I had a lot of fun writing this. It's not a true story, though my wife's tastes and preferences did inspire much of its detail. She is in fact a far naughtier and more adventurous woman than Alison. And I can tell you right now that it doesn't end with some weak husband drooling as he watches his loving wife being used and abused by a stranger, so don't pre-judge! But do, please enjoy it and if you do, go right ahead and tell me what you liked or even what you disliked. I like to think I do this for like-minded people and I'm always open to improving what I can offer. It's rather long again, so I'm posting the first half now -- if you have any cool ideas for where it goes I'll try to include them, but give me a couple of weeks to finish, OK? Thanks...
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Chapter 1
Alison had arrived home ten minutes after him, rattling the walls as she slammed the heavy front door behind her. John was in their brand new kitchen, its glass and granite gleaming under a dozen spotlights, but the rest of the house was still dark. No kids, no TV, nothing to break the ominous silence that followed.
He picked up a freshly poured glass of red from the worktop and walked slowly towards the hall. Alison was standing there, a raincoat unbuttoned over her blue, midwife uniform, arms straight by her side and completely white-faced. She was staring straight at him and trembling from head to toe with what appeared to be rage and indignation.
John held out his glass of wine to her, saying nothing. Not yet. If twenty-five years of marriage had taught him anything, it was that when his wife had something to say, she only ever told him when she was good and ready. That could take weeks, months... or it could take seconds. Alison ignored the glass pointedly, her eyes still fixed on his, tensed and tight-lipped as she struggled and failed to find words. John gave in as he always did; "OK, come on... What is it? What's wrong?"
"Everything. Every fucking thing is wrong actually!"
She strode right past him towards the kitchen, heels clicking aggressively on the polished boards. He heard her bag hurled into its usual corner, the sound of a cupboard flung open and the rattle of glass. He followed, finding her sloshing half a bottle of Rioja into one of their bigger glasses.
"Come on hun -- don't you think we should talk before you finish the whole bottle... What's happened?"
She was already halfway through the glass and refilling.
"IT's happened, that's what! 'IT' being exactly what I said would happen... IT being the result of you and your stupid ideas. IT being my worst... fucking... nightmare.
Her eyes were wide and angry, but now brimming with fat tears. As the first tumbled down her cheek she produced a plain white envelope from her raincoat pocket, thrust it at him and spun away, heading for the stairs. John sipped at his own drink as he counted her heavy steps all the way up, then another three across the landing followed by yet another slammed door.
He turned the envelope over. It was addressed to Alison at Mayday General, the hospital where she worked, in neat, felt tip capitals. Inside were two folded A4 sheets, the first bearing a short, typed paragraph;
'Very nice photos Ali. I particularly like the ones that show your face -- there's something so intimate about the way a woman looks just at that special moment and it was sweet of you to share. But then every pic interested me so much, each in its own way. And as for the video... well, John's a lucky man -- please send him my regards won't you?
Dx
PS. Love your Facebook photo too!'
John sighed deeply. He now knew exactly what the second page would be.
Chapt 2
It had been a couple of months back. They had somehow got through a particularly rocky patch in their marriage that took them closer to the brink than they ever imagined possible. It wouldn't have been too hard to let it happen -- the kids had both turned twenty and were away at university, eager to build their own lives. They both had good jobs, separate interests and plenty of friends. But neither of them could face being drained by the pain and effort of it all.
After a disastrous series of meetings with an incompetent counsellor, they decided on a last-minute, last-ditch holiday in Crete, renting a small, remote villa just above a wind-swept beach on the south coast. With their own pool, a kitchen stocked with good food, a ton of booze and time to kill, they slowly remembered how to relax and finally began not just to talk again but also to rediscover how much sex still meant to them both.
Their first twenty years of marriage had certainly been full of it. And it had just got better and better as the years went by. Before things fell apart it had evolved into rather less frequent but far more intense sessions that would happen pretty much any time the kids were away on weekends, often in cheap, out of the way hotels that they found illicit and exciting.
In Crete, ignoring the ravages of middle-age and the ghostly pallor of their London bodies they had spent days on end naked. They had showered together, rubbed sunscreen into each other, spent hours chatting as they lay by the pool. And they had fucked each other with all the pent up vigour of five, virtually celibate years -- in bed, in the pool, even on the balcony overlooking the beach and its straggling population of lobster-red tourists.
They had got back on a Friday night, tanned, happy and exhausted. That Saturday John had suggested a day in the West End -- a long lunch followed by a few drinks and some shopping that ended in an upmarket lingerie store. Finally, what with Alison having admitted one drunken night in Crete that she had worn out her only vibrator months back, they wound up in a Soho sex shop, choosing two very upmarket toys. That night back at the villa they had made do -- quite happily -- with a couple of large, Greek courgettes.
Alison finished unpacking their cases while John sat down at the PC to load up their holiday photos. They had taken a few of each other naked at the villa -- mostly tame pics around the pool. But on several occasions, in the early hours after especially boozy nights, they had reached for the camera mid session. He hadn't checked since and wasn't entirely sure what they'd managed to capture.
He skipped past the views of cliffs and ruins and sunsets to the first photo -- on their fifth night there he had caught her languidly sucking his cock out on the balcony under a full moon. She'd spotted him and batted the camera away, but not before he'd got a pretty good shot. Her hair had fallen across her face but her lips were sharply in focus, wrapped around the head of his cock having left a shining, wet trail along its entire length.
He was smiling broadly at the screen when she came up behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. She looked closely, tilting her head; "Wow... that's actually a great shot... I mean, we both look... I dunno... "
John knew; "Pretty damn good?"
"Well... yes we do." She giggled and leaned closer. "Wow... wonder what the others are like..."
Chapter 3
John crossed the landing and opened the bedroom door. She was sobbing quietly, stretched out face down on their bed. He sat next to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. She tensed but he left it there.
"Come on Ali... OK, this is awful... at least it could be... But we need to deal with the facts. The recriminations can wait. Do we know who sent this?"
