My Cheating Husband

I wish I could be like other girls. They're so pretty with their perfect blonde, straight hair that probably wafts strawberries. Supple, smooth skin, completely unblemished and radiating youth. Curves and legs that travel through your mind all day. I want to be that girl you think about from time to time, that smiled to you politely on the street, or said "thank you" for holding the door. The girl you want to get to know: her name, the things she smiles to, the things to protect her from. The girls that always have the perfect hair day, and look perfect doing everything, even "ugly" faces. It would be nice to be like them, I sulk to my own as I watch the prettiest fish in the office swim by me with a whole school following with their eyes.

As a woman, or just anyone who knows girl language, I can tell she likes the attention. She purposefully sways her perfect ass in that tight miniskirt. Bare legs. 9-inch high heels. Bends down like no one's looking. Constantly moving and playing with her hair. Sultry eyes. Shirt unbuttoned on the top two, but signals she's ready for a steamy photocopy session when there are three. I don't hate her because she pushes the definition of "modest" a bit, I hate her because she has no respect for relationships. This blonde bimbo's hooked up with a few guys in the office already, a couple known to be married. She typically strikes during office parties; gives these suggesting glances, touches the guy a little bit too friendly, giggles at all the dumb jokes he makes, whispers something, leaves and, presumably, plows. The boss knows very well of her activities, but who cares as long as she does the minimum amount of work and he gets a blowjob from her every now and then.

There's a clique of ladies, similarly undesirable as me, that commiserate and gossip at lunch about Blondie. They just lost the genetic lottery. Fat, horrendous teeth, paper thin lips, donkey laugh, butterface, butterbody, you name it. But I don't join because I'm not the jealous type. I know deep down their self conscious chips away whenever they see her wrap another man around her finger. And I really feel for them. I felt the same way before I met my husband, Brad. He's the only reason I haven't gotten a cat yet. He's spent every week making me feel special. Buying me flowers, taking me out to dinner, paying me all these sugary-sweet compliments your teeth would just fall out. I didn't even have to ask. He's also sensitive and attentive to my insecurities. After a seeming lifetime of emotional pain I've endured. Watching girls like Blondie have a new man of the week in high school, feeling invisible to guys in middle school, even my own mother making fun of me, calling me fat in elementary school. Time and time again, I'd repair my smashed heart. Eventually, some pieces were so pulverised the dust flew away and never came back. But when Brad entered my life, it was like he gave me a piece of his, and we stitched together this Frankenstein heart. The roses never looked so beautifully red, and chocolates never tasted salty because of my tears again.

My heart squeezed with so much joy, love, and this renewed appreciation for my husband. I can't wait to have children with this man. I love him so dearly, I wanted to surprise him before I go back to work. I park in the driveway like usual, unlock the door, and come inside. I'm practically bubbling inside from how excited I am to see him, despite this morning. Then my heart kind of sinks when I close the door and hear loud, consistent moaning from upstairs. I freeze where I am, hoping I'm wrong, that isn't a female moan. Brad's just jacking off to porn, and I'd be okay with that. But there it goes again, even louder, almost screaming and clapping to accompany it. It sounds too real and loud to come from a computer. So, in disbelief, I creep up the carpeted staircase. It gets louder and louder as my heart sinks to the pit of my tummy. The door is slightly ajar, and when I go to crack it open even more, I almost jump out of my skin seeing my husband balls deep into this strange woman. Their backs are turned against me, the girl on her knees and my husband behind her, on the bed we've slept in since we consummated our marriage.

I'm frozen in place, watching this spectacle. It's the kind of heartbreak where you can feel your heartstrings snapping one by one. My husband is going berserk, slamming himself inside this woman, grunting like a feral beast until he exclaims he's going to cum. I feel a ghostly sweat on my forehead. He momentarily takes out his cock and I see the girl whip back and, presumably, goes down to suck the flowing cum out of my husband's cock. My hands clam up. His guttering moans are the only thing I can hear, his hands going to ruffle this girl's hair, as she comes up to kiss him lovingly. My heart skips where I know I have to move, I know I don't want to, but I have to. Thinking on my feet, I run into the linen closet and shut it behind me. I hear laughing and giggling, followed by a slap.

"Oh my, you're so kinky, Braddie," this mysterious girl giggles, followed by a lot of mouthy kisses.

"Only for you, baby," he chuckles. I can just feel my heartstrings being fiddled with while my eyes flare up with tears. It wasn't until now that I notice a strange sensation in my panties. I feel that I'm actually wet. Somehow, I got this sick sexual sensation from watching my husband passionately plowing some other bitch, in our bed. Who knows how long this has been going on. Are there any more women he's doing this with? What do they look like, how are they better than me? I hear the shower going on as I think about these things a little more. With my stomach almost about to heave my breakfast, and slightly confident they're in the shower, I manage to slink away back to my job. The next hours are spent questioning everything I knew about my marriage, things about myself and my husband. Can I even confess to everything I saw only a few hours ago?

Before I know it, work is over and I contemplate whether or not I should come home. I almost start to cry ugly in my car. I clutch the steering wheel and decide it'd be a better idea to just drive around town, trying to take my mind off of what I'd seen. It was dusk and I honestly can't even remember where I went, what I saw, everything was this mass blur. All I could think about was my husband balls deep in another woman. I'm incredulous. We'd only been married for about three seemingly blissful years. It seemed so out of character for Brad to betray me like that, in the house we bought together out of love and security. My phone has been ringing here and there. He must realize his wife didn't come home as scheduled, three hours after his little fuck fest. I don't want to hear or see him. I just drive onto this clearing and sit there, dead silent. At this point, I've cried my eyes out to the point that they're red and stinging. However, after some quiet time and reflection, an awful, terrible thought crawled into my mind. What if she's there again? When a couple hours passed and I hadn't come home, did he phone her again for some more fucking? My husband sinking his hard cock into another girl's small tight pussy. He's groaning, and she's moaning like this is the best fuck she's ever had. And before I even know it, my panties are drenched a bit in fluids. I feel so dirty, embarrassed, angry, insecure, heartbroken. An absolute hurricane of emotions. Why was the thought of my husband having an affair so sexy to me? Thinking about my husband indulging himself in his cake and eating it too makes my heart skip a beat. I decided to go back, just to see if she returned.

When I drove by the house, another car was present and my heart skipped once again. Two in one day? There's a dimness going on downstairs, I notice. I park on the other side of the street. I carefully crept in the backyard towards the windows, trying to catch a glimpse at where they could be. There are lit candles scattered in the living room. Then, there he is with a completely different woman, on the couch. They're both making out, this chick on top of my husband with his hand seemingly fingering her pussy slow-like. It looks like he's wearing pants and a shirt, while she's fully naked. Her hips move in response. The pain wrenches through my heart, soul, and mind but I can't tear myself away. This raven-haired girl combs through his hair affectionately, kissing him softly other times and then other times harder. Then, she stands and I see my husband's cock standing at full mass, probably harder than a rock. She goes down on her knees and starts to slowly swallow his cock.

I can hear muffled groans coming from him as his hands slightly urge her mouth down at his cock. Her head rises and she smiles playfully, saying something I can't hear. Then she goes down on him again, purposely slower, almost like teasing him until she finally has all of him in her mouth. As she's blowing Brad, he takes his time removing his shirt. I've been so entranced by this that my hand was instinctively guiding itself to my sopping wet pussy. It goes like that for a while, her head bobbing on his big cock, until he pushes her aggressively onto the floor. He then rips off his pants and boxers, erect cock bouncing. My husband pounces on her and fucks her right there on the rug with no second to spare. The buxom black-haired girl cries out in pleasure, gripping onto his shoulder blades as he roughly fucks her so hard she's going to get rug burn. His head is buried in her neck, either kissing it or lying it there, I can't tell. I make a whimper as my fingers are sinking into my pussy, biting my lip. Her nails claw into my husband's back.

Then my husband instantly pulls out, cock red and fluid absolutely dripping, and says something to her. He's annoyed, probably didn't want his wife catching the aggressive, red scratch marks dug into his skin by his other mistress. She pulls him in to kiss her and again he enters her, going softer this time. Eventually, his thrusts go deeper, harder, and faster into this poor girl as she's writhing in pleasure catching her breath. At this point, I'm almost going to cum myself, stimulating my vagina and watching my husband make love to another woman. Her roaring moans muffle through the glass window. In a final thrust, my husband finally spills his seed onto the girl, exhausted from their romp and I cream onto my fingers. She lies there attempting to catch her breath, as I'm trying to catch the last shred of dignity I probably don't have anymore. I'm so depraved, drinking all this in. He goes in for another sweet kiss and disappears into the kitchen, cock still standing attentive, to retrieve a paper towel to wipe the cum off. I suck the cream from off my fingers and fix myself up.

Once they get dressed and share a steamy kiss for another minute, she finally leaves and he collapses on the couch. Brad goes on his phone, and my phone violently vibrates after a moment. Obviously, I don't answer. I sneak towards the front to see my husband's other mistress starting her car and reflect on how she probably got the best sex of her life from my husband. However, post-nut clarity cuts through the arousal that's fogged my mind, and I suddenly feel so ashamed for feeling this way. Seeing my husband, the man I thought was my one and only, fucking other women behind my back. I don't know if I want to come back, but where else could I go? I have no friends, and I have a strained relationship with my family. I sob and sniffle a little at how pathetic I am, and how sad my life has become. Normal women wouldn't masturbate seeing their husband plowing some other bitch. But ultimately pull myself together, and brace to open the door. My nose was assaulted with a mixed stench of sex and Whispering Woods. Immediately, Brad shoots up from the couch and goes to greet me in shock, wearing only boxers now. He has that musk men get right after sex. Out of shock from seeing him inside two women today, to him being in front of me now showing me affection, like as if nothing happened, I let him. "Oh babe," he cooed, "I was so worried about you, you were gone for so long!"

I cleared the lump in my throat, "Yeah, sorry about that." And then went upstairs, refusing to look at my husband in the eyes out of shame and humiliation.

"Wait, what's wrong, dear," he questions, concernedly. I can feel him trying to come closer to me. "What were you doing so late," he interrogated. It kind of ticked me off, seeing as how he just got done with this extramarital affair.

I choked out a small laugh and insist nothing's wrong, just tired and need to go to bed. The boss kept me late for extra hours, and accepted knowing we need the money. I close the bedroom door behind me, staring at the bed and picturing my spouse banging the same blonde broad in it. I shake that thought away, and begin to strip. Apparently, I had very large pit stains on my shirt from the whirlwind of emotions spurring through the day. I couldn't be more prepared to feel the warm touch of the shower again, rinsing off the dirt and grime from today. I felt fresher and invigorated. The bedroom door opened and closed. Brad's voice carried into the bathroom, "Honey, I feel like something's wrong you're not telling me."

I'm glad he can't see through the frosted shower glass, or else he'd probably see how red my eyes are at this point from crying. "Babe, I'm alright," I sniffled. "Really." He just sighs and leaves. I stayed for another 15 minutes, dried myself off, wore the most modest PJ's I had, and crawled into bed, lying on my side. Brad joins me, tightly embracing me with his arms. His arms always made me feel safe. How many other women has he held like this? I wanted to cry again, but painfully swallowed the tears and sobs down into my stomach. Questions were burning a hole inside my heart; What was I going to do, and how long would I keep this charade up?