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The Awful Truth

In the 1937 film of the same name Cary Grant didn't cum on Irene Dunne's face.
I thought that the world would tumble down around my ears when I told my wife the awful truth.

It's strange how reality is sometimes such a relieving disappointment compared to our worst imaginings. Contrary to my anxious visions, there was no look of horror, no rush to pack my bags and heave me out on the street.

"Well, it's not like you would ever do something like that," she said. "People think about funny things. If you knew some of the things that pass through my brain, you'd think I was totally loopy."

I felt a weight lift from my chest as I realised that my secret was no longer mine to bear in silence. In fact, now that I saw that the world was standing up fine to the awful truth, it began to seem a good deal less substantial itself.

"Like the way I keep thinking about your friend Roger's dick," she explained, sitting up in bed.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, wondering if my ears where functioning properly.

"Well, he must have a pretty big one, right. When he comes over to pick you up to go to the gym, it always seems to be flopping around in his baggy track pants. He obviously doesn't wear any underpants. I wonder why that is. Maybe it turns on the girls at the gym, hey," she enthused, now sitting up cross-legged in the bed.

"I really haven't considered the issue," I replied, not knowing what to make of all this.

"I must admit, it is kind of a turn-on," she told me. "I keep thinking about how I would just have to reach out and give those baggy pants a tug and they would fall down around his ankles and that big dick of his would be flopping around right in front of me."

"You're not supposed to be having sexual fantasies about my best friend," I replied. "It's not decent."

"Well, look who's suddenly Mr. Decency," she countered, sarcastically. "I mean you started it."

"Yes," I agreed, "but at least I have the good taste to be ashamed of having such ideas."

"Anyway, there's nothing illegal about pulling a guy's pants down to have a look at his cock," she said.

"I think you'll find that there is," I let her know. "I believe that it comes under the heading of 'sexual harrassment'."

"Only if he didn't like the idea," Samantha insisted. "And I think Roger would love to have me pull his cock out of his pants. Especially if I offered to suck it for him."

"Samantha! How can you even suggest such a thing!" I cried.

"Oh, yeah. Like there's none of my friend's you'd like to fuck," she responded. "I saw how hard your dick got every time Rachel bent over to give you a drink in that low-cut dress at Tony's party last week. Don't tell me you weren't thinking about how much you'd like to reach into her top and pull one of her boobs out and suck on her nipple."

"Well actually I wasn't thinking about that at all," I replied.

"Sure," she responded, acting as if she was more disgusted by my denial than she would have been if I had agreed with her assessment.

"No," I explained. "What I was actually thinking about was ripping her dress off altogether, throwing her down on the table and ravishing her amid the chips and dips."

"Really?" Samantha wanted to know, her face lighting up. "Rachel would have loved that. She likes it rough. And she kind of fancies you, I think."

"You really are disgusting," I told her, shaking my head.

"So I've got a dirty mind," she replied. "I think you like having a wife with a really filthy mind. If you didn't, you wouldn't have that huge stiffy you're trying to hide under the sheet."

With that she pulled down the bedsheet and my stiff cock was revealed, wagging back and forth as it poke out of the fly of my pajamas.

"I may not be allowed to play with Roger's dick," she pouted, "but I'm allowed to play with hubby's dick." She grasped my stiff cock in her sweaty hand and began to wank it up and down. "Was it me that gave you this, or the thought of ravishing Rachel among the party snacks?" she wanted to know.

"I'll treat that as a rhetorical question," I replied.

"Coward," she said.

"You were such an innocent girl when I married you," I pointed out. "How did you acquire such a dirty mind?"

"I put it down to boredom," she replied, pulling the sheet from her crossed legs. She wasn't wearing any knickers beneath her shorty nightdress. I could see that her pussy was dripping even before she began stroking it leisurely. "You'd be surprised the depths of debauchery to which the innocent mind plummets when faced with endless staff meetings. Sometimes I feel an almost irresistable urge to strip out of my conservative school teacher outfit in the middle of a staff meeting and just masturbate in front of the head master. Just like this."

Samantha enacted a perfect parody of an eye-rolling, drooling deviant, as she finger-fucked herself in merry abandon. She expressed through this defiant display, a degree of dissatisfaction with secondary school bureaucracy, that, in the subtlety of it's symbolic portrayal would have put Laurence Olivier to shame. But then, public masturbation was never Olivier's strong point.

She came so hard she fell off the bed. Her performance had taken a lot out of her. About a pint of pussy juice I would say, judging by the state of the bottom sheet.

"Now I want to see you jerk off," she told me. "Stroke that big stiff cock for me, loverboy."

"Well, I've never done that with anyone watching before," I flustered.

"Come on," she said. "I love the idea of watching guys jerk off. Sometimes I think I should get a job in one of those stripper booths where the guys all wank off and shoot their spunk over the perspex. I'd go right up to the window and lick it right where their juicy jism was dripping down the glass."

"How do you know about those kinds of things?" I asked as I began to slowly stroke my cock.

"From this magazine," Samantha explained, pulling a brightly-coloured magazine out from under the bed. 'Cum-Burping Whores, Vol. 3, No. 11' read the title. The cover photo showed a girl with too much make-up on apparently trying to swallow the largest penis I had ever seen.

"Where the hell did you get that from?" I wanted to know.

"Sandy found it in her hubby's bedside drawer," she explained. "She lent it too me, 'cause I like reading the letters. Some of the pictures are pretty cool, too. Like this one."

She held up a picture of a woman with both a huge smile and about a half a pint of jism on her face.

"Why don't you come up really close, so I can get a really good look at you wanking your cock? And then you can spurt all over my face just like that," she suggested enthusiastically.

"Oh, my god!" I cried as I splattered her face with my creamy essence.

"So, what other fantasies do you have?" she asked with a straight face as rivers and strings of jism dripped down her face and swung from her nose and chin. I've never laughed so much in my life.

"You know what I'd love to do?" she told me. "The next time the Jehovah's Witnesses knock on our door, I'd love for us to answer the door to them just like this. You with your cock hanging out of your pants dripping cum on the carpet, and me with jism all over my face. And of course we'd have warm, friendly smiles on our faces as we invited them in to share their message with us."

You know, since I told my wife the awful truth, we've grown a lot closer to each other as a couple. And, as an added advantage, we never seem to get visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses anymore.

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