I had just stepped in through the front door and made my way to the foot of the stairs, having returned home early from my weekly night out with the lads because I felt a bit under the weather.
I had just been about to shout upstairs to announce my return, when I heard it. The soft moaning and mutterings of a woman having sex.
I stood stock still at the foot of the stairs, concentrating hard on the muffled sounds from above, then made a decision.
I slid my shoes off and slowly, silently made my way upstairs. I inched along the landing to my - our - bedroom door. I didn't have to burst in to find out what was going on; my wife had been confident of not being disturbed and had left the door ajar.
Inwardly I let out a high sigh of relief, but strangely I was all too aware of a feeling of disappointment, a sense of anti-climax - literally! My wife was alone.
Alone, but still in a high state of arousal, murmuring barely intelligible words to herself; and bucking her hips and writhing her body, as her fingers frantically worked her clit and pussy lips - for all the world looking like she was scratching an itch that could not be calmed; a major source of irritation.
I was getting hard watching her. I was also extremely shocked by what I was seeing. This was my demure wife. A woman that is to sex what The Rock is to shyness. Or so I thought.
I had never seen her play with herself, not even as part of our love making. She never talked about sex, showed little interest in sex, had always seemed...well...embarrassed by it all really.
I badly wanted to push the door open, jump on top of her, and fuck her, but a little voice in my head won the day over my cock and told me it was the wrong thing to do. Before I backed off from the door however, I was in for another shock.
As she reached climax, as her breathing quickened and her fingers increased speed to 'warp factor' she expelled the words, "oh fucking yes, fuck me hard with that big cock" through clenched teeth, before her body shuddered and trembled, then went limp.
She lay there panting, and ran her hand across her face to clear away both a sheen of sweat and tangles of her hair - before raising the fingers that had pleasured her cunt, to her nostrils, to drink in the scent of her cum. She sighed, then slid her fingers in her mouth and sucked them delicately clean, like teasing an iced lolly in to, then slowly out of, her lips; stripping away a layer of flavouring in the process.
I swallowed hard, but as she rose from the bed to head off to the en-suite to clean up, I made my move and snuck back downstairs and put on my shoes.
I waited until I heard the toilet flush, then opened and closed the front door again. A bit dramatically, a bit loud, with an accompanying shout up the stairs. "Hi, only me. Think I'm getting a cold so called it a night. Be up in a minute."
When I got upstairs, she had switched on the TV and was sat up, propped up with pillows, looking for all the world like she had been totally absorbed for hours in some god awful romantic film. But her face was still flushed pink. I made a remark about how flushed she looked and asked if she was feeling ill to. She looked a little sheepish in her guilt, but just said "it's warm in here, either that or its the change".
A subject she knows I will avoid and therefore is used often to shut down conversations, as well as any attempts on my part to initiate sex.
I didn't go out the following week to the pub. I was still not 100%. She was not pleased. She treated me like shit all night; and I realised it was because my night out, was also her time to indulge in some sexually activity and fantasies.
Nothing much happened during the following week, though she did act odd and very nervous when I mentioned that one of those "we missed you" cards had been pushed through the letter box, and that apparently there was a parcel waiting collection from the sorting office. I offered to get it for her, but she was most insistent that she would get it on her way to Tesco for the shopping.
I didn't think much about it at the time, but she did seem somehow scared and skittish about the exchange.
I had already decided that I would sneak home early again from the pub, to see if there was a repeat performance. Little did I know it, but I was about to discover the contents of the parcel.
I had been successful in timing my return (and sneaking upstairs again) to coincide with her performance. I figured rightly she was a creature of habit, and would wait until about half way through my usual time spent in the pub to begin touching herself. Enough time that I would not be expected to be coming back for anything I had forgotten, and enough time to finish what she needed to do. And it appears that "needed" was the correct word.
I wasn't surprised to find the bedroom door slightly open again either. Funnily enough, I think this was meant to be her safety mechanism. I believe she was certain that by leaving the bedroom door ajar that she would hear me come in through the front door, giving her enough time to stop what she was doing and look all innocent by the time I got to bed. Ironic really, that it had not worked out that way, and by leaving the door open she was providing me with a ringside seat to her self-abasement.
I saw it in the mirror first. Then I heard it above her words. There is a bank of wardrobes at the foot of the bed with floor to ceiling mirrors on the doors. The source of much fun when they were first installed, now they largely reflected two inert individuals sleeping, farting and snoring through the night. Except for now.
The vibrator was being slid in and out of her cunt, while it buzzed and gnawed at her soft, warm walls, two little prongs poked out tickling her clit when it was brought to rest there, with the thick, clinical, plastic body deep inside her.
The sight made a trickle of cum seep from my cock, already rock hard from the anticipation of what I would see, before I even saw it.
Her words made my head spin and my stomach churn.
She was practically spitting the words out through clenched teeth:
"Oh my god, fuck me, thats it, don't stop...I want you to make me cum."
"Oooo...I want you to fuck me hard. I want your big, thick cock to shoot its load inside me. Mmmm...yes...that's it...I want to feel your cum spurt in me."
"Your so much bigger than my husband...such a huge cock. So much better too...your gonna make me squirt...oh shiitttt yes."
And then she did just that. She squirted her pussy juice everywhere; the bed clothes were soaked. The vibrator was still being worked desperately inside her, bringing her to a huge climax, which she announced with a scream and gushing expulsion of air from her lungs.
It was crystal clear to me in that moment that I was not the object of her fantasies. Though to be fair, that's the point. We all dream of something or someone else getting us off don't we? Otherwise it's just not a fantasy. It is just not as exciting, and we all crave some escapism.
But her words had betrayed a little more than a mere fictitious dalliance with an imaginary lover. There had been an implied regret, dissatisfaction even in her outburst, about my manhood and my prowess. I had clearly never been enough to satisfy her.
I had an alarming vision of my wife enduring years of unsatisfactory sex (with me), only able to gratify herself by her own hand, but never really achieving the same result that a big, rock hard cock could - especially one equipped to a man who knew how to use it.
Later that night in bed I pondered a few things - a bed with different sheets on it from when I had left for the pub; changed because, "oh silly me, I spilt my coffee all over them", when in reality they had her love juice sprayed all over them.
Had she ever been so unhappy or unsatisfied with me that she had fucked other guys to fill her needs? I was surprised to find that the thought was not without attraction. And that the thought made me hard.
How long had this been happening? On the one hand if she was so frustrated it could have been happening for years. On the other hand, it may just have come to a head recently. The addition of the vibrator to her sessions was new. It had only arrived a few days ago. Or had it? I was assuming that. The parcel could have contained something else, and the vibrator could have been around a long time. But then it looked new, and she did act strange when we discussed the parcel, and she did seem a bit of a novice in the way she handled it...but what the fuck do I know about how you handle a vibrator?
I thought deeply about things, and decided after much debate in my head, that all of it was probably a recent turn of events. Our sex life had slipped in the last 6 months to non-existent, mainly as she was not in the mood. Mainly blamed on the menopause. And therefore mainly accepted by me. Reluctantly.
I began to realise it was not the menopause that was the problem but me, or us. We had stagnated. Routine sex, in a routine life, in a routine way. And all of average quality if I am honest. Therefore, all this was new. She was trying to create a world where she was sexy (she is anyway, but she obviously was not feeling that way), where men desired her, wanted her and where she wanted them. Where she had mind blowing sex and could act and be whoever she wanted to be; do things she had never entertained before (or to my knowledge she had not, she certainly hadn't with me). A fantasy world that brought her body paralysing orgasms without any need for guilt or remorse that would exist with an affair. At the time I didn't realise how prophetic my thoughts were.
It seemed to be a world where her lovers are bulls. Stallions. Men of size and stamina.
My cock needed release. I pumped purposefully under the duvet, as I imagined my wife being impaled by another mans rod, as she slept beside me. I didn't last long. The thought of her orgasming on a strangers cock sent me over the top, and the duvet got a shower of jizz that needed to be wiped off. But not yet. I brought my cock back to muster, and cracked another one off dreaming of my wife being fucked hard by many different men first.
A week later. Pub night. Or should that be voyeur night now? The lads were pissed off when I made up some bullshit excuse to slope off again an hour after my arrival.
I had been busy during the week. Installed a couple covert mini spy cameras, with audio and connectivity to my mobile phone. One above the bed and one in the wardrobe cornice. One forward, one reverse view. I had to. There was no way I would get away with sneaking outside my bedroom door again. Law of averages said I had pushed my luck last time.
I tuned in from my car parked a short distance away. My wife was not lay on the bed, facing away from door as she had been on the previous occasions. She was facing the door. Stood on her feet at the end of the bed, but bent forward at the waist, her hands touching the foot of the bed for support.
Her hips and buttocks were moving back and forth to / from the mirrored wardrobe doors. Slowly. Deliberately. Feeling every single inch of a huge, black dildo servicing her cunt, stuck to the glass by a suction cup.
