Latest erotic coupling stories: Descent into Depravity – Author: Bluepen451. This is the first in a series of stories of a woman who learns, shortly after the death of her husband, that he had a secret life, a depraved life, that he never shared with her; and of her descent over the years that follow into the depraved lifestyle of her late husband. The categories the various chapters will posted in will vary depending on the specific depravity Alice is exploring.
Latest erotic coupling stories: Descent into Depravity – Chapter 1.1
Author: Bluepen451
My name is Alice. I was a thirty-year-old school teacher when my husband died two years ago. I’m writing this because my therapist recommended it. I have been depressed ever since my husband died. My therapist suggested I keep a diary recording my activities and emotions. At first I resisted, but then I thought, why not? I majored in English in college. I’ve always liked to write, but I’m not sure I want to show this to my therapist, even though I’m willing to share it with all of you on this anonymous basis.
When you live with a man for almost ten years you think you know him—I mean really know him. You are sure he has shared all his secrets with you, as you have with him, and that there is nothing in his life that would surprise you.
After my husband, Larry, was killed in a car wreck, I learned that there was a lot I didn’t know about him, a lot that he hadn’t told me during our ten-year marriage. I had been living under the assumption that he and I were a typical suburban couple. Larry sold life insurance from an office in the city, and I taught English in a nearby junior high school. Larry made a good living, and we had a nice house in a suburb just over the hills from Oakland.
We had no children, by choice, and looking back now I can see that we had a pretty bland, plain-vanilla sex life—mostly missionary position sex on Friday night with just enough foreplay to get my motor running. I realize now there could have been more to our sex life, a lot more. But I had been telling myself for years that what we had was normal. I believed my own rationalization and thought it was just the way things should be. I also believed Larry was totally satisfied. Sex just wasn’t an important part of our lives, and we were both happy with that—or I thought we were.
I was devastated by Larry’s death. It was like someone suddenly ripped away half of me. Larry was the person I used as a sounding board for anything I was uncertain about, the person who would patiently listen to my frustrations with work or with my family or any other aspect of my life and then carefully explain to me why it wasn’t my fault and how to avoid the problem in the future. I truly thought he was my better half. It wasn’t just a silly saying for me. And now he was gone. I cried nightly for months, and I struggled to keep it together at work, retreating several times a day to a stall in the ladies’ room to sob silently and hope that I was alone with my grief.
Then about six months after Larry’s death something happened that had a profound effect on my life. The lawyers probating Larry’s will needed information to file closing tax returns for his estate. Larry had managed our finances and kept all our financial records, so I was struggling to find everything they needed. But I remembered he had a laptop in his home office. I had never paid any attention to it, assuming it was something he used for work. But the insurance firm had told me that they had his office laptop, and there was nothing personal on it. So I went looking for Larry’s home computer in search of the information the lawyers wanted.
I found the computer easily enough—in a drawer in his desk. The next challenge was figuring out the pass code to open it up. I tried a few phrases I thought he might have used without any luck. Then I remembered I had read a lot of people foolishly write their access code on a piece of tape on the back of their computer. Sure enough, there it was. The code should have been my first clue that I was entering Larry’s very private life. It was “Cocksucker.” That wasn’t language he would have used around me, and cock sucking wasn’t in our limited repertoire of sexual activities, so I couldn’t believe that was a password, but I was desperate and tried it. To my shock it worked, and what I found after I entered the oh-so-private world of Larry on the laptop was even more shocking.
I found the financial records the lawyers were seeking almost immediately. Larry was very organized. He had a folder titled “Financial” with a variety of neatly organized sub-folders that covered every aspect of our financial life for at least the last seven or eight years. I spent my Saturday afternoon sorting through the files and sending the relevant ones on to the lawyers. It was dull work.
Just as I was finishing up the phone rang—my friend Joan calling to invite me to dinner with her husband. I had been rejecting people’s attempts to draw me out of my darkness for months and I started to do it with Joan, almost as a matter of reflex, but Joan wouldn’t buy it. She insisted I join them, and I reluctantly agreed.
Joan’s husband, Hervé, had started his career as a chef. His first French Bistro was so successful that he now spent his time managing a collection of ten or twelve restaurants he owned around the country. He loved to cook. It was his passion, and dinner was delicious. Hervé kept the wine flowing, and Joan kept the conversation going without delving into my grief. It was my first enjoyable evening since Larry’s death.
When I got home I changed into a lightweight nightgown, but I wasn’t ready for sleep. Even though I was already a little tipsy from the wine at dinner, I went to a box of wine in my refrigerator and poured myself a glass. It didn’t take long to surf through the whole channel list on the TV without finding anything of interest.
To this day I don’t know why, but I decided to look at Larry’s computer. I really had no expectation there would be anything on it more interesting than the dull financial records I had been looking at. After all that was Larry. His life revolved around our financial situation. He never seemed to have any interest in anything else, but I remembered that there had been a file headed “Personal” that I hadn’t looked at. Earlier I had thought about opening it, but that seemed like invading his privacy, something I had been trained as a child never to do to anyone.
“But he’s dead, so he isn’t entitled to privacy any more, and I want to look,” I told myself. I never would have told myself anything so preposterous if I had been sober. But I wasn’t. I was drunk and feeling a little pissed at Larry for getting himself killed (the wreck was his fault), so I poured myself another glass of wine and opened the folder called “Personal.” It was a life-changing event. Larry was not the man I thought he was, not even close.
The folder was organized with a number of subfolders (just as the financial folder had been organized). The one that immediately caught my attention was labeled “Porn Pics.”
Really? Larry had a collection of pornographic pictures? “No fucking way!” I said aloud. (I really must have been drunk. I was using language the kids I taught in junior high school used when they thought the teachers weren’t listening).
“Do I really want to look at this?” I asked myself (I had taken to talking aloud since Larry’s death, just saying whatever was running through my head without censorship since there was no one to hear me. It was another thing my therapist had recommended).
“Fuck yes,” I responded aloud as I double-clicked on the folder. When it opened, in typical Larry style there was nothing but a collection of sub-folders. My god the man was obsessively organized. I mean, if you’re going to collect porn, do you take the time to organize it by categories? Apparently if you were Larry you did.
There was nothing discreet about the folder names he used at this level: “Fucking;” “Cock Sucking;” “Cunnilingus;” “Gay males;” “Lesbians;” “Threesomes;” “Anal;” “Masturbation;” “Toys;” “BDSM;” “Public Sex;” “Exhibitionists;” “Voyeurs; “MILFs; Cum Shots;” . . . You get the idea. It was a long list of sub-folders. Who knew there were so many ways to have sex? I certainly didn’t at that point in my life . . . but I was about to learn.
I opened some of the sub-folders and looked at a few of the pictures. Yup, they were exactly what the label said they were and extremely graphic. Nothing was left to the imagination.
As I leafed through Larry’s porn folders I continued to sip my wine. At first I was shocked and dismayed. How could Larry have done this in secret? Now I was mad at him for two reasons: for dying and leaving me alone, and for being a pervert! I was in even less of a mood for sleep than I had been before I started snooping through Larry’s computer, so I went to the fridge and refilled my wine glass.
As I was walking back from the kitchen, I had another shock. “Fuck, I’m horny,” I said. I was shocked. It had been six months since I even thought about sex, much less had an orgasm, (and I had to admit, given the way Larry and I conducted our sex life, orgasms had been few and far between before his death).
I sat down at the computer and continued to drink wine and leaf through the porn folders. The more I snooped into Larry’s depraved files the hornier (and drunker) I got. I could feel my nipples swelling and when I looked down at my nightgown they were pushing out the fabric in twin peaks. I took another sip of wine, and as I lowered the glass I let the rim brush the thin fabric covering one of my engorged nipples. I shivered and the muscles in my pussy contracted in response.
“Oh fuck!” I said to myself. “What am I doing? Looking at Larry’s porn collection and making myself horny. Have you no morals at all, Alice?”
“Fuck morals,” I responded to myself. “I haven’t felt like this since Larry died, and this feels really, really good.”
Tom Bachman says
Extremely good reading. I was divorced six years ago by my wife. She accused me of having a secret life. Sort of a life Larry was leading. When I read you story I could replace Larry’s name with mine.