My thanks to my wife; although she tells me that she can't relate to a story like this, her efforts with the story line and her time spent editing this story have greatly improved its readability. She also gets credit for the final, nasty twist at the end. (And I owe her a massage just like the one in the main sex scene!)
It was a Wednesday evening when I first got a hint that my world, my safe and sane world, wasn't quite what I thought it was.
I had gotten home from work a bit early; I heard my wife, Marge, moving around in our bedroom upstairs, and thought that I would go up and say hello. As I walked down the hallway, I could hear her talking to someone on the phone.
As I got closer, I could hear her end of the conversation. "Yes, sweetie, today was great; I really enjoyed it."
Huh? Since when does she enjoy work?
Our bedroom door was slightly open, so I peeked through; she was undressing while talking on her cell phone.
She slithered out of her skirt and laid it on the bed. I noticed that she was wearing lacy black panties, and I knew that I never had seen them before this.
I was about to walk in, but then she said, "I gotta go; he could be home soon, and I must get a shower first. Talk to you tomorrow, stud, bye."
She put the phone on the charger and took off her blouse; she was wearing a matching black lace bra. Facing away from me, she peeled off those panties and tossed them in the hamper. The bra followed.
As she moved around the bed to head to the shower, she passed a mirror. Being a woman, she, of course, had to stop and look.
From my position at the corner of the door, I could see her reflection in the mirror perfectly.
What I saw made a sick chill go down my body. I felt like I might piss myself, shit myself, throw up, or all three.
There in the mirror, her left breast clearly had a suck-mark on it. My wife had a hickey on her breast, and I didn't give it to her.
I heard her gasp, and realized that she saw what I had just seen.
She pulled up her tit with one hand while rubbing the suck-mark with a finger of the other hand.
"Aw shit," she snarled. "Now I've got a mark that I've gotta hide. Holy shit!"
She went into the bathroom and started her shower while I stood outside our bedroom crying and shaking.
My name is David Atkinson; Marge has been my wife for 23 years. We have two children, Julia who is 19, and Tom, who is 18. Marge works part time in procurement at the local Air Nation Guard base; I am a chemical engineer.
Until a few minutes ago, I thought that we had a great marriage and a great life. Now it looked like my wife needed someone else to make her life great.
After a bit, I regained some control and, entering our bedroom, I picked up her cell phone to find the number of that last call. I got another surprise; she had a password on her cell phone. We had never used passwords and sometimes had made calls on each other's phones. I realized that I had not used her phone in a couple of months; it just never was "convenient."
I picked up her blouse and smelled it. There was a faint trace of after-shave that I did not recognize on it. Going to the hamper, I picked out her panties and bra.
The panties were "used" as might be expected, but I didn't find any big gooey blobs of cum.
Thinking a bit, I got the digital video recorder from the kitchen and a Ziploc bag. Going back to the bedroom, I put the underwear in the ziploc bag and stuffed it in my pocket. I made a note to myself to order a semen detection kit and have it shipped to the office.
The video recorder went on my dresser, facing the mirror; I set it to record and wrapped one of my ties around it. It was mostly hidden.
As I went back downstairs, I saw that her laptop was on, so I figured that this would be a good time to check her e-mail. No such luck; she had put a password on it. We had never used computer passwords either, which was another piece of evidence.
Then I left. I really wanted to confront her, but I was an emotional wreck. Plus, I had no real evidence; she could just deny everything. No, I needed hard-core proof.
And I wanted to know whom she was fucking, so that I could hurt him in return.
I called my wife's cell phone, knowing that she was still in the shower, and told her that I was stuck on a job and would grab a late dinner when I was finished.
Hiding her underwear in the garage, I headed to the closest bar to think and suffer. It was a quiet run-down bar that bordered on a shabby motel. It offered nothing special: average food, cheap drinks, and privacy.
Entering the bar, I noticed thst there was a new barmaid. Great, I thought, "I hope she knows how to make a gin and tonic.
It turned out that she did. Her name was Mary; she had just started; and I enjoyed talking with her. She was a divorced mom, trying to scrape by in life.
I got back home at about 11:00pm; the house was quiet with everyone in bed. I went up to the bedroom to undress.
As I was slipping into my robe, Marge said, "You're late tonight, hon."
Turning to her, I replied, "I'm sorry to wake you; it was a long day." Then I added, "But I'll make it up to you if you feel neglected."
She sighed and said, "Oh, I'm just too tired right now; how about in the next day or two?"
"It's a date, babe. I'm going to relax for a few minutes, and then join you. Good night," I answered.
Grabbing the recorder, I left the bedroom and went downstairs to my computer.
As I plugged the camera into my laptop, I realized that our lovemaking in the last few months had dwindled down from two or three times a week to once a week, and that for the last month or so, once a week was Saturday night.
I fast-forwarded the recording until the bathroom door opened. She immediately went to the mirror and examined her breast. I could see the suck-mark clearly.
She got out flannel pajamas for later; she normally sleeps nude.
I saved the video and cleared the camera. After putting it away I went to bed. On my way, I pushed the thermostat up about four degrees; let's see how she likes flannels.
Marge was either sleeping or pretending to be asleep when I got into bed.
Thursday morning, I got up early to get away from her; I didn't think I could hide my anger and I needed time to get under control and make more plans.
Calling the office, I let them know that I wouldn't be in until the afternoon.
Then I called my friend, George. I knew George would be able to help: not only have we been good friends for years, but he caught his wife cheating on him about a couple of years ago and went through a nasty divorce. We spent many hours together drowning his sorrows.
George is now a major in the Air Nation Guard. Since his divorce, he had thrown himself into his work and had received several promotions; the last had put him in charge of security for the base.
On the second ring, he picked up the phone and said, "Hey buddy! How's it going?"
"Not too well right now," I replied. "I need your help; I think that Marge is cheating on me."
"Aw shit, David, I am so sorry," he said. "I'll do anything I can to help. Can you come over here this morning?"
"Yeah," I replied. "How about if I go over now?"
"Sounds good," George quietly said. "I hope you are wrong but I've never known you to overreact."
"I don't think I am, but with your help I should be able to prove it one way or the other."
Once there, we sat on the sofa and went over what I knew. When I left an hour later, I had part of a plan, and had borrowed five digital audio recorders from George: the same ones that he used to catch his wife.
I drove back home; Marge's car was gone. I placed four recorders in the house, saving the last one for her car.
Then I noticed that the house was a little cooler than usual. Checking the thermostat, I saw that she had pushed it back down; I assumed that she had had a "hot" night.
Deciding to look around a bit, I went through her closet carefully. The first thing that I noticed was she had a couple of outfits that I had not seen her wear. They were more daring than her usual; maybe she bought them but then didn't feel comfortable actually wearing them in public, I thought.
Then, in the back of a dresser drawer, I found some lingerie that I had never seen before. They showed signs of wear; a couple of them were torn. Torn as in somebody ripped them off of Marge to get to her naked body. That hurt and I just stared at them for many minutes.
Finally I headed off to work. Around three, I called Marge's cell and left a voice mail that I was stuck on a job and wouldn't be home until late.
As soon as I got home that evening, I put the final voice recorder in Marge's car, and then went to bed.
I made sure to go to bed well after Marge did Friday night as well; she was either sleeping or pretending to be. I did check the audio recorders Friday evening but heard nothing of interest.
I quietly got the kids their breakfast as is our custom on weekends. Saturday, Marge gets to sleep late; Sunday I do. After they finished and went to watch TV, I cleaned up the kitchen and put Marge's breakfast in the microwave.
I connected a LAN cable to my laptop, logged into my computer, into the wireless router, and disabled wireless access.
Then I left Marge a note directing her to the microwave and telling her that I was outside, then went out to start yard chores.
About two hours later, Marge came outside complaining that her laptop couldn't connect to the Internet. We walked in; I tried my laptop and said, "Hmm...mine's connected. Let's look at yours."
She seemed a bit nervous and hovered around her laptop and me. I pretended to troubleshoot and she eventually got bored and wandered away, but about every five minutes she was back again.
While she was gone I slipped in a memory stick and installed a key logger program. The next time that she left, I configured it to capture all key presses, to take a snapshot of the screen twice a minute, to track all websites that she visited, and to capture her e-mail including deleted and sent items.
The next time that she left, I walked back to my laptop and restarted the wireless service. I checked that her laptop was now connecting and went to find her.
After showing her that it was connecting to the Internet, I told her that the hard drive was badly fragmented. I brought up the clean up program and suggested that when she was done for the day she click this button and let the program run overnight.
That would also give my key logger time to transfer all the data to me.
She slipped her hands around my neck, kissed me, and, smiling seductively, said, "Thanks big guy, how can I pay for your services?"
I smiled back, slapped her butt lightly, and said, "How about washing my car?"
Her face showed that she was expecting a very different answer.
I kissed her cheek and said, "Just kidding."
Pulling away, I added, "I gotta get back to work out there."
She looked confused as I walked out of the room.
While mowing the grass, I realized that I was being stupid. I wasn't going to fuck her tonight, but I didn't want her to start thinking that I was suspicious before I had real evidence. I had to treat her normally for now.
I decided to bust ass out here today and be too tired and sore for sex tonight.
We watched a couple of movies with the kids in the evening. Marge snuggled up next to me and she felt good. She was feeling frisky; a couple times while they were engrossed in the movie, Marge openly felt my cock.
We took a break toward the end of the second movie; I used the opportunity to get a drink and to pop one of Marge's Xanax; I figured I would be asleep in 45 minutes.
About 15 minutes later, Marge woke me up. I announced that I had worked too hard today and was going to bed. Marge looked disappointed and even more so when the kids asked her to stay for a third movie.
I do not know when she came to bed; I was oblivious.
Sunday morning was my sleep-in morning but I was up at 5:00am. I didn't want to be in bed when Marge woke in case she wanted a morning ride. And it was time to start checking her data. I shut off her alarm clock as I was leaving.
As I booted my computer, I realized that if I didn't fuck her tonight she absolutely would be suspicious.
I started up the key logger reader; while it initialized, I added a password to my computer
There were about 500 e-mails in the hidden folder so I started reading them. The key logger sends the oldest mails first and I was looking at six-month-old e-mails.
I did see two e-mails from somebody named Will Perez. He had his own domain name, but the messages were about her work. Maybe the guy works with her. Or maybe this is the guy.
I sorted by name and found one about four months old with the subject Hey Hot Stuff!
I read it. It was not explicit but it sounded like this guy was trying to seduce her. He had registered his name as an Internet domain. A brief check showed that he did not have a web page.
I re-sorted by date and found six from old Willy dated yesterday. No wonder Marge was hovering around her laptop; she was worried that I might open Outlook.
I opened the newest e-mail and read while my life crashed around me. Starting at the bottom where she bitched at him for marking her and how hard it was to hide it from me.
His reply was basically, "Shit happens; get over it, and to hell with your husband."
Her furious reply was sent 14 minutes later. One paragraph was interesting; she wrote, "I know you do not love your wife but I do love my husband. I do not want to hurt him or my marriage. It is bad enough that I haven't let him fuck me much lately; now since you marked me, I can't even let him see me naked. I will not be meeting you this Wednesday!"
Interesting, but it didn't change anything.
The next two were from him with a changed tune. He begged her forgiveness, told her he would always be gentler in the future. He offered to take her on a trip somewhere warm if she could get away for a while. He professed his love for her.
Oh, pew, he sounded like a teenager.
The last was from her, saying that she was glad that he now understood her position; she would only take trips with her husband, and she would not meet him this Wednesday. She added that she expected that it would take a week for the marks to fade, and that then she was going to be busy making it up to her husband.
Other e-mails provided more information. They had been fucking for about two months now. They met at a local motel where his company kept a room rented, allegedly for his long distance sales guys to crash there when needed. One e-mail gave her directions to the place, saying that the company has had room 187 for two years now.
It was the motel across from the bar that I was in the other day!
Then a new e-mail arrived from him; it was a reply to one that she had sent last night, and I was sent spinning again. She had e-mailed him that she couldn't do without him fucking her this week and that she would meet him Wednesday at 1:00pm. She insisted that he be gentle this time.
His reply was effusive crap about how wonderful she was and how he would make it wonderful for her.
I decided right then that they were both going to pay for their fucking. I needed to make some plans and would need George's help.
I forwarded the most useful e-mails to George and started making breakfast.
Marge came down around 9:30 and thanked me for letting her sleep in that morning. I said that it was only fair since I crashed out so early last night.
She hugged me and whispered, "Don't work too hard today, sweetie; I need you to do your hard work tonight."
I ignored the second part and said, "I'm mostly done out there, just a couple more hours left to do."
I pulled away, saying, "I'd better get to work."
As I was leaving I glanced back and saw a worried look on her face.
She quickly changed it when she saw me looking. I said, "Yell if you need anything, babe."
She gave a weak, "Okay."
I was cleaning the garage when George called. First he asked if I could talk now. I went outside and told him yes.
He said, "I read the e-mails; I am so sorry."
"Thanks," I said. "I feel like shit but at least I know now."
"You know, and you have some evidence, but you do not have proof court yet," he noted.
I replied, "I know; maybe I can get some pictures of her going in or out of the motel."
"We can do a lot better than that, if you want; you just won't be able to use the evidence in court," he said.
"Talk to me."
"I have conducted a few criminal investigations at that motel over the years. The owner is a good guy who doesn't want criminals or druggies hanging around. I can call him tomorrow and get him to print me a key to that room as part of my 'ongoing investigation'," was his reply. "We will have to find out when Perez won't be there, and then we can install the same hidden cameras I used to catch my slut of an ex," he explained.
I said firmly, "Yes, I want to do that. Not only to catch her, but because I want to get him. Can you see what you can find on him, also?"
"First thing Monday morning I'll get that ball rolling. Let's see if we can do the install Monday or Tuesday; we'll need maybe an hour," he answered.
We talked a few more minutes. George explained that the equipment was sound and motion-activated and that it would transmit to a receiver that had to be within 100 feet. He expected to put the receiver in a utility room somewhere.
When I wanted to retrieve the data, I just had to drive to the motel and activate the receiver in my car. The first receiver was also a transmitter; on my signal, it would dump its data to me, and then clear its memory. It might take up to two hours to send a full day worth of video.
The rest of Sunday was uneventful. I found that I was really looking forward to getting some pussy tonight. I came to the conclusion that just because Perez was staining it, there was no reason why I couldn't still just use it.
My first thought was to do a rough, quick fuck, and to be asleep ten minutes later.
Then I changed my mind and decided to see how many orgasms I could give Marge instead. She normally cums once or twice a session; I'd make this one real special: something that she could compare to Perez's fucking.
When the kids were in bed, Marge came up to me and quietly said, "I'm going to bed, too. If you are not in our bed in 30 minutes, I will come down here and drag you to bed by your dick."
I happily promised to be there.
Twenty minutes later I walked into the bedroom. Marge was in the bathroom and the room was darker than usual when I closed the door. The nightlight was missing from its socket; she must be figuring that in the darkened room I wouldn't be able to see her hickey.
Vowing not to touch her left breast tonight, I undressed in the darkness, pulled the bed covers back and got into bed.
Marge turned off the bathroom light before coming into the bedroom naked, and slipped in to bed with me. She turned to me and gave me a full body hug, saying, "Oh, I need this sweetie."
I hugged her back and kissed her gently, saying, "Me, too."
Rolling her onto her stomach, I began a soft massage, starting at her head. As I worked my way down her body, I was rewarded by purring sounds. I gently fondled her ass cheeks and crack but did not try to probe her; I just moved on to her legs, and then her feet.
I played with her feet and each of her toes while Marge alternated between moaning and giggling. Then, kneeling over her feet, I spread her legs enough for me to bend her lower legs up and rest them on my shoulders.
That left the fronts of her legs vulnerable to my lightest touch. Marge wasn't giggling now; she was moaning and sighing softly as I fondled her legs, and then the backs of her knees.