("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2005. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Jogging Wife's Secret by Not so daft (address withheld) *** I began to suspect that my wife, Isabel, was up to no good about six months ago - especially when her cunt started getting bigger. As the weeks went on it got bigger and baggier still. (MMF, wife, voy, intr, vagrant, amputee, cuck, orgy) *** I began to suspect that my wife, Isabel, was up to no good about six months ago. We have been married for seven years and although there is nothing routine and boring about our marriage – we would both describe our marriage as happy – she got into the habit, after about three years, of jogging every Saturday and Sunday morning (unless we went out for the day or were on holiday) and most Thursday evenings when I worked late. She would also go jogging sometimes if I went out for a drink with my friends from work. Normally the business of getting ready, warming up, jogging through the park to the nature reserve and back, doing further exercises at home and then getting undressed and having a shower, took about two hours, which I always felt was a little too long and sometimes complained about. However, one Sunday morning six months ago she took longer than usual, by about half an hour at least; she told me that part of her usual route had been fenced off due to some land reclamation work going on. The following Saturday, it took her an hour longer, and she said that even more land had been barricaded off. It looked as if this work would go on for some time. I suggested she change or curtail her route, but she said there was no alternative – the other parks were too far away and the terrain over other parts of the nature reserve was too rough and almost impassable. I would just have to get used to the idea that for some weeks she would be home an hour later than usual from jogging. Some Saturdays and Sundays she was delayed by more than an hour, and sometimes when I came home from working late on Thursdays she would not yet be there; she would turn up half an hour later, hot, sweaty and flushed and take a quick shower. Then, one weekend about three weeks after her extended jogging sessions began, she asked me whether I planned to go out for a drink the following week. Normally I didn't make such plans until Monday or Tuesday, and would not go out until Wednesday evening at the earliest. I seldom went out more than once a week, although sometimes after working late on Thursday I would have a few drinks in a bar nearby with my colleagues. I said I might have a drink with John or Peter or Len, but as yet had made no plans. She asked me to let her know as soon as possible, because she would then arrange to leave work early that night so she would get home earlier and have time to go jogging before it got dark. I nearly fell of my chair. She couldn't possibly want to jog any more than she was already? It was already taking her three hours a week more than usual. But she was insistent: she wanted to jog more often, as she didn't feel as if she was fit enough. From then onwards she asked me regularly, every weekend, whether I had planned to go out for a drink next week. She even began to suggest that I go out with old so-and-so who I hadn't seen for some time and to encourage me to meet up with friends of mine whom she had once claimed to dislike. Before long I found myself going out Tuesdays and Wednesdays, working late Thursdays and going out again on Fridays. It was pretty exhausting, to say the least. But not so exhausting that I failed to discern certain changes in my wife. Firstly, she seemed much more happy and vigorous than previously. Like many career women, privately she often felt inadequate – she wasn't pretty enough, she was too fat, she didn't have enough clothes to wear, her career was a failure; none of which was true, of course, but she always ran through this litany at least once a week. Now she never mentioned her feelings of inadequacy at all. She was cheerful – dare I say sunny – all the time. Secondly, she started to dress the way she had when we first got to know each other. All the clothes she had mothballed in the past few years because she was older now and didn't want to "look like mutton dressed as lamb." She shook out and started to wear again: crisp white blouses; tight T-shirts that enhanced her bust-size; low-cut tops; her denim mini-skirt and denim mini- dress; her black, red and yellow leather min-skirts; her tartan pleated mini-skirts (she had them in red, green and yellow); her two short black dresses, one flared, the other figure-hugging; her denim, black leather, red leather and yellow leather hot-pants; her stockings and suspenders; her fishnet hold-ups; her shiny black, white, red and imitation snakeskin mackintoshes. She sorted out her collection of footwear, asking me to polish this or that pair or cowboy boots, riding boots, lace-up boots, over-the-knee boots or thigh-boots. Now, when she went to work in the mornings, instead of wearing a trouser suit with boots underneath, she wore stockings or hold-ups, a skirt or dress (always above knee length or shorter), and either cowboy boots or knee-high boots. Occasionally she wore thigh-boots but with the flap folded down. (She had five pairs, but only two of them were low-heeled and suitable for work; the others were strictly for the bedroom!) Thirdly, she began taking more interest in her appearance. At first she just started polishing her nails more often, then she began to apply nail varnish, then to experiment with make-up – a little lipstick here, but bit of eye-shadow there, perhaps some foundation, some eye-liner and mascara – until she was satisfied she had attained a certain "look". Then she had some more piercing done. She already had one ring in each earlobe and another at the top of her right ear; but now she had in addition two studs in each ear lobe, another ring at the top of the right ear, a new one at the top of the left, a stud through her right eyebrow, and two studs (which she later replaced with rings) in her right nostril. In the following months she would have further piercing done, but more of that later. For some weeks she wondered whether she should change her hairstyle, and whereas previously she had resisted my suggestions that she dye her hair, she now bleached it a soft blonde colour, which really suited her. In all, she was looking younger, happier, prettier and sexier every day. If all that jogging was leading to this, why should I complain? Moreover, she became much more adventurous in bed. Once again, the sexy outfits that she had discarded came out of the wardrobe again and when I came home from work later than her or after a drink with my pals, she would drape herself over me in her "Nurse Isabel" outfit (short white dress, knee-high platform boots) or her black rubber min-dress, her shiny white thigh-boots and her red PVC mac. Sex was also better and more frequent, with her often taking the initiative and her confidence and her technique – particularly the cock-sucking – improving. Her orgasms were also more frequent, more vigorous and louder. This, of course, made me more excited, too, and my performance improved. I was a very lucky man. There were, however, two shadows across this rosy picture. One was that after three months it was still taking her far too long to finish jogging. If anything, she was taking longer than ever, sometimes being gone for two and a half to three hours, which was particularly galling on a Saturday or Sunday morning when I wanted (a) the two of us to have breakfast together and (b) more sex. I took to going to work regularly on Saturdays instead of intermittently. It was always worth it when I got home, as she would virtually ravish me. The other problem was that her cunt was getting bigger. I first noticed it about a month or so after her jogging routine changed, and thought it was just a one- off or my imagination. Perhaps she only seemed bigger because she was very wet, or because our technique had improved. So for a while I dismissed it. However, after a few more evenings of vigorous sex I was forced to conclude that her hole had definitely got bigger. Not only that, but as the weeks went on it got bigger and baggier still. I didn't say anything at first, because woman can get very sensitive about that sort of thing, and as everything else was so good I didn't want to spoil it. However, the fact remained that she now had a baggy cunt and I had to find out why. Finally I concluded that she must have gone out and secretly bought a dildo, although generally she had nothing but scorn for such pornographic instruments. So, the next time she went jogging, which was a Sunday morning when I was at home, I searched the bedroom – the drawers under the bed, her bedside cabinet, the chest-of-drawers, the wardrobe – until, ahah! I found it. Sure enough, next to a big jar of lubricating cream right at the back of the top shelf of her wardrobe was a dildo, made of rubber and two or three times the size of my knob. It was also black! I had no problems with her using a dildo, but I wondered why it was black as opposed to flesh-coloured. I tried to remember whether she had ever mentioned having a particular sexual fondness for black men, but apart from her saying this or that black actor was handsome and sexy, there was nothing to indicate that she found them especially so; in any case, she said the same thing about white actors. Mind you, she had often told me that black men found her sexy, and some even tried to chat her up, despite knowing she was married. In the end, I decided that the fact that he dildo was black was just coincidence, although at the back of my mind lurked a nagging doubt. Was I just being naοve? During the next week, when we went shopping or for our evening walk, I watched her behaviour carefully, like a scientist examining a slip under a microscope. Every time a black man, whether young or old, passed us, I looked out of the corner if my eye to see Isabel's reaction. Yes, there it was, a look and little smile from each young black who went by, and a coy little smile, just the ghost of one, on Isabel's lips. One evening when we went out for dinner I noticed that she sat opposite a table where four young black men were sitting, and that all the while she was talking to me she was really looking over my shoulder at them. My heart sank. I knew then what was going on: she was practicing with the dildo when I was out, all the time fantasising about having a black man's cock inside her; and when she was having sex with me she was pretending I was black or that I was making love to her after a black man had had her! Somehow the evening lost its lustre; the sheen had been wiped off my love-life. My wife was fantasising about other men, black men…but was she also sleeping with them? I had to find out. The following Sunday I searched the bedroom again, indeed the whole apartment. This time I wasn't looking for a dildo but for some evidence of an extra-marital affair – letters or greeting cards, perhaps, or another man's hair in my shaving kit or my comb or between the sheets. What I found was another huge black dildo. This one was a double dildo, so she could pretend she was having a cock up her anus as well as her cunt, and the trunks of each penis was ribbed and knobbly. Then suddenly something occurred to me. I rushed into the living room and feverishly set up our lap-top. Going into her half of the computer, I checked her documents. Although she was never secretive about her password, she always closed down or minimised the screen whenever I was nearby, because she said the sites she went into – normally fan-sites for various TV programmes – embarrassed her. Sometimes she downloaded documents from these sites. Perhaps there was something there. No. Nothing remotely incriminating or pornographic. I checked her e-mails. Nothing. Then I went into her inter-net home page and clicked on favourites. There it was! A list of sites, many of them with the word "black" in. I opened one of them. It was a picture site, showing dozens of snapshots of young blacks proudly waving their huge cocks at the camera. I closed that site and opened another; this showed black men getting it on with white women. There were some forums as well. I opened one, keying in what I knew to be my wife's password. I got access, and after a while find myself in a forum topic to which my wife was a regular contributor. The topic concerned the question of whether white woman who had black lovers should tell their white partners. I closed down and put the laptop away. I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed. I had to think. Was Isabel playing away with a black lover? Or was it all an innocent fantasy? But the frequent and extended jogging sessions, her desire to know in advance when I was going out, her constant pressure on me to go out even when I hadn't planned to, her new-found interest in dressing younger and sexier, the make-up, the face- piercing, dying her hair, her new-found contentment in herself, her improved confidence and technique in the bedroom, the increase in her sexual appetite, her secrecy over what she did on the laptop, the dildos, the way she and blacks guys looked at each other in the street, and finally her increasingly stretched cunt. They could only add up to one thing: she had a black lover. I tried not to believe it, but reason told me I had to believe it. The evidence was staring me in the face. But what should I do? Should I confront her? Or should I make absolutely sure first? I knew: instead of working late on Thursday, I would leave at the usual time, get to the park or the nature reserve before her, and lie in wait to see if she really did come past. If she didn't it meant she was going somewhere else – to someone else! I was on tenterhooks until Thursday. My mind was in turmoil and my stomach queezy. I felt like being sick. I was off my food. Sometimes I tried to push the whole thing to the back of my mind, telling myself that I was better off not knowing. Would she leave me if I found out the truth – or would she leave me anyway, whether I knew the truth or not? I just didn't know. You couldn't know anything in these circumstances. There was no right thing to do. At last, on Thursday evening, I reached the park she regularly jogged through. It was near the nature reserve and the first thing I noticed was that none of the area was fenced off. Everything was just as it usually was, except that the trees and the grass looked lusher as the weather had improved. Working out which gate Isabel would come through, I positioned myself in a corner of the park where several big trees overhung a park bench. If I sat there I would be hidden from view. There was hardly anyone in the park – a few kids playing football, some women with their baby-buggies, men and women passing by on bicycles, a what looked like a shabby old vagrant with a long overcoat and wooden crutches sitting on a bench a few hundred yards away. Suddenly the vagrant got up. He reached for his crutches and slid them under his armpits, then began to move towards me. I noticed then that he was very tall, well over six feet, that he had only one leg, the right one, and that he was not only filthy dirty but black. Black! I watched him with my heart in my mouth. He went past me without looking, and further down the path instead of walking through the gate turned off and went towards some overgrowth that hid some old concrete walls that had been bunkers of some kind. Isabel and I had sometimes walked along the walls for fun and she had occasionally squatted there to have a pee. Isabel had not yet come through the far gate and I was beginning to wonder if she would appear at all. Perhaps she was with someone else, or perhaps she had decided to stay on longer at work. I decided to give it another five minutes. Then I saw her, jogging casually through the gate. I watched her run along the path, turn the corner and begin running down the path towards me. She ran past without seeing me, then – she turned off the path and ran towards the undergrowth! I couldn't believe it! I sat and waited – maybe she had only gone for a pee. Five minutes passed – ten – fifteen well, this was a long piddle, if piddle it was! I started walking towards the undergrowth, as quietly as I could, skirting round the concrete walls and entering the bunkers from the far end. I had to know. As I crept closer I could hear the unmistakable noise of a couple having sex in the open – whispers, sighs, grunts, heavy breathing, and the rustling of clothes, paper, leaves and twigs. I had reached a wall where I could either climb up or crouch down and go through a low culvert. I went through the culvert, and as I poked my head out of the other end, I saw them - or at least part of them; but it was enough. A few yards away was another wall with another conduit, and through it I saw Isabel's naked hips pressed flat against his old leather overcoat, its lining stiff and rust-coloured with dirt, and a long black shiny penis pumping in and out. The owner of the long black shiny penis had no left leg and no left hip, so that his big balls, slapping against my wife's thighs, were clearly visible. She had one arm along his side, with her hand grasping the bottom of his back where his left hip should have been, pushing him deeper and deeper inside her. Between sighs and grunts I heard her say: "Oh my God, I love you! I love you so much!" His thrusts became faster, harder and deeper and my wife was having an intense orgasm. Slowly, I crept away, the noise of her orgasm covering the sounds of my departure. I went back to the bench and sat an awaited. After about forty-five minutes my wife re-emerged, back in her jogging gear, and carried on with her running. But her legs were wobbly and her gait slower. After a few minutes he came out, and went back the way he had come, disappearing through another gate in another corner of the park. On the way home, my mind was in turmoil. Here was my wife, being as kind, loving and attentive as ever, always eager to have sex with me – better sex than ever before – and always having intense, long-drawn-out orgasms. She looked prettier and sexier than she ever had before, she dressed more daringly, and she was happier and more confident. And all because she was being fucked by a six-foot-six one-legged black vagrant! I couldn't believe it; this just could not be happening. I worked it out: she must be seeing him every Saturday – perhaps she spent all day with him on Saturdays – every Sunday, every Thursday, and often on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays as well. That was up to six times a week. Maybe he wasn't the only other man she was seeing. What if she was seeing someone else as well, on those nights she pretended to go out with her friends, Gemma, Rebecca, Kathy, and whoever? I wondered how it all started. Perhaps, while out jogging, she had seen him sitting in the park or had passed him on the way. Something about him must have piqued her curiosity. Maybe she accidentally knocked him over as she tried to run past him. Perhaps he stopped her and chatted her up. She had often told me that black guys tried to get off with her, although only during the past few months. Then again she might have been preparing me for the shock; perhaps she had intended to take a black lover all the time and her meeting with this one was not accidental. Perhaps these hints about blacks chatting her up were a prelude to her finally revealing her intrigue. Would the hints become broader, more fact- based, until one day she laid it all on me? I just didn't know what to think – my thoughts chased each other round my mind like a cat running after a mouse. Indoors, I sat on the bed, still thinking, wondering how and when I should confront her. I imaged laying her dildos and the jar of lube side by side on the bed and saying sarcastically, in a silly girl's voice|: "Oh my God, I love you! I love you so much!" but how much of the truth would she tell me, and even then, what would I do about it? If I said: "It's got to stop," would she stop? Or would she leave me? If she left me, no more would I have a pretty, sexy wife and terrific sex. Did it really matter if she was being fucked by this guy when, after all, it had in fact improved our sex life? Was it not true that I now loved and adored her more each day and that I felt proud of her and privileged to be her husband? Unexpectedly, I started to get an erection. This was surely the truest test. So good was sex with my transformed wife that even the thought of it turned me on. And it wasn't just the thought of having sex with her that did it. It was also the thought of being married to her. No – it was the knowledge of being married to a woman who was taking a big black cock up her almost every day, who probably still had his spunk up her stretched cunt when I made love to her, that aroused me! But the doubt set in again. She had lied to me. She had been lying to me for three months. But had she been lying for longer than that – had there been others in the past? Had our entire marriage been a sham? Not only that, but it was more than likely that every time we made love she was thinking about him, imagining and wishing that it was him making love to her and not me. Perhaps she was even excited by the idea of cheating on me, of having sex with me knowing that another man had just come inside her and that I didn't suspect a thing. Perhaps she got off in it. I realised that I didn't know my wife at all. Then, as I looked down at the bed, wondering again whether to put the dildos and the lube there, my mind wandered to the question of whether she had ever invited him home for sex...and I remembered something. I remembered that for the past few Saturdays I had come home to a strange smell. It was the smell of air freshener and fabric freshener, but underneath it were other smells, the smells of the back-alley: ground-in dirt, stale sweat, urine, faeces, alcohol, old newspapers and rotting food. And was there also the smell of sex? I had a new plan. I would delay confronting her, if I confronted her at all. Instead, I would wait until Saturday, but instead of going to work, I would watch the house from a distance and see whether he, or anyone else, came to visit... END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 39