Elly's Liberation

Note: this series is sequel to the 'Libby's Liberation' series. It would be best (but not essential) if you were to read 'Libby's Lib' first, then come on back and read this one. Cheers -- aussie_101.

***

How many stories must there be that start with "I'm not gay, but..."? I'm sure there's a ton of them out there, and at the risk of sounding unoriginal, here's how my story starts:

I am not gay, but there I was: trapped before my computer screen, cresting on a giddily-high wave of orgasmic ecstasy as I stared unblinking at a picture of my best friend Libby in the nude; and even as my fingers kept pounding in and out of my cunt, alternating to rub mercilessly at my gorging, sopping little clit, I found myself wondering: "well how the fuck did this come about?"

Well, there's only one man to blame for it all: my husband, Tom. Now I love my husband. Really, I do. But he can be a bit vexing at times...

He's an author, a rather successful one at that, and we live quite comfortably off the proceeds of his work. We have a large six-bedroom house in a semi-rural setting, half-way up a mountainside just outside a large town on the south-eastern coast of Australia; we have two beautiful young children together, and life is pretty sweet.

Our sex life is pretty sweet too. Tom's appetite has stayed healthy even after ten years of marriage, and he likes to have a crack at me at least twice a week -- sometimes more, especially when he's been writing. He must get a kick out of his work; I can usually tell when he's been writing a steamy love-scene too, because he has an extra spark in his eye when he prowls around the bed and pounces me. He's awfully good at writing those steamy scenes... and he's awfully good at playing them out in the bedroom too.

I have always been glad of our love and our life together, and always counted myself lucky to have such a faithful husband in Tom. I'll admit to not being the most slim, fit or toned of wives; I've got big boobs and a few curves but I do carry a some extra kilos, which I have blamed on working eight-to-five Monday-to-Friday and devoting my evenings to the kids. And Tom's success sometimes sees him rubbing shoulders with the odd celebrity-female, many of them younger and more nubile than myself. But I've never had cause to doubt his devotion. At least, not until recently.

Tom had to fly out on a week-long book tour, and so I took a week off work to stay home and mind the kids before and after school -- our usual routine when Tom's book tours fall between school holidays. I used to like going along on tour with Tom before the kids were born, but you get over them after a little while; his itineraries are so jam-packed he rarely stays in one city long enough to see anything or do anything, and he spends more nights trying to sleep on planes than he does in hotels. So I let him jet off on his little sojourns, and I take the chance to kick back around the house and relax.

On one lazy day in autumn -- too cool to recline by the pool, the sky threatening rain and dissuading any thoughts of riding the horses or going anywhere or doing anything else -- I found myself fooling around on Tom's computer. Having seen all I wanted to see on the Internet, and read all I felt like reading from Tom's up-and-coming and half-finished works, I scrolled idly through the list of applications on Tom's computer, looking for a game or something; a program called 'Firefox' caught my eye.

I'm not the most computer-literate person in the world; at the time I didn't know it was an alternative internet browser, so I clicked on it to see what it was and what it did. It loaded up the internet, and I sat there with a frown.

"Why does Tom have a different internet program on his computer?" I wondered aloud. A possibility occurred -- maybe he uses it when he wants to look at things he doesn't want me to know about. So I clicked on the History tab...

...and it was full of pages from literotica.com. "Oh Tom," I sighed.

When we first met and before Tom made the big time, he decided to tell me about his occasional habit of writing 'erotica'. He also told me about this site called Literotica, where he could post his stories and people could read them, rate them, wank over them, and so forth. He showed me one of his stories; it actually wasn't that smutty, it was quite evocative and arousing, but at the time I didn't know him that well and I felt uncomfortable giving it full praise. I also wasn't sure how I felt about this 'Literotica' place -- I didn't like that Tom was in contact with who-knew how many sexual deviants and fiends, and I told him so.

I could tell he was disappointed by my prudish reaction. I had instantly felt bad about it -- I'm not a prude, I quite enjoy sex and, especially these days now that I know and love my Tom, I don't mind getting kinky on occasion -- but before I could say anything he had already assured me he'd stop going to Literotica. It was done, it had been said and I hadn't felt at the time like I could take it back, and so it stood.

But now... Now it was clear my Tom was being a bit sneaky. He had been using Firefox to keep on visiting Literotica, so that when I used the regular Internet Explorer there would be no evidence of Literotica in the address bar or History tabs. "You cheeky little shit," I admonished -- as though Tom could hear me from wherever his book tour had taken him (I think he was in London that day, the poor unfortunate thing).

I wasn't sure how to feel about the discovery. What was Tom doing on Literotica? Was he still posting stories there? Was he talking to any sex-crazed perverts -- was he having cyber-sex or anything with any of them? Were there any pornographic pictures here? Was he looking at other women? I certainly didn't like the thought of that, so I started clicking on the pages he had visited that were still listed under 'History'.

He had been doing quite a lot there, as it turned out. Some of it -- private messages and such -- I couldn't access without his user name and password, which I couldn't guess. I instantly didn't like the thought of him messaging other people privately, intimately; was he talking to other women? Other pages in his History were stories, the bulk of them attributed to an 'aussie_101', and they were obviously Tom's stories, I could pick his style anywhere. "Aussie_101 must be the name he writes under," I deduced.

For the rest, it turned out that my Tom had indeed been looking at pictures of other women. Lots and lots of pictures, of lots and lots of women. My heart sank as I looked at picture after picture, because many of the girls were sexier than me. I was saddened to have the proof of what I had long suspected: of course Tom would eventually become bored with me. Of course he would want to look at other girls.

I fought to reassure myself that it wasn't that bad. Look at it from Tom's perspective, I told myself. It's not necessarily that he actually wants to fuck these other girls -- he's just looking at them. It's just a bit of amateur porn; these girls have just posted up a few pics of their tits, twats and arse for all the world to see, it's not like they took the pictures especially for Tom.

As I was running through those thoughts, I was still clicking away at links to pictures that Tom had checked out. I was just about to leave it alone -- I was on the verge of leaving the site, shutting Firefox, and heading off to the kitchen to find solace in half a bucket of ice-cream -- when the last picture I saw gave me pause.

It was a girl in the process of taking off a nurse's uniform. Not a real nurse's uniform, mind you. It was a costume-shop type, just a white button-down dress with comically-large red cross on the left breast, too tight and too short for day-to-day nursing work; it was just like one that my best friend Libby had worn to every costume party we've ever been to. "I wonder if Libby's been posting pics on Literotica?" I mused, idly, as a joke; despite my concern at Tom's secret web-browsing antics, I found myself lingering on the possibility.

Imagine if I had stumbled upon a treasure-trove of naughty pics starring Libby? She was an attractive girl. Very attractive. She had plenty of time for the gym; too much time in fact, she worked out and exercised far more than she needed to, but the result was a finely-sculpted body blessed with large breasts, nice tight curves, trim hips and a tight little butt to boot.

I was secretly very jealous of Libby's body. Though I had decently-large tits and hourglass-like curves of my own, I felt I was a bit too far on the flabby side of voluptuous to be considered attractive. Tom always tried to cheer me up and assure me of my sexiness, which I appreciated but never believed... I wished I looked more like Libby. "Libby would look good naked," I murmured, taking in the picture. "She'd look real good..."

Don't get me wrong, though: I'm no lesbian. I'm a big fan of the cock and forever shall be. But I can appreciate beauty all the same; when men get naked you can seldom call it beautiful, they have a certain 'functionality' about their looks that doesn't quite stir the soul. Women, on the other hand: the hotter chicks are definitely pleasing to the eye, their curves and breasts lending a softness and beauty that I wasn't above appreciating. Looking through all these pictures of girls hadn't been all that taxing, really.

So I concentrated on the picture, looking (without expecting) to find a clue or something that may indicate that it was indeed Libby in this picture. I took in her surroundings: she was in a room, furnished with a lamp on a set of drawers, a simple bed with a white bedspread, cool white walls... with a picture of a boat hanging off to the side...

"I've seen that boat before," I realised. "And I've seen that lamp. And that bed! That's our fucking spare bedroom! Holy crap -- this IS Libby!!" I couldn't believe it -- my best friend Libby? Libby, stuffy and conservative, brash and sometimes obnoxiously judgemental -- Libby, posting nudie pictures of herself on the internet for everyone and all to see? Everyone... including my husband...

With a growing, sickening feeling of unease, it was all falling into place for me. Libby had stayed at our house recently, back in the summer during a temporary break-up with her boyfriend Glen. She had stayed for about a week, moping around, refusing to go to work, eating our food, drinking our booze, swimming in our pool and -- from the impression I was given -- generally getting in Tom's hair and giving him the shits.

But now... Now I was worried that perhaps something more had taken place. My Tom was a regular visitor to this Literotica site, and after coming to stay at our place Libby all of a sudden was an amateur-porn star on the same website... posting pictures taken in our house, taken while she was staying with us... Coincidence? "Not on your fucking life," I declared, to no one in particular.

I couldn't believe it though. Libby posing naked in front of my husband Tom? Tom taking porno pictures of my best friend Libby? It just didn't ring true. They were never that close, Tom had always found her crass and irritating and Libby had never shown any sort of interest in Tom, at least not that way... but then here was this picture of Libby, in our spare bedroom in our very home, half-way through removing a very sexy nurse's costume...

I needed proof. I needed more than this one picture of Libby (though it didn't show her face -- probably wisely, given the creeps that lurk on sites like these), partially undressed in our spare bedroom. I needed to find more -- more pictures, more clues as to whether it was as bad as it seemed.

A little more snooping through Tom's web history on Literotica uncovered the source of the pics. Libby had a whole thread to herself in the Amateur Photography section, seemingly going by the name of 'Libya's Finest' ("Libya... Libby... as if it could be anyone BUT her," I'd said to myself). And at the top of her thread she had created an index, providing shortcuts to all of her pictures, and there were nearly a hundred links. She'd been a busy girl, and already my heart was falling; this kind of technical savvy, all these tricky links and shortcuts and stuff, did not seem like Libby's doing. It was more like something my Tom would set up. "Please, Tom," I murmured to myself, as I felt tears brimming in my eyes. "Please tell me you didn't cheat on me, Tom... please tell me you didn't..."

I sucked it up, and decided to keep going through the 'nursie' series of pictures. The first ones were fairly tame, merely showing Libby's body off in her costume from various poses; the photographic quality was fairly high, the shots well-lit and well-framed, and they were always taken from the same position in the room -- the camera's position and angle never moved, hardly even an inch. I was heartened by that: Libby had most likely used a camera with an auto-timer, placing it on a tripod or on a bedside table, rather than getting my Tom to take the shots for her. For that I was thankful; if Tom had taken the pictures, standing in the same room as my best friend as she stripped off for the camera, I wasn't sure what I would do. So I was very glad it hadn't come to that.

Having found some relief, I sat back and took in some more of the pictures, realising as I did so that Libby really was a very attractive girl. I suppose that much has been obvious for as long as I've known her, but until now I've never actually sat back and really taken her in. The shots all cropped her face out for safety's sake, but this only served to make you focus on her body even more. She really did fill out that skimpy little costume: partially unbuttoned at the top, it showed an awful lot of cleavage, her breasts rising nicely out of the dress and betraying a few hints of a frilly white bra. The dress was also rather short, cut off very high above the knee; sheer white stockings rose out of her stratospherically-high white heels and reached almost as far as the hem of her dress, allowing the straps of a garter belt to be seen.

Without really thinking about it, I loaded up the next picture in the series. This one was a bit more confronting; shot from behind, she had raised her leg to place a foot on the end of the bed; she was bent forwards ever so slightly, for no other purpose than to let her dress hitch higher up her legs, so high in fact that they showed the camera just a hint of arse. I guffawed at first -- such a Libby pose, so shameless and lurid, yet somehow innocently so -- but as I lingered on the picture I appreciated a sort of subtle artistry to it. It was revealing, but not overly so; and in showing only just the tiniest hint of bared buttock from beneath the bottom of her dress, Libby was foreshadowing the course of her strip-tease, letting everyone know that she was in fact wearing little or nothing beneath that dress.

I had to see more. I was driven on not by arousal or any real sexual attraction to Libby, but more by an intense curiosity. What more was there to see? How much was she going to show? How was she going to go about it? My interest was very much piqued, and I had to see more. I was going to see them all.

In the next picture Libby was unbuttoning her dress, starting at the top, with two buttons undone and showing off yet more bosom and bra. The lighting in our spare bedroom leant a very nice honey-colour to her skin, contrasting warmly against the crisp white material of her dress. The next picture was another small step along, with all but the last button undone; Libby's soft little tummy curved very gently, very nicely, sitting as it did above the elastic of her underwear from which the top clips of her garter belt hung.

The next pic had her turned and standing tall with her back to camera as the dress fell to the floor, revealing a frilly white g-string framing a very pert pair of buttocks, no doubt trimmed and toned by a million cross-trainer steps at the gym. These pictures were very much making me feel unhappy with the slightly pudgy state of my own body; I even started to think about purchasing a cross-trainer of my own.

Distracted as I was by these thoughts, the next picture threw me so badly I nearly fell off my chair. This picture had our Libby bending right over, back still to camera, as she reached for the dress on the floor. Modesty kept her feet firmly together, but still: those buttocks were clenched together ever so tightly, that g-string disappeared between them, and a perfect lacy white diamond of material was framed between her cheeks and her thighs right there, right over the money-maker... "Bloody hell," I breathed, finding my eyes drawn right to that white diamond and unable to look away.

To my surprise, I was now finding myself somewhat aroused; my breathing was quickened, my heart was thump-a-thump-thumping, and my hand had unknowingly slipped to rest warmly against my inner thigh. It was not, I knew, because I had the hots for Libby -- shit, I've caught glimpses of a naked Libby before with my own eyes, we've shared hotel rooms on overnight trips to the city and she's not exactly shy with herself, as these pictures so clearly reinforced.

Instead, my arousal came from putting myself in Libby's place. 'Imagine...' I thought. 'Imagine if this was me -- if I had done this, taken these pictures and put them up for all to see. I wonder... I wonder if I...' but I left off on that line of thought. There was time to consider that later... for now I wanted to see how Libby's series would make its conclusion.

In the next photo, with the dress on the floor and still with her back to camera, Libby reposed relaxed. She stood very simply in her underwear, stockings and heels; her long blonde hair cascaded loosely down her back, shimmering fair, golden and beautiful in the light of my guest bedroom. Next: still with her back to camera, she was now reaching behind her and working at the hooks of her bra. I was becoming impatient, and I moved quicker through the series, tapping my finger impatiently on the mouse while each picture loaded.

The next pic: Libby's back was still to camera, the bra was off and dangled loosely in one hand; Libby was turned only slightly, allowing a three-quarters rearward view of the side of her breast, loose and unsupported but yet still pert, round and shapely. She was very lucky, our Libby. Would I look as good... would my tits look that nice, if I were to take pictures like these? I could feel the moisture gathering between my legs even as I dared to think on it...

Next pic: Libby had finally turned to face the camera, but she had dropped the bra and was holding her breasts in her hands, cheekily and tantalisingly obscuring the view of her bosom for now. Though it strained my patience, all the same I was loving the slow, steady unveiling of Libby's body; the very slowness spurred me on, as I'm sure it spurred many other pervs and lurkers on to see more, want more, want it quicker, want it now. Now!

The next picture loaded, and it finally gave some relief to the mounting frustration... this picture had Libby dropping one hand to her pelvis, fingers splayed alluringly about the side of her hips, but the dropped hand had finally, finally revealed a breast. And it was an awfully nice breast, too: beautifully shaped, perkily placed, with a tanned chocolate-brown nipple that sort of just sat there, just so...

I could no longer deny my horniness, and I unzipped my jeans. I was hooked on the reveal, the allure, the tantalising tease; even though I'd seen Libby's boobs and body before, seeing them now in this light and in this context riled me deliciously as I loaded up pictures of my best friend stripping slowly, piece by piece, picture by picture, before the whole world -- and so I slipped off my jeans and panties, and laid a gentle finger on my spot, eliciting a marvellous little shiver that ran the full length of my body.