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[Note: Despite the category of this story, there is no male/male sex, or even foreshadowing of it, in this segment of the story.]
It was a the tiniest piece of red foil—easy to miss. So easy that my wife clearly had. I could have, too. If I’d missed it, the cleaning lady certainly would have cleaned it up the next day, on her weekly visit and, then, things would have gone quite differently—for a lot of people.
I was taking a piss just before going to bed, not thinking of anything in particular and certainly not focusing on the surroundings of the toilet. I don’t know why it caught my eye. Maybe the light glinted off of it. When I finished pissing, I knelt down and picked it up.
It was the tiniest bit of foil, but enough for any guy to recognize what it was: a piece of a condom wrapper!
My wife, Marcie, and I have been married for ten years. Neither of us wanted kids, so I got a vasectomy about five years ago. We hadn’t used any kind of birth control since then, and certainly not condoms. But here is was—a fresh condom wrapper in our bathroom.
I’d like to say that I had sensed something wrong in our relationship—that this answered a question that had been nagging me. But it hadn’t even occurred to me that Marcie might be having an affair. Of course, we didn’t have sex as often, or as wildly, as we once did, but I thought we had a pretty good sex life. And Marcie had never said or done anything to make me suspect that she wasn’t happy with it.
So, this was a shock to me, to say the least.
I suppose lots of guys would have confronted here right then and there. Some would have done it violently. Not me. That’s not my style. I can be decisive. (I wouldn’t be a V.P. of Operations at my company if I couldn’t.) But I was careful; I did my research and got my facts straight before I acted. And that’s what I resolved to do now.
No more evidence of infidelity was necessary, of course. There was no innocent explanation for what I’d found. But I wanted to know more than that Marcie was having an affair. I wanted to know with whom, for how long, how often she’d seen him, and, if possible, when she’d seen him. I thought I had some ideas about how to sleuth that information out.
Slipping the piece of foil into my bathrobe pocket, I went back to the bedroom and climbed into bed with Marcie. She snuggled up to me as if to start something, rubbing her hands over my body. I turned away, prompting her to ask if something was wrong.
“No. I’m just really tired,” I lied. It’s not as if I had resolved not to touch her. I just couldn’t bring myself to touch her right now.
My body wasn’t particularly tired. The fatigue was really in my soul. I felt defeated and despondent. My mind, though, was revved up like a dragster waiting for the green light. There was no chance I would be getting to sleep soon, or maybe at all, that night.
I lay there plotting and worrying for about half an hour, till I was sure that Marcie was sound asleep. Then I went into the room she used as an office. Marcie’s a very competent person, but she’s not tech savvy. I was “tech support” for her computer and for her phone.
Never, in our ten year marriage, had I snooped into her stuff. I’d never looked at her email, her calendar, her phone log, or her diary. I didn’t even know whether she kept a diary. I’d had no reason to want to … until now.
I didn’t know her passwords but it’s easy enough to install a software keylogger and collect that information. After I’d done that, I checked her phone’s call log and text history. Sure enough, there was a number that she called, and called her, repeatedly that wasn’t associated with any name in her people folder. I tried, without luck, to get a name by doing a reverse look-up on the computer. For now, then, the identity of the caller—and almost certainly the owner of the condom I’d found evidence of—was beyond my reach. For now! But that was going to change.
Going through the text log didn’t tell me much, except to move me from “almost certain” to “completely certain” that whoever owned that phone number was the same person shagging my wife. The text log was clearly incomplete. I found messages that made it obvious that some had been erased. Marcie had made some attempt to clean her text history but, like I said, she wasn’t tech savvy and she didn’t go about it methodically.
What text messages I could find were, for the most part, innocent enough. But it was clear that meetings were arranged. I decided to connect her phone to my computer and dump everything into a folder there for future data mining but, at this point all I really learned from the text messages is that the guy sometimes signed his messages ‘D’. Probably the initial of his first name, but it could be from his last name or a nickname. No telling … for now.
I tried to go about my business without giving any outward sign of my mental turmoil. I couldn’t bring myself to touch Marcie in bed and my goodbye mecidiyeköy escort kisses were perfunctory—something she probably noticed and wondered about. But I hid my feelings enough that I didn’t provoke her to question me, at least for now.
One day! That’s all it took to get the keys to Marcie’s private life. The next night, again after she’d gone to sleep, I logged on to her computer, checked the keylogger file and … BINGO! … I had her passwords to accounts I didn’t know she had.
In addition to her regular gmail account, she had one under the name ‘SL060980’ using the password ‘MILF69’. The password needs no explanation; the ‘060980’ was Marcie’s birthday: June 9, 1980. I didn’t know immediately what the ‘SL’ stood for.
I guess Marcie had no concern about anyone hacking into her secret gmail account because, when I did, I found the entire history of her messages, incoming and outgoing there. These answered all my questions, except for “Why?”
The ‘D’ in the text messages was Devin Speaks. Devin and his wife, Kendra, were friends—not exceptionally close friends but people we’d include in backyard barbeque in the summer and other events like that.
Devin and Kendra were our age and, like us, they’d been married for about ten years. Kendra was hot. I’d fantasized about her lots of times. Kevin was good looking, too. I guess Marcie had had her own fantasies. But, unlike me, she’d decided to live them out.
I couldn’t bring myself to go through the whole email record at once. It was devastating. There was nothing humiliating said about me. It wasn’t as if Marcie was enjoying the idea of cheating on me—which is not to say that she wasn’t enjoying the activity of cheating on me. She just didn’t seem to be deriving any pleasure from the fact that she was cuckolding me.
There was no, “let’s make fun of that poor sap of a husband,” talk. But every cute, flirtatious exchange—the ones that no doubt brought excited smiles to Marcie and Devin—tore at my heart.
I could stand reading the messages for only so long. Long enough to learn that the ‘SL’ in her username stood for ‘Secret Love’. And Long enough to learn that the relationship had been going on for nearly seven months and they were seeing each other once or twice a week, sometimes more.
I tortured myself by trying to recall the times that Marcie and I had shared especially intimate, intense moments during that time. The moments that had seemed so real to me then, now seemed like a lie. When she had held me passionately, screamed out with pleasure while I licked her or fucked her, or when she’d sucked my cock so marvelously, had she been thinking of Devin? Had she been comparing us? Wishing she were with him, instead of me? Fantasizing that she was with him, instead of me?
That way lay madness, I realized. So I downloaded the entire record to my computer and resolved to look it over a little at a time, when I felt I could stand it.
As it turned out, I went back to the record regularly—almost every night after Marcie had gone to sleep. I’d pour myself a whiskey, go to my computer, and open the log of her email exchanges and begin reading, sometimes holding in my hand the tiny piece of foil whose discovery had started me down this path.
I would feed myself a little dose of the poison in those emails, taking a perverse pleasure in the pain I was feeling. Maybe I needed reinforce my feeling of being an innocent victim in all of this (which I was, of course) in order to rationalize what I had done—by breaching Marcie’s privacy—and what I was going to do—the details of which were gelling in my mind.
I created in Excel a timeline of Marcie and Devin’s exchanges. (Okay, I confess to being anal-retentive.) Between the log of the phone calls, the text files, and the extensive emails, I could pretty much identify every time they’d been together, often where they’d met, and sometimes even what they’d done.
What they’d done was, mostly, fuck. They’d had a couple of dinners together. (Maybe that made both of them feel as if this wasn’t quite as tawdry as it might otherwise feel.) But mostly, they’d met at hotels and motels for afternoon delights or, when they could both get free for an evening, fucking after their dinners out.
It was clear, though, that they’d also been together in our house—not just the time I found the condom wrapper, but frequently. That disgusted me. While I was at work, Marcie would take an afternoon off and entertain Devin in my house, in my bed. How often had I gone to sleep on sheets still infused with the scent of their illicit sex. I hadn’t noticed anything, but it strained credulity to think that Marcie had washed the sheets after every tryst with Devin.
It made me sick to think about it. Maybe they’d taken a bath in our jacuzzi tub—probably they had. Why not? What could be better after screwing a man’s wife than to relax in their tub with her, probably sipping a glass of his wine.
Maybe istanbul escort he’d worn my bathrobe after they’d had sex in our marital bed. And then my thoughts spread to the entire house. Had he fucked her on the couch? Over the back of the couch? On the kitchen counter? The kitchen floor? Had she met him in the entry way, naked or only in lingerie and dropped to her knees to suck him off the moment he came in the door?
And then there was Marcie. I wasn’t getting any better at faking normalcy when we talked or touched. We hadn’t had sex since before I’d found out about her infidelity. I’m sure she suspected something was wrong. I dreaded the moment when she would press me on this because I wasn’t sure I could lie convincingly and I didn’t want to tell her the truth.
Looking at Marcie was most difficult when she came out of the bathroom, naked, to get into bed. I used to love looking at her then and it often led to fucking, sucking, licking, or at least passionate groping when we were too tired to do more. Now, all I could think of was his hands on her beautiful breasts; his tongue teasing her erect little clitoris till she erupted in an orgasm; his cock between her sweet lips, maybe filling her mouth with his cum; his cock buried deep in her wet cunt or stretching her asshole and depositing his spunk in her beautiful body. (I realized when I thought about it, that the initial evidence of Marcie’s affair suggested that Devin didn’t deposit his sperm directly in her but, for some reason, when I visualized them in action, I never imagined the condom there.)
It was driving me crazy. I was feeling more aggrieved by the moment, with each new doubt—each new fear. I was going to get revenge. I had to in order to reclaim my self-esteem. I felt justified in doing anything I wanted to in order to get back at them.
My plan for revenge required me to bide my time and collect more evidence—not in order to prove that I was correct. There was no need for that. But I had a plan to confront Devin, and I wanted it to be, shall we say, impactful.
And, to bide my time I needed to allay Marcie’s concerns, at least a little bit. I’d told her how stressful work was and that I was anxious and tired all the time. That helped. In order to forestall the “discussion” I was fearing further, I proposed to her that we go out to dinner that weekend. We hadn’t been out very often recently and she saw this as an attempt to mend the breach that had developed between us, for reasons she didn’t understand.
Masochist that I am, I made the dinner reservations at one of the restaurants that I knew she had gone to with Devin. Just another way to provoke pain—sort of like a kid playing with a loose tooth, but much more intense.
Dinner was okay, though I wondered from time to time whether we were sitting at the same table she and Devin had, being served by the same waiter, ordering the same dishes, or wine. Did the waiter remember her and wonder why a woman wearing a wedding ring was here with two different men on different occasions having what was obviously intimate dinners with each?
When we got home and got into bed, Marcie took the aggressor’s role. She was all over me. I considered playing the “too tired” card again but she got me aroused enough that I didn’t want to. I’d let her do her thing.
Maybe she sensed that something was deeply wrong—maybe she even wondered whether I’d somehow found out her secret. Whatever. She was trying her best to excite and arouse me. She was trying to be every man’s dream bedmate.
And it was working. As she moved down kissing my chest and stomach, my cock was at full attention. When her lips met my cock, my whole body twitched with excitement. It was clear that she was bent on giving me a great blowjob. She knew that once I came, that was it for me for the night. I’d fall into a stupor and, then, fast asleep. But she wasn’t looking for reciprocity tonight. It was all about her making me feel good and, she hoped, mending whatever needed to be mended.
I decided that I deserved it and I was going to enjoy it. I tried to put thoughts of her and Devin out of my mind and just focus on the marvelous sensations. But I couldn’t. Thoughts, and images, of them kept creeping back into my consciousness.
And then I realized that this was actually exciting me. No, I wasn’t getting off on thinking of her with Devin—at least not in the way that cuckolds do in the stories you read on the Internet. I wasn’t titillated by the humiliation of being cuckolded. I was angry. I was furious. And the anger drove me to hold Marcie’s head tight and thrust hard into her mouth.
I’m sure this felt strange to Marcie. When she gave me a blowjob, I usually let her control everything. That always worked out great for me, too. Now, though, it was as if I was angry-fucking her mouth. And it was exciting.
When I came, it was explosive. I forced Marcie’s head down so that my cock was deep in her throat and, ignoring şişli escort her attempts to push away, pumped my load deep in her throat. She coughed and gagged; I didn’t relent.
When I finally let go of her head and lay there limp, I was surprised that Marcie didn’t complain about how I’d treated her. She didn’t, though. She just said, “Wow! I guess you really needed that!” She was right; I did.
The next day, I left work after just an hour, complaining of a splitting headache. I knew that Marcie wouldn’t be coming home until late in the evening. She had a company meeting that would keep her occupied all day.
After a stop at a local spy store—well it billed itself as an electronics store, but most of its merchandise was designed for spying on a spouse, a business associate, or whomever—I went home to install the equipment I’d bought.
I was amazed by the quality of the equipment you could buy now and how easy it was to install. Soon, I had high-definition, motion-activated wireless cameras installed in each of the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the living room.
After Marcie had fallen asleep that night, I checked the recordings of our activities. Everything was working flawlessly. I was set to get the materials I’d need for my “impactful” confrontation with Devin.
It would be natural to think me crazy now. Why set up a trap to record Marcie and Devin together? Why give them another chance to cheat on me? Why not just confront Marcie, or both of them separately, and force them to stop?
Well, I had more in mind than just stopping their little get-togethers. And I didn’t want to reveal to Marcie that I’d hacked her private accounts. I had a plan about how to end this without Marcie knowing a thing, and in a way that humiliated Devin.
My plan, which I’d hatched over several sleepless nights, revolved around something that Marcie and I had learned from Devin and Kendra one night when they’d been over at the house and we’d all been drinking a little too much.
Somehow we’d gotten on the subject of infidelity. I have no idea what triggered that conversation—probably some celebrity who had been caught in flagrante delicto. It was long before Marcie and Devin began their activities, so it wasn’t a case of one of them toying with Kendra and me by raising the topic.
Kendra announced, kind of smugly, that she had no worries about Devin being unfaithful to her. And she left it there, with just a smirk, until Marcie pressed her to explain. As it turns out, most of the money they have comes from a trust fund for her, from her father. And, because her father worried about “his little girl,” he wrote the trust so that all of their property, the house, cars—everything—was held in the trust. If she were ever to divorce her husband for infidelity, he would get nothing. And, as Kendra told the story, Devin barely made enough to support himself at a subsistence level.
This was all told in a lighthearted way. Kendra seemed to think that Devin’s fidelity was guaranteed by his love and respect for her and she found this just a humorous arrangement that reflected her father’s paranoia.
I was banking on the fact that Kendra would be furious at Devin for cheating on her, or at least that Devin would fear that she would. And I was banking on his being terrified of being cut off, not only from her, but from her money. As it turned out, I was banking well.
It took over a week for my trap to catch its prey—a week during which I was up every night, after Marcie had gone to sleep, scanning the recordings for the sort of movement I was looking for. Night after night, I watched recordings that showed only Marcie and me doing thoroughly mundane things. But, on the tenth night … BINGO!
I could track the entire encounter, from one camera to the next as they moved from room to room. Marcie met Devin at the door and the shared a very passionate kiss, accompanied by groping that would put horny teenagers to shame. It was hard to watch. I wondered when Marcie had shown the same passion for me. For that matter, I didn’t know when I’d shown that passion for her.
They wasted no time. No “let’s sit on the couch and talk,” or “let’s have a glass of wine first.” No, it was straight to the bedroom—our bedroom—and onto the bed. Devin picked Marcie up and tossed her onto the bed. She giggled and got back up to sit on the side of the bed. Devin was standing in front of her so that his crotch was right in front of her face.
Marcie reached up and began unzipping Devin’s pants. It was painful to watch her fish out his cock and, with obvious relish, take it into her mouth. While she used her mouth to such his cock to a rigid state, her hands were busy wrestling down his pants and underpants. Devin was taking off his shirt at the same time and soon he was naked, standing next to my bed, with his hard dick filling my wife’s eager mouth.
Devin pushed Marcie back down on the bed, climbed on top of her, and began tearing off her clothes. ‘Tearing’ isn’t quite the right word; no fabric appeared to be ripped and she was more than helpful in getting her clothes off. But the speed at which they’d managed to strip all of their clothes off would have put horny teenagers to shame.
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