Jogging Wife’s Secret

I began to suspect that my wife, Isabel, was up to no
good about six months ago. We have been married for
seven years and although there is nothing routine and
boring about our marriage � we would both describe our
marriage as happy � she got into the habit, after about
three years, of jogging every Saturday and Sunday
morning (unless we went out for the day or were on
holiday) and most Thursday evenings when I worked late.

She would also go jogging sometimes if I went out for a
drink with my friends from work. Normally the business
of getting ready, warming up, jogging through the park
to the nature reserve and back, doing further exercises
at home and then getting undressed and having a shower,
took about two hours, which I always felt was a little
too long and sometimes complained about.

However, one Sunday morning six months ago she took
longer than usual, by about half an hour at least; she
told me that part of her usual route had been fenced
off due to some land reclamation work going on. The
following Saturday, it took her an hour longer, and she
said that even more land had been barricaded off. It
looked as if this work would go on for some time.

I suggested she change or curtail her route, but she
said there was no alternative � the other parks were
too far away and the terrain over other parts of the
nature reserve was too rough and almost impassable. I
would just have to get used to the idea that for some
weeks she would be home an hour later than usual from
jogging.

Some Saturdays and Sundays she was delayed by more than
an hour, and sometimes when I came home from working
late on Thursdays she would not yet be there; she would
turn up half an hour later, hot, sweaty and flushed and
take a quick shower.

Then, one weekend about three weeks after her extended
jogging sessions began, she asked me whether I planned
to go out for a drink the following week. Normally I
didn’t make such plans until Monday or Tuesday, and
would not go out until Wednesday evening at the
earliest. I seldom went out more than once a week,
although sometimes after working late on Thursday I
would have a few drinks in a bar nearby with my
colleagues.

I said I might have a drink with John or Peter or Len,
but as yet had made no plans. She asked me to let her
know as soon as possible, because she would then
arrange to leave work early that night so she would get
home earlier and have time to go jogging before it got
dark. I nearly fell of my chair. She couldn’t possibly
want to jog any more than she was already? It was
already taking her three hours a week more than usual.
But she was insistent: she wanted to jog more often, as
she didn’t feel as if she was fit enough.

From then onwards she asked me regularly, every
weekend, whether I had planned to go out for a drink
next week. She even began to suggest that I go out with
old so-and-so who I hadn’t seen for some time and to
encourage me to meet up with friends of mine whom she
had once claimed to dislike. Before long I found myself
going out Tuesdays and Wednesdays, working late
Thursdays and going out again on Fridays. It was pretty
exhausting, to say the least.

But not so exhausting that I failed to discern certain
changes in my wife. Firstly, she seemed much more happy
and vigorous than previously. Like many career women,
privately she often felt inadequate � she wasn’t pretty
enough, she was too fat, she didn’t have enough clothes
to wear, her career was a failure; none of which was
true, of course, but she always ran through this litany
at least once a week.

Now she never mentioned her feelings of inadequacy at
all. She was cheerful � dare I say sunny � all the
time. Secondly, she started to dress the way she had
when we first got to know each other. All the clothes
she had mothballed in the past few years because she
was older now and didn’t want to “look like mutton
dressed as lamb.”

She shook out and started to wear again: crisp white
blouses; tight T-shirts that enhanced her bust-size;
low-cut tops; her denim mini-skirt and denim mini-
dress; her black, red and yellow leather min-skirts;
her tartan pleated mini-skirts (she had them in red,
green and yellow); her two short black dresses, one
flared, the other figure-hugging; her denim, black
leather, red leather and yellow leather hot-pants; her
stockings and suspenders; her fishnet hold-ups; her
shiny black, white, red and imitation snakeskin
mackintoshes.

She sorted out her collection of footwear, asking me to
polish this or that pair or cowboy boots, riding boots,
lace-up boots, over-the-knee boots or thigh-boots. Now,
when she went to work in the mornings, instead of
wearing a trouser suit with boots underneath, she wore
stockings or hold-ups, a skirt or dress (always above
knee length or shorter), and either cowboy boots or
knee-high boots. Occasionally she wore thigh-boots but
with the flap folded down. (She had five pairs, but
only two of them were low-heeled and suitable for work;
the others were strictly for the bedroom!)

Thirdly, she began taking more interest in her
appearance. At first she just started polishing her
nails more often, then she began to apply nail varnish,
then to experiment with make-up � a little lipstick
here, but bit of eye-shadow there, perhaps some
foundation, some eye-liner and mascara � until she was
satisfied she had attained a certain “look”.

Then she had some more piercing done. She already had
one ring in each earlobe and another at the top of her
right ear; but now she had in addition two studs in
each ear lobe, another ring at the top of the right
ear, a new one at the top of the left, a stud through
her right eyebrow, and two studs (which she later
replaced with rings) in her right nostril. In the
following months she would have further piercing done,
but more of that later.

For some weeks she wondered whether she should change
her hairstyle, and whereas previously she had resisted
my suggestions that she dye her hair, she now bleached
it a soft blonde colour, which really suited her. In
all, she was looking younger, happier, prettier and
sexier every day. If all that jogging was leading to
this, why should I complain?

Moreover, she became much more adventurous in bed. Once
again, the sexy outfits that she had discarded came out
of the wardrobe again and when I came home from work
later than her or after a drink with my pals, she would
drape herself over me in her “Nurse Isabel” outfit
(short white dress, knee-high platform boots) or her
black rubber min-dress, her shiny white thigh-boots and
her red PVC mac.

Sex was also better and more frequent, with her often
taking the initiative and her confidence and her
technique � particularly the cock-sucking � improving.
Her orgasms were also more frequent, more vigorous and
louder. This, of course, made me more excited, too, and
my performance improved. I was a very lucky man.

There were, however, two shadows across this rosy
picture. One was that after three months it was still
taking her far too long to finish jogging. If anything,
she was taking longer than ever, sometimes being gone
for two and a half to three hours, which was
particularly galling on a Saturday or Sunday morning
when I wanted (a) the two of us to have breakfast
together and (b) more sex. I took to going to work
regularly on Saturdays instead of intermittently. It
was always worth it when I got home, as she would
virtually ravish me.

The other problem was that her cunt was getting bigger.
I first noticed it about a month or so after her
jogging routine changed, and thought it was just a one-
off or my imagination. Perhaps she only seemed bigger
because she was very wet, or because our technique had
improved. So for a while I dismissed it. However, after
a few more evenings of vigorous sex I was forced to
conclude that her hole had definitely got bigger. Not
only that, but as the weeks went on it got bigger and
baggier still.

I didn’t say anything at first, because woman can get
very sensitive about that sort of thing, and as
everything else was so good I didn’t want to spoil it.
However, the fact remained that she now had a baggy
cunt and I had to find out why. Finally I concluded
that she must have gone out and secretly bought a
dildo, although generally she had nothing but scorn for
such pornographic instruments.

So, the next time she went jogging, which was a Sunday
morning when I was at home, I searched the bedroom �
the drawers under the bed, her bedside cabinet, the
chest-of-drawers, the wardrobe � until, ahah! I found
it. Sure enough, next to a big jar of lubricating cream
right at the back of the top shelf of her wardrobe was
a dildo, made of rubber and two or three times the size
of my knob. It was also black! I had no problems with
her using a dildo, but I wondered why it was black as
opposed to flesh-coloured.

I tried to remember whether she had ever mentioned
having a particular sexual fondness for black men, but
apart from her saying this or that black actor was
handsome and sexy, there was nothing to indicate that
she found them especially so; in any case, she said the
same thing about white actors. Mind you, she had often
told me that black men found her sexy, and some even
tried to chat her up, despite knowing she was married.

In the end, I decided that the fact that he dildo was
black was just coincidence, although at the back of my
mind lurked a nagging doubt. Was I just being na�ve?

During the next week, when we went shopping or for our
evening walk, I watched her behaviour carefully, like a
scientist examining a slip under a microscope. Every
time a black man, whether young or old, passed us, I
looked out of the corner if my eye to see Isabel’s
reaction. Yes, there it was, a look and little smile
from each young black who went by, and a coy little
smile, just the ghost of one, on Isabel’s lips.

One evening when we went out for dinner I noticed that
she sat opposite a table where four young black men
were sitting, and that all the while she was talking to
me she was really looking over my shoulder at them. My
heart sank. I knew then what was going on: she was
practicing with the dildo when I was out, all the time
fantasising about having a black man’s cock inside her;
and when she was having sex with me she was pretending
I was black or that I was making love to her after a
black man had had her!

Somehow the evening lost its lustre; the sheen had been
wiped off my love-life. My wife was fantasising about
other men, black men�but was she also sleeping with
them? I had to find out.

The following Sunday I searched the bedroom again,
indeed the whole apartment. This time I wasn’t looking
for a dildo but for some evidence of an extra-marital
affair � letters or greeting cards, perhaps, or another
man’s hair in my shaving kit or my comb or between the
sheets. What I found was another huge black dildo. This
one was a double dildo, so she could pretend she was
having a cock up her anus as well as her cunt, and the
trunks of each penis was ribbed and knobbly.

Then suddenly something occurred to me. I rushed into
the living room and feverishly set up our lap-top.
Going into her half of the computer, I checked her
documents. Although she was never secretive about her
password, she always closed down or minimised the
screen whenever I was nearby, because she said the
sites she went into � normally fan-sites for various TV
programmes � embarrassed her. Sometimes she downloaded
documents from these sites.

Perhaps there was something there. No. Nothing remotely
incriminating or pornographic. I checked her e-mails.
Nothing. Then I went into her inter-net home page and
clicked on favourites. There it was! A list of sites,
many of them with the word “black” in. I opened one of
them. It was a picture site, showing dozens of
snapshots of young blacks proudly waving their huge
cocks at the camera.

I closed that site and opened another; this showed
black men getting it on with white women. There were
some forums as well. I opened one, keying in what I
knew to be my wife’s password. I got access, and after
a while find myself in a forum topic to which my wife
was a regular contributor. The topic concerned the
question of whether white woman who had black lovers
should tell their white partners.

I closed down and put the laptop away. I went into the
bedroom and sat on the bed. I had to think. Was Isabel
playing away with a black lover? Or was it all an
innocent fantasy? But the frequent and extended jogging
sessions, her desire to know in advance when I was
going out, her constant pressure on me to go out even
when I hadn’t planned to, her new-found interest in
dressing younger and sexier, the make-up, the face-
piercing, dying her hair, her new-found contentment in
herself, her improved confidence and technique in the
bedroom, the increase in her sexual appetite, her
secrecy over what she did on the laptop, the dildos,
the way she and blacks guys looked at each other in the
street, and finally her increasingly stretched cunt.
They could only add up to one thing: she had a black
lover. I tried not to believe it, but reason told me I
had to believe it. The evidence was staring me in the
face.

But what should I do? Should I confront her? Or should
I make absolutely sure first? I knew: instead of
working late on Thursday, I would leave at the usual
time, get to the park or the nature reserve before her,
and lie in wait to see if she really did come past. If
she didn’t it meant she was going somewhere else � to
someone else!

I was on tenterhooks until Thursday. My mind was in
turmoil and my stomach queezy. I felt like being sick.
I was off my food. Sometimes I tried to push the whole
thing to the back of my mind, telling myself that I was
better off not knowing. Would she leave me if I found
out the truth � or would she leave me anyway, whether I
knew the truth or not? I just didn’t know. You couldn’t
know anything in these circumstances. There was no
right thing to do.

At last, on Thursday evening, I reached the park she
regularly jogged through. It was near the nature
reserve and the first thing I noticed was that none of
the area was fenced off. Everything was just as it
usually was, except that the trees and the grass looked
lusher as the weather had improved. Working out which
gate Isabel would come through, I positioned myself in
a corner of the park where several big trees overhung a
park bench. If I sat there I would be hidden from view.
There was hardly anyone in the park � a few kids
playing football, some women with their baby-buggies,
men and women passing by on bicycles, a what looked
like a shabby old vagrant with a long overcoat and
wooden crutches sitting on a bench a few hundred yards
away.

Suddenly the vagrant got up. He reached for his
crutches and slid them under his armpits, then began to
move towards me. I noticed then that he was very tall,
well over six feet, that he had only one leg, the right
one, and that he was not only filthy dirty but black.
Black! I watched him with my heart in my mouth. He went
past me without looking, and further down the path
instead of walking through the gate turned off and went
towards some overgrowth that hid some old concrete
walls that had been bunkers of some kind. Isabel and I
had sometimes walked along the walls for fun and she
had occasionally squatted there to have a pee.

Isabel had not yet come through the far gate and I was
beginning to wonder if she would appear at all. Perhaps
she was with someone else, or perhaps she had decided
to stay on longer at work. I decided to give it another
five minutes. Then I saw her, jogging casually through
the gate. I watched her run along the path, turn the
corner and begin running down the path towards me. She
ran past without seeing me, then � she turned off the
path and ran towards the undergrowth! I couldn’t
believe it! I sat and waited � maybe she had only gone
for a pee. Five minutes passed � ten � fifteen well,
this was a long piddle, if piddle it was!

I started walking towards the undergrowth, as quietly
as I could, skirting round the concrete walls and
entering the bunkers from the far end. I had to know.
As I crept closer I could hear the unmistakable noise
of a couple having sex in the open � whispers, sighs,
grunts, heavy breathing, and the rustling of clothes,
paper, leaves and twigs. I had reached a wall where I
could either climb up or crouch down and go through a
low culvert.

I went through the culvert, and as I poked my head out
of the other end, I saw them – or at least part of
them; but it was enough. A few yards away was another
wall with another conduit, and through it I saw
Isabel’s naked hips pressed flat against his old
leather overcoat, its lining stiff and rust-coloured
with dirt, and a long black shiny penis pumping in and
out.

The owner of the long black shiny penis had no left leg
and no left hip, so that his big balls, slapping
against my wife’s thighs, were clearly visible. She had
one arm along his side, with her hand grasping the
bottom of his back where his left hip should have been,
pushing him deeper and deeper inside her.

Between sighs and grunts I heard her say: “Oh my God, I
love you! I love you so much!”

His thrusts became faster, harder and deeper and my
wife was having an intense orgasm. Slowly, I crept
away, the noise of her orgasm covering the sounds of my
departure.

I went back to the bench and sat an awaited. After
about forty-five minutes my wife re-emerged, back in
her jogging gear, and carried on with her running. But
her legs were wobbly and her gait slower. After a few
minutes he came out, and went back the way he had come,
disappearing through another gate in another corner of
the park.

On the way home, my mind was in turmoil. Here was my
wife, being as kind, loving and attentive as ever,
always eager to have sex with me � better sex than ever
before � and always having intense, long-drawn-out
orgasms. She looked prettier and sexier than she ever
had before, she dressed more daringly, and she was
happier and more confident. And all because she was
being fucked by a six-foot-six one-legged black
vagrant!

I couldn’t believe it; this just could not be
happening. I worked it out: she must be seeing him
every Saturday � perhaps she spent all day with him on
Saturdays � every Sunday, every Thursday, and often on
Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays as well. That was up
to six times a week. Maybe he wasn’t the only other man
she was seeing. What if she was seeing someone else as
well, on those nights she pretended to go out with her
friends, Gemma, Rebecca, Kathy, and whoever?

I wondered how it all started. Perhaps, while out
jogging, she had seen him sitting in the park or had
passed him on the way. Something about him must have
piqued her curiosity. Maybe she accidentally knocked
him over as she tried to run past him. Perhaps he
stopped her and chatted her up. She had often told me
that black guys tried to get off with her, although
only during the past few months.

Then again she might have been preparing me for the
shock; perhaps she had intended to take a black lover
all the time and her meeting with this one was not
accidental. Perhaps these hints about blacks chatting
her up were a prelude to her finally revealing her
intrigue. Would the hints become broader, more fact-
based, until one day she laid it all on me? I just
didn’t know what to think � my thoughts chased each
other round my mind like a cat running after a mouse.

Indoors, I sat on the bed, still thinking, wondering
how and when I should confront her. I imaged laying her
dildos and the jar of lube side by side on the bed and
saying sarcastically, in a silly girl’s voice|: “Oh my
God, I love you! I love you so much!” but how much of
the truth would she tell me, and even then, what would
I do about it? If I said: “It’s got to stop,” would she
stop? Or would she leave me? If she left me, no more
would I have a pretty, sexy wife and terrific sex. Did
it really matter if she was being fucked by this guy
when, after all, it had in fact improved our sex life?
Was it not true that I now loved and adored her more
each day and that I felt proud of her and privileged to
be her husband?

Unexpectedly, I started to get an erection. This was
surely the truest test. So good was sex with my
transformed wife that even the thought of it turned me
on. And it wasn’t just the thought of having sex with
her that did it. It was also the thought of being
married to her. No � it was the knowledge of being
married to a woman who was taking a big black cock up
her almost every day, who probably still had his spunk
up her stretched cunt when I made love to her, that
aroused me!

But the doubt set in again. She had lied to me. She had
been lying to me for three months. But had she been
lying for longer than that � had there been others in
the past? Had our entire marriage been a sham? Not only
that, but it was more than likely that every time we
made love she was thinking about him, imagining and
wishing that it was him making love to her and not me.
Perhaps she was even excited by the idea of cheating on
me, of having sex with me knowing that another man had
just come inside her and that I didn’t suspect a thing.
Perhaps she got off in it. I realised that I didn’t
know my wife at all.

Then, as I looked down at the bed, wondering again
whether to put the dildos and the lube there, my mind
wandered to the question of whether she had ever
invited him home for sex…and I remembered something.
I remembered that for the past few Saturdays I had come
home to a strange smell. It was the smell of air
freshener and fabric freshener, but underneath it were
other smells, the smells of the back-alley: ground-in
dirt, stale sweat, urine, faeces, alcohol, old
newspapers and rotting food. And was there also the
smell of sex?

I had a new plan. I would delay confronting her, if I
confronted her at all. Instead, I would wait until
Saturday, but instead of going to work, I would watch
the house from a distance and see whether he, or anyone
else, came to visit…

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