Selena Kitt

Bluebeard’s wife

Chapter One

I could be a little obsessive, but when I found myself searching his Internet history for any remnants of porn, even I knew I was crossing a line. I sat there, hoping to find something, anything- Thick sausage pounded into tight anus or Sexy young blonde babes lick each others snatches or Ebony swallows stiff black snake or Wife slut takes hard cocks everywhere. Those were all the titles that ended up in my “Bulk” e-mailbox, and I knew they must show up in his, too, on occasion. Didn’t he ever click on one, just a little bit curious?

What did he like? What did he want? What did he fantasize about? It was driving me crazy.

We had been married three years, and John had never told me one fantasy. It wasn’t like I hadn’t asked. With the hope that he might reciprocate, I had revealed several of my own fantasies, whispering in the dark with my hand squeezing and tugging on his cock, trying to make him bolder, break down a few of his inhibitions. Still, he wouldn’t talk. When I just came out and directly asked him who he fantasized about, he smiled and touched my cheek, and said, “You.”

Feh! I didn’t believe it for a minute. Okay, not that it wasn’t sweet, and not that I didn’t like that he fantasized about me. But that couldn’t be all he thought about, could it? If I had visions of firemen or Brad Pitt-or Angelina Jolie, for that matter-dancing through my head once in a while, then I couldn’t believe he wasn’t imagining something, too. Yet, I couldn’t ever find evidence to the contrary. No magazines or videos, no telling Internet trail. I had never even seen or heard him stroking his cock.

That was the strangest part. John didn’t masturbate. We took showers together, so he didn’t do it there. We slept in the same bed. He owned his own business, but there were no closed doors where he worked, aside from the bathroom. So where and how was he doing it? Of course, he claimed he didn’t-but even the Kinsey Report said that 92% of males masturbate-and what was the old joke…the rest lied about it? I had a feeling John was lying. He was keeping something from me, and it felt like a really big secret. I hated it.

So I started searching for evidence of his fantasy life. I checked his laptop Internet history whenever I could-I even bought a program to recover hidden files, but came up with nothing. I looked through his briefcase, hoping to find some sort of evidence of a fetish. I didn’t care what it was-bondage, spanking, peeing, wearing rubber suits, having sex with dogs. I realized the irony of it, as I went through his desk and computer at work after hours one night when he was on a business trip-I was a wife looking for something most women would be appalled to discover about their husbands.

Not that I thought whatever John fantasized about would be extreme. He was an accountant, for Pete’s sake-he played tennis and golf and liked watching hockey. If his name was “Joe,” you could have put “average” in front of it without too much trouble.