Turned Inside Out

Chapter 1: An Old Roommate Visits My Shy Wife

I could have been posted this story in the 'Loving Wives' category because it examines a captive husband's reaction to watching his wife enjoy having sex with multiple partners. However, I will not post in that category again. My fantasies are guaranteed to upset those readers unless I write that the husband threw his wife out on the street. I believe every marriage is different. Sometimes, the correct reaction is to throw the cheating bitch out. Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances or alternative responses. In the end, this is just a fantasy. In real life, I have been faithfully married to the same wonderful woman for decades. Probably, that is why I am not into revenge stories.

I decided to post it in the 'Interracial' category because most of the heroine's partners are men of color. It didn't fit in the non-consent/reluctance category where I usually post.

If you're not interested in stories about unfaithful wives, please stop. I'm sure you will find stories to your liking elsewhere on Literotica.

#

I was fucking exhausted when I pulled into our garage at 8:30 on a Friday night and parked beside my wife's old Corolla. I closed my eyes and rested for a few minutes trying to gather enough energy to go inside. The garage door banged shut behind me, and I sighed. Any minute, I expected my sweet wife to open the door to our house dressed in her summer bathrobe like she had the last four nights. I desperately needed the bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc she would be offering to get me in the mood.

I smiled as I remembered how my conservative bride had insisted on keeping the lights off in the bedroom for months after we were married. It's amazing what changes a desire to become pregnant will make in a woman. My dear sweet Abby was nearing twenty-seven, and her biological clock had begun ringing. She was eager to get started on her ideal family consisting of four or five children and had become more aggressive about demanding that I perform my duty.

We got married right after college five years ago and had focused on getting our careers started. Our hard work and hefty loans from our parents had allowed us to make a down payment on a small three-bedroom home in Fremont next to the railroad tracks a couple of years ago. With the crazy housing market in the San Francisco Bay Area, it was all we could afford.

Unfortunately, we both worked on the other side of the Bay, and it was an hour commute for each of us in good traffic. We couldn't drive in together because Abby was an accounts manager for Apple at their headquarters in Cupertino. At the same time, I worked fifteen miles north as a software engineer at a research firm in Palo Alto. I have recently worked long hours ever since I'd been promoted to program manager for a project using Artificial Intelligence to analyze massive databases. Our jobs pay well, but the cost of living in the Bay Area leaves us with little in our savings account.

Abby had convinced me it was time to start a family about a year ago. When we had not succeeded in conceiving a child after six months, she insisted we both go in for fertility tests. She got us an appointment at a world-famous fertility clinic at Stanford University Hospital, and we went as a couple for our first visit. I was impressed by a wall full of baby pictures in the waiting room. They were donated by happy couples who had been successfully treated.

The head of the clinic welcomed us and explained what we could expect in the coming weeks. He handed us over to a nurse who took our medical histories and blood samples from each of us. Two weeks later, we returned for our second visit separately. They administered a battery of tests that showed Abby was healthy and ovulating regularly. My test results indicated that I was the problem.

On my second visit, I had been given a hospital gown and told to undress. That was when I learned what Stanford being a teaching hospital meant. A young intern came in and introduced himself as Paul. He said he had just graduated from medical school and was happy to have joined the team evaluating me. He proceeded to give me a standard physical. Before leaving, he handed me a specimen cup and asked me to provide a sperm sample. He pointed to a pile of well-worn Playboy magazines and told me to help myself if I needed inspiration.

Being practically naked in a strange cold exam room made me nervous, especially since I could hear people talking right outside the door. I was having trouble getting aroused, and the ragged magazines with fingerprints on the centerfolds didn't help. After maybe fifteen minutes, the door opened. My face went red when a cute young woman dressed in a white lab coat strolled in like it was perfectly natural to encounter men holding their partially aroused cocks. She didn't even introduce herself before she reached down and began massaging my balls.

After a moment, she said in a sweet Southern accent, "I can never find these things."

I didn't understand what she meant. Hell, her hands were wrapped around my balls. How could she have a problem finding them? My face got even redder as I felt my cock spring to life. At least, someone was enjoying themselves.

I managed to squeak out a reply, "What?"

She laughed. "Sorry, I'm Mary Beth. It's my first week as an intern. I always have trouble finding the testicular veins. Checking them is part of our standard work-up. Some men have varicose veins in their gonads. That condition can cause overheating, which kills the sperm. I don't feel any problems with your gonads, but we'll know more after you give us a sperm sample. You've been in here a long time. Do you have problems getting an erection? If so, I need to record it in your history."

Her rapid-fire chatter suggested that she was a new intern and as nervous as me. My anxiety arose from a different source. She was standing so close, I could tell the brand of shampoo she used, but it was her warm hand still rubbing my balls that made my body tremble.

My voice came out in a squeak. "I usually don't have a problem. I think it's the strange room and the people talking outside."

She had a sweet laugh. "I understand. I like it quiet when I masturbate too. Sorry, but we can't wait all day. We have a busy schedule."

She brushed my hand off of my cock and replaced it with hers. My eyes bugged out when she gave my cock a couple of firm tugs. The young intern needed to work on her communication skills. I winced as she pulled hard on my erection. Developing a gentler bedside manner would also help her medical career.

"Is that as big as it gets?"

I moaned as she kept stroking my erection. "Yes, I think so."

"Great. A good-sized cock is useful for inducing pregnancy because some men produce antibodies to their wives ' vaginal fluids. That provides a hostile environment for sperm. They could all be dying before they reach their wife's egg. I need to measure your penis to make sure you can deposit your sperm deep enough in your wife's vagina. In the case you are producing antibodies, it will give them a shorter distance to travel."

She gave my cock a couple more tugs before pressing a cold metal ruler against the base of my cock.

"Hmm. Six and a half, no six and three-quarters inches. Very nice. Your penis is well above average. It shouldn't be a problem if you use the appropriate positions for insemination. We'll give you a booklet of recommended positions later. Now, let's get that sample."

Mary Beth took the specimen cup from my limp hand and began jerking rapidly on my straining erection. A half dozen tugs and I groaned as I shot my load. She snapped on the lid and wrote my name on the label.

"That's a good quantity of ejaculate. The lab will check for mobility, shape, and density."

Abby and I came back the following week for a meeting with our fertility team. We learned that my sperm density was low at around 8 million per milliliter of semen. They told us normal was between 40 and 300. Mine was a common problem these days. The average sperm count now was half of what it had been a hundred years ago. Our team's leader said no one was sure about the cause for the decline, but he suspected it came from exposure to the multitude of untested chemicals in the environment.

He passed us a pamphlet on mating positions that would provide maximum penetration. Abby slapped my hand when I went to peek inside the booklet. She had been raised as a good Christian girl and was a virgin on our wedding night. It had taken months of coaxing before I got her to leave the nightlight on while we had sex. Despite my pleading, we still only used the missionary position.

The doctor explained to my wife and me that we needed to be diligent to get pregnant. As he so cheerfully put it -- the more sperm, the better. Since my wife had been charting her basal body temperature for months, we had a good idea of when she was at the peak of her fertility. He recommended we start having frequent sex four or five days before her peak and four days afterward. The doctor explained that sperm could live inside a woman's vagina and uterus for several days. His recommended schedule would ensure there would be sperm around when my wife ovulated.

The doctor shook our hands and repeated his message. "Remember, the more sex, the better chance of success. Don't worry, Steve. Your body will adjust. Just make sure you get lots of protein."

#

In the four months since meeting with our fertility team, Abby had pushed me for more and more sex as we continued to fail. When I suggested we try the positions in the pamphlet, my wife took one look at the first recommendation and threw the booklet in the trash. She had tears in her eyes, and she hiccuped as she protested that if the missionary position was good enough for Adam and Eve, then it was good enough for us. It was apparent we wouldn't be coupling doggy style anytime soon. Still, I was hopeful. I salvaged the pamphlet from the garbage can and hid it in the bottom drawer of my nightstand.

#

For the last four nights, we had had sex as soon as I got home, after dinner, after going to bed, then at least a couple of times during the night, and once before getting out of bed in the morning.

Now, you're probably wondering what I have to complain about since my wife is a gorgeous, dark-haired, corn-fed farm girl from Nebraska. We met at a college dance, and I immediately fell in love with the beautiful 5' 8" and 132-pound business major. She's gained ten pounds since her skinny days in college, and all that extra weight has enhanced her already ample breasts and her curvy athletic butt. Recently, she has had her long dark hair dyed blond.

My wife was a virgin when we married, which is how my pastor said things should be. After one too many beers, my dad had given me the second installment of the birds and the bees. He claimed all men wanted to find a wife who was a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom. He never explained where one found a woman like that. The home I grew up in had thin walls. As best I knew, my parents only had sex once a month. Once I was married, I found out the problem with taking a virgin for a bride. Abby had little idea about what went on in the bedroom but had received strong teaching about what not to do.

Fortunately, I'd had some experience with a couple of women, and I introduced my bride to the joy of sex. Abby and I enjoyed exploring sex together, but even in the passion of young love, we rarely had sex more than two or three times a week. When my wife's younger sister had her second child, Abby became driven to start a family. I found that performing five or six times a day was exhausting. Frequent sex took the pleasure out of it, and love-making sometimes felt like a chore.

I supplemented my diet with protein powder in my smoothies and went to the gym three times a week when my wife wasn't fertile. Nothing helped. By the end of each monthly attempt, I was a physical wreck. On the other hand, my wife seemed to be glowing. Lots of sex, swimming, and jogging made her stronger and even more beautiful.

#

I was surprised when my wife didn't open the door to the garage. I pulled myself together and stumbled into the house while mentally preparing myself for a long weekend. The first thing I noticed was the smell of cigarettes. Neither my wife nor I smoke, so my wife must have gotten home early and had a guest. That was a puzzle since we didn't have any close friends in the neighborhood. Had she brought someone home from work? It seemed unlikely since tonight was the peak of her fertility. I thought I should give a warning shout if she had company.

"Honey, I'm home." I was surprised at the lack of a response.

I got another surprise when I walked into the living room. My wife is what I call casual about housekeeping, but what I saw was over the top even for her. The coffee table in the living room was littered with a couple of bottles of white wine, several wine glasses, a plate holding a block of cheddar cheese, and assorted crackers. I was disgusted at the sight of an overflowing bowl that had been used as an ashtray.

My OCD kicked in, and I began picking up my wife's mess. When I dumped the ashtray, I noticed a couple of marijuana butts. Now, I'd smoked weed in college before I met Abby, but as best I knew, my good Christian wife had never done any drugs. She was also a lightweight when it came to alcohol, and two glasses of wine was a heavy night for her.

One of the wine bottles was half-full and cool to the touch, so I stoppered it and put it in the refrigerator. That was when I noticed the note held on by a magnet.

Steve,

My old roommate, Susan, is in town. We waited for you, but we got what she called 'the munchies.' We went out to Casa Isabelle for dinner. There are leftovers in the frig. Don't wait up.

In college, Susan and I had taken an instant dislike to each other. She thought I was too conservative and repeatedly told Abby that she needed to loosen up and enjoy life.

Frankly, I thought Susan had it too easy. Her wealthy parents had spoiled her rotten. She wasn't a serious student and always wanted to party. I admired Abby for resisting the constant temptations posed by her roommate.

In college, Susan had been a regular thorn in my side. My girlfriend came from a poor farm family and didn't even have a cell phone. If I wanted to contact Abby, I had to call Susan. All too often, she would 'forget' to tell Abby I had called, and if I left a message, she would garble the contents.

Once, when I complained to Susan about her getting the time and place for my date with Abby wrong, she laughed it off and said she had a head cold and couldn't hear well. After that fiasco, I bought Abby a cell phone so that I could text her. It was a used Apple cell phone, and I made sure to set up the Find Friends app. Now that she worked for Apple, she had the latest model iPhone. I still made sure she had the Find Friends app activated.

By the time I finished cleaning up, it was 9:30, and I gave in to my hunger. I put some leftovers in the microwave. While my dinner was heating, I wondered what my wife and her irresponsible friend were doing. My paranoia got the better of me, and I pulled out my cell phone. I used the 'Find Friends' app and saw that they were still at Casa Isabelle, our favorite Mexican restaurant in Palo Alto.

After eating the leftovers, I headed into our bedroom to brush my teeth. The room was a disaster. There were clothes scattered everywhere, and it took all of my willpower to brush my teeth before picking up my wife's things. I was annoyed to find my shaving gear out of place. At least, they could have rinsed the curly black hairs from my razor.

We share a walk-in closet. My wife long ago surrendered to my obsession with order and didn't mind I arranged our clothes according to my logic. I know every outfit she owns, and I know its proper place. I picked up her work outfit and used a lint brush on the jacket and matching pants before hanging them up with her other business suits.

I tossed her blouse and underwear in the clothes hamper. There was still a pile of items on the bed that needed to be sorted. When I found all three of her modest party dresses on the bed, I realized my wife had been looking for something fun to wear for a night out with Susan. When I finished clearing the bed, all of her party outfits were now hanging in their proper places. I couldn't imagine what clothes Susan had helped my wife pick out. Somehow they had found something for my wife to wear that was more fun than the three dresses she had rejected.

When I bent down to pick up a discarded bra, I found a couple of plastic lingerie bags from Victoria's Secret under the bed. One had contained a lacy red G-string and the other a matching pushup bra. I wondered if my wife had purchased the sexy underwear as part of her strategy to seduce me into more frequent sex. I had no idea why she needed sexy lingerie for dinner with an old girlfriend. My curiosity increased as I tossed the bags into the trash.

I had assumed my wife's note meant Susan had contacted her today. Maybe, they had planned it a while ago, and my wife had picked up a new outfit for tonight. Abby had been well aware of Susan and my mutual contempt in college and always made excuses for her fun-loving friend. All too often, she found it easier to go along with her roommate's hair-brained plans. Maybe they had met earlier and gone shopping to buy Abby a new outfit. I shuddered to think what Susan would suggest as suitable clothes for a night out.

The dresser drawer holding her slips was open, and a couple of them were no longer neatly folded. Had she bought a dress that needed a slip for modesty? Her standard work outfit consisted of a pants suit, so she hadn't worn most of them since college when dresses had been her style. I wondered how many of her slips still fit since she had gained weight.

I pulled out the rumpled full-length slips and carefully folded them. I was unfamiliar with my wife's slips and had no idea if any of them was missing. The pile of half-length slips hadn't been disturbed.

She loved to wear high heel platform wedges when we went dancing, and I noticed her favorite pair was missing from her shoe rack. Abby had taken dance lessons since she was a child, and my modest skill on the dance floor was our one central area of incompatibility. As a result, she hadn't gotten many chances to go dancing since we started dating.

After the bedroom was tidy, I took a shower. It was a warm night, so I pulled on a tee-shirt and basketball shorts. Since I expected we would have sex as soon as Abby returned home, I didn't bother with underpants.

By 10:30, Abby still wasn't home. I pulled out my cell phone and was happy to see she had left the restaurant. The app showed her in East Palo Alto near the approach to the Dumbarton Bridge. I knew the app sometimes had an error of a half-mile when it initialized. In a few minutes, I was sure it would update with the correct location. By that time, she would be home. After all, what would they be doing in the slums of East Palo Alto?

It's hard to believe that the upscale town of Palo Alto, with its multi-million-dollar homes, lies just on the other side of the 101 Freeway from some of the poorest, crime-ridden slums in the Bay Area. I guess the cleaning ladies and gardeners need to live somewhere. Unfortunately, the highway leading to the Dumbarton Bridge we take on our daily commute runs through the middle of this infamous hellhole.

I braced myself for an encounter with Susan when she returned with my wife after their late dinner. Maybe, the slut wouldn't have the nerve to face me. I hoped she would drop Abby off and not show her face in our happy home.