//Archive name assigned by File.Request@BackDrop.com: my-wife.txt
//From: drambo@cloud9.net (Dawson Rambo)
//Date: 17 Nov 1994 06:25:11 GMT
//Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
//Subject: "My Wife" By Dirty Dawg:NEW STORY

                         * * * * * * * *
                            "My Wife"
                          By Dirty Dawg

   

    The woman that I married is not the woman that is my wife
today, and I'm not sure what the hell to do about it. Don't get me
wrong; I love my wife and always will. But Julie, (that's her
name,) has changed...dramatically in the last few months, and I
have no one to blame but myself. Most of the time, she is exactly
the same woman that I took to the alter six years ago. At other
times, she's a completely different person, a person that I hardly
know at all, a person that I'm not quite sure I want to know.

   Like I said, I have no one to blame but myself. When I was
growing up, I remember my father telling me that there were girls
you married, and girls you didn't. When I was younger, I had no
idea exactly what he was talking about. As I grew older, and
started to date, I began to understand exactly what he meant, even
if I didn't agree with him. As I began to experiment sexually, I
understood even more what my father meant, and I knew that I didn't
agree with him.

   What my father had meant, of course, was rooted in a morality
that has gone the way of the dodo. The sexual revolution has opened
doors for both men and women to explore their sexuality and to
express themselves in ways never before possible. There was no such
thing as a 'nice' girl anymore, or a 'bad' girl for that matter,
either. A woman was allowed, and sometimes even encouraged, to have
a sex drive as strong and healthy as a man's.

   But the voice of my father was in my head, even as I tried to
ignore it. He'd long since passed away when I decided that it was
time to settle down and began looking for a suitable partner. I'd
decided on the type of woman that I wanted to marry: Smary, funny,
honest and sexy. Yes, I know that sounds like the wish list of 99%
of the male population of this country, but I also knew that I
wouldn't be happy with anything less.

   Julie fit the bill completely. She was incredibly smart, in a
scary kind of way. Quick on the uptake, she could absorb
information like a sponge and regurgitate it back to you at the
speed of light. She was one of the few women that I dated that I
didn't have to explain my acrane jokes and far-out cultural
references to. She was funny, she made me laugh all the time, and
she was sexy, in an understated, innocent kind of way.

   And that, friends, is the crux of the problem. Julie's sexuality
was muted, to say the least. We did sleep together before the
wedding, but not nearly as much as I would have liked to. Julie
made it clear that although she enjoyed sex, she didn't need as
much of it as I did; she preferred cuddling and touching to
outright lovemaking. It wasn't that she was a prude, it was just
that her sex drive was not as high as mine.

   And so we were married.

   The first two years went off without a hitch, pardon the pun. We
were happy, as most newlyweds are. We spent almost all of our free
time together, building the marriage, getting used to each other,
building a life together. Our sex life was sporadic, but when we
did make love, it was wonderful.

   Ok...maybe not wonderful. It was satisfying, if not electric.
I'd had wild sexual relationships before Julie, and had thought
that the need for animalistic lovemaking was behind me. After all,
I had settled down, right? I had gotten married to the kind of
woman that my father had wanted me to. I had done my duty, done
what was expected of me. I should be happy and satisfied that I had
such a smart, pretty and sexy wife.

   But the truth is, I wasn't. I wasn't at all satisfied at that
deep layer within myself that all men know about but few
acknowledge. There was a part of me that craved that wild, raw sex
with a woman that I'd had in my 'wild days.' I missed...fucking.
What my wife and I did was make love. I missed the concept of just
tearing each other's clothes off and going at it like a wild beast.

   Julie would have none of that, let me assure you. She wanted no
part of anything that she deemed too 'intense' for her.

   The pressure within me began to build. Now, before you make an
assumption that I was a complete and utter asshole and promptly had
an affair with a woman my father would <not> have approved of, let
me state right here and now for the record that I did <not> do any
such thing.

   Not really, anyway.

   What happened is that I started buying magazines. Not Playboy or
Penthouse, but the kinds of magazines that had a single article in
the middle about monster truck rallies to try and have some
socially redeeming values. The rest of the pages, slick, glossy
pages, were filled with color picture after color picture of the
kind of women I used to date. Yes, I know how judgemental and
narrow-minded that sounds. But it's the God's honest truth. Those
glossy women with staples in their bellies were as far from my
Julie as one person could get and still be a member of the same
gender.

   They wore trashy underwear and issued come-hither looks to the
camera with brightly-painted lips; they held surgically sculpted
breasts in their hands, offering them to me like a priest offering
communion. They spread their legs and let me stare at the center of
their sex without a care in the world; I can't remember the last
time Julie had allowed us to make love with the lights on. She was
not a prude; she was not ashamed of her body. But she just liked to
make love in a certain way. Every time, it was the same thing. I
craved difference, I wanted a little something NEW in the bedroom.

   And so, because I took my marriage vows seriously, I had an
affair of sorts, an affair with the nameless women between the
pages of magazines that you had to almost wear a disguise to
purchase, lest you run into your minister at the newspaper stand.
I used the magazines, and my right hand, to relieve the pressure
building within me.

   When I had those magazines open on my desk and my dick in my
hand, I could imagine that I was single again, that I was in the
middle of a hot session at the local No-Tell Motel ("Rates By The
Hour") with a hot, nasty, slutty woman. I could, as Bill said, cry
Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war.

   I could read the letters from the "readers" and imagine that it
was me in the middle of a flesh sandwhich. I could do and say and
dream about all the things I craved to do with my wife.

   As with any habit, the more I masturbated to the images of women
I would never touch, the more I wanted to do it. The need became
stronger, the draw to the bottom drawer of my desk grew
irresistable. At first, it was twice a month. Then it was once a
week, then twice a week. When it happened, I was masturbating for
the fifth time that week.

   And you can imagine what happened.

   I had snapped awake at two in the morning. Julie was snoozing
lightly beside me, the sheets drawn up to her chin, a peaceful
expression on her face. My erection was hard and throbbing and hot,
demanding attention. I knew that Julie had an early meeting the
next day, and would not be receptive to tearing off a piece of
early-morning nookie.

   But the girls, the girls in my drawer called to me. They
promised me whatever my heart desired. That's one of the
attractions to porn; the girls never, ever say no. There's no
chance of rejection. I've never opened a magazine to find the girl
in curlers with green goo splattered all over her face, doing her
nails with a disdainful expression on her face; they've never had
headaches, only bellyfulls of staples.

   And so down I went. I went into my den, shut the door, turned on
the desklight, opened my drawer and withdrew that month's issue of
whatever magazine I was reading. I opened it to the centerfold and
beheld the woman of my fantasies. She was blonde, with a dark bush,
large, pneumatic breasts, and the expression I dearly wished my
wife posessed. She looked like nothing would faze her. If I trooped
two llamas, several circus midgets and a few furry woodland
creatures into the bedroom, this woman would only worry about who
went first.

   My cock was throbbing at this point, already leaking lubricant.
I took myself in hand and let my fantasies reign. I was fucking
her, really giving it to her, doing all the nasty, dirty things
that my father would have abhorred, really getting into it, when I
looked up and saw Julie standing at the door with an unreadable
expression on her face.

   I ejaculated into my hand, and when I opened my eyes, I saw that
the door was open and Julie had gone back upstairs. I quickly
cleaned up and returned to my marital bed, sure that my wife was on
the phone with her sister, or worse, a lawyer, wondering aloud how
quickly she could obtain a divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty
or constructive abandonment.

   She was asleep, or pretending. I decided not to rock the boat
and tried to sleep myself. I also needed the time to try and come
up with an explination.

   Sleep was a long time coming that night.

   The next morning, when I woke, Julie was already gone. I spent
the day at the office looking at the clock, counting the minutes
until I could go home. I was expecting to have all my clothes and
other belongings dumped on the front lawn, or worse, to find Julie
packed and long gone, with an already-completed seperation order on
the front hall table awaiting my signature.

   Julie's car was in the driveway when I parked my own. My
excitement was short-lived when I realized she could have just as
easily taken a cab to the airport to go live with her sister.

   But Julie was inside the house. She was, in fact, in my office.
She had every single one of my magazines on the desk, all of them
open. When I walked in, she was looking at the pictures intently,
her brow furrowed.

   "Hi," I said softly, taking a seat across from her in the
leather wing-chair my father had given me when Julie and I first
married.

   "Hello." Her voice was carefully moderated, neutral, non-
committal.

   I waited two beats. "Uh...I can explain." I stared. Julie just
held up her hand. She finished the magazine in front of her, closed
it, and selected another. She took her own sweet time going through
it, rotating the magazine on the table a few times to reorient the
photographs.

   After thirty minutes of this, I was going insane. I had no idea
what she was doing, or more importantly, why she was doing it.
Finally, she closed the last magazine. They made a pile almost a
foot high on one corner of my desk. She sat back in my hair,
steepling her fingers under her chin, staring at me intently.

   "So," she said. "This is what you've been doing when you
disappear out of our bedroom."

   I just nodded. What the hell else was I going to do? She'd
caught me dead to rights.

   "David," she said softly, "I'm going to ask this question once
and once only. Don't lie to me, because I'll know."

   I waited.

   "Are you having an affair?"

   "NO!" I almost screamed. "I swear!" Julie looked at me for a
long, hard moment and then nodded.

   "These women...appeal to you? That look? The...lipstick and the
lingerie...that attitude? The slutty attitude appeals to you?"

   It was a very complicated issue. How do you explain to your wife
about fantasy and reality? About the wanting and the having? I
wanted a hot, slutty woman in the bedroom, but I had a princess, a
queen that I adored....in a different way.

   "Yes and no," I hedged, looking for a way out. My waffling
amused Julie and the smile told me to continue, to explain, to dig
the hole a little deeper. In the back of my mind, a little voice
was screaming that something was wrong, that something was up,
because Julie wasn't mad. She was perfectly calm, and that was
unnerving, to say the least.

   "It's...hard to explain, honey. The women in those magazines
aren't anything like you."

   "I'm aware of that," she remarked dryly.

   "It's like...a men's version of a romance novel," I said,
seizing on the only metaphor I could think of. "It's not that I
want them...really, but that I just...fantasize about them. Like
Dabio or whatever his name is."

   "Fabio," Julie corrected.

   "Fabio, then. You don't really want to sleep with him, right?"

   Julie didn't answer for a long, quiet moment. "That's not
entirely accurate, David. If we weren't married, and he wanted
me... I might sleep with him."

   That was news to me. Julie had never indicated that she had ever
found another man <that> attractive. It was unsettling.

   "Well -- it's the same thing, sort of. I just...imagine what it
would be like to be with those other women sometimes."

   "Three times a week, by my calculations." She paused, tapping
her fingers on the desktop. "So," she said. "Is that what you
want?" Her voice dropped a register or two, taking on a husky tone
I'd never heard before. "A hot, nasty woman? One that will wear
trashy underwear and let you do all sorts of nasty, dirty things to
her? A woman that will beg for sex? A woman that will tell you she
can't live without your cock inside her?"

   That made me gasp. Julie had never, ever called my cock anything
but a penis, and occassionaly, a dick.

   "You want a woman who will go down on you, David? A woman that
will suck your cock and lick your balls? Is that what you want?
Huh?"

   Too stunned to say anything, I just nodded.

   Julie nodded back, stood, and left me sitting there like a
gape-mouthed idiot.

   ***

    Two days later, things started to change. I was at work, just
before lunch, when the phone rang. I lifted the reciever and
mumbled, "Clark."

   "It's me honey," Julie said softly. "I'm home in bed, all naked
and horny. I could really use some cock." And then the phone went
dead. For a long moment, I wondered if I'd fantasized the whole
thing.

   Then I reached for my jacket and tore on out of there like my
ass was on fire. I made it home in ten minutes and found Julie in
the bedroom, naked as advertised, a wide smile on her face.

   We made love the usual way, me on top, but it was different
somehow. It was more urgent, more hungry then it'd ever been. I
went back to work with a smile on my face, wondering what had
gotten into my wife. Not that I was upset, mind you. Just curious.

   The next night, when I got home from work, there was a note
taped to the icebox. It said simply, "Bedroom." I went upstairs and
found the shock of my life. Julie was lying back on the bed, on her
hands and knees, wearing the sluttiest outfit I had ever seen. The
stockings and garter belt and black silk panties and bra were
incredible on her soft, white body.

   "Fuck me," Julie said, the word sounding alien in her mouth.
"Fuck me hard, David."

   Well, what the hell else was I going to do. For the first time
in my marriage, I took Julie from behind. It was incredible. It was
hot. It was nasty. Julie was pushing back for more, clawing the
sheets, calling out my name, begging me loudly to fuck her. I had
the single best orgasm of my entire life.

   After I'd come, Julie flipped me over and crawled on top of me,
dragging her breasts across my face and whimpering that she hadn't
come yet. My fingers went to work, and I masturbated her, watching
her face as she climaxed. Sweaty and exhausted, she collapsed
against me, burying her face in my neck.

   The change was startling, and I had to know what the hell was
going on.

   "What," I asked, "has come over you?"

   That's when she told me. She, like me, had been brought up to
believe that there were two kinds of women: Nice girls and tramps.
She had been indoctrinated to believe that only tramps asked for
sex, only tramps liked to act slutty and nasty. She believed that
a wife and a mother was supposed to act a certain way, was supposed
to adhere to some code of conduct from the turn of the century. But
she, like me, had a yearning in her soul to let go, a deep, animal
hunger to let the nasty side of her personality out.

   Julie admitted to masturbating while I was at work, imagining
all kinds of hot, rough sex with me. Thinking about getting it from
behind, about going down on me, about letting me go down on her.
She fantasized about not wearing panties with a short skirt and
having me bend her over the kitchen table and take her, hard.

   "But I can seperate it, David. I can be the two people I need to
be. I can be a good little wife to the rest of the world, a
businesswoman and a mother. I can be a lady in the boardroom and a
whore in the bedroom...if that's what you want!"

   What would <you> say?

   And so my wife and I opened a new chapter in our sexual history.
The changes were gradual at first. My wife began wearing sexy
underwear more often...and then all the time. She threw away her
boring, cotton panties and wore only silky, lacy things. She began
wearing dresses and skirts and blouses that highlited her figure,
that showed off her gorgeous body. She began to ask me for sex more
often, and when she did ask for sex, it was for the kind of sex
that I'd pined after with the girls in the magazine. Only, it was
better this way, better because it was my wife, not some nameless
chick spread over slick pages in between ads for penis enlargers.
It was a real, live woman who wanted me in that way.

   And then she went over the line-- sort of. My wife didn't stop
being a lady in the boardroom, but the darker side of her
personality (as I came to call it,) began to take over. She was a
little less ladylike in the world, using words like "fuck" and
"shit" in everyday conversation. She started talking about 'going
home and fucking,' to anyone who would listen.

   She asked me to tie her to the bed and spank her ass one night.
That's when I knew; my wife had gone too far. She had gone over the
edge. The last traces of the Nice Girl that I had married were
forever gone.

   Or were they?