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Dirty Becky
A Wife Sharing Romance

by Jason Lenov

Becky and Jeff have a wonderful marriage. When Jeff reveals that he is fascinated by her former husband, Quentin, Becky discovers a side of Jeff she didn't know about. The two embark on an exploration of the boundaries of their union.

Chapter 1

“Beck? Becky? You sleeping?”
Becky purred like a kitten before rolling over to stare at me through the darkness. “Mmm?”
My gaze wandered over her pretty features, dipping toward her abundant chest amply filling out the old white t-shirt she slept in. “Were you sleeping?”
A smile flickered on one corner of her mouth. “I was trying,” she whispered. Her innocent expression was delicious. Mostly because I was sure she knew exactly what I was trying to get but pretended not to anyway.
She thought she knew, that is. She thought it was what most men wanted from their wives at the end of a long day. It was, but with a darker twist.
Becky was a beautiful bundle of contradictions. It was what had inspired my intense and immediate attraction to her when we first met.
A blonde ornithologist that dressed like a bimbo and wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses which only served to make that particular juxtaposition all the more jarring. She peppered endless descriptions of birds with a barrage of f-bombs that would have made a sailor blush. Reared running barefoot in the Appalachian mountains by what can only be described as hillbillies, she’d harnessed a latent genetic inheritance of genius and finished her PhD in her mid-twenties. She loved a drink, wouldn’t say no to a smoke if one was offered and took her coffee black, preferably as thick as tar.
But for some reason she refused the usual uniforms of academia, pant suits for professional women, opting instead for too-tight blouses, top buttons undone to reveal her generous cleavage and skirts that covered only half her toned thighs.
She was, in short, a bombshell and a brilliant dork rolled into one delicious, curvy package. And while the revealing outfits might have implied a roaring libido, she was fairly sexually conservative. Eager to please but mostly on her back with her legs in the air. Nothing kinky.
This was the only part of her I swore to change the moment she accepted my engagement ring with teary eyes and hands cupped over her mouth. The reason for this, what would become my obsession, my precious and dirty little secret, came as a surprise, even to me.
There was one thing about Becky that tickled a funny part inside me that I previously hadn’t even known was there. She’d been married previously. In keeping with her stubborn lack of genre, that marriage had been to a very large, very handsome and very athletic black man named Quentin.
I still remember the moment on our third date when she casually divulged this information. It caused the strangest swell of arousal to well through me, so potent that I spent the rest of the meal struggling to control it.
Her recounting of their relationship was brief, as if the whole thing had been a mere footnote in her life up to that point.
They’d met in college, dated for a year, married and divorced two years later. No kids. No explanation as to why. No other details. This in itself was a stark contrast to her usual soliloquy's on the most mundane aspects of her history.
It drove me to the very edge of insanity.
“Were you going to ask me something? Or just keep staring at my chest?”
A blush rose to my cheeks at the way her gentle chiding pulled me from my thoughts and back into the moment. I tore my eyes away from her breasts and looked into hers again. I’d spent the last six months of our marriage trying to ignore the question that was now on the tip of my tongue. Six months of burying it, pretending it didn’t exist, trying to cram it back into the corner of my mind it had crawled from.
I’d realized that day that it wasn’t going away. I had no idea what her reaction would be to me asking it. I had no idea how my life would change knowing the answer. The only thing I was certain about was that if I didn’t at least try to address it, it might just tear me in two.
“Still waiting,” Becky said, caressing my cheek lightly with a finger. “I’m not just handing it over you know,” she teased. “You have to at least ask for it.”
A shiver raced through me.
“You know my grandmother used to say once a month was more than enough for any man,” she purred, her smile widening.
Her twisting smile caused my own lips to curl. “What did your grandfather have to say about that?” I asked.
Becky giggled. “He didn’t talk much,” she admitted. “Too busy philandering.”
I took a deep breath and steeled myself for what I was about to do. “Well I’m only interested in philandering you,” I whispered.
One eyebrow shot up as Becky looked up toward the ceiling. “I don’t think…” She paused, then shook her head. “Never mind. Not the most romantic fucking proposition but I guess it’ll do,” she said. Grabbing a hold of her shirt she began to haul it up her stomach to pull it off over her head.
I put a hand on her arm. “Wait.”
Becky raised an eyebrow again. “Wait?” she echoed. “I want to ask you a question first.”
Her arms settled back down onto the bed. She rolled onto her side, propped her head up with a hand, the smile fading from her lips. “What’s the question?”
I wiped my mouth with a clammy palm. This was it, the moment I’d been planning for weeks. I could barely keep myself from shaking. “I want to know about Quentin,” I whispered.
Becky’s brow furrowed. Her eyes roamed back and forth along the bed. “Quentin?” she said.
I nodded, eyes riveted to her expression, gauging her reaction. “Quentin.”
“What about him?” she said, shaking her head, clearly puzzled by the question.
“It’s just…you’re so…you know, like, it seems so unlike you. You’re so different than…”
Becky adjusted herself on the bed which made her breasts jiggle in a very distracting way. “You want to hear about Quentin? Right before we’re about to have sex?”