It wasn’t by happenstance that I found her secret stash. Hours spent in online cheating communities had taught me about the art of keeping communication with lovers discreet and secure. I became familiar with password-protected text apps and how to tuck them neatly away inside otherwise innocuous looking folders. Hers was, ironically, labeled “Lifestyle.” Inside that folder were apps for wellness, mindfulness, fashion, cooking, and all other manner of subjects one would expect to find on the phone of someone like my wife.
The folder had more apps than could be displayed on the first sub-screen. It was so full that I had to swipe left three times before I found it, located between an app about dogs and one about health. I recognized it from the infidelity communities, where it was described as both secure and popular, the latter, of course, making it easy to go offline to communicate and plan dirty deeds.
In fact, near as I could tell from my research, this particular app was almost exclusively used for illicit purposes, both legal (if immoral) and illegal due to its strong security and encryption. When I found it, being well aware of this, I knew what likely, if not definitely, lay behind the door which, after four failed attempts, with a warning that one more failed attempt would lock me out, I found the key to unlock.
I felt slightly nauseous as my trembling finger hovered over the icon. I paused and considered the wisdom, or folly, of proceeding. Did I really want to know? And if so, was I ready for what I would find?
My mind, and my emotions, swung wildly back and forth between curiosity and fear. Both were intense, and the longer I hesitated, the stronger they became. My stomach was tied in knots, and I could barely focus my eyes on the screen.
Curiosity gained the upper hand, and fighting my anxiety with a deep breath, I exhaled and tapped the screen.
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Her inbox contained at least a dozen text conversations, each with a different person. The first two lines of each were visible, and as I scrolled down it was immediately evident that my twisted fantasy was, in fact, a reality.
My wife was cheating on me.
I had opened Pandora’s box. And in a cruel twist, the key that unlocked her adulterous vault was our wedding date.
I needed to know more, so I opened one at random and scrolled to the bottom. It was like stepping into another world. It started three months ago, having moved offline from one of the communities with which I had become familiar. It was clear that they had been chatting on the site before moving here, as the conversation was advanced. There was a familiarity between them, and they were planning their first meeting.
The place, date, and time were set – a discreet hotel, a Saturday morning. I would be on the golf course, my wife said, meaning I would be away from the house for at least five hours. I scrolled up and read of their giddy anticipation. I could almost feel her adrenaline rush. And then the day of:
“I’m here.”
“Wonderful! Room 824. Come right up!”
“On my way. I’m already wet.” Followed by a big kiss emoji.
The next text was from him. “That was intense. Thank you.”
Her reply: “I loved it. Every minute. You were so hard. Your dried cum is still on my tits and belly.”
“Mmm. That’s hot.”
“I don’t want to wash it off, but I will have to shower before hubby gets home.”
“Yes, we both have to be careful, don’t we? I’m going to shower here. I will hate washing you off my cock. I will think of you as I do.”
Fuck! So not only was she giving herself to another man, but she was also fucking him bare – raw. Without protection. I threw up a little in my mouth. It wasn’t so much the health risk as the intimacy of it. At least it appeared he had pulled out.
I was still standing at the kitchen island, too shocked and fascinated to move. I scanned through other conversations. They followed the same familiar pattern, each one a connection that had moved offline from an online community. She had met almost all the men, although two of the more recent conversations were still exploratory but clearly headed toward a meeting in and of the flesh.
I scrolled back to the top. The most recent text was time stamped at 6:05 this very morning, immediately before she had headed out for her run. I realized that it was the text she had been sending when I walked into the kitchen.
“Heading out now. We will have to be quick – I can tell him I decided to take a longer run, but we won’t have much time. I can’t wait to feel your hard cock inside me again. I’m so wet I can’t stand it!”
The room was spinning. She would run to his apartment. I scrolled further and found the address – about a half mile away. I continued to trace their communications backward. It wasn’t the first time. No mention of a wife. She gushed about his hard youthful body and beautiful cock.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:40. They would be fucking right now. The immediacy of it cut through me like a knife plunged into my mid-section. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scene. Her shoes, shorts, and top strewn about the floor of his bedroom. She on her back, legs spread wide. His cock impaling her. She screaming as her orgasms ripped through her.
It was no longer my imagination. It was reality. My beautiful, innocent-looking wife was fucking another man, completely behind my back, part of a web of deception she had carefully spun. It was anguish. And yet…
I was rock hard. My cock strained against my boxers. I glanced down and saw a huge wet spot where my pre cum had soaked through. I was suddenly aware of an intense ache. I pulled my swollen member through the fly and freed it. It stood erect and throbbing, a drop of pre cum glistening at the tip.
I closed my eyes and turned my thoughts back to her. Nails scratching his back, legs wrapped around him. Filth pouring out of her mouth.
“Oh god, I’m going to cum again!”
That look, oh so familiar to me, that singular facial expression that accompanied the onset of her release.
“Fuuuuucccckkkk! I’m cumming! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh FUCK!!!!”
Screaming his name – his name!
Begging, pleading, desperate for his cum.
Without conscious thought, I was stroking my cock. Its hardness frightened me. Some variation of the scene playing in my head was taking place a short distance away, at this very moment.
She was shouting in her urgency. “Give it to me! Give it to me! Give! Me! Your! Cum!!”
My stroking turned to pumping, and as he let out a feral roar, the first spurt shot across the island and landed on our kitchen counter some three feet distant. I opened my eyes to see the second, third, fourth, and fifth ejaculations issue forth and paint the dark granite. I cried out, “Holy shit! Hooollly shit!”
And then I screamed her name over and over as the eruption settled into aftershocks.
I wanted to cry.
I had never been so turned on.
Gradually I returned to something vaguely resembling equilibrium. My gaze took in the mess in front of me. Huge globs and long ropes of cum lay splattered everywhere on the counter, its whiteness standing out against the dark surface. Her phone, still in my left hand, displayed the texts that had arranged the encounter from which my wife was doubtless disentangling at that moment. My right hand remained wrapped around my cock, cum coating my fingers.
I put the phone down and cupped my balls with my left hand. I let out a soft sigh – “fuccckkk” – and my thoughts turned to my wife. I now saw her in a brand-new light. She had always been beautiful – pretty face, athletic body, radiant smile, and in her way, sexy. But never like this. What I saw now was a sexual being, wanton in her pursuit of pleasure, willing to take risks to get it, and devious in concealing all evidence of her secret world.
My cock remained rigid. My beautiful, dirty, perverted, slut wife. She had never been so alluring, so desirable.
I gathered myself and set about cleaning up my mess, careful to return her phone to the place it had been, with the text app closed and the screen locked. I began to think about what I wanted to do with the evidence I had just discovered, realizing that my knowledge and understanding of her had been incomplete and in many respects dead wrong.
How should I proceed, knowing that my life had changed in an instant? I could confront her, of course, setting forth a torrent that would sweep us who knows where. Or I could keep it bottled up inside me, leaning into the excitement but risking my emotional health.
I suddenly realized that my boxers still bore that noticeable stain from my arousal. I sprinted upstairs to the bedroom to throw on some sweats. I paused and stared with longing at our marital bed. I felt a sharp pang of anguish.
I hustled back downstairs and poured a fresh hot cup of coffee. As I turned around, I could see her walking up the driveway. My god she looked sexy. Through her top I thought I could discern the outline of erect nipples. Her long, toned legs shone in the morning light, and I pictured them spread for her lover. Where was his cum, I thought. Was it dried on her bare, flat belly, her breasts – no, her tits – beneath that top? Or was it trickling out from between those legs, pooling in her shorts?
As she approached the door, I could see clearly the glow on her face and the sparkle in her eyes. I now recognized it for what it was. My newly enlightened self would never see her the same way again.
She opened the door and gave me a smile. Instinctively I was drawn to her and moved to close the distance between us.
She placed her hands lightly on my chest and playfully said, “Don’t hug me, I’m a sweaty mess.”
Indeed.
