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 naïve? 

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...