Training to Love It: Book 1

By: Kenny Wright


This book, the first of three in the series, has been a long time coming. I think I started this in the fall of 2013, if memory serves me correctly, and it’s evolved many times since that initial inception. The goal, however, has always been the same: to challenge myself to write a story that ventured into the cuckold realm while still being true to the kind of story that I enjoy telling—a story of a relationship, challenged at times, but stronger for it.

Was I successful? Ulimately, that’s up to you, the reader, to decide for yourself. What I will say is that no journey is so easy, and like real life, this trilogy has offered its fair share of surprises as I’ve written.

Each book is meant to stand on its own, and while I wouldn’t recommend jumping in at book three, you can rest assured that you won’t find cliffhangers here.

The book that you hold here is the beginning, and hopefully it’s a compelling one. If it compels you to read the next, even better. Enjoy, and as always, thank you very much for your interest!

Kenny Wright


I was watching something mindless on TV when Erin came home from the gym. Slumping against the front door, she let out a heavy sigh.

“Good workout?” I asked.

“Too good. I’m sore everywhere.”

“It’s definitely paying off.”

She rolled her eyes, but I knew she appreciated it. Erin had been working hard over the last couple months. Not that she needed to before—she had genes that let her get away with doing nothing and still look good—but after two kids, she’d started feeling self-conscious about the softer parts of her body.

Her cropped yoga pants and tight tank top confirmed my statement: her workouts were definitely paying off.

“So the personal trainer was a good investment?” I asked.

“I don’t know about that. I’ll let you know when my body’s recovered.”

I watched her disappear into the kitchen, checking out her ass. Her hips were wider than when I’d first met her and she had a rounder butt, but I liked her more pronounced curves.

Pulling myself off the sofa, I followed her. I had no right to feel this exhausted—not after the workout that Erin had just come home from—but it had been a long day, topped off by the chore of getting the kids down for the night.

I found Erin at the fridge, bathed in the bright glow of its interior, downing a bottle of Gatorade. As always, her dark hair was pushed back by a headband and gathered into a high ponytail to keep it out of her face. Her face seemed slimmer, the hard workouts bringing her beauty into crisp focus.

I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was—how incredible she was. Instead, I just watched her drink and enjoy the cool air from the fridge.

“You know, I could always turn on the A/C.”

Erin laughed, shutting the refrigerator door. “It’s only May. No need to do that. Kids in bed?”

“Went down without a fuss.”

It was a new thing we were trying. Our kids, particularly our youngest, Mary, were used to their mother doing the nighttime routine. Erin never said she minded—she was a wonderful mother—but after spending most of the day with them, I could tell she needed a break. So we decided that twice a week, after a light dinner, Erin would go to the gym and I’d handle the bedtime ritual. The first week had been tough, but after that, the kids adapted. It was actually really nice: I got to spend quality time with them, Erin got her break, and the kids got to see more of Daddy.

“Thanks for watching them.”

She melted into my arms and kissed me. She tasted salty. Her skin was still flushed from the workout.

I reached behind her and cradled her buttocks. “It’s definitely a good deal.”

“So did you put the child safety locks on the cabinets upstairs?”

Just like that, domesticity crept back in. I released her ass. “No, I...couldn’t figure them out.”

Erin snorted, pulling back. “Fine, I’ll do it myself tomorrow. You may be the only man on this planet who can’t find his way around power tools.”

It was a playful jab, a joke shared between us over the years, but there was some truth to it. I held up my hands. “These hands are meant for signing documents, not hard labor.”

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