“We’re down to six viable options,” she told Mike when he got in at eleven that evening. She slid his dinner into the oven. “Is it unreasonable of me to also get rid of the guys who didn’t bother punctuating or capitalizing their messages?”

He came up behind her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and planting a kiss on her neck. “We’re shopping for a man we think deserves to sleep with you. Be as picky as you want. It’s not the kind of decision you should rush or force yourself into.”

She smiled at that, pleased to know that no matter how much he wanted this, there was no pressure. He valued their relationship and her feelings above his fantasies. Of course, she’d known that all along, but having spent her evening in front of that intimidating screen, the reminder was welcome – as reassuring as the hug.

He left her to shower, and as Sam headed back to the computer, she gave herself permission to dismiss the messages with bad spelling and lazy capitalization.

It left only two candidates, but she liked their photos and introductory messages. She replied to both conversationally, asking if they were local, how old they were, if they had any experience with cuckolding, and what about it appealed to them. She also included a photo of herself. It seemed only fair, though she chose a long shot, one with an erstwhile haircut. It gave a sense of her body and her face, but wasn’t detailed enough that the men would be able to recognize her in the supermarket, should she chicken out and abandon the mission.

After Mike ate his late dinner and disappeared to sink into a much-deserved coma, she sat down again at her laptop, intending only to shut it off. But there it was, a message in her secret in-box.

The reply was a disappointment. The guy was way too eager, with only fifteen minutes having passed between the time she’d hit SEND and when he had. His reply consisted of a rather dirty and not at all arousing missive about the things he wanted to do to her, and he was too antsy about setting a date for Sam’s taste. Enthusiasm was one thing, but her gut said this was quite another. Pass.

The second reply was worse, in that it didn’t arrive – not that night, nor by the time she was heading out to work the next morning. Two dozen new responses had come in from the ad, none of them especially appealing, all of them totaling discouragement.

“It’s fine,” Mike said when she debriefed him that evening. “What were the chances we’d strike gold the first time out?”

He was right. And having him home at dinnertime was treat enough.

But the following day, something changed.

Sam had checked her personal e-mail while her hair dried and her coffee cooled. She’d decided she wouldn’t check “the dirty account,” as it might just overwhelm her, the task now feeling impossible. Not a cloud she needed following her to work for the third day in a row. But even as she got her shoes on and shouldered her purse, curiosity had her crossing the floor, sitting down, clicking the bookmark, and typing in her password.

Ten or so new messages, but she didn’t have it in her to tackle them beyond reading the subject lines. Then she recognized the e-mail address of the second short-listed respondent.

“You took your time,” she muttered, opening the message. Though had he, really? Taking a day or more wasn’t criminal. In fact, it struck her as rather encouraging that he had other things to do in a given day besides pursue his chances at playing sexual tourist in other people’s marriages. A hobbyist, not a fanatic.

She sipped the last of her cold coffee and read the e-mail.

Thanks for the reply, S.

Bless him and his use of commas and capitals. She opened a new tab and found his first e-mail, wanting to confirm he was the one she was picturing. Yes. Oh, good photo. It was a shot of him in a park, crouching with his hand on a yellow lab’s collar. He looked big and strong, with a fearless sort of smile and a lot of stubble, messy dark hair. Could be any ethnicity – Italian or Hispanic, or just a white guy with a summer tan. She liked the shape of his shoulders under his T-shirt, and wished this were like Zappos, so she could rotate him and examine his design from multiple angles and browse other women’s reviews.

But he looked good. Not too wholesome, despite the park and the dog, but not sketchy. There was something in his smile, something lazy and easy, just a touch cocky. Mischievous. She began to wonder about his voice, then realized she ought to read the e-mail before she got her hopes up too high. She clicked back to the first tab.

To answer your questions, yes, I’m in Pittsburgh. I turn thirty-six in a couple of weeks, but I think I could maybe pass for a few years younger. Maybe. May need to bust out the Grecian Formula on my temples, but —

Dear God, prematurely graying temples? Mike might get hot over the prospect of competing with a younger man, but Sam’s legs always went a bit wobbly over salt-and-pepper facial hair and the like. She liked a man with a few miles on him. A man who looked like he knew his way around a woman’s body. Yes, please.

— maybe that’s negotiable.

Actually, I’ve got no idea what’s negotiable. I’ve never been part of a cuckolding scene before. In fact, I had to look it up to make sure I had the right idea. I found your ad because I’ve got an exhibitionist streak I’ve been thinking about exploring. The idea of some guy watching me with his wife in the comfort of their home has more appeal than getting arrested for public indecency, and the latter seems to be what most of the people looking to be watched or get caught are after. So there was that, plus you’re cute. So here I am, sleazing up your in-box.

Sam grinned. Then she glanced at the computer’s clock, and realized she was going to be late. Fuck it.

You asked what about it appeals to me. I can’t speak to the cuckolding, but as for wanting to be watched… Okay, I can’t really speak to that, either. The idea just turns me on. And I’m not in the market for a serious relationship, so I’m not in a position to ask anyone to trust me enough to tape anything or let an outsider watch. And I don’t really want to be out there on the Internet, in video format. But when I thought about what you and your husband are looking for, it made sense, especially when you mentioned a background check. I figure you’re as concerned about keeping things discreet as I am. I’m not married or the manager of a day-care center or running for mayor, I just don’t want to be another casualty of the Internet’s infinite memory.

Anyhow, that was long-winded. I promise I can be utterly filthy and lecherous, if that’s what you guys want in bed. Just thought I’d make sure we’re on the same page logistically.

Oh, logistics. Sam’s heart gave a flutter. If he’d attached a spreadsheet, she just might have climaxed.

If you don’t mind, could you explain a little more what your husband gets out of this? I don’t quite see what’s in it for him, if you and I ultimately slept together. I’m curious to know what about the idea gets him off. I know you said you’ve never done this before. Sorry if you’re looking for a “bull” who’s a bit more seasoned, to facilitate. If we end up hooking up sometime, I’ll require a little breaking in, myself.

Anyway, hope to hear from you again,

Bern

“Bern?” Mike muttered when he read the e-mail over her shoulder, late that night.

“I’m sure it’s short for something. Bernard, maybe? At least he’s not a Bernie.”

“Or a Nard…” Mike’s gaze skimmed the message a second time. He was wearing his poker face, feigning perfect apathy. “He seems sane enough, and he wrote in full sentences. What do you think? Could you sleep with a Bern?”

“I’d like to at least meet him. I like that he mentioned wanting to be discreet. And I like his photo. He looks kinda sexy.” Kinda very sexy. “He’s the best candidate I’ve seen so far. By miles.”