tagLoving WivesA Tale of Immorality Ch. 06

A Tale of Immorality Ch. 06


Chapter Six: A Taste Of Doom

One might say I learned a lesson. Of sorts.

When we returned from St. Kitts, Lou's company had not turned its back on us. There was a signed contract on my desk. Lou went with the most expensive and ambitious of the joint venture ideas I had come to present.

Alex was proud. I just groaned. I told him I would not work on it if it meant meeting Lou again. His eyebrows rose. But he never asked.

I was faithful to George for the rest of that year. And beyond.

That sounds more heroic than it was. It was easy not to cheat. For one reason because I felt no urge at all to do it. And secondly, George's sweet unselfish reactions to my panic attack shamed me out of all interest I might have developed.

I felt no guilt for giving in to Lou's advances. I was just shocked by the way I had come to take George's love for granted. I promised that I would never do that again.

But, well, you know me by now. I am not a noble person. George is, I am not.


Our company had long since discovered the magical marketing powers of wine tasting sessions. The combination of a luxury hotel, good food, music and the intoxicating presence of expensive European wines never failed to bring together crowds of exactly the right people.

Enter, Alec.

Alec was a connoisseur of wines. (And an alcoholic, I'm sure. Probably a professional hazard.) He looked the part. He wore his fifty years in the most suave way. Considering his hedonistic lifestyle he looked remarkably fit, even elegant. His hair was pepper and salt. It curled artistically over his collar. I never liked mustaches much, but his seemed at ease with his personality.

He dressed expensively. And I don't know what sun shines in wine cellars, but he always had a tan.


Our wine-tasting events had grown in popularity since we brought Alec into play. He had charm and effervescence. His casual use of all the right wine lingo made the middle-aged ladies flock to him in herds. They lapped it up like puppies.

I was rather skeptical. Until that one night at the Hilton.

Alec had guided us through an impressive army of Cote du Rhones and St. Emilions. We of course were supposed to spit out what we tasted. We were to nibble on a crumb of baguette before tasting the next glass and then spit it out again. But hey, those were great wines.

They got even better as the evening wore on. To boil the whole thing down to its essence, I was rather buzzed when the clock neared eleven. And so were quite a few of our lady guests.

Alec was marvelous.

He never stopped amusing us with jokes and anecdotes. He dropped names and warmed us with stories of far away chateaux and ooh la la places.

Don't make me explain how we ended up at the hotel bar. Don't even begin to ask me how I ended up in his hotel bed. I tasted and didn't spit. His crunchy baguette never lost its freshness. The heady bouquet of our heated sex wafted through the room.

Even the after taste was pleasant.

There was no sense in waking up George to tell him he'd better not wait up, don't you agree? Yes, I know. I am a bad girl. I can't be cured.


I crawled into our marital bed long after George had fallen asleep. I was quiet enough not to wake him up, I hope. He never commented.

He just asked how things had been when he returned from work the next evening. I of course had slept in that morning. I never heard him leave. I did make a glorious dinner, though. George has this stomach weakness, you know. I mean he loves good food.

I waited for him wearing only an apron and holding out a glass of a rather expensive malt whiskey. Both were gone in the blink of an eye.

The wine with the dinner was one (actually, two) of the highly praised Cote du Rhones of the night before. I pointed out all of its qualities to George. I even remembered two or three of the juicier anecdotes.

We went to bed. There we devoted the rest of the night to another very satisfying tasting session. And to the expert nibbling of another excellent baguette. Home baked.

Ah well, I may be bad. But I'm good.


My next lover was Mr. Garfield.

He was the one I didn't have sex with. I never even used his first name. To be totally correct, we never even met.

He lives in California, where he owns quite a few vineyards. We were a client of his. His white wines especially became a featured highlight in our catalogue.

Mr. Garfield hated meeting people.

The two times we visited his lovely mansion, he apologized for not being able to see us. I understand he always does this. So I never came eye to eye with Mr. Garfield.

I did see a few pictures. They were rather vintage, I guess. They also might have been from Errol Flynn or another long-gone Hollywood actor. I looked it up. Gregory Peck, most likely.

Mr. Garfield must be ancient.

So he may not have had a face, but he did have a voice. It was the kind that crawls up to you and slips under your skin. The velvet kind of voice that you disparage when you talk with your friends. "Too schmaltzy," you tell them. "Too smooth an operator." But you never say how it makes your pussy flow.

Mr. Garfield was also a master of the seductive word.

So when I say I didn't have sex with him, I am only legally right. Let's say in the Clinton way. To be true, I had some of the steamiest sex with Mr. Garfield, and I never left my office for it.

Mr. Garfield made me do things. Like taking off my bra and playing with my nipples. Or wriggling out of my panties and touching my itchy clit.

One day he made me sit at my desk completely naked without locking my door.

Another day he told me to hang up the phone and return home. I was to remove all of my underwear and then retrieve my vibrator from the bedroom, take it back to my office, set it for the highest speed and then slip it into my cunt and wait for him to call me.

It might take a while, he said, but I was forbidden to orgasm until he called.

"Do you understand, Anne?"

"Yes, Mr. Garfield. No coming until you call."

"Good girl. Now run." I was a good girl.

He called after I had already been back for half an hour. It was the most excruciating half hour of my life. It took only the first ringing of my phone to make me come like a volcano. I still shuddered with after-spasms when he asked me if it was me he heard screaming.

I understand it was his third time asking.


Things changed from then on.

Not that I fucked less. And not that I violated the Law of Anne concerning the uniqueness of each fuck. Let's just say, I lost my innocence.

Don't laugh. It makes perfect sense.

You see, I never felt guilt after any of my escapades. They were mine and they were hermetically separated from what I felt for George. As a matter of fact, they made me appreciate George even more.

I never allowed there to be bridges between my lovers and my love.

That changed.


It changed the afternoon I flew back in from New York. I had spent a weekend there for business. But it had only been very superficially devoted to that.

His name was Gustav.

He was a Swede in all the exciting ways they make them. Tall, blonde, athletic. We toured Manhattan together. We did some shopping and some drinking. Then we had a long and delightful dinner.

After that we never left his hotel room again until I had to fly back.

When I walked into the arrivals hall — or rather limped into it, feeling very, very sore — George was waiting for me with a wide smile, an endless hug and a toy puppy.

I cried like a baby.

This needs some explaining.

I never told you that George and I can't have children. It's because of George's low sperm count. It was very hard for both of us when we learned of the problem. That was in the second year of our marriage.

I wanted kids very much. I still do. So does George.

We tried everything medically possible. Nothing worked. Even in vitro fertilization (IVF) with donor sperm was not an option — George had insurmountable problems with me carrying another man's baby, even if the father would be anonymous. Just broaching the subject made him impotent for days.

Adoption would have been the only option left, and I didn't want that. Not just because I wanted to bear and deliver my own child. It was also because statistics frown rather severely on the success of raising an adopted child.

So we had gotten used to the idea of not having children. But George is the sweetest of men, as you must understand by now, hence, the soft puppy doll. (Yes, I know. Rather ironic. Especially since I had at that time started fucking around on him.)

The puppy was sweet. So was the hug. But the most incredible thing was what he whispered in my ear. The same ear that had been tongue-fucked by my Swedish lover, not two hours earlier.

He said we should have a baby. Even if the sperm had to be another man's.

I cried. So did he.


Who could fuck around on a man like that? Even I couldn't.

George, it seemed, had already made an appointment with a clinic specializing in in vitro fertilization. We had a very long interview at the clinic. Patience was a word used frequently throughout our discussions. So was the warning not to have our hopes set too high.

They would once more try to use George's seed.

I went with him to collect it. I ached at the thought of leaving him to do it alone in the sad little room with its dated Playboy Magazines and sleazy pin-up calendars.

His ejaculation was intense. I had put everything I had in the blowjob that preceded it. It is curiously one of the most precious memories I have.

After two months the clinic gave up on George's sperm.

They asked us if we had a special donor in mind. It was a difficult question. We had been talking about that a lot. George couldn't get over the idea of knowing the father. I, on the other hand, had problems not knowing the genetic history of an anonymous donor.

It got us stuck for a while.

Of course I did not sleep around on George during that period. Ever since he gave me the puppy doll and the present, the mere thought of cheating on him made me squirm with guilt. How could I go out to get fucked by someone else? I knew that even taking the seed of an in vitro donor was so very difficult for George.

After four months of trying and talking, our love-making changed. That is to say, I stopped making love to George.

I started fucking him. I have no other word for it.

We had always made the sweetest, longest and most considerate love ever invented. It was why I had married George. It was what I had needed. It was the staple of my existence. Through the years, our lovemaking had become the essence of who we were to each other. It was our glue. It was the warmth that kept our blood running, our pulse beating.

But in the end it was not enough for me.

One night George went down on me. He has the most expert mouth and tongue. He takes at least half an hour to build me up. The teasing drives me crazy. It nudges me up a mountain slope. But it is a slope that doesn't seem to rise at all. Only when he at last pushes me over the edge do I see how dizzyingly high he has taken me.

And I soar with the exasperating cries of an eagle.

That night I pushed him away within minutes. His eyes went wide. I grabbed his hard cock and mounted it. I rode him like a crazed cowgirl. I plunged myself down on his pole. Then I rose along its slippery flesh and yanked myself down again.

It hurt me. It must have hurt him too.

But within two minutes I had the most animalistic orgasm I had ever had with him. I'd had those with my lovers. It was brutal. It was inconsiderate. It was all I looked for when I cheated on George.

So now I had cheated with George. I had taken his love and trampled on it. I had grabbed what was ours and used it for myself. I had shown George an Anne he had never met.

When I came back to my senses, his penis had wilted. But there was no sperm in my cunt.


I never apologized to him.

But I also never did it again. Not with him. I had learned that the only protection for our love was for me to let the animal out with strange and onetime lovers. I had to do my crazy fucking elsewhere.

And I did. I do.

What started as a whimsical chase of thrills has now become an urgent need. If I don't cheat on my loving husband, I'll destroy our love.

Please tell me, did Satan ever concoct a more devilish dilemma? Good thing I don't believe in him. But yes, just lose the letter d and you'll find quite enough evil inside yourself.

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by Anonymous

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by Anonymous06/27/17

One of the few detailed, probing, and possibly realsitic insights into a cheater

Dang you can write, Sophistry, arrogance, and self-indulgence owe you a higher retainer. BRAVO OldBearSwitch

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