Dirty Pics Lead to Dirty Trics

The drive home was an agony. Part of me hoped Peter would not be home when I got there but the rest of me desperately hoped that he would be. When I turned onto our street and saw his car in the driveway a wave of emotion hit me and I lost my confidence. Tears streamed down my face and I felt short of breath.

There was no way I could face him at that moment so I headed for the levy along river road, a quiet place where I could compose myself before going home to him. Ridiculous as it sounds I felt he would just look at me and know that I'd been unfaithful.

An hour later, makeup reapplied and my eyes dry once again, I went home. Peter was in the back yard happily staking the tomato plants he loved to grow so he didn't see me quietly slip in the side door.

A shower and a change of clothes helped me prepare to greet my husband for the first time since I had cheated on him. The comfort and safety of our own home was calming, and it helped me make up my mind to say nothing of what had happened at work. I was determined to find a way to make things right again without the awful admission of what I had done.

With the cheeriest face I could muster, I swept through the garden gate and embraced my husband. He wrapped me in his arms like he always did and kissed my neck in the way I had come to love. For a long moment, I just clung to him wanting to feel the reassurance of his strength and his love for me.

"You're late Babe," he murmured into my neck, "I was getting worried about you."

"I had some work to clean up," I lied, and immediately regretted it.

"Jane from your office called," he said, and a chill ran up my spine. "She said she hadn't seen you all day and wondered if you weren't well."

"Jane?" I blurted. "Why would she..." and I stopped. The alarm in my voice was obvious and I paused hoping to get a little more control before continuing. "Jane isn't in the same department or even on the same floor. I'm surprised she would know if I was in or not."

"Oh," he laughed. "She clearly thinks you're much better friends than you do. She said she's been seeing quite a lot of you lately."

Peter had his head down cutting suckers off the tomato plants and I couldn't see his full face to know whether there might have been more to the conversation than he was letting on. My heart was thumping hard and I could feel my face was flushed and hot. I wanted to change the subject away from Jane but I was afraid I'd miss out if there was more to the story.

"Well, I'm really surprised that she would call," I said in what I hoped was my disinterested voice. "She must not have enough to do these days."

"She wanted you to check that website you two have been discussing," Peter reported vaguely, and I almost stopped breathing. My mouth felt dry when I croaked out "What website?"

"She didn't elaborate; just said you'd know. I assumed it was an inside joke between you two. She seemed to think it was pretty funny."

Determined now to end the discussion of Jane I asked, "Are you almost ready for supper?" I'm getting hungry."

"Oh, give me twenty minutes or so ... I have a few more plants to finish here. We can go down to the pub for wings if you feel like it."

"Great!" I called over my shoulder.

It was all I could do to keep from sprinting into the house. I had twenty minutes to find that sleazy website and be sure that Jane had not posted any more of the pictures. My fingers felt stiff on the keyboard as I tried several names trying to recall the one she had showed me. There were seemingly dozens of them all catering to prurient interests and showing the decadence of otherwise ordinary married women.

Finally on the umpteenth try I hit enter and "Slut Wives" splashed across the screen pulsating with starbursts and scrolling billboards advertising every fetish and fixation in the sexual lexicon.

I dragged the mouse across the screen until the pointer landed on "Down and Dirty Amateurs" and for the second time that day I was looking at my partially obscured profile sucking my husband's cock. This time however, there was a yellow ribbon across my shoulders announcing "new video --click here".

The banner quickly disappeared and a black screen centered with a white arrow came into frame. A click of the mouse and the screen filled with a close up of an unidentified cock pounding a very wet vagina in living color. For random viewers, the image on the screen could have been anyone. But for the very few who had ever seen me naked, the colorful butterfly tattoo that danced on my belly just above the hairline could leave no doubt as to whom it was in the video.

The recognition factor would be instantaneous if my husband Peter ever saw it and my immediate concern was not to ever let that happen. I closed the site and was about to shut off the machine when I remembered to erase the browsing history as well. Although Peter and I each had our own work computers, we shared the home computer between us. Until now, I had never had reason to be concerned about him seeing what sites I had visited. But now that was all changed.

Peter came into the house a few minutes later and washed up in the downstairs bathroom. By the time he came up to change his clothes, I was already dressed and ready to go out. My paranoia peaked momentarily when he took time to go to the computer but then he changed his mind and we left arm-in-arm for the restaurant.

It was a restless night for me. The music at the bar seemed too loud and I had the heebie-jeebies thinking people were staring at me when really no one was. My mind wandered several times over the evening pondering the imponderable such as how many people actually visited web sites like "Slut Wives" and, more importantly, how many of the people who knew me were potential visitors.

I began to fret then that I hadn't looked beyond the initial icon to see if Jane had posted my pictures in more than one place on that awful site. The faint comfort that I had taken from the fact that the posting had not shown my face faded with the realization that there could very well be more pictures that I hadn't yet discovered.

Peter picked up on my preoccupation but, thankfully, didn't connect it to the call he'd received from Jane. He could tell from my earlier reactions that I didn't like the woman and he tried to kid me out of my funk by making little jokes that were probably very funny but didn't seem so at the time. His best efforts fell short of relieving my moodiness and, in the end, we decided to go home and make it an early night.

In the car, on the way through the darkened streets, he reached over and squeezed my thigh. Ordinarily, the gesture would have been welcome, but his fingertips reawakened the soreness I was feeling from Jeremy's mauling and I brushed his hand away. He was hurt and I felt miserable for having caused it.

Later, in bed, he tried again and this time I didn't rebuff him. In the darkness he couldn't see the redness of my abused nipples or the fingermarks where my breasts had been so thoroughly slapped.

I would have been unable to explain why, but the pain I felt seemed well justified as he took his pleasure. It was as if it was the penance I owed for my infidelity; for sharing with others what I had promised to him alone.

Ironically, the crude names that he often called me during our fantasy sex games now had a special relevance that I hoped he would never have the opportunity to understand. For the first time I felt that I was, indeed, the slut he often branded me in the heat of passion, and it aroused me even more than usual to hear the words now.

When he growled "what a great piece of ass", it was in that bastard Jeremy's voice that the identical words echoed. For some inexplicable reason, the humiliating recollection was enough to make my belly contract in the throes of a powerful orgasm. I threw myself against him with an aggressive passion that left us both sated and panting.

After, when we lay entwined in each other's arms, and he slid his tongue between my lips, I was shamed by the realization that the taste of another man's cum had filled my mouth only hours before. I felt initial worry that he might somehow be able to tell; that the taste might have lingered and he would know that his devoted wife had sucked another man's cock to completion.

When he didn't pull back in revulsion, I found the idea that he could be sharing my shame and wallowing in another man's cum exciting, arousing me beyond all reason. It was as if Jeremy and Jane were right there watching my beloved husband forced to accept their sloppy seconds.

With an urgency that made little sense, I wanted him in me again, right then. Peter's feelings were of no consequence at that moment nor would it have mattered to me if it was my darling husband or someone else I was opening myself for. Indeed, it was Jeremy's thick, uncircumcised cock I pictured.

I'd never felt so slutty, nor would I have imagined that such immoral thoughts could make me feel so aroused. It was as if I had crossed an invisible line and surrendered the right to be a respectable woman. With my vows in tatters, it no longer mattered whose cock I welcomed inside me.

In the midst of my emotional turmoil the worst happened. Peter was having trouble recovering from our first fuck. I played with his cock, jerking it until it was semi hard and then trapping it between my breasts for the tit fuck that usually did it for him.

He was struggling to stay hard and I was callously enjoying his embarrassing difficulty. It was as if his problem provided reason or vindication for my own tawdry infidelity.

If it had ever happened before, I would have just cuddled with him until we would both fall asleep. Now, for whatever reason, I couldn't (or wouldn't) relent.

I could see his frustration and I was enjoying it, mocking male insecurity in general and his in particular. It was, in fact, the very first time in our marriage that he couldn't get fully hard and it was bothering him terribly. He could sense my poorly concealed disappointment and the pressure added to his problem. His usually proud cock wilted even further and lolled lazily to the side.

For some malicious reason, it struck me as funny and my derisive snicker was ill-timed. It devastated him. He rolled off of me, embarrassed and angry, and stomped off to the bathroom like a petulant little boy with a defective toy.

He was in there a long time and I waited, toying with an apology that would have been insincere. I tried to imagine what he might be doing, pouting and sulking or trying to coax an erection with his own hand.

The image of him struggling appealed to my malevolent mood and, after a while, I masturbated to spite him. When he did finally come out he chose sleeping in the spare room rather than facing me and I felt a pervasive smugness as I lay there alone.

He was gone in the morning before I left for work.

The self-indulgent arrogance had left me by then and, between the dread of getting to work and having to deal with Jane and the worry of where all of this could end, I felt a sense of powerless ennui. It seemed like I was moving inexorably toward mayhem in my privileged, predictable life.

Peter, the unwavering constancy of my marriage, wasn't speaking to me; and my solid, predictable job was precariously threatened by the vindictive bitch in HR. Everything important to me was seriously endangered by the trap I'd fallen into. It didn't seem possible that so much had collapsed around me in a mere twenty-four hours.

Common sense should have encouraged me to keep a low profile at work until Jane's evil plans had run their course. But the slutty self-image that lingered within me had no connection with common sense. I rifled through my closet shunning the conservative business attire that had been my ever predictable daily attire throughout my career.

In the back I found a short, red skirt that I hadn't worn since college. It was tight then and the few pounds I'd put on since made it cling around my bottom like a second skin. I tried on a white pullover sweater without a bra but I lost my nerve when my nipples stared back at me like eyes imprisoned in a moving snowdrift.

My underwear drawer yielded little that didn't call attention to the problem and make it seem worse. In the end I found a satiny white bra that belonged to a peignoir set. It gave no support and my breasts quivered like jello with every step I took. But, at least the opaque satin cups concealed the darker shade of my nipples I rationalized.

A two-button navy blazer completed the look and I bounced down the stairs and out the door before I changed my mind yet again.

To Be Continued.