Cheating on a Cheating Wife

INTRODUCTION & DISCLAIMER - Who is the most whipped guy you have ever met? It might be your brother-in-law, who married your bossy sister Karen. It might the fat guy next door, who gets bossed around by his hot mail-order wife dawn until dusk. It might be a work colleague who constantly gets calls from the missus all day with lists of orders. It might even be you.

However, if you travelled to the Australian city of Melbourne and met Jeff, you would probably re-assess this. Jeff is married to Libby, a hot health and fitness celebrity, a grown up mean girl who demeans and completely controls him while having an affair with her much younger lover Todd, who Jeff despises.

But can Jeff overcome the fear of his domineering wife and develop his little crush on Montana, the pretty girl next door, into his own affair? And what of Montana's best friend Bailey, a pretty redhead who might be the wildcard in the pack?

Read 'Cheating On A Cheating Wife' to find out. Please note that it has some scenes involving female characters using the toilet and having their periods, so it may not be for everyone's taste. All characters are aged 18 and older and they and all situations in the story are fictional, with any similarity to real persons living or dead coincidental and unintentional.

Please enjoy and rate and comment, and look for two Easter Eggs in the story that link this to two of my other stories. If you find the Easter Eggs, let me know in the comments below.

*

A crowd is in many ways the stalker's best friend. There were certainly plenty of people in abundance today as I stood behind a plane tree not far from Victoria's State Library buildings, watching the people emerging from the Melbourne Central complex and onto Swanston and La Trobe Streets.

Melbourne Central was a busy place, housing a multi-level shopping center under a glass cone, restaurants, a cinema and a fitness center. A large and distinctive black office tower with two antennae on the roof dominated the structure, and in the underground levels one could find a train station. I had spent some time in the shopping center beforehand, watching a charming musical clock as it chimed the hour and played 'Waltzing Matilda', a display of robotic birds dancing as the bottom of the clock came away, then slid back up again when it finished its cycle.

Somewhat ironically being distracted by a clock, I had lost track of time and had to hurry across the road to wait for her to arrive. I didn't want her to see me, or know I was about. I kept a watch for her to arrive fearing she may not appear, but soon I saw her. Dressed in a white short-sleeved blouse, a floral skirt well above her knees and a pair of white sandals, expensive sunglasses on her pretty face. She turned right, heading south down Swanston Street, talking on her mobile phone.

Making sure to keep among the crowds, I trailed her down Swanston Street watching as she crossed Lonsdale Street. She didn't know I was there, I might as well have been invisible. Cars were not permitted to drive along Swanston with the exception of emergency and some delivery vehicles, it was all bicycles and pedestrians however trams ran along here and you had to watch for them. It was a tram forced to come to a stop and ring its bell when some idiots walked right out in front of it that blocked my view of her. I thought I might have lost sight of her in the crowds, but I hurried through the many people near Chinatown and picked her up again and continued following her.

She was so absorbed in her mobile phone I don't think she would have noticed if a gorilla, an elephant or a dinosaur were following her, but it was best to be wary so I kept to the other side of the road. I thought she might turn into the Bourke Street Pedestrian Mall when she looked up at the tall grey banking center building located there. I prepared to cross the road to follow her, but she instead continued on her path and I continued to trail her.

When she reached the corner of Collins Street, Melbourne's busiest she finally did turn and walked westerly. I was able to rush across and get to the other side, and continued to follow my target down Collins Street. With all the tall buildings here, it was a bit of a wind tunnel, and a gust blew up her skirt, showing me and many others that she was wearing white bikini style knickers today.

It was a bit hard keeping track of her along Collins Street from the other side, she was walking very fast and I had to break a couple of pedestrian traffic laws so as to keep level with her when the traffic lights changed in her favor, but not mine.

I watched as she finally stopped outside a hotel not far from the Rialto Towers buildings, ending her phone call and putting her phone back in her shoulder bag. I took refuge behind a tram stop to look at her as she stood waiting outside, fighting a losing battle to keep her skirt down and not show her knickers to everyone passing by on a windy Melbourne autumn day.

Then I saw the person I was expecting to see coming from the direction of King Street. It was him. He was here. Dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. I didn't know whether I wanted him to appear or not, it was hard to explain even to myself. I watched intently as he approached her and they exchanged a cordial greeting. I could see their left hands, on her ring finger she wore an engagement ring and wedding band. He had no ring on his left finger. I could not hear what they were saying of course due to the distance and the noise of trams, trucks, cars and people on Collins Street, but it appeared professional and businesslike.

They turned and went into the hotel. Perhaps it was for a business meeting? Yes that had to be it. It was a hotel, hotels had conference rooms. However, as I stood outside hiding behind some mu-mu clad land whale lady who was eating a doughnut, they crossed the lobby and pressed the buttons for the lifts. The purpose of their visit to the hotel was definitely pleasure not business. I turned around and walked forlornly back up Collins Street.

*

About 15 minutes later, I stood on the Princes Bridge looking at the muddy brown waters of the Yarra River flowing underneath. There were no end of sights to enjoy here, and indeed lots of tourists were on the bridge taking photographs and selfies.

Looking down the river westerly and to the city's northern side I looked at the tall blue buildings of the Rialto, a gothic bank building and the white Bourke Place Tower among plenty of other skyscrapers and the increasing number of apartment blocks springing up around the Melbourne CBD in recent years. A glance across the river to Southbank where the promenade bustled people and the Williamstown ferry departed from the dock were the casino, shopping centers and a multitude of tall buildings, the largest of which -- the silver Eureka Tower -- was Melbourne's tallest.

I looked back towards the Eastern end of the city, seeing the iconic Flinders Street railway station, Federation Square and more tall office towers, two art deco skyscrapers dominating the skyline in this part of town. I looked in the opposite direction across the Princes Bridge, trams gliding by in each direction some headed for the city and Swanston Street, others on their way to St Kilda Beach, Prahran and South Melbourne. Further down across the Yarra I could see the Melbourne Cricket Ground and the Tennis Center at Melbourne Park, the Botanic Gardens across the river from them.

Finally I looked down St Kilda Road at all the plane trees starting to shed their leaves, the Domain Gardens and the tall spire of the Melbourne Arts Center. So many interesting sights to see, but I saw so few of them. Instead all I saw was her with him in the hotel room, lifting up her skirt, taking her white knickers down and inserting his penis up her vagina.

Burning with frustration and jealousy, I turned and walked back to Flinders Street Station and went to catch my train back to Melbourne's eastern suburbs where I lived. Waiting on the platform, I saw a train approaching from the Southern Cross Station, and wondered if he had gotten off the train at that location to meet her, or if he had caught a tram, bus or driven into the city. My train arrived and I got on, watching the city passing by as we departed. I wondered what he and she were doing at this moment. Having a shower together post coitus, no doubt.

When I reached my stop, I alighted the train and walked back to my house and went inside. My house was decorated with pictures of her and I looked at them, then picked up one of her best-selling books, leafing through it and staring at all the pictures of her. I took out a notebook, writing down the times of where she had been today before they faded from my mind.

Going upstairs I retrieved a pair of white female bikini-style panties with pink flowers from a clothes hamper. The knickers showed the creamy colored feminine stains from the owner's vagina, and I raised them to my nose, the odor of pussy from the double cotton saddle going into my nostrils. I sniffed the back panel of the panties, absorbing her the smells from where the knickers would have gone between the cheeks of her bottom and made contact with her anus.

They were her panties, she put them on to cover her bottom and her box. So what was I doing with them? Was I a stalker crazy enough to break into her house to steal her dirty underwear and smell it later? No. I didn't have to commit any break and enter offense to obtain her knickers, I could get my hands on them most any time I wanted.

How was that? One of the photographs I had of her, in the bedroom was one of her on her wedding day. True, it was taken 14 years in the past in the year 2001, a time before September 11 when the world was a very different place from the current year of 2015. In it she wore a white wedding dress and looked stunning, and why wouldn't she? She was the bride after all.

Next to her stood her bridegroom in a smart suit, his brown hair and brown eyes contrasting with the blonde hair and blue eyes of his new wife. The groom's face was my younger face. Had I used some sort of technology to superimpose my face into one of her wedding day photographs?

Again no. I didn't need to superimpose any images on her wedding day photographs because I was the groom. Her name was Libby Jane Larson and she was my wife. My name was Jeff Richard Jennings and I was her husband. And him, the dirt bag screwing around with my wife and turning me into a cuckold? His name was Todd Lewis Patrick. So how did we end up in this mess, with me stalking my unfaithful wife and her lover and sniffing her dirty panties from the clothes hamper? Like with any story, it is best to start at the beginning.

*

Libby and I first met early in the year 1998 as young graduate high school teachers sent out into the classroom for the first time, and the high school we were assigned to was not going to win any awards as Melbourne's greatest. I was understandably nervous as hell as a young social studies teacher seeing how students would react to a guy not that much older than them teaching them geography, history, economics and accounting.

Much less nervous than me was the new PE teacher, pretty blonde haired, blue eyed Libby Larson, whose slim, fit five foot six body was perfect in every way. Libby was confident, boy was she confident, and I noticed that she would instruct older male gym teachers on things, rather than the other way around as it should have been given Libby was a graduate.

She most certainly got results as a PE teacher, and I noticed that the boys were very interested in the pretty young blonde wearing her tight lycra leggings or her very short shorts worn with fitness tops that showed a nice cleavage. I was most interested in her too, but figured that a girl as hot as Libby wouldn't even notice me.

To my surprise, Libby did take an interest in me when we were assigned to be the teachers on duty one lunchtime. We had a bit in common, both born in 1976 and each one of four kids, two boys and two girls and were both into health and fitness, although Libby decidedly more than me. Although I had always said I would never get into a workplace romance, I forgot all about this with Libby and just three years later we exchanged our wedding vows.

By this time however we were not working at the same school anymore. An exclusive private school where if you had to ask how much it cost to send your son or daughter there then you could not afford the tuition fees had heard all about this star young female sports teacher and poached Libby to add to the many trophies in their sporting cabinet.

I couldn't believe that I had married the girl of my dreams, but my parents, siblings and other relatives were not so happy with the situation. They didn't like Libby all that much, calling her bossy, controlling, fussy, self-absorbed, overly competitive, egocentric and rude. It caused them much disquiet that Libby retained her maiden name of Larson rather than changing it to Jennings when we married. I ignored the warnings and could not see a single thing wrong with my beautiful bride.

How I wished as the honeymoon period ended and the rose colored haze through which I observed Libby evaporated that I had heeded their warnings. Now it was many years too late. In some ways we were compatible, for example neither of us wanted kids. As high school teachers, we had seen what would be dealing with when the aforementioned kids became teenagers, which was bad enough at work but having to deal with this at home -- no thanks. Plus there was the sleepless nights of screaming babies and trying to control toddlers and younger kids with minds of their own. Again, no thanks.

Libby seemed happy enough with her job as a high school PE teacher for a time, but then her focus began to shift to personal training, fitness programs and nutrition, Libby studying the latter at night school during the early 2000s. Things progressed quickly for Libby after making her career change from 2007 to owning a gym along with her likewise health and fitness obsessed family by 2010. Thanks to social media, things moved even faster and now five years on my wife was a star of the fitness world, well known around Australia and New Zealand, and boasting followers from other countries too.

Now Libby's family owned a number of gyms around Melbourne and four more in regional cities Geelong, Ballarat, Bendigo and Traralgon. Membership was overflowing thanks to my wife's celebrity status. Libby was the driving force and the leader of the company, and also the public face, the cash cow. With her good looks and drive, Libby was a star on both mainstream and social media, and had an almost cult-like following.

I could see why. With Libby at age 39, women in their 30s and 40s wanted to be like her, and younger women and girls wanted to be like her when they were older. Older women wanted to recapture their looks and figures of younger years. For men of her own age and older she was hot, and for younger guys she was the ultimate cougar. She boasted a number of celebrity clients, and their endorsement of her training methods, diet and lifestyle added to her star status. Libby had authored two best-selling books and was working on a third, the money pouring in from book sales, product endorsements, sponsorships and the family gyms boosted Libby's personal wealth well into the millions of dollars.

Of course, Libby was a very busy girl and needed an assistant, and this was how Todd came into the picture. I had no objection to my wife having a hunky young male personal assistant, but when I first met Todd I found myself hoping he was one of those good looking guys who to the disappointment of girls whose knickers got damp whenever he was around turned out to be gay. Todd however clearly wasn't a homosexual, otherwise he would have stayed out of my wife's panties, which most definitely turned wet from a bodily fluid other than urine, period blood or sweat when she was around Todd. And my wife shouldn't be letting any guy other than me get into her panties in any case.

I picked up my phone and looked at the unwelcome picture of the unwelcome third party who had come into our marriage in recent years. On 26th April Libby had posted a message on social media wishing Todd a happy 23rd birthday, saying it would have been her late great-grandmother's 123rd birthday.

This of course meant Todd was born on 26th April 1992. By chance I remembered what I did that day, which was a Sunday. I was aged 16 back then and it was a long weekend for Anzac Day. With a group of friends from high school we caught the train to Geelong, where we had lunch and looked around the city and walked around the foreshore, then went to an Australian Rules football game where my team the Lions were thrashed by the Cats at Kardinia Park, before catching the train back to Melbourne.

Libby, also aged 16 at the time also remembered what she did that day in April 1992, given that it was her great-grandmother's 100th birthday, and the family had a big party for the elderly lady and presented her with a telegram from the Queen congratulating her on her centenary.

So the guy getting into my wife's knickers and turning me into a cuckold was born when Libby and I were in our mid-teens. In many ways this was worse than if Libby was playing around with a guy our own age. Libby was actually old enough to be Todd's mother. Well, medically old enough, but if Todd was Libby's son then the act resulting in the arrival of Todd nine months later would have to have taken place when she was aged 15. And of course, 15 gets you 20 in Australia so the father would have been in big trouble with the police and law courts.

I thought about what Todd and Libby had been doing in the hotel room in the city in the morning while continuing to sniff the cunt stains on my wife's knickers, before returning her dirty panties to the clothes hamper where they belonged and going into my study. The home office on the ground floor of our house was Libby's office, and one of the upstairs bedrooms was my office.

Since 2012, I had changed from being a high school teacher to a different job writing curriculum for the Education Department. Most days I worked from home, only heading into the office once, sometimes twice a week for reviews and meetings. I started my computer and tried to set to work, but the only thing I could think about was Todd.

I kept thinking about how Todd started kindergarten the year Libby and I commenced in our careers as high school teachers. He could have been one of my students in social studies at high school in the late 2000s. As recently as 2010 he would have been a VCE student. Now he was my wife's personal assistant and humping her arse off any chance they got.

Again, I brought up an image of Todd on my phone, obsessing over the fit, handsome young man. Given he was the assistant of a beautiful, glamorous and famous woman he fawned all over her, practically bowing down to her and kissing her feet. He did just this with Libby when they were having sex, and Libby and I had also engaged in some foot fetishism during the increasingly limited times she made herself available to me. Todd was a sycophant and a simp, no wait a minute. He was without doubt a sycophant, if Libby asked Todd to jump he would ask her how high. But simps by definition don't get into the pants of women they suck up to, whereas Todd's cock had been up Libby's cunt more times than I cared to even imagine.

In many ways Todd was the male equivalent of a mistress, however there was no real male equivalent to a mistress kept on the side by a married man. I guess toy boy was the most appropriate description, given Libby was 16 years older than her younger male lover.

With toy boy Todd there to assist Libby on the work front, she needed somebody to assist her on the home front. What better than a house husband who worked from home? When I was still teaching Libby and I had tried a cleaner, but Libby had personality clashes with each of the three we tried, so this was abandoned.