (Five Book Series) The Complete Bundle Lena White This book is copyright © 2022 Lena White. All rights reserved. 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover characters are models, images are licensed from depositphotos.com ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Table of Contents My Adorable Hotwife My Beautiful Hotwife My Captivating Hotwife My Delightful Hotwife My Exquisite Hotwife My Adorable Hotwife Another Cuckold Tale Book 1 Lena White ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ “What’s a cuckold?” my adorable wife asked me. The day Hallie walked into my life, I had no idea she would fulfill a fantasy I didn’t realize I had. A fantasy she didn’t even know existed. “What’s a cuckold?” she asked the first time we watched a certain video together. It wasn’t the last video we watched together, but it set the rest in motion. Until all the pieces fell into place. And my life changed. Our lives. Forever. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Table of Contents One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Epilog One I’m fifteen minutes into my shift as a bartender at Lester’s, an upscale restaurant in one of the most exclusive districts in the metro area, when a guy walks into the bar section, my section. He looks like just the type of dude that I specialize in helping, although not just with his alcohol of choice. He looks around, liking what he sees, but then, what’s not to like. Lester’s has been around longer than I’ve been alive and they’ve specialized in hiring a certain kind of server that has earned them a reputation. A very good reputation. But not what you’re thinking. Come on, get your head out of the gutter, or we’re done here. The servers, almost all ladies, are gorgeous. Not just good-looking and not just sexy, but both. It’s sexist as hell, and I really don’t know how they do it in this day and age, but they do. Or, I should say, Bill does. He’s the manager, related to the owner, and he’s got some kind of magic going on, both in the women he finds and how he skates under the Me Too, Time’s Up radar. The guy I’m watching is still looking around. He’s not quite drooling but not being at all discreet about eyeing our talent, either. He looks as if he might be thinking about grabbing a table but if he’s alone, that’s never a good look. It’s desperate, and even in his current state, he’s got to know it. So he edges toward the bar and gives me a look, one that says, and you work here? I get that look all the time. For a long while, that look was well deserved, I’ll admit that right upfront. Make no mistake about me, I was a hound dog, but I won’t lie to you. You can trust me. God, I hate that expression. “Nice place you got here,” my newest guest says, not even blinking at just how bad a cliche he is. I nod and wipe the bar in front of him, giving him a subliminal signal to pull up a barstool and order a drink. He looks at me, then at the stool, trying to decide if he wants to forgo all the talent in this place for a guy, but it’s the right thing to do. He knows that, in his head, the one on his shoulders. It’s the head between his legs that wants to get a table and talk to the ladies. Yeah, they look that good. “What can I get you?” I ask at precisely the right time. Stand-up comedians are good, but bartenders are better when it comes to timing. That’s my opinion, but I might be biased, I’ll freely admit. Nevertheless, it works, and my guy gives me a little shrug and pulls out the barstool, parking himself and ordering a beer. I go through the list and he picks a good one, but I have to tell you, I might have to reevaluate my initial assumption that he might be of some greater use to me than just a nice tip. The real deal would have ordered a scotch, top shelf, maybe even a single malt, or a martini, despite the early hour and all the changes in the tax laws about deducting your bar tab on your 1040. Yeah, that’s right, I’m a bartender who knows the IRS is no friend of mine, but that’s another story. “New in town?” I ask as I pour his IPA into a frosted glass, fresh out of the freezer under the counter. He nods as he takes a sip. “Visiting or…?” I pull out a menu, just in case he’s worth my time and effort. “Just moved in,” he says. “Nearby?” “A few blocks down,” he nods, as if I can see his building through the stone wall by the kitchen. Lester’s is mostly glass on three sides, which would let in a lot of light if we didn’t keep the translucent shades drawn all the time. The feeling of being closed off from the outside world is one that Bill cultivates, as if there’s something illicit going on behind those curtains, but I digress. My guy nodded toward the one wall I couldn’t see through if all the curtains were thrown open, so I just bob my head. I know where he’s talking about. The newest building in the area, filling up fast in this real estate market, and nothing sells for under two mil. I’m reassessing my guy again, upward this time. “The Waverly?” I ask, knowing