Second Wife


(For the complete text of the last chapter of Bean Counter, please see my website on my profile page for details.)


From Mary's journal

January 14th

I arose at the crack of dawn, desperately needing to pee.

That's not particularly unusual, these days, considering that I have an ever-growing baby tap-dancing on my ever-shrinking bladder. But my morning ritual of a hurried wobble to the toilet that every expectant mother learns by heart was followed in quick order by brushing my teeth, brushing my hair, applying the bare minimum of make-up to my face, and then preparing for a morning ritual that few, if any, other expectant mothers learn: sucking my husband's cock and drinking his cum before he goes to work.

How I got to this place is a long, strange tale -- suffice it to say that I had a moment of weakness in my otherwise-stable marriage and threw one of the best things in my life very nearly into the toilet. That's why I actually had to go upstairs to the master bedroom, where my husband slept in glorious luxury, instead of returning to my own serviceable but small bed in the unfinished addition just off the kitchen. I don't sleep with my husband -- soon to be ex -- I just suck his cock.

A lot.

As I said, I had a moment of weakness and I am still paying for it. I'll be paying for it my entire life. If everything goes spectacularly well, I might -- might -- salvage my marriage. But it's just as likely that I'll screw up again, somehow, and find myself single, childless, broke and alone in the world. But that's the chance I'm taking in trying to atone for my crime.

I tip-toe up the stairs, even though they are covered in thick carpeting. I don't want to wake Bill before I get there, I prefer to wake him up slowly. With my lips and tongue. That way I'm the first thing he thinks about when he tumbles back into consciousness. That's important to me. It's important to know just how much I love him and want him back.

It all started about seven months ago, when I met a flirtatious young man at the bookstore where I worked. I had been suffering from a lack of Bill's attention -- he's an important CPA at a rapidly growing accounting firm -- and the young man's smile, humor, and good looks made him very, very alluring to me. So alluring, in fact, that I started seeing him after work.

Oh, it was innocent, at first -- or so I told myself. I played the married vixen for a few weeks and enjoyed the attention. But then one night he kissed me, and the forbidden nature of that kiss melted my resolve. I let him go far, that night, I let him feel my wet married pussy and tease my sensitive married tits and I enjoyed the taboo of it all. I was a good Catholic girl, after all. Breaking taboos is a vital part of my sexuality.

But I couldn't stop with a sultry fingerbang in the back seat of his car, though. No, I was hooked. The next time, I visited his home. And I sucked his cock. It was so different from Bill's -- smaller, perhaps, but attractive nonetheless. The danger of getting caught, the excitement of new dick, the fresh moans from his lips as I fellated him were precious, delicious things, and I wanted more. The next time, I let him eat me, driving me insane with orgasms. The time after that, we made love.

Scratch that: we fucked. It was simple lust covering for mediocre sex, the excitement coming almost exclusively from the clandestine nature of our coupling. Oh, I came -- I came my fucking brains out -- but in the end there wasn't a lot of love, just lust and a sense of stupid pride that neglected housewives feel when they're stepping out on their husbands.

I approach the door of the master bedroom, my stomach full of butterflies and baby, nervous that he will send me away. He has, before, when I displeased him. I vowed after that that I would never displease him again. The door squeaks just a hint when I open it and I curse myself for not oiling the hinge yesterday, when I first noticed it. The dark mass under the comforter doesn't stir, though, and I relax. Mostly.

My lover and I were . . . well, we were lovers. He read me poetry and brought me flowers and candy and he painted pictures for me that I couldn't take home. He stole me away to movies and the theater, and he flattered me incessantly the whole time he was fucking me senseless, every chance he got. It was wild, passionate sex that gave me a surge of life whenever we met -- and a bucketful of good Catholic guilt every time we parted. I was doing wrong. I knew it. I vowed to break it off, each and every time we parted . . . but when his smiling face came back through the door of my store, my nipples got hard, my pussy got wet, and I couldn't wait to feel his lips on mine.

Of course my relationship with Bill suffered. I pushed him to work harder, cultivate a better class of client, work nights and weekends, anything to keep him busy and away from my stolen moments. I thought I was falling out of love with him, and our sex life virtually died. He suspected something, obviously, but he never suspected me of infidelity. Bill is trusting, that way.

Or, actually, he used to be. I ruined all of that.

I skulk silently to the side of his bed and can't resist watching him sleep for a few moments. It is such a common, romantic, wifely thing to do, one I took for granted, once. Not now. Now that I'm forbidden from sleeping in the marital bed, I miss those sweet, silent moments more than almost anything else. My fondest hope is to have them back, someday, and I will cling to them like the breath of life itself. I watch the rise and fall of the comforter, watch his nostrils flare and his eyelids twitch in the twilight, and I sigh. I had it all, once upon a time. I had the right to call this man my husband, and I fucked it right on up.

You see, it was all fun and games until I skipped a period. Not terribly unusual for me -- I've been irregular more than regular since I started -- but three days after it was due I started to suspect. A week and I started to fear. Two weeks and I was dreadfully sure, and completely unable to keep down anything more substantial than a graham cracker. My tits were puffy and tender. I started weeping for no reason. Bill -- who already knew something was amiss -- cornered me and interrogate me, feeling as if he had somehow done something to make me angry. I pushed him away, hard. We hadn't slept together in ages, by that point. I knew the baby wasn't his -- it belonged to Tim, my lover.

Perhaps another man might have killed us both at the outrage. Or slunk off to an attorney and gotten a divorce before the pure humiliation of the fact became public knowledge. Or changed his name and moved out of state. Or any number of other things. But not my Bill. My bean counter accountant of a husband was far, far more devious than that. He did what no-one expected him to when I dropped the double bombs of divorce and pregnancy.

He got even.

Even though I was the victim of his animosity, I still have a certain perverse wifely pride in how he got his revenge. I'll spare you the details -- he tells me they're available elsewhere -- but I will tell you the important part: the little glass piggy bank next to his bed.

It's full of beans. Almost a hundred, now. Each one represents a promise of a blowjob (made before my affair) that I did not deliver on . . . until after I broke up with him. Each bean is the fulfillment of my bargains, all done since I broke up with him. He kept track, of course, using a blind email account a few years ago to track it and time-stamp it every time I reneged on a deal. There were way over a hundred I owed to him when he imposed this ridiculous penalty on me. Now there are well over seventy beans in the piggy. And I was about to add one more.

Quietly, I lift the covers, careful not to disturb him. I'm surprised -- he's wearing pajama bottoms. Plaid ones that my mother gave him two years ago. He probably doesn't remember where they came from or who gave them to him, but he likes them because they're comfy during the thick of Winter. And they make my job a little more difficult. I'm lucky, this morning. Even though he's wearing pants, the slit is visible and I can already see the tell-tale bulge growing. He's still asleep -- I check -- but his body has gotten used to these morning exercises. It doesn't take me long to gently work the head of his prick out into the air without waking him. And then there it is, that cock I've come to know so well over the years.

It's a pretty prick, if I may say so, long and thick and meaty -- substantial, as my Mom would call it in her Good Catholic Mother way. I can't believe I gave it up, voluntarily, for an inferior model -- but hormones do strange things to a woman when loneliness and temptation collide. My lover's prick was far less impressive, but he had used it passionately -- a passion that I hadn't felt with Bill in years. I reached out and gingerly touched it with my fingertips, and it immediately responded with swelling, seeking my hand like a flower seeks the sun. I grasped it more firmly, now, beginning a gentle stroking motion that encouraged its growth. Then before it became too big, I leaned down, kissed the head, and engulfed as much of it as I could between my lips. Bill let out a soft groan in his sleep and I paused, seeing if he had awakened. A soft snore greeted me, instead. I was safe, for the moment, safe to play with my favorite toy without his guidance.

I don't know how he did it, but within the space of a few short months I went from being the neglected wife of a successful man to the soon-to-be-divorced woman carrying a love-child to the sad and abused pregnant girlfriend of a financially destitute third-rate artist. I know Bill was behind some of the problems, but I know a lot of the crisis was situational -- and I, alone, was responsible for that. Can I blame Bill for some of the heartache and suffering he caused? Certainly. But I won't. He was reacting like a wounded man, striking out at who had wounded him. He was a product of the business world, of attorneys and laws and regulations, and he was good at it. Me? I'm more of a free-spirit. Artsy, you could say. Hence my attraction to Tim. I had no idea just how devious and cruel Bill could be --even when he was helping me.

I work the bottom of his shaft with my tongue using long, languorous strokes that make it fill with desire. I can taste the sweet flavor of his pre-seminal fluid, now, and I relish it -- it is a tangible sign of me pleasing him. It is also a sign that he will soon be awake. I slow my pace, not wanting him to be. This is my time. In a moment he will grab my head or otherwise direct me to fulfill his pleasure and I will let him. But right now I am in charge.

Bill actually helped me out a lot during that ill-fated fiasco. He got me money for what I needed -- stuff Tim couldn't provide on his working-man's salary. Money for baby clothes and maternity clothes and prenatal vitamins. Of course, it didn't come free -- I had to earn it. He fucked me, coldly, cruelly. I would make it sound like he treated me as his whore, but the truth was he would have been kinder to a whore. I was his cheating wife, reluctantly fucking him behind my boyfriend's back for the pocket change from his pocket. And he never let me forget it for one instant. That's what paid for my meager Christmas gifts, and provided bail money for Tim. My pussy. I sold it back to my husband for cash. The very thought shames me and arouses me to this day.

I tag the head in long, languid circles, tasting the precum even more now and unwilling to part with it on my tongue. Bill moans a little in his sleep, now. I smile around his cock -- I am in control. Not for long, and not very much, but for this one brief moment I was sucking his cock the way I liked to, not the way he wanted me to. After the last few weeks that was a bit of a victory for me. My services were always on his schedule, to his order. When he took control I passively complied. For the moment, I had the power over his sleeping cock.

Eventually Tim found out about my liaison with my husband and pitched a fit. He was so enraged, in fact, that his true colors started to come out. He anally raped me that night, and repeated the act in the subsequent weeks. I've always hated and feared anal sex, refused to do it with Bill. It was one of the many, many things I denied him as a means of exerting power in our relationship. And then Bill took me anally, hoping to be my first, and I had to tell him. He's only done it a few times, now, and I have lost my fear of the act, now. But not my hatred. It feels degrading and abusive when he does it. But I let him do it anyway. Sometimes that's the only way I can get him to touch me.

Things came to a head around the holidays. Tim kept getting arrested for stupid stuff, the money was running out quickly, and Bill started dating again -- a fact that shocked me to my core. I knew he loved me, and I hadn't seen him so much as look at another woman since before we were married. Watching him flirt so shamelessly with a bunch of socialites at the local country club was more painful than I thought it could be. Knowing that he had fucked at least one of them that night was a dagger in my heart. I didn't think I was particularly jealous, but when I overheard a couple of bitches talking about him like he was a piece of meat in the ladies restroom, I nearly cried.

Things with Tim got worse. His art shows failed miserably. He became more abusive. He wasn't exactly a hit with my parents, who loved Bill like a son. In fact, with every passing day I knew that I had made a grave mistake, one I would pay for for the rest of my life if I stayed with him. But I had no choice. The baby in my belly was a burned bridge to the world I'd had. No way left to go but forward. The anal rapes continued, the petty bickering, the abuse . . . all the time I was trying to gain back some measure of dignity by fulfilling my promised oral duties to my husband. Compared to what I was getting at home, my "reluctant" blowjobs started being the one predictable highlight to my day. And when he fucked me, or had other sex with me, it was incredible. Tim? He was a child in comparison.

I suck now in earnest, knowing that he will awaken soon. I'm ready for it, ready to cede control of the experience back to my husband. He stirs and moans again as the friction builds in his shaft. I shamelessly flutter my tongue over his glans to enhance the effect, ensuring a tumble into consciousness. Just to make certain, I snake my hand into his pajamas and find his testicles. He loves having his balls played with.

Finally, Tim cracked under the pressure. He hit Bill at work and got fired and arrested again. Then he burned down his own family's farmhouse (where we had been staying rent free) and took off to parts unknown, abandoning me and our child to the cruel whim of fortune. I didn't know where else to turn -- I asked my sister for advice. I asked my priest. Both told me the same thing: go back to Bill. Beg him to forgive you. Do whatever it took to get a second chance.

He's awake, now, I can feel it. He hasn't taken control yet, but he's considering the matter as I make long slow strokes in and out of my mouth. He is thinking about grabbing my head and face-fucking me -- he enjoys that -- but he also enjoys feeling me work for his seed, using every tool I've learned to coax it out of his balls.

The terms were harsh: I could come back and live at what used to be "our" house. I would live in the unfinished section that he had built while we were apart -- a maid's quarters. He would pay for my upkeep in a minimalist fashion through the end of the pregnancy. He would keep me fed, clothed, housed. The priest lined up a nice family to adopt my bastard -- they would pay the medical expenses. After the birth, I was to leave, and the divorce would proceed. And I could not deny him sexually, in any way. He was free to see other women. I was not free to see other men. I was to be treated like a live-in maid and sex object. And I gratefully agreed to the abuse for the opportunity.

You see, in all the madness about Tim, I re-discovered that I loved Bill -- smart, funny, bean-counter Bill. And while I wanted him to take me back as his wife desperately, I knew that couldn't happen, not with my bastard around. So I had to give up my baby and still convince Bill that he didn't want to get a divorce. Giving up the baby was the hardest decision I've ever made in my life, but I know he will be going to a good and loving home. A home like I could have had for him, had I not strayed. A home like I could perhaps salvage from the ruins of my marriage to Bill.

And if that meant sucking his cock every morning and swallowing his load without complaint, well, that seemed like a small enough price to pay.

I've always known Bill was passionate about fellatio, of course. It's one of the things he says attracted him to me, my willingness to go down on him. But what had once been an exciting bit of foreplay or a sensual indulgence or a demonstrable outpouring of my love and affection had eventually become little more than another household chore, a wifely duty to perform. I began to resent it, and my performances on my knees got further and further apart. I became reluctant to do it at all, eventually, because of what it implied to me: Bill's domination in our marriage. It was a tangible symbol of our inequality. He made all the money, I "kept up" the home (with the help of a maid service and a gardener) and I had honestly felt that when I gave him head, it was because it was expected of me. So I had stopped.

It took my affair and pregnancy -- and the bean jar -- for me to realize just how passionate he was about it. I had now sucked off my husband more in the last six months than our first years as newlyweds. I had started out doing it reluctantly -- hell, it was one step away from sexual assault. But then with repetition and practice I began to enjoy it again, even when it was obviously just a physical release for him. Now I knew that it was, perhaps, the one key I had to where we had been, once. Begging a man for forgiveness is easier when you're already on your knees.

And that was my plan. I knew he still had a gut-full of anger and revenge planned for me. He has told me as much, warned me that I could expect horrifying abuses. But I would endure it, all the humiliations and mind-fucks he could throw at me, for the chance to be his wife again. I cheated. I erred. I sinned. And if the penance I am given includes his most perverted sexual fantasies, then I shall endure all of them for the slimmest opportunity to share his life again.

And that starts with the bean jar. One bean per blowjob, and I still owed him about fifty. After all I have put the man through, the least I can do -- the very least -- is to fulfill the bargains I made when I had his trust and confidence. Bill wasn't insisting on it, but I was. He could use me freely, any way he wished, any time he wished -- or not. But I owed him those blowjobs, and he was going to get them. And with any luck my devotion would be compelling enough to keep him from divorcing me. It might not be, but it was surely my best bet.

He let me suck him all the way to completion without grabbing my head or offering any direction. I was proud of that. Any time you can make a man cum without any active participation on his part, you have proven your skill. I swallowed eagerly, licked his cock clean, and slipped back out of bed to waddle downstairs and start breakfast while he showered.

I only stopped long enough to put a bean in the piggy. Time to begin my day.


I read those words with a certain amount of pride and satisfaction. It was a solid vindication of my plan, a sign of success I had only dreamed about. I shut Mary's diary and pushed it back under her mattress, exactly where she had left it. She didn't know I knew about it, of course. She thought this tiny, cell-like room was her sanctuary. I mean, I had given her a lock, which she used when she wasn't there. She should expect that I'd keep a key. Indeed, I had other ways in, should I need them.

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