[This is part VI of our ongoing story "Revealing Miranda." If you missed part V, it's alive and well and living in our archives. You can click on the link below to read all the previous episodes. But to get you started, here's where we left off last week:

<<I'm in the bedroom, opening and closing drawers, starting to get dressed, when I suddenly hear voices. I peek out the screen of the sliding balcony door, and I see my wife Vicki and our gardener Miranda sort of pacing around each other in the grass outside the pool area. Very odd. I'm half naked, but I go closer. I'm pretty sure they can't see me because of the screen. I can't hear a thing, but something about the way they're circling each other makes me nervous. I keep coming back to the door as I'm getting dressed. I can't make out the words, until suddenly, sharp and loud.

"What do you mean you fucked my husband!" Vicki hollars.

Oh, god, I'm thinking. My life is over.>>

And now for part VI:]

Suddenly, everything's confusion. They're yelling. Vicki's repeating herself, getting more and more shrill. She's chasing Miranda. "You little slut!"

"He wanted me!"

"You bitch!"

I want to shrink, to sneak out the front door and drive away. But I'm transfixed at the door watching from the shadows. Vicki slaps Miranda in the face. "How can a slut like you live with herself?" she shouts. As Miranda is backing up, Vicki reaches out and grabs Miranda's hot pink bikini strap and yanks it down. One breast, the one with the nipple ring, flutters there, exposed. Miranda screams and tries to run away, but the pool chairs -- she falls over one and Vicki is on top of her with her hand inside the pink bikini pulling it outwards stretching the material to the breaking point -- Miranda is backwards and off balance.

"You're a crazy bitch!" she yells at my wife as Vicki's yanking finally tears away the bikini top and Miranda's lovely bronze breasts drop free and she's half naked in her tight tennis shorts. Miranda tries to crawl away, now, over the pool chair, trying to get away from my wife. Vicki grabs the elastic waist band of Miranda's shorts, and as Miranda tries to escape, my wife is pulling the shorts down Miranda's hips. Miranda is caught with her legs in the air, holding herself up with her bare arms, my wife struggling and yanking the shorts down Miranda's thighs, and in no time off her feet, stripping her entirely. The girl tries to stand, Vicki bearing down on her. Miranda runs into the grass, naked, her breasts bouncing, her buttocks rippling. She realizes she's heading toward the fence and turns back, right into my wife. I get a good glimpse of her quivering tits, her sweet black bush, her lush lips, her nervous pin point nipples. I'm just looking, enjoying the nude, like I'm in an art museum, when Vicki suddenly pounces on top of her, screaming, "I'll rip that ring out and tear your nipple right off you!"

I never knew my wife could go animal like that. I never knew she was so strong or fast. It suddenly occurs to me that if I don't do something, we could have violence. Police. Law suits. I'm frantic. I run down stairs. I'm not thinking at all. I run out doors.

When I get to them, my wife is lying on top of the gardener's chest, holding her bare arms to the ground. Miranda's legs are thrashing. I'm trying to sneak up on my wife, but I can't help looking between Miranda's legs, watching to see if it will open, you know, and I'll catch a glimpse of her stuff while she's thrashing. Can't hurt to enjoy the view, I tell myself.

"I wondered if you'd come to rescue me," Miranda says.

What's wrong with her, I think. I'm trying to catch Vicki from behind.
My wife turns. Her face is twisted, sweaty, kind of hysterical, and she's heaving, lying over top of this naked girl, crushing her with her fat rounded bosom. I felt like I'd just jumped over a cliff. Panic.

And of course I stay turned on, too, bastard that I am. Who can control a hungry dick? Oh, damn. So turned on, because Vickie has stripped the gardener naked, has her pinned there on the ground, chest to chest, the gardener's shapely legs spraddled wide, kicking helplessly, the soft fur of her bush peeking out, vulnerable. Even as I'm dreading what Vicki will say or do, I'm envisioning taking advantage of the gardener's spread -- I could slide into that tuft, into the dark . . . I could open her up, so smoothly.

I am thinking how I could possibly stand life without my marriage, without Vicki, but while I'm thinking this, I'm picturing, almost feeling, my cock easing in, drawing out, easing in, drawing out, making the gardener's pussy juice trickle, feeling it go wet down her thigh.

"Vicki," I say all hushed and out of breath. "Don't take it out on her. Please." But part of me revolts wildly -- I want to say, "it's all the little cock-teaser's fault." And I also want to fuck her. I'm surprised there's any gentleman left in me to spout "Vicki, don't." Perhaps it's no gentleman at all, only the black fear, the thought of a future without my wife.

"So tell, me, Mr. Big Boy," Vicki says in a tone I've never heard before. A strange, hot, near hysterical tone. "What did you do to this pussy with your big dick? Did you fuck it hot and hard?"

"Vicki, please. Don't let's do this," I say. I keep the business manager, the tone of control, out of my voice. I know a certain amount of groveling has to happen if Vicki's ever going to forgive me, so I'm like, let's get on with it.
"Let me up!" the gardener shrieks.

When she tries to wriggle free of Vicki's superior weight, the flesh of her girl thighs moves so supplely I want to see Vicki sink her fingers into it. Am I whacked? I envision my wife's arm going wrist-deep in pussy.

"I want to hear you say it," Vicki snarls at me. Her voice is so deep and rumbly. I've never heard it like this. "Tell me what you did to her hole! I'm going to make you say it. That you fucked her."

It sounds crass, coming from Vicki that way, and you know what? My fucking dick is beating upward like a well machined drawbridge.

"Vicki, please. Let's talk this out just you and me. Let her go."

"Did you fuck this filthy thing?"

Vicki is pointing at the gardener's twat, her finger very close. I think the finger might just go inside, into the hole. I want that. I start wondering, is it wet?

"Did you?" Vicki says.

She's holding open the lips, now. My god. I'm hot and ashamed. I'm afraid and I'm thrilled. My god. Vicki pushes the finger in. Pulls it out, pushes it in.
"Is this what you did?" she says.

At this point I wonder why the gardener doesn't shove away. She could do it now, I'm sure. But she's letting Vicki invade her. She's even more of a slut than I thought. But never mind. I'm there, mesmerized by Vicki's assault, by the finger fuck. My impressive, fleshy wife, assaulting the pink cunt of a young, spread-eagled chick. I'm mesmerized speechless.

"Say it," Vicki snaps.

"OK, Vicki. I fucked her," I say. "I'm not proud of it. God, I'm so not proud of it."

"Did you bite her titties?" Vicki says.

"Aw, Vick," I say. "Come on." I try to sound disgusted.

"Like this?"

Vicki clamps down and Miranda yelps, thrusts her lower back up so she's practically in backward bridge pose with the pink junk of her pussy thrust out of the dark fur. And you know what? The little tramp is wet. By god, she's wet. All sorts of cream in there, welling up at the cunt edges. She's loving this. Loves having her nipples bitten, her twat exposed, a jealous wife's breasts crushing her, a jealous wife playing with her pussy. I'm partly disgusted, and I go to take Vicki up by the arm. No, I'm not really disgusted. No, not at all.

"Get off me," the girl says dully.

"Show me what you did to her," my wife says to me.

I go to take Vicki's arm, half heartedly. Vicki dodges by going lower and growling at Miranda's ear.

"Open up your cunt, bitch, so my husband can show me what he did to you."

"OK, Vicki, that's enough," I say, timidly touching her arm. Brute conscience has me trying to stop Vicki all while I'm drinking in the sights like a lush. Sights, sounds, smells, oh. But I also don't want Vicki to go shrieky on me. I'm a torn man.

[Next week, the conclusion...]