A Slut’s Confession

An unashamed one-episode stroke story…

Now there are some husbands that fly off the handle at the merest threat of his wife being admired by another man. Then there are those that remain silent and bottle up the rage but take it out on her later in private, usually accompanied by violence. And then there are those, disparagingly pigeonholed as wimps or cucks, that actually enjoy seeing their beloved eyed up by strangers, and possibly more. Who is right? Well here’s my story, you decide.

I met my second wife when she was still at school, a decade or so ago now. Kelly was sweet sixteen back then, an A-Level student, and I was her English tutor. Since I was appily married at the time, the gangly and unprepossessing schoolgirl barely warranted a second look. Though she would later confess that she wanted me from the moment our eyes first met across a row of desk,s and would frig herself to sleep thinking of me. A term passed and, as we grew as a class, I began to grow apart from my first wife.

Funny how things change so quickly, within a year the love had all but gone from our marriage and I’d srarted to notice how this particular girl in my English lesson blushed profusely whenever I addressed her. A year older now, she’d blossomed into something of a beauty, symmetrical jet coloured hair framing a classically pretty heart-shaped face. Yet I thought nothing of it, I was forty-five after all and she a mere seventeen.

Staying behind last after class one day, Kelly shuffled uncomfortably on the spot as if she desperately needed the toilet. With my warmest smile I addressed her, asking if things were okay and complimenting her last essay though in truth it was decidely average. After some effort of will, the embarrassed looking schoolgirl disclosed that she’d been let down by a girlfriend and found herself with a spare ticket for the theatre that night, an amateur production of a book we were studying on her course. “Would you, um, care to join me, sir?” she enquired, cheeks flushing like a bruise.

I smiled and graciously accepted the invitation. The play turned out to be nothing special, but then I quickly realised it was a means to end. This sexy young teenager, I soon discovered, had a huge crush on me, a man twenty-eight years her senior.

Things raced on from there but, for the sake of my career and her future, we agreed nothing should happen until she’d finished school. By that time, she’d be eighteen and contemplating university no doubt. Unfortunately, despite my close tutelage and personal attention, Kelly’s grades fell a good way short of paving the way to higher education, but no matter because we were in love. After a whirlwind romance and divorce, we married just before her nineteenth birthday, amid inevitable sighs of disapproval from both sides of the family tree.

For the first six months I was just about able to keep up with her voracious sexual appetite: five times a night was well within Kelly’s capability and desire, and rarely did she show signs of lagging. It was every man with fifty in his sight’s dream. Yet, as time passed, sadly I defaulted back to the twice a week drudgery of my first marriage, using the same old excuses the first Mrs Miller used to contain me. Kelly, of course, was good about it, never once complaining or putting me under undue pressure, but I could tell she craved more, which is where my story really begins.

Our neighbours, funnily enogh the Joneses, were having the front of their house rendered. I’d noticed how their builder, a rough, tough Irishman whose brawn far outweighed his brain, looked at Kelly. My sweet young wife acted the innocent, but I knew. Well I was nothing if not the open sort and, to be perfectly honest, secretly the premise thrilled me to bits, so much so that I was moved to confront her once evening. “Look, it’s all right,” I conceded, “just as long as you promise me three things.”

Kelly protested, maintaining that she only wanted me, though when she asked what those three conditions were, I knew.

“Okay,” I revealed.