The rest of the story…

In later life, during our less and less frequent sex, Judy would sometimes make up stories about all the naughty things she had done when she went to Doctor Johnson’s house that day. The stories were always far-fetched enough for them not to be believable and she would always end our fantasy session telling me it was just that; a fantasy she was making up just for me to help make me cum.

But at the back of my mind still remains that nagging, persistent doubt. By her own admission she had been alone in the house of an attractive, seductive man for over six hours.

That’s a long time to spend just talking!

***

Worrying though this unquestionably was, it was not the incident that has haunted me most throughout our married life. That event took place eight years into our marriage when both our daughters had already been born.

Finances, as well as a desire to pursue our careers meant that at the time, we were both working in the same hospital, if seldom the same hours or in the same operating theatre.

Technology was moving fast in those days. That summer Judy had to go to a medical conference in Atlanta to learn about a new laser that was being installed in the operating room, where she was now Department Manager. It was to be a full week of training, leaving on Sunday and coming home the following Friday evening.

Those of us old enough to remember will know that the late ‘eighties were well before mobile phones were in general use and those few that did exist were the size of house bricks. Keeping in touch was much more difficult involving planned telephone calls often to and from phone boxes but we all persevered.

Judy wasn’t away often so was missed both by me and by our lovely daughters. Their bedtimes sadly did not overlap with their mother’s expected availability so it fell to me to talk to Judy and pass on stories and questions in both directions during pre-planned evening calls to her hotel room when she most expected to be free.

That’s where things began to go wrong.

On Tuesday evening I called twice but there was no answer. I assumed the conference schedule had been changed. Though the girls would be disappointed it was not at all unusual for training and conferences to over-run so I thought nothing of it and went to bed.

On Wednesday evening I called her room around ten o’clock in the evening, hoping any delays during the day would have been caught up and that Judy would be free. At first the phone rang and rang; I had all but reconciled myself to another evening without speaking when to my delight she suddenly answered.

She sounded out of breath.

“Are you okay? You sound puffed,” I joked.

“I’ve just come in from the hallway,” she replied slightly awkwardly. “I heard the phone ringing and ran.”

The phone had rung nine or ten times before she had picked it up so again I saw nothing unusual in this. It was late so we kept our conversation to the necessaries but before we said our goodbyes, I heard something strange but distinct in the background.

“What’s that funny noise?” I asked.

“What noise?”

“Are you sitting on the bed?”

“No. I’m on the stool by the dresser. What noise?”

I thought for a moment.

“It sounds sloshy. As if someone’s on a waterbed close by. Is there someone in your room?”

There was a pause during which I thought I heard a whisper.

“Judy?” I prompted.

“No. It must be the line,” she eventually said, her voice slightly odd. “Can you still hear it?”

“Not anymore,” I agreed.

“It’s late,” she said quickly. “I’d better go.”

“Shall I call the same time tomorrow?” I asked.

“Okay but you know how things get changed at the last minute.”

“I know. Goodnight,” I smiled.

“Goodnight,” came the reply.

“Sleep tight. I love you,” I said.

But she had already hung up.

Forgetting what we had agreed, I called an hour earlier on Thursday night.

“You’re early,” Judy said, half surprised, half resentfully.

Her voice sounded slightly dazed or maybe a little slurred.

“I’m sorry. Have I called at a bad time?” I asked.

“N…No,” she replied.

Suddenly there was a noise in the background. This time there was no doubt; it was unmistakeably the sound of a toilet being flushed followed by a shower running.

“Is everything okay?” I asked anxiously. “Is someone else there?”

There was clunk as if the handset had been dropped onto a hard surface followed by a long pause during which something like anxious, unintelligible, hushed voices could be heard. Then the sound of running water ceased abruptly.

“Judy? Is everything okay?”

There was no reply.

“Judy?” I asked again.

“Sorry?”

My wife’s voice had returned, breathless again.

“Is everything all right?” I asked insistently.

“I’m fine,” she replied. “I dropped the phone. Look Sam, it’s been a hard day. I’m exhausted. I need to get to bed.”

“When will I see you tomorrow?” I asked, puzzled and annoyed at being given the brush-off so quickly.

“I should be home around five.”

“Well have a good day and a safe flight,” I said.

“Thanks. Good night.”

“Good night Judy. I love you,” I said.

But again the line was already dead.

I lay awake that night puzzled and annoyed. Judy hadn’t even asked about the girls which was completely out of character. In retrospect, that alone should have piqued my curiosity but the main events were still to come.

The following day was Friday. The girls and I had the house ready for five o’clock when Judy was supposed to be home but the hour came and went without either her arrival or any message to explain her continued absence.

The girls were very disappointed but we persevered with our normal evening routine and they went reluctantly to bed only half an hour late. I sat in the living room watching the TV half-heartedly and waiting, my anxiety growing by the hour, searching for news of plane crashes or tornadoes on her route.

It wasn’t until after ten o’clock when both girls were sound asleep that I heard the sound of a car outside, the front door opened and Judy came into the house. I sprang to meet her, my relief at her safe arrival mixed with anger at her lack of consideration in not letting me know what was happening.

“Thank God!” I gasped in relief, letting her into the hall and trying to give her a welcome kiss. “You’re so late!”

To my surprise, my wife dodged the kiss rather clumsily and mumbled something about flight delays and having to change planes in Chicago.

“There was nothing about it on the news,” I said. “Why didn’t you call?”

“Can’t it wait Sam? I really need a pee,” she said, dropping her bag and half running up the stairs towards the bathroom.

I know some people find it strange, but Judy and I have never really worried about toilet privacy, at least where peeing is concerned. Maybe it’s because of our no-nonsense medical backgrounds. Ever since the kids were born, neither of us has worried about the other being in the room when we go to the loo.

It’s not how every couple behaves I know; it’s just something that’s never bothered us so it wasn’t in any way unusual for me to follow Judy into the bathroom and continue our conversation while she relieved the pressure on her bladder.

At first she made as if to close the door on me but I pushed it open casually and picked up where I had left off downstairs.

Judy frowned as she wriggled her panties down and settled on the toilet seat. The sound of peeing began; the look of relief on my wife’s face was almost comical.

“How did you get back from the airport?” I asked. “You must have missed your pickup.”

There was a flash of something like fear across her face before she replied.

“Someone dropped me off.”

“Who was it? Not many of your team live out this way.”

“Um.. it was BJ,” she said, again uncomfortably. “It’s not far out of his way.”

On the face of it, this made sense. The Doctor did live only a few miles away but why was this admission making my wife so fidgety?

“I was getting really worried,” I continued.

“Why didn’t you let us know you were going to be so late?”

“There was a queue for the phones,” she said unconvincingly.

“For five hours?”

“Sorry I didn’t…” Her voice trailed away as she noticed me staring at something that had just caught my eye.

Judy’ panties were dark but as she sat there with them around her ankles I couldn’t help notice a very obvious gob of pale goo about the size of a silver dollar in their crotch.

“What’s that?” I asked, puzzled.

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, looking down at her soiled panties horrified, then up at me with a look of horror on her face.

Perplexed by her reaction, I knelt down and tried to inspect the sticky blob. Still sitting on the toilet, Judy tried to pull her legs and panties away but I persevered. It was large, off-white, thick and gelatinous. I touched it, rubbing the goo between my fingers; it was slightly sticky. I raised my messy fingers to my nose to find a familiar earthy, slightly musky odour that made something stir deep within me.

“Sam I…” Judy began, rising from the toilet naked from the waist down.

To this day I can’t be sure what came over me; maybe it was my wife’s absence from my bed for so many days; maybe it was the sight of her half-naked, pretty pale body. Maybe the sight, feel and earthy aroma of whatever had oozed from her sweet vagina reminded me of our first times or even spoke to the primeval in my soul.

Whatever the cause, something basic and feral rose within me. My chest became tight, my heartbeat quickened, a surge of uncontrollable arousal surged through me and my cock immediately hardened in my trousers.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do; I had to fuck my sweet wife; I had to fuck her there and I had to fuck her then!

“Sam?”

Judy must have seen the lustful intent on my face. Her first reaction was one of reluctance and uncertainty but I was determined not to be put off this time.

“Sam please…”

She began to protest half-heartedly but I didn’t listen. Instead, taking her firmly by the arms, I turned her towards the bathroom mirror and bent her forcefully over the sink, pinioning her down with one hand while I unfastened my trousers with the other.

My cock sprang up, very hard and more erect than I had seen it for a long time as I looked along my wife’s back towards her pretty face, reflected in the large over-sink mirror. Her eyes met mine.

“Sam!” she began to object but then seemed to change her mind, adding: “Be gentle!”

Gentle was the last thing I wanted to be. My eyes fixed on hers, I kicked her ankles roughly apart and rubbed the head of my cock up and down her slit before positioning it at the entrance to her vagina.

It was the orifice from which the strange unknown goo must have oozed. The thought made my chest go tight and my cock grow even harder with unaccustomed lust. I could see the expression of surprise and uncertainty on my wife’s reflected face as she waited for what we both knew would inevitably follow.

She did not have to wait long.

“Nnnnggghh!”

I thrust myself into her unresisting body with a passion and energy I hadn’t known in a long time, driving my rock-hard cock half way into her vagina in a single powerful stroke. Judy gasped, her face wrinkled up in shock as I penetrated her crudely and roughly.

But she made no attempt to stop me or escape.

“Nnnnggghh! Nnnnggghh! Nnnnggghh!”

Three strong strokes later and I had bottomed out, Judy’s pale buttocks were cool against the heat of my hips and thighs and my swollen head was pressed hard against her cervix.

This brutal position was one we had used only rarely in our lovemaking but I could immediately tell something was different.

Slap! Slap!

A handful of thrusts and I knew what the difference was; her vagina felt smoother, wetter, looser around my shaft.

Slap! Slap!

I began to fuck her with my usual long, slow strokes. The wet slapping sounds that emanated from our conjoined loins came much faster than before and were cruder, noisier and far more earthy in every way.

My arousal soared. With my hands on her hips, I pulled her onto my thrusting cock, bottoming out with every stroke, the wet slapping noises growing louder and faster as her reflected expression changed from shock to fear, from fear to surprise then from surprise to something like pleasure.

Slap! Slap Slap! Slap!

Judy’s body began to respond to its fucking. Lubrication flowed from her vagina and onto my cock as her arousal climbed. But my own lust was far higher; barely under control, the pace of my strokes began to increase rapidly.

Slap! Slap Slap! Slap!

“Mmmmmm!”

The moan that escaped my wife’s lips could have been pain or pleasure; but in my lustful state I didn’t care. Using the full force of my thighs I drove myself into my wife’s body so hard her face was pressed against the bathroom mirror.

Slap-Slap-Slap-Slap!

My fingers were digging into the pale skin of her waist and hips as I pummelled her vulva and cervix with increasingly wild and erratic thrusts. Suddenly we both realised that my climax could not be far away.

“Not inside me, remember!”

Judy’s voice was hoarse as she croaked out her command. It was a good thing too; in my passion I had entered her bareback instead of using one of our usual condoms. While this was most certainly helping drive the pleasure for us both, we both knew that she was not on birth control.

But in my lust I refused to stop these most wonderful sensations a second before absolutely necessary. I ploughed into her helpless body like a man possessed, the wet slapping sounds jackhammer fast, accompanied by low male grunts from me and half-choked female wailing from my wife.

“Not inside me! I’m not kidding. Do not cum inside me, Sam!”

Despite her arousal and position, Judy was very much in control. This was more an order than a plea not to impregnate her. She was right too; we were in no way ready to have a third child. I knew she had finished her period just before she left a week ago and would be close to her most fertile time.

I had to pull out and pull out now!

“Aaaaggghhh!”

The realisation came in the nick of time; I pulled my throbbing, pulsating cock out of her sweet body just as the first fine sprays of semen began to spurt from its monstrously swollen tip. The force took me by surprise, spattering delicate streaks of goo all the way along her back and into her red hair.

“AAAGGGHHH!”

I groaned loudly as the full force of my ejaculation followed hot on its heels, sending white hot bolts of pleasure up my own spine and deep into my inner thighs. Rope after thick rope of sperm-filled semen erupted from my tiny lips and across the smooth pale skin of Judy’s exposed lower back, pooling in the crease at the top of her soft bottom.

Yyyyeeesssss!”

I gasped as my whole body shook with pleasure, pumping every last drop of semen from me and onto Judy’s bare back and buttocks until eventually there was no more left within me.

Its job done, my cock pulsed dryly for a few seconds then fell still in my hand. Panting, I looked down at my wife’s messy back, at the spread of goo over her bare skin, the fabric of her top and the base of her beautiful red hair.

We were both panting, as much in shock as with exhaustion. The strength of my passion had taken me by surprise almost as much as it had taken Judy. Few words were spoken as she pulled off her top and threw it into the washing basket.

I cleaned myself up with tissues while Judy showered away the messy evidence of our most recent copulation.

***

I woke the next morning expecting life to return to normal and indeed to a large extent it did, at least on the surface. We went to work, dealt with the kids and ate together as we had before though for me there was something different in the atmosphere between us.

It took a full week before I realised that something had changed. It was the middle of the following week before I realised what that something was.

We had stopped making love.

Although by no means a sex fiend, throughout our marriage Judy could be relied upon to provide and indeed desire sex at least once a week. It was well into the second week after her homecoming before I realised that not only had we not made love since the night of her return, she had been avoiding being with me at any time or in any place where I might try and persuade her into bed.

My first thought was that I had been so passionate that night I had either hurt her or frightened her. Judy assured me that was not the case but still she remained distracted and kept her distance.

When I pointed out our new celibate lifestyle, she said enigmatically that she had some ‘women’s’ things going on ‘down there’ that she was trying to get sorted out. I asked her what it was but she avoided answering.

This lack of honestly and candidness was quite alien to our relationship but no matter how often or how directly I pressed her, that was all she would say.

A short while later I was on call and had been summoned into the ER at an unusual time. This meant that the team I was working with was not my usual team so the gossip was different. Given the newness of the new equipment both it and the training week were very much front of mind.

During the course of the day’s chatter two significant things emerged, one of which I was expecting, the other I was definitely not.

The first was that, like most conferences, this one had been accompanied by at least the usual level of after-hours drinking, chatting and late night bed-hopping; perhaps more than usual as it had lasted a full week. This was no surprise; as a medic myself I had seen with my own eyes what extraordinary behaviour the hot-house intensity of conferences could produce.

The second and entirely unexpected revelation was that throughout the whole week, Doctor Brandon Johnson had been staying in the hotel bedroom right next door to my wife’s. They had spent time together in the evenings too when the training was over for the day.

Why had Judy completely failed to mention all this?

The demon inside me began to wake, slowly at first but once woken his evil voice was never far from my ear.

Given his reputation for philandering, it was inconceivable that BJ would not have tried to arrange at least one pretty nurse to keep his bed warm during the week. Given his looks, his reputation as a lover and the number of nights available for seduction, it was equally inconceivable that he would not have been successful at least once.

My wife knew him well; very well.

She had been the woman closest to him in the hotel.

She hadn’t answered the phone at all on the first night.

She had been strange the next two nights when we did speak.

There had been those strange noises in the background both times too.

It took a few days for my puzzled mind to fit the evidence together but, circumstantial as it was, the more I thought about it over the coming weeks, the more convincing the case became and the more frantic I gradually grew.

I all added up.

The missed phone calls

The whispered, unexplained voices in the background

The sounds of the toilet flushing and the shower running that stopped so suddenly

The late return on Friday and her unconvincing excuse

The strange goo in her panties and her even stranger reaction to it

The unusual looseness of her surprisingly wet pussy when we fucked

The refusal to let me near her body ever since

Did these really add up to the conclusion I feared; that my wife had cheated on me during her week away?

If it did, what was I going to do about it?

If it didn’t, what did it all mean? Because something had definitely changed!

And what ‘women’s problems’ could be so embarrassing that I wasn’t even allowed to know what they were; she wasn’t embarrassed when I saw her on the toilet?

Had she picked up a simple yeast infection? Surely that wasn’t so embarrassing she couldn’t tell me about it and in any event it would have been over in a week or so. Judy had kept me away from her for nearly two months.

Had she cheated and picked up an STD? If she had, surely I would now have it too. No matter how hard I looked I could find nothing amiss with my cock and balls and could find no new antibiotics in the house.

Was she ovulating? I knew that some women leaked when that happened; maybe that could be it. But in the past that had made her want sex more rather than less. When was her last period? I counted back.

Oh my God! She was ovulating right now. She was right her most fertile time; the time she most wanted sex!

Had that pushed her over the brink? Had she been unable to prevent herself giving in to him?

I couldn’t stop the terrible thoughts from coming.

Had they fucked in his house before he brought her home to me that night?

Christ! Could the sticky goo have been his semen and her juices leaking out?

And if they had fucked during the week too, could the goo be evidence of conception?

And if she had got pregnant, were the women’s problems her having an abortion quietly?

Oh God! I couldn’t find an argument against this one!

The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. The worse I felt, the worse I slept. The worse I slept, the more I lay awake thinking about it.

It was a truly vicious circle and it had plenty of time to grow even more vicious because Judy avoided having sex with me for more than six full weeks, something that had never happened before - even after the kids had been born – and has never happened since.

***

Suspicion is a terrible thing. Suspicion mixed with cowardice is far worse and that’s what I was; a coward.

I should have challenged Judy as soon as my worries began but I didn’t. Perhaps I was afraid of her reaction, perhaps I was afraid the truth would be impossible to bear; I do not know the answer myself. What I do know is that the longer I waited, the more difficult it became to ask anything about that week until eventually it became impossible and I was left with to deal with my horrors alone.

So time passed but the worries and suspicions did not.

In a proper erotic story, there should be a proper ending. There should be a revelation of some kind.

Perhaps this story should have a happy ending in which I discovered that it had all been in my mind; that there was a simple, innocent reason for Judy’s strange behaviour. We could both laugh about it; there had been no affair, no infidelity and there was no reason for me to feel suspicious either about our evening phone calls or the denial of sex for so many weeks. It was all a misunderstanding.

This ending did not happen.

Alternatively, the ending could be sad; one in which I find out that she did indeed cheat on me, did get pregnant and aborted the baby. In this ending, I might even find out that neither of my daughters is mine; that Judy has cheated on me throughout our marriage. Separation, divorce and unhappiness would then follow.

Fortunately, this did not happen either.

There could even be an ending in which she confesses to having cheated long ago and tells me all about it. In this ending I might find the story so arousing that I persuade her to cheat on me again and we embark on a life of wife sharing and cuckoldry.

That ending has the greatest appeal of all, but any of these endings would be more satisfying than what really happened.

***

Thirty years on from the incident that has dominated my adult life, Judy hasn’t changed much. We are both older so she had put on a few pounds and her flaming red hair needs a little colour from, time to time. She straightens it these days too which makes her look younger but isn’t quite the curly redhead I fell in love with all those years ago.

Her bottom is as appealing as it always was. Her small, firm breasts are still firm but, after nursing two daughters and with the ravages of time, have a little sag to then now. The fiery triangle between her thighs has a few grey strands mixed in too; apart from one surprising occasion she has kept it as I like it - thick and curly - but in all, she is still the same shy, very naïve girl she used to be.

She dresses fairly conservatively too, occasionally showing a little cleavage but nothing over-the-top. Her dresses and skirts are modest, usually a little bit longer than her fingertips if their arms are straight at her side. Underneath she pretty much wears what I would call granny panties; if I use my imagination I could call them French in cut but that’s about it. Judy isn’t flamboyant when it comes to lingerie.

Our sex life these days consists of intercourse two her three times a year if I’m lucky. Sometimes she will let me get her off with my fingers and maybe perform oral sex

But it’s not all bad; we do have some intimate contact because about once a week she will grab some lubricant and use that to give me a hand job.

While she is doing that she likes to tease me; playing on my fantasy of seeing her with another man. On the rare occasions when she wants to really get me going she talks about BJ and what might or might not have happened all those years ago.

When she feels I’ve been inside her long enough and it’s time to bring things to an end, she will tell me how naughty a wife she has been and what she got up to when out of my sight. This can bring me to orgasm very quickly, blowing a very big load all over her hands.

Sadly I don’t have the pressure I used to have but can I still get properly hard and still produce a fair amount of semen for a man my age.

Afterwards Judy always insists that everything she said was made up; that the stories had been about other people; people I didn’t know. She doesn’t realise that - even if I believed her - I don’t need that reassurance. She doesn’t understand that I don’t want it. I want Judy to be the naughty, cheating wife of our fantasies. I want her to be in real life the woman she pretends to be in our bed.

Nobody is perfect. Nobody can go through life without making mistakes.

Despite knowing about her morals and upbringing; despite believing that in normal circumstances they would never allow her to cheat in real life, I can still not be sure that once or twice in the past, my sweet, pretty wife did not weaken.

As they say in the Detectives; she had the means, the motive and the opportunity.

The truth is that thirty years on I still do not know what really happened in Atlanta and the weeks that followed. I don’t know what happened that day in Doctor Johnson’s house. The more I try to find out, the more my wife avoids answering my questions and eventually I came to accept that for the sake of our marriage I had to stop trying.

But that doesn’t mean I was happy with the situation or that suspicion would release me from its cruel grasp. Far from it; as the years have passed, the images in my head have if anything become much clearer, much more detailed and much, much more vivid.

Now in my nightmares I see my lovely pregnant wife on that day, in his house, on his bed. I see her naked, on all fours, her firm breasts and rounded, seven-month pregnant belly hanging down beneath her, her fiery red crotch presented obscenely towards the man who is about to take her.

I see her lover on his knees behind her, moving into place, forcing her legs apart with his knees as he lines up his thick black cock at her entrance.

The sunlight sparkles over the rippling waters of the lake and onto the soft pale skin of the woman I love the woman carrying my child in her belly as she waits for her lover to enter her body.

I see his hands grip her hips, I see his buttocks clench; I see her eyes close tightly then fly open wide in surprise as the thick black pole of muscle if pressed firmly and inexorably into my wife’s weeping pussy.

He begins to fuck her, the muscles in his back and bottom rippling as it moves rhythmically back and forth.

I can picture every swollen vein on his monstrous cock as it plunges into my wife’s body over and over again.

I can hear every grunt and groan that escapes his mouth as he fucks her harder than I ever have or could.

I can hear the rising sound of my wife’s voice as her arousal rises and rises.

I can almost touch the soft skin of her inner thighs as his body hammers into her vulva.

I can imagine her entrance stretched so tightly around his shaft that it might even tear.

I can count every crack in my wife’s nails dig into the mattress, her mouth open, moaning loudly.

I can see her driving herself back onto the invading cock, her thrusts matching his to perfection.

I see her reach orgasm, climaxing hard on his cock, her voice cut off by the huge spasm that racks her body

I can smell the powerful mix of her orgasmic juices as they seep from her battered vulva.

I watch him reach is own climax seconds later, his body in spasm, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.

I picture once again the ropes of thick pale semen being pumped into my wife’s heavily pregnant body.

Sometimes I can convince myself that this is nothing more than the horrors of an over-stimulated imagination. Other times the evidence appears overwhelming.

Sometimes I don’t care what happened; we have had a wonderful life together, we have beautiful kids and grandchildren. We are happy together and have lacked little in our lives.

Other, darker times I desperately want her to have cheated; I want her to have known how it feels to be fucked to within an inch of her life by a long, thick, fully-erect black penis. I want her to tell me in exquisite detail how it felt to cum helplessly on another man’s erect cock as his sperm made a baby deep in her womb.

Other times the suspicion and jealousy eat so deeply into my heart that I can’t bear it.

But I have to bear it; after thirty years it is impossible to imagine asking my wife what the truth is.

What if she refused to answer?

If she did answer, how would I tell if she was lying?

Do I want her to deny it? Would I believe her if she did?

How would I feel if she confessed? Could we go on knowing she had cheated?

It would be better to put it all behind me; better if I no longer wanted to know.

But suspicion isn’t like that; you don’t control it – it controls you. It eats away at you; denying you peace, making you mistrust those closest to you, filling your mind with horrors and doubt.

Elvis was right. Suspicion torments your heart.