They dug the hole in February, the metal framework went up in March, the cement work went on by April Fools Day, and our pool was finished the second week of April. The water took two weeks to clear, and we using it by the first of May. We were as excited as the kids, and looked forward to pool parties for the rest of the summer, "best summer of our lives".
May 5th Claire put an ad in the local paper and a flyer at the Laundromat for someone to teach the kids to swim in our own backyard pool. Four days later she hired a swimming instructor after interviewing a handful of applicants, mostly old ladies and high school swim team members. It was her project and since I worked during the week I pretty much let her have her head on the whole show. She settled on a local swim coach who was off for the summer, then she generously offered our pool for him to give lessons to kids from the neighborhood.
I hadn't met Coach Jake when the lessons began, but you can bet I had heard all about him by the time they did, from Claire, the ladies of the neighborhood, and the kids. She called me one day at work to say she had found the "perfect" swimming teacher, and that he had years of experience and great referrals. She didn't mention great pecks and a tiny swimsuit, wide shoulders, or washboard abs, but the kids needed to learn to swim, at least be pool-safe, so I was glad she took the initiative and tried to sound thrilled when she told me who she'd hired to teach our kids in our own pool. He had good credentials, but many of the blue-ribbon references were from the horny ladies around the neighborhood who gazed longingly at any unattached guy with a pulse, and Coach Jake certainly had a pulse.
He stands six foot three, with well-defined "swimmers" muscles, blond hair, broad shoulders, abs as flat as that proverbial washboard, and a winning smile that I honestly think was what really sold my wife. He is a water polo and swim team coach at the local college and that grin seems to melt the heart of any horny hausfrau with a sagging libido and a big imagination, like most of the wives who live within the sound of splashing from our pool. We got really popular when the pool went in, but our popularity increased incrementally when Claire hire Coach Jake, especially with the ladies for blocks around our house.
Did I worry about a pool-side exercise program going on between my wife and the hunky swim teacher? Was I concerned that in-between classes there might be some indoor gymnastics carried on with the instructor and the lady of the house. I sure the hell was, but what was I to do, voice those masculine insecurities to the stay-at-home mom I am married to? Not on your life. I may be a dumb-ass husband, but I am not totally stupid.
When Claire informed me that she had offered our pool for some of Coach Jake's other lessons and an afternoon Red Cross Water Safety Instructor course, I realized hunky Jake would be at our house nearly all day long for four days a week. As each class would end, it meant hunky Coach Jake would be there, alone with my wife, wearing only a tiny Speedo and a sexy smile. Holy shit.
She declared, with some irritation, that other ladies started showing up and staying during their kids' classes to watch Jake strut his stuff around the pool deck, flexing and moving his arms as he implored six year olds to "kick and pull". When he actually got in the water with the younger kids, Claire told me the other ladies moved to the edge of the pool "to get a better look". "They're so damned obvious," she protested. I wondered if what she meant was that she ogled as well, surreptitiously.
It seemed not to occur to her that I could be intimidated by her being there all day with a virile male who was wearing nothing but the slightest covering over his extremely ample attributes, which she slipped up and mentioned one weekend.
By the third week the lessons went to five days a week and my wife and her swim teacher were together a total of 30 hours every five days. That was, actually, more "quality time" with her than I had over the same amount of time, especially for the many minutes in between classes with kids there. In other words, Hunky Jake was alone with my wife more than I was and he was close to being naked the whole time.
Was she destined to have an affair with the swim teacher? You tell me. Her mood got really high after a day with Mr. Aquatics. She talked about him incessantly each night at dinner, telling me about every little thing he said, did during the day to "bring out the best" in each wet and whining student, and every swimming award he'd won. I heard about his water polo games, his philosophy on teaching kids to swim, his parents, his athletic accomplishments, his high school girl friend, and how he got into water sports. I remembered, as she rambled on about that, what we, back in college, referred to as water sports. My god, he's not going to get her into Golden Showers is he?
It was during the second month that I became convinced that the swim coach was bonking my wife between lessons. There had been some cancellations, so they had time to "kill" between group and private lessons and one of the mothers came over but found no one around the pool. She came by my work and asked me if the lessons had been canceled. When I got home I noticed the bed had been made, which is not so uncommon, but everything had been changed, spread, sheets, and pillow cases. In itself, that wasn't so strange, but the sheet in the washing machine had a huge wet spot and the pillow cases smelled of perspiration and chlorine. Was I being paranoid? Well, it didn't stop there. My wife's sexiest bikini was also in the wash, wet, of course. I even smelled the crotch and you guessed it, it had the unmistakable odor of arousal. It could have just been the smell of my wife's pussy, but I was really paranoid by that time.
This is not a letter from some depraved husband who has the hots to watch his wife fucking other dudes, not even close. I hate the thought of her even admiring other guys, but I'm realistic enough to know women do notice good looking men just like we drool over hot chicks. I blush to admit I engage in what I call fantasy-fucks at the mall and crowded events where I imagine all kinds of scenarios when I see attractive women. I visualize them without underwear, or flashing me some pussy, or just imagine them with my cock between their gums, so I know women probably do the same. Even Claire probably does, I reluctantly concede.
But this is a letter from one insecure asshole who feared the swimming instructor was at this asshole's home bonking my wife, doing more in the backyard pool than teaching the crawl stroke to kiddies. Each day at work I experienced cold sweats in fear the swim teacher was doing the breast stroke in my bedroom, fucking my wife instead of resting between lessons with the kids. Not that she gave the impression she hungered for pool-hunks or a little "stuff on the side," but my god, they were there alone all the damn day, at least after each covey of kids left.
Even as a mother of two kids, Claire is still one of the hottest women I know. I have to admit she's far sexier, way better looking, and a whole lot hotter than I have any right to expect. To be attractive to a woman like that is far beyond what I deserve. For some reason, however, she married me, and now I'm afraid she wants to fuck the teacher she hired. My friends all drool over Claire, although only a few of them have admitted it. I've known that since the start, and I figure a hunky water polo coach would certainly be tempted spending all day alone with a woman like Claire, that sexy, that horny, and that available. With them both wandering around the pool with very little on, the opportunities are simply staggering.
She wore white shorts and a modest blouse the first few times he came to the pool for lessons, but the bikini in the washer makes it clear she's choosing other "outfits". Now she wears tiny, sexy, hormone-generating bikinis that look so fucking good on her that no man, especially a studly young water polo coach, could resist putting the move on a woman parading her barely covered pussy in front of him all summer.
Unable to think of anything other than what Claire and Coach Jake might be home doing in my backyard or my empty house, on my handy bed, I still was not about to sneak home and peek over the fence or in the window like some freak, like the husbands in erotic stories in magazines, so I did the next worst thing.
After having endured the torture for nearly two months of the summer, I asked a friend of mine to spy on them, to stop by and take a look, to see if everything was peachy keen. Of course, I told him to pretend to get something at the house for me, but then added that he should come in through the house to see if the water polo coach was doing anything he shouldn't be either out at the pool or in the empty house. Our kids lessons were over, they were off for two weeks visiting Claire's mom and dad in Utah, so in-between classes they didn't even have our kids to worry about. I already had enough to fret over with her being with him all day, every day, but the fact the kids were gone gave me plenty more to worry about.
Having Barry "drop by" to pick up some papers for me, and check things out, was one of the most stupid fucking things I've ever done. First off, he didn't find any fucking going on, but he sure went ballistic about there being a studly guy with my wife all day doing "touchy-feely" things around the pool when my kids were away. "Touchy-feely?," I said. "They're doing touchy-feely things?" He said elaborate, or see any touching, not when he was there, but he asked what did I think they'd do when no one was around to supervise.
"Didn't you go in through the front like I told you?" I shouted.
"It was locked," he replied with a shrug, "but I didn't want to get caught sneaking into somebody's house."
