A Cheating Wife Story – I fucked Jimmy Brown’s wife

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A Cheating Wife Story


Black Jack Steele

My name is Steve Simpson, and I want to tell you about my friend, Jimmy Brown?

“Woohoo!” yelled the young cowboy as he stood in the doorway of the Uranus Lawn Bowls Club, waving his hat over his head. I’ve ridden her to a standstill and have established a new personal best. Woohoo!”

It was just before ten o’clock on a Friday night, and the place was full.

“What are you talking about?” one of the club’s patrons asked.

“I’ve been fucking Jimmy Brown’s wife since ten o’clock this morning, and I’ve cum in her and on her seven times since we started. That’s a new record for me; a fact I’m sure she’ll support. Unfortunately, she can’t speak on my behalf at the moment because she’s over in my caravan park cabin and she’s out for the count.”

The attention of all the club members was on the flashy young braggart, so no-one noticed one of their number disappear into the men’s dressing room and slip out through the rear door.


Every town and village throughout Australia usually has two things: a community swimming pool and a lawn bowls club. Smaller or poorer communities may only have one of those facilities. Whether it is a swimming pool or a bowls club will often depend on how many kids live in the town and the general feeling of the parents of those children towards them.

With my experience of that particular town — I had the misfortune to be based there, with plans to stay for three years — I’d say that the vote would have gone towards the bowls club option. Most of the parents I’d had anything to do with during my stay, didn’t give a rat’s arse about what their kids got up to or who they got up to it with.

Being one of the more affluent towns in the southern New South Wales region known as the Riverina, Uranus had both a swimming pool and a bowls club. It also had a hotel. The trouble was that the publican, Pat Ryan, was a cranky old prick who wasn’t known to be a people person. Go figure.

His wife, Sioborn, though, was his complete opposite. She was one of the nicest people you would ever want to meet, and she put on an excellent meal in her dining room. Unfortunately, even her enviable reputations couldn’t counteract that of her husband.

What added to Pat’s downwards-pointing profit projections was the fact that he insisted on employing barmaids who were just like him. I’m sure it was the barmaids at Uranus’ Royal Hotel who were the foundation for the rumour that, ‘the barmaids in that part of the country have been known to eat their young’.

It should come as no surprise, then that when looking for an enjoyable night out, most of the residents of the town would head to the bowls club.

The town of Uranus sat on what was once — back in the old stage-coach days — the crossroads between four larger towns. Although small, it was steeped in history and had been a meeting place for many of the bushrangers — outlaws, to my American friends — who roamed the area around one-hundred-and-fifty years earlier. In more modern times, instead of stopping to change horses or feed their passengers, those who visited Uranus usually did so because it was on their route to somewhere else. They were simply passing through. As a consequence, Uranus was known far and wide as the arsehole of the world.

So affluent was the little town, however, that in addition to a swimming pool, a bowls club and a pub, it also had a large man-made lake and a caravan park.

The caravan park sat alongside the lake, and its owners — the local council — had installed four new, two-bedroom cabins so that those travellers who did decide to stay, would have somewhere comfortable to spend the night. The cabins were also used by members of the local farming and grazing community — the squattocracy — when they’d stay in town.

The squatters formed the membership of the town’s ‘other’ social organisation; the exclusive and secretive Uranus Lawn Tennis Club. When they’d decide to stay in town after a function or during a weekend-long tennis tournament, they’d stay in the caravan park cabins. There was probably no foundation to the rumour that they were not averse to sharing, and that they’d been known to squeeze somewhat more than the normal bed capacity into those cabins on such occasions.

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