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  • The Secret within Me Ch. 01

The Secret within Me Ch. 01

12

My wife is a sexy woman! There, I've said it. I always believed it, but I've recently begun to discover just how much sexier she is than I had previously given her credit for.

We've been married for 15 years, each in our mid-to-late thirties. I've never had cause to complain about our sex life, not in all of those years. Whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it, it was available to me. No questions, no headaches, no restrictions. She was ready for anything, at any time; responsive, available, experimental, occasionally initiating things, but not over-demanding. When work colleagues or friends would occasionally moan about their own partner's limitations in that department, I would smile inwardly. Everything in my own marriage was as I thought I wanted it to be, a bed of roses, and a veritable bowl of cherries.

Six months ago, if you had asked me, I would have said that I was entirely satisfied with our sex life, and I would have bet good money that Yvonne would say the same thing. How wrong I would have been, on both counts!

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The last six months has been a revelation to both of us.

It started simply enough. Yvonne got an opportunity for a package, as part of a restructuring, from the company where she had worked for the whole of our married life. It was an opportunity too good to be missed. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to leave with an excellent package, an excellent reference, and to seek a new challenge elsewhere. We discussed it and agreed that she should take it. The offered package gave us a financial buffer for up to 12 months. Yvonne was smart, bright, and talented and her skills were in demand. It was a no-brainer decision.

Her old company couldn't have been more generous to her. Nice gifts, nice words, nice leaving parties, nice promises to stay in touch from everyone from the MD down. After the last party, a lavish dinner in a local posh-nosh restaurant at which Yvonne was the guest of honour, Yvonne awoke the next morning to the start of the rest of her life. Our plan was that she would take some time off in order to regroup and gather her thoughts before she started looking for a new job in earnest as the summer ended.

That first morning, when she woke as an independent woman of leisure for the first time in her life, she seemed a new person. Free. It marked the start of the change in both of our lives.

She rose with me that first day, determined to make the most of the day. As I got ready for my normal day at the office, Yvonne readied herself for a morning at the gym. It was a luxury for her to be heading to the gym during "working hours". She usually had to squeeze her exercise regime into her spare time in the evening, or at weekends. Her plan was to do her workout, have a swim, and then spend the afternoon making me a rare weekday treat, in the form of a nice home-cooked dinner, instead of our usual staple weekday fare of pre-prepared ready-meals purchased from the supermarket for convenience.

I kissed her goodbye and hoped that she would enjoy her day, and I made my normal commute to the office, already looking forwards to a nice dinner with my lovely wife when I returned that evening.

When I got home that evening, everything was as I expected it, or even better. Yvonne met me with a kiss as I came through the front door. She was dressed nicely, hair and make-up like a Stepford Wife. The house was tidy, the smell of my favourite dinner wafting from the kitchen. I remember thinking to myself "if this is what having a kept woman at home is all about, then bring it on!"

Yvonne's lips lingered on mine slightly longer than a normal welcome home kiss. When she eventually pulled away and took my hand to lead me through to the dining room, where the table was already laid, I followed like a loyal puppy, my metaphorical tail wagging with the pleasure of being welcomed thus. A cold gin and tonic was placed in front of me, and my perfect wife sat with me and asked about my day, half listening to my long lazy answer, before fussing into the kitchen to serve up our meal.

Dinner was delicious, washed down with a decent bottle of red which we shared, and Yvonne kept up the perfect wife impression by keeping a lively conversation going. This was new territory for us, actually sitting together for a meal on a weekday. In the past we had invariably rushed down a TV dinner in the lounge, squeezing it in between work, bedtime and whatever chores or other activities we needed to get done in the few hours of so-called leisure time that we had.

I questioned Yvonne about how her day had gone, but the questions were gently by-passed, but in such a way as to not arouse any suspicion or concern on my part.

After dinner, Yvonne cleared away, refusing to accept any help from me on the basis that I was the busy breadwinner, and shouldn't be expected to have to do domestic duties when at home. Whilst she cleared up the dishes, I retired to the living room with the remains of the Rioja, and settled in front of the TV to catch the 9:00 pm news.

Thus far, it had been a perfect evening and we had each played our part as one half of our perfect domestic scene. I felt entirely satisfied, but with a faint niggling suspicion that things had been too perfect. I think in the back of my mind, I was wondering whether things had been so perfect because Yvonne was trying to show me how great things would be if she didn't return to work as we had previously planned.

My intuition and suspicion turned out to be right, but for all the wrong reasons.

Yvonne came to join me on the sofa, and curled her legs under her as she snuggled against me, her head on my shoulder, her left hand resting innocently on my thigh. I remember being aware of her breast pressing against my arm. Our heads turned instinctively towards each other, and I kissed her and thanked her for preparing dinner and looking so lovely. She kissed me back enthusiastically, and told me that she had been looking forward all day to my coming home so that she could see me and take care of me.

We watched the rest of the news together, terrible stories about the ongoing troubles in the Middle-East, a mass shooting in a small-town America shopping mall, and happier news about a recent UK lottery winner that had given half of his winnings to charity.

We shared the last glass of wine, and it was when I asked again how her first day of freedom had gone that things started to change.

At first, it was all innocent enough. Yvonne explained that her day had gone to plan. She had done her work-out at the gym, had a swim in the pool there, and then headed home early afternoon to spend time pampering herself with a nice bath, ex-foliation, and then she had enjoyed having the time to do her hair, nails and make-up without any pressure of time, before she started preparing dinner. When everything had been readied for my return home, she had repaired to her dressing-room to get dressed in time for me to get home around 7:00pm. She said it had been really nice to have the time, and to spend that time on her own, doing as she pleased.

I was genuinely delighted that her day had gone well for her, and I had certainly benefited from the way she had spent it. However, her next comment opened the door to the next six months of discovery that would change both of our lives, although I didn't recognise its significance at the time.

"You know," she said, "there is an entirely different population of users in the gym during working hours to the people I have seen over and over again in the evenings and at weekends."

I asked her what she meant. How were they different?

"Well, I didn't see any of the faces that I usually see, everyone was completely new. And the atmosphere is much more relaxed during working hours. The people take their time more; there are fewer people there and more machines to go around, much less rushing and pressure to complete your routine."

I commented that that must be a good thing, and she agreed.

"It is, definitely. Somehow it felt much friendlier, more intimate. I liked it!"

Whilst I had always been a bit of a gym- and salad-dodger myself, Yvonne had been a regular attendee after work, and had once won the award as "member-of-the-month", giving her a free month's membership and her picture on the "rogue's gallery" on the stairs. She had often told me about some of the regulars that she saw there; the older couple who always exercised together, the middle-aged guy that had worked hard to lose 20 pounds in weight before he lapsed for a few months, and when he returned he had found it all again, the small gang of young men who trained together after work, mostly with free-weights, and talked incessantly about diet supplements, the prima donnas who seemed to go mostly to pose, but didn't really do a lot of working out, and nor did they look like they needed to.

Now, with the benefit of six months' hindsight, I sometimes wonder to myself "if I could take back my next question and not experience everything that has happened since, would I?"

I asked her if there was anyone interesting in the "new gang".

She was hesitant at first, and when I, looked at her, she looked slightly flushed (I thought it was the wine), and she seemed to be debating with herself. I waited patiently and she eventually answered me.

"Well, yes actually. There was."

I looked at her quizzically, waiting for her to expand.

"There was one guy, very fit, I'd say late forties. He obviously works hard at keeping fit, but he seemed to take an awful lot of interest in what I was doing."

My interest was raised, both by what she had said, but also by the apparent reluctance and shyness that I had noticed before she answered me. All face-to-face conversations are a combination of verbal and non-verbal communication, and despite the apparent innocence of her spoken comment, I was definitely picking up some non-verbal signals that were hinting at something more.

"How do you mean, 'taking an interest'?" I pressed her.

"Well, he seemed to be close to me a lot, working a similar routine, often on adjacent machines or apparatus. I could feel his eyes on me a lot of the time; he was certainly watching me more than he was watching the TV screens on the wall or on the equipment."

"Did he bother you?" I asked, "I'm not surprised that he looked at you, I know how hot you looked in your gym kit when I left this morning."

"Don't be silly" she said, giving my thigh a playful slap. "He didn't bother me so much, didn't actually say anything to me. But I was very aware of him watching and looking. It affected me rather than bothered me."

"In what way did it affect you?" She paused again for a moment before answering, as if debating with herself how much to tell me, or how to respond.

"Well, being aware that he was watching was kind of disconcerting. You know how vain we girls are. I kind of thought 'well if he's going to be looking that hard, I'd better try to look my best'. He was quite attractive, and he seemed to be interested in me. I suppose I reacted to that."

She looked up at me as if for reassurance, and we kissed again before she continued.

"Anyway, I found being watched like that made me work a little harder than normal. I upped some of my weights, and increased some of the repetitions. I found myself being much more aware of what I was doing; caught myself holding in my tummy, or arching my shoulders a little more. It was quite strange; I'm usually so much into my own space when I work out, and now it was more like a performance, and I was aware that I had an audience. I felt like I was posing for him."

For some unaccountable reason, my cock stirred slightly at this statement. I remember being surprised by that reaction, and part of my parallel processing brain searching for the reason why that had happened to me. At the time, I think I put it down to the vision that was forming in another part of my cortex, a picture of my wife in her fairly skimpy outfit posing as she worked out. Any man would react to that vision, and here was I reacting. I'm also sure that, at the time, no part of my reasoning was based on the fact that she was doing this posing for another man. I have since learned better.

To encourage her to say more, I inanely commented "Well anything that encourages you to work harder must be a good thing, isn't it?"

"Well it certainly made a two-hour work-out pass much more quickly than it sometimes does." She paused again before going on, shyly. "However, I think I began to enjoy it a little too much."

My cock stirred again at that, and my interest in hearing more ramped up faster than Yvonne's weights and reps. had done. Without saying anything, I turned down the volume on the TV and invited her to say more.

"I found that I liked posing for him, exaggerating my movements, holding poses, knowing he was watching me. In the wall mirrors, I watched myself as if with his eyes. I liked what I saw, and I liked that he was seeing it. It began to turn me on a little."

Now my cock was definitely reacting to this confession. I know it sounds unlikely, but I had never even considered Yvonne reacting to another man; she was mine and we were happy. I was aware of course that other men found her attractive and they often took the opportunity to look at her when circumstances allowed, but I took that as an inevitable part of being married to such an attractive woman. And now I was starting to get turned on at the thought of her getting turned on because some stranger was eyeing her up. It was new and weird.

But I was intrigued, and wanted to know more.

"So it was turning you on? Striking poses for this guy and letting him look at you?"

"I'm ashamed to say that it was," she confessed. "I know guys have checked me out in the gym before, but I've always ignored them and got on with my routine. To be honest, it always felt kind of creepy before. But this morning, and I don't know why, it was different. I wanted him to look at me, and I wanted him to enjoy what he was seeing."

I shifted slightly on the couch, partly to turn towards her to look at her as we talked, and partly to hide the growing and surprising bulge in my pants.

"Just how turned on did you get?" I asked.

"At first, I wasn't really turned on, just tingly. I was aware that I was reacting differently this time, but, you know, it was innocent." She paused again. "Or at least, innocent-ish!"

"And..."

"Well, as things progressed, and as he became a bit more blatant about looking at me, I started to get more excited by the situation. I started to change my routine a bit to see if he would follow, and he did. It was like I had him at the end of a piece of string. Where I went, he went. I started to feel like I was influencing him, controlling him, and to encourage him more, I started to pose more for him."

Yvonne kissed me again, and this time our tongues probed each other briefly.

"Are you OK with me telling you all of this?" she asked. "I didn't know whether or not to tell you. I wasn't sure quite how you would react."

I answered her by reaching down and sliding her hand, still on my thigh, upwards and over the bulge in my pants.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, "Is this turning you on as well?"

She wrapped her hand around my bulge and squeezed my length gently, snuggling in even closer.

"I'm so glad you aren't upset," she continued, "I have been as horny as hell all day thinking about this, trying to understand it. If hearing about it is turning you on, then I can stop feeling guilty and we can enjoy it together. Do you want me to go on?"

I indicated that I did.

"Anyway, by now, he was getting quite close and openly watching me, and he must have been aware that I was putting on a show for him. Do you remember what I was wearing?"

I nodded again, remembering the little white UnderArmour bra top and brief gym "skort" that she had been wearing when I left for the office. Whilst perfectly decent, the top left most of her midriff and her navel exposed above the brief skirt with its built-in shorts beneath.

"Well I went over to the bench press and got my weights ready, taking my time whilst he finished a rep. and came over closer to me."

As she continued to describe her session, Yvonne started a gentle manipulation of my cock through my trousers.

"I deliberately stood astride the bench facing him, one foot on either side, and sat down with my legs open before I lay back on the bench and reached up to take the bar off its stand. As I adjusted myself on the bench, I looked across at the mirror and could see that my skirt had ridden up, and my shorts were stretched tightly across my crotch, fully visible - the shorts I mean, not my crotch." She giggled at that. "He must have had a perfect view up between my legs from where he was. That's when I really started to get excited."

Yvonne shifted her bum down the couch away from me, until her head was resting almost in my lap, her hand still stroking me gently.

"I felt really wicked as I let him watch me do my presses. My legs were open, and all that covered me was the thin material of my shorts. I could even feel myself starting to get moist, and I remember hoping that my wetness wouldn't show and make my excitement more obvious."

As she said this, and I quietly listened to her account, her hand stopped stroking me and her practiced fingers reached for my zipper. Once open, she reached inside for my now erect cock and manoeuvred it to stand erect and exposed. Her hand then unsnapped the button of my pants and sensuously returned to the naked skin of my hardness, where it coolly circled my hot cock and stroked lovingly up and down its length.

Yvonne looked up at me and asked me again if I wanted her to continue. I was in a daze of confusion and excitement. This was way beyond anything I had ever experienced before; her story was pushing at the boundaries of my passion, and I was completely unable to explain to myself why I found this so incredibly arousing. I swallowed hard and nodded that she should go on.

"As I was doing my presses, as I got to the end of the last set of repetitions and the strain had built up, I found my tummy crunching harder and my feet occasionally lifting from the floor with the strain of each press. I used the rhythm of the movement to plant my feet even further apart when I relaxed again, so that when I had completed my final press, and dropped the bar onto the stand, I was laid back breathing hard, and with my legs stretched as wide apart as possible. I just lay there recovering and let him take it all in."

She had continued to stroke me slowly and now turned slightly and took me in her mouth, sliding her wet lips smoothly down my length until the head of my cock was pressing against her throat. I had never felt so turned on, and shifted my own position to make it easier for her to caress me.

After a few seconds, she surprised me by taking her lovely, warm and wet mouth off of my erection and, planting a quick kiss on the head of my cock, she jumped up from the couch and stood legs apart, staring down at me. I looked at her, perplexed by this sudden change of situation.

Her voice took on a slightly commanding tone, one that I was unfamiliar with.

"Right, I've been randy all day, and it is now your turn to do something for me. If you want to hear any more, I suggest that you shut things off down here and lock up, before you join me in the bedroom."

Wow! I thought. What is going on here? For a few seconds, I looked at her in confusion and surprise. Then she bent down and kissed me as her hand gave my cock a reassuring squeeze.

"Come on lover-boy. I think you'll enjoy what I have in mind."

With that, she turned on her heel and flounced of and up the stairs towards the bedroom with a wiggle in her step. I quickly switched off the TV, tucked myself away in my pants, and took the empty wine glass into the kitchen, before locking up and following her upstairs.

12
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