My Young Wife with Another Man

I am British. The spell-checker on this site keeps underlining all my U.K. variant spellings.

I've spent far too long working on this story and it is still by no means perfect -- but it is time to set it free, slap it on the bum and push it out into the world.

I do not have an editor, or even someone to just read over my stuff, so if there is anyone out there who would like to work with me as an editor, please send an email.

A final note: no darlings have been harmed in the writing of this story.

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Part 1

Abbi was twenty at the time all this happened. I'd married her only two years earlier but, looking back, eighteen was far too young for her to have become my bride. Anyway, turned out she was just not the settling down type. Three year after I slipped the ring on to her finger she left me.

We might still be together today if I had not encouraged her to live out the dream. And even though I know she did what she did willingly -- whether to illuminate some dark corner of her own soul, or for her own pleasure, I don't know -- but perhaps she never would have gone down that road if not for my leading her the way, step by step. What a stupid young man I was to have asked her to realise such a perverse fantasy.

Even before this all kicked off, Abbi received a lot of attention from blokes. Hardly surprising, she was an exceptionally pretty girl. But it was something more than the little-girl-lost looks she affected which drew men to her. Her openness, her endearing unsophisticated breeziness could just as easily snare a man, just like a sweet-sap-sticky carnivorous pitcher plant could insects. It was not as if she trapped them by some devious hinged intent of hers. Drawn by her winsome allure, men would let down their guard and, little by little, find themselves in a reverie of amative obsession. I would watch rationality slowly dissolved by the viscoelastic fluid of her beauty.

If she took a liking to you, her warmth towards you and interest in you would be immediate and genuine; you could even say intense -- at first. She would listen to what you had to say, and had the knack of saying the things back to you that you wanted to hear her say. Also, she was a very tactile person and liked to touch her friends in small affectionate ways. But for some, it might have been better if she had never shown them any interest at all.

But her baby-faced prettiness and waif-like frame belied a hidden sexual voracity. Some men sensed there was far more to her than her butter-wouldn't-melt cuteness. The more astute male intuited the sexual lava-flow that ran beneath her butter-wouldn't melt facade. Maybe it was in her eyes, or maybe it was how she wore her flesh about herself. Maybe it was in the way her fairness of skin and slightness of frame made everything else in her proximity appear obtuse, gross.

When a guy had it real bad for her, their need for her might begin to impinge on our relationship as a couple, then it was up to me to sort out the mess. Things often got ugly.

But she could never understand why men floundered at her feet:

"Oh, what have I done, Martin? Have I encouraged him?" she once asked me about a poor sod in our social circle who'd gone all tragic over her. His name was Sean. What a pratt.

"Abbi," I said. "You don't have to do a thing. You just have to be Abbi."

She was perhaps her own worst enemy, her need to be liked by others her undoing. And when her easily bestowed friendship elicited more than she intended, she could never bring herself to hurt someone's feeling by rejecting them outright.

For example: it was a Saturday night and we were out clubbing with a bunch of our friends. We were supposed to be enjoying ourselves but Sean and Abbi had sequestered themselves away together in the dark corner of the alcove our clique was in the habit of using to touch base with each other during those heady, early morning hours. They were having this big heart to heart. She loved all that probing of other people's psychological garbage heaps.

I was sitting close, talking to someone else, and overheard her say to Sean, "We can never be like that with each other, Sean -- but I do love you -- I love you like a brother."

Jeeez!

Then there were the phone calls at ridiculous hours. The unexpected ringing of our doorbell just as we were sitting down for tea -- or looking out of our bedroom window at midnight and seeing his car parked in the street, the windows foggy, him hunched inside with phone in palm.

Sean was not the first, nor would he be the last. Sometimes It was like she wasn't married to me, as if she had become public domain. When it got too much I would have to play the heavy husband, let them know they were trespassing on private property and were pissing me off.

Of course, this was all before I had my dream. Things were different after my dream.

So yes, Abbi was that certain type of girl deadly to a certain kind of male. Princess-pretty as she was, her nature really was guileless. I think she had not yet discovered herself, still needed the feedback loop of other people's attention to make herself feel a valid person. God, how I tried to satisfy that need.

As for those who fell at her feet: I suppose she presented a blank canvas for the strange needs some men harbour. She was not in anyway conceited about her looks, her charm. Far from it: she didn't have a clue just how easily a glance from her enormous manga-eyes could unhinge a man.

Reading this back I have made her sound, perhaps, less than bright. She was anything but empty-headed. At the time of this story she was doing all sorts of courses to get her accountancy qualifications. The last I heard from her after our divorce was she had become a partner in some important London firm that handled the financial affairs of A-list celebrities. Tax evasion and all that.

Although I hate psychobabble, I'd always put her need for attention down to her parents divorce when she was seven.

Mostly I didn't have to worry too much about the poor saps she captivated. The fools kept me amused. There was one guy, though, whose interest in Abbi meant I had to keep my wits about me. He showed her far more attention than was proper, sometimes outright salacious. He was totally unlike the love sick idiots she usually drew into her orbit. A different beast completely. The problem was, he was not the sort of bloke I could intimidate. Tall and muscular, he had a reputation as the hard man of our neighbourhood. So sure of himself, he had that air of self-satisfaction only a congenitally handsome man could wear without looking a complete buffoon. Full of hubris, he had yet to suffer a nemesis.

The stuff he used to say to her made me squirm sometimes. I wouldn't say he was keener than any of the others, the ones who thought of Abbi as their soul-mate. He was more pushy, his interest uncouth, blatantly sexual.

His name was Nathan, the husband of Abbi's best friend, Belinda. Nathan and Belinda were not part of our weekend social crowd. Belinda was Abbi's old friend from school. They got on well together: Nathan and I barley suffered each other.

Before Belinda gave birth to her first baby, the four of us would occasionally go out together, usually just the local boozer. On those occasions Nathan sometimes made comments about how gorgeous Abbi looked and how she was wasted on me.

He would call her Princess -- she hated that. One time he affected a joking tone and asked when she was going to join him and Belinda in a threesome.

When he came out and asked her that, asked her to her face, Abbi raised an eye brow and fixed Belinda with an incredulous look of disbelief. "Is he being serious?" she asked.

"He hadn't better be," was all Belinda said.

I often wonder what Abbi would have said If Belinda had said she was up for a threesome too. I'd never seen any signs of Abbi having an interest in women in all the time I knew her -- but that night when she asked Belinda if Nathan was being serious about a threesome, I saw something in her eyes I'd not seen before. The finding of a door, the possibility of it opening.

As for me, I didn't think anything of his wise-cracks, saw them as laddish-bullshit tinged with Nathan's unique humour of the gutter. I'd always enjoyed watching moths burn their wings on Abbi's bright-angel flame. Most men like to think his girl is desired by other blokes -- especially when there is no chance the other man will ever get to taste what he alone enjoys. And apart from that one comment about a threesome that got her hackles up, Belinda seems not have to minded her husband's bawdy banter. She was a lovely girl but not the most astute.

Abbi and I could talk about stuff like this; her admirers and the crap they would tell her confidentially. I would laugh and she would say I was cruel and to laugh because it was so sad for them.

And of course I asked her if Nathan's attention bothered her. "No it didn't," she said. I asked if she fancied him. After all, he was as good a looking bloke as any woman could hope to meet: six-three, worked out most nights at the local gym, his body a walking commercial for the benefits of weight training, he had the swagger of Achilles.

She said she didn't fancy him, said she loved me and never thought of any other man in a sexual way. But I had my doubts. I'd seen how her eyes followed Nathan. At twenty-seven, he was seven years older than Abbi, four years older than me. If he hadn't been my wife's friend's husband I wouldn't have had anything to do with him. I thought him a real grunt.

After Belinda finally gave birth to their first child, Nathan started coming round ours a couple of evenings a week. He'd drink my beer and moan about the chaos in his own house. He'd go on about how he couldn't put up with the mess, the nappies everywhere, the baby's constant bawling.

On these visits the three of us often played card games. If Abbi had college stuff to do from her evening classes, he and I would spend time on the console. We also played chess a few times, but he wasn't much of a strategist so I usually beat him. He hated that.

So that's the background -- and it was a dream about chess, of all things, that led to Abbi getting shagged senseless by this guy, me looking on.

I had the dream in the early hours of a Saturday morning in late July. In it Nathan was round ours and the chessboard was laid out for a game. The dream Abbi was all dressed-up in the clothes she would wear when we went out for the night clubbing in town: short, little black dress, sheer tights and strappy heels, heavy makeup and earrings.

She was sat perched on a tall bar-type stool, positioned at the side of the coffee table on which the chess board was laid out. Her legs looked sensational: dream legs, sleeker and smoother than even her real legs. She sat up bolt straight on the stool, her head held high, legs crossed at the knee showing lots of thigh. Her eyes burned wild with a gleam of sexual expectation. I don't know how it had come to be but we were playing this game for her. She was the prize.

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're fighting an adversary and no matter how hard you hit them they just won't fall down? The chess game became something like that. For every brilliant move I made, Nathan managed to come up with a better one. And as he took my pieces one by one, he would get up from the sofa and go to Abbi and remove an item of her clothing.

The first pawn taken, he stood up and went and knelt at her feet and, with her still perched on the stool, removed her right shoe and caressed her foot while slowly rubbing his cheeks over her calf. The dream was so lucid that I actually heard whiskers rasp against the lycra of her tights. I imagined her ever-so slightly moist, warm sole in his palm, the arch and ball of it. When I caught her eye I did not recognise the Abbi who looked back at me.

He returned to his seat and we continued the game. While he made his moves I watched Abbi closely and realised she was willing him to beat me. When our eyes met she looked embarrassed, like a child caught with her fingers in the candy jar.

Another pawn taken, another shoe removed. His lips kissing her toes.

When I lost my queen's bishop, he stood up and went to her and lifted her bodily from where she sat. I'd thought of her as a kind of umpire overlooking a tennis match at Wimbledon, his lifting of her from her seat seemed a violation of some unspecified rule. He positioned her before him and held her by the shoulders drawing her to him, so her breasts pressed against his lower chest. They just stood there: her looking up at him, he down at her, their eyes sharing some mystery I couldn't fathom. Then he turned to face me and smiled a smug, gloating smile.

She laid her cheek against his broad chest and he reached behind her and undid her dress. When it fell at her feet he drew her close again and she became enfolded in his beef-shank arms. In his eyes I could see how difficult it was or him to let her go, how reluctant he was to return to the game. When he finally released her, she stood for a moment and watched him return to his seat with a little-girl lost look in her eyes. Slowly she eased herself back up on to the stool and resumed her pose, one leg sliding back over the other.

Her white bra had a dream-dazzle of brilliance. Her matching white panties shimmering beneath the haze of fine sheer lycra. I couldn't help but keep looking at her perfect legs, her magenta glossed toes just visible beneath denser lycra at the toe. Her foot moved restlessly up and down.

I looked away. I had to concentrate on the game. I managed to take a knight and two pawns. It didn't help.

My rook taken in a lightening swoop, he went to her and unhooked her bras. In that special dream-light, her naked smooth breasts appeared ghost-white, unearthly. Nathan turned to me and smiled that annoying smirk of his as he gently brushed the back of his fingers over her nipples, causing them to stiffen. I nearly choked on jealousy, fought hard not to cum.

I needed to come up with a game changing move. But I couldn't concentrate, my excitement and jealousy was scrambling my thoughts. It was as if my brain was made of treacle.

Soon his queen had captured mine. Determined to have my wife, he went to her again, taking her hand as she slid from the stool. And she couldn't have been more eager to be his prize, allowing him to go down on his knees and hook his thumbs in the waistband of her tights, her legs parting a little as he yanked them down with blatant lack of care, them stretching as she extricated herself from each leg. She stepped unsteadily from the twist of material, abandoning her panties in a nest of tangled lycra.

Again it was hard for him to return to the game. But he did. Then quickly another "check" and he was with her again, There were no more clothes to remove so he kissed her, long and deep, his tongue visible briefly between their clashing lips. While they kissed I stared at the chessboard, thought and thought, occasionally looking up at them standing there, my beautiful wife naked in his horribly brawny arms.

Another, "Check." He lifted her up, carried and placed her carefully on the sofa next to where he sat opposite me. He sat down by her side and quickly began to gorge on her breasts. My cock became the one remaining solid item in a dream gone mad. Abbi closed her eyes and seemed to be in an inner space of her own as his lips moved from one tit to the other.

Now hardly glancing at the board. he still managed to break off his enjoyment of my wife to make a quick move, then back to her, his hands and mouth everywhere.

"Check." His head between her legs. My mind in near panic searched for an escape, an improbable last brilliant move to take back the game -- and my wife. Her gasps as he lapped her pussy unhinged my mind. I couldn't help myself, had to look. Her legs now spread wide, knees raised and drawn right back, her painted toes pointing high. I stared and stared and tried to see it all but the back of Nathan's head hid the work his mouth performed.

The inevitable finally happened, "Check mate."

I couldn't believe it. I looked him in the eye but he was done with me, I was dismissed. He turned from me and devoted himself totally to ravishing my wife. Before he did, he had grinned at me like the bastard I'd always thought he was. Then he was on his feet and undoing his fly and easing his jeans to his ankles. His cock looking prehistoric. I'm glad it was just a dream-cock; no man could, or should, be like that.

And then he was on her, pushing into her, gently at first, then his pace quickening, the heft of his thrusts becoming brutal, eliciting from her sounds like bedlam. My head began to spin. The dream noises she made were not those of a woman in the abandon of sexual excitement. They were more like the sounds a distressed animal might produce. I watched his buttocks rise and fall as he lunged again and again, his pace unfaltering, going on and on, a man with all the time in the world. I sat and watched expecting him to cum at any moment, but it was relentless. Then she was calling my name, over and over: Martin, Martin, you love it don't you Martin, this is what you want, isn't it? Martin, Martin, Martin, Martin, Martin. . . ."

With a jolt I sat bolt upright and opened my eyes. I was in bed with Abbi. She was shaking me, saying: "Martin, Martin, Martin. Wake up!" She was leaning right over me looking concerned. "You okay?" She said.

"Just a dream." I said.

That Sunday we flew out to Greece for our two week summer break. All the time we were away the dream wouldn't leave me alone. I replayed it over and over, the memory of it exciting me like nothing ever had. The thought of Abbi and Nathan together began driving me mad. Soon I had to admit to myself I wanted to see Abbi and Nathan do in reality what I had watched them do in my dream.

In bed one night I told her about the dream, every detail. I was pleasantly surprised how my words aroused her.

The following night I told it again. I stroked her pussy as I spun the scene, my voice cracking with excitement while my fingers worked her.

She had remembered so much from my last telling, more than I could have hoped. She asked, "Tell me how he spread my legs and pushed into me." Her voice betrayed some dark need. "Tell me how big his cock was . . . how hard, how long," her usually chiming voice now laden with husky trepidation.

"It was like a rounder baton, Almost too much for you," I said. "He was gentle at first -- but you still gasped when he first pushed into you." I did not mention the unholy noises she made.

"Tell me again how hard he fucked me," Her voice was strange, almost begging for salacious minutia. "Tell me how much it hurt me . . ."

Her reaction to my telling what was, after all, just a dream was a revelation. I let words work more magic, told her about the noises. "He was so big he made you cry out like an animal. You shook your head to and fro. Called his name, Nathan! Nathan""

"Oh God" she called, entering the depths of orgasm spun by words and fingers . When she cum, she actually shouted his name, over and over, "Oh Nathan! Nathan! Nathan!" I almost cum myself when I heard her call for him like that.

I asked if she liked my dream. She said she did. I ask her how much. "A lot," she said". I told her that when we got back home, the next time Nathan visited us, she was to seduce him. I told her how much I suspected he wanted her. She said she knew.

"You knew?"

"It is so obvious," she said, now reverting to her default of girlie-coy.

"As he ever told you . . told you outright, that he wanted you?" I asked.

"Often," she said, and blushed.

"You never said,"

"Why would I? You know how he is with me."