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Urges (of a sort)



Catherine led her into a bout of mutual gratification.
Marsha and Catherine joined each other in a long sensuous
kiss, their tongues mingling wildly as the girls fondled
each others partially exposed breasts. Catherine had
yet to get her share of satisfaction, and she was getting
hotter by the moment. Breaking off the kiss she whispered
to Marsha, "Take off my skirt."

Marsha obliged the request as she reached around and pulled
the short side zipper down then slowly worked the leather
skirt down off Catherine's hips. Marsha's attentions
turned to Catherine's well filled panties, as she
massaged the shapely bottom. Marsha tried to slip the sheer
pink garment down Catherine's hips but her hostess
admonished her, "Slow down, " then she gently
coaxed Marsha to kneel in front of her.

"Use your tongue, " Catherine whispered,
as she pulled Marsha into position to service her pouting

Marsha went to work snaking her wet tongue all over the thin
crotch of Catherine's panties. While Marsha teased,
Catherine shed her bra, letting her sumptuous breasts
spring free. Catherine let Marsha work her over for awhile
then she moved to the stool. Catherine assumed a kneeling
position on the stool and had Marsha pinch her nipples,
getting her really worked up.

The end game was soon begun, Catherine bade Marsha to lower
her panties, which she quickly did. Catherine then bent
over dropping her hands to the floor, her moist inviting
pussy was wantonly exposed as her ass jutted up in the air.
Marsha attacked the target from the rear, with the weapon
of choice, the tongue.

Like a heat seeking missile it found its mark, soon it was
darting across a stiff clitoris, Catherine was wiggling
wildly, several moments later Catherine shuddered in
a roaring climax. Regaining her composure, Catherine
said softly, "Let's call it a day."

Marsha concurred.

Marsha shift her feet and change the angle of attack. Eventually
Marshas upper thighs and the tightly stretched crotch
of the nylon panties were targets for the taking.

Marsha faced the seated Catherine nearly head on, her pert
breasts again thrust out, and her crotch cruelly exposed
to access by the lithe crop. Catherine brandished the sleek
staff and then gently drew up between Marshas spread legs.
Marsha trembled, yet relished the sensation of the punishment
tool as it caressed her throbbing mound.

It was soon apparent to Marsha that Catherine was enjoying
the session as much as she was. Catherines tits filled the
pink bra quite nicely, and a stiff pair of nipples were readily
visible under the gossamer fabric. As Marshas own crotch
was being caressed by the crop, Catherine pinched and pulled
her own nipples into stately attention through the sheer

Marshas crotch needed attention and Catherine knew it.

Sharply the crop was drawn up between the spread thighs
slapping against the white lace panties, making a clean
snapping sound against the bulging mound. Whap, whap,
whap, Catherine pounded out a wickedly erotic rhthym.

Marsha shook with each stroke, on the verge of climax.

Catherine stood behind Marsha and lovingly stroked her
thighs and ran her hands all over Marshas tight panties.
Marsha could barely stand it as her temperature soared.

if she was good Catherine would treat her to a session with
an oriental spanking implement known as the Shrieking
Butterfly, as many strokes as it takes to make you cum Catherine
added dryly.

"Let's begin, " Catherine said as she
slid behind the chair placing her hands on Marshas hips.

Deftly Catherine slipped her fingers into the waistband
of Marshas panties and gently tugged them off the upturned
bottom. Marsha moaned out softly

her gaze gravitated to the well filled bra. Marsha watched
as Catherine bent over slightly, accentuating her daring
cleavage. Smiling Catherine whispered, "There's
time for that later."

Marshas panties, streched between her thighs made a nice

Catherine returned to the front of the chair.

Marsha was all eyes as Catherine stood before her, hands
on hips. Slowly she reached up and cupped her bulging pink
bra, fingering her pouting nipples through the sheer fabric.
Marsha wondered what was to happen but she did not have to
wait long. Deftly Catherine shrugged the shoulder straps
down, and rolled the edge of the cups under to expose her
stiff nipples and refitted the straps. Her sweet nipples
jutted out proudly.

"I want you to use your tonque, my dear, " Catherine
said stepping up close to Marsha.

Dutifully Marsha complied, her hot tonque snaked out to
meet the stiff nipples. Gently she tonqued the twins, giving
Catherine great pleasure.

"Oh, oh, very nice, " she whispered softly,
clearly enjoying the oral stimulation.

Catherine returned the favour by searching out Marshas
spread thighs. Gently Catherine stroked the moist mound,
but only briefly, not wanting to key off a quick cum. Marshas
mentor looked devine, stiff nipples glistening in the
subdued light.

Catherine proceeded to take some more photos, this time
with a tripod and timer so she could display her trainee.
One pose was particularly engrossing, Catherine to the
rear, one foot up on the chair, panties exposed under the
short skirt, bra filled to overflow, tawse in hand, over
looking a trussed Marsha with panties lowered, the exposed
cheeks with a nice crimson flush.

Standing behind Marsha, Catherine cupped the firm breasts,
slowly tugging the white straps down off Marshas shoulders
allowing her to pull the cups off exposing the magnificent
breasts, the nipples at full attention.

Marshas exposed breasts presented an easy target for the
crop. Catherine picked up the lithe leather implement
and drew it across Marshas stiff nipples briskly. Marshas
breasts bounced and jiggled nicely with each stroke.

Marshas bulging checks were clearly flushed with the passion
of the moment, and as the fourteenth swat hit home, her knees
quaked and Catherine knew she had reached her first cum,
as the rippling pelvic muscles signalled.

Being a most gracious host, Catherine did not stop at one,
another thirty easy swats brought on number two, along
with a glossy sheen on Marshas mons. Marshalling over Marsha
like this made Catherine extremely heady with desire herself,
as the moist patch in her own panties would well attest.
But the finale was as yet unfinished, and she would just
have to wait her turn. Pausing briefly, Catherine refitted
Marshas bra much like her own with the nipples exposed,
and pulled up her panties. Once more the crop started its
erotic dance across Marshas stiff nipples, the leather
snapping them again and again.

This time a whopping sixty-seven swats were required before
Marsha erupted in her third convulsive climax.

Marsha stood helpless before Catherine, prepped to receive
the Shrieking Butterfly. Not a normal birch rod or cane,
this was special asian import handcrafted of bamboo and
silk thread. Its special attractiveness was its wicked
pronged tip. Three thin bamboo and silk wings were grafted
to the thin whippy split bamboo shaft. One could with the
proper twist of the wrist just before impact, cause the
wings to unfold and flutter against the rush of air, thereby
separating and applying three nicely spaced light welts
about three inchs long. To make it work properly it had to
be whipped through the air with very high speed, resulting
in the most delightfully scary sound, but delivering a
most easily acceptable result. A plump bottom could easily
take a hundred strokes. It usually took only ten to make
a properly prepped recipient cum, mostly from the furious
sound and the apprehension it caused the recipient. But
skill was needed, if the wrist was not turned properly,
blood would be drawn instead of the desired thin red stripes.
Catherine was well versed in its use, there would be no mistakes.

A loud shrieking whoosh was followed by the crisp report
of the expertly wielded tool. Marshas heart jumped at the
sound, but she recovered somewhat as she absorbed the triple
tip of the rod, giving her a quite sensuous sensation as
three thin red stripes were drawn across her bare backside.
After three strokes, she was beginning to feel the arousal,
her slighty wilted nipples hardening with each turn of
the rod.

Again and again the rod sang out, connecting neatly on Marshas
plump checks, now criss-crossed with thin red lines. Catherine
let each stroke soak in for several seconds, heightening
the erotic effect for Marsha. After a dozen Marsha was again
trembling in the knees, clearly approaching another peak.
Catherine was enjoying the show and took time to massage
her own exposed nipples as she meted out the strokes. After
four or five more Marsha began the telltale pelvic contractions,
Catherine kept up the assault, giving Marsha another eight
or ten strokes before the movement subsided.

Slipping behind her trussed charge Catherine exploited
the situation by indulging in a session of breast massage
to which Marsha was not entirely adversly predisposed.
Catherine cupped the firm breasts in their lace confinement,
gently she massaged the prizes noting the stiffness present
even under the fabric of Marshas bra. Deftly she slipped
her fingers under the shoulder straps and lifted slightly.
Marshas breasts bobbed gently in their piquant covering.
To Marsha the temperature seemed to soar as she endured
an intensive manipulation.

Her nipples, rock stiff now, tried to poke through the sheer
fabric, presenting inviting targets for pinching and
pulling, which Catherine wasted little in doing. Marsha
moaned and squirmed against her bondage and gaggage but
the relentless attack continued unabated.

Catherine paused and took a moment to pull up a chair in front
of Marsha. Sitting down, Catherine told Marsha, "I'm
going to make you cum sweetheart, ".

Marshas eyes widened as Catherine reached out and slipped
a finger under the legband of her panties. Marsha tried
to pull away but she did little but to heighten the stimulation
presented by the probing digit. Catherine teased her unmercifully,
tugging on the white nylon panties, soon Marsha was fully
enraptured by her intimate quest, sensing her growing
pleasure, Catherine broke off the probing to let Marsha
cool down a little.

Catherine sat back and surveyed her handiwork, Marsha
was quite excited but firmly restrained. Perhaps a bit
of visual stimulation would be in order she thought.

Although she was older than Marsha, Catherine too had a
stunning figure, and she intended to tease her guest with
all her feminine charms. Crossing her legs brought Marshas
gaze towards one of the intended targets, as her long dark
sheathed thighs became more visible. Catherine slowly
rubbbed the tops of her thighs, pushing the hem of her short
skirt higher and higher. Soon Marsha could see a hint of
the pink panties her teacher was wearing. Clearly she was
interested as her transfixed gaze let on.

Catherine paused to recross her legs and in so doing gave
Marsha a quick but full view of her panty covered crotch.

Quickly Catherine smoothed her skirt, and the brief show
was over. Marshas gaze followed to Catherines busy hands
as she began to unbotton her blouse. Slowly Catherine undid
each button, starting at the bottom and working upward.
Catherine was quite careful not to expose anything underneath,
merely unbuttoning her garment.

Marshas own breasts were neatly trussed up in white lace,
she could not help but wonder what Catherine wore under
her blouse. Marsha did not have long to wait; Catherine
stood up briskly and her unbottoned blouse parted. Marsha
briefly saw a well filled pink demi-bra, dark aureoles
faintly visible through the taut fabric. Marsha watched
as Catherine turned and strolled into the outer office.
A short while later she returned, the blouse was gone, she
had also changed into a short leather miniskirt which accentuated
her stunning figure. Catherine was brandishing a wispy
leather riding crop about eighteen inchs long; Marshas
eyes widened as she realised it was meant for her. Catherine
sat down in front of her trussed guest, smiling wickedly
as she drew the crop through her fingers, playing with the
dual leather flaps on its end.

Reaching out with her free hand she quickly pinched each
protruding nipple through the thin bra. Marsha could hardly
stand it anymore as she moaned and squirmed precariously
on her perch.

It began slowly, light delicate strokes of the crop were
applied lovingly to Marshas pert breasts, each taking
an equal number of strokes. The bulging orbs bounced and
jiggled in their lacy sling as the leather beat out a methodical
rhythm. Marshas eyes began to gloss over, her rock hard
nipples were like exposed nerve endings. Marsha endured
an extended session as Catherine expertly wielded the
leather crop, each stroke landing on a sheathed nipple
with a crisp thwack. If Catherine kept this up Marsha would
certainly cum. The crop kept raining down, on each nipple
in turn, until each had received fifty swats.

Marshas eyes were glassy, her panties growing warm and

One book stood out in her mind. It was a paperback she found
last year in the subway back home. From the explicit and
obscene drawing on the front cover, she knew that it was
XXX-rated. Even so, she picked it up when nobody was looking
and read it in the privacy of her bedroom. She thought it
was the most graphic and erotic story she had ever read and
kept the book hidden, getting it out only to masturbate
with once in a while.

She had a desire that she couldn't control or satisfy
and it was getting stronger. Her cunt was opening on its
own and she felt like she was wetting herself. She knew all
the men had pumped cum in her, but that wasn't what she
felt. She was getting ready to cum. That's what she
was feeling!
Laying half naked under him, passionately kissing him,
wantonly urging him to fuck her, she was going to cum!

She watched men squirt their cum on her face and tits and

the men who held her up, wrapped her delicate hands around
their cocks and used them to jack-off, while two more men
knelt next to her and pulled her tits out to the sides and
rubbed their cocks on her nipples.

they would pull out of her, kneel above her chest, and squirt
their sperm all over her face or tits

Her first climax with a man started as her stomach tightened
and her legs stiffened. She slammed her hands on the mattress
repeatedly and whipped her head back and forth like a women
possessed while her body spasm'd and jerked about
uncontrollably. Her vagina clenched around the cock and
seemed to draw more of it inside her. She relished the feeling
of the cock hitting her cervix and filling every nook and
cranny inside her. This time, she almost did pass out as
she came hard and for a long time.

As I explained in my posting on, 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 twenty and she was sixteen.
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 room mate 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 got 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 got into his fingering
her, how much she had loved it.

"He drove me crazy", she admitted, but almost

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

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, her lover and their gross infidelity, my semen would
pump spurt after
spurt all over the leaves and plants as I let
myself get lost in it. My wife, my wife, putting herself
out for other men!

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.

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 fantasising 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 apologise. 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 got 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
... etcetera ... etcetera. 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 fantasising 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

"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 realised 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
eighteen 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 four o'clock
. The eight or nine people in the office decided to go by car
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

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 got down to four or five 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
four of them had dwindled to three and then two her and Doug.
Doug finally, gently, suggested that it was time to go.
It was after eleven o'clock . 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 open mouthed 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.

"Youre 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 me 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

"These are going to be in the way, " she told

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 got 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 ssemen 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

Oh, but there were to be so many more!

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

When I had got 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 realised 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 fantasise 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

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 men's
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 got 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 a 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 realised 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 it's 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 behaviour 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 baby-sitter
(what a clich that is!), a nineteen 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

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 behaviour.
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 fantasise 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 got 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

"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 sand 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

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

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 un-curious 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 got 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

The fact that we already had a moving day scheduled and it
was less than ten 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

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 eleven:thirty 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 eleven:45 came and went,
and then midnight, and no Shawn.

By twelve:fifteen 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

"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

"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 centre 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 got 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 hi

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