When he joined my wife and me at the table I’m sure we looked as innocuous as any three friends at a restaurant together. We chatted breezily at first, though I gradually withdrew from the conversation as it shifted between the two of them. Their dialogue was tame but playful, each coyly teasing the other and trading what felt like inside jokes. Throughout the meal they flashed secret smiles at each other, affecting that there was anything to hide, which oddly made it seem as though there was. He held her hand openly on the table, lightly tracing her fingers and hand with his. I watched as his fingers found her ring and he absentmindedly – or perhaps deliberately – toyed with it between his fingertips. I remained mostly quiet on my side of the table, occasionally joining in with a laugh or quick note of agreement. By the end of dinner I was no longer a participant in the date but merely a spectator. I willingly became the proverbial third wheel but remained only vaguely aware of what was being foreshadowed. On several occasions the waitress overtly glanced at my wife’s wedding ring, then at at his ringless hand, then at me. She searched for my hand, which I sheepishly concealed under the table each time she approached. After dinner the two of them adjourned to the bar next door while I waited at the table for my card. When the waitress placed the leather folder on the table I purposely reached for it with my left hand, studying her face to gauge her reaction. Her eyes caught the gold band on my finger and widened perceptibly. She recited a few rehearsed words of thanks but didn’t look up again. I smiled in her direction but mostly to myself. She turned and walked briskly away, probably to confirm gossip among the staff. I left a considerable tip for no particular reason and then rushed next door. When I caught up with them they were huddled at a table in the far corner of the bar and talking quietly together. I brought them a round of drinks and then left to check into the hotel and bring our bag to the room. When I again rejoined them they were whispering to each other and lightly kissing, their foreheads resting against each other. I stood across from them and placed the key on the table as a way of announcing myself. He took the key and nonchalantly slipped it in his shirt pocket, never looking away from my wife. I sipped my drink quietly and waited, trying not to stare at them but feeling too self-conscious to glance about the room. I couldn’t hear what they were whispering but soon my wife nodded emphatically. I was only half finished with my own drink as they stood up and gathered their things. I followed several steps behind as they walked arm-in-arm together across the parking lot and through the hotel lobby, where a small group was already waiting at the elevator bank. In the bright light of the lobby I was no longer as cavalier as I’d been with the waitress. I stared down at my feet as we waited. His hand rested casually on my wife’s bottom, and as we boarded the elevator he patted her cheeks lightly to guide her inside. I felt irrationally conspicuous in the crowded car, especially when the three of us exited quietly together at the first stop, his hand now cupped between my wife’s ass cheeks and me skulking behind them. I panicked for an instant as the door closed, listening for imagined snickers on the other side. I felt relieved when we finally reached the room. That relief gave way to a dull sense of disappointment when I realized I wasn’t going to be joining them on the bed. My disappointment quickly morphed into a twisted sexual euphoria as I assumed my place in a chair by the bed. I took the pictures posted above with the intention of sharing them on here, though I wondered how I’d describe our evening without being branded a cuckold. I wasn’t invited to join them. While true, that doesn’t entirely explain it. I could have easily walked over to the bed and injected myself into the action. Neither of them would have protested, but it would have spoiled the atmosphere in the room. I wasn’t explicitly forbidden from taking part – there was no faux denial play. It was simply the vibe we were all feeling, the undercurrent throughout the date. Unspoken but real. My wife and I hadn’t talked about what we wanted to happen that evening, instead taking the approach of just going with the flow and enjoying ourselves. I didn’t necessarily expect anything one way or the other, but I guess I anticipated a nice dinner followed by a fun threesome in our hotel room. I much prefer playing to watching, and my wife usually prefers threesomes when she has the opportunity. But this night was all about passionate one-on-one sex. Ironically, he didn’t seem to want to share my wife with me, and my wife fed off of his jealous, possessive sexual energy. He wanted her, and she wanted him. I came before they finished, jacking myself to a mind-blowing orgasm as I watched. Literally goosebumps over my body. I convulsed in my chair, releasing an evening of sexual tension into a handful of tissues as another man fucked my wife. It was hotter than I expected: the exhibitionism of our daring public exposure; the voyeurism of being on the outside looking in; watching my wife devour his attention; watching him devour my wife; and the invisible line that I couldn’t - or wouldn’t - cross. It culminated in an intense, gratifying orgasm. After the rush subsided, my mind wandered and I felt more like an outsider than I cared to admit. I slumped back in the chair and waited for the acute pangs of remorse to pass. It was so hard to watch them at that point. When he finally pushed himself deep inside my wife and clenched his body in orgasm, I felt like I was about to get off of some thrilling but terrifying roller coaster – happy to have done it but glad that it was over. Still, if I’m being honest with myself, each of us got exactly what we wanted that night.