My Wife Turned Into Mrs Thompson and Fucked Me for Her

What makes a normal love life? I’m not sure there really is such a thing. I thought that was what Jessica and I had. We’d been married about fifteen years and had just turned forty. Career-driven professionals, we decided not to have kids. Our days blurred into meetings and deadlines, yet at night we still found each other, bodies tired but hungry for connection. I loved the way her skin warmed under my hands after a long day, the soft sigh she gave when I pulled her close.

We started like most couples. I can’t say there was anything unusual about what we did in the bedroom. Over the years we went from about five times a week down to two or three. All standard stuff, a few positions we found comfortable, some mutual masturbation and oral. I think most couples do the same. I hoped so. I didn’t want to see myself as any sort of weirdo. Still, I sometimes wondered if we were missing something raw and urgent, the kind of heat that left us both shaking.

The Secret Box

Driven by our jobs, we earned well. That meant a string of house moves. The latest one was a bit of a fixer-upper, a large Victorian detached place in the suburbs of Atlanta. Red brick with a slate roof, steep pitched gables, and a tower topped with slates that looked like a witch’s hat. Inside it had plenty of period features but needed complete redecoration and some updating. We had the builders handle the big jobs like the kitchen and two bathrooms. We wanted to put our own stamp on things, so we took our time and did a lot of the decorating ourselves. That meant weekends with paint brushes, hammers, and screwdrivers sorting out the small details. Dust clung to our clothes and sweat slicked our backs as we worked side by side.

We moved things around while we worked on different rooms. We lived in the lounge, kitchen, and main bedroom while we finished the rest. One Sunday I was stripping 1970s flowery wallpaper in the dining room. Jessica was painting in one of the bedrooms. Once you start, you get carried away and lose track of time. It was getting late in the afternoon, the light was fading, and I was tired. I went upstairs to find Jessica and ask what we were doing for dinner. My shoulders ached and paint flecks dotted my forearms.

She had stopped painting. In fact it didn’t look like she had done much at all. Most of one wall was done, as far as a built-in cupboard. She sat on the floor surrounded by what looked like books, papers, and pictures. She looked up at me and seemed to be blushing. She scrambled to put the things into an old cardboard box they had clearly come from. She acted like a child trying not to get caught with something she shouldn’t have. Her reaction looked instinctive rather than thought out. Her cheeks flushed deeper when our eyes met.

“What have you found?” I walked over and tried to look into the box. My pulse kicked up at the secretive way she moved.

“It’s dirty. Really dirty.”

“Is that why you spent all afternoon looking at it instead of painting?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly five.”

She looked slightly sheepish, either from spending so long on the box or because she hadn’t made much progress on the decorating. I picked up the box and offered my hand to help her up. I went downstairs with Jessica right behind me. In the lounge I set the box on the coffee table and started to unpack it. The room smelled of fresh paint and old paper.

“Where did you find this?”

“Under the floorboards in that cupboard. None of the boards are fixed down.”

At first I couldn’t see what she thought was so dirty. There were some old black-and-white photos of a naked woman, loose 10-by-8-inch prints. She was pretty and dark-haired. Nothing too bad about that. Her hairstyle and the pictures pointed to the swinging sixties. A little unusual for the time was the shaved look. “What’s so bad about these?”

“Nothing. That’s not the half of it.” She dug through the box, pulled out a small notebook, and handed it to me. Each page was headed with a man’s name. Below it came a physical description: age, height, weight, hair and eye color. A measurement in inches followed, and it wasn’t hard to guess what that was, especially since it led into a list of sexual preferences. There were dozens of entries. My cock twitched at the raw details.

“Busy lady,” I said. Some of the loose sheets looked like diary entries or maybe draft pages for a book. They described some of the most extreme sex you could imagine. It raised my eyebrows. “Have you looked through all of this?” She dropped her eyes and mumbled. I took that as a yes. “Who is she? Does any of it say?”

“No, but looking at the dates it must be the old lady we bought the house from. The agents said she lived here most of her life.”

I reached for a larger book in the box. Jessica tried to stop me. “If you’ve seen it, why can’t I?” She pulled her hand away. To some extent I could see why she had. More photos showed the same woman with one, two, or more men at a time. They were having sex as we understood it, apart from the multiple partners. That changed when I reached the next few pages. The woman was tied down or hung up with ropes, suspended above the ground. In the final couple of pictures her shoulders rested on the ground, her upper arms supporting her, legs pointing up. In the first a thick lit candle was inserted in her vagina. In the last one it was the neck of a champagne bottle. My dick hardened at the sight.

“Don’t go getting any ideas. You’re not shoving weird stuff into me.”

“That’s not what I was thinking. Do you really think it is her?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? This stuff must have been there for years.”

We needed to get on. We put everything back in the box, cleaned up, and cooked dinner. We said nothing more about the box. Back to work, long days, no time. Jessica went for her regular hair appointment on Saturday morning. About once every four to six weeks she visited her favorite salon. I kept going with the decorating. I got into the swing of things and finished the bedroom she had started, including fixing down the loose boards so nothing else stayed hidden.

I got the shock of my life when Jessica came home. Standing in the bedroom doorway, my normally blonde wife had dyed her hair dark brown and cut it to match the woman in the old photos. Spattered with paint and brush still in hand, I just stood and stared. My cock stirred instantly at the transformation.

“I match down there too.”

“Eh?”

“I had it waxed.”

“Put the brush down and go get the tablet before I change my mind.”

I almost fell down the stairs in my rush. I dug through my work bag, found the tablet, dropped it, and caught it inches from the floor. Take a breath. I went back upstairs more slowly than I had come down. In the bedroom Jessica stood naked except for a pair of black shoes, the closest match to what the woman had worn. Without my knowing, she had moved the box back upstairs to the bottom of the wardrobe. Over the next half hour we recreated all the solo poses. Her smooth pussy glistened under the light as she posed, legs spread, fingers tracing her wet folds while I snapped photos. She moaned softly, hips rocking, and I felt my dick throb hard.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why not? I suppose I found it a little exciting. I thought it might spice things up a bit. Like I said before, no candles, no bottles, and I’m not taking on all comers.”

“What about the ropes?” She ignored me and started pulling on her underwear, then a pair of overalls. “Lunch, then we’ll tackle a bit more of the dining room,” she said. Her voice was husky, eyes dark with new hunger.

Memories Ignited

Jessica was right in one way. Her new look did pep things up. She seemed to act differently, as though in some ways she was a different person. More sensual than she had been before. Not totally abandoned like the woman in the photos and notes, but a change all the same. I was enjoying my slightly more adventurous wife, not to mention her smooth pussy. She had been getting her legs and underarms waxed for years; the new part was exciting. We kept decorating and were nearly finished. The house looked really good, just a few finishing touches left. Every night I buried my face between her thighs, licking her dripping cunt until she came hard, thighs clamping my head.

By now it was time for her next salon appointment. She stayed with the new look. With a bank holiday Monday coming up I had planned a day out. Jessica stopped me cold. Without my knowing she had done some digging online and had even contacted the solicitors who handled our house sale.

“I’ve arranged a visit,” she said. Very cryptic.

Early Monday afternoon I got the car out while Jessica locked up. She came out carrying the cardboard box. “I’ve found her.” She sat in the passenger seat holding the box like a baby. She gave directions that led to a retirement complex, a large three-story block of small apartments in the Atlanta suburbs. An office sat at the entrance. Jessica took charge when the woman inside slid the glass window aside. “We’re here to see Mrs. Thompson. She’s expecting us.”

“Through the doors, turn right, halfway along on the left.”

I followed behind. At least I had a name now. Jessica knocked on the door we had been sent to. A few minutes later a small gray-haired old lady opened it. We were invited inside.

“Sorry about this. I don’t get many visitors.” She sat back down in what was probably her armchair. Jessica was pointed to an upholstered dining chair. I took a footstool.

“We found this box under the boards in one of the bedrooms,” Jessica said, holding it out.

“I bet that made you blush. I’d forgotten all about that. Hid it from my husband. He wouldn’t have understood. I see you’ve taken up where I left off.” She touched Jessica’s hair.

“Not entirely.”

“I’d be surprised if you had. I was as high as a kite most of the time. Those were fun times. Sex and drugs. I didn’t bother with the rock and roll. I’m a little curious why you tried to find me.”

“To return all of this.” Jessica held out the box.

“Keep it if you want. Burn it if you don’t. I have my memories. Looked good back then, didn’t I? All wrinkly and hairy as a grizzly bear now.”

We tried and failed to stifle some giggles.

“I suppose you want to know about that lot. Only natural. Although not much of it would seem natural.” We sat and listened as she gave us an eye-opening story. She had married young, wanting to break free of her overprotective parents, only to end up in an almost loveless marriage. Her husband made few and short-lived demands on her in the bedroom. Not what a free-spirited young woman was hoping for. One of her friends suggested a trip to the photographer in the high street might ease the pain. It turned out he didn’t just take pictures and sell film. A correctly worded phrase got you some cannabis. She became a regular. Inhibitions eased or almost removed, he persuaded her to pose. That was just the start. A prescription for the pill saw her doing a whole lot more than getting high. Her posing for the photographer had started as a private arrangement for the two of them. It didn’t take long for her to complain about the lack of passion in her marriage. He filled the void. During some of her weed-fueled posing sessions things got pretty wild. Apparently there were far more pictures than we had seen, with a lot more than the candle and bottle.

“I think most of the men in town must have had pictures of me naked with things stuffed in me. That’s when things went further. Some of his regular smokers wanted to meet me. At first they just watched as he snapped away. That didn’t last long. I’d get so randy I needed relief and they did me in a right royal fashion.”

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Neither of us said a word. She was chuckling. “Nobody expects an old woman like me to have had a good time. I had a lot more than that. Ever had sex after a tab of acid? Wild.” She burst out laughing at our stunned expressions. “I’m sorry if I’m making you feel uncomfortable, but you must have known what I was like before you got here.”

“It’s fine. We clearly had some idea. I wanted to get to know the woman behind the photos and notes,” Jessica said.

“I’m not ashamed of what I did. I enjoyed every minute of it. Do you like orgasms? Of course you do. I had hundreds, maybe thousands. Those men made me feel incredible, wanted, desired, lusted after. We all got what we weren’t getting at home. Terrible, wasn’t I?”

“It was the swinging sixties,” I said.

“What happened?” Jessica asked.

“It all carried on for a good while. It was hilarious going home and hubby wanting a quick roll, not knowing he was just adding his little bit. Eventually someone split on the photographer. He got busted and sent to prison for dealing drugs. I got older and the men showed less interest. All good things come to an end. I became a sad old widow living in what is now your house.”

“And now. Are you happy here?”

“It has its upsides. It’s warm, cozy, and cheap to live in. Also, Wayne the gardener and handyman brings me weed. Want some?”

We shook our heads.

“Your loss. We sit here, get high, and sometimes more.”

“More?”

“I show him the hairy beast and he rubs his dick. Lovely looking thing. I can’t be doing with all the mess of fucking these days, but I sometimes masturbate too.” She winked and smiled. “So now you know. I was a disgusting, unfaithful, and perverted young woman. Now I’m old, free, and single and just rude. So then, how far have you taken the Matilda impersonation?”

Jessica reached into her bag and pulled out the tablet. She stood beside Mrs. Thompson’s chair and scanned through the pictures.

“I’m flattered. That was my bedroom. All of my shots were taken in the studio. Have fun with it but don’t become fixated with me. I’m not somebody you should aspire to emulate. I don’t have regrets. I’m not that sort of person, but you aren’t me. All I’m saying is be careful. You might end up going down a rabbit hole you can’t get out of. I saw plenty of white rabbits and weird stuff that wasn’t actually there.”

Jessica thanked her for her time and her frank talk. Again she offered Mrs. Thompson the box, but she declined. As we were leaving she asked if we could visit again. She also asked whether Mrs. Thompson would like to see what we had done to the house. Both invites were left open.

That night the sex was unbelievable. Rampant, prolonged, and fulfilling. Jessica rode my cock hard, her wet pussy gripping me tight as she slammed down again and again. I thrust up to meet her, hands gripping her ass, slapping the soft flesh while she moaned my name. She came first, cunt pulsing around my dick, juices dripping down my balls. I followed seconds later, flooding her with hot cum as she shuddered above me.

Things from then on spiraled out of control. We should have paid more attention to Mrs. Thompson’s warning. The games we played started to take on a certain flavor. When we began taking our own photographs I had mentioned the ropes, but Jessica had ignored me. Now she insisted I buy some. The images were exact replicas of Mrs. Thompson’s. She began calling me by the names in Mrs. Thompson’s notebook and demanding I replicate the acts each preferred. Some were amazing. Others gave me cause for concern. All the more so when she insisted I call her Mrs. Thompson when we were in the bedroom. She was becoming obsessed. It didn’t matter how depraved the things were that we acted out; her passions flared. Things previously forbidden now allowed. Some things tried in moderation taken to extremes. The notes in Mrs. Thompson’s book were extensive and easy to follow.

Such as what? I hesitate to describe some of this given what our sex life was like before, but here goes. Being tied down or hung up for me to view and photograph was one thing. Being bound for sex was another. In the guise of Trevor I had her stand on the floor and bend forward. Her ankles together were then bound to her wrists. Her still bald slit in this position was at my mercy from behind. Kneeling behind her I lapped at her like a dog until she came. At which point I stood, rubbed my cock on her anus, smearing it with precum before pushing inside. She had resisted any talk about this in the past. Now she accepted it, although I knew she was finding it uncomfortable. As Norman she sucked my cock, taking it deep into her throat, gagging violently, before pulling out for me to coat her face with cum. I hated it but she couldn’t or wouldn’t deviate from the script. Although there were only the two of us, it was as though I was playing multiple parts in some strange ritual or stage show. Over a couple of weeks I had been half a dozen or more of Mrs. Thompson’s gentlemen, each with their own kink or fetish. For them it would have come naturally. For me none of it was. It didn’t sit well. In my mind I was degrading my wife even though she asked for it all. Through all of this her sexual satisfaction was incredible compared to how it had been. Although she wasn’t having huge numbers of orgasms, they were incredibly intense. I was struggling to cum at all. None of these things were what got me excited. In some cases they turned me off, but I kept going to please Jessica.

It got to a point where, without telling Jessica, I took a day off work. I went to see Mrs. Thompson. She listened intently. Made no comments like “I told you so.” She suggested a solution. I agreed. So I helped her to the car and took her to our house. I gave her the guided tour while we waited for Jessica to come home. We sat in the lounge with the cardboard box on the coffee table. The door opened and Jessica walked in. She stopped dead when she saw Mrs. Thompson and the box. I shifted the box to the hearth of the fireplace. Mrs. Thompson stood beside it. She looked at Jessica and said, “These are my memories. It’s time to let them go and become yourself again.” She held out a box of matches to Jessica. “I know that at the moment you won’t want to do it. Later you’ll thank me.” Mrs. Thompson shook the matchbox.

The two of us crouched by the fireplace, lighting things in turn and tossing them into the grate while Mrs. Thompson looked on. Tears ran down Jessica’s face as each photo or piece of paper went up in flames, turning to black and gray ash.

“That’s it. Now Mrs. Thompson is a shriveled-up old woman with a big hairy pussy who gets off watching a spotty teenager jerk off.”

Jessica, who had been sniffling slightly, wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. Mrs. Thompson handed her an embroidered handkerchief. “No real harm done. You’re not me anymore. Even I’m not that me anymore. I wish I were, but you can’t turn back time. Time to make your own memories, not relive mine.”

No cooking tonight. We took Mrs. Thompson out for a meal at a nice hotel before dropping her home. That night no sex, kinky or otherwise. Just cuddles and comfort. Jessica started what I assumed was an apology, but I stopped her. No need. We talked a lot over the next days about what we both wanted and where we wanted things to go. Jessica wanted to keep the hairstyle and waxed pussy. I agreed as long as what we got up to pleased us both rather than a faux Mrs. Thompson. No pain, no discomfort for either of us, physical or emotional. We continued to visit Mrs. Thompson. Sometimes it was just talk about the house and what it had been like when she lived there. At others it was about her memories, ancient and more modern. On occasions it was about where we had gone after burning the contents of the box.

We met Wayne on one of his delivery runs. Not the spotty teenager she had suggested but a nice-looking young man. He went a bit quiet until Mrs. Thompson explained we weren’t relatives and wouldn’t cost him his job. She stashed her weed in a biscuit tin. When Wayne had left we apologized for depriving her of her view of cock.

“That’s all right. He’ll be back. I’ll settle for an alternative.”

I can see why her past life was so exciting. She has a way about her. A way of getting you to fall in with what she wants. Which in this particular case was being party to what Jessica and I had become since things were cleansed by fire. Did we owe her that? Or was it too much to ask? Was performing for her really what we were supposed to do?

“You really are one of a kind, aren’t you? I suppose at some stage you were going to ask us anyway,” Jessica said.

“Don’t feel obliged. You can’t blame me for asking. Once a randy woman, always a randy woman. I’m just a lot more lazy than I used to be. Watching is easier than doing these days.”

We had a whispered conversation. Mrs. Thompson was pleased with the outcome. So on the next Saturday afternoon I picked her up in the car, loading her small old suitcase into the trunk. Back at home I showed Mrs. Thompson up to the room where the box had been hidden. Now a really nice guest room. She smiled looking at the cupboard, now tidy and with the floor solid. Back downstairs we sat down to a nice dinner, courtesy of Jessica.

After the meal Jessica led us upstairs. She stripped slowly, eyes locked on mine, then on Mrs. Thompson. I followed, cock already hard. Jessica sank to her knees and took me deep, sucking with wet sounds that filled the room. Mrs. Thompson watched from the chair, breathing fast. Jessica climbed onto the bed, spreading her soaked pussy. “Fuck me, Mike,” she gasped. I thrust in hard, pounding her while she moaned and begged for more. Her cunt clenched tight as she came, body shaking, juices soaking the sheets. I pulled out and painted her tits with thick ropes of cum. Mrs. Thompson smiled, satisfied at last.