© 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.

"Hell yeah," he said with a lascivious grin. "We love that whole woman on woman thing. It's hot. Even those religious fanatics that scream about it probably whack off thinking about two chicks going at it." He looked at her pointedly. "Have you ever... you know... done anything with another woman?"

"No," she said. "I've always tried to keep this buried. It's just in the past two years that it wouldn't stay buried anymore."

"Not even a little kissing or titty squeezing?"

She laughed for the first time since initiating the discussion, realizing that she felt much better, as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Nothing had changed of course, but at least her secret was no longer a secret. "No, not even a little titty squeezing," she told him.

He seemed disappointed by this revelation but quickly shrugged it off. "But you want to though, don't you?"

"Yes," she replied, "I want to. I won't of course, but I feel better just..."

"You won't?" he interrupted. "Why not?"

"Well... because it would be cheating on you," she told him. "I would never do that."

He turned serious again. "Listen babe," he told her. "If you were to go out and screw some dude, then I would consider that to be cheating and I would respond appropriately. But if you were to go out and have sex with another woman..." he shook his head, "... it's just not the same thing. I have no problem whatsoever with you doing that. In fact, I will actively encourage you to do that."

She wasn't completely sure that she was hearing him right. "You... want me to go have sex with another woman."

"Yes," he replied. "I want you to be happy. If that's something that you want to do, I'm all for it. All I ask is that you don't hide it from me. I want to know when you do it."

This was all quite overwhelming for her. She had started this discussion with the idea that her husband might be kicking her out of the house when it was done. Now he was telling her to go ahead and do what she had always wanted to do, what she had always fantasized about. She didn't know how to respond.

He convinced her however, that he was serious about what he said. They stayed up for two more hours, discussing the ramifications of what had been learned and what was being suggested. They finished another bottle of wine while they talked of what kind of woman she would like to make love to and what she would like to do to her. Twice during the discussion they became so excited that they screwed like animals right there on the floor.

In the end, she happily agreed that she would pursue such a relationship if the opportunity presented itself. From that point on, their marriage took a subtle but marked change for the better. Honesty had a way of doing that.

More than a year passed. Though their marital relationship still had its ups and downs, as any such relationship does, much of the strain that had marked the previous year had evaporated now that her secret was out. She had accepted the fact that she was bisexual and with the acceptance much of the shame and embarrassment evaporated as well. She was no longer afraid to admire the smooth forms of women. She was no longer afraid to discuss her feelings about this with Roger. In fact, they now had great fun comparing notes with each other about who was attractive, who wasn't, who the other would like to get their hands and/or mouth upon.

The only problem was that she had still not been able to act upon her desire. She wanted to make love to another woman with all of her heart and, thanks to the discussions with Roger, she was reasonably certain that she could do such a thing without affecting her marriage. The problem was finding the right woman to make love to. This had turned out to be much more of an obstacle than she ever would have thought.

It wasn't that she didn't know any lesbians. On the contrary, as a nurse in St. Vincent's Hospital Emergency Room, she frequently came into contact with many women who enjoyed the fair sex. Many of the female paramedics who brought patients to her day after day were lesbians, as were a few of the nurses and even one of the doctors. One of the paramedics, Sydney Redding of Medic 8, had even come on to her a few times, seeming to sense the desires within her. But all of those women were very butch. Even Sydney, who was perhaps the most feminine of them, had short hair, bulging muscles, and tattoos. Monica didn't want a butch lesbian; she wanted a soft, cuddly female to sleep with. In specific, she wanted a tall, feminine woman with large breasts and nice legs. She wanted someone who looked like her.

She knew that all lesbians and bisexual women could not possibly be of the bull-dyke category. It just seemed that all of the ones who openly advertised themselves as being of that orientation were. There had to be a woman of the sort that she desired somewhere, within reach. There was just no easy way to identify them and to hook up with them, not without revealing herself as a bisexual anyway, something that she was loath to do in the close-knit emergency medical community in which she worked or in the even closer-knit world of law enforcement wife that she lived in.

Several times since confessing her desires to Roger and being given the go-ahead to pursue them, she had thought that she was receiving signals from women that she came into contact with. One had been a temporary billing clerk in the emergency room, a thin, exquisitely fit woman who had made a point of touching her arm, her shoulder, her back whenever circumstance allowed it. Another had been the girlfriend of one of her husband's cop friends at the Sheriff's Department Christmas party. This woman had actually danced with her out on the floor, close enough for their breasts to rub together through their clothing. Yet another had been one of the single mothers at her children's elementary school. They had drank lattes together for several weeks running after dropping off the children and the woman had made a point of mentioning how sexually frustrated she was since her divorce.

All of these women she would have slept with in an instant had she been given the chance. But none of them had given her quite enough of a hint that sexual contact was what they were after and Monica, inexperienced at this game of female-female love and very cognizant of her reputation, had been unwilling to take the chance and provide a hint of what she would be willing to do.

"You want to be seduced, don't you?" Roger had asked her after one such relationship had failed to come to fruitation. It seemed at times that he wanted her to consummate her desires as much as she did.

"Yes," she'd agreed. "I think that's what I need for this first time. I need the other woman to make the first move, to let me know exactly what she wants from me. I want her to be the aggressor. I don't know how to do it."

"Someone will come along," he told her encouragingly, his hand caressing her bare breast. "God will provide."

"I just hope that he provides soon," she pouted. "I'm walking around with my panties wet all the time thinking about it. If I don't do it soon, I think I'm going to explode."

April Wilson began working in the emergency room about a month later. She was very tall, nearly six feet in height, though reasonably well proportioned for her stature. Her hair was a lusciously dark shade of brown, cut to shoulder length and carelessly curled in a fashion that was curiously attractive. Her legs were long and lean, or at least they appeared to be beneath the baggy scrub pants that she wore on duty. Perhaps most impressive about her were her breasts, which were well above the average size. The first time that Monica laid eyes upon her she felt a gush of moisture flooding her sex as she imagined those beautiful breasts bared before her, as she imagined those long legs wrapped around her back while her face was buried between them. The attraction was so powerful that she shuddered a little. She was actually tongue-tied when Mandy, the charge nurse, introduced her to April and asked her to help orient her to the department.

It took only eight hours of working with her for Monica to figure out that there was some sort of electricity between the two of them. It was a current similar to what she had felt with the husband's friend's girlfriend, with the billing clerk, with the school mother, similar but more powerful, more defined. By the end of that first day together they were chatting like lifelong friends, sharing intimacies with each other that even best friends sometimes withheld. They had lunch together in the cafeteria during their shift and they stopped at a nearby bar after it for a drink. By the time she got home her panties were so wet that she feared the odor of her arousal was leaking out. The moment she went through her front door she stripped off her clothing and virtually attacked Roger, who had been dozing off in the bedroom.

"You must've met a new woman today," he grunted as she swallowed his semi-hard cock in her mouth and began sucking him to a full erection.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked between licks and sucks, as her hand played between her legs.

"Let's just say that I've come to recognize the signals," he told her between moans as she devoured him.

She sucked up and down until he was nice and hard and then slid up his body, so that she was straddling him. Taking his wet cock in her hand she put it against the swollen, dripping lips of her pussy and sank down upon him in one quick motion. She fucked up and down enthusiastically, rubbing her aching clit against his pubic bone with each downthrust. Soon a powerful orgasm went rippling through her. Roger's seed blasted into her body shortly after.

"So tell me about her," he said later, as they lay atop the covers, basking in the afterglow.

"Her name is April," she said dreamily. "She just transferred to the ER from upstairs somewhere. She's been divorced for a year and has two kids."

"I don't care about that crap," Roger said with feigned exasperation. "What does she look like? And does she like eating beaver?"

She slapped at him playfully. "You have such an eloquent way of terming things, you know that?"

"Yes, I do," he replied seriously. "So give. What are the vital statistics? Let's hear the story."

And so she told him about the shift that she had just enjoyed in the company of her new friend. She admitted that there had been no overt discussion of sexuality or even any innuendo in that direction. But all the same she felt that there had been something firing between the two of them.

"That's bitchin baby," he said encouragingly. "Maybe this one is the one you've been waiting for."

She soured a little. "Maybe," she said, doubt creeping into her voice. "I'm still stuck with the same old problem of how to pursue it though. I mean, I might be wrong about her, probably am in fact."

"Just feel her out a little... uh, so to speak anyway. See if she drops any hints. Maybe drop a few of your own."

"That's where it all falls apart though," she complained. "If I make some sort of pass at her and I'm wrong, do you have any idea how humiliated I would be? Everyone would know about me then. Everyone."

"Maybe she's having the same problem," he suggested. "Maybe all of the women that you've met were having that problem."

"Maybe," she said with a shrug. "I just need the other woman to make the first move. That's the only way I'm going to be able to do this. I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about what they want from me."

"Well, see what develops," he told her. He yawned and then began to drift off to sleep. Soon he was snoring away. Monica lay awake for a long time after, thinking about April and what she would like to do with her.

Monica continued to orient April to her new job for the rest of that workweek. As the days went by and she showed her the ropes of working in a busy emergency room, the two of them became closer and friendlier with each other. They ate their lunch together in the cafeteria each day and they went by the bar for a nightcap when the shift was over. As they spent more and more time together and as they talked of their lives, their hopes, their children, Monica found herself growing increasingly infatuated with her new co-worker. She had to fight to keep from staring at those large breasts as they moved from one place to the other and as they cared for the endless stream of patients that filtered through the department. She wanted to touch those breasts with her hands, feel them and squeeze them between her fingers, tweak the nipples. She wanted to taste them with her mouth, lick them and suckle them and feast upon them. At times it seemed like her mouth was watering from the sight of them, particularly when they moved patients from one bed to another, which would cause April's scrub top to fall away from her chest and allow her a tantalizing view down the front.

Never, during any of this time, did April give any indication that she might be interested in a sexual interlude with Monica. Though she made no secret of the fact that she hadn't enjoyed a man's company in well over six months, she gave no hints as to whether or not she would enjoy a woman's. Monica, in keeping with her policy of maintaining a low profile regarding her own desires, made no such hint as well. She behaved only as a friend, not as a woman who lusted after someone. Each night when she got home she mounted Roger with her wet pussy and ground herself to a semi-satisfying orgasm to relieve the tension that had built up over the course of the day.

"So are you getting anywhere with her?" Roger asked her on Friday night, as they lay in bed after the latest act of sexual frenzy.

"Not really," she admitted. "She hasn't given me any sort of clue that she even swings the other way. Maybe this magnetism that I'm feeling is just in my head. Maybe it's just because I want to... you know... do it so bad. My mind might be playing tricks on me."

"I suppose that's possible," Roger told her analytically. "But if nothing else, I'm surely reaping the benefits of this thing. I've been laid every night for a week."

She grinned affectionately at him. "I guess she does have a rather powerful effect on me. I hope you don't mind me using you as a vibrator when I get home."

"The vibrator's at your service," he told her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Well," she said as she snuggled up to her man and prepared to drift off to sleep, "let's see what happens next week. I have one more week to orient her. If nothing else, I'll come home horny every night."

The next week went pretty much the same as the one before it. They worked side by side all day, had lunch together in the cafeteria, and then had a nightcap together after the shift ended at 11:00 PM. Their conversations remained on the typical female-female level, never inching into anything else. Monica continued to ogle April's breasts whenever she could get away with it and continued to come home with wet panties every night. The magnetism that she sensed from her friend however, seemed to persistently flow between them, making it hard to convince herself that it was all in her mind.

"I swear I caught her checking out my boobs a few times," she told Roger on Thursday night as they lay in bed. "Believe me, as someone who always checks out other women and pretends not to, I know what it looks like."

"So make a move," Roger prompted her, not for the first time. "Drop some sort of hint to her and see what she does. Make it something that you can pass off as a joke if she takes it the wrong way."

She shook her head strenuously. "I just can't!" she complained. "I couldn't pull it off. You know me. I can't lie worth a shit."

Roger had to agree with her there. She couldn't lie worth a shit. "Well, maybe something will work out," he told her. "And if not, at least you get to stare at her tits all day."

It was Friday, the last day of their workweek, that something different happened. They were in the cafeteria, eating the hospital's version of chicken enchiladas, when April told Monica that she would have to bow out of the after-work drink that night.

"Really? How come?" Monica said, hiding her disappointment. The late evening stops at the bar - with its intimate, non-workplace environment - were when she enjoyed April's company the most.

"I have to go to the gym tonight when I get off," she replied with a sour face. "I haven't worked out since my transfer became effective. I hate doing it, but I have one of those metabolisms that makes me plump right up if I don't keep up with my exercise."

Monica nodded knowingly. "I have the same thing," she told her. "I guess our bodies are pretty similar."

"Very similar," April agreed, seeming to run her eyes quickly up and down Monica's form. And was there a hint of appreciation in that look?

"I usually go to the gym in the morning before I come to work," Monica said next, feeling tingly all over from the possibly imagined scrutiny she had just undergone. "Do you go to one of those twenty-four hour workout places?"

"Yes," she said. "Riley's gym over on Azevedo Avenue. It's really cool going there at 11:30 at night. Hardly anyone is in there, it's quiet, I don't have to wait for any of the machines, and if I want to swim, the pool is usually empty too."

"Really?" Monica said. "I never thought about that. Maybe I should look into joining up there. I'd much rather work out before I come home instead of before I go to work. That way I wouldn't be sore and tired all day."

"If you want," April offered, "you could come with me sometime as a guest. Then you could check it out and see if you like it there or not."

"Sure, I'd like that."

"Well how about tonight then?" she asked her. "Think you could handle two workouts in a day?"

Monica smiled. "I think I could handle it. I'll have to run home first and get my clothes."

"No problem. You said you didn't live too far from here, right?"

"Just ten minutes away."

"Cool. I'll just wait out in the parking lot for you then. It'll be nice to have someone to work out with for once."

"Yeah," Monica said, feeling a fresh gush of moisture flooding her as she thought of April dressed in spandex. "It really will be."

They pulled into the parking lot of Riley's 24 Hour Workout at 11:50 that night. They were able to park up front since there were only two other cars present. April led Monica inside the building where they signed in with a bored looking employee who was watching Jay Leno on a small television set. After passing through the foyer they entered the main part of the gym itself, with its rows of exercise machines, treadmills, stationary bicycles, and weight machines. Only two of the machines were currently in use, one, a bike, contained a middle-aged man who was pedaling away, the other a treadmill where an even older woman was marching off miles. Carrying their gym bags in their hands they walked to the entrance of the female locker room and went inside.

Rows of lockers took up the bulk of the room, a long bench stretching between each row. On the far wall were a series of private shower stalls. April led Monica to the center of the room and her assigned locker. She dropped her bag onto the bench, opened the combination lock, and swung the door open. The inside of the locker was empty except for a few bottles of water and a box of tampons.

"You can stash your scrubs in my locker while we work out," she said, opening her bag and pulling out her workout clothes. "You brought clothes for afterward, didn't you?"