No Secrets

Author's Note:

Steven returns from an out-of-town business trip to find that his wife has made herself fully available to him, or anyone, who comes to the door.

My stories feature Hayley and Steven. There's a certain sameness to their characters throughout as I like to think about them a particular way. Or, maybe I'm lazy and don't want to fuddle with figuring out names. Each story stands alone and are not sequential unless labeled to be in parts.

**

From LAX to home in Charlotte. Ugh. It takes a while, even when things go smoothly. Arrive at the airport 90 mins early, delay the departure an extra half hour due to a plane replacement for who knows what reason, a joyous four plus hours in flight wearing a mask, three hours of your day lost to time zones, and another 40 minutes to get out the plane, collect my bags and pay the parking ransom. And then... then finding the highway at a full stop only several miles from the airport. Lovely.

I had texted Hayley when the plane touched down, which she understands is a signal that I'm a little more than an hour and a half from arriving home. That situation had obviously changed. Google maps showed the interstate traffic density in the shade of a blocked artery, two miles of it. I'm delayed another 50 minutes. Ugh. Some people love to travel on business. I'm betting they don't do it frequently. I texted her the update but didn't get a reply. Maybe she had started dinner. Hopefully, it would be something that could be kept warm.

My mounting frustration and verbal tirades weren't pushing cars ahead, so I figured I may as well try to take an almost adjacent exit ramp. Google wasn't saying it was a faster route, but sitting still on an interstate drives me nuts. Blinkers, patience, and a little bit of illegal backing in the emergency lane got me there.

SoCal may be awesome for some, but it's not a land flowing with milk and honey for me. A week there? No thank you. But I'd done it before, and I'd do it again to pay the bills. I'd rather spend my time with Hayley.

As I should. She's gorgeous. Kind. Friendly. Wise. A tease. A fully engaged lover. My best friend. My wife, even. I hope you have the same. There are no secrets between us, something we agreed to before we got married because we value the intimacy between us.

I know, I know. You want the details. 5'7", slender, great figure... No, not me. Her. Light brown shoulder length hair, parted from the side and hanging to just below her shoulders. A cute nose, mouth, ears... Well, I don't mind sharing what other people say. A younger Téa Leoni. With slightly bigger boobs I'll add. I had to Google Téa. There's a strong resemblance. She's a beautiful woman. But, hey, I got Hayley. Go find your own.

It matters later, so one thing you should know at that point is that Hayley delights in my cum, wherever it ends up, and she's not hung up on where exactly that may be. How many other wives are like that after being married five years? Not many, I'd imagine.

When I go on a long trip, I try hard not to masturbate -- the more for her to enjoy when I return, right? It's not some sort of proof of celibacy or anything. She doesn't care if I do or don't. But, for her, cum is what makes sex real. Condoms may bring pleasure, but, well, maybe you get the point. Cum is a main part of the experience as well as the evidence after the fact. It's an added dimension that she expects.

This past trip, I was maintaining my self-control, and then Wednesday she texted "Horny!" and followed it with a picture of her fingertip brushing the side of her clitoris. iPhones these days. Wow. It was moist, shaven and beautiful, the area around it flushed and swollen from her activity.

She called shortly afterwards. We talked about the photo and those things you talk about when you're somewhere distant and horny as hell. She eventually came, but I didn't. Only, I told her I did. A white lie maybe? I wouldn't call it a secret. I could have told her the truth, but then she'd keep trying and probably want a picture to prove she got me there. And, I'd have less to share when I got home. I'll add that I don't take any satisfaction from cleaning cum off my chest. In a hotel. Alone.

Back to the travel. The exit ramp idea worked, with some liberties taken at stop signs and stop lights when no one was around. I got home about 20 minutes after my original estimate, but maybe sooner than she'd expected if she got the second message. Didn't matter. I was home.

The garage door was open for whatever reason, and I pulled in. She forgets sometimes. I popped the trunk, got my bag and soon find that there's a piece of paper taped to the door that leads to the kitchen with a note written in thick Sharpie. "Just mopped! Use the front door."

Joyous. Another delay, but a final one. I left the bag where it was. I wasn't in the mood to wind it out of the garage, around our sidewalk and up a couple steps. It would wait. I was fumbling for the front door key as I neared it when I noticed a similar note on the front door. Strange, that.

"Come inside and follow the instructions."

It doesn't take many words for me to understand that this wouldn't be a typical coming home. She had some sort of surprise waiting for me, and I was betting it wasn't cake or a visit from my mother-in-law. I peeked through the glass panes to the side of the door, and my heart could have stopped. Whoa!

Let me help you understand the scene. You're looking into a foyer, you know, the entrance area just inside the front door that is functionally necessary, but then architects go and make it too large, wasting square footage that would be better spent on other rooms. And, if it's a two-story house, the foyer opens to the ceiling so you can pay more on your heating bill.

We have such a gluttonous version, 8' wide, 12' or so feet deep, with a large arched farmhouse style window pane above the front door. It's showy. There's a fancy large chandelier that hangs there, filling the void, which no one notices unless they're walking on the street at night when its lit. As pretentious as it sounds, it's just the way they've built nicer houses for the past decade or two in these parts.

Anyway, that chandelier is in full bloom, which is odd because we only use it when we have guests. But it does a fine job of illuminating Hayley, who is sitting in the middle of the foyer on one of our dining room chairs, facing the front door. You can picture that, right? Not real complicated.

Now to get closer to why you're reading. You've got the scene. Here's your character. Hayley's wearing her wickedly sexy 4" black heels that have single straps that wrap around her ankles but leave almost all of the top of her feet bare. She's got sexy feet. She knows it.

Why am I starting with her feet, you ask? I'm working my way up. She's wearing a pair of high-cut, black see-thru panties that really amounts only to a small triangle. There's not a hair to be found in the region. She doesn't like shaving, but she loves it when I watch. I'm just that lucky.

There's a blindfold, too. It's black as they often are, but it's one that's particularly effective at staying in place and blocking her vision. Having spent a small fortune sampling the gamut from cheap to overpriced, she finally just made one herself that actually works. A labor of love, obviously.

Now to color the rest of your picture. No bra. Her bare breasts are pointed directly at the front door. Her legs are spread, wide. You're looking at well-defined calves, taught sinew and muscles, creamy smooth skin... I forgot to mention she's 28, and she looks it. Whether women or older or younger, they want to look like she does at 28. To save words, you might settle for ripe, luscious, or, heck, ready to eat.

She is a vision. She's sitting with her back straight in the chair, her arms folded behind it. Her shoulders are square and she isn't slouching. It's a presentation of what I, or whoever, have been instructed to use. My cock likes the idea.

So, what am I waiting for? It takes a while to describe a scene. Sorry.

The front door isn't even fully shut, I nudge it and it opens silently. She didn't seem to notice anything. Imagine that, if you will, your front door open, and your naked wife on display to your front yard and beyond. I wasn't overwhelmed to the point that it prevented me from taking a couple steps back and snapping a few photos with my phone... because I could. That'll get me in trouble someday, the mercurial power of autonomy that can as easily make a person a hero as land them in jail.

I didn't take long, though. I closed the door to the same point, short of latching it, figuring perhaps she could hear it if I did.

Happily, Hayley is neither a mirage nor a delusion. She's really sitting there, her mouth slightly parted, her breasts rising and falling just a bit with each breath, and I notice something else. Earplugs. In her ears, if that wasn't obvious. Well, well!

There's more to notice. We have a side table in our large open foyer, because the space demands that something be in it. That table, as you might expect, bears a note on it along with a sampling of other things, those adult things that usually occupy our bedside drawers.

To be clear, we've got a nice assortment of such toys, and we use them playfully. They just spice up our time together. Importantly, we're not that kinky. What Hayley is doing here... it's blowing my mind. It's like she double dog dared herself. It's a varsity move, a bold and daring shift on her part. A game changer. It's a challenge that I've got to meet. Right. You've got the picture, but you're lacking the context.

"To whoever reads this note, use me in any way that you want. I will not resist you. I only ask that you not injure me or let me know who you are."

And, fuck. She included the date and time and actually signed it. She'd been sitting there for an hour and a half. With the door cracked, anyone who stopped by... anyone could have stopped by. Hayley, Hayley. What's gotten into you?

Stop. Think.

First, she's not asking for tender love and affection, folks. Potentially rough, but not rape. Got it. Second, she wants her double dog dare experience to leave her in a state of uncertainty. I mean, she knows it's going to be me coming through the door, but she can't be certain, right? So, it's up to me to puzzle out how to be someone else. My swollen cock is warring against taking the time for that.

But. I have to think, and thinking can take a little time. It's worth it when it comes to her. She's given me a gift. I need to return it.

I wear sneakers when I travel, so apparently any floor vibration hasn't alerted her. Still, I slip them off. I'm not pressured to hurry, I remind myself. She doesn't seem to know I'm there.

I can see that she has somehow been able use our Velcro cuffs to fasten her hands to the chair. They're symbolic, of course. She's writhed out of them before in a state of orgasm.

If she wants the illusion that it's not me, then I can't be here, now or when she might think about it later. That said, she absolutely expects it to be me. There are the two text messages I've left her, which she would come across at some point, and that leads to an idea.

I text her again. "Sorry, honey, it may be another hour or two yet. Radio says there's a multiple vehicle accident with a possible fatality on I-85. They're investigating. Will text again when I'm free of it." Like I listen to the local radio. Who does that anymore?

Other than that minor point, I'm pleased with myself. Really, really pleased. I don't have to rush this, and the longer I take, the more she's going to think it's me... because I otherwise should have arrived home sooner to interrupt some stranger, right? Right. And if I can fake being someone else well enough, then she can have reasonable doubts because the time on the note suggests she never got the first text.

I get to use my wife. I'm surprised at the appeal it has for me.

I'm even more pleased as I take photos and a video of her sitting there. Ladies, if you're reading, every man wrestles with these moral demons... Yes, do it! No, it's wrong... Blah, blah, blah. Don't fall for his supposed virtue. If you've given him the opportunity, he snapped the photos. Your focus should be on if and where he shared them.

Anyway, as I captured how sexy and sensual she looks, the gears clicked to form a suitable plan.

I left her there. I know. Crazy. But, she took away her sight and hearing. That leaves the other three senses to me.

Our sense of smell is far more powerful than our sense of taste. I don't use colognes or have samples. I don't have other brands of my long standing Arrid Extra Dry, so I do what I can. I try to smell like her, essentially scent-less to her I'm thinking. I sparingly apply a particular lotion she likes in places that are likely to come close to her... my chest, my groin, my neck and face, my hands... you get the idea. The hotel shampoo and soap I used earlier in the day should also help.

And I brush my teeth with her toothpaste. We never resolved the Colgate/Crest divide, but I'll cross over on this occasion. Then I scurry to my workshop area and use sandpaper to slightly roughen my fingertips. Good enough? It's not like I can grow a bigger cock, and it's all I can think of to do.

I make my way back to her. She's still there, her steady breathing doing admirable things to her breasts. I hope you'll understand that I'm a very considerate lover, but I still get aggressive at times. But there's a certain respect that limits what I do with her. That doesn't mean I don't have other thoughts. "Use her." Heck, yeah! That's a free pass. Whose wife ever says that?

I reach over her shoulders and grab her nipples without touching her anywhere else. Her sudden intake of breath is perfect. She seems genuinely surprised. Her nipples, which hadn't been exactly soft, stiffen immediately. Understand, I know that starting with her nipples is not what she prefers. Actually, she pretty much dislikes it until other parts of her are humming.

Still, they're so uniquely female. They get so long when they're excited. I squeeze harder, then pull them, first away, then up, watching her areoles stretch. I can see in the way she tenses that it's uncomfortable, but her chest is starting to flush red and she's not complaining.

I'm not feeling guilty about it. I'm using her, and she's not resisting. The contract is on the table. And she can't blame me later. I'm her mystery man. There's a gag on the table... and as much as I think it would fit my role, I don't think I want her that way. She really has a lovely mouth, and I want to use that, too. Maybe next time.

I release her nipples and just grab her boobs roughly, imagining I'm testing their weight like it's the first time I've held them, then squeeze them to test their firmness as I ply my thumbs gently at her nipples. I can see that she's warming up.

Hayley's breasts... If my mouth was twice as large, I'd try to suck the whole thing inside. I'm not saying they're edible. I'm just saying the sucking should go far beyond the tips. But I have other things in mind and let those beauties go. It's not like I won't be holding, or sucking, them again.

I start tracing her face with my fingers. I can feel the difference the sandpaper made, and I'm certain she can too. I trace a couple fingers along her nose, chin, jaw and around her neck. I don't know that I've ever felt her face like this before, at least taking an inventory of sorts. She jumps a little, and I'm pretty sure my finger tips and the change in approach have her wondering. "Whoever" might not be me. Good.

I press the outline of her lips with my fingertip, pressing hard, something I've never done before. I run my finger just inside along her gums, her mouth parted for me. Her tongue follows my finger, flicking at it. She moans and licks her lip when I remove my finger. I'm surprised by the response, but I like it. Huh, who knew?

I insert my thumb between her lips. I've done other fingers before, but I don't recall using my thumb. She sucks on it. And uses her tongue. Good girl. I'll be giving her something else to suck on shortly.

Her breasts draw me back to them. They're magnificent. I work my hands under them again, lifting them, looking toward the door and imagining some neighbor walking by and seeing exactly what they hope to see when they peer into others' windows. Furniture? Maybe. Wall color? Perhaps. A naked woman? Well, yeah. Especially if they know there's a 28-year-old hottie in the house. If not, that's fine. I'm cool with being me.

I get more than I bargained for. I catch some movement at the door as I turn away, and look back to see a man, maybe in his 30's, his face almost on the window, grinning, looking in. He actually pushes the door open, and I give him the fiercest look as he tries to enter, pointing away. I can't shout, as I'm sure Hayley would hear that. Despite having two feet in the foyer, he got the point, held up some flyer in a plastic sleeve, smiled and dropped it on the floor.

I quietly shut the door fully, my eyes following him as far as I could. Door to door sales. Kind of late in the day for that, fella. I look back at Hayley, who is still sitting there, looking stunning. I wonder if the guy had taken a picture... because he could. I would have. I'd like to say that the thought angered me. I was shocked to find how much it actually turned me on.

Back to business. I decide I want to play with Hayley just a little more before going somewhere else. I trail my fingers from her lips down her neck, between her breasts and down to the edge of her panties, taking my time there but stopping short of touching her most sensitive area. Her legs tremble. That pleases me.

The whole foyer scene is limiting and running a bit stale. She's sexy as hell, sitting in a chair like that, her legs spread, but it's very limiting. Strangely, the thought then occurs that the sales guy was probably just following the instructions on the door. Maybe he thought they were from me. Huh. I'd be excited, too.

I need to use my wife. I unfasten her hands. I help her from the chair, happily noting the wet spot where she had been sitting, then turn her, firmly holding her arms behind her to march her to... where? Well, the simplest solution is the thing in front of me, which is the couch in our den. Or... the back of it. That works, and I promptly fold her over it. It's a damned sexy thing to see your wife in heels and her ass bent over a couch. I might have taken a couple quick pictures of it, in fact.

Then I press several fingers against her cunt through the fabric of her panties. She's soaked. I slip two fingers around her panty and inside her. I don't know if she came, but I could feel her convulsion against my fingers. I turn my hand slightly, and head for her g-spot. Finally, finally, she speaks her first words. "Fuck me. Please." Nice to meet you too. It wasn't a demand or a request. It was just a statement of need. I could write it off as that, but I don't know that she had ever actually said those words before. Clearly, she was not resisting and not even suggesting that she was in charge in any way. I wasn't willing to do that just yet, but still, she deserved something.

It was time for the panties to go. I pull them down, forcibly, and take a bite at one of her butt cheeks. She makes some fluttering noises, and I think it means that it hurts and she likes it. Or, one or the other.

I resume fucking her with two fingers then for a good while, enjoying the sensation, her moans, the smell of her cunt... the usual things. Then I stop with them inside her. She wriggles her ass around and against my fingers. "I need your cock inside me!" she begs. I count that as progress. I add a third finger. I'm a giver. "More!" Yeah, she's hooked, but I'm not, at least on fingers. I wipe them off on her face and neck.