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Does Your Husband Know?

"You never know who might read your stories… or what the consequences might be."

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Famous Story
“Guess who I’ve just befriended,” my wife said.

She was lying naked on the bed, resting on one elbow, the laptop in front of her. She’d logged on to Lush while she was waiting for me.

“Who?” I said, moving towards the bed, bollock naked myself.

“Emily from next door.”

“No way,” I said, moving across the room and coming to rest on the edge of the bed, so that I could see the screen myself.

“Yes way,” Cynthia said. Normally I call her Cyn, because the abbreviation is so very apt. “Look!”

I looked as my wife clicked, bringing up a picture to full size.

“It can’t be her,” I said. But I had to admit that if it wasn’t, the odds were she had a twin sister. Cyn and I had seen Emily like this a number of times, in the deckchair in next door’s garden, in a yellow patterned bikini, long, ash-blonde hair sweeping over her shoulders and huge dark glasses obscuring her eyes and upper face. There was a house in the background, which if it wasn’t the neighbours’ was so uncannily similar it was just plain spooky.

“Are there any more pictures?” I asked.

“Why? Have you go the hots for her?” Cyn asked, but with no hint of jealousy. I adjusted my position so that I could play with her hair and the nape of her neck as she brought up other pictures; a pair of big breasts with rock hard nipples, a hand inside a pair of panties, a slightly awkward picture of the woman from behind on all fours obviously taken with the aid of a mirror, then a close up of a pussy with two fingers inside.

“Do you think George has taken these?” I asked. George was Emily’s husband. “Always assuming it is Emily.”

“Not likely,” Cyn said. “From the look of them, I’d say Emily’s taken them herself.”

“You’re sure it is her?”

“She’s written a new story,” Cyn said. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course.”

“Then get down between my thighs.”

This was a regular game for us; reading stories from Lush out loud. If they were written from a male perspective, I would read them, and if from a female perspective, Cyn would do the honours. This one being a first person narrative by a woman (possibly even Emily from next door), my wife would read, while I teased her pussy with my fingers and my mouth.

Actually, Emily’s (always assuming they were Emily’s) stories were a big hit with us. We’d read all of them, some of them more than once. Often Cyn wouldn’t be able to contain herself, and would climax mid story, and then again at the end. All of the stories were categorized as reluctance, hardcore, or came very close to belonging in those categories. The new one was a reluctance story, in which the narrator found herself alone in the office at night (for reasons which were never fully explained), was suddenly interrupted by a security guard, who refused to believe she worked there, found herself handcuffed with his hand up her skirt, and felt compelled to submit to his lustful designs.

It took Cyn half an hour to read the story, by which time she was dripping wet. “Anyone would think you wanted to be apprehended like that,” I observed, eyeing the wet patch on the bedclothes as I twisted three fingers inside my wife’s over-heated pleasure cove.

“Shut up and fuck me as hard as you fucking can!” Cynthia ordered.

I was in no mood to disobey.

The question of whether or not the woman Cyn had befriended on Lush really was our next door neighbour continued to preoccupy us. Well, Cynthia had been convinced from the start, but she had to admit that she could be wrong. By the time a week had passed, I think we were both pretty much of the mind that it was indeed Emily; we couldn’t see how such similarities could be a coincidence.

On two occasions that week, Emily and I drove off to work at about the same time. We said hello as we unlocked our respective cars, and as I looked at her in her officewear, I couldn’t help but think of those pictures; of her big knockers, her hand down her knickers, her fingers inside herself (always assuming it was her). But above all I thought of her stories as I drove to work. It amused me. There she was, all done up to make a professional impression, and underneath it all she had all these ideas about being fucked senseless by big-cocked bastards who were after nothing more than some willing slut to use to their own ends – I mean that’s what her stories amounted to, pretty much.

I said as much to Cyn. It made her laugh. “I bet you wouldn’t object to getting your own bit of meat between her big knockers,” she said.

There was no point in denying it. I didn’t call my wife Cyn for nothing. We’d not exactly been exclusive in our married life, though most adventures involving other people had involved the both of us. We were underneath the covers, and a long fingernail scratched its way up my leg as Cyn spoke. It lingered for a while on my balls before touching the root of my cock. Then fingers gripped me, Cyn’s hand beginning to work, to pump my shaft. “Has the thought of Emily’s big knockers given you a hard-on?” my wife teased. “You know, we should definitely try to found out if it really is Emily.”

“Oh, I think we know,” I said, by now as convinced as Cyn had been all along.

“Yes,” my wife said. “But, you know, one hundred percent rock solid certain.”

Cyn has a wicked mind, allied to a willingness to act on it. I was intrigued. “And how do you propose to go about it?”

“Never you mind,” my wife said. “But since I’m feeling charitable, I’ll let you lay there and think of Emily’s big tits while I get you off.”

The days went by. Then, one day when I came home from work, Cyn was standing in the kitchen, looking like a wet dream in knee-high black boots and a black leather skirt, between which was a stretch of sheer silver on both legs. On top, my wife was sporting a tight, light green sweater, which was one of my favourites, because of the way it made her breasts look like they were made to be fondled.

“So who’s the lucky man?” I said, a quip which was rewarded with the kind of smile capable of provoking an instant erection. Cyn had set the laptop up on the kitchen island. I could see that she’d logged onto Lush, and that she had Emily’s (because it was her, it had to be) profile page showing.

“George is out,” my wife said. “And Emily’s on Lush.” She sounded very excited by this.

I looked out, at next door, curtains drawn against the remote possibility of prying eyes. “Are you going to poke her?” I asked.

This caused my wife to laugh hysterically. “Oh no,” she spluttered at last. “With a bit of luck you’re the one who’ll be poking her.”

I thought she was joking, but I should have known my wicked Cyn better than that. Suddenly she had the cordless phone in her hand. I didn’t hear much of the conversation, I was still stunned by what my wife had just said, that she appeared to be serious about it.

It took a couple of minutes, then the doorbell rang. Cyn went to open it. “Come in, Emily!” I heard her say in her best welcoming voice.

“Hello, Cynthia,” came Emily’s slightly bewildered voice. “What is it you want to show me?”

“Let’s go through to the kitchen,” Cyn said.

If Cyn and I weren’t best friends with the neighbours, we were friendly enough with them; enough for there to be nothing strange about Cyn asking Emily over. Clearly my wife had been cryptic enough for Emily to be at a disadvantage. She and I exchanged greetings as Cynthia wandered over to the laptop. Emily obviously wasn’t paying much attention to the computer, because she seemed unsuspecting right up until Cynthia said, “We were hoping you’d satisfy our curiosity. This is you, isn’t it?” She tapped on the computer, bringing up the picture of Emily sunbathing in the garden, in her yellow bikini and the big sunglasses.

I watched Emily closely. There was shock in her eyes, a reddening of her cheeks, a tension in her limbs, but she didn’t confirm or deny anything, perhaps hoping to defuse the situation. “What is this?” she said.

Knowing my wife as I did, I knew she didn’t expect me to remain silent or inactive. I slid my arm along the kitchen top, attracting Emily’s attention. “Does your husband know?” I asked.

“Know what?” Emily asked. Everything about her body language and the way she could hardly get the words out bore witness to Cyn’s initial intuition being right, but clearly Emily was hoping to bluff things out.

“That you write kinky stories in your spare time,” my wife said. “We’re big fans, you know. My favourite’s the one with the three burglars. Such brutes!”

Emily stood there, still a bit shell-shocked, eyes folding inwards as she tried to think on her feet.

“Does George know?” I persisted, coming round to join Cynthia. Being able to read her like a book, I could see what a wicked mood she was in, so I tapped on the computer, making the image shift to the one of Emily’s big tits with the big, swollen nipples. “Lovely knockers,” I said. “And judging by the comments, you’ve got quite a fan club.”

To my surprise, this was all it took for Emily’s façade to crack. “George doesn’t know,” she breathed. “He mustn’t know.” She shifted uncomfortably, looking at us with pleading eyes.

“Oh, Emily!” my wife exclaimed. “How very wicked of you!”

“Please don’t tell George!” Emily exclaimed. “Please, please…”

“Oh, Emily!” my wife said again, putting an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Why would we do that? It would spoil all the fun!”

“The fun?”

“We love your stories!” Cyn said enthusiastically. She reached out and tapped on the computer, making the image of Emily with her hand down her knickers appear. “And your pictures. Rob gets such a hard-on looking at them. He makes me do such naughty things while he’s looking at them.”

Emily started and took a step back, but instinctively her eyes went to my crotch, where I indeed did have a big bulge. Well, I’d fantasized about Emily after all, admittedly in her workwear, the black stockings and bottom hugging skirt, but she still looked pretty fine in her blue and red dress and bare legs. My wife was, as you’ll appreciate, far from jealous, but I moved round anyway to reach out and squeeze Cyn’s bum in full view of Emily. “Well, they are really hot, those pictures. Thanks for that, Emily!”

The woman looked extremely embarrassed. “Perhaps I should delete them,” she mumbled, more for her own sake, it seemed, than for ours.

“Oh no, don’t do that!” Cyn exclaimed. “They’re so great!” She paused, as if she was thinking. “And you’d miss all those kinky comments from your fan club. Maybe we could help you out instead.”

“Help me out?”

“Yes!” Cynthia cried. “Rob’s great with a camera. That way you wouldn’t have to take selfies. You could pose properly.”

Emily tried to take a step back, but she was already up against the kitchen island. “Look, I’m glad you like the stories and the pictures and everything, but I really have to go. George will be home soon.”

“Oh yes, George,” Cyn said. She turned to me. “I wonder what he’d think if he found out about all this?” I could read the wickedness in her eyes with no trouble whatsoever.

“Yes, I wonder,” I said.

“No!” Emily exclaimed. “George mustn’t find out! Never!”

“Don’t worry, Emily,” I said, trying for conciliatory as I moved towards her. “We don’t want to land you in it.” Again Emily tried to move, but by now I was sandwiching her between the kitchen island and my own body. She couldn’t fail to feel the way my erection was throbbing.

“What is it you want?” she breathed.

“The same thing you do, Emily?”

Emily inched sideways as she said, “And what is it you think I want?”

“We’ve read the stories, Emily,” my wife said. “We know what you want.”

“Those,” Emily said. She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Those are just… I don’t know where they came from. They don’t mean anything.”

“Well they came from somewhere,” Cyn said. “Everything’s a fantasy until you try it.”

Emily pulled up. This seemed to strike a nerve, but out loud she said, “Who says I want to try anything? I like writing, trying out different characters… situations…”

“Which just happen to include a fair bit of extremely rough sex,” I observed.

“Look, Emily,” said. “I really have to go. George…”

“Who of course we’d never tell about any of this,” I said.

“Never,” Cyn agreed.

“You mustn’t,” Emily breathed. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

“Of course not,” Cyn said.

“Good,” Emily said, sounding suddenly more determined. “Look, I’m glad you like the stories…”

“Humour us, Em,” my wife interrupted.

“What?”

“Read a passage from one of your stories out loud, for us.”

I watched Emily closely. It was hard to tell what she was thinking or feeling. Out loud she said, “If I do, will you let me go?”

This was interesting. After all, it wasn’t as if we were holding her captive or anything. Emily could easily storm out of the house whenever she felt like it. Cyn didn’t answer, but turned to the computer, tapping on it, bringing up one of Emily’s stories. “Here you are,” she said.

Emily hesitated, then she moved back across to the computer. “You want me to read that?” she exclaimed.

“Humour us, Em,” my wife said softly.

The woman blushed visibly, but for whatever reason, she leaned in to get a better look at the screen.

Cyn had chosen well. It was one of Emily’s hardcore stories, about a night with three men in a hotel room. My wife had scrolled down to where there was a bit of action. It was absolutely delicious hearing Emily read her own story out loud, about how she was pulled and pushed this way and that, having the men use her mouth and fuck her vigorously from behind. She stuttered a great deal, partly from embarrassment, but perhaps also because she could hardly remain unaware of how Cyn moved round behind me and unzipped me, finally bringing my throbbing erection out in the open.

When she reached the point in the story where she was astride one of the men, while the other dribbled saliva on her anus in preparation for a spot of double penetration, Emily fell silent.

Cyn filled in the silence. “See, Emily, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She giggled. “Not like Robbie here. We both get so very horny reading your stories.”

Emily turned away from the screen to look at us, her eyes immediately drawn to Cyn’s hand, fingers clasped around my stiff cock, tugging gently.

“Aren’t you flattered that your stories get Rob so hard?” Cyn asked.

“And the pictures,” I said. “Don’t forget the pictures.”

This seemed to embarrass Emily even more. She made an effort to avert her eyes, not looking at us as she said, “Can I go now?”

No-one was stopping her, yet she still dithered hesitantly.

Cyn kept on moving her hand. “Don’t you think Rob’s got a lovely big cock, Emily? Don’t you want to feel how hard your stories make him?”

“What?” Emily exclaimed again. “What do you think…? I mean, I write stories, I admit that, but it doesn’t mean I want to...”

Her eyes had returned to my cock, to Cyn’s jobbing hand. There was an impasse, Emily staying rooted to the spot, even though she could easily leave at any time. I was wondering what the best thing to do was when Cyn let go of my erection. She took my hand instead, leading me towards Emily.

The woman took a step back, but then we were right up close to her. Cyn grabbed her wrist. I felt Emily’s fingers against the tip of my cock.

Then the woman snatched her hand away. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” she breathed, but her voice bled her words dry of conviction.

“Come on, Em,” Cynthia cajoled. “It wasn’t so bad, was it? Not for someone who writes stories about being gangbanged by…”

“That means nothing,” Emily said. “I’m a married woman.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “George who mustn’t be told.”

“He mustn’t know,” Emily breathed. “About any of this. Anything. George…”

At that moment the doorbell rang. We all fell silent, but I had an intuition. I stuffed my cock back in my trousers as I made my way to the window to peer out. The man himself was standing on the doorstep. “Speak of the devil,” I said.

Turning, I could see the panic on Emily’s face. As the doorbell rang a second time, I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle this.”

“Please don’t tell!” Emily blurted. “About anything! George mustn’t know! I’d do anything to keep him from knowing!”

This was interesting, I thought, closing the kitchen door behind me. The woman was virtually blackmailing herself. Did it mean anything, and if so what?

Outside, George was still in his work suit, looking a little confused. “Er, I was wondering if Emily was over here,” he said. “Only, her car’s home, but she’s not.”

“She’s upstairs with Cynthia,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on exactly. Woman stuff, I imagine.”

George nodded. “Yes, I imagine so.”

“I could fetch her for you,” I offered.

“No, no,” George decided. “I didn’t want her for anything important; I was just wondering where she was.”

“Of course,” I said.

The man began to turn, then said, “I thought we might… Tell her there’ll be a nice cheese platter waiting.” This was typical of George, as nice a man as he was. The man worked in cheese, seemed obsessed by the stuff. I swear he could turn any topic of conversation into a discussion of cheese; the weather, robotic engineering,...

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