From: jul41944@aol.com (Jul 4 1944)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Her First Confession
Date: 27 Sep 1996 22:05:13 -0400
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<HTML><PRE>Subj: Her first confession
Date: 96-08-28 13:00:14 EDT
From: Jul 4 1944
As I explained in my posting on alt.sex.stories, my wife used to torment
me with the angry phrase, "if you knew about some of the things I've
been
doing when you weren't around, you'd go crazy." She first began that
before we were married and it became a pattern. Either through
frustration or suspicion or just plain revenge, she would suggest that
there was something else going on. We met when I was 20 and she was 16.
We got into sex pretty quickly, and she loved it. But with her
insecurities, it quickly became a weapon as well as a toy.
The first time was when I was visiting her from school and did something
to irritate her, and she made that threat. It scared me and made me
weak
in the knees. She told me about one night the previous summer when she
had been working at an ice cream place, and I had been in with my
college
roommate to pay her a surprise visit. She had not expected me to be out
and around for the weekend (we hadn't planned to be together because she
had to work), and my roommate and I had been doing some serious partying
and were in a goofy mood. When we showed up at her work, she was not
amused. Later, at closing time, one of her old boyfriends came in and
offered her a ride home, and she accepted. That was the initial tease,
which she finally admitted to, but saying "he just drove me right home
and
that was that. I was just trying to make you jealous."
The strategy worked, because it did make me jealous and also kept me on
a
short leash. But over time, as I seemed to find endless ways to make
her
angry, her story evolved: first, she admitted that they didn't just go
right home and "that was that." She said they sat in the car in front of
her mother's apartment and talked for a long time, then she went in.
Later, after we had been married for a time, she changed the story again
to say that the guy had wanted to go someplace more private to talk (her
mother's apartment was right on the main street of her small Central
Pennsylvania town), so she had pointed him to our secret little parking
place on an isolated dirt road a few miles out of town, but "we just
talked," she insisted. Later she admitted that he had gotten beer and
the
two of them had been drinking in the car, but "nothing happened." You
can
imagine my increasing fears and frustrations as more and more details
leaked out, always being the complete and final truth.
I can no longer remember the circumstances when she told me everything,
but she confessed that night the two of them had gone parking in our
secret spot, had talked and drank the beers, and then ... well, I had
to
understand that she was angry with me and she was drunk and he was an
old
boyfriend who she was attracted to ... and then they began making out
and
it turned her on to be in the car in the dark with a guy, just like it
was
with me, and she just got into it, letting him touch her and undo her
blouse and bra and play with her breasts and play with her crotch and
unsnap her shorts and take them off, and then her underpants so she was
naked with him, while they kissed and she rubbed his crotch and undid
his
pants. They began to get into it then, her playing with his cock and he
fingering her. I can still remember the sting of pain I felt when she
told me how much she had gotten into his fingering her, how much she had
loved it. "He drove me crazy", she admitted, but almost boastfully.
But the incident also had a strange ending, because the guy had wanted
her
to go back to his house (he was living at home with his mother and a
younger sister) and spend the night, but she wouldn't do it, for obvious
reasons. That could have been some comfort to me, because her refusal
caused the guy to take her home in a huff, and they never had
intercourse.
But she admitted she "would have done anything he wanted" if they had
stayed together in the car, because she was so turned on.
From all the undercurrents of suggestion and innuendo that had been
dangled before me, that had been the first for which the final truth
surfaced. In itself, it made my stomach turn and my knees get weak and
it
gave me the first real perverse shivers of delight I began to get,
thinking about her in that car with him, my sweet baby, naked in his
arms,
crying out in ecstasy as his fingers danced inside her.
I couldn't do anything about it because it was years before and I wanted
to be with her, and I just let it go and accepted it on the outside,
while
it began to obsess me inside. Along with the new reality of that
incident, I had other "evolving" stories of hers to anguish over, and
they
now took on a new and threatening hue. I sat at work, thinking about
her.
What was she really doing? When I called and the line was busy, was it
another man? What else had really happened in the past that I didn't
know
about? That's when my fantasies really began in earnest and I finally
gave in to the strange (to me) urge to masturbate when I imagined her in
the car, and thought about her and other men in other circumstances.
Sometimes I would drive out into the woods on my lunch hour, almost in a
trance, and walk deep into a secluded spot and undress, thinking about
her
and her lover and her infidelity and my semen would spurt spurt all over
the leaves and plants as I let myself get lost in it, my wife, my wife,
putting out for other men!
</P><P ALIGN=JUSTIFY>It was about that time when I broke down one night
and told her about the thoughts I was having about her. That made the
train roll even faster.
</PRE></HTML>
jul41944@aol.com
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From: jul41944@aol.com (Jul 4 1944)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Her Second Confession
Date: 27 Sep 1996 22:02:48 -0400
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Her Second Confession
After my wife had broken down and admitted her first indiscretion
with her old boyfriend while we were engaged, what had been a volatile
marriage became even more so. I was young and inexperienced enough to
not
really know how to handle the seemingly contradictory feelings of both
fascination and horror that I experienced upon learning the truth. Not
only did I press to learn more details about other examples of her
"tease"
statements (which sometimes led to fights), but I also found myself
admitting to her during lovemaking that I was fantasizing about her and
other men. It got to the point where her innuendo was confusing and
frightening me, while my jealous probing and lurid fantasies were
confusing and frightening her. Both of us were unbalanced all the time,
and didn t really know what to expect from each other.
And so we argued a lot. The arguments led to slamming doors and
laying rubber in the street and more threats and more innuendo and more
details, which I came to call "twisting the knife." And somehow, despite
the pain we inflicted, we seemed drawn to each other by an emotional
magnetism that would not allow us to escape from each other. We would
apologize. We would make up. And in making up she began to tell me (as
part of her momentary good intention that the future was going to be
different) about the past. It became a ritual which seemed spontaneous
at
the time, but in retrospect it seems to have almost been a formula for
sin
and confession and forgiveness that we had both agreed to abide by.
The second incident involved a guy she worked with at a local
social service agency. She had gotten the job in order to alleviate the
boredom of raising two small children. She worked evenings a couple of
days a week and sometimes on Saturdays and Sundays during the day, when
I
could baby-sit. I had encouraged her to get the job, because it was
obvious she needed contact with other adults besides me. We had just
begun living in the small town near where I worked (our daughters had
been
born while I was in the army and in graduate school) , and as a stay at
home mom, she was really isolated.
While in the long run her getting out and meeting people had a
positive impact on her life and personality, in the short run it just
made
my life more miserable. When she began at the agency, one of the staff
members was a young recent college graduate who was saving some money
for
his return to grad school. It was the fall, and he already had
announced
that he would be leaving at the end of December to begin his studies in
January. I immediately began hearing from my wife about how attractive
he
was, how smart, how et cetera. I heard about his flirtations and how he
d
hang around her desk. I heard about all the times he told her how great
she looked, how sexy she was, how he wished she were single. There was
nothing between them, of course, just good healthy bureaucratic
flirtations. Then came the end of December and he was gone.
Again, of course, the subject didn t drop, and the stories began
to slowly evolve from the harmless to something more sinister. I was
becoming experienced with her unstable personality, too, learning when
to
approach her and probe her for additional details, leading in time to
the
full confession. It was the combination of both the fighting and the
fantasizing that ultimately peeled away the layers of suggestion and
reached the core of the deliciously painful truths I learned.
As the next year passed and winter had passed into spring and then
summer, and I had received my first shock, being told about all the
details about her and her old boyfriend, I also confronted the reality
of
another evolving story. Imagine my turmoil as I witnessed what I feared
was history repeating itself! Of course there were the denials, but she
couldn t let it stop there. She seemed compelled to reveal more and
more
with every perceived injury she received at my hands, or with every
perceived indiscretion on my part. She dealt out details like lashes of
the whip, to torment me and punish me. To hurt me, she had to tell.
And so I heard over time that they had never seen each other
outside the office; that yes they had gone to lunch sometimes with other
people on the staff, but never just the two of them; that yes the two of
them had gone to lunch together a couple of times, but it was just
professional courtesy; that he flirted with her but had never tried to
hit
on her; that well, yes, he had tried to hit on her and had asked her out
several times, but had never been physical with her; that, well OK, he
had
actually kissed her spontaneously, but that she had not responded and he
stopped; that he was a "great kisser" and she couldn t help kissing him
back on a couple of occasions, but that nothing came of it; that the two
of them "had the hots for each other and everybody knew it" but there
wasn
t anything they could do about it "and besides I m married now."
In the environment in which this evolving tale was taking place, I
was almost mad with frustration and fear and she knew it. We fought
about
it and I stormed out more than once, hurling some choice labels at her
as
I left. And I couldn t keep my mouth shut any more than she could, and
I
had the irresistible compulsion to tell her about my fantasies about her
and her old boy friend, plus those about her and this new guy. "I can t
get it out of my mind," I told her often. "It s driving me crazy." Her
responses varied, but sometimes she zeroed in on the core of my torment.
"It seems like you re hoping I really did it," she would say. "It seems
like you want me to." It was a point of view she was to grow more and
more comfortable with, as she revealed more and more and I painfully
accepted it, and she realized the freedom believing I wanted her to be
with other men gave her. As for me, by my reactions, I paved the road
that led to her further adulteries.
It was after one of our fights, after I had stormed out over her
teases and then come home late and pretty drunk to find that she had hit
the booze too while I was gone. We were both in a state where we just
wanted to make up, and when I told her I just had to know the real truth
she weakened and confessed. It had been at the combination Christmas
party and going away party for Doug that it had happened. It was
December
18 and the party had been planned for a while. She had dressed less
casually than usual because the entire staff was going out when the
office
closed at 4:00. The 8 or 9 people in the office decided to carpool to
the
spot across town where they were to gather. For whatever reason, since
I
had given her the car to use, she decided to leave it behind and ride to
the pub with one of the other women.
Their partying lasted well into the night. They all had dinner
there, and consumed many pitchers of beer. As the night wore on, one by
one the staff began to excuse themselves and head home. It had gotten
down to 4 or 5 of them when my wife s ride was ready to leave. She was
not ready, she told me, because she was having a great time. Several of
the others, including Doug, offered her a ride back to her car. She
stayed. She had had a lot to drink and things were beginning to get
fuzzy, but it was still fun. They played pinball and danced and drank
some more. She really didn t notice that the 4 of them had dwindled to
3
and then 2 - her and Doug. Doug finally, gently, suggested that it was
time to go. It was after 11:00. They walked to his car (he had to help
her walk, she was so tipsy), then drove across town to the office where
her car was waiting, as the car warmed up her shivers were replaced by a
warm sensual glow. He had pulled her close and was holding her hand as
he
drove.
When they reached her car a light snow had begun to fall beautiful in
the lights of the otherwise empty parking lot, she told me.
So romantically beautiful. Doug suggested that he start her car for her
and they wait in his car until hers warmed up. Yes, she would like
that.
The world spun as she heard the engine of her car roar to life, and then
Doug was back with her. He didn t waste time, reaching for her and
pulling her close, telling her how wonderful it was to at last be
together
with her, how beautiful she looked, how much he liked her.
"I knew he was going to start touching me," she told me. We were
sitting on our sofa at home. The children had gone to bed. Burning
candles lit the scene. Confession by candlelight. She was wearing the
very dress she had worn that night, another trait that was to become
characteristic of her confessions. She began using me as a prop then,
showing me how he held her, how he began kissing her, how she kissed him
back. "I couldn t help it," she lamented. It was an expression I was
going to be hearing a lot in the coming years. She showed me by moving
my
hand around how he caressed her breasts and unbuttoned the top of her
dress. She coached me, getting me to unhook her bra as he had, fondle
her
bare breasts while sharing long openmouthed kisses, telling me
everything
he said to her. She guided my hand up her skirt, as he had done. She
told me how excited she had been, longing to be touched. "I knew I was
married, but I didn t care," she told me as my hand reached her crotch.
Her legs were spread for me as she led me on. They had been for him,
too.
"I made it easy for him."
In the following minutes she led me through it all, reliving it by
revealing at last every intimate detail. She confessed that she had an
orgasm before he even got her panty hose and panties off. As she told
me,
as I caressed her, her sexual excitement was increasing. She showed me
what she was doing, reaching down to rub my crotch and unzip my fly.
"You
re as hard as he was," she said with surprise. "Does this really turn
you
on?"
"I guess so," was all my twisting stomach and dry mouth would
allow in response.
She told me and showed me how she got his cock out and began
tugging and stroking it. She helped me act out with her how she lifted
her body so he could reach up her skirt with both hands and pull down
her
panty hose and panties. She didn t spare me anything. She told me as
she
stroked me and as, at her direction, I began fingering her, that the
circumstances made her "feel like a cheap slut, " and it really turned
her
on. She knew she was married and she knew I was waiting for her at
home,
but she was out in the dark in a car with another man, her clothes half
off, her bra unhooked, her undergarments pulled down to her ankles, her
shoes still on. "It felt so cheap and sordid, but I couldn t stop," she
told me. "I wanted to be a tramp."
She showed m then how she briefly went down on him, sliding his
cock into her mouth as far as she could take it, letting herself
experience the aroma and the taste of him. "He really wanted me to keep
doing it, but I wouldn t," she reassured me. At that point, she did not
like oral sex very much and I never got it. It made me tremble to know
that she had welcomed him into her mouth, even for a few moments, but at
the same time her demonstration of what she had done gave me a sudden
rush. He knew what it was like to be in my wife s mouth! I didn t
think
it was possible to become any harder than I already was, but I think I
did
as I felt that warm wet cocoon for myself.
He didn t want to let her head out of his lap, but she sat up.
She bent over and took off her shoes and removed her undies. "These are
going to be in the way," she told him. There, in the candlelight as the
scene was recreated, her shoes and undies lay on the living room floor.
She showed me how he unbuckled his belt, pulling down his own pants, and
how she helped him. Then a last few frenzied moments of cock stroking
and
finger fucking before she showed me how she spread for him and pulled
him
onto her and guided him inside her, and then we were fucking on the
couch
while she whispered to me how the two of them had fucked, how he had
made
her come over and over again because she was so hot for him. God, what
a
sensation it was to be loving my wife while she was whispering to me
every
detail of her adultery. "Oh, honey, you know how I get," she told me
before letting loose with the things she said to him while they were
mating: "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," over and over, and "deep, go deep,"
and "there, right there, do it right there."
I guess that really brought the terror and anguish and frustration
and the thrill to a head inside me, because I was hard as a rock and
moving inside her like a piston and she was practically screaming, "yes,
oh, god yes. It felt like that. It felt like that. Oh, god you re
making
me come just like Doug did!" and my anger at hearing her use his name
and
my helpless desire for her drove me on and she did come over and over
and
I whispered to her, making her confess that she had loved it, that she
was
glad it happened, that she had gotten one final orgasm when she heard
him
gasp and she felt the sweet warm wetness of his cum squirting deep
inside
her cunt, that she was excited to come home to me that night with
another
man s semen inside her. Then I cried "oh, Bonnie," and I gave my
unfaithful angel my own load of cum, and she cried to me, " Michael, I
love you. I didn t want to hurt you," and I couldn t help myself and I
said "I love you, too, I love you, too my sweet darling," and we lay
there, coming down from our perverse mutual high, wrapped in each other
s
arms, content for the moment that another chapter of temptation and
surrender and sin and confession and forgiveness was closed.
Oh, but there were to be so many more!
jul41944@aol.com
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From: jul41944@aol.com (Jul 4 1944)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Her Third Confession (Part 1)
Date: 27 Sep 1996 21:28:56 -0400
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Her Third Confession
Even during the months when my wife Bonnie had been working at the
social service agency and the events had transpired that climaxed with
her
infidelity in the car after the office Christmas party, other events
were
occurring which were to stretch the boundaries of my tolerance and love
even more. When I had gotten my job with the Commonwealth of
Pennsylvania, I lived with my parents not far from Harrisburg, while
Bonnie and the children had remained behind in State College, where I
had
finished my college work. In the evenings and even during the day when
I
could, I called around or looked for a home for us. I didn t enjoy the
situation, and what made matters worse was the fact that sometimes the
complications of the situation prevented me from getting back to see
her,
even on the weekends. Bonnie was unhappy about it, and it became
another
part of the threatening ambiance that was our marriage. When I did see
her, she made sure I knew about the men who showed an interest in her.
That was always the beginning .. it always started with her
offhand mention of some man who had told her she was beautiful, or told
her she looked hot. What made it so bad was that she was and she was.
I hated it when I couldn t go to her, because her remarks frightened me
(as they were designed to do) and sowed the seeds of constant doubt. It
was only after many years that I realized how self-absorbed a world that
created for us both, and how tightly it bound us to one another. I even
found it difficult to fantasize about the other women I knew, because of
my fear that it was my own wife that was the most desirable and
sought-after cunt around. I saw the way the men looked at her, and I
saw
that sometimes she boldly returned those glances while I was pretending
not to see. Sometimes even her own boldness wasn t enough.
Once on one of my weekends with her while I was still looking for
a place for us to live together, we were out for the evening and the
kids
were with a sitter. We were in one of those smoky, dimly-lit college
bars
with a thundering jukebox and compensatory loud talk and young people
and
their hormones running amok. We were halfway through our second pitcher
of beer and we were not getting along that well, as always seemed to be
the case. She always seemed to be slightly elsewhere, absorbed in
herself, looking around, searching for who knows what? It made me
nervous and kept me off-balance. It often made me sullen and moody.
And
when she got a little drunk, she could make me crazy.
That night, she seemed particularly aware of mens eyes on her.
She had dressed the role of temptress in her choice of dress and makeup.
All hips and ass and legs and mouth in her tight short skirt and long
blonde hair. She had gotten up to go to the ladies room and I watched
them watch her. I wondered as I had many times whether she got a sitter
and came there during the week when I was in Harrisburg. I had
questioned
her about it, but she denied going out while I was gone. On a previous
occasion, when I saw her talking to a tall young man, I mentioned to her
afterwards that he seemed to know her. "He d just like to know me," was
her quick, flippant response. She seemed to have a ready answer for
everything - one that denied and provoked at the same time, one that
said
she was being a good girl, but could easily be a bad one.
On this particular night, a guy sitting at the bar who had watched
her go into the ladies room reached out and grabbed her arm on her way
back to our table. It was halfway across the room so I couldn t hear,
but
I watched as he pulled her toward him and whispered in her ear. They
engaged in some very animated conversation for a couple of minutes. I
saw
her glance in my direction several times. He was using the opportunity
of
the crowding and the noise to pull her close to him and touch her. Hand
on her hip, arm around her waist, hand holding her hand, hand touching
her
hair, cheek against her cheek as they talked close to one another s ear.
All little intimacies taken by him and accepted, even reciprocated, by
her. Her hand on his arm, on his leg, around his shoulder as she leaned
close to talk in his ear. It gave me a strange rush of fear and
anticipation to watch it. She could be doing this every night, I
thought.
She could be down here, not telling me, doing everything. The thought
gave me a shiver that was s strange combination of terror and jealousy
and
exhilaration.
When she came back to the table, I debated once again pretending
not to notice, but the beers in me made me more confrontational and
bold.
"What was that all about?" I asked her. She knew what I meant. She
told
me he had stopped her to tell her how hot she looked. He had asked if
she
was with anyone. She had said she was with her husband. Thus, the
glances in my direction. He said, in general, that was too bad because
he
would have liked to get to know her. "From the looks of things," I
snapped impatiently, "you d like to get to know him, too."
I said it with a tone of innuendo that was impossible to miss, and
she picked right up on it. She looked at me defiantly and said, "maybe
I
would."
At the time, the remark had been a real conversation stopper, but
it was also the first chink in her persona of absolute fidelity. I
realized she had admitted at least thinking about it, and over time I
became aware of how the admission had freed her. In the ensuing months,
as I found us a place to live and we settled into our new life in
another
small college town outside Harrisburg, she felt free to reveal more and
more about the details of her life while I had been gone. She began
mentioning the names of guys she had met when she took our two toddler
daughters to the park, or when she went shopping. Despite my frantic
questioning, she still continued to deny meeting anyone in bars.
From the way our new life was unfolding, though, it was clear that
my Bonnie loved the bar scene. Virtually every Saturday night we went
to
a lively place called Ned Kelly s that we had been turned on to by a
couple of my new friends and coworkers. As a stay at home mom in her
first few months in our new home, Bonnie found the diversion, with its
atmosphere of smoke and noise and camaraderie and sexual prowling ,
exhilarating. We often met my friends there, and even some relatives. A
couple of my brothers also lived in the area, and they frequented the
establishment, too. Sometimes they would drag me away from Bonnie to
shoot darts or play pinball. In the crowded bar, she would be left to
guard our table. From the game area, I would watch the men stop to talk
and sit with her. Sometimes I was gone for long periods of time when I,
or our side, was winning. The winners kept playing, and I kept watching
her.
Jealous and suspicious, I could see she enjoyed the attention but
also kept one eye on me. Having my pride, I refused to let my friends
or
brothers see how insecure I felt about my own wife. I refused to act
jealous or find excuses to return to our table, like finding a way to
lose
the game. I watched her meet man after man, wondering if that was what
she had been doing while we were apart. I wondered if that is what she
would be doing if I weren t around for a day or a week or a month.
Thinking about the unthinkable - my wife with other men - was beginning
to
dominate my thoughts about her.
It wasn t just the bar scene that did it. It was everything. All
the little details were part of a large quilt that was our lives
together.
They overlapped and interwove and tangled together. It wasn t like I
may
have made it seem in Her First Confession or Her Second Confession, in
which I followed the thread of one infidelity from beginning to end, as
though it occurred in isolation. No, many of these snippets in their
various degrees of revelation were in the air at once. When she finally
confessed her night of finger fucking with her old boyfriend, she had
already been tormenting me with hints about her Christmas party
surrender
to Doug, and I had begun to hear the names of men she had met in State
College while I was gone, and at the bars we now frequented. Even the
names of some of my friends. They would pop into the conversation in
cryptically provocative circumstances, crying for explanation,
triggering
more questions and accusations and denials.
I know I made my own contribution to the evolving mess. In my new
job, I worked with several beautiful young women with whom I got along
quite well. Like my wife, I was better looking than I thought I was,
and
like her, I exorcised some of my own insecurities through flirting and
suggestion. It frightened her as much, perhaps more, than it did me.
She
didn t share in, couldn t share in the shop talk and private jokes I
shared with my work friends, and it left her feeling isolated and
suspicious. Her own insecurities about me became the engine that
compelled her to reveal more and more about her secrets, just as they
had
tempted her to surrender to her fears and do those secret things in the
first place. Whenever I seemed to be getting along too well with the
women at work, as evidenced by interaction at a party or during a phone
call or my having a long lunch hour with one or a group of them, there
would be retaliation. Often it would be a fight, replete with
accusations
of bad behavior or at least bad intentions.
And I was not always completely innocent. She sensed it. I had
my own demons of inadequacy with whom to wrestle. I had been unfaithful
on a couple of occasions during our courtship, and while I was sure she
didn t know, she seemed to sense it in my manner. I had shared kisses
and
caresses with a couple of the women at work, and Bonnie seemed to read
my
mind regarding us. I had even bedded our babysitter (what a clich that
is!), a 19 year old redhead local college student. My wife seemed to
know
it had happened. I denied everything, but was always on the defensive.
Our home life became more uncomfortable and confrontational. I found it
easy to excuse the betrayal, the kisses and the touches and the
adultery,
as a natural reaction to the hostility and tension that saturated my
nest.
It took me a while to admit it wasn t true. It was just me, with my own
insecurities and need to feel attractive and desirable and popular and
manly. In many ways, perhaps most ways, we were the same: frightened
and
insecure, tormenting one another, both seeing sex as the road to our own
salvation, both fearing our mate believed sex was the road to their
salvation.
As the weeks and months passed, I felt more and more attracted to
my fears, like a moth to a flame. I dwelt on her provocative
revelations
and witnessed her provocative behavior. It was that first spring, even
before I knew about Doug or her old boyfriend (whose name I can t
remember) that I really began to give in to a new temptation that seemed
to be enveloping me - an urge to fantasize about Bonnie putting out for
other men. It began mostly after our nights out, when we would return
home in a frenzy of desire stimulated by our interactions and alcohol.
We
would make love like two hungry animals, relieving all our sexual
tensions
in a torrent of orgasms. Oh, she loved to fuck, she loved to be
fingered
and eaten. She talked dirty and she twisted and writhed and thrust her
hips and put everything into it, and I tried to please her, tried to
make
her scream, and I did make her scream. And I began thinking about how
it
could be other men with her, how maybe they had been with her, how maybe
they had gotten to her and found out for themselves what an orgasmic
little piece of cunt they had stumbled upon.
Some of those nights we didn t even make it home. She had begun
that one night on the ride home, both of us tipsy and exhilarated and
horny, and she asked when we got to the outskirts of town if I would
take
her parking. I didn t know the town well then, so we drove around
searching for a remote, hidden spot for what must have been a half hour.
At last we stumbled onto a small park, which had an obscure dirt road
that
curled around behind it. Curious, we followed it up a winding hill,
past
a few small buildings which looked like they could have been storage
sheds
for the park, where it dead ended against a steel chain link fence which
overlooked the eastbound lane of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It was
exciting because not only was I about to get pussy from this sexy blonde
woman, but there was the chance we could have been caught. Bonnie
seemed
totally turned on by what we were doing and it made me wonder about her,
wonder if she were reliving our dating days, wondering if she were
thinking about someone else, wondering if she was reliving stolen
moments
with other men. I began to find the thought, the uncertainty, the
possibility strangely attractive. Something at the hidden core of me
seemed to be awakening.
When we were naked (she showed absolutely no concern about or fear
of discovery) and loving, I made the first of my own lurid confessions
to
her. I told her how much her sexual hints tormented me, how much they
obsessed me. I told her I couldn t help thinking about the things she
hinted at, and when I was about to come in her cunt, with her arms tight
around me and her legs spread so wide, I whispered "do you know what I m
thinking about?" and as I shot her full of me, I told her. She told me
later she had expected me to say I was thinking about being with one of
those women at work, and was stunned when I said I was thinking about it
being her with another man. Her reaction at the time was an angry one.
She said she was offended to hear me thinking like that. But I think it
really started things moving toward her confessions. She told me later
that she remembered thinking at one point "if he thinks that way about
me
anyhow, why shouldn t he know?"
Despite the fantasies, her eventual confessions came as shocks to
me. Despite the aura of perverse pleasure, I still felt pain. I felt
betrayed and lied to, much as she felt about me without being sure of
any
of the principals or the details. What was worse, it always came down
to
me. What I had done, or what she suspected I had done, or what I hadn t
done. And even though I let the first instance ride, as though it didn
t
matter any more, I wasn t so successful in dealing with her night with
Doug. Even though it ended with the two of us in each others arms,
professing our love, the next day was rougher. I was angry. She was
defiant and remarkably unapologetic (except for saying she was sorry it
hurt me). She brought up my fantasies, which I had unleashed that night
when we were parking, and which I seemed to need to bring up over and
over
when I was in a particularly masochistic mood. She told me she thought
I
had wanted her to do it. When I snapped back that I believed she was
the
kind of woman who would have done it anyway, no matter what I thought,
it
stung when she surprisingly admitted that I might be right. "I love sex
and I love guys," she said bluntly. "Maybe too much." Oh, God, did that
stab me!
The next few days were hard on me, but they were about to get
worse. For the first time in our relationship I didn t come right home
from work that Monday night. I went to Ned Kelly s and let my
imagination
roam. Little pieces of detail she had drawn together and filled in to
confess her tryst with Doug. And still so many snippets floating around
in the air, tormenting like hungry mosquitoes. I drank a lot and
finally
called about ten or ten-thirty. I anticipated anger, but she seemed
surprisingly understanding and concerned. She and the girls were afraid
for me, she said. "Where s daddy?" they were asking. I told her I
couldn
t stand the torment and the hints and the suggestiveness. I told her
about how last night felt to me: part pleasure and excitement, but also
part pain and anguish as I heard her put it all together and the picture
became clear. All those little details, not quite fitting, just out of
reach, and they really did add up to something. And now there were
still
all those other little details, also just out of reach, and I feared
they
added up to something, too. I had to know. I couldn t stand the
torment.
"I need to hear the truth," I said.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. At last
she said, "please come home. We ll talk."
I had another drink before I left. I shouldn t have been driving.
I trembled at the expectation of what I was now certain was going to be
painful news. I tried to steel myself for it. My stomach turned, my
knees were weak. I was happy to be sitting down, but even the dread at
the impending news did not quite snuff out that small flicker of
fascination and almost gleeful anticipation I sensed deep inside me.
Oh,
why, why? I thought, not understanding at all.
When I got home, she was solicitous, compassionate. She fussed
over me, helped me get settled. I was amazed at how this woman who
seemed
to be so angry and suspicious towards me most of the time could
sometimes
be so sensitive. The room was much like it had been a few nights ago,
when she had made her second confession. The girls, reassured that
daddy
was coming home, had gone to bed and to sleep. Bonnie was wearing an
outfit that I hadn t seen since we had moved out of State College. I
started to shake, almost to weep. Oh, no. Oh, no. I sensed what was
coming.
She sat beside me on the couch and took my hands. "Will you be
all right?" she asked me. I nodded yes, not trusting my voice to speak.
"We don t have to do this," she said, but I motioned her to begin. And
in
the dim candlelight of our living room, she began her third confession.
"Do you remember the guy named Shawn?" she started out. Oh, yes,
I did. His had been one of those names that cropped up when Bonnie
talked
about the weeks in State College when I was job hunting and house
hunting
in Harrisburg. All I knew was that he was a Penn State graduate who was
hanging around town and working a series of part-time jobs while he
decided what he wanted to do with his life. He was a bartender, a
convenience store clerk, a waiter. Bonnie had met him in the park where
she took the girls to play. It was late autumn at the time. Her
original
story, when I got curious about this name that suddenly popped into her
conversation, was that they had run into each other a couple of times by
chance, and on the second occasion he had said something she thought was
clever, like "we ve got to start meeting like this." In the original
version, of course, they did no such thing. She was only trying to jerk
my chain. In the real version, I now began to learn, they did indeed
begin meeting.
She continued to hold my hands in hers as she told me how
unpredictable he was, saying he d meet her and then not showing up. All
the first few meetings, even though seemingly planned ("Will you be here
tomorrow? OK, I ll come by and visit if that s OK."), wound up having a
spontaneous feel to them because he wouldn t be there and then he would
suddenly appear. She was happy for the companionship, she told me,
because she was lonely and he was a nice guy. They talked about lots of
things. A couple of times he had walked along when she took the girls
home, but he never came all the way to the apartment. He would say
goodbye at the front door or at the corner. Not that he was being
"proper" or anything like that. He knew she was married, but it didn t
seem to make much of an impression on him one way or another. He didn t
seem interested in me, and was remarkably uncurious about the state of
our
marriage. "It was me who brought that up," she told me.
I asked her why, and she said that was all there was to talk
about, that s all she knew, except for the kids, of course. The
children
and I were her whole universe then, and I was gone. "I know it wasn t
fair because you were trying to make things better for us," she sighed,
"but I felt abandoned." I told her I bet she had told Shawn that, too.
She wasn t sure, she said, but she might have. More bitterly, I told
her
I also bet she had told him how horny she got. She didn t think so, she
said, but she "might have hinted at it." I felt dismal. I was ready to
snap at her, about to say that she was good at giving those kind of
hints,
but I bit my tongue and tried to remain composed. She went on.
It had been in the middle of December , just about the same time
when she was unfaithful with Doug the following year. She hadn t been
going out because it had gotten too cold. She hadn t seen Shawn in
several weeks. She took the girls out for short walks around the block
or around the building. I had not been up for a couple of weeks
straight.
I had found a place to live, and I was trying to make arrangements and
get things settled. Without a car of my own, I had to borrow my dad s
when it was available. He really tried to help, but they had other
children and lives of their own and could only do so much. "I know you
called me all the time, but it wasn t the same as your being there," she
told me. "And it was Christmas time and that made it especially
lonely."
The fact that we already had a moving day scheduled and it was less than
10 days away didn t seem to cut through the loneliness.
She said that one night after the kids had gone to sleep she ran
down to the convenience store a few blocks away to buy some milk. When
she reached the counter with her purchase, there was Shawn. He was
clerking there. The store was not busy, so she stopped to talk. She
told
him about the plans to move, about finally seeing the end to her exile.
He seemed happy for her. At some point he had said something like "we
should celebrate." He asked if she d like to go out for a couple of
beers
after he got off work at eleven-thirty. It was the first time he had
asked her to do anything or go anywhere, and she found it flattering,
even
though she had to decline because of the children. To her further
surprise, he then suggested stopping by for a drink. She had to say
there
was nothing there to drink. He said that if he came by, he would bring
something.
I wanted to know how she could do it, how she could invite a man
home so late at night, how she could give him such a such an invitation.
She said it hadn t seemed like that at the time, that she hadn t really
even invited him. It just sort of fell together and the next thing she
knew, she was home again, changing clothes and watching the clock and
not
getting ready for bed, because he might show up. She had put on what
she
was wearing now - a yellow minidress more appropriate for warm sunny
spring days. She didn t have a wardrobe with a lot of choices, but this
choice hit like a slap. "You wanted him to come," I said bitterly.
"And
you wanted him to be glad he was there."
"Yes, I suppose I did," she replied. "I guess I was desperate for
company."
At 11:30 her expectations grew. She was surprised by how much she
was looking forward to the visit. We had a sofa bed in the living room,
and she had had to put it away when she expected him, changing things
back
into a living room. Quietly so as not to awaken the children, she tried
to straighten up the place. But 11:45 came and went, and then midnight,
and no Shawn. By 12:15 she had about given up and was prepared to begin
getting ready for bed. "I was surprised at how disappointed I was," she
admitted. Then there was a quiet knock at her door. She looked out the
peephole and it was Shawn, with beer. "I was so relieved and happy to
see
him," she continued. "It was like I felt when I was waiting for you."
That stung. Again it was going to be my fault.
She showed him around the apartment. He complimented her on her
appearance, noting he had never seen her in a dress before. "He said I
shouldn t hide my legs so often, " she said with some pride. "He said
they were gorgeous." He noticed the absence of a bed for adults, and she
told him about the sofabed. They sat in the living room and talked and
drank beer, together on the sofa. When he arrived, she had lots of
lights
on, but as she became more comfortable with his presence, they seemed
harsh and inappropriate. She lit candles and turned on a small accent
light, turning off the rest. In the dimness, things seemed more
intimate.
Shawn sat closer to her. He hadn t done anything, she told me, but "I
started to think about sex. I wondered if he was going to do anything."
I didn t have anything to say to that. My mouth was dry, my hands were
clammy and shaky, my heart was pounding and, again in the very center of
me, a thrill of anticipation. She was telling it so slowly and in such
detail and I hung emotionally on every word.
He had been there about 45 minutes and they were on their third
beer. First he had gotten up to go to the bathroom, then she had. The
beers had hit her. Her head was spinning and she nearly tripped into
his
arms when she returned. He reached for her, supported her, helped her
down. He kept his arm around her, his hand grasping hers. She could
smell his maleness, she could see his attractiveness, and she felt
growing
excitement. She knew she was married, she said, but it just didn t seem
to matter in the face of the onslaught from her hormones. It was the
same
thing she had told me a few nights before when she told me about her and
Doug. I was betting it was the same thing she felt that night with her
old boyfriend. I feared that I had to face the possibility that I was
married to a woman who not only couldn t say no, but who didn t want to.
She said that when he leaned forward to kiss her, she backed off
slightly, looking at him quizzically, trying to ascertain his attitude
and
intentions. "I was thinking about doing it," she admitted, "but if he
had
seemed disrespectful or smug, I would have pushed him away." Great, I
thought bitterly, she wants her extramarital lovers to respect her. But
I
didn t say anything, and she continued. He had made a little joke then,
she said, but in a "not funny" way. He had understood her meaning when
she looked at him, and he said quietly, "We re already in bed together.
I
hoped you might want to do something about it." She knew he was
referring
to the fact they were on the folded up sofabed, and his expression told
her he wasn t being presumptuous or flippant. He wasn t assuming or
expecting, he was hoping. He wasn t laughing or even smiling. "I guess
my eyes gave him his answer," she said, "because he leaned toward me and
we started kissing."
That s when the theater began again. Like the last time, she
began to lead me through all the physical details of her adultery, with
me
playing the part of her lover. Her memory for little details not only
stung like lashes from a whip, but amazed me as well. I was beginning
to
learn just how tuned in she was to her own sexuality and sensuality.
Those memories stayed with her as though they had happened yesterday, in
all their richness and texture. It had been years since this incident
occurred, but she seemed to remember every detail about it. No wonder
she
was so able to torment me with selected little pieces of the story. She
remembered everything.
I began thinking I was crazy to allow this to happen again - to be
put through all the details of her infidelity, to act them out so there
was no escape, no refuge for my ego or pride. But I couldn t resist
this
time any more than I could the last, when I didn t know what it was
going
to be like. As she began kissing me she placed my hand on her closest
leg
and told me as my opening cue, "he started putting his hand up my
dress."
Oh, what a shiver I got, all hopelessness and dread and sadness and
again
a rush of delicious anticipation, all at the same time. Oh, why, why? I
seemed to want to know and not know, to want every detail and yet to be
spared, to have her do it and yet somehow still be faithful. I didn t
understand this and I didn t understand me. And I didn t understand how
this theater of confession could be so perversely attractive to both of
us.
But it began happening again. I became overwhelmingly aroused as
my hand slid up her dress. Her legs were bare, so she hadn t even worn
hose when he came to see her. I imagined how her cool skin felt to his
touch, how excited he must have been as her legs parted for him, just as
they were doing for me. Her kisses were fierce, burning hot as she
surrendered not even to him, but to herself. She guided me with
passionate whispers along the path Shawn had traveled, crying "oh, yes,
yes" when I reached her crotch. She showed me how his fingers rubbed
and
stroked her and then worked their way beneath the elastic leg hole to
reach her. With the part of me that had any rationality, I wondered at
how I could be loving and fingering my wife while she was telling me and
showing me exactly how she had done the same thing with another man.
This
was not just fantasy; it was history. But emotionally I was lost in it
again, feeling crazy to be doing it, but hungry to go on.
She told me he had fingered her "until I was crazy." We acted out
how her skirt got pushed up around her hips and her panties came off.
We
acted out how she caressed his crotch and unzipped his fly and how he
helped her get his cock out. We acted out how they sat there,
masturbating each other until she was beginning to have orgasms.
"Then,"
she told me matter-of-factly, "we decided to go to bed." She guided me
through their undressing each other and then the unfolding of the bed.
She saw I was shaky and trembling and sad, and asked me again if I
wanted her to stop. "Maybe you shouldn t know all these details," she
said.
"It s gone too far," I replied mournfully. "I ve got to know."
After that, she didn t spare any details. Shawn was shorter than
me, but just as slim and more muscular. She found his muscles and hard
body exciting. His cock was about the size of mine and "just as cute."
She reenacted with me how they had gotten into bed and kissed and
touched
each other. She guided me to her breasts to suck. "It s something you
don t do very often, but I loved it." she reported. It stung. She also
said "he went down on me, too." In my morose mood, I didn t much feel
like following the script, but I realized that it could be another
tease,
another looming question: what had she done while he ate her? I had to
know, so I kissed my way down her body, while anticipating, fearing that
she was going to show me how he reversed positions so that they could
make
mutual oral love. She claimed not to like oral sex, and I never got it,
but I had a fascination with it and feared it as the ultimate betrayal
by
my adulterous wife.
If that is what happened, she concealed it. Our role-playing
included no reciprocity. She spread for him and let him lick and suck
and
kiss, and she guided me through it. Then she pulled me up and away as
she
had him and she kissed the cunt from my face as she had his and she
reached down and guided me inside her as she had done him, and while we
fucked she told me how they had fucked, how much like me Shawn had felt
inside her, how it made her think about me and what she was doing to me.
But it didn t make her sorry or ashamed or want to stop, she admitted.
There was so much pent-up passion and frustration she had accumulated
and
she "just needed to let it all out." She told me all the things she
whispered, all the things she cried out. She should have been saving
that
passion for me, she sighed, but had not been able to help it. Sex was
about letting go completely, and she just let go. Again I had to hear
her
cry out, "oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me" and "go deep, go deep" and "I
wanna come for you" and then when he had his own orgasm, telling him
"shoot it in me; shoot it all in my cunt." Even as she retold it, there
was a starry-eyed trancelike expression on her face, and I didn t think
it
was all from the memory of it. Part of it, I suspected, was what she
was
doing with me. Maybe she was discovering perversities within herself,
too! I began to suspect it might be true. Had I started it with my
outspoken fantasies? And where would they lead now? I was learning
that
these painful answers were just raising dangerous new questions.
After I had come inside her and heard her shameless words, we
calmed down together and I pressed for more details. I asked about
whether she had sucked his cock and was just trying to spare my feelings
because she knew how much it would hurt. No, she said. It happened
just
the way she described. I asked if he had slept there with her in our
bed,
and she said no. Weren t you afraid you would fall asleep and then be
discovered with another man by the children in the morning? No, she
said.
That wasn t a real possibility. "How can you say that?" I complained,
looking for some shred of logical rebuke to hang my hat on. "Do you
mean
he got up and left after after you did it?" No, she said, she didn t
mean that. Well, didn t he go? No, he didn t go. "Well, then?" I
demanded, thinking I had made my point.
"Oh, Michael," she replied wearily, "do I have to spell it out?
We fucked all night."
We were in bed ourselves then, in each others arms. For an
instant, her words made me freeze and go tense. Then I deflated. She
pulled me close to her, held me tightly and said, "I m sorry, Michael. I
shouldn t have been so blunt. I know this is hurting you. But you
wanted
to know." She was tired and wanted to go to sleep, I could tell. But I
just had to know more. She told me Shawn had left when the younger girl
had awakened about 7 AM.
"All that time " I murmured, still in a kind of shock over it,
thinking about the two of them naked together, mating over and over,
hour
after hour. I pressed on, asking if he had come back to see her again.
No, she said. She had never seen him again. She admitted that the last
night before I was supposed to come with the moving truck, she walked
down
to the convenience store again, supposedly to "just say goodbye," but he
wasn t there. The clerk on duty said he had been transferred to another
store at the other end of town and was working the 11 PM to 7 AM shift.
The change had occurred the very day they had spent the wee morning
hours
together. It was just a matter of chance it happened at all, she said.
It didn t comfort me to know that.
I went on to other subjects. I asked her about the other guys
from State College who had come up in her conversations, and she told me
that they had been interested in her, but she didn t see any of them.
Yes, one had called a few times and even come over to visit, but the
kids
had been up and they demanded attention and in the end, she said, "I
think
the kids scared him away." As for the rest, there was just no time, even
if she had been interested, "I know I ve said some things that suggested
otherwise, but honestly, there wasn t anything more."
I felt reassured then, and began to believe this was another
incident I could learn to live with and accept. We talked for a few
more
quiet moments, and I let her go to sleep. But I couldn t sleep. I lay
there staring at the ceiling for most of the night, not only obsessed
with
the thought of her in her lover s arms, but with her final words before
she drifted off to sleep. I had been almost exultant, believing it
might
all be behind us. She had turned her back to me, settling in to sleep,
and I had put my arms around her and rested my head against hers and
said,
"I m so glad there isn t any more."
In a sleepy voice she answered me, then slept. "There isn t any
more about State College," she murmured. "But there s more."
jul41944@aol.com