I was sprawled in the chair, naked, panting, and splattered with cum. My cock almost too sensitive to touch, I stared at the last frozen image on the video clip. An woman lying on the bed, legs spread wide, a stream of sticky white fluid oozing from her swollen hole.
That could be my wife, I thought. Not literally, of course, but the actress checked enough boxes to be a credible stand-in. Slender, early forties, small breasts, blonde hair, and innocent looking. Except for her pussy – clean shaven around the lips, with a tightly trimmed bush above, unlike my bride, who was well manicured but fully covered. That and the cum, which was not from her husband.
My head spun from the events of the last hour and a half. I had borne silent witness to a couple involved in an illicit tryst while stopping in the woods during my run to pee. A couple that I had passed and chatted briefly. Married, I found out, but not to each other.
Neither looked the type. As I returned to the trail and resumed my run, my imagination turned to my wife – herself a runner, just not usually with me. She had her group; normally early morning runs before work.
I had just jerked off to a video specifically chosen to indulge my twisted fantasy. My orgasm was intense, as strong as any I could recently recall. I was literally covered, and it was my second eruption of the morning. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. My heart was still pounding.
I rewound a few minutes to play the climax again. The woman was on her back, being well fucked by a fit man about her own age. Her wedding ring was clearly visible as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. She lifted her head and kissed him passionately. My cock twitched and my heart lurched.
It’s the kissing that hurts the most, isn’t it?
The man’s rhythm increased, and she looked directly into his eyes and screamed, “cum in me! Cum in me! Please, I need to feel you deep inside me. Oh god, please, give me your cum!”
The man’s groan signaled his release, and she cried out in rapture, throwing her head back as her own orgasm ripped through her. “Oh god! Oh god! Oooooh gooood!” she repeated over and over, her body convulsing with such force that she almost threw her lover off her.
Gradually her climax subsided, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him deeply, again and again.
I thought I could detect a tear running down her cheek.
The final line was what did it.
“I’d better get back to my husband. Before he wonders where I’ve been.”
Suddenly I realized how much time had passed. My wife would be home any minute. I scrambled to shut down my laptop and clean the cum off my body, the arm of the chair, and the floor. Rushing to the bathroom, I started the shower and was waiting for the water to warm up when my wife walked in.
“Look at you…” she smiled broadly while taking in my naked body. “Someone’s looking really fit. And you’re glowing.”
My heart was racing from the near miss. I stammered a quick reply. “Yeah, the run was great. The endorphins really kicked in. It’s a good feeling.”
“Well, I’d jump you right now, but I’d prefer you clean up first,” she replied with a playful giggle, and she lightly slapped my ass as I turned to enter the shower.
Where did that come from? It certainly wasn’t like her. I lingered under the hot water, taking care to wash off all traces of my masturbatory eruptions. As I soaped my cock and balls, still sensitive, my mind was off to the races again. I imagined my wife here in this same shower, carefully scrubbing herself to get ready for a secret encounter. Or perhaps to wash away the evidence of a tryst just concluded.
My cock began to grow again, quite to my amazement. I liberally soaped my hand, wrapped it around my hardening shaft, and began to stroke slowly. I closed my eyes and imagined her splayed out on a hotel bed, her legs spread, her trimmed pussy open, inviting, anticipating.
My breathing became ragged again, and I was tempted to edge myself and curious to see if I could coax yet another climax out of my body. But I quickly shut down the thought, and the fantasy. Or was it suspicion?
No, I chided myself, stop being a jerk. This is all just your depraved imagination. And what of it, anyway? Does it make you sick with jealousy, stung with the hurt of inadequacy? Or does it turn you on to imagine that your one true love has a secret side, an inner slut, that itself is so depraved that she can’t share it with you? Or anyone, for that matter.
I metaphorically slapped myself back to reality. My wife is home, the day goes on, time to reenter real life. I finished my shower, stepped out, grabbed a towel, and dried myself. I opened the door leading back into the bedroom and my jaw dropped.
My wife was splayed across the bed, much like I had just imagined her, clad only in a lacy bra and thong. She fixed me with an alluring gaze and made a come here motion with her finger.
A swirl of emotions ran through me as I approached the bed. I realized I was already hard. I could smell her intimate aroma, and one glance between her spread legs told me two things.
One, she was wet. The front of her thong was dark with her fluid.
Two, she had shaved. The now fully translucent thong revealed a set of bare lips. There was still a dark patch above them, but it appeared to have been carefully manicured.
Oh, and there was this other thing. It had been a long time since we had spontaneous daytime sex.
There would be time for questions later. I attacked her, laying astride her spread legs. I leaned down for a deep kiss and began to run my cock up and down her still-covered slit. My skin confirmed what my eyes had seen. The fabric was soaked.
I reached down for a breast and massaged it through her lacy bra. The nipple was erect. She moaned as I moved my fingers back and forth across it, still sliding my cock across her pussy.
I straightened up and pulled her into a sitting position with me. “You have far too many clothes on,” I said as I reached around and unclasped her top. Her pert breasts tumbled forth as I pulled it off her shoulders and tossed it to the floor.
Her thong was next. I pushed her back down and she raised her hips in assistance.
There she was, the vision from my imagination in the flesh. I stared down and saw my wife, but in my mind, we weren’t here in our bedroom. We were in a hotel room somewhere. And I wasn’t myself. I was someone else. Her lover.
I leaned in to kiss her again, and she returned the passion with fervor. I was tempted to feed her my cock but instead I rammed it home, hard. She gasped as I ground into her, wanting to penetrate as deeply as I could. It seemed as if my cock had never been harder, and I pressed aggressively in an effort to reach deeper into her than I ever had. She looked at me in amazement as I began to fuck her.
My thrusts were long, deep, and rough. She responded enthusiastically, her nails scratching across my shoulders, her head thrown back, neck exposed. I looked down as the role kept playing out in my mind – she, the cheating wife, I her partner in the affair.
I had never seen my beautiful wife quite like this, and I fucked her even harder, pinning her to the bed and slamming into her again and again and again.
Her orgasm hit like a summer storm – quick and violent, quite unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. Her screams echoed off the walls as her legs shook uncontrollably and she held on to me for dear life.
My wife, the slut, losing all control. I looked down at my cock, slick with her adulterous juices, manicured bush accenting her pussy that she was giving to another man – lips swollen, clit protruding.
I lost it, my orgasm coming in waves as I pumped what I had left in my balls into her sinful cavern, giving her what she most desperately craved. For a moment I blacked out, so intense were the spasms. A guttural sound of some sort emitted from me, although my head was in such a state that I was barely aware of it.
Things gradually came back into focus, and I continued to thrust my cock in and out of her, still amazingly hard. She fixed me with a silent piercing gaze, and I knew she had another one in her. Still in my headspace as her illicit lover, I was determined to give her what her husband couldn’t.
My head started swimming again. What he can’t give her. Because he’s pathetic? His cock too small? Not a good partner in bed?
Or was it, quite simply, that he’s her husband? That the thrill, the risk, the sin of coupling outside the marriage, satisfied some perverted craving deep inside this outwardly conventional woman?
I thought, “What would he do?” The lover, that is. She was climbing the hill again, and I withdrew and shoved two fingers into her sloppy wet snatch. I curled them upward, found her spot, and began to massage it while finger fucking her mercilessly.
Her body tightened and she let out a low, guttural moan like a being possessed. Her back arched, her legs tightened, and her eyes rolled back in her head. Her pussy began to open like the petals of a flower, and my digits were suddenly pushed out of her as she squirted all over my hand and arm. She was grabbing the bed sheets and thrashing about involuntarily.
I collapsed on the bed next to her, still semi-erect, nerves still firing, emotions tortured.
“What the fuck was that?”
