Here's something to think about: even little things can destroy your life. An example: If it hadn't been our 16th Wedding Anniversary, Marianne and I would have been eating dinner at one of our usual favorite places, instead of the fanciest restaurant in Cleveland. If it hadn't been such a fancy restaurant, I wouldn't have seen her face as she sat down--I would have been standing behind her and holding her chair, instead of letting a waiter do it. If I hadn't seen her face, I would have missed the little grimace of discomfort as her bottom touched the chair.
She saw my concerned look, and before I could ask anything she said, "Just a muscle cramp—my calf is sore today for some reason." Then she quickly went on to change the subject: "Oh Tom, what a beautiful restaurant this is. Thank you for bringing me here tonight!"
Here's something else to think about: Often we know something long before we realize that we know it. Marianne's grimace was a face she had made before, when she was suffering from what we jokingly called the "Honeymoons". When we were first married, on one of our honeymoon nights in Puerto Rico we had a lot to drink, and made love so vigorously (and so often) that the next day her pussy lips were sore and swollen, and it was uncomfortable for her to sit down. We had to take a day or two off from regular fucking, though we found many other ways of giving each other pleasure! The same thing happened during our "Second Honeymoon" six years later, when we left the kids with my parents and spent a week in Cancun. One exciting and passionate night of sex led to two days of soreness for Marianne —thus the name "Honeymoons".
Since then our sex life had calmed down quite a bit, as I guess it does for pretty much every married couple raising children, and the "Honeymoons" had not happened again. But the look on Marianne's face on our Wedding Anniversary was the "Honeymoons" look, and I recognized it right away, though I didn't realize until later that I had.
In fact our anniversary dinner was wonderful, and so was the rest of the evening, though not without a surprise—again, one whose meaning I didn't understand until later. Throughout dinner we shared great food, two bottles of champagne, and lots of happy memories. We talked about our two teenagers, both away for the summer at camp. We laughed about the awkwardness of our early dates in college, and about how it took a few tries until we knew what we were doing together in bed. Marianne had slept with two men before me—each of them only once, and without much pleasure. I'd had a steady girlfriend in high school, but she wouldn't let me fuck her until a month before graduation, and we'd done it only a few times before I left for college.
When Marianne and I got home from the restaurant—tipsy and very much in love—I carried her up to the bedroom and began to strip her naked, but she stopped me.
"Tom, wait. Let me put on the new nightie I bought just for tonight."
She disappeared into the bathroom, and by the time I was naked and in bed, she had emerged in a long pale blue nightgown that was nearly transparent. Her lovely breasts and perfect nipples showed clearly, as did the dark bush of her pubic hair. At 38 Marianne was gorgeous. The inevitable effects of bearing two children had been held at bay by good genes and lots of exercise (we ran 3 miles together at least twice a week). She was statuesque and magnificent—5'8" with dark hair and brown eyes, with wide hips and long legs. To me she was even sexier than when I first met her nearly two decades before. I had been in love with her—and in lust with her—ever since.
After some passionate necking and touching, I moved lower on the bed, seeking to raise her nightgown and arouse her with my tongue. Marianne adores it when I lick her, though she's much less enthusiastic about going down on me. Almost always our sex together includes some time with her enjoying my tongue and mouth between her legs. For this reason it surprised me when she stopped me.
"No, Tom, please. Tonight I want to be just for you." She gently forced me back down on the bed, stroked my cock, then took it into her mouth. When I reached for her pussy with my hands, meaning to pleasure her while she pleased me, she again stopped me.
"No, honey. Tonight has been so wonderful—let me just do this for you."
As I said, Marianne usually isn't so crazy about giving me blow jobs, but this one was sensational. She teased me, with her warm breath and her tongue and her lips and her hands. She got me close, then backed off with a wicked smile and stroked me softly, looking into my eyes and ignoring my groaning pleas to let me come. She licked down my shaft and lovingly took each of my balls in turn into her mouth, stimulating them gently with her tongue. Then she started it all over again! "Please, Anni, please! Let me come!" It must have been nearly half an hour of agonizing pleasure before she finished me off, taking me deep into her mouth and letting me shoot an enormous load of cum down her throat. My hips jerked and I groaned uncontrollably as the pleasure shot through me.
I lay there, spent and gasping. "Anni, that was unbelievable!" I said, using the pet name I often called her by during sex. By the time it had occurred to me that we hadn't fucked, and that I hadn't licked her or stroked her, the light was out and she was snuggled under my arm, relaxed and warm. When I once more said, "Honey, what about you?" she replied sleepily, "All for you tonight, darling."
So—why would I think about either of the strange little moments in the evening? No reason to. Who would care about a little grimace, or refuse a loving blowjob? No one. And that included me, until precisely eleven days later when my world began to crumble around me.
I had come back late Saturday night from a two-day conference in Chicago. I'm an engineer, and there was a meeting to discuss new federal load-bearing rules for commercial buildings. By the time I got home from the airport it was after 1 am, and I knew Marianne would be asleep. I stopped by the laundry room and took a minute to empty the dirty clothes out of my suitcase into the hamper. As I bent down, I noticed a pair of her panties that had fallen behind the hamper and were nearly hidden against the wall.
It was a silky black thong—in fact, her only thong, the one I had bought as a sexy present a year before and which she saved for special nights with me. Marianne is not a big fan of thongs—"They're not so bad if you feel like flossing your ass-crack!" is what she said to me once—but she wore that one a few times because she knew it excited me. I hadn't seen her wearing it in some time, but here it was, crusty and stiff on the crotch with what could only be a man's cum. One sniff confirmed the evidence of my eyes.
You know how sometimes in stories a character will claim "my head spun", and the reader thinks it's just a figure of speech? Well, my head spun. I felt dizzy and lightheaded, and I nearly tumbled to the floor. I kind of stumbled back into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair. I felt as though I had been hit in the back of the head with a 2 x 4.
Over the next few minutes my mind played every trick it could, as I tried desperately to make this something other than what it had to be. Could the panties have been lying there for months, since the last time she'd worn them with me? No—the hamper got moved every couple of weeks when the room was swept. Could she have worn them one day recently without me noticing? No—I saw her get dressed every morning. Could it have been my cum, from the last time we made love? No—that was three days before my trip, and she put on regular panties the next day. Could the mess in them be Marianne's own juices, maybe the result of a masturbation session while I was away? No—I knew what cum smelled like.
In the end, my mind caught up to what I already knew in my heart. My wife, the woman I had loved with my entire being for more than 16 years, was cheating on me. I didn't cry then; I was too stunned. I just sat and stared vaguely around the kitchen, drank a beer without tasting it, and let the inevitable questions pile up in my brain and stomp all my happiness to death. Who was it? How long? Did she love him? What would this mean for our marriage? Did we even have a marriage left? What would I do?
I am not one of those men who is turned on by the idea of their wives fucking another man. In fact, the idea doesn't give me a hard-on; it revolts me. I had never had fantasies about her with someone else. I didn't want her to screw someone else; I didn't want to watch it; I didn't want to think about it. And she knew that.
