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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   /////////////////Reply-To: jul41944@aol.com (Jul 4 1944)

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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

   

   
