This is a wife-sharing story. If this sends you into an eye-twitching rage then just move on — possibly to the romance section. It is also pure fiction. That means that neither of these people are real. This isn’t me, this isn’t my wife.
This one is also very long. It starts off with heavy teasing and exhibitionism but get very hardcore later on.
Towards the end of it all there was a moment where I thought we would get lynched, and all I could think about was the fact that this was all because Jessica was simply incapable of not volunteering to help. That was what Jessica was like: ever eager to please, always smiling and obliging. It has been remarked that we are an odd couple. Chalk and cheese. Opposites attract and so forth.
I remember the moment with clarity. Jessica — her green eyes and dark hair contrasting distractingly with her floaty white dress — turning to one of the old haggard bats that was sat in our yet-to-be-unpacked living room and saying: “Well, I could deliver the newsletter around Greendale if you are desperate.”
Of course they were desperate, there was no way that the old fossils sipping on their tea would get around our hilly little village without adding another stone to the picturesque graveyard. I feel like Jessica might have hesitated on the “I”, as if she might have said “we” but changed her mind. I guess our five years of marriage taught her something after all.
We had lived in Greendale for just over a week and the house was still an almighty mess. Jessica was putting things to rights in glacial fashion and I knew better than to get in the way. I was settling into my new role as Project Director and had enough plates to spin at work. We had moved to Greendale to escape the dreary, cramped, hateful life that only exists in modern cities. We had hit that age where most of our trendy friends had already left to have children and the bars and restaurants we had loved were suddenly too cheap and nasty or horrendously pretentious.
Jessica had a vague idea about starting a family but I think she really looked to the move as an extended holiday, a career break in a picture-perfect rural village where she could stride around like Tess or Jane Eyre in a pastoral ideal of cow-shit and vertiginous hills. For this Greendale was perfect. Close enough to a place with real jobs but pretty enough to be a painting. The folk around here were generally older and retired, or young folk looking to become farmers.
So I put in my transfer request and surprisingly got an offer almost instantly. With a pay rise. Why on earth hadn’t someone else snapped up this opportunity in such a location? I found out in that first week as I battled the incompetent yokels who already hated my guts.
My wife made it all bearable. The fresh country air and the unseasonable warmth made her beauty blossom in those first few days in Greenfield. She is an amazingly beautiful woman, only lacking the height and frosty bitchiness to be a catwalk model. She had done some catalogue work, smiling in breezy summer dresses, and I still got a thrill flipping the pages and seeing her there smiling back at me.
At university, where we met, she had been known as ‘Lady Jessica’ due to her posture, her received pronunciation and her pedigree. She came from money and you could see it in the sharp cheekbones and her long neck, the easy way in which she carried herself, the self-assurance that came from never wanting for anything. She was posh totty and make no mistake.
She always had her dark black hair straight and long, down to the small of her back and there was also something of the pin-up about her figure, a fullness in her breasts, a swagger in her hips. Her green eyes danced and changed from emerald to sapphire depending on her mood. She was little but lithe and lively in her movements and thought — quick to laugh and always restless. Sometimes I would just sit in a defeated heap in our garden and just watch her at work in her little shorts and tied up tee shirt. In no time I’d find more than my batteries had recharged and I’d find myself on top of her, heaving into her as she bounced in glorious naked joy beneath me.
We had been working our way through the house, fucking in each room, breaking in the house as was our tradition, when the old dinosaurs had come knocking at the door. We scrambled to make ourselves presentable and less than an hour later and Jessica had roped herself into writing an article about countryside running routes (“It’ll be fun!”) and delivering the hated newsletter to every house in the village.
I refused before she even asked me. “Fine,” she pouted, “I’ll just do it during my morning jog.” This sounded perfect to me and I forgot about the whole thing for a few days, until the box of newsletters arrived, dropped off by tractor, dumped unceremoniously on the driveway. The next I thought about it was at six thirty seven in the next morning when my delightful wife rolled out of bed and got into her running gear.
I opened a bleary eye and saw a vision of yoga pants covering an outrage of an ass, a bare midriff and a bra-top thing, which she must have bought when she was a teenager as it was very deliciously tight around her perky tits. Her long dark hair was in a loose ponytail and her eyes sparkled as she smiled at me. “Fancy a run?”
“Never. Don’t forget your stupid newsletters.”
I watched her ass move as she left and felt my cock rising. I considered ambushing her on the way out for some more fun but really, it WAS early. I flipped over and shut my eyes, only to open them a moment later as the realisation hit me that my wife was about to deliver packages to every house in Greendale with nothing short of scandalous amounts of cleavage showing, along with skin-tight pants. This would be something she wouldn’t think about, it was just the kind of predicament she managed to get herself into and I laughed — but also noticed that my cock had got even harder. It was a little bit exciting, the idea that some of our new neighbours would get an eyeful of the hot young thing that had moved in to number 25.
This I had to see. I hauled myself out of my bed and rattled around in some boxes looking for my telescope and then scuttled up to the top floor of our house. It took me a few minutes but I finally found her just as she was crossing a field running with a steady, easy rhythm. Jesus Christ she was a sight to see with her tits bouncing and her hair flowing. She had a backpack on with the newsletters in it that pulled her shoulders back and made her tits stick out further. I watched as she opened the garden gate to number 4 and watched her trot up to the house and slide the newsletter through the door. She was in luck, the house was asleep and she left un-observed, but her luck couldn’t last forever.
It didn’t, but it held out for a long while. Her first mishap came when she arrived at the door for number 32. Just as she reached forward to place the newsletter through the post-box the door swung open and Barney Thomas was stood there, his jaw scraping the floor. Barney was only eighteen years old and he was a damn fine blind-side flanker for the Clifton Cougars — I knew this as I coached him on Thursday nights, rugby coaching being my sole interest outside fucking my wife and laying down the law to my peons at work. Barney was tall with broad shoulders and was wearing boardshorts, flip-flops and a singlet and was trying (and failing) very hard not to stare directly at my wife’s heaving, sweat sheened tits. She must have said something because they both laughed. He took a newsletter and she turned and started to jog off with his admiring eyes on her ass the whole way.
I watched her for a few minutes longer and she bumped into three more people. Two of them were women, one an old crone who didn’t bat an eyelid and the other, in number 34, a Stepford wife who gave Jessica the evil eye. As she started back home from the top end of the village the heavens opened, as it regularly does in this part of the world. This presented Jessica with additional difficulties as her flimsy, ludicrous bra-top was also white and turning more translucent with every bouncing step. A gentleman might have got into his car and rescued her. I, however, had noticed an interesting development to this little drama. Mr. Johnson, our older neighbour, was just coming back from his morning walk and would arrive back at his door at exactly the same time as…
The scene was instantly erotic and I don’t really know why. Our friendly older neighbour, a widower in his fifties but fit, tall, a former Colonel, turned on his doorstep to see my drenched wife wearing next to nothing. The yoga pants clung to her form, revealing the shape and outline of her ass and hips. Her bare-midriff dripped with sweat and rivers of rain. Her bratop, too small, strained to constrain her heaving tits which were essentially visible through the see-through material, her nipples erect and proud. She smiled up to him: coy, nervous, embarrassed. He surprised me, looking her up and down with unabashed interest. An awkward moment passed and then he reached out —
and took a soggy newsletter from her outstretched hand. She turned and walked off with his eyes still on her and by the time she was through the door my cock was free and ready to greet her. Her eyes were wide at the sight of it but I didn’t stop to explain, manhandling her to the floor and peeling off her sodden clothes. Her skin was cold and covered in goose-bumps but I soon warmed her up.
We laughed about the incident, afterwards, drinking tea and pottering about the house. Jessica chided me for making a mountain out of a molehill. But I pushed the point. “This isn’t the city anymore love. Church-going folk around here, and old. You might have given some poor old dear a heart-attack running around dressed like that. Is that what we want? To be known as the couple that murdered grandpa?”
“It was fine — everyone was asleep!”
“That was lucky. Good thing this is a sleepy…