My Wifes Big Mouth Ch 02

Somehow I managed to drive us home, but I must have been on autopilot because I couldn't tell you how we got there. I was too distracted to pay any attention to the road. Cindy was asleep behind her sunglasses, drunken and disheveled in the passenger seat, while I drove dead-eyed into the night, scenes from the hot tub running on a loop through my head. I had watched my beautiful young wife broken before my eyes. I had seen her drunkenly making out with our friend Bridget, who proceeded to eat her pussy, spit on her, and serve her up to get hate-fucked by that crater-faced old bastard Rocco. But it wasn't the sight of Cindy's defilement that left me anesthetized and numb.

It was the sounds.

I could still hear everything. All of it. And I don't mean in a distant and distorted way, like holding a shell up to your ear to hear the ocean. No, the sounds were startlingly clear in my head. I could make out the distinctive crack of Rocco's fat hand as he slapped Cindy's tits, ass, thighs and even her pretty face. The muffled roar as Cindy rode out an orgasm, grunting into Bridget's pussy. The half-animal growl in Rocco's voice when he called my wife a "bitch" and a "cunt." The sloshy suction noises from her pussy when the old chud worked his meat in and out of her little body like a plunger. The garbled gagging that belched forth from Cindy's throat as she tried to talk with her mouth full of hard dick. The desperate, shallow gasps whenever Rocco took that dick away from her -- the same sounds, I realized, that she made when she finally came up for air after he held her head underwater. Finally, there was the most haunting sound of all: Cindy's raspy, soulful barking while Rocco mounted her from behind.

The visceral noises of my once-proud wife's sexual destruction echoed in my ears, mocking me, arranging themselves into a grand symphony of shame, humiliation and lust that drowned out thoughts of anything else. I was consumed.

I pulled into our driveway like it was unfamiliar territory, missing my customary spot by a country mile. As I killed the engine, I could feel a tide of guilt and anger churning in my gut, beginning to rise up. I struggled to suppress it. I wanted to stay dead inside; I wasn't ready to feel things yet. Hauling my wife into the house, in her condition, was the diversion I needed to keep my inner turmoil at bay.

Cindy remained curled up in a ball, sleeping in the passenger seat. She looked so small. I wished for the strength to scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the house and across the threshold to our bedroom. Rocco has that kind of strength. He had no problem lifting Cindy up, the back of her knees resting on his burly forearms. Fuck. I can't stop thinking about the way he made the mother of my child his dirty little bitch. I can still hear her screams as the squat, hairy old man speared her from behind with that massive cock.

I removed Cindy's sunglasses and gently touched her face, trying to wake her. My fingertips traced the outline of a small, wine-dark splotch high on her cheek. It looked like it might be a bruise. I could see two more ruddy welts on her neck, but those looked more like bite marks. Jesus. I nudged her a little harder.

Cindy never fully woke up, but she managed to drag herself out of the car and trudge half-asleep into the house, her head down the entire way. Once inside, she filled an enormous water bottle at the refrigerator, spilling liberally on the floor, then waddled into our bedroom without saying a word and collapsed on the bed. She didn't even go to the bathroom to wash the make up off her face... or Rocco's cum out of her pussy, I slowly realized. Fuck!

I opened the bedroom door a crack and poked my head inside to check on her, using a shaft of light from the hallway behind me to see into the darkened room. Cindy lay prone, her face buried in a pillow, legs bent at erratic angles -- she looked like me trying to ski a black diamond. The stench of alcohol on her breath made my eyes water. I could see she was wearing the same jeans and sweater she had worn to Sam's hockey game, which seemed like a lifetime ago. Her tight little ass looked amazing, but in my paranoia, every shadow was that repulsive old Rocco's load, leaking through her panties and staining her jeans from the inside. Squinting into the darkness at my wife's perfect denim-clad ass was like taking a nightmarish Rorshach test as inky splotches swirled before my eyes. The rational part of my brain knew that they couldn't be cum stains, but the rational part of my brain wasn't in charge anymore. I had to get a closer look.

I crept silently into the room, taking care not to let in any more light from the hallway. The last time I had been in our bedroom, I was searching my dresser for a pair of warm socks to wear to the ice rink. Now, I was about to search my sleeping wife's crotch for signs of another man's semen. What a fucking day.

I was on pins and needles as I stole closer to the bed. I was so nervous that my stomach fell to the floor. I couldn't see Cindy's face, only the back of her head, which somehow added to my foreboding. She wasn't moving, but I was afraid she could awaken at any moment. I was even more afraid that I would find Rocco's creampie packed into her panties, oozing like slime into the crotch of her jeans.

Realizing that Cindy's position face-down on the bed made it difficult to access her underwear, I delicately coaxed my sleeping wife onto her back. I intended just to unbutton her jeans and quickly reach my hand inside her panties, but when she showed no signs of waking, I became emboldened to take her jeans all the way off, which would allow her to sleep more comfortably while giving me a more fulsome opportunity to assuage my fears... or confirm them. The suspense ate at me.

With a trembling, clammy hand. I reached under the hem of Cindy's hand-stitched sweater to unbutton her jeans, pausing briefly to admire her phenomenal tits, standing firm on her chest even as she lay flat on her back. Then I carefully pulled the zipper down, causing her to mumble something incoherent. It sounded like she may have said, "Daddy," but I was too unnerved by my wife suddenly talking in her sleep to know for sure. It freaked me out. Cindy tried to roll over, but I managed to keep her on her back while I negotiated the cuffs of her jeans over her feet and began inching them down her legs.

I was aflutter with anxiety, wondering what I might find in my wife's panties. A tingling sensation radiated out from my perineum as I removed Cindy's jeans. Dread and desire held me firm in their grip. As I manipulated the jeans down her sculpted legs, my body began to feel foreign, like it wasn't mine, then I began to feel like I wasn't in a body at all. I couldn't feel my feet on the carpet and it had nothing to do with those warm socks I had on. I felt like I was floating up to the ceiling, looking down on my body -- and Cindy's -- below. The anticipation of what I might find inside her underwear was driving me out of head, almost literally.

I flung the jeans on the floor and looked down at my sleeping wife, only to be shocked by her exposed pubic mound. She was naked from the waist down. There was no cum in her panties because she hadn't been wearing any. Rocco must have kept them as a trophy, I thought, a tide of dark emotions stirring inside me once again.

I staggered out of the bedroom, leaving Cindy passed out on her back. For the second time tonight, she was wearing nothing but a sweater. I felt my head swimming as the unexpected discovery that Rocco had taken my wife's underwear flooded my mind with thoughts of everything else that he had taken from her -- taken from me. I needed to compose myself, but I was drowning in resentment. I could no longer stem the tide.

I stumbled downstairs on weak legs, barely able to stand under the weight of my jealousy. As a pediatric psychiatrist, Cindy is fond of telling her young patients that "comparison is the thief of joy," but I know better. Rocco Fucking Sarducci is the thief of joy. That human-shaped pile of shit stole everything that was supposed to remain sacred between a husband and wife. I couldn't stop comparing myself to him and the more I did, the more my envy curdled into bitterness.

Rocco had fucked my wife raw. Cindy takes birth control pills, so the risk of pregnancy is minimal, but that was cold comfort in my current state. I was so overcome with jealousy that I could feel it crawling across my skin, seeping into my pores, as I thought back to Rocco nonchalantly stepping out of the hot tub, unbothered as Cindy was doubled-over, gasping for breath, a slug of his cum leaking down her leg. That loathsome old reprobate shot his wad inside my wife, but she hasn't let me, her loving husband, fuck her bareback since before Sam was born. It has been a goddamn decade since I got my dick wet in my wife's pussy. Despite taking the pill, Cindy still insists that I wear a condom every time. "Belt and suspenders," she always says to me. I'm fucking pathetic.

As if to prove just how low I had sunk, my cock was uncomfortably erect in my pants, a rigid reminder that I'm not some poor schlub who caught his cheating wife in flagrante delicto. No, I'm the kind of man who gets off on that shit. The kind of man who watches as his wife gets roughed-up and double-teamed. The kind of man who spies on his wife through a peephole, rubbing his dick behind a fence. The kind of man who isn't a man at all.

I was more like some whacked out monkey at the zoo as I went into the bathroom to furiously beat my dick. Seeing my shaft disappear into my palm reminded me how small I am compared to Rocco. My wife could stack both hands on his manhood and he would still have an inch or two to spare. I sighed, but continued jerking off. It was joyless, shameful self-pleasure and I didn't last long -- yet another way in which I don't measure up to Rocco.

When I was finished, I wandered back into the living room, where once again I was alone with my thoughts. The post-nut clarity did nothing to improve my mood. If anything, it made me feel even worse. I was wallowing in misery as I reflected on all the ways that Rocco polluted my chaste wife and stole my prerogatives as a husband. The more I dwelled on the things Cindy had done for that man, but had never done for me, the more splenetic I grew.

Cindy had dressed up just for him, squeezing her huge jugs into his son Ricky's youth-sized Rockets jersey like it was a tiny cocktail dress, and wearing nothing underneath. She even gave Rocco a little spin to show off. Cindy never dresses up in a slutty outfit for me. I have begged her to go lingerie shopping, but she always refuses, saying she doesn't want to waste money on clothes that she'll only wear for a few minutes anyhow. Shit, if I ask her to leave her glasses on because I like that sexy librarian look, she rolls her eyes and tells me they're only for reading. She would never go pantyless for me. She says it's unsanitary and gross.

Before tonight, Cindy would surely have said the same thing about eating another woman's pussy. She certainly never expressed any interest in it. As a pretty blue-eyed blonde with a big smile and even bigger breasts, women have hit on her before, but she always declines. I remember one incident like it was yesterday, even though it happened fourteen years ago, before Sam was even born. Cindy and I were newlyweds, staying at the Wynn resort in Las Vegas. When we booked the suite, they comped us tickets to an exclusive invitation-only event at the nightclub, XS. The theme for the night was "slumber party" and exotic dancers dressed in skimpy pajama sets mingled with the crowd of high rollers and VIPs. One of the dancers, a smoking hot Asian chick wearing her jet-black hair in braided pigtails, tried to make out with Cindy on the dancefloor. Her wristband said she was over twenty-one, but her pajamas were meant for a young girl, judging by their small size and the cute ribbons and bows adorning them. The DJ was spinning "Only Girl (In the World)" by Rihanna and for one unforgettable moment, I thought I was about to live out my own personal Letter to Penthouse. I imagined myself smugly bragging to friends that "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." But my fantasy crashed and burned when Cindy shut the woman down and then dragged me out of the club with a disapproving scowl on her face. I didn't even get laid that night, let alone have a ménage a trois, and it was our fucking honeymoon.

I was spiraling as I recalled other episodes when Cindy denied my sexual needs. She rarely gives me a blowjob these days, even though that is the only way she allows me inside her without wearing a latex. I didn't even get a BJ on my birthday this year, which seems like the "new normal." Meanwhile, I watched my wife savor Rocco's big Italian sausage like it was giving her life.

While I stewed in self-loathing, I suddenly recalled one more thing that Cindy did for Rocco that she would never do for me: make a sex tape. At least that one, she didn't do knowingly. Bob had recorded her in secret on his cell phone while hidden inside Rocco's kitchen. Bob was in our circle of friends, so I planned to pay him a friendly little visit about that. I didn't blame him for making the recording. He probably just got caught up in the moment. I know I did. But I expected him to do the right thing and give me the video then delete his copy.

The thought of that video in someone else's hands soured my stomach. My wife is not some porn star, no matter how much her breasts make her look the part. She is a prim and proper lady. Cindy has never sent me so much as a bikini shot, let alone a picture of her naked tits -- and believe me, I have asked. I have begged. How could I not? My wife is blessed with incredible tits. They are firm, shapely, and no matter how much of her soft flesh I take in my hands, I can never get it all. The best part of her breasts is how they always get in her way, making it adorably difficult for her to do everyday tasks without squishing them together or sticking them out. But Cindy would never take a topless photo for me. She always tries to draw attention away from her breasts -- it is her own personal Mission Impossible.

With years of experience at dressing to disappoint the hopes of ogling men, Cindy has grown adept at the art of concealing her prominent chest. She usually prefers baggy sweaters, oversized, square-shouldered jackets or loose-fitting blouses that leave her cantaloupe-sized tits hidden beneath the flowy fabric. On rare occasions, she will wear a tight turtleneck, which accentuates the slope and swell of those magnificent beauties, but she almost never shows skin. Her signature style is to wear a high-necked top that does not offer even a hint of cleavage. Of course, the fact that she almost always keeps her bountiful breasts covered up only adds to their allure. Cindy once caught me snapping a pic while she was sunbathing and she made me delete it. "My breasts are for nursing our son, not your entertainment," she had scolded me.

Remembering times like that when my wife had deprived me of her body, only to let Rocco have his way with her, dragged me deeper into depression. Forbidden fruit tastes twice as sweet -- until you find yourself watching someone else eat it. I slumped to the floor, my back against the cool painted surface of a wall, and cradled my head in my hands. I never really understood the phrase "sick with envy," but that is exactly what I became. I was so bitterly jealous that I felt physically ill.

As I huddled there on the floor, nauseous and defeated, with no one to comfort me, I realized just how isolated and alone I really am. It is easy to think you know what that kind of loneliness feels like, but when you're truly all alone, delivered into the fullness of your solitude, it is almost unbearable. I was married, but after seeing Rocco fuck my wife into unfaithful oblivion, I felt profoundly alone in my marriage. Hell isn't other people; it is losing them.

How many hours I spent in that malaise, I can't say, but eventually I must have succumbed to sleep because I woke up on the couch early the next morning. The house was quiet. Sam slept over at his friend TJ's last night. Cindy was presumably still in bed.

Making my way into the kitchen, I turned on the Lavazza, dropped a double espresso pod into the machine and made my selection before casting my weary gaze on the wall calendar. After eight months, Sam had just completed his first regular season with the Rockets and the playoffs were about to drop puck next weekend. No wonder I'm tired. Youth hockey is a demanding mistress. Looking a little bit ahead, I was reminded that Sam also has the Peewee Classic coming up, a weekend-long tournament in Lake Placid, which is a four-hour drive. My eyes involuntarily rolled as I turned to check on the state of my morning macchiato.

I had just finished adding the caramel to my drink, when I heard footsteps upstairs. That dark, frothy tide of emotions began to stir inside me once again. I tried to keep my wounded feelings under control, but they were far too powerful. By the time Cindy padded into the kitchen wearing slippers and a bathrobe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, I could feel the undertow pulling me down, making me lose my emotional bearings. I felt like a diver with the bends.

Before I even knew what I was doing, poisonous words flew from my lips. I didn't even say good morning. I just launched into a tirade, saying things that I have never said to my wife in all our years of marriage. I called her some of the same vile names that Rocco had called her. Cindy just stood there in her adorable, overstuffed slippers while the man she married hurled obscenities at her. I haven't seen a look of shock like that on my wife's face since... well, fuck, never mind when. Once my bile began flowing, I erupted, and like lava, my long-suppressed resentments spewed forth, leaving a trail of destruction behind them.

I worked myself into a deranged lather as I continued ranting at my wife. I reminded myself of a liquored-up Jack Torrance in The Shining. But Cindy is not one to meekly accept my scorn, like some weak, bug-eyed Wendy. Just like our son, a goal-scoring defenseman, my wife knows that sometimes the best defense is a good offense. She didn't just absorb my verbal attacks; she fought back. Knives out.

"And just how do you know that I fucked Rocco last night?" Cindy asked archly, not trying to deny it. Her tone sounded vaguely playful, but it turned caustic when she answered that question with another. "Perhaps it is because you watched the whole thing from behind the fence like a fucking pussy?"

The air seeped out of my lungs. Suddenly, I was struggling to breathe. Hearing my priggish wife call me a "pussy" felt like a kick to the solar plexus. She wasn't done.

As I stammered out an excuse, Cindy just cut me off. "What a load of absolute rubbish!" she spat at me before I could even finish. "You were just standing by letting it all happen! Any husband worth his salt would have stepped in to protect his wife! Did it ever occur to you that I got fucked by another man because my husband didn't have the balls to stop it?"

Cindy fixed her gaze on me, glaring through narrowed lids as if to diminish me with her eyes as well as her words. My face was hot with embarrassment as I sputtered excuses, explaining how shocked I had been by the scene unfolding in front of me, but Cindy was having none of it. I saw anger flash in her eyes as she continued cutting me down.

"Oh you were shocked were you?" Cindy asked mockingly, her upper lip curled in disdain. "Then just why was the car parked down the street, Michael? Why was the car parked down the street?"

Fuck! She knew.