The Aftermath of a Marriage

The Aftermath of a Marriage Part 2a.

Waiting for the divorce.

An intro from Jayne,

The period after a marriage breaks down when the parties start living apart is strange. I know as I am going through it right now and have been for the past year or so. To be precise, though, the period of strangeness includes the time prior to the parting where pretty much everything is going tits up.

When a woman starts living alone after many years with her husband, and in my case two children as well, so many things are different mainly because now she has to make the decisions that previously had been his domain. She can choose what to watch on TV, have for dinner and when to eat. She decides when to go out or stay in, what to do socially and where to spend holidays and vacations. It's up to her who she chooses to see, when, where and how often and what she spends her savings or income on. In other words, she become her own boss.

Now, of course, that decision making and choice goes a lot further and involves many other topics and with this being on Literotica the elephant in the room is sex. So, in short, now that she's free she can fuck whoever she chooses, when she pleases and however she wants.

This story is about how I did just that.

This isn't going to be a series of frequently published episodes like some of my catalogue. Instead, it will be an infrequent series linked together with the common theme of how a middle-aged woman copes with the massive lifestyle changes, particularly sexual ones of separation and then divorce.

So that I don't have to keep repeating myself in the stories I am a fairly busty, 34_36D, quite short haired natural blonde with good legs and a nice ass so I've been told. I wear glasses, even to have sex in, I am around five feet six inches tall and weigh in English 10 stones and internationally 140 pounds/65 kgs.

Separating

At home the evening after Miles had given me a finger climax in his car and we had come so close to going all the way, I felt awful. The enormity of what I had done car with my work colleague hit home and got stronger as the evening wore on. But it was not just the feelings of guilt and shame that were getting to me but also I was in a very strong quandary. Despite the dire state of my marital relationship and the near certainty I had that Kevin was having yet another of his flings I felt terrible about breaking my marriage vows and although I hadn't committed adultery, I had got very near to it and, indeed, had tacitly agreed to do so soon. The quandary was should I?

The recall of sitting on the passenger seat of Miles' car parked in a clearing in a wood that acted as a car park, with my suit jacket unbuttoned, my breasts pulled out from my black bra, my skirt bunched around my waist with Miles's hands between my legs kept flooding into my mind. I tried resisting it and pushing it out of my mind but it kept returning as did the memory of his fingers going into me whilst his mouth feasted on my breasts and nipples. And of course, during that agonisingly long evening watching TV as a family the recall of the orgasm he gave me hit home hard. It was my first orgasm for so many years that hadn't been induced by my husband or myself. It kept crashing around my mind that it was the nearest thing to adultery and perhaps, I kept wondering, it may well technically have been that as I made a mental note to google just what adultery entailed.

Kevin and I were no longer sharing a bed so I was sleeping alone. As I was trying, very unsuccessfully, to get to sleep so the memory of Mile's mouth on my breasts and his fingers in me kept bouncing around my mind. Inevitably, I suppose, that aroused me. I did nothing at first but let my mind recall the events in the car. That, of course, increased my arousal and without even thinking about it one of my hands slid inside my nightdress and I found myself cupping my full breast and pinching my nipple. The combination of those sensations and my mind recalling what Miles had done to me simply increased my arousal. With my eyes closed in the darkened room I rolled onto my back and pulled the nightdress up so that it was bunched around my chest with both of my breasts bare. More importantly to what I was doing, I was also bare beneath my waist. Yes where Miles fingers had been so busy and sexually stimulating was now bare to my hands and fingers. Then, for the second time in an evening I was finger fucked to a shattering orgasm.

That episode and what had happened in the car represented the watershed in our marriage and became the deciding factor in me reaching the decision that I wanted to end it. Kevin and I talked about it and surprisingly easily reached an agreement to divorce. Telling the kids was difficult but as Peter was 21 and Sara 18 and both had friends with separated and divorced parents, they took it well and were understanding.

We had a fairly complicated financial situation with money stashed overseas together with a house in Majorca that we hadn't declared to HMRC so we decided not to involve lawyers in the financial settlement. Additionally, with both the children being over eighteen, there were no dependency issues with them so we thought the divorce would whizz through the courts and we'd be single again quite quickly. How wrong were we?

Covid had played havoc with the legal system and we were told by both sets of lawyers that it was likely to take 6 to 9 months to finalise. In the end it took nearly a year. And what a year that was. Looking back on it I see it as;

My year of celibacy.

We separated almost immediately and went our separate ways. We mutually agreed that I would move out to a flat in Docklands that we had bought as an investment for the kids with undeclared money during the crash of 2019, and I would also have the house in Majorca whilst Kevin would keep the family home in suburban Essex.

So quite soon after the car episode with Miles I was living alone. That would have made having sex with him so much easier but we never did. Shortly after the fingering incident in the car he caught covid and as part of my separating from Kevin, I left the company and started working freelance from home. I've not seen Miles since, which I think was possibly wise as it was becoming rather heavy and God only knows what would have ensued had we started having full sex.

So quite quickly I was ensconced in a luxury duplex apartment in a trendy part of London, had left my job and was spending far more time than I had thought necessary with lawyers working on the divorce. I was a new woman about to take on single life again for the first time in over a quarter of a century.

After a hectic month or so sorting things out my new life began and it hit me hard. The stark reality of it was that I was alone. Although nominally both Peter and Sara were living with me both were away from home, he at uni and she at a residential college completing her university entrance studies. They came home now and then but essentially, I was by myself. Of course, that had some good points but they were at least balanced by and maybe outweighed by the negatives, the main one being loneliness. Living alone and working from home sounds attractive but that has numerous downsides the most significant of which is that I could go for days and not see another human being in the flesh. Obviously, it also has benefits one of which is that I could also go for days with getting dressed other than, perhaps my panties.

Inevitably, after all those years of marriage most or, many of which were reasonably happy, there were some things about it that I missed and high up on that list was sex. In truth it was not so much the actual, physical act but more its availability, the fact that it had been on tap whenever I wanted it and the knowledge that I could be sexually satisfied or have intimate moments almost at will. Now, of course I couldn't. I also missed being held, kissed, though recently there hadn't been much of that lately, fondled, petted or caressed. Well, I suppose I could had I the inclination to put myself about to the married lechers at the golf club, that Kevin had left, or the young bucks at the tennis club who sniffed around all the single and especially the divorced women. But that all seemed to be rather tacky and somewhat sluttish as, rather ridiculously, I still considered myself to be a married woman.

But I had to have sexual pleasure and satisfaction. After so many years of enjoying that, the thought of being without it alarmed me so I sought other ways. And, of course, the main way was masturbation.

At first, I resisted doing it often and I indulged my sexual desires only when the frustration built up to an unacceptably high level, roughly once a week or ten days or so. But gradually after the first few weeks I found the interval shortening into just a few days and sometimes every other day.

This increased frequency was enhanced by the other recreational tool I had developed which was composing erotic stories. That had started a few years ago when my marriage started falling apart and I needed something to stop me worrying and becoming depressed.

I had always been a writer both professionally as a copywriter in advertising and as a composer of short stories for the kids and nephews and nieces. I'm not quite sure what caused me to start writing erotic tales but it worked. I got sexual pleasure and relief from what the writing prompted me to do to myself and, I suppose, in the periods where Kevin and I were not having sex and even more so after we separated, I became a wanking junky.

But it was so lonely. Lying in my bed at night or on it during the day, occasionally sitting in my lounge and in the summer outside on my not overlooked patio cum balcony, I simply looked after my sexual needs and did myself. After a while, though, it wasn't enough even with the rabbit and the beads that I bought online; I needed more, something else, an addition or a variant. Maybe I should have broken the vows I'd made to myself and found a man possibly a fwb or similar. I did have a few opportunities but it just didn't seem right although, I knew that I would do it again sooner or later but whilst waiting for the divorce to come through just wasn't the time for such additional complications.

But then I found chat rooms. And being absolutely honest that changed my life.

*

At first, I didn't get involved in anything that seemed to be unsavoury. I quickly got rid of any guys that got flirty too quickly, the 'are you horny' brigade asked as one of the earliest questions. But slowly that changed and I started responding to come-ons if they were done in an interesting and, as I thought of it, grown up manner. After I had turned down goodness knows how many advances, sexual offers, invitations to see dicks, rate guys looks and bodies, have them tribute me and cam with them, I began to loosen up and realise that maybe this might be a way forward. It could be an alternative to lying in or on my bad alone, to oiling up my breasts, stomach and thighs and massaging myself to a climax all alone.

I had a couple of false starts and a few cyber assignations where I lost my bottle and pulled out of the conversations, but then I met Tim. I guess that was a month or so after I started with chat rooms which made it around three months since the separation when the only sex I'd had was masturbating and some email exchanges when writing my erotic stories.

I'd purposefully not worn a bra. The main reason being the delicious feelings on my boobs and nipples from the lustrous, pale pink, silk blouse I was wearing. As I'd slipped that on and slowly done up each of the four buttons I'd noticed that they were rather too far apart for, as I moved, the blouse gaped and my cleavage, some of each of my breasts and almost my areolas were exposed. Smiling, I thought, Tim'll like that.

I was wearing thin, track trousers. They were beige and loose at the bottoms of the legs with a triple white stripe up each side. They had an elasticised waist band and fitted snugly across my tummy and bottom. Glancing in the full length, mirrored wardrobes along one side of my bedroom and seeing the slight sagging of my breasts, the bulge of my tummy and the surplus fullness of my hips and bum, I grimaced a little, but overall decided, the sight wasn't too bad, well not for a near fifty-year-old that is.

I wasn't wearing anything on my feet, mainly because I find being barefoot sexy and that's exactly how I wanted to feel for him. Under the trousers I was wearing a white, lacy thong. It was small, ridiculously small really for there was quite a lot of me to go in there. Not that I'm a BBW or anything like that, but I am, shall we say, nicely rounded with, as my near ex-husband described them, ample handfuls of tits 'n ass!

I went into the main room of my, fairly large, duplex apartment that almost overlooks the Thames and I sat down at my desk in front of the PC. Everything was ready, all that was needed was in place and I was prepared, emotionally and physically.

Pressing the key and moving the mouse I then typed.

"Tim, you can now fuck me."

Looking back, I often wonder how I reached that point. How I'd reached such levels of, depravity, I suppose some would call it? How I'd come to accept, no relish really, having some level of online sex three or four a week? How I'd got to the state where I had agreed to go all the way online with Tim. Whilst I had messed around with steamy chats, I hadn't yet been cyberfucked and that was I had agreed I'd do with him today.

Originally, I'd found chat rooms by mistake. They seemed to be the answer to finding other females to talk to who were in similar positions to me. Recently separated and divorced women who found it hard to work out why an almost perfect marriage had gone wrong? Why a partner, who they thought they loved, needed to fuck other women?

Inevitably, I suppose, as the frustration of celibacy took over from the smug sexual satisfaction of orgasmic sex most nights, I found the rude rooms. I was slightly horrified, at first, that people could talk so openly, but that soon gave way to me finding a perverse sort of enjoyment at telling men, and some women, that I was celibate in real life and that I hadn't had sex for months. I started to feel comfortable describing what I was wearing, particularly the colour and style of my panties, and my body to them. I even started sending copies of the glamour pics that Kevin had taken of me to perk up our sex, life to a few of my online friends. Usually, I cropped my face off and only sent them to guys in America, Australia and other far-flung places.

Chatting had led, inevitably I suppose, to exchanging e-mails which, just as inevitably became steamier the more that were exchanged. That led to chatting about the content of the mails which, in turn, resulted in me one afternoon almost masturbating with a man. It was such a turn on to hear a total stranger telling me what to do with my hands, to hear him telling me that he was naked and hard because of me and ask if I was I near to cumming. It was so arousing to hear that but, I felt such guilt I just couldn't go further. So, as I touched myself, heard him say he was near and as I found my climax starting, I reached out and logged off.

I felt guilty that I'd nearly climaxed. I vowed never to do it again and to stop visiting chat rooms. The sordidness and wanton nature of what I'd done got to me. I was amazed at how easily he'd seduced me, or did I seduce him I wondered? Maybe it was exactly what I wanted and needed? Maybe I did want to undo my blouse when he asked me, to stroke myself through my bra and to then lift each boob out from its D cup and pinch and squeeze the coral pink, swollen nipples as he suggested. Maybe I was ready, I know I was willing and clearly, I was able to rub myself through my jeans. And I guess, really, I was eager to go along with his suggestion of stroking myself down there, of slipping my panties off and touching my wetness. Yes, I guess I was ready to fuck myself listening to a total stranger talk to me via cyberspace.

But, somehow, I stopped myself. Despite the anonymity, despite the man having no way he could ever find me and despite there being an ignore key I just couldn't do it. My upbringing, my respectable persona, my positions as a mum, member of golf and tennis clubs, a, fairly, successful business woman and all the other conditioning simply prevented me.

After that first, slightly worrying, well bloody scary really, episode I did stop. I didn't visit a chat room for a few weeks. But by Christ was I frustrated and did I give the batteries on my two vibrators a bashing? Yes two, which occasionally I used at the same time. There's something ravishingly exciting at having one vibe buzzing away on my clit, or up me, while I the other is vibrating on my nipples and tits.

But my chat room abstention couldn't last as I was too hooked on the net. After all it had become my hobby and main pastime during my self-imposed, post parting and pre-divorce sexual solitude. And I actually enjoyed chatting. So, I slipped back into the old habits easily and was soon logging on and chatting away to all and sundry.

Then I met Tim.

He was all the good, but so rare, things I looked for in a cyber mate. Articulate, bright and quick minded with a self-deprecating way about him and a great sense of irony. He could chat on most topics, was an avid golfer, had a worldly-wise approach to chat rooms and a wickedly naughty sense of humour. He was clearly up for anything on-line, but wasn't assumptive or overly pushy. We were soon exchanging views on a wide range of topics including, of course, those of an intimate and personal nature.

He was married and, unlike most men I meet on there, claimed to love his wife. True, he said things were a little difficult, but never pushed me to meet so I believed him when he said I just like chatting to women. I believed him, for that was exactly what I most enjoyed, well with men mainly. On top of all that, he was English and lived to the west of London.

We got on too well really. We were so easily able nearly every time we talked to turn the conversation to sex. Easy, comfortable, relaxed, non-threatening, flirty sex-chat. Not heavy, come-on, demanding stuff but, nevertheless stuff that we admitted turned us on.

I'd explained earlier when we were talking about being aroused that I didn't cyber, "Don't or haven't?" he quickly quipped back.

"I don't now," I replied changing the subject and like the gentleman, as many I'd met in chat surprisingly were, he respected that and didn't mention it again, well not for some time that is.

We'd also started exchanging e-mails. He wrote well. Not with classically good grammar, punctuation and spelling but with clear, picture painting descriptions and interesting narrative. I enjoyed reading his mails and, increasingly, I enjoyed composing mine for him. And of course, from both of us the writing became steamier and steamier. He told me in wonderfully clear and open, but not pornographic, explanations exactly what he'd like to do to me. As I read them, I could imagine him doing them to me so clearly that they became my masturbation material. Just as my replies that described my feelings as he did those things to me, became his wankfest as he termed them.

When we'd last spoke on a Friday we'd got very hot. "God I so want to fuck you," he'd typed near the end of the session. This wasn't completely out of the character of our chats but was, probably a little more intense and direct than most previous exchanges.

"Are you sure?" I replied

"Yes, yes I am. Don't you feel it Jay? Don't you feel that need?"

"Right at this moment," I typed one-handed as I pinched my swollen nipple, "There's nothing in this world I want more than to be fucked Tim."