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Finding Something New In Something Known

I will begin this story unsure how it ends, as the story, dr*ped with imagination is based on actual ongoing events. And I’ll warn, I doubt there’ll be anything too lurid in this installment, so if you’re reading, you’re waiting for a part I won’t tell yet and parts yet to come.

When I met my wife we were both largely in the same place sexually. She was 18, living on the West Coast, flirty, blonde and well fuck worthy in body and spirit. She was taken advantage of and though she didn’t always come out entirely clean of emotional scars, she frequently enjoyed being taken advantage of.

She had a way about her. A tone in her voice that let you know you would be inside her soon even if you had no idea that was an option until you heard the tone. I suspect she didn’t know she had that tone. Or that she lost it. Or that it is back.

She’d find herself in threesomes with strangers she’d meet in an early online game, or getting fucked after a computer lab work session, returning to finish her shift with cum on her belly while texting (not the sort we know today) her boyfriend, who had nothing to do with the cum, how desperately she loved him. She probably did.

So she protected him from the obvious when she’d return to him later, still damp, inside and out, from another man, on her knees likely hiding the cum-stained front and flush of fresh sex without realizing where that guy’s hands dug into the skin of her ass there were tiny bruises along each cheek.

Maybe he knew what he was seeing as he pushed inside her. If he’d ask, she’d say she must have sat on something. She doesn’t remember. What’s that, is it a bite mark on your inner thigh? Oh, don’t be silly.

He probably knew, but, convinced himself he didn’t when she put her ass into it.

She loved everyone she was with and equated the giving of all she thought she had and all she thought she was worth as a way to prove that. All the while everyone she was with knew she had little value and used her, at her emotional expense.

I was 27. Quite tall, well built, playing multiple sports which gave me access to a number of encounters, in hindsight, don’t seem quite possible.

I’ve scaled the sexual walls of the twosome to the sextuplet in various configurations. As a rigidly straight male I always preferred being outnumbered by breasts than by cocks. Fortunately additional cocks in a room always had a place as any woman has the capacity to handle four easily, if clumsily (hands, mouth, cunt).

More than four, as there are technically four more usable spots, were for the masters.

Women were more fun for me, but, far more disposable. I never bothered to love, or pretend. If I had a girlfriend at any point, it was for convenience.

More than one relationship ended when I messed around with one of her friends, sorority sisters or actual sisters (and twice even a mom). I would have been the guy leaving marks on my wife had we met a few months earlier, then leaving my drawers in her boyfriend’s hamper (not an original line, but classic).

When my wife and I met, it was the coming together of a woman who’d been struggling to find someone who actually loved HER in total more than just the parts and a man who never found a woman worth much more than what she could handle.

This is a sex story, so we’ll avoid getting into why she fell in love with me, or why I fell in love with her save to say our relationship was built on the saving of us both by the other.

I needed to take care of someone. She needed to be taken care of. So our relationship has always been almost paternal. Tender.

Until the birth of our first child, my wife and I never spent a minute together not touching. Just simple, easy touching. Snuggling on a couch. Holding hands. Simple. Non-sexual stuff. I was able to prove to her she was worth more than what she could do. She ceased needing to do it and was able to feel loved without the body being the reason.

In the early years we’d have some fun with sex, but, frankly, sex was NEVER what she and I did well. There was no spark to it. It was functional and dutiful. Making kids. Oh, it’s been a month? We probably should I guess.

It was a single position. Boring. Over quick. Increasingly sporadic. It was probably the worst sex I’ve ever had. She’d probably say the same.

She’s now 33. I’m 40.

Three weekends ago, at her creation, our love life changed.
She bought a whip you see. And not only let herself be photographed, but filmed.

Blessed is the smart phone. And it captures the transition of pale, beautiful ass cheeks to pink, quivering mounds of tender flesh most effectively.

Everything was on the table as it is said.

And the table was put to good use. It was a miraculous night, really. There’s a bad romantic comedy with Al Pacino and Michelle Pheiffer where after years in prison, Al had to learn to cum quickly and in complete silence. Our sex life was similar. It was so lust-less and anti-hot, I forgot how to fuck more than two minutes.

Yet, for hours we did things to one another we’d not done before – TO one another. We’d doze off. She woke up with me inside her. We’d doze. I’d wake up inside her mouth. It was a beautiful night. But along with the whip and some other items, it opened the door for something more. I’m on this site, so, I imagine you may have an idea.

For several days, this old married couple, never much into sex, found themselves sexting. Watching porn together. Buying more toys together. Flirting. Sending nude photos out of the blue. Building to more.

“You know, I’d have a threesome with you.”

Really? Where did this come from? I know my wife. That doesn’t slip without thought. I’d commented even before our great night out how she’d recently changed. We’ll come back to this point.

By threesome, we’re talking guy/girl/girl. This is just understood between us both. I answered, stating simply she’s a number of hot friends.

“Please. You have to arrange the girl.”

Right. Now, along with being someone who treated my wife tenderly, without making her feel like an object of lust, I’ve also been faithful. COMPLETELY SO. If I even THINK a woman can be hot, I avoid almost all interaction so there can NEVER be temptation.

Abstractly my wife knows this, if never fully thinks it is exactly true.

And so out pops the name of the ONE woman I’ve lusted after for three years.

“You said Michelle was unhappy with her husband. We could do her.”

I’ll end the suspense now. We couldn’t. We tried. But that was not to happen. Still, the story has value. You’ll see.

The next day, she mentions her again. Asking if I made sneaky contact. I had. Almost immediately. But said no. “You should. She would be fun.” My sneaky contact was totally off topic about someone else. Just to initiate the ball.

“To be fair, you’d probably have a better shot of closing the deal than me,” I say. Laughing right up until, “When’s your next happy hour?” Again, none of this is spontaneous with my wife. It’s all been in her head. She’s got a Gantt chart for all this somewhere, I’m sure.

“Thursday, right.”

Indeed. “Make sure she’s there.”

And I did. Keeping up the mild contact. Slightly flirty. Directing her to avoid some clothing items. Having her blow that off – yet she did avoid and do as I said.

Text. “Is Michelle going to be there?”

Yes. And when there, I feel weird around her. I know I’m loosely trying to get her to have a threesome. Other people are there. I can’t just mention it. So I comment on the positive clothing options.

Text. “How’s it going with Michelle?” Before I could reply. “Any progress?”

No, not really. “I’m coming.”

It’s clear more than me, she has her mind made up. It’s going to happen. While not openly accepting of it, or rejecting it, I realize only now, things could get very uncomfortable or very great. Turns out both. My wife is cozied up to Michelle. I can hear most things. Nothing’s going that crazy.

But, my wife is drunk and growing increasingly drunk. And sexual. Before she arrived, we were giving out whore points for inappropriately sexual things stated. I was judge, having won this contest every time previously. Michelle was in last. My wife quickly shot up the leader board, encouraging Michelle to join her.

It’s now I should mention our waitress, Jennifer. Straight, medium-length red hair, though the red you can tell is from product. She’s tiny. Only 5-1 or so. Very skinny and very, very pale. Kind of an emo-chick, but with more heavy metal to her.

She was most definitely not my type.

I mention her because she’s noticing the vibe of the table, hanging around a little longer each visit. And it’s clear my wife is attempting to convince Michelle a French kiss, at a table with my former work buddies, would give them a tie for the whore title. The hype factor at the table is growing. Guys who were supposed to be gone two hours earlier, are still there.

Will Michelle kiss my wife? No.

I think it was pretty close just before she left. My wife had gotten her away from the group, at the back corner of the bar. I’m almost entirely sure it would have happened had she said the words, “Look, it’s clear we are in to you. We want to set something up with you. You know my husband has a crush on you. It’ll be safe and fun.”

When Michelle left I asked what she said. And she said she did say something very much like above. I believed her. For about two more hours.

Michelle’s departure leads to a couple others leaving. My wife is still drinking. I am still drinking. Jen is the only other woman near. Jen just started at the bar. Two weeks ago. She’s got a two-year old. Yeah, she loves those groups.

You understand what’s happening? I didn’t quite yet but would soon.

The chase didn’t end when Michelle left. It transitioned. Jen is hanging around, snug between my wife and I. Leaves for a bit for another table, comes back. “It’s bikini night tomorrow.” I knew then. She was so totally, MOSTLY, not my type.

Though there was somewhat more discretion with the flirtation with Michelle and a somewhat valid reason to propose a kiss – winning the whore point contest is big time, really – there was no pretense with Jen. What will the table give Jen if the two make out and French?

The problem, of course, is while the remaining guys were pleased with the concept, they felt somewhat used for being prodded to pay for a kiss which, by now, was clearly not for their benefit, but for mine. One guy asked me if I’m having a threesome tonight. Another asked me if I keep my wife chained.

Jen, for her part, was not a shoo in for this. I mean, her boss was just over there. She just started. With a no like that, we all know that no does not mean no.
It means, “Hey, the outside bar area is empty (it’s cold here) and open.”

That’s where Jen went. It’s where my wife went. It’s where my smart phone went, with it in my hand. They were outside for several minutes talking. You could see them through the doors. Now it was picture time.

Meaning, it was kiss time.

I’m a little drunk in a bit of a daze. Outside at a bar, taking out my camera to photo my wife making out with a waitress. I looked again at Jen. Tiny, thin, pale. Adorable. Yes. I knew immediately she was my type.

Still, here I am, realizing – or thinking I do – what’s happening and wondering how far a couple can come in so short a time. From an almost Puritan love life to this. Maybe I expected something else. A peck on the lips. Like boxers jabbing early to get a feel for the fight.

From the photos I have, clearly Jen was expecting something similar. My wife was having none of that. Lunching forward, catching Jen in something of a gasp, you could see my wife’s jawline stretch as her mouth opened, pushing her tongue inside Jen’s mouth.

Big flash and click.

Then, Jen, so slender and tiny, the same was visible in response. Pronounced jawline spreading open, accepting my wife’s tongue. Her head tilting toward me, top of the head facing me as the camera flashed and clicked again.
Her response made me notice my erection. Realizing I couldn’t see her face, or the kiss with her head tilted, she turned the other way.

And took my wife by surprise.

Reaching up. Cupping my wife’s breasts. I wish I had this recorded, because the soft squeal was delightful.

It took me a moment to realize Jen was looking at me while fondling my wife and kissing her.

In my head, she was looking to invite me in. Letting me know the threesome is sealed. I was not correct at all.

The kiss ended just as my wife’s hands started moving on Jen’s thighs. Jen says, “I see now why you’ve been married 15 years.” Not really you don’t. This is new.

But, just like that, she was a waitress again. The kiss ended. She walks inside. I’m a smart man. Clever. Insightful. Vaguely I knew something happened. I had no idea what. My wife stands up and walks to me. Standing, facing me, looking in to the restaurant, just off a foot from directly in front of me.

I’m standing, trying to find gallery on the camera, back to the restaurant. Erection facing away.

“My God. She’s so hot.” I hear as I feel her hand rubbing the outside of my slacks over my cock. “It’s so good. We’re going to fuck her.”

Writing this, today, I realize I was, just as the next words were spoken, her old boyfriend, fucking her from behind, looking down on her ass, seeing another man’s fingerprints and convincing himself it was something else.

“And her fiancé will fuck me.”

Now, think of what I’ve told you of my wife so far. She plans things. She’s manipulative. No, she had no plan of THIS girl, but this THING she did.

It was never really an offer of a threesome for me, just like it was never an offer to kiss the waitress for the benefit of my old work friends. It was for her. For her to get what she wanted.

And she wanted her fiancé, or, really, any other man, to fuck her.

“Fuck that,” I say quickly, clearly not processing it. In cherishing my wife as a person and avoiding the use of her as an object, as well as some personal, emotional baggage from other relationships in the family, my wife knows no man may touch her, and she may touch no man.

This is law on level of commandment. It is unalterable and non-negotiable. She knows this. So, the statement seems less one of future certainty than a playful, flirty jab teasing me for the gift she was arranging and asking for a diamond in her near future. In my head, I was thinking about what size necklace to get.

As we walked back in, I’m pretty sure my wife shook her head. Probably because I know now where this is ultimately going and what just happened to spin it forward.

My buddies want to see the camera photos as my body was blocking things.

Jen and my wife are chatting a few feet away, then back.
Stunningly, my wife mentions the whip. I was too drunk and it was too loud for me to actually get the context as it seemed to come out of the blue. But, the mention immediately led to the discovery Jen has full body restraints.

My buddies leave and Jen is either off work or simply not working. It’s just the three of us, talking. My wife and Jen holding hands, making love eyes as they talk about what we could do together. Like my wife a couple weekends before, Jen has no limits, shall we say. And I have it on excellent authority a punk little pale bitch like her – her words – pinks up nice.

The phrasing should have been another tip as it’s the phrasing my wife used for our whip event. How it would pink her ass up nice. The little side conversations are clearly far more directional than I’m aware.

It’s getting late. We have to get the kids from the grandparents. There will be no threesome tonight, but the business card is given.

“Call us soon.”

And we leave. At least I’m fucking my wife.
The kids are already MOSTLY asleep and quickly do fall asleep.

And my fucking my wife prediction is coming true. I still have my toothbrush in my hands when she plops basically IN the sink in front of me, straddling me, jamming her mouth against mine so hard as to clang teeth.

And whispering the most dirty things ever.

“Are you just going to fuck her,” power kiss, heels grinding into my ass, pulling my cock between her legs, making me rub against her. “Or both of us.”

Her hand pulls my head into hers. She’s kissing me the way I like, not the way she likes. Tongues fully extended, pressed tightly together at the mouth, swirling so hard and so long as to force us to gasp when we come free.

“Imagine her on her back. Legs open for you as you push in her.” Her hand finds my cock, dripping precum, jerking me, bending me so my tip slips over her clit and down her slit. “I’ll be on my knees, over her. I can feel her gasp as you push in her.”

Then sliding forward, forcing her hips off the counter, dangling as my hands instinctively reach for her ass, holding her up, entering her. Pushing in hard as my hands lift her ass and pull her toward me.

“Then her fiancé pushes inside of me from behind.”

Uh. FUCK that. I say as I think.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” And just like that, in a whirlwind, she’s off the counter, on the floor, in her robe and in the bed. I’m still standing there. Cock bobbing and slick.

Now it all makes sense to me. My wife didn’t tell Michelle we’d have a threesome. She pitched swapping. Jen, she swears, brought up swapping with her. But, that doesn’t explain why during the kiss Jen was appraising me.
It wasn’t an invite. It was, “Would I like that guy fucking me so my man can fuck her.”

The rest of the night was just promises of how much fun it’d be with her.

The moments alone were the negotiation. Clearly my wife was saying I do not go for that. The head shake. The departure after the kiss to set the stage for a negotiation. The pinking of the bottom. All of it transitioned to improve my wife's chances to get what she was after.

“What the hell? Where did that come from. You know that’s not me.”

We talk. Turns out her earlier change of behavior, being nicer of late, so nice I had been repeatedly commenting on it even before our crazy whip night began when she was reading about Jesse James and his swap foursome and it led her to more foursome sites and led her to think it could be hot.

She went so far as to discover Minnesota has a great swapping scene. She's doing this for me. I get a hot girl and if her guy is a troll, she'll just do it. For me.

And, in her head, “What does it matter? I got you a hot girl.”

I have ZERO interest. None. Not close.

If she contacts you, make it clear that’s NOT on the table. Let’s just end the threesome shit if you think that’s where this is headed.

I’m such a fucking asshole I hear with conviction. She’s such a manipulative bitch. In bed, pissed off. Both of us. Her convinced I’m being unreasonable. Me convinced she’s crossed some line. Drunk. Though our fights in the past were never about something like this, our normal way of getting this angry is to stay so for some time.

I was reasonably certain our recent sexual exploration was at an end. But, I was still so hard. And my wife is still so very, very hot.

I reach out, touching her hip. “Do NOT fucking touch me.”

In our relationship, that’s that. I have always been so protective of her. Given her so much authority and control because she needed to feel like a real person. For so many years demurring to her in such areas. But, now, squeezing her hip.

She flies over in a roll. “I said don’t fucking touch me. You’re a fucking jealous jerk.”

And we continued our sexual exploration, slapping her hard across the face. So much in our lives would have been so much different had I seen before what I saw then. My wife, a beautiful, powerful, fiercely independent, life dominant woman, flared such fury in her eyes for a moment, I thought, for an instant, our marriage just ended.

And her eyes crossed just after.

I saw her knees slam shut. The small of her back arched. Her skin flushed pink in a split second. Her eyes, still clearly unfocused, slightly glassy. Her lips, parted just a hair and through them came the softest, “ohhhhh.” Our sex life has not been that good, but I know when my wife is cumming.

From a hard slap across the face she was now.

In this instant, life dominant became bed submissive.

I pulled her robe open. Her body jerked as the wave rolled through her. Her brain still angry. “No. Don’t…..” but I pushed her knees open, knelt between them, lowered my cock and entered her so hard, so quickly and as deeply as possible while her cunt was in spasm, the release on her insides seemed literally gushed from her.

I thought she was urinating initially. Her body shook as I landed deep. I took a moment to process just how much wetness there was. Fucking whore.

I thought as I said it.

“YYYYYYyyyyyyyyyyyours.” Writhing under me. Answering in the affirmative she was a whore. Cumming, I think, again. And I hit her again. I didn’t slap her face. I hit her. Close fisted, but purposely glazing punch off her rib cage, which nonetheless caused her to gasp both in surprised, immediate pain but as well to suck in breath as hers was jarred from her.

This story could go further into this night, as it could with the whip night, but, I think these are just steps on the path, not the path itself. I do not believe I hurt her more than she wanted. Or, at least not much more so. There was no safe word. None was needed.

I know she bruised up in areas you can’t see unless you’re together. We’ve been together three times since. Twice in a normal, playful, loving way. And once more, illuminating the path.

Should I write another story I will say it will be almost no story at all, or at least far less as I’m able.

Because on our next date night we never leave the house.

And we’re not alone.

Glad I got that off my chest.

End of Story