Note from admin: This is just another one of my favorite stories from the old days and I'm archiving it here so it never gets lost. As far as I know the author is long gone, but if you're still out there Mr. Brown, please get in touch!!
Sex, Lies and My Wife
Michael Brown
This is an admission of how I learned about one small incident in my wife's long history of betrayal and adultery. It's not the first instance, nor is it even the first instance I became aware of. But it was an instance where she revealed her capacity to take her infidelities to a new level, then, within a context of general hints and innuendo, torment me with a graphic confession that mixed both regret and satisfaction, and reveled in the exquisite agony it caused me.
As you can see from the photo of her standing on the front walk in her tight blue shorts, she is very small-breasted. She was always very insecure about it, and believed men would tend to not find her attractive because of it. From the beginning of our relationship, I noticed that she was envious of the attention some women got from guys, and she wanted that kind of attention for herself. Combine that with her hot, orgasmic sex drive, her blue-eyed blonde good looks, her hot temper and tendency to want to "get even" when she felt she had been wronged, and her love of partying and drinking, and she was a ticking time bomb. We met when she was 16 and I was 19, we had our first date the week after I turned 20, and by the time she was 17, because of her suspicions and her temper and her partying and her insecurities, she had already committed her first act of infidelity. Being young and immature, she was unable to keep it secret, yet equally unable to admit it. So she tormented me with innuendo and suggestion, especially when she was angry with me, dragging out the admissions over several years, until she at last confessed everything and began a pattern that lasted years.
"If you knew," she would snap at me, "about some of the things I've done when you weren't around, you'd go nuts." There was no doubt about what kinds of things she meant.
And I'd just about go nuts with jealousy, trying to pry information loose from her, while she would slowly leak more and more details to me, all the while denying that anything had happened. Then, at last, there would be a final admission, and I would twist in agony at the knowledge, yet somehow have known it all along, known she was lying, known she was sinning. And she knew that, after she had taken her full measure of torment, she could tell me everything and I would take it. And everything kept being more and more and more, and I just couldn't bear the thought of being without my slutty little darling, no matter what she did.
We fought a lot. The relationship was very volatile. She believed that I was just as fascinated by those other women as other guys were. It was part of her reason for being angry. And of course I was fascinated ... I had my own insecurities, too. (Funny, isn't it, how the right combination of explosives seem to be naturally drawn to each other?) She used her sexuality to both keep me at home and to terrify me (she had learned that the thought of her naked in another man's arms both fascinated me and drove me wild with jealousy). We tormented each other with jealousy and suspicion and (from her) sexual threats.
I suppose in a way I had become "pussy whipped." Through her intimidation and thinly veiled threats, she was able to extract concessions from me that most other men would have never have tolerated (and most other wives would not have expected). And because of her insecurities and desire for attention, she turned those concessions into situations in which she became swept away with the passions and desires of the moment, and descended into a secret life of adultery and sin that became more provocative and shameless with the passage of time. She hounded me for freedom, and despite the fact that I knew about what she was like when she drank and got high and was around men, I let her go out to bars alone. I thought I was just being "fair" at the time, but even the most amateur observer of human behavior would know I was giving her the signal that I wanted and expected her to get picked up and fucked.
I don't know what mechanism was at work that made me pretend I didn't want or expect her adulteries. Maybe it was the sensation itself ... it was always most intense when it combined both lurid pleasure and orgasmic pain. The torment was exquisite! It hurt so good!
Bonnie's insecurities became perfect for me, because they not only produced the need for her to sin and torment me with the hints of it, but it eventually led to her confessions, and I desperately needed the immense release caused by learning the detailed truth. To her, I just had to be told that other men found her to be a really hot and desirable piece of cunt. And I discovered that I needed to hear that she had been one for them. When the dam finally burst (which took several years of increasingly more graphic innuendo) and the confessions of her adulteries began, they just kept coming and coming and coming, like the orgasms she described, nearly drowning me in the sheer detail of it all. And I was forced to ultimately admit things about myself that she seemed to already understand: that inside the pain and horror there was also dark, seamy fascination and what I would call "erotic anguish." I acquiesced in her provocative demands, dangled helplessly as she tormented me with lurid hints about her promiscuous ways, waited anxiously for the final slap, the final admission, the avalanche of detail that gushed from her ultimately overburdened store of secrets. And I luxuriated in the soup of shameless sin she created.
After I knew, after first one secret, then another, then another were revealed, I found I could not stop her from continuing to go out. She continued to lie and say things were "different now," and I pretended to believe her. But I discovered I got a narcotic-like rush as I watched her getting ready to go out, watched her perfume herself and paint her cocksucking mouth, knowing what she might do, knowing I might not know for months or years where she went or what she'd done, or with who, knowing she would tease and hint and lie and deny before finally satisfying her need to torment me and at last tell me the truth. I had discovered that I loved the anguish of watching my hot cunt wife leave for another night of sin, and imagining every detail of her probable adulteries in my fantasies as I waited for her to come home. Of course, it was evident that she knew it, too. On more than one occasion, she told me, "I thought that was what you wanted."
Although I had been jacking off before, responding to her threats and innuendo, seeking what I thought was relief from the erotic torture she caused me, I now began doing it even more, thinking only of her and her lovers, imagining what it was like, replaying their conversations in my mind, remembering every detail she had told me about what they had done together. I realize now that I was creating a circle of behavior that was deriving lurid pleasure from my wife's adulteries, reinforcing my passive acceptance through orgasmic fantasy and ecstatic memory. I seemed especially drawn to the "close calls," the times when my darling had admitted to literally sinning right under my nose, without my knowing or (usually) suspecting. Right there in front of me! So cynical! So conspiratorial! So dirty and depraved! The stolen kisses in the kitchen, quick shameless moments of finger fucking while I was out of the room, furtive cocksucking inside a bedroom closet at a party ... Oh, God, the sensation of it, learning little snippets, the dawn of awareness, the slow buildup of fear and torment as more details emerged, the frustration of her more and more unbelievable denials, the agony of my tormented questions, my squirting cum as I fantasized about the worst, and finally, finally her graphic true confession.
It seemed especially erotic to be exploited in that way. I even enjoyed it in the movies - the delicious thrill of the secret affair right over the shoulder of the unsuspecting husband ... the arousal I experienced as I watched attraction and desire draw a wife and another man into words and touches and glances, then secret stolen moments, naked, touching, kissing, mating, and the heady rush of the orgasms and the lies. How erotic it was to me, the idea of a wife as secret slut, the husband not knowing ... the delicious deceit of it all! And my wife and lover forced me to realize it wasn't just in the movies where we were concerned. I could remember so well the moments I twisted in naked agony on our bed, obsessed with thoughts of another of my angel's adulteries, imagining every detail I had learned, crying out in torment, "oh it's my wife, it's my wife that's the whore ... why does it have to be my wife who puts out ... why ... why ..." as I jacked off all over myself.
I guess in that kind of atmosphere it wouldn't take long for everyone to notice there was an unusual dynamic to our marriage. People we knew must have seen my wife when she was out alone. They must have watched her ... must have spoken to her ... seen her come and go ... They had to find her tempting. I saw them look at her myself ... saw them lock eyes with her, exchange penetrating, knowing looks that said "you're a sexy little piece of snatch." I guess it would be stupid to think that my friends wouldn't hit on her, but consciously that's the way I believed it was. The amateur psychologist, learning about the events I'm about to relate, would have known better, and would have also known that deep inside I knew better as well. Otherwise, why would I have placed my wife and my friends in situations just ripe for adulterous opportunity? Why, having seen them look at her, having listened to them talk about women, would I have done it even once?
But I did. Such was the case the night I drove her and my friend Pat from a party. As occurred so often , we had gotten into an argument at the party (in fact, it had begun while we were getting ready to go, when Bonnie accused me of wanting to go because "women you have the hots for" were going to be there). By the time the party was over, we were both steamed. I went to get the car to pick us up at the door: Bonnie, Pat and a friend (female) of Pat's who we had offered a ride home. When I pulled up at the door, only Pat's friend (I think her name was Rose) was ready. She started to get in the back seat, but I invited her to sit up front. Pat came out a few minutes later and got in the back. No sign of Bonnie. We waited, and I got more steamed. When she finally came out, I told her we weren't playing musical seats, just get in the back. She was angry anyhow, and that made her more so.
Rose lived about 8 or 10 miles in the other direction from the area where the 3 of us lived, so when we dropped her off, we had about a 27 or 28 mile drive back home. During the trip to Rose's, Pat passed around a joint he had rolled, as well as a bottle of wine he had "liberated" from the party (the party was one of those government agency things, and Pat's attitude about the wine was "I'm a taxpayer, I paid for it, so I can have it."
By the time we were at Rose's we were all pretty buzzed. As I started home, Pat said "MB, I'm so buzzed I think I'll put my head in your wife's lap and crash." I said that was up to her, she could do whatever she wanted. Bonnie made a crack about me "spying" on them, so I angrily tilted the mirror up so she was mostly out of sight. The two of them together made my libido begin to activate, but I didn't pay much attention to them in the back seat, except responding to a request to turn the heat up (it was December - the photo is from the following April) and crank up the radio a tad. For me, it seemed the trip passed uneventfully ... except that I knew the argument would probably continue when Pat left for home.
It was when the confessions were in full swing that I learned the final truth about what really happened in the back seat that night. Oh, there had been the usual hints ... Bonnie saying on occasion that my friends "aren't as good of friends as you think," and "some of your friends have really dirty minds." She also alluded to conversations I had not been a part of, but for the most part didn't torment me in the same way she did concerning strange men. I suppose that made me more relaxed. I didn't really fantasize too readily about her and my friends. Maybe that seemed like just too much. Maybe it seemed like it wouldn't happen. But I was deceiving myself again. And my wife and my friends were deceiving me. The night Bonnie finally confessed, it was in response to my request to "clear all the suspicions away and start over." I knew about many of her adulteries already, but there were other hints still hovering in the air. I begged her to tell me everything, to give me release from my torment, and after making me promise not to exact any kind of retribution from anyone because of anything she said, my Bonnie began to confess her latest sins. And for the first time she began telling me about her and my friends.
She told me first about that night, how as soon as Pat laid his head in her lap (he was lying on his side, head facing front), he began touching her lower legs with his free hand. When she didn't respond negatively, she said, he began rubbing her calf, upward to her knee. My heart was pounding as she told me (by this time I had heard so many confessions I had an idea what might be in store), and I remember my voice trembling as I asked her why she let him go. "I was mad at you," she said, "and I was really ***** and stoned." Then she added, "and you know how I am when I'm like that."
Oh, yes, oh yes I knew! Her libido would have been bursting out from any chains holding it in place, his fingers, even on her calf, would have been sending pulses of pleasure through her, and her cunt would have already been swimming in liquid desire. She told me she remained passive while he shifted position, moving his head more onto her hip and against her side. Having gotten his own head out of the way, he began forcing his hand up her dress. "He was supposedly your friend," she explained, "and I wondered what kind of friend he really was."
"I guess he was wondering what kind of wife you really were, too," I said bitterly.
"I guess you're right," she told me. Then after a pause, "and I guess he found out." Her tone of admission said it all! I was swept with such a surge of helpless realization that it made me dizzy. It made my ears ring. If I hadn't been already seated, I would have had to sit down, my knees became so weak. My psyche was tormented with fear and apprehension and perverse anticipation all at once. Oh, God not my friends, too! Not my friends! Oh, they'll all know, they would have all known all along! All these years! Oh, the rush, this new untapped well of perversely painful desire!
I hung on her every word then, and she didn't disappoint me. She told me how he continued forcing his hand up and up between her legs while she sat there, neither helping nor hindering him. "I was acting as though it wasn't happening," she told me. "I was afraid you were watching me in the mirror." Oh, God! All she wanted to do was hide it all from me! She detailed how he forced his hand all the way to her crotch and began rubbing her. "I was trying to be unresponsive so you wouldn't know and he wouldn't jump to any conclusions, but it felt so good my stomach was doing flip-flops," she told me. "If we had been alone, I would have let him undress me."
Because of the way I would take it, Bonnie, once she decided it was time to confess, had become shamelessly and bluntly honest about her adulteries, freely admitting her own compliance and cooperation and lust. When she referred to "you know how I am" when she'd been drinking, she wasn't making an excuse, just offering up part of her motivation as explanation. She dressed provocatively on purpose; she chose to let men buy her drinks; she drank on purpose; she left the bar with strangers on purpose; she got high on purpose. She knew it would warm her and lower her inhibitions and make her want sex. She loved wanting, and getting, sex. And she was reminding me that deep down I knew and accepted the promiscuous snatch she had become. She knew I was a coconspirator in her sin.
On this night, I had just begun to believe Pat had hit the wall at her panty hose, and was actually experiencing a false rush of semi-relief when she hit me again. After she admitted that she would have been naked with him if they had been alone, she added, "but I didn't need to." "Wh-what do you mean?" I was beginning to experience shock and fear again.
"There was a place along the crotch of my panty hose where the seam was pulling apart," she admitted. "And he found it. Before I knew what was happening, he had his finger inside and underneath the elastic of my panties. I was already soaking wet, and in a split second his finger was in there, going up and down and in and out a mile a minute. He caught me so much by surprise and it was such a rush of pleasure I almost screamed. But I bit my lip and tried to keep from jerking around or moaning while he went to work. I had to do something so I dug into his head and his arm with my fingers. We were still about 20 miles from home, and he fingered me every second of the way. It nearly killed me, having orgasms without being able to make a sound. But I did it. And I loved it."
"And you know what?" she added.
"What?" I asked weakly. I was drowning in the realization of what had happened just behind my back. Aching with pain, yet rigid and throbbing with erotic imagination.
"This seems awful to say, but it turned me on even more to know you were so close and I was doing it anyway. That it was a friend of yours, who wanted me and I was letting him finger me right under your nose. I knew he wanted more, and I wished we had 50 more miles to go. It was a rush to know your friends would betray you to get sex from your wife. I hadn't realized that when it came to sex, Pat wouldn't be much of a friend."
"Well," I responded with pained resignation, "I guess he hadn't realized that when it came to sex, you wouldn't be much of a wife."
She seemed stung by the remark, but had to admit its accuracy. "I guess that's true," she said. She confessed that later that night, as our arguing culminated (as it so often did) in hunger-driven lovemaking, her thoughts, her fantasies were of being fingered in the back seat while I drove her and her secret lover, my friend, home. "I don't know if you noticed or not, but between you and my fantasies, I really got off that night."
And then she stunned me again, setting the stage for more confessions to come (after there had already been so many). "I had thought I had gone about as far as I could go," she remarked, "but I was wrong."
Sex, Lies and My Wife
Michael Brown
This is an admission of how I learned about one small incident in my wife's long history of betrayal and adultery. It's not the first instance, nor is it even the first instance I became aware of. But it was an instance where she revealed her capacity to take her infidelities to a new level, then, within a context of general hints and innuendo, torment me with a graphic confession that mixed both regret and satisfaction, and reveled in the exquisite agony it caused me.
As you can see from the photo of her standing on the front walk in her tight blue shorts, she is very small-breasted. She was always very insecure about it, and believed men would tend to not find her attractive because of it. From the beginning of our relationship, I noticed that she was envious of the attention some women got from guys, and she wanted that kind of attention for herself. Combine that with her hot, orgasmic sex drive, her blue-eyed blonde good looks, her hot temper and tendency to want to "get even" when she felt she had been wronged, and her love of partying and drinking, and she was a ticking time bomb. We met when she was 16 and I was 19, we had our first date the week after I turned 20, and by the time she was 17, because of her suspicions and her temper and her partying and her insecurities, she had already committed her first act of infidelity. Being young and immature, she was unable to keep it secret, yet equally unable to admit it. So she tormented me with innuendo and suggestion, especially when she was angry with me, dragging out the admissions over several years, until she at last confessed everything and began a pattern that lasted years.
"If you knew," she would snap at me, "about some of the things I've done when you weren't around, you'd go nuts." There was no doubt about what kinds of things she meant.
And I'd just about go nuts with jealousy, trying to pry information loose from her, while she would slowly leak more and more details to me, all the while denying that anything had happened. Then, at last, there would be a final admission, and I would twist in agony at the knowledge, yet somehow have known it all along, known she was lying, known she was sinning. And she knew that, after she had taken her full measure of torment, she could tell me everything and I would take it. And everything kept being more and more and more, and I just couldn't bear the thought of being without my slutty little darling, no matter what she did.
We fought a lot. The relationship was very volatile. She believed that I was just as fascinated by those other women as other guys were. It was part of her reason for being angry. And of course I was fascinated ... I had my own insecurities, too. (Funny, isn't it, how the right combination of explosives seem to be naturally drawn to each other?) She used her sexuality to both keep me at home and to terrify me (she had learned that the thought of her naked in another man's arms both fascinated me and drove me wild with jealousy). We tormented each other with jealousy and suspicion and (from her) sexual threats.
I suppose in a way I had become "pussy whipped." Through her intimidation and thinly veiled threats, she was able to extract concessions from me that most other men would have never have tolerated (and most other wives would not have expected). And because of her insecurities and desire for attention, she turned those concessions into situations in which she became swept away with the passions and desires of the moment, and descended into a secret life of adultery and sin that became more provocative and shameless with the passage of time. She hounded me for freedom, and despite the fact that I knew about what she was like when she drank and got high and was around men, I let her go out to bars alone. I thought I was just being "fair" at the time, but even the most amateur observer of human behavior would know I was giving her the signal that I wanted and expected her to get picked up and fucked.
I don't know what mechanism was at work that made me pretend I didn't want or expect her adulteries. Maybe it was the sensation itself ... it was always most intense when it combined both lurid pleasure and orgasmic pain. The torment was exquisite! It hurt so good!
Bonnie's insecurities became perfect for me, because they not only produced the need for her to sin and torment me with the hints of it, but it eventually led to her confessions, and I desperately needed the immense release caused by learning the detailed truth. To her, I just had to be told that other men found her to be a really hot and desirable piece of cunt. And I discovered that I needed to hear that she had been one for them. When the dam finally burst (which took several years of increasingly more graphic innuendo) and the confessions of her adulteries began, they just kept coming and coming and coming, like the orgasms she described, nearly drowning me in the sheer detail of it all. And I was forced to ultimately admit things about myself that she seemed to already understand: that inside the pain and horror there was also dark, seamy fascination and what I would call "erotic anguish." I acquiesced in her provocative demands, dangled helplessly as she tormented me with lurid hints about her promiscuous ways, waited anxiously for the final slap, the final admission, the avalanche of detail that gushed from her ultimately overburdened store of secrets. And I luxuriated in the soup of shameless sin she created.
After I knew, after first one secret, then another, then another were revealed, I found I could not stop her from continuing to go out. She continued to lie and say things were "different now," and I pretended to believe her. But I discovered I got a narcotic-like rush as I watched her getting ready to go out, watched her perfume herself and paint her cocksucking mouth, knowing what she might do, knowing I might not know for months or years where she went or what she'd done, or with who, knowing she would tease and hint and lie and deny before finally satisfying her need to torment me and at last tell me the truth. I had discovered that I loved the anguish of watching my hot cunt wife leave for another night of sin, and imagining every detail of her probable adulteries in my fantasies as I waited for her to come home. Of course, it was evident that she knew it, too. On more than one occasion, she told me, "I thought that was what you wanted."
Although I had been jacking off before, responding to her threats and innuendo, seeking what I thought was relief from the erotic torture she caused me, I now began doing it even more, thinking only of her and her lovers, imagining what it was like, replaying their conversations in my mind, remembering every detail she had told me about what they had done together. I realize now that I was creating a circle of behavior that was deriving lurid pleasure from my wife's adulteries, reinforcing my passive acceptance through orgasmic fantasy and ecstatic memory. I seemed especially drawn to the "close calls," the times when my darling had admitted to literally sinning right under my nose, without my knowing or (usually) suspecting. Right there in front of me! So cynical! So conspiratorial! So dirty and depraved! The stolen kisses in the kitchen, quick shameless moments of finger fucking while I was out of the room, furtive cocksucking inside a bedroom closet at a party ... Oh, God, the sensation of it, learning little snippets, the dawn of awareness, the slow buildup of fear and torment as more details emerged, the frustration of her more and more unbelievable denials, the agony of my tormented questions, my squirting cum as I fantasized about the worst, and finally, finally her graphic true confession.
It seemed especially erotic to be exploited in that way. I even enjoyed it in the movies - the delicious thrill of the secret affair right over the shoulder of the unsuspecting husband ... the arousal I experienced as I watched attraction and desire draw a wife and another man into words and touches and glances, then secret stolen moments, naked, touching, kissing, mating, and the heady rush of the orgasms and the lies. How erotic it was to me, the idea of a wife as secret slut, the husband not knowing ... the delicious deceit of it all! And my wife and lover forced me to realize it wasn't just in the movies where we were concerned. I could remember so well the moments I twisted in naked agony on our bed, obsessed with thoughts of another of my angel's adulteries, imagining every detail I had learned, crying out in torment, "oh it's my wife, it's my wife that's the whore ... why does it have to be my wife who puts out ... why ... why ..." as I jacked off all over myself.
I guess in that kind of atmosphere it wouldn't take long for everyone to notice there was an unusual dynamic to our marriage. People we knew must have seen my wife when she was out alone. They must have watched her ... must have spoken to her ... seen her come and go ... They had to find her tempting. I saw them look at her myself ... saw them lock eyes with her, exchange penetrating, knowing looks that said "you're a sexy little piece of snatch." I guess it would be stupid to think that my friends wouldn't hit on her, but consciously that's the way I believed it was. The amateur psychologist, learning about the events I'm about to relate, would have known better, and would have also known that deep inside I knew better as well. Otherwise, why would I have placed my wife and my friends in situations just ripe for adulterous opportunity? Why, having seen them look at her, having listened to them talk about women, would I have done it even once?
But I did. Such was the case the night I drove her and my friend Pat from a party. As occurred so often , we had gotten into an argument at the party (in fact, it had begun while we were getting ready to go, when Bonnie accused me of wanting to go because "women you have the hots for" were going to be there). By the time the party was over, we were both steamed. I went to get the car to pick us up at the door: Bonnie, Pat and a friend (female) of Pat's who we had offered a ride home. When I pulled up at the door, only Pat's friend (I think her name was Rose) was ready. She started to get in the back seat, but I invited her to sit up front. Pat came out a few minutes later and got in the back. No sign of Bonnie. We waited, and I got more steamed. When she finally came out, I told her we weren't playing musical seats, just get in the back. She was angry anyhow, and that made her more so.
Rose lived about 8 or 10 miles in the other direction from the area where the 3 of us lived, so when we dropped her off, we had about a 27 or 28 mile drive back home. During the trip to Rose's, Pat passed around a joint he had rolled, as well as a bottle of wine he had "liberated" from the party (the party was one of those government agency things, and Pat's attitude about the wine was "I'm a taxpayer, I paid for it, so I can have it."
By the time we were at Rose's we were all pretty buzzed. As I started home, Pat said "MB, I'm so buzzed I think I'll put my head in your wife's lap and crash." I said that was up to her, she could do whatever she wanted. Bonnie made a crack about me "spying" on them, so I angrily tilted the mirror up so she was mostly out of sight. The two of them together made my libido begin to activate, but I didn't pay much attention to them in the back seat, except responding to a request to turn the heat up (it was December - the photo is from the following April) and crank up the radio a tad. For me, it seemed the trip passed uneventfully ... except that I knew the argument would probably continue when Pat left for home.
It was when the confessions were in full swing that I learned the final truth about what really happened in the back seat that night. Oh, there had been the usual hints ... Bonnie saying on occasion that my friends "aren't as good of friends as you think," and "some of your friends have really dirty minds." She also alluded to conversations I had not been a part of, but for the most part didn't torment me in the same way she did concerning strange men. I suppose that made me more relaxed. I didn't really fantasize too readily about her and my friends. Maybe that seemed like just too much. Maybe it seemed like it wouldn't happen. But I was deceiving myself again. And my wife and my friends were deceiving me. The night Bonnie finally confessed, it was in response to my request to "clear all the suspicions away and start over." I knew about many of her adulteries already, but there were other hints still hovering in the air. I begged her to tell me everything, to give me release from my torment, and after making me promise not to exact any kind of retribution from anyone because of anything she said, my Bonnie began to confess her latest sins. And for the first time she began telling me about her and my friends.
She told me first about that night, how as soon as Pat laid his head in her lap (he was lying on his side, head facing front), he began touching her lower legs with his free hand. When she didn't respond negatively, she said, he began rubbing her calf, upward to her knee. My heart was pounding as she told me (by this time I had heard so many confessions I had an idea what might be in store), and I remember my voice trembling as I asked her why she let him go. "I was mad at you," she said, "and I was really ***** and stoned." Then she added, "and you know how I am when I'm like that."
Oh, yes, oh yes I knew! Her libido would have been bursting out from any chains holding it in place, his fingers, even on her calf, would have been sending pulses of pleasure through her, and her cunt would have already been swimming in liquid desire. She told me she remained passive while he shifted position, moving his head more onto her hip and against her side. Having gotten his own head out of the way, he began forcing his hand up her dress. "He was supposedly your friend," she explained, "and I wondered what kind of friend he really was."
"I guess he was wondering what kind of wife you really were, too," I said bitterly.
"I guess you're right," she told me. Then after a pause, "and I guess he found out." Her tone of admission said it all! I was swept with such a surge of helpless realization that it made me dizzy. It made my ears ring. If I hadn't been already seated, I would have had to sit down, my knees became so weak. My psyche was tormented with fear and apprehension and perverse anticipation all at once. Oh, God not my friends, too! Not my friends! Oh, they'll all know, they would have all known all along! All these years! Oh, the rush, this new untapped well of perversely painful desire!
I hung on her every word then, and she didn't disappoint me. She told me how he continued forcing his hand up and up between her legs while she sat there, neither helping nor hindering him. "I was acting as though it wasn't happening," she told me. "I was afraid you were watching me in the mirror." Oh, God! All she wanted to do was hide it all from me! She detailed how he forced his hand all the way to her crotch and began rubbing her. "I was trying to be unresponsive so you wouldn't know and he wouldn't jump to any conclusions, but it felt so good my stomach was doing flip-flops," she told me. "If we had been alone, I would have let him undress me."
Because of the way I would take it, Bonnie, once she decided it was time to confess, had become shamelessly and bluntly honest about her adulteries, freely admitting her own compliance and cooperation and lust. When she referred to "you know how I am" when she'd been drinking, she wasn't making an excuse, just offering up part of her motivation as explanation. She dressed provocatively on purpose; she chose to let men buy her drinks; she drank on purpose; she left the bar with strangers on purpose; she got high on purpose. She knew it would warm her and lower her inhibitions and make her want sex. She loved wanting, and getting, sex. And she was reminding me that deep down I knew and accepted the promiscuous snatch she had become. She knew I was a coconspirator in her sin.
On this night, I had just begun to believe Pat had hit the wall at her panty hose, and was actually experiencing a false rush of semi-relief when she hit me again. After she admitted that she would have been naked with him if they had been alone, she added, "but I didn't need to." "Wh-what do you mean?" I was beginning to experience shock and fear again.
"There was a place along the crotch of my panty hose where the seam was pulling apart," she admitted. "And he found it. Before I knew what was happening, he had his finger inside and underneath the elastic of my panties. I was already soaking wet, and in a split second his finger was in there, going up and down and in and out a mile a minute. He caught me so much by surprise and it was such a rush of pleasure I almost screamed. But I bit my lip and tried to keep from jerking around or moaning while he went to work. I had to do something so I dug into his head and his arm with my fingers. We were still about 20 miles from home, and he fingered me every second of the way. It nearly killed me, having orgasms without being able to make a sound. But I did it. And I loved it."
"And you know what?" she added.
"What?" I asked weakly. I was drowning in the realization of what had happened just behind my back. Aching with pain, yet rigid and throbbing with erotic imagination.
"This seems awful to say, but it turned me on even more to know you were so close and I was doing it anyway. That it was a friend of yours, who wanted me and I was letting him finger me right under your nose. I knew he wanted more, and I wished we had 50 more miles to go. It was a rush to know your friends would betray you to get sex from your wife. I hadn't realized that when it came to sex, Pat wouldn't be much of a friend."
"Well," I responded with pained resignation, "I guess he hadn't realized that when it came to sex, you wouldn't be much of a wife."
She seemed stung by the remark, but had to admit its accuracy. "I guess that's true," she said. She confessed that later that night, as our arguing culminated (as it so often did) in hunger-driven lovemaking, her thoughts, her fantasies were of being fingered in the back seat while I drove her and her secret lover, my friend, home. "I don't know if you noticed or not, but between you and my fantasies, I really got off that night."
And then she stunned me again, setting the stage for more confessions to come (after there had already been so many). "I had thought I had gone about as far as I could go," she remarked, "but I was wrong."
- Next: Chapter 02
