Sex, Lies and My Wife

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."

When I told of the fingerfucking incident between my wife Bonnie and my friend Pat in the back seat of my car while I, completely *******, drove us home from a party, I admitted that it wasn’t the first of her admissions of adultery, and it wasn’t going to be the last. Her haughty and shameless admissions continued to tear at me over the years, and there were times when I wondered why I stood for it, or at least why I never seemed to get used to it.

It was like every admission was the first one, with each reliving of the pattern of lies and the slow release of parts and more parts of the truth (until whatever triggered within her the need for release and complete confession) just working me into frantic, terrified arousal, so desperate at last that the graphic, horrific truth came gushing with intense erotic relief, and as my heart pounded and my knees got weak I would think ‘at last, at last I know the truth.’

Some of our best lovemaking occurred on those nights when she had confessed everything to me, when I held her naked in my arms and imagined everything the two of them had been doing together, knowing that her lover knew that was how she felt, knew it was how she tasted, knew the intimate sounds of ecstasy she made, heard her graphic dirty cries and whispers, knew the thrill of being deep in her warm syrupy cunt and her sweet wet mouth. I would get lost in the thought of it, the realization of it, and I would whisper "you loved it, didn’t you?" and it would thrill me to hear her say "yes, yes, I did."

Those moments of reverie were so different from the torment that led up to them, and I realize now that one was not likely possible without the other. How can there be forgiveness without sin? How can there be ecstasy without pain? How can their be blessed relief without torment? I must have been desperately seeking the one through the other, we both must have. It just repeated itself so often.

The incident I am about to relate this time occurred in our fourth year of marriage, and again it was not her first indiscretion nor her first adultery. But, like my previous account revealed (especially to her) her willingness to continually break boundaries in her pursuit of pleasure, this incident taught her a graphic lesson about what a truly sexual being she was, and how much of the attention she craved could be waiting out there for her if she gave in and allowed her wild promiscuous nature to be set free. And it taught me that beyond the horror and insult and shame and degradation the incident and its long aftermath caused me, there also came to be a ferocious attachment to the memory of it, a strange thrill of ecstasy from having what was most precious taken away body and spirit by a wild animal force I did not possess.

For a long time it was only teasing hints, but not like the others. Sometimes, just occasionally, when I had complained about something negative, she would slap me with "if you had any idea of some of the things that have been done to me, you wouldn’t complain so much." I knew from her tone of voice what she meant. It was always sex. Sex was her weapon, her instrument of torture. But she wouldn’t budge any farther. No trickle of details, no little snippets. It was almost possible to forget about it, especially since we were going through a particularly bad phase, and Bonnie was tormenting me miserably with hints about other instances of infidelity while intimating that they would be my fault.

Her threats and hints were so graphic and spiteful during that period that I just had to get away from it before somebody got hurt. I didn’t have any particular goals in mind, other than sheer relief, and Bonnie was no longer so dependent, having gotten her driver’s license and begun taking some college courses and working part-time. But it was quickly evident that both of us were more miserable apart. Still insecure, I was jealous of her new "singleness." I feared the worst. My imagination was on overdrive, obsessed with thoughts of her and her imaginary lovers. I would lay there alone in the dark in my ratty apartment, thinking about my Bonnie and her previous sins, all her tormenting hints, and it drove me nuts with fear and agony. Somehow I just couldn’t let it go until I had played it out to completion in my imagination, and my orgasms came as I thought about her, reliving every detail of her adulteries I knew, fearing for all the hints I’d been given, anguishing over my absence and the thought she might at that very moment be an adulteress in the dark.

At the same time, despite her anger and her lashing out, she found my absence depressing and the burden of our two small children overwhelming. If she had been seeing other guys, they didn’t seem to be coming around while I was gone. Within 2 or 3 weeks, we were talking about my moving back home. But I didn’t want things to be the same. I thought while we were separated that maybe it was time to clear the air once and for all and tell the whole truth. I was not happy about having to break a promise I had made to my only other secret lover, a woman Bonnie knew and considered a friend, but I had come to believe it was the only way we had a chance to break our impasse. So I told her one night during one of our marathon phone conversations that I thought we needed to open up to each other and tell the truth. She must have done a great deal of thinking about it, because it took her several days to agree. I realize now she was deciding whether it was time to break new ground with her admissions. She must have felt confident that ultimately I would wilt and accept it. She told me she agreed and I moved back home.

I’ll not ever forget the night soon after when we got a baby-sitter to look after the kids so we could be alone to talk. I was dressed, but she had gotten comfortable in a two-piece nighty. Nothing glamorous. Cotton top and bikini bottom. She looked sexy anyhow - until she hit the roof. That’s because I got to go first and I told her all about me and her friend. It’s not because of what I said or how she reacted to it, because it was about what I had expected - she was livid, she was self-righteous in her "I knew it" attitude. But more than that, she was wounded to the point of brutal honesty, even though my sin was an old one - and a solitary event. When it was her turn to speak, she said, "I was going to keep lying to spare your feelings, but not any more." Then, while my stomach began to churn and my hands got clammy and my knees got weak, she began to tell me what had been up to that point the worst of her secrets.

She told me about a man she met a few weeks after that first night I had dropped her off at the bar. Among the many men who had approached her and bought her drinks (that night and every night), there had been one who she found attractive. Blond-haired himself, he had a kind of smug brashness I disliked in others, and perhaps partly for that reason Bonnie liked him.

I had met him myself. His name was Gary, and he was bold enough to come over to our table on Saturday nights when Bonnie and I were out together and plop down with us. On many occasions I had used his intrusion as an excuse to drift away and shoot darts or play pool, and I left them alone. Not that it mattered, I told myself - she saw him on Fridays, when I wasn’t around. But of course, in retrospect I realize, it did matter. It sent him a signal that my wife was on her own. He was confident, and outspoken about what he wanted. Of course, when speaking to me he wanted certain things; when speaking to Bonnie, he wanted something else.

"He asked me out lots of times, but I never went," Bonnie told me the night she confessed. "Then one day while you were at work, the doorbell rang and it was him."

I had a million questions for her: How did he know where you lived? ‘I guess I told him sometime.’ Where were the kids? ‘Outside playing.’ What were you wearing? ‘That old skirt and blouse I wear around the house.’ She didn’t have to elaborate. I knew: no bra, no nylons, penny loafers, short skirt. Already I was getting a lump in my throat. She would have looked so sexy to him. She told me how they had sat at the kitchen table and talked and drank coffee for a couple of hours. He had a lot of questions about me, about our relationship, about our sex life (which, remarkably, had never suffered even in the darkest days of our marriage - Bonnie considered sex her birthright). She told me she was as discreet as always. She had nothing negative to say about me. Since she was being so blunt and she was so angry, I believed her. At some point the kids had come in to go to the bathroom. Bonnie got them a drink and told them not to go far because lunch was going to be pretty soon. Then they went back outside. She was standing at the sink, rinsing out the drink glasses, when Gary approached her and grabbed her from behind. "He grabbed me by my shoulder and pressed me against the counter," she said. "Then he began playing with my ass." She said it so matter-of-factly that it was stunning.

"Wasn’t there anything you could do?" I stammered. "Couldn’t you …?"

"He was really strong," she said, looking searchingly into my eyes for a quiet moment. Then it was as if she had made a decision. "And besides," she added, "it was starting to feel good."

"Y-you mean you just gave right in?" I asked weakly.

"No," she responded. "I struggled, but he was just too strong. I tried to get out of his grasp but I couldn’t. I tried to keep his hands away but I couldn’t. Before I knew it he had me down on the kitchen floor."

I listened, shaking, almost crying as she described what happened. There had been no hints, no warning, for this! She said he got both her wrists in one powerful hand, her arms pinned beneath her body on the floor. He forced one knee between her legs, then began reaching up her dress with his free hand. She tried to close her legs and forbid access, but she couldn’t combat his strength. She tried to reason with him, but he persisted.

"I begged him please not to, I’m married," Bonnie told me, "but that only seemed to make him more determined. I remember his face, his expression. He wasn’t going to stop. I knew what was going to happen to me." She paused again, looking at me and certainly seeing the pained look on my face. Then with what seemed a momentary triumphant look, she said, "and he finally got to where he was going." I sunk into a state of helpless despair as she continued, sparing me nothing. She described how he began rubbing her crotch, how in spite of herself she found herself responding to his persistent fingers. "I was trying to say no, but you know what I get like when I start feeling good," she said bluntly. Oh, God, yes I did! "I couldn’t hide it. He could tell I was loving it."

She told me how her resolve (and her muscles) weakened and she couldn’t even try to keep her legs together. And then she described how he worked his fingers beneath the elastic bands of her panties, how they found her slit, soaking wet with pleasure and anticipation, how they stroked her while she lost her grip and the pleasure began to overwhelm her, and how they probed and teased at the opening to her vagina, then plunged inside.

"His fingers started going a mile a minute, and I started going crazy," she said. "I had my first orgasm in about two minutes, and I let him know I was having it, too. He said I turned him on like crazy with the sounds I was making. He even let go of my hands because he knew I wasn’t going to be able to fight him anymore." I remember her tossing her head defiantly then. "I tried, but it was no use. Sex makes me so weak."

She kept it up, as relentless in her blunt description as her lover had been in his pursuit. She told me how she put her newly freed hands to use, digging into his back and shoulders as he continued fingering her to another orgasm. It was when he stopped fingering her to undo his pants that she tried to resist again, but it was futile. He reached down, then unzipped his fly, undid his belt, then his button and reached inside to free his cock. And all the time using his body and other hand to control the twisting moaning begging housewife on the kitchen floor, crying "oh God no, Gary … please … no …"

For a moment her smug tone subsided. Looking away, she said, "Oh God his cock was so big." She didn’t need to tell me that, but she did anyhow. She knew it would sting with insult, her surrender to a more well-endowed male. She said she was almost afraid of it, so much longer and even thicker than mine. Until then, I had thought all the wind was out of my sails, but when I heard that, I really deflated. He was the Alpha male taking whatever he wanted for his own, with her loving it and her mate helpless to prevent it! She told me how he went back to fingering her while he moved his body into position to mount her. She told me how his fingers made the pleasure start coming in waves again, and how she "started getting into it and saying things."

"L-l-like what?" I stammered.

"Well, I told him it was crazy what we were doing, that it wasn’t right, that I was married and it would devastate you, and begged him to stop, but the mention of me being married just seemed to excite him more," she said. "He kept fingering me and saying "you love it don’t you?" and "I knew what you wanted when I first met you." He kept asking me "you love it, don’t you? you love it, don’t you" until I finally gave in and told him ‘oh God can’t you tell?’ He told me later it really turned him on to know he was fucking another man’s wife."

I felt like a defeated animal, shaking and tormented with shame. He had just taken her … and she loved it! My wife, my wife, a willing toy for his aggressive lust! She related that when he entered her, it felt both ecstatically pleasurable and uncomfortable at the same time. "He was too big. I didn’t like the pressure," she said. "I’ve always liked you better." But pressure and all, it still gave her pleasure and she got into it with abandon. She said she couldn’t help it. "My resistance went to jelly when he pushed inside and started really fucking. My hips started pushing and my legs fell open wide and I started getting wild. I finally let go and began kissing him back, and I started really fucking him, too. I had a couple more orgasms," she sighed, "then he came in me."

God she was so blunt. She had more details to hurl at me, too. She wasn’t holding anything back. "He only came a little bit, and he stayed hard," she said, comparing him with me, who came a lot and went limp for a good while. It was another thing she liked about me, she confided: the wet feeling it gave her inside and how much she loved it. I guess there had to be positives to keep her coming home all those years.

But that was small comfort when I had to hear about Gary’s endless erection and their continuous fucking, until he was ready to come a second time. "Then there was something else he wanted me to do" Bonnie told me. Oh, no! Oh, no! I knew, I feared, what it was. "A-and … did you …" my voice trailed off.

"Yes, I did," she said, quietly, looking down in her lap, not so smug any more. "I didn’t have any resistance left. He made me do it. Just like he said he would. I didn’t want to. I really tried to resist. But he was so strong. He just worked his way up my body and started pushing my head down. He had to grab my wrists again and twist one arm behind my back and under me. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head into his crotch." Incredibly, she took my hand and placed it in her hair, acting out for me how he had pulled her head down into his crotch. Even in my state of shock, her actions caused me to get an erection. She rubbed her face back and forth across my crotch. "I tried to turn away," she said, "but he rubbed his cock all over my face and in my hair." I should have known it would come, but this was like a sudden knife in the heart. This was the one place where our sex life had always been a disappointment to me. She just didn’t like doing it, and it had been years since it had happened. She had always claimed to be selfish, not wanting to waste my best ability to give her pleasure on oral sex. "I want it to be fun for me, too," she would say. Oh, how I envied the guys who were the recipients of regular (or even occasional) oral sex. And now I was about to learn that at least one of them had gotten it from my wife.

She continued her story. His forcing her head down into his groin became a turn-on for her, because it was covered with the powerful musky aroma of their arousal and mating. She loved those smells, and would often touch herself, then wipe her finger beneath each of our noses whenever we made love. She said it excited her and enabled her to get into the experience and the pleasure even more. The aroma began to overwhelm her senses as she felt and watched his cock brush over her nose and lips and ears and cheek and chin and into her hair, which clung to its stickiness. With one hand, he held her head in place by her hair, while he went back to fingering her with the other.

"I was just helpless again," she almost whispered. "I was getting off like crazy. I knew what he was going to make me do, and it suddenly just seemed to make it even more exciting. I thought about you at work, and me at home on the kitchen floor, being ***** by another man, and he was going to make me do something I didn’t do with you, and I don’t know why but it just gave me such a rush. I never had that feeling before, being forced to do something against my will, knowing it was about to happen, feeling the anticipation, knowing it was sex, and it just turned me on. I started thinking again ‘he’s gonna make me do it, he’s gonna make me do it.’ so I gave up and stopped trying to turn away, and I let him force it in my mouth."

At this point tears began trickling down my cheeks, although my erection was harder than ever. I felt so defeated, and yet there was something deliciously exciting about the pain. My breathing was labored. As though I were having sex with her myself. She looked at me with what seemed a momentary flash of understanding.

"See what it feels like?" she asked me. Then she took a deep breath of resolve. "You wanted to know, and now you’re going to," she said.

She told me how she had to grip the base of his cock so he didn’t choke her by pushing it too far down her throat. She marveled at how his demeanor changed once he was inside her mouth - how he changed from an aggressive bull to a purring tomcat. She felt him relax, and could sense him experiencing a kind of reverie. "It suddenly occurred to me that now I was in charge," she said. "I began to realize men really want it bad, and they’re attracted to women who do it for them. Gary was just like you. I thought maybe all men are like that, and maybe that’s what they really want from a woman."

"So I decided to have my little secret, too," she continued. "I made my mouth as soft and wet and cozy as I could and let him go to work. I just gave in to it. You didn’t know it, but my mouth was sore for the next week. She looked at me, almost triumphant as she admitted everything. "He was fingering me so good I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t," she hurled at me, "because my mouth was so full."

I cringed in pain, but she continued, not noticing or caring. ‘I was so turned on I started to want what was going to happen," she admitted. " I started using my hand to jerk him and help him get off. I could feel him begin to tense and he started really groaning and I knew he was really hot and loving it and was going to let go, but I didn’t flinch." She hesitated for just the briefest of seconds, while she glanced at me. No shame, no guilt, just bold brazen truth. "I thought about you at work and what I was doing. I thought about you and how I didn’t suck you and now I was sucking him and really wanting to. It might have been just a coincidence, but I was thinking about how slutty it all was and how slutty I must look, still half dressed but my skirt pushed up and my panties down, being fingered and fucked in the mouth on the kitchen floor. It was turning me on and then I had an orgasm while he was coming in my mouth. I felt it squirting in there on my tongue and I was trying to scream I was so hot and I was thinking I’ve really done it, I’ve really sucked cock all the way and Michael doesn’t know, my husband doesn’t know."

Then she made her biggest confession of all. "You might as well know this," she said. " I didn’t know it at the time, "but those thoughts of cheating on you and having secrets from you got mixed up in the pleasure, and they began to go together for me. The idea of being a slut behind your back really began to turn me on." Oh, God!

As the sordid details of her oral experience piled up on me, I felt something continue to stir inside me … something strangely and perversely odd. As she detailed her powerlessness, her degradation, her surrender, her orgasms, my erection grew harder, even as my stomach turned and my hands shook and I felt so weak and sad. I was breathing deeply, as though I’d been running. Rather than just hearing her words, I began to visualize her on the floor, her skirt pushed up around her waist, her panties down around one ankle, her blouse unbuttoned, her hair in the grip of this man, her legs spread, his fingers dancing inside her cunt, his hips thrusting forward and jerking back, over and over, his cock going into her mouth, deep and back, deep and back, over and over, over and over, and the moans and the grunting, oh their wild animal sounds as they mated, and her, my wife, my wife, getting off on it, giving in to it, going crazy on our own kitchen floor, pulling and tugging on his cock as it nestled in her mouth, going from fighting it to wanting it to happen, to helping make it happen! And at the same time I was hating her for her betrayal and experiencing the humiliation of a husband whose wife has become an adulteress. And, perversely, I also felt like I wanted to jack off, just imagining it, just imagining it. Oh, it really, really happened! I felt like I was experiencing some altered state of consciousness. I felt numb, and my ears were ringing. I was gasping, enough for Bonnie to ask if I were all right. She again laid her head in my lap, and there was no doubt she could feel my arousal along with my pain. Oddly, instead of revulsion and shrinking away from her, I began stroking her shiny blonde hair and caressing her shoulder with my shaking hands. Lying there, she told me the rest of that first story. How he finally came (his tiny amount) in her mouth, how she wouldn’t swallow, but spit it out. How he told her that seeing his cum running out of her mouth and down her cheek and neck in a little gray-white rivulet was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen. How he went back to her cunt and they fucked once more, until he had his third orgasm inside her.

"And then," she said, so matter-of-fact, "it was time to get the kids lunch." He let her up and she straightened herself out and Gary went into the living room while Bonnie rounded up the girls and fed them lunch. When lunch was over, the kids wanted to go back outside. "So they went outside, and Gary and I went to bed. I let the kids skip their naps. They thought it was a treat." She was silent for a moment, then inserted the dagger. "It was a treat for all of us … except you."

She put it all into context for me then. The time she had the large bruise on her shoulder and lied and said she’d bumped into the door frame had been the day Gary had been there "the first time." But there were other times that followed … times in our bed and on our floor and times in his car and in the woods and in his bed and on his couch and on his floor. Fucking and learning to suck cock. Oh, I felt so battered by the time she’d had her fill of talking.

But my brazen young adulteress was reassuring. "You know I have more to tell you," she said. "But don’t worry … now that I know you were fucking other women, you’re going to get to hear it all."

And I’m pretty certain that I did.