Acts of Infidelity - Judy & Sam

This ending did not happen.

Alternatively, the ending could be sad; one in which I find out that she did indeed cheat on me, did get pregnant and aborted the baby. In this ending, I might even find out that neither of my daughters is mine; that Judy has cheated on me throughout our marriage. Separation, divorce and unhappiness would then follow.

Fortunately, this did not happen either.

There could even be an ending in which she confesses to having cheated long ago and tells me all about it. In this ending I might find the story so arousing that I persuade her to cheat on me again and we embark on a life of wife sharing and cuckoldry.

That ending has the greatest appeal of all, but any of these endings would be more satisfying than what really happened.

***

Thirty years on from the incident that has dominated my adult life, Judy hasn't changed much. We are both older so she had put on a few pounds and her flaming red hair needs a little colour from, time to time. She straightens it these days too which makes her look younger but isn't quite the curly redhead I fell in love with all those years ago.

Her bottom is as appealing as it always was. Her small, firm breasts are still firm but, after nursing two daughters and with the ravages of time, have a little sag to then now. The fiery triangle between her thighs has a few grey strands mixed in too; apart from one surprising occasion she has kept it as I like it - thick and curly - but in all, she is still the same shy, very naïve girl she used to be.

She dresses fairly conservatively too, occasionally showing a little cleavage but nothing over-the-top. Her dresses and skirts are modest, usually a little bit longer than her fingertips if their arms are straight at her side. Underneath she pretty much wears what I would call granny panties; if I use my imagination I could call them French in cut but that's about it. Judy isn't flamboyant when it comes to lingerie.

Our sex life these days consists of intercourse two her three times a year if I'm lucky. Sometimes she will let me get her off with my fingers and maybe perform oral sex

But it's not all bad; we do have some intimate contact because about once a week she will grab some lubricant and use that to give me a hand job.

While she is doing that she likes to tease me; playing on my fantasy of seeing her with another man. On the rare occasions when she wants to really get me going she talks about BJ and what might or might not have happened all those years ago.

When she feels I've been inside her long enough and it's time to bring things to an end, she will tell me how naughty a wife she has been and what she got up to when out of my sight. This can bring me to orgasm very quickly, blowing a very big load all over her hands.

Sadly I don't have the pressure I used to have but can I still get properly hard and still produce a fair amount of semen for a man my age.

Afterwards Judy always insists that everything she said was made up; that the stories had been about other people; people I didn't know. She doesn't realise that I don't need that reassurance. She doesn't understand that I don't want it. I want Judy to be the naughty, cheating wife of our fantasies. I want her to be in real life the woman she pretends to be in our bed.

Nobody is perfect. Nobody can go through life without making mistakes.

Despite knowing about her morals and upbringing; despite believing that in normal circumstances they would never allow her to cheat in real life, I can still not be sure that once or twice in the past, my sweet, pretty wife did not weaken.

As they say in the Detectives; she had the means, the motive and the opportunity.

The truth is that thirty years on I still do not know what really happened in Atlanta and the weeks that followed. I don't know what happened that day in Doctor Johnson's house. The more I try to find out, the more my wife avoids answering my questions and eventually I came to accept that for the sake of our marriage I had to stop trying.

But that doesn't mean I was happy with the situation or that suspicion would release me from its cruel grasp. Far from it; as the years have passed, the images in my head have if anything become much clearer, much more detailed and much, much more vivid.

Now in my nightmares I see my lovely pregnant wife on that day, in his house, on his bed. I see her naked, on all fours, her firm breasts and rounded, seven-month pregnant belly hanging down beneath her, her fiery red crotch presented obscenely towards the man who is about to take her.

I see her lover on his knees behind her, moving into place, forcing her legs apart with his knees as he lines up his thick black cock at her entrance.

The sunlight sparkles over the rippling waters of the lake and onto the soft pale skin of the woman I love the woman carrying my child in her belly as she waits for her lover to enter her body.

I see his hands grip her hips, I see his buttocks clench; I see her eyes close tightly then fly open wide in surprise as the thick black pole of muscle if pressed firmly and inexorably into my wife's weeping pussy.

He begins to fuck her, the muscles in his back and bottom rippling as it moves rhythmically back and forth.

I can picture every swollen vein on his monstrous cock as it plunges into my wife's body over and over again.

I can hear every grunt and groan that escapes his mouth as he fucks her harder than I ever have or could.

I can hear the rising sound of my wife's voice as her arousal rises and rises.

I can almost touch the soft skin of her inner thighs as his body hammers into her vulva.

I can imagine her entrance stretched so tightly around his shaft that it might even tear.

I can count every crack in my wife's nails dig into the mattress, her mouth open, moaning loudly.

I can see her driving herself back onto the invading cock, her thrusts matching his to perfection.

I see her reach orgasm, climaxing hard on his cock, her voice cut off by the huge spasm that racks her body

I can smell the powerful mix of her orgasmic juices as they seep from her battered vulva.

I watch him reach is own climax seconds later, his body in spasm, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.

I picture once again the ropes of thick pale semen being pumped into my wife's heavily pregnant body.

Sometimes I can convince myself that this is nothing more than the horrors of an over-stimulated imagination. Other times the evidence appears overwhelming.

Sometimes I don't care what happened; we have had a wonderful life together, we have beautiful kids and grandchildren. We are happy together and have lacked little in our lives.

Other, darker times I desperately want her to have cheated; I want her to have known how it feels to be fucked to within an inch of her life by a long, thick, fully-erect black penis. I want her to tell me in exquisite detail how it felt to cum helplessly on another man's erect cock as his sperm made a baby deep in her womb.

Other times the suspicion and jealousy eat so deeply into my heart that I can't bear it.

But I have to bear it; after thirty years it is impossible to imagine asking my wife what the truth is.

What if she refused to answer?

If she did answer, how would I tell if she was lying?

Do I want her to deny it? Would I believe her if she did?

How would I feel if she confessed? Could we go on knowing she had cheated?

It would be better to put it all behind me; better if I no longer wanted to know.

But suspicion isn't like that; you don't control it -- it controls you. It eats away at you; denying you peace, making you mistrust those closest to you, filling your mind with horrors and doubt.

Elvis was right. Suspicion torments your heart.