I could only imagine my brain was playing tricks on me, perhaps to reduce the psychological impact of the shock to my system. Filling my bloodstream with happy—or even narcotic—hormones to keep me from falling into a deep spiral of despair. Yet even if I accepted that my mind was creating this powerful arousal in me in order to give me the best chance of surviving this massive shock, I could not shake the symptoms of this bizarre mental strategy.
I found it hot that my wife was cheating on me. I wanted her to keep fucking that stranger upstairs.
I wanted, more than anything, to wait until they were done and then go up there and seduce her myself.
Was I going quite plainly insane?
Underneath it all, I had never ever desired my wife as much as I did then.
~~~
In hindsight, there were signs that my wife was cheating on me. I just didn’t catch them. Perhaps home life was just too busy, just too stressed.
Two young kids will do that to you.
Every moment I was home seemed full of activity, full of hard labor keeping a one-year-old and a three-year-old happy and fed and clean and rested. Oh, sure, I didn’t have to take care of them during the day, during the week, so I couldn’t complain about having to take over when I got home from the office.
That first year after Toby was born, Diana just seemed to be permanently tired, always stressed, generally miserable. We’d made the joint decision—and it really was mutual—that she would be a stay-at-home mom, that I would continue working full time. My salary was enough to keep us going like that.
Sex? Well, it really didn’t happen that year. I know, it seems ridiculous now, but it didn’t seem like such a big deal then. I was waiting until she was ready, I wasn’t pushing her. Particularly after the trauma of the birth. But she was always exhausted—we both were always exhausted, since my only ‘time off’ was when I went into the office to work.
And besides, Toby’s cot was in our bedroom, and he woke at the slightest noise. We were hardly going to make love in that kind of set-up, and Toby was not going to let us put him into another room, even at one. He was a difficult baby, it has to be said.
Anyway, she was miserable. I could see it. After Toby’s first birthday, we argued about something trivial and it ended up with Diana bursting into tears and declaring that she couldn’t take any more. I felt a sudden chill from the thought that what she might have been suggesting was that she was going to walk out on me and the kids.
You just need a break, I told her. I offered to see if I could persuade work to let me do four days per week, or even three. Diana shook her head and said we needed the money.
“Nursery, then,” I said. “The kids can go to nursery. Doesn’t have to be all week, but—"
“We can’t afford…” my wife started to say.
“What about my promotion? We could do two days a week of nursery, and that would be something, wouldn’t it?”
And it was, the saving grace. The kids got to be more social, meet lots of other kids, and Diana got two days off each week—a Monday and a Friday, the easiest days to get from a local nursery without waiting months and months on a waiting list.
“What am I going to do with all this spare time?” she asked me as I prepared to drop the kids off at nursery for their first full day after their settling-in period. Diana was still wearing her dressing gown.
“It’s up to you,” I said, “but the main thing right now is, you need to rest.”
There was a temptation for her to think about whether some kind of freelance work might be an option. She had been a graphic designer before Clara had arrived three years before, so it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility for her to seek some freelance work for her two days a week free from the kids.
But I wanted her to rest, I wanted her to use that time to pace herself, to make sure she didn’t burn out as a mom married to a husband who did the whole nine-to-five. It took a few weeks for her to learn how to do that, though, how to spend the time recovering. She’d end up filling the time with household chores she could get done so much more easily while on her own. She’d secretly search the Internet for suitable graphic design work—though that was difficult to come by in a recession, it seemed.
I had to urge her not to feel guilty about having that time off.
At last, it seemed she figured it out. Meeting up with people from her local moms Facebook group for coffee or lunch. Joining the gym. Even catching up on her reading. I’d get home after one of her days off to find her relaxed and content. Smiling, like she hadn’t seemed to have done for months and months.
Even when I got home on the days she was taking care of Clara and Toby she now seemed happier, more organized, considerably less stressed. Two days of nursery was also bringing benefits to the children—more socializing, a greater range of activities than they could achieve just with Diana to take care of them.
Diana worked hard in the gym, and her figure returned from not just before Toby, but before Clara as well. She looked gorgeous. She had her hair done for the first time in a year, and turned blonde again. She started wearing new clothes, which showed off her exquisite figure with more than a little style since she could now spend a little time shopping, rather than buying only basics online.
Then eventually it came to the point where she said to me, “We need to start going for evenings out.”
I was well up for the idea, though despite our newfound energy, the simple fact was that our kids were just too difficult to get to sleep each night for us to use a babysitter, or even grandparents at that stage.
“Date night?” I said. “Who would we get who could cope with Toby and Clara?”
Diana had just laughed. “Well, one step at a time,” she said. “At first you could go out one night, and I’d take care of them, and then another night I’d get to go out and you’d take care of them. Then when we’ve got the whole sleep thing sorted out, we might be able to get a babysitter and go out together.”
I simply took the suggestion at its simplest nature. I got to spend one evening a week out drinking with work buddies, or at the movies, or even meeting up with old college friends to catch a game somewhere. Diana would get to see her mom-friends, or see her friends from her old job, or her college crew. One night a week for me, one night a week for her.
It was fine. Sex, though, still wasn’t really happening for us. It was just too risky after the kids were in bed, even downstairs. The walls were too thin, the noise traveled. Even watching TV had to be done using headphones.
I just kind of accepted it, and tended to my own needs in the shower every now and then. Figuring that one day, when we got Toby out into Clara’s room, we might be able to resurrect our sex lives in the master bedroom at the other end of the house.
~~~
And here I was wondering if her one night out each week was spent in the company of the man who was currently with her in the bedroom giving her what sounded, to every intent like a fairly powerful orgasm.
I crept down to the living room and found a small overnight bag in the closet under the stairs, packed the things I would need for the Cleveland trip, save for the socks.
I also found the abandoned clothes of my wife and her lover strewn by—and to some extent on—the living room couch, where their afternoon of passion must have begun.
Jesus. I was still so turned on by it all.
It was all a little much by this stage. The noises coming down from upstairs, mainly the sound of sheer bliss from my wife… my head was spinning, I felt like I was gasping for breath. By this stage I did want it to be happening, despite the pain that came from Diana’s deception, by her doing this intimate deed without my knowledge, in clear contradiction to her vows to me.
I wanted it to keep going… and yet it was too much, it was too much excitement, too much drama, too much intensity for me to handle just then. I half wondered if the sheer ferocity of what I was feeling had made me confused, had formed some short circuit in my brain tha
t made me aroused instead of angry or upset.
I needed to calm down, I needed to escape.
In the kitchen I found the charging cord for my phone, then while the sounds of passion continued from upstairs, I scampered back into the living room intending to leave, get in my car, drive. I had plenty of time until my flight to Cleveland, but I had to think, and I couldn’t think anywhere in the house with those noises—not to mention the danger that Diana or her lover would come down and find me there, forcing some kind of confrontation before I was ready.
On the way out, my eyes fell on their clothes strewn all over the living room couch. They told a story of thrilling flirtation and naughty foreplay, of my wife exploring her lover, kissing him, touching him, while his paws roamed all over her gym-toned physique.
It struck me just how exhilarating it must be for Diana to seduce him, to sleep with him. Somehow, that was the thought that got me going more than anything, got me harder than anything else. I was shaking a little at just how uplifting it was to think of my beautiful wife enjoying herself without me—how could that be possible?
I stooped in front of the couch, catching sight of a little scrap of scarlet lace poking out of the cushions.
I picked them up—the tiniest pair of panties, a thong in fact, almost a g-string. They were soaked through. Wow. Since when had Diana started wearing sexy underwear like this? She’d always told me things like this were uncomfortable. I held them briefly up to my nose, inhaled a deep chest full of her wicked, spicy scent. She’d been incredibly turned on before her underwear had been peeled off.
Upstairs, I could hear Diana going through an earth-shattering orgasm. When had I last heard her like that? When had I ever been able to make her feel as good as that? It made me feel like a complete let-down.
I grabbed the sodden panties and fled the house, trotting down the driveway to my car in the fear that one of our neighbors might witness me sneaking out of my own home.
After plugging in my dead phone to charge, I fired up the engine and drove up the street—parked far enough away that Diana could never spot me, even if she was on the street, but close enough to see the front of our house. Then I shut it off, and just sat a few moments, breathing, trying to calm down.
Life was never going to be the same. Even the best case scenario suggested a massive upheaval in our everyday routines.
After a few moments of charging, I could use my phone to look up issues to do with marital infidelity and divorce on the Internet. In this State, it was likely that Diana and I would have to separate for some months before divorce proceedings could get underway.
Jesus.
Was I going to ‘sober’ up, and realize just how awful it was to know that my wife was fucking another man? Was the cold reality going to suddenly hit me, instead of these ridiculously lustful thoughts?
God. I had her panties in my hands still. I held them up and just breathed long, deep inhalations, drawing in that dark aroma, that spicy evocation of Diana’s wickedness. I could calm down a little, even get my breathing under control—but with the smell of my wife’s lust buzzing through me, I could not make my erection die down.
Oh, there was pain—don’t get me wrong. I was devastated. But it seemed to me, when I attempted to analyze my pain, that it was mostly caused by the fear that I may have lost Diana, that she didn’t want me anymore, that I would never sleep with her again, never kiss her, never even hug her, cuddle with her.
Would I ever get to sleep with her again?
Oh, and I so desperately wanted her, so badly wanted to take her and make her mine—make her come, make her feel so amazing she could never choose anyone over me.
Yet such thoughts didn’t seem realistic to me. Chances were that if she wanted to continue seeing whoever the man was in there, she would have to separate from me, divorce me.
I felt like begging, pleading with her. Please take me back, I’ll never take you for granted again. Even if we’re both exhausted, dispirited from the draining, largely thankless task of raising two small children, I pledged silently to my unhearing wife that I would pay more attention to her, seek to initiate things in bed, do my utmost to satisfy her between the sheets.
The next moment, my mood was swinging back away from self-pity toward a burning sense of injustice. What could I have done to prevent this, when Diana hadn’t even talked to me about her complaints, about her problems? Maybe it was time to force her to tell me what was going on, what she needed, what she wanted for the future. I’d just have to get it exactly right, just the way I needed it.
I was thinking that my Cleveland trip might give me the distance, the solitude to work out my strategy. I could just slip away right now, without even going back to that house.
Only, my powerful lust for Diana intervened. I had to see her one last time. I wanted her so badly.
I picked up the phone, called her. It took a while for her to pick up, not surprisingly. She did a good job of hiding the breathless exertion in her voice.
“Hey honey, everything okay?”
“I’m sorry—my phone was dead, I didn’t get to text you,” I said.
“Text me?”
“My boss is sending me to Cleveland to hand in an important contract proposal. I’m on my way home now to pack for the flight.”
“On the way home?” The question in her voice was over-done. It oozed guilt. She shouldn’t have been so surprised, so shocked that I was heading home early. She should have casually told me what a shame it was that the children wouldn’t get to see me that evening when they got back from nursery. Or even expressed annoyance at the fact that I would be gone that evening, leaving the childcare to her.
The slightly too loud querying tone of her voice suggested to me that she was relaying a warning to her lover, that her husband was on his way home.
“How far are you away?” she asked then, and I could tell she was praying I was still a good way away.
“Oh, I don’t know… four, five minutes away?” Some mischievous part of me wanted to stick it to her, to make life difficult for her.
“Five minutes?” she had to work quickly to stifle the horror in her voice.
“Everything okay, honey?” I asked her, and I did do a good job of conveying blasé innocence.
“Uh… yeah…” she said. “I’m just… you know… getting my head around this sudden trip of yours…”
She laughed, as though poking fun at herself for a blonde moment, but I could detect a hint of fear in her voice. I was four or five minutes’ away, and it was going to take much longer than that to dispel the traces of her affair before I got home.
I felt a little tug of anger at that thought. Yeah, anger. Not the affair part—I was still rock hard regarding that issue—but the deception. The fact that she would be doing her utmost to conceal her crime by the time I arrived home.
“Well… look, are you going to be okay with the kids tonight, honey?” I asked her, feeling a sudden puckish need to mess with her. I would keep her talking, so that she had no time to hop in the shower, no time to wash away the evidence of her misdemeanors. Perhaps no time to tidy up the house.
I guess the perverted part of me wanted to get home while the evidence of her adultery was apparent. It wasn’t because I wanted to confront her with it. It was because I wanted to take her myself, to revel in the wrongness of the sudden desire I felt for her.
“Of course,” she said, and I could hear the rising panic in her voice. “They’ll be no problem.”
“You know, maybe it’s time to call my parents, or your parents, and tell them to finally get their act together and help out with their grandchildren.”
“Oh, no, we don’t need to do that for just one night.”
“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble…”
~~~
Two minutes later I saw for myself the lover dash out of the front door of our house, clutching a coat, his shirt buttons still unfastened, his shoelaces untied. He threw himself into his ca
r, fired up the engine with a roar and backed out of the driveway with a screech of protest from his tires.
I didn’t wait for the stated four or five minutes to be up before heading in. I waited only long enough for Diana’s lover to leave, and for the driveway to open up. Then I was there, sprinting inside as though I had an urgent flight to catch, and I had to pack some things before I left.
Inside the front door, I could smell air freshener that attempted to mask the musky odor of lingering sex in the air. The living room had been tidied, the abandoned clothing picked up.
I scampered up the stairs, fearing that Diana was already jumping into the shower. She wasn’t—my phone conversation had done the trick. She was still putting the finishing touches to tidying up the bedroom as I approached.
“Hey, honey!”
“Hey, how’s things?”
She was wearing gym clothes—a bright turquoise sports bra and a pair of white yoga shorts, her damp blonde locks tied back in a ponytail. I admired her sharp intelligence, at least, if not her duplicity. She was telling me in an instant that she’d just got back from the gym, that there was a reason she was all sweaty and needed to instantly hop in the shower.
“Oh you know…” She said, “I literally just got back from the gym.”
There was that twinge in my chest again, the annoyance at her lying to me. Why did she feel the need to do that?
But I had to admit, the average wife was always going to think that adultery was to be kept secret from her husband at all costs, if she wanted to maintain her marriage at least. How would she know I was turned on mightily by the thought—or the sight—of her cheating on me?
Best Hotwife Erotica Vol.3: Caught! Page 15