A Husband Imagines What His Wife Is Doing on Her Christmas Night Out With the Girls From Work

Is John’s Wife really the slut he imagines her to be?

The following is written as the internal thoughts of a husband suspicious about what his wife might get up to on her Christmas night out with the girls from work.

She’s promising to be a good girl tonight, to behave herself and not go snogging strangers.

You want to believe her.

“I promise,” she says, turning from the dresser mirror and looking at you, her eyes a demonstration of sincerity.

You sit on the edge of the bed and watch her slip into that tiny slut-cloth-of-a-dress. The red one. The one you’ve asked her not to wear.

“All the girls wear them this short,” she says.

“Girls half your age,” you tell her. But you’re not the kind of man to put your foot down, right? Chloe doesn’t belong to you. She’s a person in her own right. She can wear whatever she chooses. Get used to the idea. You’ve been married long enough.

She’s arranged to meet the girls from work in the Dog & Duck, the big pub on the high street. After a few drinks, they’ll move on to the Meet Market, that club on the old town square. The dive the local lads go, hoping to get lucky.

In the pub car park, kiss her and tell her you love her. As she undoes her seat belt, remind her to text when she’s ready for you to pick her up and bring her home.

“I will,” she promises absently. See how there are other things on her mind.

Be a gentleman. Get out of the car, open her door, and then stand and watch her walk across the car park. See how the undulations of her hips cause her tiny dress to cling to her arse, condensing the flesh beneath into something quite sublime. A phrase comes to mind: Well-packaged. Think about how well-packaged your wife is and what you would do if anyone tried to open her before Christmas day.

Watch how she sashays in those outrageous heels and how beautifully her blonde hair becomes as it catches the light from the foyer before she disappears inside. Only just out of sight, and already you suspect bad intentions. A bitch in the woods let off the leash, sniffed by all those strays.

Get back into the car, sit for a moment thinking about New Year’s Eve last year, and remember how your big sister, Chrissy, came telling tales about your beautiful wife, affecting contrition for being the messenger of bad news.

“You need to hear this,” she had said, “I always thought that Chloe of yours was a little slut. She’s no good for you, John.”

Chrissy, your big sister, the sensible one, buzzing with the scandal of it.

Remember the glint she had in her eyes before dishing the dirt? The husk in her voice when she said, “He had his tongue down her throat and his hand up the back of that little red dress of hers, squeezing her backside.” She had paused as if remembering what she’d witnessed, reliving it, then shuddered and said, “It was disgusting.”

“What was this bloke like?” You needed to know — as if it might help solve a conundrum.

“A brute of a bloke,” Chrissy had said.

But can it have been as bad as Chrissy made out? In a public place? Chrissy has always had a down on Chloe. Take anything she says about her with a pinch of salt.

The next day, remember how you had to squeeze the truth out of Chloe.

“It was just a Christmas kiss!” she had confessed. “I suppose Mr Perfect never has — have you, Mr Perfect?”

That stumped you, didn’t it? You had to think. Sure, there was Ellie, the little brunette from accounts. God! How sweet she was when she went down on her knees, sucked and swallowed everything you brewed up for her.

And so you’d forgiven Chloe; it was Christmas, after all.

Bittersweet, all the same. Fantasize about Ellie and Chloe together, taking turns sucking your cock. But you know Chloe never would. “Girls just don’t appeal,” she had said when you’d hinted that time.

But blokes! According to Chrissy, your Chloe can’t get enough of them. Don’t go back there, mate. She promised it was just a kiss. You believed her, too. Still do, right? Decide that your imagination is running away with you.

You’ve six hours to kill and no booze. Get a takeaway on the way home. Later, you can level up on Elden Ring.

Look on the bright side: she’s out of the house. No more, “Are you coming up to bed now, John.”

Later, sitting in front of the telly, waiting for her call, your imagination working overtime again.

Just about now she’ll be on the dancefloor. Think about that dress she’s wearing and how you watched her legs slip into sheer hose. You start to see all those blokes standing around watching her dancing, blokes out on the pull, all of them only too ready to take advantage of a wife as gorgeous as yours. They’ll know she’s married. She will have that air about her — easy to tell it’s her one night off the leash.

Blokes like that don’t give a shit about husbands when someone as hot as your Chloe is offering it to them on a plate. Remember how she gets when she’s had too many? Some lucky guy will have her tonight. It’s as certain as tomorrow will be tomorrow. Just think about it, mate: some lucky bloke’s birthdays and Christmases are arriving tonight in the package of your Chloe.

She’ll be outside, vaping, chatting to the guy whose eye she caught on the dancefloor. Those baby blues of hers will tell him exactly what he needs to know. She’ll stand too close to him, and it won’t be long before they kiss. She’ll be so into him. Not backward about coming forward. No messing about for Chloe; she’ll be giving him tongue as soon as their lips meet while allowing the glide of his hand between her legs.

A kiss, maybe. But letting herself be touched up. Jeez! No way. Not Chloe. A kiss, perhaps — but not that. Stop torturing yourself. Best not to go there.

Ping! There goes your phone. This will be her, out of her head and ready to come home.

CHLOE: No need to come for me. Mandy will put me up and run me home in the morning.

YOU: Please come home. I miss you so much, babe.

CHLOE: Aww. Soz. I said I would, and we’re in the cab now. Why not open that single malt you’ve been saving?

YOU: Whose Mandy?

Chloe: Must dash. Love you. X

What a crock! Get your coat and drive to the club. You might catch her coming out, if you take the by-pass

Put your foot down. Look at the speedo; you’re doing seventy through the lights.

Park on the spare ground across from the club entrance. You should be able to squeeze in between the van and the Audi.

It’s 01.30. People are milling outside the club. Look at this lot: women spilling into the street, women who should know better, shrieking with laughter, lolling against each other, their goodbye hugs and kisses, then parting and going off to find a cab.

And then the red dress and those legs. Chloe with a man. He has his arm around her waist, whisking her away. See how she leans against him, how he supports her. But are you really sure it’s her? Of course, it is. Who else would wear something as indecent as that?

Follow their backs as they go, the stream of her hair darker in this light. They pause at the corner, and you watch how he turns her, positioning her before kissing her. You want to see the expression on her face, but the light is poor just there. Oh, she wants this, doesn’t she? See how she cranes her neck while putting her palm to the back of his head to draw him closer, his lips hard to hers.

Oh, god! You’re hard. This is turning you on. Seeing her with another man is turning you on. Why is it turning you on when you should be furious? You should go over and punch him. Why aren’t you over there punching him?

You need to get out of the car and sort this out once and for all.

Walk quickly to where they stand kissing. Don’t bottle it now.

See, you dilly-dallied, and now they’ve gone. Idiot! You look this way and that. The only place they could be is down that side alley. Go see — before it’s too late.

Keep a lid on it even though what you have seen curdles your blood. But it would be a mistake not to see them — see what she might allow. Quick now, this is your chance for certainty, to watch how a man might want her, the beautiful young woman married to you.

Seeing her in another bloke’s arms excites you, and you hate that it makes you hard. But why not let it excite you, though she must never know. No one must ever know.

Hurry, you might miss it. But don’t let them see you.

At the far end of the ally, by the club fire escape, two figures in half shadows. Make your way to that inset doorway and stand a little back so they don’t see you.

They’re kissing, the light just enough for you to understand. His palms run up and down her flanks before finding her breasts. He squeezes both while she fumbles with his belt buckle, unzipping and tugging.

They break off kissing. He turns her sharply around so her back is to him. She nearly loses her balance in those heels. But he has her, steadies her and guides her hands to the railings. She needs to brace herself.

He extracts his cock before putting his hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to bend a little at the waist, to present her hips, to ready herself for his coming glory.

He lifts her skirt and folds the hem back so it rests in the small of her back, the expanse of her stark white flesh revealed.

Her knickers are around her ankles, and you wonder where her tights have gone. While you try to work it out, she parts her legs to the extent the binding silky fabric now allows. He guides his cock into her, and you have lost sight of it. You can only imagine it now. There is only the back and forth of his clenched bare buttocks shielding it from the world.

Is this who she is? Your wife, a girl who lets a stranger fuck her in the back alley of this sordid little town. If only you could watch her face, hear the words she says to him as his hips pound her.

Listen to the slap-slap-slap-slap of their rutting echoing from brickwork. When the passing traffic at the end of the alley abates, there is the sound of his panting. He’s running a race and is close to the line. And then the bull-bellow of completion as he ejaculates inside the cunt of the woman you love.

The embarrassed aftermath, the parting and shuffle of the dressing. She straightens her dress while he returns his cock to where it belongs. He lights a fag and inhales while he waits for her. Smoke rises, caught in the light of the one small lamp over the side entrance to the club, the place where they have just fucked.

He waits for her to tidy herself, pulling up her knickers and tugging down the hem of her dress to cover what it can. She has lost a shoe and has to stoop to find it. She picks it up, raises a foot and slips it on.

You watch them share one last kiss. When they part, he pats her arse and then follows her back towards the street. He walks behind her, watching as she twists and tugs gauche fabric, straightening the hem of her little red dress.

She is closer to you now, and you cannot believe your eyes: a woman not so blonde, not so lithe, her flesh more ample than your Chloe’s. Oh, God! It’s not your wife at all.

The shadows of the doorway contain and shield you. The reek of scent as they pass where you stand. You want to step out and ask her about the brand. Something like the Reek of Rawest Sex, let’s say. You would buy it for your wife, douse her with it and bring her here, fuck her like this stranger fucked a stranger, this woman who might be another man’s wife.