Patreon LogoYour support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)

The Cuckold Letters Part 17

GenderBender

GenderBender

Star
Joined
May 29, 2017
The envelope was on my desk when I arrived at work, lying on my keyboard. Plain white, with my name typed on the front.

This isn't normal. I mean, everyone uses email or text or WhatsApp or whatever, but no one writes any more, certainly not in the office.

Curious, I opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

The message was typed in capitals: I FUCKED YOUR WIFE LAST NIGHT.

I threw it in my drawer. Some silly prank. Not worth bothering with. I certainly wouldn't bother telling my wife.

When I came back from my break, there was another envelope.

Name typed on the front as before, single sheet inside with message in capitals. This time there was just one word: TWICE.

It was no surprise to find another envelope when I got back from lunch.

This time the message was longer, but still in capitals: ON YOUR SIDE OF THE BED. YOU SLEPT ON MY CUM, MY DNA IS ALL OVER YOUR BALLS.

I hurried back from my afternoon break, hoping perhaps to catch the person responsible. But it was already there, again with more details: I PLAYED WITH THAT MOLE IN THE INSIDE OF HER THIGH AND READ THAT MESSAGE YOU HAD TATTOOED IN THE CRACK OF HER ASS.

When I put my jacket on to leave that evening, there was another message, short and to the point: LOSER.

The journey home gave me time to reflect. This had to be a prank from someone in the office. No one else could get in and move around to leave the notes. It could be someone I knew, but why? It couldn't be true. I have never doubted my wife, not once, not ever. We were in love, she was faithful and loyal, I trusted her completely.

And that would have been it, if it hadn't been for those two details. The mole and the tattoo. I had never mentioned them to anyone. They were both private. I didn't like the mole; it actually turned me off to be honest. And any mention of the tattoo would lead to the question: what does it say? A question I have no intention of answering.

So the doubt was sown, but what should I do? I decided to do nothing, see how this developed, if indeed there were any developments to come. And to watch my wife for any signs that something had changed or that something was going on in her life.

I should have added a third thing to be list: don't change my behaviour. But it is easy to be wise after the event.
 
My wife put a mug of coffee in front of me as I ate my cereal at the kitchen table the following morning. That was usual. What was not usual was that she sat down next to me. And not only sat down, she spoke.

'Well, what got into you last night?'

'What got into me? The sight of you undressing when you were getting ready for bed, that was what got into me.'

'Really? I had you down as a weekend, public holiday, birthdays and anniversaries kind of guy. You've seen me undressing loads of times without jumping me like you did last night.'

She was right, I had. I didn't really have an answer for her question. It was just something that came over me. Time for a diversion.

'What about you, though?'

Her reaction had been a lot more enthusiastic than usual.

'What got into me? Your cock got into me, that's what.'

I could have pointed out that it had got into her plenty of times before without making her behave like a bitch on heat. But I didn't, because I was taken aback by her language. She didn't use words like cock or any word that was vaguely dirty or even just naughty, preferring a euphemism.

In the end, it took me so long to think of a suitable reply, that I didn't say anything. She just sat smiling at me and I smiled back. It had been a long time since we last did that.

I was still smiling at what had happened the night before and my wife's reaction at breakfast on the journey to work, so much so that I forgot all about the letters. Until I came in sight of my desk. There on the keyboard was another envelope.

I tore it open before even taking off my coat.

The message took me by surprise: WELL, BIG ONE, YOU PUT ON A GOOD SHOW LAST NIGHT. WHAT COULD HAVE SET YOU OFF? TRYING TO MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME? OR HOPING TO OUTPERFORM THE COMPETITION?

I slumped into my chair. How could he know what happened last night? How could he know what my wife whispered in my ear when we were fucking. 'Big one' was what she had said the first night we got together and she knew it turned me on to hear her whisper it. It was the closest she had ever got to talking dirty.

Was our house bugged? Or were there cameras hidden around it? I cast around desperately for an explanation.

You see, I was frantically looking for reasons not to come to the obvious conclusion – the only way the guy could know so much was if my wife had told him.

There was another message awaiting me after lunch. Longer than the others: YOU'RE WONDERING WHETHER THIS IS THE FIRST TIME. THAT'S ONLY NATURAL, ISN'T IT. WE THINK WE KNOW A WOMAN, BELIEVE WE CAN TRUST HER, BUT WE CAN NEVER BE SURE. AM I THE ONLY GUY WHO CLIMBS BETWEEN HER THIGHS? WHO IS SHE REALLY TALKING TO WHEN SHE WHISPERS IN MY EAR? WHO IS SHE THINKING ABOUT AS I HUMP HER? SHE'S SAYS I'M HER FIRST, AFFAIR THAT IS. BUT HOW I CAN BE SURE? IT'S OUR FATE, AS MEN, TO DOUBT OUR WOMEN.

Strange, but I was almost starting to feel a bond with him, whoever he was. When I read the mid-afternoon message, I wondered if he was feeling the same. SORRY I CALLED YOU A LOSER. I SHOULDN'T HAVE INSULTED YOU. I PROMISED MYSELF THAT I WOULDN'T DO THAT AND LET MYSELF DOWN.
 
We fucked again that evening. It was like my wife was expecting it. She didn't seem surprised when I gently pulled her down onto the sofa and slid my hand up her skirt. She just lay back with a smile on her face. Like she was amused rather than aroused. I'm not saying she was laughing at my performance. No, definitely not, why would she do that? Just that she found it amusing that I had decided to fuck her, or to fuck her on the sofa, or in the middle of the evening, or … well I don't know … it was like she was finding the situation amusing.

Which brought me back to my thoughts earlier that day: did she know about the letters – did she know that I knew?

There was a letter waiting for me when I got to work. I knew there would be. I SUPPOSE YOU'RE WONDERING WHY? I MEAN WHY HAS SHE TAKEN A LOVER? WAS IT SOMETHING SPECIAL ABOUT ME THAT ATTRACTED HER? OR SOMETHING ABOUT YOU THAT MADE HER LOOK AROUND? I SUPPOSE IT COMES DOWN TO THIS QUESTION: WHAT IS IT ABOUT ME THAT IS DIFFERENT FROM YOU? BECAUSE SHE WOULDN'T JUST WANT MORE OF THE SAME, SURELY.

And after my morning break, there was a short note. WE DO IT BAREBACK BY THE WAY. JUST SO YOU KNOW. I GUESS YOU KNEW FROM WHAT I'VE SAID ALREADY, BUT I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW AND NOT BE LEFT WONDERING.

No letter after lunch.

But there was one when I returned from the afternoon break. SORRY, I DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO WRITE AT LUNCH. I WAS BUSY. YOU CAN GUESS WHERE. IT WASN'T PLANNED. QUITE SPONTANEOUS. SHE TEXTED OUT OF THE BLUE AND WE MET AT A HOTEL ROUND THE CORNER FROM HERE. HAVE YOU WONDERED WHERE WE MEET – IT'S NOT ALWAYS IN YOUR MARITAL BED.
 
My first letter on the following day was no surprise. NO SEX LAST NIGHT THEN? WERE YOU PUT OFF BY THE THOUGHT OF MY SPERM SWIMMING AROUND YOUR COCK WHILE YOU FUCKED? IT WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THE FIRST TIME, OF COURSE, BUT YOU DIDN'T KNOW IT BEFORE AND YOU DID KNOW IT LAST NIGHT. AND NOW YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO BE SURE. LOOKING BACK, HOW OFTEN WERE THOSE SPERM SWILLING AROUND INSIDE HER OR OOZING OUT OF THAT PLUMP PUSSY? LOOKING FORWARD, IT WILL ALWAYS BE IN YOUR MIND THAT YOU ARE AT THE BACK OF THE QUEUE.

Nothing after my morning break, but the post-lunch missive made was there on schedule. SORRY I DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO WRITE THIS MORNING. THESE MEETINGS TAKE UP SO MUCH TIME, DON'T YOU FIND.

Was that a slip? There had only been one meeting that morning and I had been there. Did that mean my correspondent had been around the table with me? Or was he just playing games and laying a false scent?

Then in the afternoon, there was more. I GUESS YOU MUST BE WONDERING WHY SHE DECIDED YOU WEREN'T ENOUGH. SHE'S OBVIOUSLY STILL OK WITH FUCKING WITH YOU, BUT I MUST BE GIVING HER SOMETHING THAT YOU'RE NOT. MAYBE I SHOULD TELL YOU WHAT WE DO TOGETHER, THEN YOU COULD WORK OUT WHAT YOU'RE MISSING. BECAUSE THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING.

And this time, for the first time, there was a PS: ENJOY YOUR WEEKEND.

When I got home, there was a suitcase in the hall. 'Hi,' my wife said as she hurried down the stairs, 'pack a bag, quick, I've done mine already.' 'Why?' I asked as she rushed past me. 'I've picked up a last minute deal,' she called over her shoulder. 'We're going to the mountains for the weekend. They lovely at this time of year.'

Enjoy the weekend. Right.
 
We're were tired after the long drive, so no action on Friday.

Saturday, lots of long walks through the woods, hearing the leaves crunch and crackle under our feet, examining the shades as they turned colour, admiring the views across the mountains.

Back at the hotel, exhausted. Yes, you got it, too tired for any honeymoon action. Both fell asleep instantly. At least that is what she told me she did at breakfast on Sunday.

Drove back on Sunday, she snoozed in the passenger seat, giving me time to think. Had she fallen asleep? I couldn't be sure, because I was asleep. So I don't know what she did or who she texted while I slept. At least I know she didn't sneak off during the day. But she might even have slipped out during the night. Would I have noticed? Maybe, maybe not. But she wouldn't take that risk, surely.

Damn this guy, whoever he is, he's making me doubt everything.

Was she really asleep next to me? Or was she closing her eyes to think about it?

NO NO

There I go again.

So did I enjoy the weekend?

What do you think?
 
Monday morning, back to the usual silent routine at breakfast, although my wife was looking at me more than usual. I think so anyway. Unless it was just my mind playing tricks again. She didn't say anything, though, which was normal at breakfast, for both of us.

But it wasn't back to the usual routine at work. There was no letter waiting for me and none came later, not at morning break or lunch break or afternoon break. Nothing. Do you know the oddest thing? There was an obvious reason why I got no letters, but it never occurred to me. Not until the next day.
 
Monday evening. The usual routine, on the surface at least. Except, well, except that my wife seemed to be different. I couldn't put my finger on it. It was something about her. Not her clothes, they weren't new. Not her hair, she hadn't dyed it or had a new style. Her makeup, that was the same to. No, it was the way she was walking, the way she held herself. That was different, somehow, at least it seemed different, although I couldn't put my finger on why or how.

Tuesday breakfast. My wife spoke again. She wandered over, pulled out the chair and sat down. I waited. 'Is there something wrong?' she asked right out. 'You don't seem your usual self. You've been like it for a while now.' She kept talking, as if she didn't know how to finish or wanted to fill the silence or was afraid of what I might say. 'If you want to talk, I'm OK with that.' She moved closer.

What was I supposed to say?

What could I say?

'No, no,' I mumbled while I tried to think of an answer. 'I'm fine, really, it's just that it's been rather stressful at work lately.' There, that was close to the truth without giving anything away. I tried a smile, although it probably didn't come across as sincere. 'Thanks for your concern, though.'

And, back at work, there was a letter.

With a message:

'SO THE WEEKEND DIDN'T GO SO WELL THEN. THAT WAS WHY I WASN'T IN WORK YESTERDAY AND COULDN'T LEAVE ANY LETTERS. YOUR WIFE WAS UPSET AT BEING NEGLECTED. WHAT WOMAN WOULDN'T BE? SHE SPRANG A SURPRISE WEEKEND TRIP ON YOU AND YOU DIDN'T AS MUCH AS TOUCH HER, BARELY EVEN LOOKED AT HER. NOW HOW IS ANY WOMAN GOING TO FEEL ABOUT THAT? NEGLECTED, REJECTED, FRUSTRATED. THINGS COULD HAVE BEEN SO DIFFERENT IF YOU HAD JUST REACHED OUT TO HER, BUT YOU DIDN'T. AND WHAT WOULD SHE DO BUT REACH OUT TO ME. EVEN THEN, I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE THIS, EVEN THEN SHE DIDN'T GIVE UP ON YOU. SHE MADE HERSELF AVAILABLE IN THE EVENING. WEARING YOUR FAVOURITE PERFUME, PUTTING ON HER SEXY WIGGLE AND DIRTY LOOK, EVEN THOSE SPECIAL UNDIES THAT SHE WEARS FOR ANNIVERSARIES, THE ONES YOU BOUGHT HER ONE YEAR. BUT SHE GOT NO REACTION. WHY WAS THAT? IS IT BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T WANT HER OR BECAUSE YOU COULDN'T?

I put the letter through the shredder and made a decision. I would not read any more of these messages. But how could I get that across to the guy? I thought of sending him a reply, leaving it on my desk when I went out for lunch. But then I had a better idea. I wouldn't read any more letters. I'd wait for the next one and leave it unopened for him to see when he came to deliver another one.

So simple, so simple it was simply brilliant.
 
The next envelope was waiting for me after my break. I put it aside, unopened. I was tempted to see what it said, one last peek before I put an end to this game. But no, I had made my decision. So come lunchtime I left the envelope where it had been.

When I came back, it was still there. Or was it a different envelope with a response to my return to sender from the morning? The envelopes had all been the same standard office issue, so I couldn't tell. I should have marked it in some way, but that would have shown that I cared, when the whole message I was sending was that I didn't.

Break came and still I left the letter and spent the whole break wondering what to do if there was one waiting for me on my return. That would be a dilemma. What should I do with it? I didn't want to risk someone opening it. There was no reason why they should, because it had my name on it, but I wouldn't want anyone reading the message, whatever it was. But if I shredded it, the guy might think I had read it.

As it happened, there was no letter. Message received.

Wednesday morning, my wife joined me for breakfast. I don't mean she spoke or sat down for a minute, I mean she sat down and ate her breakfast next to me. She was building up to something, but what? 'I'm sorry I called you a "weekend and special occasions guy". That was unkind and I shouldn't have said it.' That was the first time she had ever said sorry to me about anything. I felt the need to reply. 'No need to be sorry, you were right.' She smiled her thanks. 'I've been thinking,' she said at last, 'why don't you take the day off? We could spend some time together, just the two of us.' I shook my head. 'Sorry,' it was my turn now, 'I've taken all my leave; there's none left.' She reached out and took my hand. 'So take a sickie. You have been feeling stressed lately, you told me, so just ring in and take a sickie.' So I did.

We pottered around for the morning, catching up on our individual chores, reading a bit, watching some news. After lunch, my wife looked at me seriously. 'You know,' she said, 'you don't look at all well. Why don't you come to bed and lie down.'

'Come' to bed, not 'go' to bed. That sounded like an invitation, so that is what I did.

Which was my next mistake.
 
Next day, we were back to a silent breakfast.

At work, there was no envelope waiting for me. Relief.

I logged on and began opening emails on autopilot.

Suddenly, the screen was filled with one word. I checked the email address – a gmail account with a name I didn't recognise. I looked back at the word, stared and stared, then hit delete. But I could still see it. It was burned on my retina.

IMPOTENT

Well, that settled it. she must have told him – this information could only have come from my wife – because I surely hadn't mentioned it to anyone. I mean, it's not the sort of this you post on Twitter is it. "Morning everyone, I'm impotent." For the first time in my life I couldn't get an erection. Not as far as half mast. Not even the smallest vestige of one. No, she had told him, which left only one question: did she know he was telling me or was he doing this behind her back?

It had happened, or rather not happened, when she got me into bed yesterday afternoon. It had gone well to start with – making out, kissing, stroking, giggling, behaving like nothing unusual was happening.

Until, until her hand slid down my belly and felt – nothing. She looked at me and then dived under the sheet. She gave the full works, licking and sucking my balls, licking and sucking my shaft, what there was of it. The longer she worked, the more sure I was that nothing would happen.

Finally, her head reappeared.

I was certified dead on arrival.

First thing, I made to rush off. I don't know where I was going to go or what I was going to do, but she pulled me back.

'Don't leave me, you can't leave me, not like this.'

She took my hand and guided it between her legs. Wet.

She guided my fingers, making me stroke her pussy until she came.

There was a smile on her face when she was done. Why? Had she been imagining it was her lover fucking her. Or was she pleased at how she had finally humiliated me? Maybe both.

I didn't know. Yes, that was the worst of it, I didn't know.

Break arrived – I don't think I did any work, just stared at a blank screen, seeing that word still there in front of me.

Back from break, I managed to get some stuff done. Don't know how. Could tell you what I did. No idea of how many mistakes I made.

Lunch and I was glad to get out of the office.

Back from lunch. There was an envelope on my keyboard.
 
I stared at the envelope. It was different from the others. They had just had my name, but this one had my full name, job title and the number of my office. It could be innocent, although it was unusual to write to anyone, email being the norm for office communications. I tore it open.

No block capitals, but no signature or name either.

"Hi

"Sorry to write to you like this, but I happened to be passing your office last week and saw an envelope on your keyboard. I may be completely wrong, which is why I've waited before writing. I don't want to worry you if it was just something innocent.

"The thing is, I recognised it. I got letters like that earlier this year. They were left during my breaks, with no signature, and they contained shall we say personal information that could only have come from my wife. Information about her and me.

"They stopped all of a sudden. I didn't know why, but now I am wondering if he has moved on to you.

"I can guess how this is affecting you. I didn't know who to trust, suspected everyone I met around the office, wondered if they were the one sending the messages or if they knew what was happening. And that's not counting how it affected me at home – I guess you know what I mean.

"I just want you to know, you are not the only one.

"Maybe I'll set up a drop box so we can email each other. Take some time to think about it. I'll write again.

"Best wishes."

My first response: how kind of this guy to write like that, he had restored my faith in my colleagues.

Second thought: hang on, isn't this a bit too much of a coincidence? Just happened to be passing my office. Just happened to recognise the envelope. This could be the same guy trying a different tack.

My phone was buzzing. Text from my wife, asking how I was, saying she was looking forward to seeing me that evening.

Well, it wasn't mutual.
 
Maybe. What if?

Those words have become the bane of my life and they filled my thoughts on the way home.

What if my wife was the one writing the letters? That would explain why she sent an email this morning – she had no time to write a letter and get it to the office before I arrived. She'd need an accomplice in the office to deliver them, but that's just a detail. She could easily explain that it was all part of some game or a big surprise she had lined up for me.

Yes, if she was the author, everything made sense, pretty much. Except why? The answer was obvious: to humiliate me. But that just gets back to the why: why would she want to do that?

Maybe I'd get some clue from what she did this evening.

I was expecting something to happen as soon as I arrived. But it didn't. Just normal stuff, preparing supper, eating supper, settling down with a drink on the sofa.

That was when she pulled her legs up under her and turned towards me. Right, this was it.

'I just want to say that I don't want you to dwell on what happened last night. It's kinda normal. Most of my girlfriends have had it happen.'

'You haven't-' I began, but she cut me off.

'No, I haven't told anyone, if that's what you're thinking. I want you to know that I am not taking it as a sign that you've lost interest in me. I don't want you to worry about it. That's what guys do – I researched it a bit this morning after you'd left for work. And once they start worrying, it just makes things worse.'

So far, so considerate, so supportive. What a loving wife would do. I waited as she sipped some wine. She wasn't done yet, I was sure of it.

'To be honest, I wasn't surprised. I've noticed some things lately. I put it down to age at first, but then you're still young.'

'Noticed? What did you notice?'

'Little things, like I said.' She hadn't, but never mind, not for now. 'Signs that you weren't as, well, what word can I used, let's say you weren't as vigorous as you used to be.'

'I'm not sure what you mean,' I wasn't liking the sound of this. I hadn't noticed anything. Had I really been deteriorating like she said?

'Well, take last weekend. In the past, you'd have jumped me before we unpacked at the hotel, touched me up on our walk, fucked me as soon as we got back to the hotel. Instead, you didn't touch me at all, not once. You don't even watch me undress any more, you always enjoyed doing that.'

Everything she said was true, but they were little things, they all had explanations, innocent ones, if only she'd listen, but she had made up her mind, got them to fit the way it suited her for them to be.

'I'm not sure what this is leading to.' That was true, I wasn't, although I was getting a bad feeling.

'Like I said,' she was using her sincere tone that I never trusted, 'I don't want to make things worse and I'd like to help if I can. I've been online and the consensus is not to put you under any pressure. Take things slowly. Spend time together but without any pressure. Just being together at first, no touching, then build up to some touching, but nothing erotic. Take our time.'

Like I said, sincere, caring, thoughtful. But there was more to come. I could feel it. and I knew I wouldn't like it.

'The biggest temptation, obviously, is being in bed together, naked, I mean we can't avoid seeing each other and touching each other and thinking about the other. So, now, just to begin with, I thought it would be a good idea for you to move into the spare room.'

I exploded. My glass flew across the room and shattered against the wall.

She stayed calm, because she hadn't finished.

'I've moved your things for you. I thought that would help.'

As I lay in the bed in the spare room, not sleeping, just thinking, I composed the letter or email that would be waiting for me tomorrow. She might be sending it now – note to self to check the time of arrival of all my messages tomorrow morning.

I got up early, made my own breakfast, and left before she was awake.
 
No envelope on my desk when I arrived for work.

No unfamiliar senders in my inbox when I logged on.

Seconds later, PING, a new message, from a gmail address, one I didn't recognise. What a surprise.

I checked my watch - just about the time my wife would be getting up.

I could have ignored it. But I couldn't.

Back to block capitals.

AT LEAST YOU WON'T HAVE TO SLEEP IN MY CUM ANY MORE.

I hit delete and tried to forget it. Tried, but failed. Like I'd failed- No, stop, don't go there, don't think like that.

The rest of the morning was taken up by a meeting with my boss and the rest of the team. No idea what it was about. I just stared around the room at the guys, looking at each of them, wondering if one of them was fucking my wife, wondering if one of them knew I couldn't fuck her, wondering, wondering, wondering.

I didn't offer any contribution, and only spoke when my boss asked me directly, and then I bluffed my way not being able to think through the strategy question she had asked me.

After lunch, I found two new messages.

One was from my boss, saying she had scheduled a 1:1 session with me tomorrow at 10:00. No mention of what it was about.

The other was from an unknown sender. I opened it, well I had to.

I'LL BE VISITING TONIGHT. JUST MENTIONING IT AS IT MIGHT BE EASIER FOR YOU IF YOU WERE AROUND.

How thoughtful.

I was in two minds whether to go home or book into an hotel.

I went home.
 
I got a takeaway and ate it in the kitchen. No sign or sound of my wife. I retired to my room.

Did you notice what I just said? That's right. I said "my" room. Not the spare room, "my" room. That's how i had already come to accept the situation.

I was just nodding off when I thought I heard the front door, but nothing more.

It was 2.30 when I woke. And knew instantly why. The sound of bedsprings. We'd been talking about replacing the mattress for ages but never got round to it. It would certainly need replacing after the workout it was getting. Whoever he was, the guy had stamina.

I won't let myself describe the images that came into my head. I didn't want them and tried to stop them, but they came anyway.

Then the screaming started. Not my wife usual moaning and groaning. Full throated screams. Filthy words, disgusting, words I didn't know she knew.

It was a relief when it stopped.

But not for long

They were at it again, within minutes it seemed, although it was probably longer.

And then a third time.

I couldn't cut out the noise. Fingers in my ears didn't work, neither did a pillow over my head. Even when it was over, the sounds were ringing in my ears until I fell asleep.

Needless to say, I overslept. Skipped breakfast so as not to be late for the meeting with my boss. Managed to check my emails. No surprise to find a new email.

YOU NEED TO BUY A NEW MATTRESS.

The meeting with the boss was a complete surprise. She had plans, she told me, and was looking for the right team to take them forward. She had identified me as part of that team and had a project for me. I'd be taken off my normal duties and work full-time on this project, reporting to her. I accepted. This was a big opportunity for me.

At the end, she asked: "Are you sure you want this?"

Of course, I reassured her that I did. Although I wondered why she had pressed me. I didn't wonder long, because she told me.

"It's just that you've seemed distracted lately, especially yesterday. Is there something wrong?"

My silence told her the answer.

"Tell me," she said. So I did. Everything.

And when I had, I felt the most amazing sense of relief.

When I had finished, she didn't say anything. What could anyone say? She just came round the table, sat next to me, and put her hand on mine. A warm hand. Comforting. I managed a weak smile.

As I was leaving, she said. "By the way, I'll assign you a new email address."

A small thing, but it would stop the emails. If the guy wanted to communicate, he'd have to go back to letters and that would give me a chance to catch him. Somehow.
 
Last edited:
Back to my office and another unknown sender.

I might as well open it, since it would be one of the last.

No message, well no written message, just a photo.

I recognised the mole, the one at the top of my wife's thigh. And I couldn't miss the cock that was half inside her. It certainly wasn't mine.

This couldn't have been worse timing. I'd being feeling positive from the compliment of being selected for the project by my boss and comforted by her concern. But this wiped that all away.

If you've never been in my position, you can't know what this meant. All the messages and comments, I understood them at a basic level, but even hearing my wife and this guy shagging throughout the night in my bed, but nothing brings it home like a photo. A POV shot of the two of them together. My brain was forced in that instant to accept the reality of what this game really meant.

I felt sick.

This was not the best time for the boss to walk in.

She looked at the screen, stared at it, almost like she was studying it, for what seemed a long time. finally, she rested her hand on my shoulder.

'I'll get that new email sorted out right away. You'll be working to me, so no one else will need to know your address until the project is over.'
 
Back from afternoon break, there was an envelope on my desk.

SO YOU RAN TO THE BOSS THEN. CHANGING YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS WON'T STOP THIS. AND DON'T THINK SHE WILL PROTECT YOU.

Not long after, the boss rang, just to check my new account was working, or so she said.

'Anything else to report?' she asked.

So I told her.

There was a long pause.

'It's got to be something to do with work, don't you think. You must have at least one personal email account. So why not use that? Surely your wife, if she really is involved in this, could tell him what it is. My guess is that someone here has a vendetta against you for some reason.'

It made sense, but I couldn't think of anyone it could be.

'And,' she went on, 'it has to be someone who had the chance to meet your wife and know who she was. It's too much of a coincidence that he happened to start an affair and the woman just happened to be a colleague's wife.'

I agreed, but-

'Are you assuming that he is the one who started it. What if my wife initiated all this and is manipulating him? Then there is no need for any amazing coincidence.'

'But then why not use your private email account? If you're right that she knows about it, there is no need for her to pretend not to let the guy have it.'

It was all so complicated, there was no way to fathom out what was happening.

I had just about given up on thinking about her when she texted. She would be home late, but the sheets on her bed – 'her' bed, notice – were dirty. Could I be a dear and put them in the wash for her?'

She really was rubbing my nose in it. Literally.
 
Got home.

Took a deep breath and went upstairs to get the bedding.

Her bed, our bed, their bed, was a total mess. I disentangled the sheets and pulled them off the bed, carrying them downstairs at arm's length before dropping them on the floor in front of the washing machine.

It was as I bent over to pick them up, that I got a whiff. Stale, pungent.

I recognised my wife's smell, her scent and her body odour, even her sweat. The rest of course was his.

I picked them up, I had to, they weren't going to get into the machine on their own.

That was when it happened. I have no idea what came over me, but I pulled them towards me and inhaled. Then, God what a fool, I buried my face in them.

Disgusted with myself, I thrust them into the machine and set the controls.

It was only when I finally left the kitchen that I noticed.

I was hard, solid. The smell of my wife copulating with this guy had got me hard.

What the hell was happening to me?
 
My cock was throbbing, like nothing I had ever known before. No doubt about what had caused it: the smell of my wife and her lover fucking, fucking in my bed.

I went and stood by her bedroom door – our door – their door.

Being there didn't help. It just made me think. Made me remember the photo he had sent. How I wished I had kept it rather than deleted it from my computer.

I was still there when my wife came home.

'What are you doing?' she asked.

I didn't bother answering her question.

'What the fuck are you up to?' I demanded. 'Why are you doing this to me?'

My voice was trembling; I was barely keeping my self-control. I had never come as close to hitting a woman in my entire life. Not even – well, let's not bother with that.

I pushed down my pants, letting my dick free.

She looked down. 'Am I suppose to be impressed?'

I'd show her impressed.

I pushed her back onto the bed, the bed where they had fucked the night before, and pulled down her pants.

She didn't resist as I fucked her, harder than I ever had, harder than I thought I could manage.

It didn't last long – I was too aroused to take it for too long.

'Is that it?' she asked. 'Are you done?'

She knew the answer. I gathered my dignity and stormed off to my room. That's right, to MY room.

Next day, there was an envelope waiting on my desk.

So much for my promise not to read any more letters.

WHAT THE HELL WAS ALL THAT ABOUT? JUST WHAT WERE YOU TRYING TO PROVE? THAT YOU COULD GET A HARD-ON? WELL GIVE THAT MAN A ROUND OF APPLAUSE. YOU JUST DON'T GET IT DO YOU? YOU DON'T DO ANYTHING FOR HER. YOU'RE JUST NOT UP TO IT. YOU'RE NOT MAN ENOUGH TO GIVE HER WHAT I CAN.

And there was a post script.

WHY DON'T YOU COME IN AND WATCH US? YOU MIGHT PICK UP SOME TIPS.
 
Was this guy being serious? Were they both being serious? Whose idea was it that I sit in and watch?

Whatever and whoever, nothing happened for the next few days. No sound of night-time activity from my wife's bedroom. No sight of her – we were both keeping out of each other's way. And, best of all, no more envelopes.

Until the following Tuesday. Well Wednesday because it was the early hours of the morning. Something had woken me but what? Then I heard it – music, low and slow music, from my wife's room.

I tiptoed downstairs to her room. There was a light showing under the door. And music, soft and slow music. I put my ear to the door. There was something else too – the rhythmic creak of the bed.

And, as I listened harder, I heard a voice, her voice, quite but regular, in time with the music and the creaking.

"Sloowww, that's it, sloowww, loonnggg and sloowww, deeeppp and sloowww, fuck meee, take meee, loonnggg and sloowww, deeeppp, deeeppp as you can, deeeppper, hardeeeer.'

My crotch was aching. My cock was throbbing with the sound of the music. My hand was drifting down, try as I might to keep it away from my crotch.

Then my wife's tone changed.

'NO.'

A sharp sound, it had to be a slap.

'Bastard, I wasn't ready.'

I crept away, smiling to myself.

Mr Perfect wasn't so perfect after all.
 
My wife stormed into the kitchen the next morning, strode across to the table where I was eating some toast and sipping my hot coffee.

The first slap came out of nowhere, forehand, from her right.

Before I could react, the second slap followed, backhand from her left.

'That was your fault,' you bastard, 'you put him off, sneaking around outside our door like you used to listen to your mommy and daddy when you were supposed to be asleep.'

Her hands were on her hips now, at least I was safe while they were there.

'What were you doing, playing with your little willy?'

That was it. There were so many things I wanted to say now her affair was out in the open. But I couldn't find the words. There was only one response I could give.

I stood up and slapped her. Just once, but hard, hard enough to hurt my hand, hard enough to leave a red mark on her cheek.

I wanted to hit her again, and again, harder and harder. But I managed to keep control.

She must have known how I felt, though, from the way my whole body was shaking.

She didn't retaliate, and she didn't speak, just turned and walked away.

And as she marched off, her dressing gown caught in the crack of her ass.

It was then that I realised I was hard again.

Damn her to hell.

I knew there would be a letter. Of course, there would be. She was composing it right now.
 
My boss put her head into my office, wished me a brisk 'Good morning' and withdrew.

Seconds later, she reappeared, stared hard at me, then came in, closed the door, sat down and crossed her legs.

'Tell me,' she folded her hands into her lap as she spoke.

I told her.

She stayed rigid, obviously thinking before she spoke.

'So you hit her.'

'Just once,' accuracy was important, or so I felt.

'Nevertheless …'

'And,' I hurried to fill the gap, 'only after she hit me first … twice … and harder.'

'Details,' she muttered, almost to herself.

Finally, she shift her position slightly and exhaled.

'And there's been no letter this morning, no email, nothing.'

'That's significant, don't you think?'

I supposed it was and said so, although I had just been relieved.

'I mean,' she uncrossed and recrossed her legs, 'it must mean she had not told the guy. Otherwise, he would surely have had something to say, a lot even.'

She was right.

'But why not tell him?' I was thinking aloud.

'It can only be because she doesn't want him to know.' That made sense.

She was fidgeting now, shifting on my chair as if she was uncomfortable.

'The tension in your house – the sexual tension I mean – must be intense. Emotions, raw nerves, pent up feelings, unspoken, unrequited. Damn hot.'

I nodded, yes she was right.

She exhaled again.

'Fuck,' she gasped, shifting again. 'I wonder what will happen tonight.'

Then she was gone, pushing the chair away from her and rushing into the corridor.

What was that all about?

And what would happen tonight?
 
She confronted me as soon as I came through the door.

'You hit me.' A statement, a complaint, an accusation. Something else too, an edge that I couldn't quite catch. Surprise, yes that was there. But for a moment I wondered if she was pleased to have provoked the reaction.

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

'Did you tell your boss?' Now how the hell did she know anything about her?

My expression must have given me away.

'What did she say?'

I said nothing.

'WELL' she snapped.

I jumped and felt obliged to reply. 'She said it must be very tense in this house, raw nerves, that kind of thing.'

'That was it? Nothing else?'

'Well, I was trying to remember, she did say "Fuck" before she left.'

My wife nodded. 'I bet she did. Probably couldn't wait to get back to her office for a wank.'

That surprised me. She didn't use words like that. Hadn't anyway. This was new.

'Do you want to hit me again?'

I thought about that for a while.

'Yes,' I told, 'yes, I do, but I'm not going to.'

'Do you want me to hit you again?' Her voice was low, quiet.

'Only if it is going to help in some way.' She had packed a mean punch.

'Do you want to watch?'

'Watch?' What was she suggesting?

'Yeah, watch, watch us, me and him, fucking, shagging, me giving him head, him giving me anal, me screaming in passion as I cum, and cum, and keep cumming. You can if you like. You may pick up some tips you can try out with your bitch.'

I just stared. She did not talk like this. What was going on? What could I say? What did she want me to say?

'You could fuck me afterwards. He doesn't use a condom, so things could be a bit messy.'

I thought about this. Thought that this way I would know who he was. He couldn't keep that secret from me, could he? But did I want to see any man doing those things to her? Did I want to learn how inadequate I was.

Then I noticed that I was hard.

Then I realised that she was provoking me, tormenting me. This was all part of the mental game she was playing on me.

I didn't stop to think. I hit her again, across her face, harder than last time, leaving a bright red mark on her cheek.

Stared back, eyes glowing. I was breathing hard. Should I apologise, or walk away? Was she going to hit me back?

With her just staring at me, I didn't know what to do. Instinct took over. I grabbed her by her shoulders and rammed her into the wall.

Her hand felt my crotch.

'Turns you on, does it, beating up on a woman?'

'N-n-no,' I stammered quickly, 'n-n-no, it definitely does not, never, ever, it's not that.'

'Then what is it? What's got you hard?'
 
'You don't know, do you? You really don't know why you're walking this house most of the time with a throbbing hard-on. You're more aroused than you have been for years, but you don't understand what's caused it. You report what's happening to your boss and she's so turned on that she almost runs out of your office to give herself a finger fucking. And still you don't know.'



I didn't know what to say, I really didn't.



'Is it that obvious, me being hard I mean?'



She laughed.



'Of course, it is. Did you really not know?'



I'd never thought about it.



'Then why do you want some other guy?'



Women were complicated, very complicated. I was only just beginning to realise it.



'Typical,' she spat, 'you think it is all about size. Well, it's not. Ask your boss if you don't believe me.'



Why did she keep bringing her into it? Had she got something to do with it?



'Just say what you want,' I was getting fed up with these games. 'Go on, get it over with, why don't you.'



'OK, I'll tell you. You're hard because you are turned on by the thought of me with another man. You're turned on by the thought that you are inadequate and that there is another man who can do what you can't, which is fuck me like a woman wants to be fucked.' She was breathing hard, almost shouting. 'Not even time, that's just boring. Tender and loving has a time and a place. But routine doesn't. Routine is boring. You're in a rut and that leaves me where you are, in the same rut. You're not a man because you don't think like a man. And, to save you asking, I will tell you now a man thinks. He thinks about what he needs to do to keep his relationship afresh. That, my darling, is what makes you inadequate.'



And then she hit me, harder than I had hit her, so hard she almost knocked me off my feet.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom