tagLoving WivesDawn In The Dark Ch. 02

Dawn In The Dark Ch. 02

byGale82©

Introduction:

If you're looking for loads of sexual action, then this may not be to your taste.

There is, however, the introduction of a character from another of my stories - her name is Annabelle an I intend writing more of her adventures eventually - but not in Loving Wives.


**

It was just after midnight and I was feeling old. All around me, people were dancing, drinking, laughing and having a great time -- and all I wanted to do was to go home to bed.

Unfortunately, one of the people having such a great time was Harry, my husband and I didn't want to spoil his enjoyment. The last time he'd tried to get me up for yet another dance, I'd told him that my feet were sore and my shoes were pinching my feet (which is something men will always believe). He'd asked me if I wanted to go home but I'd smiled, told him I was quite happy to just nurse my drink, listen to the music and watch the dancers. And then, almost before I'd finished speaking, Annabelle had whisked him away onto the dance floor.

From that moment on, I'd kept a very wary eye on him. Even though Annabelle was in a relationship with Harry's business partner, Morton, I wouldn't have trusted her any further than I could reach to scratch her eyes out.

I lost sight of them a couple of times, never for more than a few seconds, but I did see her trying to get a lot closer to my husband as they danced. Fortunately (for both of them!), I saw him quickly move back from any 'danger area' and, when the slow numbers started, he had the good sense to come back to our table and slump down beside me.

Annabelle was clearly disappointed and tried to beg one last dance, but Harry insisted he was worn out. "We're both tired, Annabelle," I told her, "We're just going to finish our drinks and then we're heading for home."

"But the party's moving back to our place," she almost wailed, "You can't drop out yet! It's still early and...."

"Sorry, Annabelle," I started to say

"My friends call me Anna," she reminded me.

"... but we've got an early start tomorrow," I finished, as if I hadn't heard the interruption. When she opened her mouth to speak again, I quietly insisted; "Sorry, Annabelle."

A look passed between us; one of those looks that only women can produce or hope to understand. We each gave a facetious smile, then she bid us farewell and headed off in search of Morton. I looked at Harry and he raised his eyebrow with a crooked grin. Then I did the same, and he said; "Another glass of wine? Or would you prefer a saucer of milk?"

He wasn't annoyed; more amused, especially when I tried to play the innocent and pretend I didn't understand what he was saying. He was well aware of my feelings about Annabelle, although he did his best to keep the peace.

I'd been introduced to her shortly after she and Morton first got together. I was told that she'd been 'in films,' but I later learned that she'd only worked as an extra. She was also a widow. Her late husband had apparently been many years her senior and he'd left her a small fortune. None of which was any cause to dislike her. In fact, she was bubbly, attractive and obviously intelligent but (call it feminine instinct if you must), I recognised a predator when I saw one.

It was she, via Morton, who'd directed my husband's attention to a website that had caused some disagreement between us. It was called 'Literotica,' and Harry thought that it was a lot of fun.

Just after we'd sorted a problem we'd been having, about lovers from the time before we'd met, Harry told me about it and recommended having a look at it.

I found that it was a large and well-established site -- obviously aimed at an adult audience -- on which people with varying degrees of ability wrote stories that were, for the most part, designed to be erotic. I had to agree that it was strangely compulsive, and it was good that the stories were sorted into categories. At least it meant I didn't stumble into ones that were based around BDSM, incest or gay males. To begin with, I read a number of 'Erotic Encounters'; some good, some poor and some awful. Then I tried 'Romance,' with pretty much the same results.

Okay, it was interesting (and some of the stories did give me a bit of a 'tingle), but I couldn't really understand what all the fuss was about. Until Harry told me I was reading the wrong sections!

"The fun one is 'Loving Wives,' Hon," he told me one Saturday morning, "you should take a look through that one."

I remember that day particularly well because he had to spend time at a very large new site where the groundworks were just beginning. If all went well it would mean a lot of work -- possibly 2 or 3 years' worth -- and, with individual sites being pre-sold to build luxury homes, a more than decent income from the very start.

In order to protect the initial influx of capital, I'd formed a dormant offshore company in my own name so it wouldn't be shredded by income tax (both Harry and Morton were happy with that), and we were confident that a pretty decent reward was coming our way over the next few years. So I was quite excited about the prospect of this new venture -- but not enough to spend a Saturday donning wellies and trudging around a muddy field. That was the kind of thing best left to the men. Instead, I took my laptop up to the bedroom, checked the national and local news, then decided to take another look at what I'd come to think of as 'Annabelle's site.'

Perhaps I was being a bit naïve, but I think I'd expected tales of wives indulging their husbands by dressing up, indulging in role play and experimenting with new ways of turning their men on. What I hadn't expected was that most of the stories seemed to be about wives having extra-marital affairs -- often with the consent, or even encouragement, of their partners. I was staggered! I mean, I realised that they were (at least for the most part) just fantasies, but I couldn't understand why so many men seemed to share them. I also realised, of course, that most of the stories were written by men -- even many that claimed to be written by a sex-mad wife -- so I did a Google search and quickly found that wife watching -- or sharing, as some called it -- was one of the commonest male fantasies.

It raised a load of questions in my mind. The first was; why did such females get married in the first place if they weren't happy being with one man? I mean, make no mistake about this, I was helplessly in love with Harry; I never wanted to be with anyone else. He was my lover, sharer of my secrets, best and most trusted friend -- everything. And my ambition was to help him be as successful as he wanted to be, to have his children and to love, care and look after him for the rest of our lives. Everything else was incidental.

Which brought to me my second question: Why was he apparently so fascinated by these stories -- and why had the predator and her sleazy mate directed him (or should I say 'us'?) towards them?

It may be that I overreacted but, by the time he came home, I was ready to give him the third degree and, believe me, I did! My initial feeling was that he wanted to get into Annabelle's knickers. No, strike that! Getting into her knickers would probably be as difficult as opening a well-oiled, unlocked door!

My timing was probably not the best. Harry was cold, wet and tired by the time he came home and certainly not in the mood for the grilling that I gave him. At first, as we ate the meal I'd prepared, it wasn't too bad. I told him I'd read a load of the 'Loving Wives' stories and his tiredness seemed to disappear as he asked me which ones? What did I think of them? Did I have any favourites?

I waited for him to finish and then, in pretty cold terms, told him they were mostly sick fantasies. As far as I was concerned, they were of two basic types: sex mad wives married to pathetic and inadequate husbands who happily defiled the whole concept of marriage, or the same kind of wives married to self-congratulatory 'macho' husbands who never failed to exact a perfect revenge for such betrayals and almost immediately find a perfect, almost saintly, new partner.

"They're just about ordinary people having fun, Dawn," he protested, the tiredness returning to his voice. I noticed, though, that he was looking down at his plate rather than meeting my gaze.

"Yes... I read one or two like that," I admitted, "...stories about couples who found new ways to spice up their relationship without involving other people. I enjoyed those ones. They were fun. But the ones about people cheating on their partners... or enjoying having their partners do that... I found them a complete and turn-off! Does that upset you, Harry?"

"No... of course it doesn't!" He said quickly - much too quickly - adding, "I mean... they're just stories, Hon. It's like you said... they're fantasies... a bit of fun. I thought we could... well... y'know... maybe, sort of... use them."

"I see!" I answered, and if my voice had been a bit cold up until then, it was now liquid hydrogen. "So you want me to pretend I'm with someone else while I'm having sex with you? Is that it? Or do you want to pretend that I'm someone else? Which is it, Harry, because a lot of those stories seem to start that way and then develop into something more. Is that what you want? Are you hoping I'll become so wrapped up in the idea that I'll eventually try it for real?"

"It's not like that...." He stammered the words, but I could see the guilt written on his face. I could also see the impatience that was beginning to turn to anger.

"Good! Because it's never going to happen! I married a man, Harry! I married someone I wanted to be with for the rest of my life... I would never tolerate someone who wants his wife to have sex with other men! And if I'm not enough for you, then just tell me and I'll pack my bags and leave!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he yelled, standing up and sweeping his plate and what was left on it from the table. "Why can't you just lighten up? Millions of people have fantasies. And if they have a good relationship they share them and they enjoy them. Why do you have to get so fuckin' hung up about it?"

"Oh... so it's all my fault, is it?" I almost screamed as I stood up and faced him. "Nothing at all to do with ideas being put in your head by your depraved pal and his cheap tart then is it?"

I was fighting back tears with every word, but I was determined not to let go. We've never had many rows and this was probably the worst so far, and it was certainly the first where he'd ever turned on his heel, grabbed his coat, and walked out.

"I'm going to the pub... to get some peace!" he snapped.

"Great!" I snapped back as I followed him down the hallway, "I'll invite a few blokes over while you're gone shall I? Any preference for numbers? Black? White? A few of each, maybe? Should I add a lesbian or...?"

But that was then the front door slammed behind him. I was left on my own, and the tears had tumbled helplessly down my face.

He came home a little over two hours later, reeking of booze and staggering slightly, but not a word was spoken. In fact, we didn't speak for a couple of days and, even at work, there had been a definite chill. Morton, of course, came into the office acting the part of a concerned friend. He was probably disappointed to find that the stories of an angry wife slipping into the arms of a sympathetic friend were just that... stories. I didn't actually tell him to 'piss off,' but I'm pretty sure he got the message.

Gradually, of course, things quietened down. Harry and I started by being civil to one another, and then began to find things to laugh at together, until finally we were expressing our love for another. The only unfortunate thing was that, just as we'd both swallowed enough of our pride to apologise for the way we'd behaved, my period prevented us from sealing our 'rehabilitation' properly.

Which brings me back (at last), to the night we ducked out of the partying to celebrate Annabelle and Morton's engagement. To be fair, we did have things to do the following day -- we were heading off for a four-day break in Scotland -- but an early start wasn't on the agenda as we were driving to our destination.

As soon as we'd finished saying our farewells to the revellers (well, shouted them to be heard above the din!) and stepped out into the cool night air, I told Harry;

"Oh... by the way... my period's over... so you're free to fuck the living daylights out of me tonight if you want to!"

The way his mouth opened in surprise made me laugh (he wasn't used to hearing language like that from me) and, before he had time to recover, I was at the edge of the pavement trying to flag a taxi. Two of them sped by without even seeming to notice me so, just as Harry joined me, I continued to flag with one hand while I raised my skirt to reveal a lot of thigh with the other. Almost immediately, a cab screeched to a halt beside us!

We were giggling like a couple of kids as we tumbled into the back seat -- and even more so when the cabbie grinned at me and said: "Bloody, hell, Love! With legs as good as that you could stop an invading army in its tracks!"

"Why, thank you, kind sir," I finally managed between giggles, "And would you be so good as to convey us to our mansion?" And I gave him the address.

It was only a fifteen minute drive, but it was a lot of fun. Harry joined in the banter by using a ridiculously posh voice to apologise that 'her ladyship' may have imbibed a glass too many of liquid refreshment. The banter between the three of us continued all the way home, the taxi driver seeming to almost enjoy it as much as we did. I say 'almost' because we had an additional pleasure as Harry slid a hand between my thighs to gently stroke and tease me with his fingers, while I had the pleasure of exploring the hardness I found lurking beneath the front of his trousers.

When we reached our house, I said goodnight to the cabbie as Harry was paying the fare and I dashed to the front door to get out of the drizzling rain and, when my husband eventually caught up with me and slipped his key into the lock, I asked what had taken so long.

"Well... the cabbie was asking if there were many still left in the disco," Harry explained, "but I think it was really just an excuse to gaze at your ass as you walked up the path!"

That was my turn for a jaw-drop moment; but I recovered quickly: "A dirty old man, then?" I said.

"He's younger than me," Harry answered.

"Mmmm... better looking, too," I teased as I reached for the light switch -- then squealed as harry put his hands on either side of my waist and squeezed.

"Shame on you!" he laughed as I tried frantically to wriggle free (I am extremely ticklish!), "And you a married woman!" he added as he released me and our arms snaked around each other.

"You're quite right," I teased, "In fact, I think you'd better hurry up if you're going to take me upstairs and fuck me before my husband gets home!"

Now this, I should explain, had nothing whatsoever to do with the fantasies on Literotica. This was something we'd often done in the past. After a night out together, one or other of us would suddenly begin to pretend that we were getting together for the first time. There was never any suggestion of being with anyone else; we were always ourselves. There were times when it worked so well that it was almost as if we were making love for the very first time -- as we'd both confirmed afterwards. It wasn't freaky or perverted; it just added a little frisson of added excitement to whatever we chose to do with each other.

On this occasion, we didn't even make it up the stairs! I'd just turned away and was still on the first step when his hands suddenly reached up beneath my skirt, grabbed my pants and hauled them down to my knees before I realised what was happening. I was giggling and (though I'm a little embarrassed to admit) squealing like a young girl as pushed me down onto my knees. I heard the sound of his trousers being undone before he finished pulling my pants off. Then his left arm curled around me from behind while his right hand guided his erection between my legs.

Okay, I can tell you that kneeling on a staircase is not the most comfortable position or place for sex but, at that moment, I wasn't the least bit interested in moving. It took a little bit of manoeuvring, accompanied by a lot of giggles, before he finally found the place he was looking for and I felt that bulbous head part the wet lips of my entrance and slide smoothly inside me.

It may have been my imagination, or maybe it was just my mood, but he seemed to be even harder than usual -- but it definitely wasn't anything that I was going to complain about as he began with the long, slow strokes of good intention. Grasping my hips, he pushed all the way into me without any sense of urgency and then withdrew almost entirely -- again very, very languorously. I had been more than ready for this and my body was already crying out for release so urgently that I had to bite on my lip to prevent myself from urging him to go faster.

If I'd been capable of logical thought, I would have known that it wasn't necessary. Harry has never been a particularly patient person and that was as true of his lovemaking as it was of everything else. At the same time, he cared enough to make sure that I would always have the release of at least one climax -- even if it meant having to spend lots of time in foreplay or, at other times, a second helping soon after the first had finished. But this was a little different. Perhaps it was due to the location -- he could hardly have been comfortable half-standing, half-kneeling on the stair beneath me -- but it was delicious for me! I was able to really appreciate the contours of his prominent veins as they pressed against the clenching walls of my insides.

I also loved the feeling of helplessness -- of being virtually unable to move due to my slightly precarious perch on the stair -- and it was all that I could do to straighten my upper body so that Harry's hands could reach around, slide them beneath my top and bra, and fondle my breasts and nipples. Even that didn't last for long; it reduced the extent of penetration so much that he almost slipped away from me and, when his hands went back to grasping my hips, I couldn't hold back any longer.

"Fuck me, Harry!" I begged, "Please... just fuck me!"

It surprised him, because I don't normally have a lot to say at times like that. I mean, I gasp and groan and make a lot of excited noises, but I don't usually say much. This time, though, I felt as if it had very little to do with love; this was acting spontaneously, on the spot, like a couple of animals -- and that went perfectly with my feeling of vulnerability.

There was a feeling of a tremendous pressure building inside me -- a delightful tension that quickly increased beyond my control. I knew that Harry was talking to me as his thrusting became faster and that I was responding to what he said, but the words seemed meaningless. I vaguely recall telling him that, 'yes... I wanted him to shoot his load in my cunt' -- probably the first time I'd ever used that word -- that I loved the feel of his cock inside me, and probably a load of other things too.

What they were, however, I can never be certain because my strong and vigorous husband grasped my hips tightly and started to pound me mercilessly. My voice was lost in a flurry of sobs, gasps and, at last, an all-out scream as I felt the glory of total release. I felt the warmth of fluid -- more fluid than I'd ever known before -- pouring onto the skirt that was bunched up in front of me and cascading onto my thighs. It seemed that my entire mind and body was shutting down, unable to cope with the intensity of the ecstatic feelings that swept through me.

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byGale82© 12 comments/ 14610 views/ 1 favorites

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