Authors: Layla Wilcox
My Secrets Discovered
Secret Lives of Housewives
My Secrets Discovered
Copyright © 2013 by Layla Wilcox
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Like many secrets, mine began innocently.
I was rather surprised to find a store like Secrets as I drove through Sunny Harbor, a sleepy South Florida neighborhood of retirees. Yet I found myself drawn into the small shopping plaza toward Secrets’ seductively lit storefront display.
I entered the shop and was immediately dismayed to find a man behind the counter. I would have felt far more comfortable with a woman. The front of the store was filled with intimate garments, but I’d never seen lingerie like this before. It made Victoria’s Secret look like a Sears catalog as far as being interesting or racy.
Most of the clothes at Secrets were made of either leather or completely sheer fabric, and covered with studs or rhinestones. The garments were designed with openings conveniently located anywhere you might want a part of your body exposed. In fact, you wouldn’t have to remove a single item of clothing to complete any bodily function while wearing one of these outfits.
I wanted to take a closer look, but I felt uncomfortable with the guy at the desk watching my every move. I slid past the clothing to the back room where the videos and adult toys were located. My self-consciousness deepened. Two men were browsing the DVDs. Glancing at the cover jackets on the boxes confirmed my suspicions that none of these titles would be available at Target or Walmart. Off in a corner of the room, a woman looked at the poster collection. I casually wandered over to browse the display of items on the opposite wall.
I was amazed to find that sex toys came in such a wide variety of sizes, colors, shapes, and functions. Although I could only guess at the uses of some of the merchandise, the display held plenty of toys that sent my imagination racing into overdrive. It occurred to me that this would be a fun place to explore with a lover.
I wanted to take a closer look, but I was afraid to touch anything. Glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone was looking, I found myself alone in the room. I knew the storeowner was observing me via the surveillance camera mounted in the corner, so I examined the selection from a respectable distance. There were not many items in the price range I was willing to spend, but I did have my choice of color, size, and density.
I finally got up the courage to grab a box off the wall and bring it to the counter at the front of the store. I avoided eye contact. I wanted to pay and get out of there.
“Do you need batteries?”
Oh, my God! I had not even considered that. I managed to stammer out a no, but he got me thinking. What size battery? Do I have any at home?
Purchase completed, I escaped to my car and drove away. When I stopped at a light, I removed my new toy from the discreet, plain paper bag. Reading the fine print on the box, I was relieved to confirm that I did have the required size batteries. I discovered another bonus in the bag—the man had given me a discount coupon toward my next purchase. I transferred the coupon to the zippered pocket in my purse.
When I returned home, I faced new dilemmas. Where would I keep my secret purchase from being discovered by my husband? And where could I hide the product’s box until Tuesday, garbage day?
Once I located appropriate hiding spots, it was time to try out my purchase. After all, it wasn’t something you can try on for size at the store. I had to see if I’d gotten my money’s worth, although I knew I’d never ask for an exchange or refund.
I undressed and slid between the smooth sheets of my bed. Being naked by myself in the middle of the day felt a bit naughty. I thought about getting up and closing the blinds, but decided against it. The whole reason I bought the vibrator was about doing something outrageous and pushing myself out of the boring, comfortable box my life had become.
After twenty-two years of marriage, my sex life was in the dumps, not that it ever would have been considered Mt. Everest. Certainly not by the standards I was reading about in my new favorite literary genre—erotica. I know it’s fiction, and probably exaggerated, but my real-life experiences don’t hold a candle to the heat that burns in those stories.
My husband, Mark, was my first and my only. He popped my cherry during my freshman year of college, and we got married when I became pregnant two years later. I’ve never even had oral sex with anyone else. Mark was my first boyfriend, and then I married him. There was never time nor opportunity for me to meet or be with anyone else.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband, but Mark is not a creative guy. He’s an accountant, and he likes things neat and orderly. If he ever wanted to switch careers, he could easily start a business as an organizer. He hangs his clothes methodically in the closet, light colors in front and dark in the back. His drawers could pass military inspection.
He is fastidious about his personal appearance as well. He works out three mornings a week at a gym, so he maintains a muscular, trim build. He still has all his dark, straight hair, although flecks of gray have begun to show at the temples and in his mustache. He is good-looking, if not handsome, with a straight nose, strong chin, and gray-blue eyes framed in thick, black lashes.
A creature of habit, Mark devises routines and systems for everything he does, from his professional work to how he maintains the outside of the house and our cars. He loves schedules and spreadsheets.
Our sex life is pretty much the same—planned and predictable. On Saturday nights, we shower and go out for dinner. We have a drink before leaving home to save money and order a bottle of wine at the restaurant. We come home, change into night clothes, get into bed, and kiss briefly. After he wets his finger with his tongue, he rubs my clit for a couple of minutes, and then sticks his finger in and out of me until I’m wet. Once he feels my juice, he gets on top of me and pushes it in.
It’s over in about three minutes.
My nightgown never hits the floor. It’s just raised up a bit to accommodate the act. When we were younger, there had been lots more kissing and touching, but it’s been years since our weekly sex has been more than a perfunctory act.
I wanted—no, I needed—some excitement in my life. And that’s how I came to be naked in our bed and about to be naughty all by myself.
I slid down and rested my head on the plump, feathery pillows. The cool sheets against my bare skin felt smooth and sexy, and my nipples hardened as the silky fabric slipped across my chest. I began to massage my breasts, beginning at the widest part of the base and moving in to the centers. Throwing the top sheet off me, I watched my nipples perk up and felt arousal building in my belly. I rubbed and pinched those pink nubs until they stood up hard and straight. My hips lifted off the bed in response to the yearning I felt between my legs.
I licked the fingers of one hand and traced them down my neck, between my breasts, continuing lightly over my skin until I reached the tiny pink knob peeking out through my trimmed pubic hair. As I circled over and over that sweet spot, my hips began rocking in a rhythmic motion.
I spread my bent knees as far as I could and plunged my fingers down into my aching opening. I was so wide open, even three fingers couldn’t fill me. Now it was time to test my new toy. I took my free hand off my breast and felt around beside me until I felt the cold plastic. I cupped it in my hand, wrapping my fingers around the girth, and moved them up and down its length. When it was warmed, I flicked the power lever to the first setting and heard its low, buzzing hum.
I spread my wetness over my folds with my fingers and circled my clit, groaning with pleasure as my internal contractions increased. I touched the vibrating head to my widened opening and gently pushed it in an inch or two. I tightened myself around it and slowly pushed it deeper and deeper. It was fatter than Mark, and the extra girth felt good, but the plastic was hard and a little uncomfortable. I turned the speed up a notch, hoping the increased vibration would lubricate me or at least maximize the pleasant sensation.
I forced myself to lie still as the pressure inside me mounted. It had been a long time since I’d felt aching desire, and I wanted it to last. I slid the vibrator in and out in long, slow sweeps and felt my juice leaking out and down my legs. When my hips began to rock again, I couldn’t stop the motion.
I turned the power to max and lost control as I pushed and pulled my toy in and out, faster and faster. My hand was shaking so hard, the vibrator jumped out of my grip on an outward slide and landed on my clit. I shrieked with the stab of pleasure that followed.
I was aware of a gushing between my legs as I grabbed hold of the vibrator and pushed it deep within me, tightening my muscles around it until I felt my insides buzzing. Lifting my hips up, I pulled it out, then shoved the entire length back in to the max with a single thrust. I felt an explosion like none I’d ever known, and I’m not sure what happened next.
I remember lying back on the mattress, limp as a rag, and breathing in short deep gasps. The buzzing device was still in my hand, and I idly ran it over my clit until I felt the rhythmic contractions start all over again. I was thinking that I could stay there all day, and that’s when I heard Mark coming in the front door. A quick glance at the clock told me it was six-thirty. Had I been at this for almost two hours, or had I passed out at some point?
With no time to ponder the possibilities, I jumped up to shut our bedroom door and quickly pulled on my clothes. Turning to the unmade bed, I saw the vibrator snaking around, still going, like the Eveready Bunny. I turned the thing off, shoved it under my pillow, and pulled the quilt up.
“Jen, where are you?”
I could hear Mark coming up the stairs and knew he’d be bounding into the room in another instant. The door swung open, and I held my breath, standing next to the bed, quite sure I looked guilty.
Mark barely paid any attention to me as he systematically took everything out of his pockets and placed them neatly in the basket on top of his dresser. When he finally looked up at me, I was still standing there, trying to gather my wits about me.
“Are you all right? You look like you’re surprised to see me.”
“I’m fine. Don’t be silly.” I smiled and walked over to give him a peck on the cheek. “I was about to go downstairs to get dinner ready.”
Mark took a closer look at me. “Your hair is all messed up, and you’ve got mascara smeared on your cheek. What’s going on, Jen?”
“Oh, all right. You caught me. I was taking a nap, and I guess I overslept. That’s why I look afright. You woke me when you came in.”
“You’re sure you’re not feeling sick? It’s not like you to fall asleep in the middle of the day.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all. It’s nothing.” I smiled again to reassure him. “I guess I’d better go in the bathroom and clean up.”
“Yeah. How long before dinner?”
“Mmm, I guess about forty-five minutes to an hour. Why?”
“I think I’ll watch the news and check my email then. Call me when dinner’s ready.”
I nodded, happy for a chance to hide my purchase when he went downstairs to the man cave he built in what used to be our garage. He had his computer and his widescreen television down there, which suited me fine. Mark loved to watch sports, and I hated the noise of it, so having the room away from the rest of the house worked out well. He and our son spent lots of time together in there on the weekends watching college and pro ballgames. With David away at the University of Florida, Mark seemed a little lonely for company, so I sometimes sat with him, but it was no fun for either of us.
When I heard him close the door to his lair, I quickly grabbed the vibrator from under my pillow and moved it into a shoe box in the closet. I looked at the device longingly, but I felt sad. Yes, it got me off like nothing had before, but there was no passion or emotion attached to an object. I was going to need more than a joystick to fill the emptiness in my life.