A BEAUTIFUL LIFE
by
Vandemonium1
This one was inspired by a news item when I was growing up. It been independently rated at 3.5/5 pickaxe handles. I think it contains a fairly unique discovery method. My mate Ian reviewed this one for me and as usual the talented CreativityTakesCourage took my gibberish and made it readable.
Happy New Year, friends. Enjoy our gift.
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Monday 10.10 p.m.
I'll be the first to admit that I have a beautiful life.
I have the face of an angel and a body built for sex, at least that's what more than one man has told me. For me, it meant I never wanted for male attention, and I had fun playing the field until I was twenty-four. Then, after a serious talk with my parents, I decided to settle down and think seriously about doing my civic duty by giving them some grandkids.
Being the only child of rich parents, I'd never really needed a serious qualification or a serious job. Dad tried to encourage me into a field of study that would allow me to take over his business when he retired, but it just didn't interest me. I don't know if that is what subliminally first attracted me to Dave, but he was perfect. A superior physical specimen, sharp as a whip, already finished a business degree and an MBA. I think Mum and Dad fell in love with him before I did. We were married within a year and less than a month later, I was pregnant.
Fast forward ten years and I was the best-looking soccer mum at the private school my two children attended. I picked them up in a top-of-the-range BMW, then took them to our twelve-bedroom McMansion in the leafiest suburb of our town. Dave, or the fifteen-year-old high school girl that lived next door, looked after them two or three nights a week when I went off to my 'job' as chairperson or board member of this or that church or charity organisation.
On the weekends I normally went shopping with some friends on Saturday, while Mum looked after the kids and Dave played eighteen holes with Dad. On Sunday mornings Dave and I took the kids to church. I'm not particularly a believer, but at our social level, it's kind of expected, you know? We sat in the pew that Grandad had sponsored after he made his first fortune. Later, we'd go have Sunday lunch at my parent's house, catered of course, where lately, Dad and Dave talked about the process of Dad retiring and my husband taking over.
After lunch, it was quite common for us to leave the kids with my parents, leaving Dave and I free to go home and do what married people do. Well, some of what married people do.
Early on in our sex life I'd decided that I'd be conservative in the bedroom. It was missionary most of the time, with an occasional cowgirl. Doggy style I found demeaning. When I was young and single a guy once came in my mouth and made me puke, so it was easy to rule that out of the marital bed. After some serious begging, I did allow Dave to warm me up with his tongue which always brought me off. Well, it had until recently. After I came from his tongue, Dave used his bigger-than-average cock and better-than-average staying power to bring me to at least one more orgasm. Well, again, he had until recently.
Yes, I snared the perfect man. A fantastic father, terrific provider, and considerate lover. I had money, comforts, status, respect, and just about anything else I desired. Almost. You no doubt picked up on the recent trouble I have achieving orgasm. That all started with an erroneous keystroke when I was internet browsing one day. One wrong key, sixty minutes of browsing, two finger generated orgasms, and my husband's days of satisfying me were numbered.
You see, I accidentally stumbled onto a BDSM site and revealed a submissive side of myself that I never knew I had. Soon, I was rushing home from dropping the kids at school and logging onto a growing list of websites before masturbating to orgasm after orgasm. The whole pain thing didn't yank my crank, but the idea of being restrained, of being bound and blindfolded, helpless while a powerful man did just whatever he liked to me made me gush.
The first weekend after I discovered my submissive side, I begged off going shopping with my friends, then pretended I was sick to stay home from church. After Sunday lunch, I tried to get out of sex with Dave but failed. I did orgasm from his tongue, eventually, by extending my hands above my head, grabbing the bedhead, and pretending I was tied like that.
Subsequent Sundays, even these fantasies failed to give me the satisfaction I craved. Once, I did reach down and rub myself while Dave was sliding in and out of me but that was unusual enough that he commented on it afterwards. The obvious solution to my ever-increasing cravings was to confess my new kink to my husband. I'm positive he would have done whatever was necessary to keep me satisfied, but, of course, nice girls don't do that sort of thing.
Instead, I became a faker, while my sexual frustration escalated. I felt like a tightly coiled spring.
My downfall began with my discovery of a BDSM forum. It had a section where people could meet then tell the rest of the readers how hot their last scene was. And they were hot. Bound. Blindfolded. Collared. Brought to the brink of climax again and again before being given permission to come. Their words were as exciting as the images that accompanied them.
I won't bore you with the details but I met a guy online who was an experienced dominant and who lived a couple of hours away. The pictures showed a guy that was perhaps mid-forties but who still looked to be in pretty good shape. He told me he was married and his wife wasn't into the scene. He shared with me full nude photos of himself but I only sent him body shots. I was very careful and cleansed all records off our computer, deleted browsing history, the works. Some of my favourite stuff I kept on a memory stick that I hid in the lining of a rarely used handbag.
I don't think I ever consciously made the decision to cheat on my husband. I certainly never had that internal debate with myself. I just never took any steps to stop things when the guy, Darren was his name, ordered me to arrange some time off to meet him. Nor did my conscience bother me particularly. I felt compelled to scratch a sexual urge that was no threat to my marriage. No threat because Dave could never know, nor could anyone else I knew. Nice girls didn't do anything remotely like what I was planning. I started a list of all the things I would need to cover.
Darren must have interpreted my temporary silence as reticence. He bombarded me with tales of what he intended doing to me when we did meet. Some of them really weren't my taste but we negotiated. I know being tied down by a total stranger was a huge risk but I was driven, as I said. I intimated that our meetings could become a regular thing, which meant if he didn't toe the line at the first one, there wouldn't be a repeat. In reality, I knew that the chances of discovery grew exponentially the longer an affair went on and had vowed to limit the experience. You see, I'd done my research.
Negotiations complete, I continued my research on not getting discovered. I know the word out there is that cheaters always get caught but that's just propaganda and statistics. Stories and statistics of people getting away with affairs never get published. I imagine that for every affair discovered, ten go silent.
So, for the next three weeks my life fell into a pattern. Drop kids at school, race home, masturbate until sore to images and videos of the type of things I'd negotiated with Darren, then read cheating wife stories until it was time to pick the kids up again. My friends inevitably became bored with being rejected when they called to ask me to meet but I didn't notice at the time.
It was early on in this pattern that I discovered that one of the big giveaways to cheating wives being discovered was by behavioural changes. A little honest self-analysis revealed I was giving all the signals to anyone watching. I dragged myself back to a normal pattern when anyone else was watching, especially remembering to propose sex with my husband, while all the time compiling a list of precautions.
I'd meet Darren at a place at the other end of my city; somewhere I would never be recognised. My husband travelled for work at least four nights a fortnight, he was the Business Development Manager of Dad's company, after all. It couldn't be too hard to prove he was where he said he was, I'd ask him to take a picture of his room when I rang him that night, saying I missed him and wanted to imagine myself where he was.
I'd only leave the house after about 10 p.m., that way no one would ring or visit me and discover I wasn't there. I intended leaving my cell phone and car at home just in case someone had trackers on them. I'd meet Darren in a low budget motel, somewhere my acquaintances were very unlikely to spot me. That made me smile. I knew at least three of my friends had successfully hidden affairs in the past. Wouldn't it be ironic if I was discovered by a friend meeting her beau at the same motel? I added a wig and other disguise elements to the list. I'd keep them in my locker at the tennis club so they were only here to be discovered for a minimal amount of time.
I would pay cash for the room and book it either in person a few days before or from a phone at one of the charities I volunteered for. I would travel to the motel by a cab that picked me up at a local park I would walk to. That way no strange cars would be seen in the driveway and I wouldn't be seen leaving at an unusual hour. Thanks to mobile phones, phone booths were a thing of the past in our town so the one weak spot in my plans was that I would have to ring the cab on my cell. The best I could do was to then immediately erase all record of the call. It was highly unlikely that Dave would pull my phone records to check each individual number.
So, husband and acquaintances accounted for, the only the problem remaining was that of what to do with my children. Our regular babysitter needed to be home by 10 p.m. and even so couldn't be relied on not to inadvertently mention sitting while Dave was away to my husband. I wasn't about to use a stranger for looking after them and the youngest was too young for sleepovers.
That left one possible, if far from attractive, option. I could sedate my children and limit the time away. Say, leave at 10.15 p.m., an hour cab ride, five hours with Darren, another hour cab ride, and I could be home by 5.15 a.m., which was still an hour before dawn at this time of year. The wig and a coat I hardly ever wore should protect me from recognition by pre-dawn dog walkers and insomniacs.
As unpalatable as sedating my children was, I was driven. The closer my preparations took me to fulfilling my new fantasies, the more problems were bulldozed. In fact, it took huge efforts of willpower to critically analyse my own plans.
