It’s a bad habit, a horrible one, worse, in some ways, than smoking or noshing on bacon as a snack or typing in my credit card number to order that latest must-have gadget when I know good and well I can’t really afford it. So, sue me, because I guess I just have some habits that are too good—I mean, bad—to ever quit. Chief among them is the one that makes me horniest. Reading my husband’s email had become my guilty, horny habit, one I just can’t give up, and I quit smoking after a 10-year, 2-pack a day habit. I remember exactly how it started, too. Pierce had forgotten his laptop at home one day and since I’m what’s known as a housewife, when he asked if I could drop it downtown at lunchime, I said I would. But I couldn’t help sneaking just one little peek at its contents.

That part was easy enough. As I watched, his inbox unfurled in front of me, full of the day’s business news, one note from his mom, and assorted penis-enlarging spam ads. But then there was one that caught my eye. The from line had a single name, Margot, and the subject line was “Moan.” Actually it was “Re: re: re: Moan,” meaning that my husband, proper blue-blooded Pierce Scotch, had been the one to start this conversation with Margot. What kind of concerned wife would I be if I didn’t investigate this?

Now, when you see a word like “Moan” and a woman with a name like Margot, what else are you supposed to think? My suspicions were confirmed when I saw his words to her. “Make sure you keep your pussy shaved like it was today. Nice and sleek so I can run my tongue all over it. Or else you’re going to get a spanking. But maybe you’ll get one anyway. I want to hear you scream for me. P”

My heart was pounding as I scrolled through the rest of the exchange. It seemed that Margot was all too willing to comply with his request, and had spent the afternoon in a soapy bathtub squeezing her nipples and shaving her sweet, delicious pussy—that is, when she wasn’t using her vibrator and dreaming about sucking my husband’s cock.

I wanted to slap the bitch across the face, hard enough to see a red handprint form. I wanted to take the kitchen knife in front of me and carve it somewhere on her body. I wanted to slam her face into our dog Jelly’s bowl of kibble. I spent several minutes letting my mind wander through a variety of increasingly violent scenarios starring the two of us that would’ve given any fan of female wrestling a permanent hard-on. But in a deeper part of me, somewhere beneath the growing layers of resentment, I wanted to watch. I wanted to see her suck his cock, wanted to compare her technique to mine, wanted to see if her pussy was...

I Spy