My Wifes Hidden Love Letters

I found the pack of letters in an old shoe box in the attic and at first I wasn't tempted to read them, since she had been gone for a year and I was still not over losing her so suddenly, but casually I opened one and glanced at the greeting. "My Dearest Martha," it said. I didn't know anyone who would greet my wife like that and I looked at the date. It was dated just two years before and I glanced down the page.

"I ache for you," it said, "and I yearn to be inside you again like I was the other night." I looked up and checked to see if either of my children were around, when I didn't see or hear anything, I read on. "I will never forget the last time we were together. It was the best night of sex I've ever had. I hope it was for you as well."

I stopped reading and looked off out the window. My wife of fifteen years had gotten a letter from someone who said the night they were together they had "the best sex" of his life. I glanced down at the closing and it was only signed, "T." No name, just a single initial. I quickly began reading again.

"What we did was not wrong, I will never believe that, and I don't think you do either, but it was maybe not the best thing to do with you being married and all. I think he is a good man and you should stay with him for all the best reasons. Being inside of you was special as usual, since it had been such a long time since we'd made love, and I can't tell you how good it felt to have us doing what we used to do most every day." I stopped reading and looked at the other letters. There had to be at least 50 of them, and I actually thought of putting them back where I had found them, but I couldn't put the letter down. I had to hear the rest of it.

"I am so happy about the baby," it said. "Does he know that he is not her father? That is what I really regret, that I couldn't be in her life."

I picked up a second letter and looked at the date. It was after the one I held in my hand. I opened the envelope and began reading from the top line.

"Thank you for last night," it said. "We are good together. I haven't had sex with anyone else since we were together that last time. I love what you do to me. No one else would do that, and I am such a lucky man to at least have those times with you. You said that you think I should start having sex with someone else, but I can't bring myself to try.

'Oral sex is not wrong. You do it so very, very well. Yes, two very's. I don't know how you learned to do it so well. You are still so beautiful, and I am so lucky to have you still want to be with me, even though you are married to someone else. I do get jealous at times, although I realize I have no right to be. He is your husband after all, although it seems like we belong together. I love you, Martha, and I always will."

I tried to recognize the handwriting, but it did not look familiar. It was obviously a man's writing, and I looked back at the greeting in the second letter.

"Dearest Martha," it said again. I picked up and opened a third letter. The greeting this time said, "Hello, My Sweet, Sweet Martha." Again, I began reading.

"As always, our sex was wonderful. You have the greatest technique of anyone ever. You said that you liked what I did, and that really makes me feel lucky to be able to be with you as often as we are. I really can't wait to kiss those wonderfully soft lips and feel you against me again. You said you liked what we did, although it was something you hadn't done a lot of. It was fantastic. You have a very talented mouth, and your lips are perfect. I love when they are against my flesh.

"Next time we are together I intend to undress you slowly, admiring every inch of you. I love you naked. I also love when you touch me. Feeling your hands on my bare skin is incredible. Thank you for every second. I plan to make love to you like you never have had anyone do before."

I put down letter and looked at the address. It was to a post office box but had her name across the middle of the envelope. Martha Carpenter. I glanced at the return address but it only said "T" and then an address in Southern California. Santa Monica. I didn't recognize the address and didn't know anyone in Santa Monica.

I picked up another envelope and opened the letter. "Martha, My Love," it said. "I miss you so very much," it said. "Can you meet me in Santa Barbara next month on Saturday the nineteenth? I will be at our hotel. In the usual room, number 222. I plan to ravish you like you seem to enjoy every time we are together. I'm sorry about the last time. I was not able to make it, but I was glad you got my text before you drove all that way.

"When we were both naked on the bed the last time we were together, I just couldn't keep my hands off of you. Sorry about coming so fast. It had been a long time since we'd been together and I could not hold myself back. When I am inside of you it's like we were never apart.a'

Who was writing my wife and telling how wonderful their sex was? I searched my memory for someone who it may be. I thought about a few people, but they all lived close, and none of them were in Santa Monica. Jake, who I knew she liked a great deal, was right here in our town, and Peter lived in Santa Barbara. She and Peter had dated, but I couldn't see him going all the way to Santa Monica to mail a letter.

Maybe he had someone else mail it for him. I pictured Peter and Martha in bed together on a hotel room, and I could easily see it since they had had sex before the two of us got together. I thought of someone from her college days, although I did not know many of them, but I figured perhaps her pen pal was one of those people.

I opened a fifth letter. "Dearest Martha," it began. "I'm sorry things are not better for you at home. It really pains me to think of you not being able to have good sex in your life away from me. I am glad we have good sex, but I really do wish it was better for you at home."

I stopped reading and put the letter on the coffee table. Was it so bad for her here at home? Did she really not enjoy sex with me? I wasn't aware that was the case. I thought back to times before she got sick, and I could not remember a time when it seemed she was liking our sex together. Was she telling this person it was not good to make him feel better?

I picked up the letter and read on. "Martha, I can't stand not being with you. I want your naked body against mine, and I want you on top like you prefer."

I looked away from the letter. It was true she liked to be on top best of all. I thought about being under her, pushing my penis into her pussy on those times we were able to have sex before she got sick.

Picking up the letter I read on. "I loved holding your naked body against mine last night at the beach. You will not believe how good you make me feel when we do that. I really liked our "public sex" at the park the other night. You are so daring, so exciting, and I am such a coward compare to you. I want to feel your pussy against my tongue again soon, just like last night. I love the taste of our sex," it said. "You are one really hot mama. I don't know where you learn all that stuff. Could it be at home with what's his name?"

What's his name? I thought of the things she did sexually. I have always felt she was very conservative sexually, very timid and not very willing to explore sexually. Who was this person I was reading about? She did things orally that he was grateful for. He described her as exceptional in bed. I didn't know this person he was talking about. Was that the problem? She wouldn't do these things with me. Was I keeping her from sexual satisfaction.

It didn't seem to me that she enjoyed sex all that much, and here was a person openly talking about their sex in a letter. The woman I loved had someone else. It hurt to think about her enjoying sex a great deal with someone else. I sat on the sofa and looked at the box of letters. I counted them and there were 58 letters from someone she had had an affair with for a number of years.

I picked up all the letters and put them back in the box. Then I carried the box over to the fireplace and put it on the fire. If this was the person I didn't know and she wanted it kept to herself, I was willing to let her remain the person I knew and not the one spoken about in those letters. I watched the fire consume the box of letters and when they were gone I went out to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There on the shelf was the box of chocolates I had given her before she was sick. I decided the person I knew was going to be the one I remembered, not the person who got all the letters in the box.