Chapter 1 - Dean receives an unsolicited nude from his wife's BFF.
Author's vanity note: This is a lighthearted quick-and-dirty nonsense tale, an experiment in conversational first-person, to relieve a little pressure from my other, only slightly more plausible (but much trickier to write) stuff. Consequences? You won't find any in this story. It's a different pace and a very different mood. Opinions welcome, and remember none of the characters are real people.
Note: the author doesn't know what quick and dirty means, this is another bloody essay. Oops.
Note 2 to 7: must... stop... editing.
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Dean
Hey, internet. I'm in a difficult situation and think it might be my fault. Do you keep any dirty pictures on your phone? Be honest, now. Votes all in? Okay. Next, did your partner ever find them? No? Well, perhaps I'm just more stupid than most folks. I see one or two of you are still onboard. How about this - were they topless selfies from your wife's best friend? No-one? You want to know how I got the picture? Look, this isn't a how-to. No, I wasn't having an affair, honest! It was unsolicited! I wanted to ask the woman 'why' myself, but you think my wife let me out of her sight since then?
To be honest, full disclosure, my wife didn't react how you'd expect someone in that situation to react, and that's part of my problem.
Why didn't I delete the picture? Okay, I agree, that was dumb. Would you delete it? Or hide it? You're a stronger person than me, then. Maybe you should be in this story instead. It would probably be a shorter one then.
I guess I really should have introduced myself before talking your ear off. Sorry. I'm Dean, I'm 34 years old, and work in construction. Construction... software! Ha, that gets them every time. (I'm under stress, let me make my lame dad jokes.) I still try to keep up with the guys though - no-one will listen to someone who doesn't look like they've spent a day on-site, and it wasn't a million years ago when I was right where they are, sticking up drywall. I don't have a six pack or anything, but my wife's eyes still wander when I go around shirtless (so of course I do that as often as possible). I'm pretty muscular, so I do okay. My cock? Er - ask my wife, she'll be along a bit later on.
My wife Aimee is French-Japanese. We met ten years ago. She was in college and crashed her car into a truck which was beautifully parked in its own space just outside a building site, minding its own business. I was married to Debbie at the time, which I won't dignify by explaining, except to say by the time Aimee to crashed into truck number two it was all over but the lawyering. I'm not saying anything about anyone's driving skills except Aimee's, and holy hell the number of times we've called a mechanic over the years... There's a reason I've pinned their number in my phone. Our usual grease monkey Vinnie - Veronica - could practically run her business off of my custom alone, and... wait, this isn't the right story, sorry.
So yeah, Aimee is a little spitfire. An athletic, 5 foot 1, 36 year old mother-of-one who still gets ID'd every time she tries to buy alcohol. She insists on it, won't let me do it, it's a matter of pride for her. She's the most opinionated, pushiest, most terrifying woman I've ever met, and I love her more than I can say. We've been married for eight years now and no-one I've met compares to her. I've never thought about being with another woman since we've been together. I am still cursed with male chauvinist eyes which recklessly scan every eligible female, and I've got the scars from Aimee's justifiable death glares.
Physically she is 32-D with legs and such perfect curves you'd think she was sculpted by an artist. (Thank the lord for pregnancy, she used to be an A-cup. I certainly wasn't complaining, even though she did). Skin like milk chocolate, eyes like mahogany and tougher than any three other people put together. Our biggest arguments are about her attractiveness. She looks better than before we had our kid. I mean that, genuinely. Perhaps I do have rose-tinted goggles on, but whether it's real or not, it's real to me, and that's what matters. I just wish it were real to her too. The fact I wasn't able to show her or convince her somehow? My greatest failure.
To me, she's perfectly imperfect. To herself, her skin is full of imperfections (one pimple!), she's still too fat (where?) her er - flower - isn't tight enough (it's definitely a-ok) - I could go on. She says the bloom of her youth has wilted or some other haiku crap. (Sorry, I never learned to 'get' those things. No, don't try to teach me please, my wife's tried to educate me to death.)
The one thing which isn't perfectly imperfect is our sex life. People will tell you there's no sex after children and it's so damn true. Our daughter Hanako is six and full of energy, generally keeping us as exhausted as possible or creeping into our bed whenever she can. She's finally off to school and I miss her like crazy whenever I work from home these days. Aimee's also off working again which is a godsend as it really reduced the tension at home. Aimee can't stand being kept locked up. Our sex life improved right up to once or twice a month after that, and it's stayed there.
In case you haven't guessed Aimee's sexy body and sexier personality drives me wild, but she acts like an ice princess whenever I try to get her in bed, so I've backed off, for the most part. Every couple has their issues.
Until the day everything changed. The day I caught her masturbating.
It was just before bed. I'd been brushing my teeth, getting ready to sleep when I realized where the flaw was in the code I'd been debugging all day. I dropped everything, ran to my office, and a couple hours later I'd done it. Full of pride and adrenaline, I crept back upstairs. Why so quiet? I didn't want to risk waking my wife, no sir. That was a mistake I'd only ever needed to make once. She loves her sleep.
When I was a few steps away, I heard an odd silence from our bedroom - not just normal silence, but the sound of someone trying to be very, very quiet. You know the one? So, curious, I approached the door stealthily, and nudged it open slowly. The light was dim, but the glow of the phone she was holding lit her enough to make it obvious what was happening. There she was, laid spread out on our bed, her skin glowing in the slight illumination. My God she was beautiful, and like this she was without parallel. Her panties were around her ankles, her thighs wet, her nightie pulled up, stuffed in her mouth, exposing everything. She was looking at my phone. You already know what she was looking at, but I didn't.
As I got closer I heard the wet squishing sounds. Shortly after, my eyes caught the only movement in the room. She had three fingers buried in her pussy, sawing furiously in and out of her poor pussy, really pounding away. Her cream oozed liberally around her fingers and a ribbon of moisture them as she pulled them out before plunging them right back in.
So with a shit-eating smirk on my face, I crept forward. I mean it'd been some time since we'd... you know. Made it. She'd always been a bit of a prude so I loved finding her masturbating. "Loved it" was perhaps an understatement. Maybe I'm just strange like that. I was instantly, painfully erect. As hard as I had been in living memory, maybe even since the honeymoon. I'd never seen her masturbate, she'd always been too shy to show me. I would be reliving this moment for years. I just didn't realize how true that thought was at the time.
She was really going to town on herself, oblivious to anything but whatever she was looking at on my phone. Her nipples looked like they were hard enough to cut glass. Her breath came in gasps. The room was filled with her scent. I paused to breathe it in, deeply, quietly. I'd always loved the smell of her excitement. She moaned wantonly around the fabric in her mouth, her voice muffled. Was she biting it? Whoa!
The sheets beneath her were stained with her wetness. She was obviously climbing up to a big one if I'd ever seen one. I admired her boobs shaking and her tight, clenched virgin ass. Then her toes curled, and I knew she was in the final stretch. Her long toned legs began to quiver in that way they did when she was about to lose control, and her breaths, reliable as clockwork, played that telltale pattern (huff, huff, moan, huff, huff, moan).
Her breath stopped, she pulled her legs tightly together, and then she...
What was she looking at anyway? My joy turned to horror as I came close enough to see the picture on my phone she was er, "using". She was right on the verge of that huge orgasm, but rather than watch the only thought in my mind was retreat. My veins were filled with ice despite the incredible view, my heart seized with terror. I forgot what she was doing, I only knew that I was caught. Why? Why'd I keep that picture? Why had Dawn sent it to me? As I ran away I crashed against the dresser and fell to the floor. I created such a noise the entire neighborhood must have heard it.
Dogs started barking outside and the shadows on the wall shifted as the neighbors turned their lights on. A bottle or two from Aimee's chemistry set of beauty products fell to the floor and smashed open against the wood. I stared at her, a deer in headlights, and she stared at me, the same. She sat up, her eyes wide, pulling the blanket to her chest. I sat, my back against the dresser, barely breathing. I think I was bleeding somewhere, but there was no way in hell I was going to check that right now.
Some impossible calculus went on behind her eyes as we stared at one another. Then the screaming started, and increased in volume when she found out that yes, I was bleeding, and no, there was definitely a gaping hole in the drywall behind the dresser and, oh yeah, why the fuck was her BFF sending topless photos to me? And when she saw her $250 night serum, wasted on the wood? She had no words. (To be fair you won't find a patch of wood anywhere in the state more soft and youthful than that scrap of floor.)
She was absolutely, monumentally pissed. Once-in-a-lifetime levels of anger.
And the worst thing? The next day her anger was gone, without trace. She refused to discuss it, shutting me up with a kiss every time. That was a couple of weeks ago, and I've been walking on eggshells ever since. She'd been acting completely normally, kissing me when we go to work, being affectionate - even more so than usual in fact. But sometimes she turned to grin at me. It was terrifying. We've been married for eight years and I'd never seen her grin like that, ever. It was like she'd been possessed by a demon. Maybe a succubus, because every chance she got she'd tease me mercilessly. I had no defense. I was so confused; shouting would've been easier - maybe that's why she was doing it this way.
She'd put on a crop top she hadn't worn since we met and tiny daisy dukes, reaching for things on her tiptoes.
She'd been checking I was watching, then bending right over at the waist, wearing nothing but a garter belt beneath her skirt.
She stretched like a cat, fanning her clothes with no bra underneath, and pretending to get caught in the rain with just a white blouse on. No, apparently there's never a bra.
Somehow there's always a bra on when she comes home and when she leaves, but when we're alone together or our daughter is asleep? Her underwear mysteriously disappears.
And yet she hadn't let me anywhere near her for two weeks.
