eXcessica publishing
Bluebeard’s Wife © 2008 by Selena Kitt
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Cover art © 2011 Willsin Rowe
First Edition 2008
A Smashwords Edition
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Bluebeard’s Wife
By Selena Kitt
Tara's husband has never shared a fantasy with her, or even masturbated--that she knows of. However, this curious wife discovers a phone bill full of phone calls to sex lines and realizes her husband has been living a double life! Instead of getting mad, Tara's curiosity leads her to begin listening in on John's steamy conversations in hopes of finding out what he really wants in the bedroom. After several failed attempts at bringing fantasy to reality, however, a frustrated Tara turns to her much more adventurous best friend, Kelly, for help. A quick psychology 101 diagnosis from Dr. Kelly marks John as having a classic "madonna/whore" complex, and she quickly sets about making plans to rectify this situation. Tara goes along for the ride, hoping that Kelly may have the answer to bridging the seemingly ever-growing gap in her marriage?
Warnings: This title contains erotic situations, graphic language, sex, ménage a trois (MFF threesome), lesbian sex and some naughty daddy/daughter role play, too!
Chapter One
I could be a little obsessive, but when I found myself searching his Internet history for any remnants of porn, even I knew I was crossing a line. I sat there, hoping to find something, anything—Thick sausage pounded into tight anus or Sexy young blonde babes lick each other’s snatches or Ebony swallows stiff black snake or Wife slut takes hard cocks everywhere. Those were all the titles that ended up in my “Bulk” e-mailbox, and I knew they must show up in his, too, on occasion. Didn’t he ever click on one, just a little bit curious?
What did he like? What did he want? What did he fantasize about? It was driving me crazy.
We had been married three years, and John had never told me one fantasy. It wasn’t like I hadn’t asked. With the hope that he might reciprocate, I had revealed several of my own fantasies, whispering in the dark with my hand squeezing and tugging on his cock, trying to make him bolder, break down a few of his inhibitions. Still, he wouldn’t talk. When I just came out and directly asked him who he fantasized about, he smiled and touched my cheek, and said, “You.”
Feh! I didn’t believe it for a minute. Okay, not that it wasn’t sweet, and not that I didn’t like that he fantasized about me, but that couldn’t be all he thought about, could it? If I had visions of firemen or Brad Pitt—or Angelina Jolie, for that matter—dancing through my head once in a while, then I couldn’t believe he wasn’t imagining something, too. Yet, I couldn’t ever find evidence to the contrary. No magazines or videos, no telling Internet trail. I had never even seen or heard him stroking his cock.
That was the strangest part. John didn’t masturbate. We took showers together, so he didn’t do it there. We slept in the same bed. He owned his own business, but there were no closed doors where he worked, aside from the bathroom. So where and how was he doing it? Of course, he claimed he didn’t—but even the Kinsey Report said that 92% of males masturbate—and what was the old joke…the rest lied about it? I had a feeling John was lying. He was keeping something from me, and it felt like a really big secret. I hated it.
So I started searching for evidence of his fantasy life. I checked his laptop Internet history whenever I could—I even bought a program to recover hidden files, but came up with nothing. I looked through his briefcase, hoping to find some sort of evidence of a fetish. I didn’t care what it was—bondage, spanking, peeing, wearing rubber suits, having sex with dogs. I realized the irony of it, as I went through his desk and computer at work after hours one night when he was on a business trip—I was a wife looking for something most women would be appalled to discover about their husbands.
Not that I thought whatever John fantasized about would be extreme. He was an accountant, for Pete’s sake—he played tennis and golf and liked watching hockey. If his name was “Joe,” you could have put “average” in front of it without too much trouble. When I leveled with myself, I knew that his fantasies were probably pretty average, too—just the usual tame lesbian and threesome kinds that every typical male had. It was the not knowing that made my imagination run wild.
Why wouldn’t he tell me? Was it so appalling? Was it disgusting? Was it illegal?
I had to know.
I had pretty much given up on the whole thing when I discovered the phone bill. John was Mr. Bills in our house. When they came in, I just threw them on his desk and didn’t worry about it, because he always took care of them. That afternoon, the phone bill seemed thicker than usual. My mother had some issues last month, and I remembered calling Kentucky a few times to talk to her, but not enough to create a huge bill. Maybe I called her more than I thought?
I ripped the bill open, feeling guilty and wondering what John would say. I ran my finger down the list, looking for long distance calls. Yes, a few calls to my mother, but that was all. So why so many pages? I flipped through a few of the pages and discovered my answer. There was a separate section on the bill for “900-number” calls. There were dozens of them. The company name was listed as “Continental Enterprises,” but I checked the times:
10/04 2:12 am 20 minutes
10/06 3:37 am 14 minutes
10/08 4:28 am 8 minutes
10/09 1:19 am 29 minutes
It went on—dozens of calls, dozens of minutes.
I had apparently neglected and underestimated my ability to sleep through anything. John got up in the middle of the night to make phone calls to sex lines! I sat there, my breath caught in my throat, my heart hammering in my chest. This is what I had been looking for—proof that the man of steel had a weak spot. The pages shook in my hands. It was just what I had wanted, and yet now part of me didn’t want to know.
My chest burned. He wasn’t sharing his fantasies with me, but he was apparently sharing them with some sex phone operator who was probably some three-hundred pound housewife eating Doritos and Ho-Ho’s and watching the soaps with the volume off while she fake-orgasmed for him!
I sat there for a long time with the bill in my hand, thinking about what to do. I knew John. If I confronted him, he would either deny it, or he would simply clam up and not talk about it at all. I couldn’t see how that would be helpful. I realized that I wasn’t really offended by it—not in the way I would be if I found him cheating on me with another woman. He was just exploring his fantasies in a place where he felt safe.
Yeah, ok, it hurt that he didn’t feel safe enough with me, but I already knew that, right? Getting him to share that part of himself with me was like pulling teeth, and I didn’t understand why, but now I knew, at least, that he actually had a part of him that fantasized, that he actually did masturbate. He was a flesh-and-blood man after all. So why did I feel so empty, sitting with the knowledge that I thought I had wanted to know?
Because I still didn’t know what he fantasized about, I realized. That was the secret that I really wanted revealed.
I looked at the open envelope, which meant that now John would know I had seen it. The minute he saw the open telephone bill, he would know. I folded the bill exactly as I had found it and put it back into the envelope. Then I went to the kitchen to dig through the junk-drawer and found a glue stick to rub along the flap of the envelope. Pressing my fingers along the edge, I made sure it was closed. It was a little wrinkled and torn, and that might stop him for a moment, but I doubted it. He usually tore through bills pretty fast.
I put the telephone bill onto his desk with the rest of that day’s mail and left it. When he came home from work that night, I kissed him hello and asked him about his day, and we had a good dinner and snuggled on the couch for a while. The only thing I did differently that night was drinking an entire pot of black tea. When we climbed into bed, I rolled over and feigned sleep, but I stayed wide awake. Between the caffeine tea and the adrenaline, I couldn’t possibly drift off, and I didn’t.
I heard John fade in and out, something I normally don’t get to hear. I was the one who always fell asleep first, usually within the first five minutes of my head hitting the pillow, and he always joked with me that I could sleep through a terrorist attack. John, however, took longer to settle in, pulling the covers, rolling around.
I watched the light shadows play on the closet and waited. John fell asleep. I could hear the deep, even sound of his breathing. The clock read 1:39 a.m. In spite of the tea, my eyes were growing heavy. I realized, disappointed, that he wasn’t going to make any calls tonight. I closed my eyes and started to drift, when I felt a small vibration on the bed. I held still, listening.
There was a strange sound accompanying the vibration, a kind of shuffle or hiss that repeated itself in a pattern. Then it stopped. John shifted, and his breath was different. He wasn’t sleeping anymore. The vibration started again, the mattress shaking a little more, and I heard John whisper something, his breath coming faster. My eyes widened and I felt a jolt of excitement run straight down my spine and right between my legs. John was masturbating!
I listened to the sound of his hand on his cock, the motion of the bed rocking me slightly. Did I sleep through this every night, I wondered? Listening to him made me wet. He would stop for a moment, breathing hard, and then start again. I wondered what he was imagining. Once in a while I heard him whisper something and I strained to hear him.
“Yeah, spread your pussy,” I heard him say. “Good girl.”
I bit my lip, squeezing my legs together. My clit throbbed, and I wanted to touch myself, but I didn’t want to let him know I was awake. My hand was curled near my breast as I lay on my side, and I touched my nipple, grazing it lightly as I listened to him. He pumped his cock hard now, the whole bed bouncing with his movements. He clearly wasn’t worried that I might wake up—as I obviously never had before.
“Suck it,” he whispered. “Take that cock, you dirty little whore.”
My face flushed and my clit throbbed in response to his words. Oh my God, John was imagining having his cock sucked by a dirty little whore! He had never said those words to me. I wondered if it was me he was thinking about, or if it was some woman he had seen, someone at work, some girl behind the counter who had caught his eye for a moment? Maybe the phone sex operator? The thought was darkly exciting.
John hissed and I heard him stop touching himself abruptly. My pussy was soaked, and I squeezed my legs together again, aching for release. Had he come? I was filled with disappointment. He didn’t move for a moment, his breathing ragged, the bed still now. Then it started again, his hand working up and down his shaft, slow at first, then faster and faster.
“Yeah, lick her pussy, baby,” he whispered.
My eyes widened and I squeezed my nipple hard at the words. Two women? The thought was exciting, but what was even better was the fact that John was thinking about it. This was one of his fantasies!
I began to slide my hand down my side, trying not to move the covers or give him any indication I was awake. I had to touch myself. It was a long, slow process, an inch at a time, braving two or three inches when he really got into it, hoping he was too lost in the sensation to be thinking about me as I eased my hand down toward my wet pussy.
Finally, I parted my lips, using just my index finger to rub over my aching clit as he pumped his cock. He was getting closer, I could tell, and the closer he got, the more he said. I strained to hear his whispered words.
“You want that in your ass? Take it!” I felt him thrust up a little, as if he were thrusting into something—or someone. Anal sex? We had never had anal sex. He hadn’t ever expressed an interest. I had no idea. I rubbed my clit a little faster, aching to bury my fingers in my pussy but not daring to move any more than I already was. My belly tightened and my cheeks were hot.
I was so excited that I could feel myself hovering just on the verge, and I slowed my finger down, just pressing my clit. I wanted to come with him, if I could time it right. His hand flew up and down his shaft now, the bed squeaking with the effort. I still couldn’t believe I had slept through this on countless nights, believing he never masturbated.
“Yeah, play with your tits,” he whispered. “You want my cum in your ass?”
John’s breath came very fast, his hand moving like lightning over his cock, his hips jerking and bucking against the bed. My finger glided back and forth against my clit again as I listened and tried to control my own breathing, my muscles growing tighter and tighter as I rubbed myself.
“Take my cum, baby,” he whispered, his body shuddering. “Take it all!”
I bit my lip to keep from moaning, feeling him thrusting up as he came. I nudged my clit over the edge to completion, feeling it begin to pulse with my climax, wave after wave shivering through me. I heard John take a few deep breaths, and then he got up and walked into the bathroom connected to our bedroom.
I took a few moments to get my own breathing under control, snuggling deep under the covers and listening to the toilet flush, the water run. My heart still pounded in my chest with the secret that I had discovered. John not only masturbated, he fantasized about everything from being with two women to anal sex! I wondered what else he imagined when he stroked his hard cock. I knew one thing—I was going to find out.
And I was going to have to start drinking a lot more black tea before bed!
Chapter Two
Kelly and I met at the gym at nine. She dragged her gym bag in one hand and three-year-old Taylor by the other, who shuffled his feet and glowered at the floor.
“I have to drop him off at the child care.” She puffed a stray lock of red hair out of her eyes. Taylor’s freckled nose turned up to me. He looked just like his mother.
“I don’t want to go,” he pouted.
“I’ll meet you in the locker room, okay?” she said. I nodded, trying not to laugh as Kelly juggled everything all at once as she pulled open the door to the child care.
I went into the women’s locker room and put my gym bag down, starting to undress. I was pulling on my shorts when Kelly burst in, throwing her bag on the bench.
“Now I know why you guys never had kids.” She banged open a locker and unbuttoned her blouse. I sat on the bench, pulling a t-shirt over my head.
“Tara, if you don’t wear a bra, that guy at the desk is going to spend the entire hour staring at you again.” Kelly pulled off her blouse. I glanced down at my breasts.
“Please.” I rolled my eyes. “If I had yours, then I’d wear a bra.”
“So, what could you not tell me on the phone?” Kelly unzipped her slacks and slid them down her full hips.
“Oh, right.” I glanced around. There was no one in our row of lockers, and someone was running a hair dryer around the corner. “It’s about John.”
“Yeah?” She slipped her t-shirt on, pulling her long hair out from under the collar.
I had told Kelly about my search for John’s fantasy life. “Well… I discovered the mystery.”
“And?” She folded her clothes neatly and put them in her bag.
I took a deep breath. “John has been making calls to a phone sex line.”
“You’re kidding me? John?” Kelly sat on the bench, her jaw dropped. “How do you know?”
I nodded, pursing my lips. “I found the phone bills.”
“Were you mad?”
I shrugged. “A little. But my curiosity got the better of me.”
Kelly grinned. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” I bit my lip. “Okay, so I stayed up to hear him make a call.”
“Did he?” She leaned forward, her eyes bright.
“No, but I found out that I was wrong about him not…” I lowered my voice. “Masturbating.”
“Really?” Kelly raised her eyebrows. “You caught him?”
I nodded. “He was doing it in the middle of the night. I guess I’ve just kind of slept through it.”
Kelly snorted. “You definitely sleep like a woman who’s never had kids.”
“I’m not sure what to do,” I confessed, standing up and putting my bag into the locker.
“Well, I know what I would have done.” Kelly winked as she stuffed her own bag into a locker.
“What?”
“I would have rolled over and helped him, dummy!” She laughed and poked me in the shoulder.
I knew Kelly probably would have, but I had always been jealous of her sex life, ever since we started sharing details about our husbands. Chris was all about sharing fantasies with her, telling her what he wanted. She had told me about lots of times when she had dressed up for him, revealing different sexual things they had done that we hadn’t even thought about. Okay, maybe I’d thought about them—and apparently, John had, too—we just hadn’t ever talked about them.
“I thought about it.” I remembered the slick sound of his hand stroking his cock, how exciting it had been to hear him. “But I was afraid—”
“Of what?” She sat down on the bench.
“I guess I was afraid of scaring him off or something.” I shrugged. “I mean, it’s been three years, and he hasn’t ever told me anything, Kel. Not one little fantasy. He wouldn’t even admit he ever jerked-off! Maybe this way I can actually find out what he’s thinking.”
Kelly raised her eyebrows. “What are you thinking about doing, Tara?”
I remembered the sound of John’s hand on his cock, how excited it made me to listen to him, to hear his fantasies.
“I’m going to wait for him to make a phone call.”
* * * *
Kelly kept complaining about my pushing our morning gym date back. I couldn’t help it. I stayed up until one or two in the morning and slept in later and later. I knew I was lucky to have the free time I did. John worked hard, and his business was very successful. I was grateful that I could do my freelance work from home and not worry about it being a primary source of income. I should have been incredibly happy.
Instead, I was staying up until the wee hours, feigning sleep and listening to my husband snore, wondering what he was dreaming about. What did he really want? Why couldn’t he tell me what he was thinking, what he was feeling? Were his fantasies so strange? Was he in to some bizarre fetish? I was aching to know.
I finally got my first opportunity to hear one of his fantasies, although it came when I least expected it—soon after John and I had finished having sex.
I loved Fridays, because he always came home so much more relaxed. Tired, yes, but ready for and anticipating the weekend break. I always made a good dinner on Fridays, something a little extra special. Even if it had been the busiest week in the world for him—which often happened around tax season—I knew that we would connect on Fridays.
We spent most of the night watching a movie, and then I tugged on his hand, pulling him with me towards the bedroom. We both undressed, crawling beneath the covers. Most other days, I wore a t-shirt to bed, and John wore boxers, but never on Fridays. I snuggled my body next to him, sliding my leg up over his, and reaching my hand down between his legs.
There were minor variations on this theme. Sometimes he would turn to me first, but it was rare. Usually it was me, reaching between his legs for his cock, which was already half-hard in anticipation. Like Pavlov’s dogs, it knew just what to expect on Fridays. I loved feeling him grow harder in my hand, his flesh thickening as I squeezed him, responding to my touch.
I would stroke him, pressing my breasts into his side, rubbing my soft thigh over his, until I felt pre-cum beginning to develop at the tip. Then I usually couldn’t resist tossing off the covers and putting my mouth on his cock to taste it. He loved to play with and lick my pussy while I gave him head, and he would pull my hips and position me over his face while I sucked him.
He knew me well, I admit. His tongue knew just where to find my clit, making me moan and grind against him. He would slip two fingers into me, moving them slowly in and out at first, and then faster. I couldn’t help moaning around his cock, sucking and stroking him eagerly, hearing the wet, sloppy noises my pussy made with his fingers slipping in and out.
We would always do this until I came. It usually didn’t take me too long, since I, too, had been anticipating this all day. My pussy was usually already sopping the minute he walked in the door. I refused to masturbate on Fridays, even with my beloved shower massage, saving the intensity of my orgasm for his sweet, lapping tongue. It always made me shiver and shudder and spread my legs wider as I wiggled against him. He usually grabbed my hips to keep me steady as I came.
I was one of those women whose orgasms came quietly—they kind of snuck up on me, and my response was always more of a sigh than a scream.
“Oh John, yes,” I moaned, feeling it begin, waves of pleasure overtaking me. “Ohhh.”
After my orgasm, he would roll me off of him, and pull me up to kiss me. I loved to taste my pussy in his mouth, the smell of it between us. Sometimes he would press me to my back, and enter me that way. I loved him on me, the weight and thrust and shudder of him.
More often, though, he wanted me sitting on him so he could look up and watch me ride him. The look of lust in his eyes turned me to liquid every time, melting my already wet pussy into his flesh as I ground my pelvis against his. I loved his fingers playing over my clit, strumming it, making me move faster on him.
That Friday, though, I did something that surprised him, I think. Remembering what he had said about wanting anal sex, I decided to turn things around a little bit. Literally. I slid him out of me and turned around, so I was facing his feet. His cock was still slick and wet from my juices, and my hand slid easily over him as I positioned myself over his cock. I slid back down, feeling the length of him slide into my pussy again.
“What are you doing?” John asked as I started to rock. This position was a little awkward, and took some getting used to. I was finally catching a rhythm, and heard him groan. I looked back over my shoulder and saw his eyes focused on my ass.
I leaned forward a little, balancing myself with my hands on his thighs. “Will you touch it?”
His eyes lifted to mine. “What?”
“Touch my ass,” I whispered. He slid his hands over my hips, cupping my ass in his palms. I moved my hips in little circles, feeling his cock pulsing inside of me. He was close, I could tell from the way he was starting to thrust up into me, the sound of his breath.
I reached my hand back, placing it over his, and then slowly led his hand with mine toward the crack of my ass. When I pressed his finger against my asshole, he groaned, shoving up harder into me, actually lifting me off the bed with his thrust.
“Yes, John,” I whispered, moving my hand away, still feeling his finger pressing against my asshole. “Put it in me.”
He groaned again, slowly working his finger into my ass. It was a strange sensation, entirely new. I never knew it was so sensitive. I moaned and reached a hand between my legs to rub my clit as he started moving just the tip of his finger in and out of my ass. The feeling was driving me crazy and I began to tremble on top of him.
“Oh God, Tara, your little asshole!” I felt his finger slide a little deeper inside of me, making me gasp.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Play with my asshole, baby.”
He growled, thrusting up hard. “You’re gonna make me come!”
“Me, too.” I felt my orgasm starting to crest, shuddering through me, every muscle between my legs a thick, wet pulse, milking his cock. He came hard, the force of it threatening to throw us both off the bed.
When I snuggled up to him, later in the dark, after we’d cleaned up, he stroked my hair and asked, “What was that all about?”
“What?” I knew, of course, but I wanted to hear him say it.
“You.” He cleared his throat. “Asking me to put my finger… there.”
“Did you like it?” I rubbed my thigh over his.
“Did you?”
I smiled. “Yeah. A lot.”
We were quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Me, too.”
We settled together, spooned at first, and I thought he had drifted off already when he said, “A lot.”
I grinned in the darkness, putting my arm around him and kissing his shoulder.
That was the last thing I remembered before waking to find John gone from the bed. That wasn’t unusual. I used to think he got up to go to the bathroom a lot, and I would just drift back off to sleep again. Now, though, I wondered. Was he making a phone call? The thought surprised me, after we’d just had sex—really good sex, for us!
There was a phone next to our bed. He was clearly using the house phone, not the cell phone, at least according to the phone bill. We had a phone in the kitchen, one in the living room, and another in the basement office. My guess was, if he was on any phone, it would be the basement one. There was a couch down there he could lie down on.
If I picked up the receiver, would I hear him? I listened to the house, but didn’t hear anything except the usual night sounds. He wasn’t in the bathroom.
I leaned over and picked up the phone. Would he hear me if I clicked “talk”? I debated for a moment, holding my breath. Then I pressed the button. I heard his voice immediately, low and sexy. My heart leapt to my throat, and I quickly pushed the mute button, afraid they might hear me.
“How about a school girl?” he asked.
A feminine voice chuckled, soft and low. “The plaid skirt kind?”
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“With a little white button blouse, tied at the waist?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And knee socks?”
John groaned. “Yeah, baby. Definitely knee socks.”
“Have I been a bad girl, Daddy?”
“You’ve been a very naughty little girl, Maria,” he agreed. “You are going to get a spanking.”
My heart was racing still, but for different reasons now. John had incest fantasies? Spanking fantasies? My mouth felt dry, but my pussy was wet—and getting wetter. I rolled over on my back, sliding my hand between my legs as I listened to them. I was still all slick from John’s cum, and I spread the wetness over my lips, rubbing my clit with two fingers in slow little circles.
“Come here and bend over, young lady!” John’s voice was clear and demanding. I pulled the phone away from a moment to look at it, as if I could see him. This is John?
“Yes, Daddy,” Maria purred. “Do you want me over your knee?”
“Yes,” John growled. “Right here over my knee, you bad girl.”
“Oh, Daddy, what are you doing? Lifting my skirt?”
“That’s right, and your panties are coming down, too.”
My breath came faster as I listened to them both. I could close my eyes and see it. A part of me protested that this was my husband, that I shouldn’t be listening, I should be hunting him down with a frying pan and screaming at him—but another part of me was desperate to hear. This wasn’t the John I knew. This was some other man—and the more I listened, I realized it was a man that I wanted to know.