1. Dirty Little Secrets 2: One Step Leads To Another


    Date: 9/3/2015, Categories: Wife Lovers, Author: PervyStoryteller, Rating: 6, Source: LushStories

    love it. I mean, I love having John home full stop. I don’t want you to think I’m a total sex maniac. I love married life. I love the conversations and the evening walks and the meals out and the comforting presence of the man I love. And yet the moment he leaves to get the plane to Seattle, where he’ll be for a week, I feel that thrill. While John’s away I will perform for him every evening, and perform for my secret admirer at the same time. It’s naughty of me, wicked of me. I tell myself I’m not that kind of woman, but by now that sounds so hollow I hardly know why I bother trying to convince myself of that. As soon as I can, I switch my secret phone on. There have been no calls, no text messages. I’m disappointed and relieved. After all, if my secret admirer doesn’t call, it saves the risk of things getting complicated. It almost feels as if he’s saving me from myself. He watches, I know he does, because he continues to leave those little “parcels” for me to find in the morning. Perhaps that’s why I’ve given him my number, because it would be better if he communicated with me with words instead of these faintly disgusting tokens. It happens on the Wednesday, after I’ve performed. I’m just about to switch the phone off before turning out the light, when it rings. I’m actually holding it in my hand. My heart starts beating twice as hard and my mind goes blank. I drop the phone on the bed, letting it ring. I shouldn’t answer. But if I’m not prepared to answer, why have I ...
    given my secret admirer the number at all? I pick the phone up and my finger pushes the button. “Hello?” “Hello?” He sounds as nervous as I feel. His voice trembles slightly. It’s neither deep nor high. My secret admirer may look like a thug, but he doesn’t sound like one. My nerve fails me. I don’t know what to say. I just lay there, in bed, under the covers, unable to speak. My secret admirer clears his throat. “I’m calling to… I wanted to say, I’m sorry I couldn’t come tonight.” I know what he means, but the unintentional double entendre cuts through my nervousness and I give a little giggle. “I didn’t mean… I mean…” My secret admirer sounds embarrassed. “Something came up.” This time I can’t help myself. “Something came up, but you couldn't come,” I giggle. There’s silence on the line. I feel bad. I sense that he’s every bit as nervous as I am. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to… It was very considerate of you to call and let me know.” There’s a renewed silence, as if the young man doesn’t know what to say. “Perhaps I should have called beforehand,” he suggests at last. “No,” I say sharply, perhaps a little too sharply. “What I mean is…” I take the plunge, I have to. “I like imagining that you’re there… even if you aren’t.” The awful truth, that I’ve known for some time, but which perhaps only now hits me with its fullest force, is that I wouldn’t perform anywhere near as well if I knew he wasn’t there. “I’m glad,” the man says. By now it’s clear to me that he’s nowhere ...
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