This is based on a real incident from the past, embellished a little. Well, maybe more than a little. Okay, a lot. And the technology in the story is updated so that she can talk to me on her wireless earphone. She actually used to use a wired one with an old cell phone, but that was clumsier, and, hey, we can adopt modern technology for the purpose of clarity. This was all quite a few years ago.
Names have been changed. And of course, though her lover is known by his initials in this account, she called him by his real name, in conversation and in the heat of passion.
If you don't like sharing-wife stores, stop reading now and go somewhere else.
*****
My wife was off at a convention in New York. She had permission to play. She always has my encouragement to play and enjoy herself, so long as she's careful. We discussed this clearly. "Just be careful, Sweetie. Condoms, of course. Call me regularly to tell me where you are and with whom. And make sure he knows that you called me." A city girl's purse contains both condoms and pepper spray.
She called from a bar, told me that she was with a guy. But, surprise surprise, not just any guy. This was M, the infamous M, whom she had a long, intense affair with some years ago. It was before we were married, so not strictly speaking infidelity. We were dating seriously, but we worked in different cities and carried on a long-distance relationship. We both had our dalliances during those years, some short-term, some long-term. But this one that she had with M was very intense and very public. She was my girlfriend for all intents and purposes, but she was seeing - and screwing - this guy much more often than she was me. She was with him all week and with me only some weekends when one of us could travel.
It wasn't just a dalliance with him; it was a full-blown affair. Two years. They worked in the same marketing company in New York. She was just starting out; he was senior. She was single; he was married. She was young; he was ten years older. An old story, oft repeated. Many or most of the people they worked with knew it was going on, though they tried not to do anything in the office. Everyone suspected. Eventually someone saw them out together, long after working hours, holding hands and mooning over each other in an obscure little restaurant, so everyone's suspicions were confirmed.
I knew about it. She told me some of the particularly erotic incidents as part of our sex play. Made me crazy. Crazy hot. I loved hearing that she was getting laid. I just didn't know how serious it was getting. When she told me how he held her, and felt her, and fondled her, and worked his way under her clothing - a lot of it in public - and then went to a hotel and fucked her brains out, I would get hotter than a pistol. I loved hearing how he was all over her sexually, and how it turned her on to be fondled sort of secretly but sort of in public, and how when she was really turned on they would barely make it back to the hotel room before shedding just enough clothes to screw. Then after their first release, they would get naked and loll and play and suck and fuck for hours. She didn't tell me to torture me. She told me to turn me on. It was our version of phone sex, and a turn on whenever we could get together.
Oh, how I wanted to be there with her to do that to her. In addition to him? Instead of him? Alas, neither of us was willing to change jobs and move, until we finally decided to get married several years later.
Back to today. So she called him up to see if they could get back together for a day. Better him than a stranger, she said.
Then came another surprise. She was using her new little wireless earpiece, which is completely hidden by her hair. She will keep it on so that I can hear everything that she says, even if she whispers, and anything that he says close enough to her, everything that goes on. He was right there, listening to her talk, but he couldn't hear what I said to her.
Just for security, she read me his full driver's license and business card. And a couple credit cards to boot. And told him that I was recording the entire "adventure." So no hanky-panky that leaves marks, just good, honest fooling around, kinky sport fucking, whatever turns her on.
"Do you understand, M, my husband is on the line here. He can hear everything we say and do. He wants to hear me play around, and I want him to hear me. We can do anything we want. Like we used to. Just know that he wants to hear everything, and I'm going to be giving him a running commentary on our . . . activities. Don't let it distract you from the evening's fun."
Then to me: "Like right now, honey, M has his hand on my leg. . . . He's looking at me incredulously." To him: "I told you I was going to tell my husband everything. Don't let it bother you."
"We've been kissing a lot, and I think we should continue."
There was the sound of kissing and moaning for a minute. She came up for air. "Ooh, that was very nice, M. You always did kiss really well. And I especially enjoy your hand on my breast."
"Honey, he's feeling up your wife again, his hands are all over my breasts, is that okay?"
"You're sitting in a bar, in public, kissing him, with his hand on your boobs?"
"Oh, this bar is amazing. No one can see anything here. This place must have been designed for the express purpose of assignation and seduction. It's almost completely dark. I've told you about this place before. There are small circular booths, only big enough for two to spread out, or maybe for four *really* close friends. The booths are very close together, but you can't see from one to another. There are curtains of glass beads between the booths, lighted from the top. Makes a great intimate but opaque curtain. That's the only light in the place, so there's a little light inside the booth, but you can't see through to next door. And there's enough noise and background music that you can't really hear from one to the next, either. There's a gap where the waitresses deliver drinks, but you can't see into any other booths because of the layout. It's incredibly seductive."
"What are you wearing? Can you hide his hands on you?
"What am I wearing? My blue suit, you know, the good one: jacket, straight skirt that's really tight, white blouse. Vanilla underwear. Pantyhose, nice Lycra ones, cool and silky. Just business dressy, nothing especially seductive. But no need to hide anything in this place, except maybe actual skin. A little touchy-feely? That's happening in every booth. That's the purpose of this place, I think."
"Oh, M, your hand is on my thigh. That's a little familiar, don't you think? You like the material of this dress? The lining makes it slide so easily against my slippery stockings, doesn't it? See how the skirt goes up and down smoothly like that?"
"Oh, honey, he's nuzzling my neck, and he's running his hand is under my dress, on my leg. I think he wants to feel inside my thigh. I think this is going too far."
She's taunting me. She always does that in her stories of old lovers. Tells me how much bigger they are, how much hunkier, how much harder and deeper they plow her, and how much she loves it. The last one is true for sure. She does love being pawed and manhandled and penetrated and fucked silly by new guys. In this case, now a live lover not just a memory, it's a guy she was with before, but sort of a new guy that she hasn't seen (that I know of!) in fifteen years.
So she taunts me, will taunt me, it's just starting. I think she does it to inflate the ego - and dick - of the lover she's with, to make him pound her harder, and to inflame my lust by feeding our fantasies about her being plowed by super-lovers. About their huge members going deeper into her than I ever could. Deeper and wider, filling her up more than I ever could. And banging her harder and faster than I ever could. And spraying tons of cum into her and all over her. This sort of exaggerated sex talk excites the hell out of both of us. She gets to think and feel and scream her passion, and I get to wonder and cringe, just how much of it is true: how much bigger his cock is than my average one, how much harder she comes on his cock than on mine, how much she wants to take his cum inside her and have it overflow down her crack, and how she loves to feel it drip down her legs when she walks after being royally fucked, how she likes other people to see it all shiny on her thighs, oozing below her skirt, down to her knees, as she walks through the hotel back to her room, or even down the street on his arm. Oh, god, that turns me on so much to think of her being that openly slutty, hypersexual, oh fuck me fuck me big boy stick that thing in my hole and plow me 'til I scream. That's my baby. She likes to scream it, and I like to hear it and see it. Nothing excites me more than having her turn into a sex-crazed animal wanting to be penetrated and cry her orgasm!
Her lover doesn't know if she's acting, either. It drives him nuts to fuck another man's wife like that, she's so passionate and vocal and appreciative. She yells it in his ear and it drives him wild. If it makes him more hunger for her, that's a great thing. But miles away, I don't know how much she's acting, if he really is fucking her better than I do, or ever did. I don't know how much bigger and harder his dick is, how much better he uses it, how much deeper he gets. I sure can hear how much louder she comes and yells and breathes, and how much she begs to be filled up with cock and cum. It makes me incredibly hard and hot on the other end of that phone line. We both have lots of fun in our ways.
