Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: redragon@interserv.com
Subject: The Best Wife (MF, wife, cheat)
Date: 16 Oct 1995 21:48:27 GMT

			    The Best Wife

	I woke in a daze, my bladder on the verge of exploding. The
combination of pot and beer always does that to me. After a full two-
minute piss, I staggered back to bed and found that Karen was not
there. It was 2:51 a.m. I was so groggy, I thought she must be in the
bathroom. She sometimes gets bad cramps and diarrhea. "Kar?"

	Then I knew that she couldn't be in the bathroom (since I'd
just been in there). Chris. Chris was downstairs. Chris and Karen were
downstairs. Together. I pictured Chris' dick, which was big by
anyone's standards. And although I hadn't seen it in over four years,
I doubted it had gotten any smaller. The thought of Karen touching it
(or any other part of him) made me sick. But then Karen has a strong
aversion to sex, and an even stronger aversion to people like Chris,
so I doubted this was a possibility.

	Chris Coleman and I had been brought together as juniors at BU
by a campus housing shortage. I would never have chosen to room with
him. He was a jock creep some shitty Boston suburb. As a freshman,
he'd led BU's ice hockey team in assists and then quit during the off
season, to fully devote himself to being a full-time scumbag.

	He was the consummate piece of shit. One beery night about a
month after we moved in together, he stumbled across a freshman Zeta
Phi sister lying inebriated and unconscious in the stairwell of our
dorm. He carried her back to our room (I wasn't there), fucked her,
then dragged her out into the showers and left her there. To this day,
I still regret not having turned him over to campus security.

	The rest of our year together was an unpleasant blur. He lied
a lot, stole every nickel, dime and quarter I left unattended and sold
herb for pocket money - from our dorm room. Looking back, I'm glad he
never got busted. It might have made me look like an accomplice or
something.

	But worst of all was the way he leered at Karen (who I also
met at BU) whenever she came over. Before the year was over, it was so
bad that she stopped coming to my dorm altogether.

	So one night four years later, I'm clearing the dishes away
from a roast turkey dinner I'd made for Karen. The phone rings. A
familiar voice on the other end knows my name.

	"David?"

	"Coleman? Chris?

	"That's me." He sounded good natured and surprisingly adult.

	"Holy, shit. How are you? Where are you?"

	He laughed. I'm about ten miles from your house, if this map is
right."

	There was some static. "I'm in the car on my way down to
Philly."

	"What a surprise,"

	I looked into the living room. Karen, exhausted from work, was
fetal on the couch.

	There was no way I could not invite Chris to stop by for a
quick drink. On the other hand, Karen was in one of her IEMMs
(indefinitely extended miserable moods). This could be bad, especially
if Chris roving eye thing hadn't changed over the years.

	There was no way out. And besides, I was curious about what
had become of my old roommate the sleaze king. After giving directions
and hanging up, I put the kitchen together and did a little general
house cleaning while Karen finished her nap.

	Two hours later, Chris and I were drinking beers and smoking a
joint rolled with some really strong weed he'd brought with him. Karen
(who has never even smoked a cigarette) watched us, looking
surprisingly placid considering who was sitting on the other end of
the couch from her.

	I however, was feeling surprised. Chris had turned out to be a
pretty decent guy. His affection for dope hadn't changed, but he had
gotten his CPA after all (I'd never thought he would stick it out) and
was working for a big accounting firm in Boston. From the look of the
brand new Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, I judged they were paying him
pretty well.

	He also looked good. I'd always been jealous of his hockey
player's body. And unlike me, he hadn't totally stopped working out
after college. Leaning back on our couch with a loose fitting t-shirt
and faded jeans, he looked like a sports star relaxing after a big
game. I even thought I saw Karen looking at him with a strange kind of
interest.

	He was also nothing of the pervert we had known him to be. Not
only did he refrain from foul language and tasteless comments of any
kind, he only glanced once or twice at Karen's breasts, even though
they were swinging loose under her black sweatshirt. Overall, he was
laid back and kind of fun to be with.

	Certain that I would find Karen and Chris, if anything, at the
kitchen table drinking a cup of herbal tea (her favorite midnight
activity), I threw on some pajamas and went downstairs. Even though
Chris had turned out to be pretty cool, there was just no way Karen
would ever let him touch her.

	It was actually Karen's disinterest in sex that made our
relationship possible in the first place. If she had been into sex,
she probably never would have been into me. What I am (low self-esteem
yet still confident with a slightly flabby body and a not gorgeous but
still sometimes boyishly charming face) is what brought us together: I
am safe, and this is what she needs. My job is to make Karen feel
comfortable, protected from the shit of life. From the pain, poverty
and perversion.

	As you would expect, Karen's problems for sex stem from her
childhood. Making a long story short, she was molested over a period
of three years, between the ages of ten and fourteen, by a neighborhood
girl (and her boyfriend) who occasionally baby-sat for Karen. I don't
know all the details but from what I've been able to gather (from Mr.
and Mrs. Lerner, Karen has never talked about it to me), she was never
raped. The damage took the form of unwanted touching in the form of
massages, some "forced" masturbation, and if I had to guess, some oral
sex.

	Anyway, whatever happened, it turned Karen off of sex forever.
To make things even worse, she grew up incredibly sexy. Karen looks
like a model in a high end clothing catalogue, like J. Crew or L.L.
Bean. Only she has extremely large breasts, on a slender, athletic
frame. This combination makes it literally impossible to look at her
without thinking of sex. I know it sounds horrible, but Karen's body
is actually pornographic; naked, on her back, her breasts spread and
spill slightly outward. Her deep pink nipples are so obscenely large I
can barely fit one in my mouth.

	From the neck up, though, Karen looks like a college girl
working as a summer camp counselor in New England. A trim, blonde
sports babe with a big, friendly smile.

	But still, because of her breasts, she grew up with men (and
women) constantly being sexual with her. And it's made her feel
repulsed by sex. What a world.

	I'm deeply in love with Karen but I often think that she's
never going to be able to work through this thing, and it's hard for
me. Karen's anger is so bad, we sometimes go months without having
intercourse. And when we do, the ecstasy of seeing her naked breasts
wobble (or as is more often the case) sway a few inches in front of my
face, usually makes me shoot my load (into a condom; my semen has
never and will never touch any part of her body) within a minute or
two. It isn't like she minds, though. For Karen, sex is all about
intimacy. When we make love, she wants to be held, stroked, and loved.

	I listened around the corner before looking in the living room
but heard nothing. I also peeked in the den. I wondered if maybe that
they hadn't gotten hungry or something and taken a ride to 7-11. But
that just wasn't Karen. And besides, Chris' jeep was in the driveway.
They were in the basement.

	It now occurred to me, with a sickening finality, that it was
very likely that I was going to find them together - in some capacity.
There just wasn't anything else they would be doing down there besides
having sex. Hot tears spring to my eyes and I felt like sitting down.
This just made no sense. Whatsoever.

	Strange thoughts as descended the stairs to the basement. The
whole thing was unreal. Lacking the nerve to kill them, I decided I
would punish her with shame. And refusing to forgive her - ever. I
would divorce her.

	They were in the guest room, where Chris was supposed to have
stayed - by himself. All we had down there was a cheap cot, and I
heard the box springs squeaking lightly. I inched the door open and
waited while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Although I steeled
myself for the worst, there is nothing - no thought, action or
comforting word of wisdom that could have prepared me for what they
were doing.

	In a few seconds, I could see them almost as well as if the
lights had been on. Karen, my sweet, miserable wife, sex-hating wife
was lying on top of my old roommate who was now an accountant, her
head in the crook of his neck as he fucked her from underneath. He was
holding her ass cheeks so far apart I couldn't believe that she wasn't
screaming in pain, and (this made me sick) sliding his finger in and
out of her asshole. His dick was even bigger than I remembered it from
college. Slamming upward into my wife's pussy, it was the cruelest,
sexiest, nastiest thing I'd ever seen.

	She sat up on him, his finger still sliding in and out of her
ass, and guided his free hand to her right breast. He groaned, "God,
you're tits are so fucking big. I've got to fuck them."

	She giggled and rocked on him. He found a new rhythm, pulling
his finger out of her ass as she sat on him, then shoving it back in
on her upstroke. I could tell Karen was loving it. She was not my
wife anymore. She was someone else, a strange, hopelessly complicated
woman.

	"If you keep doing that for another minute, I'm going to
come," she said, matter-of-factly. "I'm definitely going to come."

	He began slapping her right tit, and pulling and twisting the
nipple. True to her word, in a few seconds Karen ground to a
standstill on his huge cock, let out a brief muffled cry, her whole
body spasming. I never knew women could come like that.

	"Fucking whore," he said up to her.

	"You're a... pig," she groaned back. "I hate you... always
have."

	After a few seconds, she collapsed besides him, giggling, and
reached down to the floor. I watched with disbelief as she pulled up a
joint and lit it as Chris scooted down to eat her.

	"Chris?"

	He made a throaty, indiscernible as he tongued lightly at her
clitoris, something she's only let me done once or twice since in all
our years together. She shut her eyes. "You don't think he'll wake up,
do you."

	Chris didn't answer. He took the joint from her, dragged
deeply, then stubbed it out in an ashtray on the floor. In the
meantime, Karen rolled over onto her stomach, raised herself up on her
knees, and spread her cheeks. He kissed her asshole lightly. Without
warning, he slapped her left buttock violently. She quivered.

	"You're a cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt," he told her.

	"Hmmm," she cooed. "I'm really stoned."

	I had no intention of moving. I was going to watch but not
interfere. Even if I had, I was sure Chris would beat me and then
leave, and Karen would go with him.

	Chris spit into her ass crack and began lapping at her hole
like a dog. Although I couldn't see her face too well, I could see
that she was smiling. She reached back to play with his hair, to push
against her semen soaked breasts a few times, and then pushed them
together for him to fuck. He slid his mammoth dick between and began
to thrust. I turned and went upstairs.

	At some point before dawn, Karen slipped into bed with me,
warm, freshly damp and smelling of soap. She'd showered. From outside,
I heard Chris' Jeep start up and back out of our driveway. Pretending
to be asleep, I reached for a breast. She guided my hand to where it
wanted to go and held it there for safekeeping.