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 village then.”
“Well…” she hesitated. “Most people were asleep…”
She looked very cute when embarrassed and I laughed with her to take off the edge as she told me. “Well, that’s one way to get to know the neighbours. It’s fine, he needs to get comfortable around us in any case. What harm can it do?”
She was silent, seeming to accept the point, but the deep crimson on her face suggested embarrassment and, interestingly, her erect nipples suggested something more.
We settled into our new home and our new routines in the week that followed. The weather warmed up and we basked in a heatwave. Our windows were left open, fans were purchased and endless boxes of beer and cider filled our fridges. I learnt to love the taste of Pimms. Our next incident came about because of my mother-in-law’s penchant for buying African souvenirs on her annual holiday to the Maasai Mara. The ornament in question was a garish and heavy wooden mask that perpetually glared at me, wishing me ill, as I left for work in the morning. My campaign to get rid of this particular ‘decoration’ had so failed miserably but on this occasion I was rather glad of it.
Jessica had taken it upon herself to create some sort of masterpiece garden. It was a consuming project and she had got the idea from some magazine or TV program, or whatever. In any case it involved many hours in the baking sun doing something to flowerbeds and whatnot. To do this work Jessica would wear her bikini top and some modest shorts to try and develop a tan. That bikini depressed me. It was the sort of shapeless mass of material that rendered her very sexy breasts utterly dull and lifeless. Thankfully, one hot day, as she was wrestling with a bin bag full of compost material out the door, the African mask somehow grabbed hold of her bikini top and wouldn’t let go. In the ensuing brawl the top was torn to pieces and the mask fell to the ground also managing to rip a hole in her shorts. How it didn’t seriously injure her is a mystery but the sight I had, of my wife — Lady Jessica -screaming, her tits out, a comically large African tribal mouth biting down on her breasts — will stay with me forever. I even got to watch as the mask tipped over and shattered into a million pieces.
I promised to buy her a new bikini (and replacement mask but let’s just say that there might be shipping issues). Since we lived in the sticks it was so much easier for me to pick one up after work than for her to trek into our nearest town. She gave me her measurements and some instructions, rightly suspicious.
Buying the bikini was more awkward than I’d imagined and the truth is that I chickened out of buying the outrageous barely-there patch string thing I’d planned on. The one I did buy was actually quite modest. It was black and thin but more like a centrefold from the seventies than an Instagram model. Still, the bottoms were more exciting, narrowing slightly like a thong although not quite the candy-floss nothingness that I’d secretly desired. A ‘Brazilian’ it was called, which was exciting in its own way. It wasn’t the thong though. Still — she might actually wear this one.
The Lady was less than pleased. “I can’t wear that in a rural village you massive pillock; they’ll tie me down and brand an ‘S’ into my forehead.” I was banished to go and cut the grass, a task that looked ever more Sisyphean with each day of the summer. It was a bastard of a job and our lawnmower was shit. Still, the sun was out so I took my shirt off and enjoyed the unfamiliar feeling of real, not gym induced, physical exertion. My body wasn’t built for desk-work, even if my mind clearly was. I’m tall and played rugby to an excellent standard all through University so have those teak-tough (actually pretty injured) shoulders and broad chest of an athlete. I checked out as the roid monkeys started to overtake the sport and I decided that I’d rather have a desk-job and a fat bonus than fifteen minutes on the pitch and a broken collarbone.
Anyway, I’d worked up quite a sweat and was pleasantly surprised that my gym work had actually paid off. My torso was looking sleek and my arms were big. I guess Jess must have been watching from the house as the next thing I knew she was swaying out of our French windows carrying a stein of beer wearing the offending bikini with a see-through sarong tied around her waist and a wide brimmed sunhat over her cascading raven hair.
I killed the mower and just watch her come. She was a vision, her breasts perky and amplified in the thin top, her nipples hard buttons. Her skin was smooth and flawless, a light tan already moving her colour away from pale. She was swinging her hips and smiling, enjoying being watched, teasing me on this hot day. I felt my old friend stirring and my tattered rugby shorts felt a little stifling. I reached a sweaty hand for the stein as she stepped up close to me, putting her little hand on my dripping chest. I took a grateful drink of the beer and she snapped up on her tip-toes for a lingering kiss. Her hand danced down my body and rubbed my cock from the outside of my trouser leg and I explored the wild expanse of her ass, surprisingly exposed by the ‘Brazilian’. A wicked look got into her eye and I heard her whisper.
“I do like having such an eager gardener, but oh! Look how hot and bothered you’ve made yourself.”
I was about to push things further when suddenly he was there on the other side of the fence, our neighbour, Mr Johnson, supposedly pruning his roses. I saw him in my peripheral vision and nearly startled but caught myself. Jess had her back to him and a dark part of me quickly worked out that her pert arse, barely covered by the sarong, would be in his full view. The naughtiness of summer was in me and I decided to give the old boy a treat, pulling Jess in for a kiss and slipping the knot of her sarong as I did so, feeling as it slid down her legs and pooled around her feet.
I couldn’t turn my eyes to see the old Colonel but I bet that I knew where he was looking. My cock was a raging beast and part of me really wondered how far I could push this — but discretion is ever the better part of valour so I decided to have some fun with Jess’ embarrassment and mortification instead. I jerked up. “Max! Sorry, we didn’t see you there.” I moved forward as I said this, carrying Jess and stepping over her sarong, shutting off any prospect of an emergency cover up on her part.
“Oh, don’t you mind me; enjoy the sun! I was young once.”
I could almost feel the lava burst of crimson from Jess’ cheeks hearing this. But to give her credit she composed herself in an instant and turned to look at our neighbour in the skimpiest outfit she had ever worn outside our bedroom without the slightest look of self-consciousness, a radiant smile on her sunny face. “Max — those roses are lovely, I wish I could grow them so well; ours always seem to wither before they bloom.”
The sly old dog didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve the most beautiful Damask just over by my window-sill, come — let me cut you one.”
And just like that he lured her through the little green gate that separates our gardens. Jess, as I’ve said, can’t really refuse. Rudeness is not part of her DNA. So there she went, as scantily clad as I’ve seen her, into another man’s garden. He pointed out the flower and she bent forward to look at it, her ass as delicious as possible, just a breath away from his hips, his old heavy hands. He reached over and snipped one off then boldly slid it into her hair. She laughed and touched his arm — a nothing gesture that nearly set me off.
Jess offered Max a beer but he declined, instead offering us some fantastic sangria he had squirreled away from a source in Spain. “Just wait here while I clean my hands.”
“I’ll get it!” Jess offered, as she always does. Then she was off and I wasn’t sure my cock could cope. I’m not sure what it was but there was something intensely erotic seeing my wife nearly naked waltzing around inside Max’s house, her hips swaying in his kitchen, the acres of exposed flesh wandering like she belonged amongst his things.
I drank deeply from my stein as she popped out of the kitchen with a jug of scarlet sangria and three glasses. She gave me a wicked smile and poured out a measure of the appreciative Max and herself. Max opened up the parasol and Jess put the jug down on the garden table. I tried to hide the tenting in my shorts by sitting down in a shadow.
Jess took a dainty sip and nodded appreciatively at Max who waved as if it was nothing. Soon we were all sat around the table and feeling a lot more relaxed in the baking heat. Max asked polite questions about my work, which was boring, and then found out that Jess had been an Art teacher, which interested him as he had once taken up a long-distance fine art degree but had given up part way through. This opened a door of mutual interest and soon they were deep into discussions about paints, canvass and all that other shit I didn’t care about. My erection had just about subsided so I left them to it and got back to mowing the lawn, after pouring myself another stein.
When I got back Max had dragged out an old easel and Jess was stood a few inches away from him pointing at the canvass and talking in her animated, teacher voice. I doubt the old fucker was interested as I caught his eyes darting down over her shoulder to catch a peek of her tits and I couldn’t really blame him.
I finished up the lawn and wondered over to the chatting pair. “Max, could I borrow your hedge trimmer? Ours is a piece of shit and I’d be better off using my teeth.”
The old soldier smiled. “Sure — sharing makes good neighbours; help yourself — it’s just in the shed.”
As I grabbed the hedge trimmer I overheard Max saying that he really struggled to draw live figures. Jess responded saying that it was a common problem and that the only real solution was to practice. “Well, I don’t too many in the village who would sit still for a portrait, and they all get insulted afterwards when they see how ugly I’ve managed to make them.