© Copyright May 2, 2002
It was one of those evenings when the sex was particularly good between them. After ten years of marriage it still delighted them that they could enjoy evenings like this. They had started off in the living room, after the children had gone to bed for the night. Roger had found an adult movie at the rental place that appealed to both of them - something with lots of steamy sex scenes and some semblance of a plot. They drank a bottle of chilled white wine while they watched and gradually their fingers began to probe under clothing, to grasp at slippery and erect parts. Soon the movie was completely forgotten as they shed their garments and moved to the floor next to the couch.
Monica Benton was 30 years old on this night. She sighed in contentment as her husband moved his mouth down across her neck and onto her bare breasts. They were C-cups, neither too large nor too small, a perfect handful for his fingers, the nipples a perfect size to fit between his lips. He suckled her gently, sending tingles of pleasure up and down her body. He kissed his way further south, across her ribs and down to her stomach. The flesh here was smooth and baby soft. The few stretch marks from her pregnancies only added character to it. He ran his tongue back and forth across her tummy, paying particular attention to the belly button. Finally he moved his head even further down. Her legs opened to accommodate him, her sex swollen and wet, the dark brown bush of pubic hair damp with her fragrant juices.
Her legs slid up and down his bare shoulders as she waited for him to put his mouth upon her. He hesitated teasingly, picking up the wine glass that he had been sipping from. It was still half full of chardonnay. He moved it until it was just above her pussy lips.
"What are you doing?" she said breathlessly.
"Just flavoring my meal a bit,' he answered teasingly.
"Don't you dare spill any of that on the carpet."
He didn't answer. Instead he tipped the glass slowly, letting a small stream of the liquid spill out onto her sex. She moaned as she felt the cold wine on her lips. He lowered his head and put his tongue to her, licking up what he had spilled. The contrast of cold and hot made her cry out in pleasure.
He ate her for more than fifteen minutes, drawing two sharp orgasms from her body. Finally she demanded that he fuck her and that he fuck her hard. He was only too happy to oblige. He climbed atop and slid his hardness deliciously inside of her.
They rutted on the floor for another fifteen minutes, their bodies becoming sweaty and slick, their odor rising into the air, their hearts beating faster and faster. Monica came two more times before Roger spilled his seed within her, blasting her cervix with wet warmth.
Afterward, they lay together on the floor, side by side, the ceiling fan slowly revolving above them, sending a draft down to dry their sweaty skin. Monica felt content, fulfilled, but at the same time, she didn't, at least not the way she thought that she should. Something was missing from her life, something that she craved like a drug and always had, something that had bothered her ever since her adolescence.
She looked over at Roger. He was staring upward, a relaxed expression upon his face. She wanted to tell him her secret, had been working herself up to the confession for weeks. Now it was time. The circumstances for the telling could never be better.
"Honey?" she said softly, feeling her nerves clench up, wanting to abort the confession before it even started. She had no idea how he would react. But at the same time, she had to tell him, had to get it off her chest before it tore them apart.
"Yeah?" he said, almost dreamily as his fingers played idly with her thigh.
"I have something that I need to... uh... tell you."
His eyes opened a little wider at her tone. His head turned to look at her. "What is it?" he asked slowly.
She took a deep breath, feeling tears spring to her eyes. Her mouth refused to open and say the words. God, she couldn't really say this to him, could she? What would he think of her? Would he divorce her? Would he try to take the children away from her?
Alarmed at the way that a pleasant evening had suddenly turned so serious, he rolled up on his side and put his hands on her shoulders. "Honey," he said gently, "what is it? Why are you crying?"
"Never mind," she said, shaking her head, feeling herself chicken out. This wasn't the right time to bring it up. It just wasn't the right time.
"I can't never mind now," he said, all sorts of evil possibilities going through his head. Was she having an affair? Had she met someone else? After all, their relationship had been a bit strained over the last few years, strained in some way that he had never quite been able to put his finger on. They fought over the littlest things at times, with no underlying reason readily apparent. They seemed on different wavelengths much of the time and he had no idea why. Was the final hammer about to fall here? Was she about to confess some terrible sin to him? "What is it? What do you need to tell me?"
"Oh god," she said, breaking into sobs.
He held her to him, feeling her skin against his, feeling her tears on his bare shoulder. He caressed her with his hands and whispered soothing words into her ear. At last she calmed down once again, allowing him to gently probe at her to reveal her secret, whatever it might be.
"I have a problem," she said at last, trembling, wishing that she'd never brought this up. Roger was going to hate her. She just knew it.
"A problem?" he said. "What kind of problem?"
"A problem with... with... with... you know... women."
He blinked. "With... women?" he asked. "I'm not sure I'm following you here hon."
Another deep breath. "I uh... like women," she told him. "You know? Like them."
"You mean that you're attracted to them?" he said slowly.
More tears fell. She felt the sobs coming back. "Yes," she managed to choke out. "I'm attracted to women. I like looking at them. I can't help it! I've tried to not think about it and I've tried not to... you know... be like that. But I can't! And I can't pretend that I'm not like that any more!"
His face remained expressionless. His hands slowed in their comforting strokes upon her shoulders. "You're telling me that you are sexually attracted to women?" he said at last.
"Yes," she said ashamedly. "That's what I'm telling you."
He swallowed a few times. "How long have you... uh... been like this?" he asked.
She wiped a tear from her face. "Since I was a teenager," she admitted. "Ever since I started to get boobs and have my period. It's always bothered me that I feel this way but I can't help it. I just can't help it!"
His face flushed a little. "Do you uh... I mean are you still attracted to me? Were you ever attracted to me?"
"Oh god yes," she assured him quickly and truthfully. "I'm not a lesbian. I like looking at guys just as much as girls. I love you and I'll always love you and I love... you know... having sex with you. It's just that I also have this... this... craving for women too." She shook her head miserably. "I can't help it. I really can't!"
He nodded thoughtfully, many things suddenly becoming clear about his wife in an instant. The clues had been there for him their entire relationship; he had just never bothered putting them together before. He had always known that Monica was different than the other women he had dated in his life, different than the wives of his friends. Monica liked to watch pornographic movies with him, had actually bought them herself on occasion. And hadn't she always seemed more than passingly interested in the female-female scenes in such productions? Hadn't she, in fact, once bought a movie that consisted entirely of such scenes, claiming that she'd done it by accident? And hadn't she watched that movie with him anyway, fucking him afterward with an enthusiasm that was rarely matched? And the computer they owned. Wasn't he always finding adult web sites in the history folder? Web sites that featured big breasted women? Web sites that he knew that he himself had never visited? And then there was the way that she looked at other women. Hadn't he noted on occasion that it seemed a little more than the casual competitive glances that most women gave one another? Hadn't it seemed that she was almost ogling them at times?
"Honey?" Monica said, her voice breaking pathetically. "Do you... do you... hate me?"
"Hate you?" he asked, genuinely shocked that she would think such a thing. "No. Why would you say that?"
"Well... because I just told you that I'm some sort of pervert. I'd understand if you hated me. Really I would. I just..."
He shook his head strenuously. "You're not a pervert babe," he assured her. "It sounds like you're bisexual. That occurs through no fault of yours and it doesn't make you a bad person." He cleared his throat a little. "To tell you the truth, this whole discussion has kind of turned me on."
"Turned you on?" she asked, shocked, thinking that he was putting her on. And then she looked down at his cock, which, despite the fact that he had just spent in her, was now well over three-quarters hard once again. Yes, he was definitely turned on. It wasn't often that he recharged that quickly. "Why would that make you excited?"
"Baby," he said sincerely, "you have just told me something that every man dreams of having his wife tell him. I am far from offended."
"Men want their wives to be bisexual?" she asked, astounded.
.... There is more of this story ...