I still do not know why I did it. It might have just been some kind of gut instinct, but I think that it was more than that. Looking back, I guess there must have been some signs of what was going on, that I picked up on in my subconscious, and that was why I checked the laundry basket for the first time in our marriage.
My wife was in the shower. Maybe that is why I checked. The timing of her shower. Marianne always showered in the morning. This time we were on our way to bed. She had had a hectic day at work, was what she told me. Without even thinking about what I was doing I wandered across to where her laundry basket stood and checked.
She clearly had not expected me to look. Her knickers were on top. His and hers laundry baskets. She always puts her own things in the machine, in case I got them at the wrong temperature, and did some damage to them. So normally she would have been safe just to drop her knickers in the basket and close the lid. Not this time.
They were stained.
You do not need the full description. It is not that nice. All I will say is that it was pretty unambiguous. The evidence was there. It did not need a Sherlock or a Columbo. DNA testing might have proved it conclusively. Maybe even identified the other party, if there were a hair or something to compare it with. But that was unnecessary for the obvious deduction. My wife had fucked another guy.
I dropped the incriminating panties back into the basket and closed the lid, my head reeling, my heart pounding, and my stomach churning. My wife had fucked another guy.
I listened to the water gushing in the shower.
Thoughts of Psycho, the shower scene, passed through my mind, blood running down the curtain. We do not even have a shower curtain. We have a wide glass door. Never mind. Blood can run down a glass door just as easily. Hitchcock's image was transferrable. Appropriate name as well. Some guy had hitched his cock into my wife and blood should run.
Not that I would ever do it. I was brought up to solve my problems with my head and not my muscle. Either talk things out and reach agreement, or out think your opponent, and get the better of them. Use your head. Apply some logic.
What went against all logic was what was happening with the one muscle that technically is not muscle, more a kind of sponge that swells up with blood to make it hard. Blood was running, not down the shower door, but straight to my cock.
It just proved that thinking with your cock is never good. It has its own way of thinking. Anything sexual makes it come alive, even your own wife's infidelity. I had never guessed that it might react like that, but there it was, my own cock was betraying me, getting as hard as rock, while my head was thinking Psycho, and then trying to find a way to sort this one out more sensibly, and deal with this breach of our marriage promises, not just right now, but for the long term, once and for all.
The sound of gushing water stopped. A minute later Marianne stood in the open doorway between our bedroom and the en suite. She looked good. She always did. Five-five, full figured brunette, her hair dry from having worn a shower cap, her creamy complexion glowing under the artificial lights, dark nipples with thick stubs standing proud.
"Is that for me?" she asked.
I should have mentioned that I had been naked and about to climb into our bed when I thought to look inside the laundry basket. My rock solid cock would have been pretty obvious, although by the time that Marianne appeared in the doorway, I was safely back at my side of the bed, well away from the evidence in the laundry basket.
We fucked.
It is seriously mind blowing, fucking your wife when you have just discovered that another guy has fucked her only hours before. It does not make it the expression of undying love that it once was, but it does make it another kind of incredibly exhilarating ride. Wilder, harder, and more punishing, which I guess is what you want to do to her, and what she definitely deserves. You just do not say it. You fuck her hard instead.
Her cunt is no longer the entrance to her inner self. Your cock is no longer the bridge that joins your bodies, minds and hearts. You use it as a weapon, thrusting it into her again and again, revelling in her delicious body, disgusted at what you have found out, making her come better and stronger than you reckon her earlier lover could ever have done, and then coming inside her yourself, spewing your semen into her, for what you think at that moment will be the last and final time.
Except it was not the last time. There were many more fucks like that. For three whole months I fucked that cunt every night, my lust for her fuelled by what I knew, and what I reconfirmed once a week, always the same day of the week, although I checked that laundry basket every day. My loving wife was getting fucked by someone else as regularly as a clockwork cuckoo's cunt. Making me another type of cuck.
Long before we married, when I was in my twenties, I summer holidayed alone and lay on a naturist beach in France, noticing some movement in the dunes. At the top of one of them, there was a beach umbrella standing in the sand, and every so often a guy would appear, looking around. To add to the mystery, other guys were walking in the dunes, heads and torsos occasionally appearing in the gaps between the sand hills, maybe four or five of them, all heading towards this beach umbrella.
I can get curious, and not just about laundry baskets. I got curious that day and took a stroll. I was discrete, entering the dunes a bit further down, and then casually working my way towards the umbrella. It was red and blue and yellow, so it was quite distinct, and it was the only beach umbrella not on the beach itself, so finding it was easy.
There were six other guys by the time I got near enough to see what was going on. They were standing around, watching. Underneath the umbrella, on a large white sheet that had been spread out on the sand, the guy who had been bobbing about to get attention was now fucking his wife, or girl-friend, or whatever she was, doing it from behind.
That was the first time I ever saw another guy come. It is not a pretty sight. His face went red with the urgency. His buttocks tautened. The girl, maybe twenty five or thereabouts, was urging him on in French. You could tell that he was coming inside her. When he had finished he collapsed onto her back, bent over her. When he recovered, he withdrew. His semen trickled from her cunt.
Then it got interesting.
The guy moved away from the girl, lying on his back, still on the sheet. She did not move. One of the spectators moved closer, said something to the guy, and received a nod. He had been handling his cock while he had been watching, and his cock was hard. Like I said, this was on a beach designated naturist, so there was no swimwear for the guy to lose. He just knelt behind the girl and took over from where the other guy had just left off.
Like I said, interesting.
Even more interesting when a third guy took over. The girl still had not moved. I mean she was still on her hands and knees. This time, when the third guy moved into place, she had not even bothered to turn and look behind her. I doubted she knew which guy was fucking her.
She did move though. Saying she did not move at all may have been misleading.
Her breasts moved for a start. She was reasonably slim, but with generous breasts that hung naturally beneath her, and swayed every time whichever guy was fucking her slammed into her.
Her buttocks moved as well. Each time the guy thrust at her, she moved back. She ground her buttocks into her assailant's groin, giving herself the extra stimulation of meeting him on the in stroke.
Her mouth moved. Not that much, but enough to emit groans and moans and little screams and words in French that were not so far beyond my vocabulary that I could not understand. "Oui, oui," is pretty obvious. "Baise moi," means "fuck me". I knew that. Maybe she was being especially considerate for the multilingual nature of men on French beaches, but she also used the English "Fuck my pussy" just as often. No translator was required. We could tell exactly what she wanted.
I was tempted, but self-consciousness and respect for my own sexual health kept me where I was, just a spectator. I was only twenty something, and doing it in front of other guys was not for me, although the girl was seriously nice. Doing it bare, following on after those guys, did not appeal. My cock in their cum made me feel queasy. Doing it bare itself appealed all right. I would have loved to. Just not with someone who shared like that. Far too risky. I watched the third guy come, and went back to my towel on the beach.
The girl turned out to be even nicer than I thought. It was half an hour later that I saw her walk from the dunes, obviously heading past me to the sea. I doubt if she even recognised me, or realised that I had just been watching her getting fucked.
Twenty five was about right. Black hair fell straight to her buttocks, drifting slightly in the breeze. She was tanned. She was even slimmer that she had looked on her hands and knees. Her breasts were full, but somehow defeated gravity, although they swayed gently as she walked. Nice nipples, two shades darker than her tan, stubs like cherries. Her pubis, as she got closer, I realised was shaved smooth. Nice lips. Nice face as well, come to that. A mole to the left of her chin, but it made her all the more interesting.
She jumped around in the sea for a few minutes, not swimming, but twisting and turning in the two foot breakers. I guessed that she was using the impact of the water to get rid of the semen that had inevitably spilled from her pussy.
On her way back, I asked her if she had a moment, and if she could help me. It was a little lame, but I asked if she could put some lotion on my back because I could not reach myself. Her reaction confirmed that she was nice. She crouched down, legs splayed, a beautiful view of her gash, and took her time making sure that I was adequately protected against the sun. Her hands felt wonderful. She even did my buttocks, finishing with a cheeky down stroke between my legs, fingertip touching my balls. I would have loved to fuck that pussy.
I never saw the girl again, not on that beach or anywhere, but I thought of her once in a while for years after that summer, always satisfied that I had made the right decision in not participating in the action, but wishing just the same that I had had the opportunity to fuck her without the same concerns, or had a girl-friend like her. Mind you, when I hooked up with Marianne, I had no need to think about the French girl on the beach. Both of them scored ten, and a ten in the hand is worth twenty on the beach.
I had never told Marianne about the French girl. I did not want her think her husband was a pervert. After the laundry basket thing, on our next holiday, a rented apartment in a French resort, I told her then. I explained exactly what had happened, mentioning that it had been on the beach that we had been driving to each day.
This was over dinner, at a sea-food restaurant, after our first bottle of white wine, but not spur of the moment. The timing, the amount of alcohol, and the bait, had to be just right. My wife tentatively explored, but did not see the line and hook.
"You never told me about it before."
"True," I said. "I guess it might have given away what turns me on."
"Which is?"
