Wife's Secret Garden

I saw her in the afternoon that I had come home early from work. She was on her bed, her eyes closed, her hand between her kegs, and an engrossed look on her pretty face, intent and serene, happy, a half smile, a look of peace, and she was naked on top of the bed spread.

Her hand worked diligently at her clitoris, one finger moving rapidly over her tiny bud. Her brow furrowed, her legs spread, her attention so fully on her task that she didn't notice me there.

That night in bed I took a chance and asked her who she was thinking about.

She smiled, pleasantly, said it was private, that she never asked me who I thought about when I masturbated, which I had confessed to her, in a moment of weakness, that I regularly did when I was alone and thinking sexual.

"You know that's personal," she said with a coy smile.

"I will never intrude in yours," she added.

She hadn't seen me, so it was different because I had seen her, had watched the satisfied look on her face, and I could not help wondering who she was thinking about.

She looked so content, so happy, so engrossed in her private fantasy that she was there with him and luxuriating in the wonderful surreptitious moment of sexual bliss.

Whoever he was.

From the moment I saw her I could think of nothing else.

I tried to forget it, but it was useless. I wasn't angry.

I had no right to be, but I could not let it go.

I could not get that happy face of my wife in sexual bliss out of my mind.

Who made her so sexually happy, so gratified, so completely contented and pleased with her secret fornication?

I did not resent it, I merely wanted to know.

I was willing to tell her about my own to learn her secret, her garden of sexual fantasy.

Images of her with her secret lover flashed in my head.

I began running through the possibilities, the choices, the men I thought she was attracted to.

I began obsessing on her fantasies and it aroused me to think of it.

Was it Jake, my hunting buddy with his square shoulders and roughed masculinity, or was it Mathew, the intellectual, with his deep thoughts and mysterious background?

I thought about Julian, my friend from France, who had been with many women and seemed to know the female body intimately, who talked of things sensuous and exciting.

Could it be Andre with his handsome face and knowing smile?

Perhaps it was Carlos from Spain with his talk of lovemaking and the many women he had been with.

Maybe it was Jason, my surfing friend with his easy, devil may care attitude and his lack of involvement with women, his apparent disinterest.

Is that what attracted her?

Was it Jason and his apparent disinterest?

Was she attracted to him because he didn't seem to care?

Or was it Randy, the confirmed bachelor who dallied with numerous ladies, married and unmarried alike?

I pictured Randy holding her close to him and fondling her ass.

Could it be Martin, the man who had married for thirty years before losing his wife to cancer?

Maybe it was Lenny, the devoted husband who showed no interest in other women at all. Was it that devotion that aroused her?

Maybe the athletic Sean who was constantly engaged in sport without seeming to have time for women.

Maybe he had more time for them that he let on.

Maybe, since he worked at home he was able to visit during the day when I was at work.

I then began focussing on what she was imagining.

Was it oral?

Was it some oral fantasy where she concentrated on someone's mouth to her pussy where she visualized another man eating her with a long and active tongue that probed her depths and brought her to explosive orgasms that had her clawing the sheets as she came?

Did she think of past lovers I did not know about who gave her memorable orgasms that ranked among her best ever?

Had she fucked men she recalled, calling up memories of former lovers who gave her orgasmic memories she could bring up at will?

I thought of the men she had told me about she had been intimate with.

Jacob, who she admitted had an organ of great proportions, who could bring her to a climax with just his entry.

Was it Andy who she had been engaged to and who had chosen the military over her?

I remember the man she had told me about on the bus to New Jersey, who brought her to an orgasm through her panties, who gave her a climax though her underwear were still on, fingering her from outside those silk and sexy underpants.

I pictured her again on the bed with her eyes closed in a private moment of ecstasy, her naked legs spread, her knees apart, her hand resting on her pubic bone, her mind fix on a sexual fantasy that transformed her to a private orgasm she could savor in silence.

I remembered the contented look on her face and the obvious contentment and secret satisfaction.

I went back to the memory of her on the bed naked and I masturbated to private thoughts of my own to the sexual mysteries in her head, to my own secret garden of sexual fantasies, picking each of the partners I had speculated about, seeing her with each of them.

I began concentrating on not who but what they did.

Was it oral?

Was it sixty-nine with his mouth over her sex and him held between her pink lips with her tongue pleasuring the tip of of his penis?

I wondered if she preferred being on the bottom in her fantasies, as opposed to on top like in real life?

Could it be that she was conjuring anal which she had always refused with me but had some secret fascination with back door sex?

I imagined she had remembered a cowgirl where she rode a cock like a stallion and bucked and fucked with uninhibited glee.

I saw her puffy labia being parted by a thick and long erection covered by sexual foam generated by steady action and air combining with fluid in a heated sexual frenzy.

I saw her hands balled into fists and held at her sides for balance and from sexual tension.

I pictured her nipples, thick and hard from arousal, round and firm like marbles.

I envisioned her neck flush and splotchy with desire, hot and fiery with sexual energy.

I realized I didn't have to know. It was enough to speculate and fill in the gaps with a secret garden of my own, to savor and enjoy, to think about her masturbating to wonderful memories.

I often brought up the memory of her naked on the bed, her finger working her clitoris in sexual splendor that left her spent and satisfied and smiling to herself.

I could enjoy it with her without knowing the lusty details, without knowing who and from when.

It could be a mutual pleasure we shared separately

and therefore together.

As I brought myself to a private orgasm at the memory of her masturbatory reverie I wiped the semen from my hand on the convenient towel and I smiled to myself, pleased that at least she could have those private moments that I could not interfere with, could not participate in, because they were hers and hers alone.

I had to be happy that my wife could bring herself in intimate, clandestine pleasure known and felt only by her.

I began to think about when she masturbated during the day.

Was it at a regular time that she set aside for sexual reminiscing and fantasy.

I wondered if it was usually, as I had seen her, around two in the afternoon, when her chores were done and she arranged her day so she could end it sexually, imagining times past when she had been young and sexually free and unattached.

Did she have a time in her life that she went back to mentally and savored the memories secretly that lifted her to sexual heights.

One day I was looking for her keys to move her car and I checked the drawer next to her bed. On the top of a pile of papers there was a sheet with a name written twenty or thirty times in different styles and sizes, but the same handwriting.

It had 'Doreen' written across the page.

Some were in cursive and some printed in large and small print.

There was a heart at the top of the sheet and a phone number at the bottom of the page.

It was a local phone number.

I sat looking at the page I held in my hand.

Was I totally wrong about it being a man?

Was her sexual fantasy figure a woman?

I began to go in another direction completely.

I began to imagine her with a female.

I pictured her holding another woman in her arms and their lips together firmly, passionately, eagerly sharing their sexual excitement and warmth.

I looked at the page covered with one name.

I did not recognize the name and I searched through my memory for a Doreen.

I remembered nothing.

My eyes wet to the bed and I visualized my wife in the bed with another woman.

I saw them kissing, pictured them with their mouths pressed to one another's pussy, and my heart began to beat faster.

The idea had never occurred to me that my heterosexual wife was actually bisexual.

It had not occurred to be that the person she was fantasizing about as she moved toward an orgasm on the bed when I saw her that afternoon, pleasuring herself with her eyes closed and her mind fully engaged, was another woman.

I began doing the same as before, going over women I knew of that she could be having an affair with.

Doreen did not ring a bell, and I could think of no one I knew who could be the mysterious woman on the page of names.

A week later we were ready to turn off the light when I said, "Who is Doreen?"

She looked up quickly, turning to face me.

"Who?" she asked, caught off guard by my question.

I repeated myself.

Her face reddened, then she got quiet.

Finally, she answered in a whisper.

"She is a friend," she said.

Then very quietly she inquired why I had asked.

I took the page out of the drawer and held it up.

"The afternoon I found you on the bed, were you thinking about her?" I asked.

"About the two of you?"

I could have just hit her in the face with a fish.

She looked stunned, caught.

Finally, after nearly three minutes, she said quietly, "We have been lovers for nearly a year.

I met her in Chicago," she said in nearly a whisper.

She looked about ready to cry.

"It is okay," I said.

"It is every man's fantasy to have his wife with another woman."

I smiled and put my hand on hers.

"Has she ever been at our house?" I asked.

She nodded.

"You don't have to tell me anything more," I said.

She looked at me for over a minute.

"I thought it was a man," I said.

"Sorry to disappoint you," she said with a painful smile.

"I would have been fine with a man," I said, "but a woman friend is okay too.

What I want is for you to be a happy person.

If it takes for you to have an intimate friend, then so be it," I said.

Doreen came to dinner a week later.

I could see how my wife would be attracted to her.

She is tall, slim, and very beautiful, even stately.

She has black hair, narrow hips, and a very sexy smile.

She looks like a tall Jennifer Lopez.

Doreen is at ease and self composed and easy to talk to.

I liked her right away.

Claire had told her I knew about them, so they were very relaxed together and openly affectionate with one another.

They kissed before dinner as they were about to sit down.

When dinner was over and the dishes put away, I asked if she wanted to spend the night.

"Claire would love to have you stay," I said.

"You two can have our bedroom, I will take the guest room," I said.

I told her about the time I discovered my wife on the bed in the afternoon.

"She was thinking about you," I said.

"Well, let's hope," she said with a smile, pulling Claire to her.

She spent the night and she and my wife slept in the master bedroom, while I took the guest room and spent the night as I had after seeing Claire naked on the bed in the afternoon the fall before.

I spent a lot of time wondering what they were doing, but I knew if she wanted me to know what they did together she would tell me.

At least I now knew what she was thinking about when I found her masturbating in the afternoon.

It was good to know she had a special friend who would occupy her thoughts when she felt the need to find a sexual release.