“Honey, I really, really want to go this time,” my wife Sarah said with a bit of an annoying whine in her voice.
“OK, why this time and not one of the last fifteen years of our high school reunions?” I responded.
“Well, there are several very good reasons to go this year. First, they are combining the class of ‘85, my class, with the class of ‘80, your class. So, for the first time we can both see our old friends. Secondly, I don’t have any classes to teach this summer, (my wife was a substitute grade school teacher) and you said your boss is after you to take some of your accrued vacation time.”
I had to think a bit to come up with a cogent and believable counter-argument. The longer I delayed, the more I was about to give in. We didn’t have any kids, not for lack of trying, but the various doctors we have been to have given us several reasons. My sperm was low mobility, and Sarah has had several bouts with infections of the fallopian tubes that left them badly scarred. Neither condition insured 100% barrenness, but all the doctors gave us less than 1 in 100 odds of having children.
My decision was really made for me. “Come over here sweet lips, and promise me that we are going to have wild monkey sex every night in the motel room, and I will take you.”
“Yessssss,” she squealed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I had said no to her for the last fifteen years or so, I really owed it to her now.
Let me give you some info on the Madisons. Sarah is more cute than gorgeous; she is a red-head with the requisite sprinkle of freckles on her nose and across her ample breasts. She watches her weight and exercises frequently to keep her head-turning figure. She is 32 now, and we were married two years after she graduated from high school. Do the math and you can figure that we’ve been married 13 years. I’m 37 which puts me at 24 when we married. My name is Don Madison, and I joined the Navy a year out of high school in ‘81 when Sarah was only a freshman in HS. I didn’t even know her then. After the Navy, I wasted a year at the Kaskaskia Junior College before I started my own business in construction. It failed after a year, but I was hired by a large construction company in St. Louis where I’ve prospered enough to give us a comfortable life.
I met Sarah while I was in the Navy, home on leave, and dated her while I was in Junior College.
I fell head over heels in love with my cute little red-head and was pleasantly surprised to find out that, when I finally got in her pants about a month before the wedding that, she was a virgin. That wasn’t to say that she was naïve about sex. She confessed that she was a “technical” virgin and told me she kept her hymen intact by being an accomplished jack-off and cock-sucker.
Oh well, in the eighties I guess that was as good as I was going to get.
Our home town was in southern Illinois about 70 miles from our present home in west St, Louis. Since neither of us had living parents, we really never had a good reason to go back to the unsophisticated, small town whose only claim to fame is it is 30 miles from Scott AFB and home to Payday candy bars. Being close to the Air Force base is why all the young men joined the Navy. Too many airmen had knocked up our girlfriends, sisters, and more than a few wives. The males in our little town really hated the Air Force.
I know that Sarah has a few aunts or uncles and maybe some cousins still living there, but hardly enough family to merit driving 70 miles on the dangerous, two-lane state highway 161 to visit.
The reunion was four or five months off, and I had pushed it out of my mind, until one day Sarah asked me if I had told my boss I need a week off in June. That started her babbling how much she is looking forward to seeing old friends and dancing at the reunion ball.
I really had but fuzzy memories of those four high school years. I guess it was because I was five years older than Sarah and had some pretty exciting experiences, sexual and otherwise, after high school. After a bit of memory jogging, I did recall a guy that would probably qualify as my best friend Mario Castilari. We were on the varsity football team together and had had a bunch of double-dates.
Mario and I were good friends. Mario’s father owned a bar just over the county line, and because of a freak of geography, the county to the south of Marion County was mostly corn fields with but one very tiny village. As a result, there was little or no law enforcement to be concerned about, like niggling little under-age drinking laws. Mama Castilari kept a sharp eye on all “her boys” and was vigilant that nobody left the bar with car keys and a snoot full.
The more I thought about it the more I was looking forward to a few cold Stag beers at Mama Castilari’s. As is often the case, when you start reminiscing about a part of your past life, more and more interconnected memories surface. I had a vague memory that Mario had a little brother in grade school when we were seniors. I made myself a note to ask Sarah if there was a Castilari in her class.
At dinner that night I off-handedly asked Sarah “Hey honey, did you have a guy in your class with the last name “Castilari?”
Whoa! I was glad I was setting across the table from her, so I had a good look at her face. She never could mask her emotions. I saw surprise, fear, and a hard effort to clear all those reactions from her face in the space of 10 seconds.
“OK Sarah, I didn’t mean to shake you up. I guess you answered my question. Now how much do you know about Mario’s little brother?”
She gave a barely discernable little shake and said “Oh Don, don’t make a big deal over this, he was a high school boyfriend. That was over fifteen years ago. I can’t even remember what he looks like.”
In my thirteen years with my lovely bride, I have come to know her idiosyncrasies very well. When she is prevaricating, OK lying, her eyelids flutter just a bit. When I first noticed that, I teased her saying she could never play high stakes poker. She got so upset, I did the smart thing and never mentioned it again. That way I had a good “tell” to know when she was being less than forthcoming.
Let me say that when I asked her about Vincent Castilari her eyelids looked like butterfly wings. This whole evolution is taking on a new aspect. I had better keep a close eye on my little lying red-head when we go to this reunion.
I do trust my dear wife, and I could swear on a stack of Bibles that she has been 100% faithful, but as the late, great president, Ronald Reagan said, “Trust, but verify.” My verification began by putting a recording bug on our home phone and a voice-activated recorder under the seat in her car. I already had full access to her email on her personal laptop. My lovely wife has many attributes, but being computer savvy wasn’t one of them. I even frequently have to unscrew her computer so she could use it. A secure password is way beyond her. I know that she believes if she deletes an email it’s gone. I never disabused her of that mis-knowledge.
The emails were the first thing that got my bile up. I had downloaded a batch of her outgoing and incoming emails that she had deleted, or thought she had. Sure enough, the first email to “Italian Stallion32” was the same day I agreed to go to the reunion. “Oh Vince, he said yes! I am so excited to be able to see you again.” There was more drivel that was typical of her looking forward to seeing an old boyfriend.” Unfortunately, as the emails flew back and forth they began to take on sexual innuendo followed by downright blatant cyber-sex. You can imagine the contents of their emails, but the one from Sarah (“Sexy_Sarah85”) that had the sentence, “Oh Vince, as the reunion gets closer, my panties get wetter. Don is getting the benefit of our emails and doesn’t even know it. Our bedroom activity has gone to a new level because when he is fucking me I dream that it is you.”
The Italian Stallion32 response was “Don’t let him wear that little honey hole out before we get together.” During our three years of dating in high school, all I ever got was a bunch of peter pulls and, if I begged, a blowjob. The first thing I are going to do is sink my eight inches balls deep in that sweet little pussy.” That really got my ire up. I was so pissed at her, I had to grit my teeth not to blow her cover and tell her no way in Hell are we going to that high school reunion. But, I knew she would just get mad at me for snooping and would find another way to get to her “Italian Stallion.”
No, this little adulterous scenario must play out to the end. I want to know just how far she will go. If I bust her now, I will never know if she really will go through with her plans to destroy our marriage.
I am so far from those dickless wimps that I have read about on Literotica who actually get their rocks off watching another man fuck their wife. I’m pretty sure Mario told me that his dad was disappointed that the “little brother” was not a football player like we were. He just didn’t have the physique. Short and scrawny is how I remember Mario describing his little brother. It doesn’t really make any difference. I boxed in the Navy and have kept my body in good shape. I could take just about anybody short of a professional extreme cage fighter. If it comes to that, I promise myself to do serious damage to little Vinnie’s face.
My plan is to keep Sarah away from little Vinnie, but if she persists in her dream of fucking him, and succeeds, I will divorce her so fast her eyelids will do more than just flutter. I am actually hoping the reunion date gets here soon because I am sick of listening to my wife talk like a love-sick teenager on her phone calls to little Vinnie and of reading their steamy emails. After I divorce her slutty ass, she can get a job at one of those phone-sex for money places.
Finally, it was time to drive the 70 miles for the combined 1980 and 1985 high school reunion. Was it a macabre coincidence the reunion was on June 6th? The date is known as the WWII D-Day or the day the allied forces landed in Normandy to bring victory in Europe. Sarah will know it as Divorce Day if things go the way she has been building up to.
To say that Sarah was excited, keyed up, nervous, and everything that indicated that she could not wait to get little Vinne between her legs would not fully describe my cheating bitch of a soon to be ex-wife.
As far as myself, I didn’t really have a plan beyond watching to see how this all played out. I did have my iPhone 6 plus charged up to take videos and stills if the opportunity presented. During the weeks leading up to D-Day, Sarah was so focused on Vincent’s dick that she all but ignored me and didn’t really try to hide her time on her computer writing sappy erotic emails and her daily phone calls to that shit-head.
After the hour and a half drive to our home town, we checked in at one of the two motels in town. Sarah immediately began getting ready. She had her new, low-cut ball gown laid out on the bed. I was a bit surprised that after her shower she walked into the room stark naked and put on her new Victoria Secret sexy bra and panties. She pulled on the dress and looked at herself in the full length mirror. She frowned and then dropped the front of her dress and took off her bra. All of this little show was without consulting me. She behaved as if I was not even in the room, and she was having an internal dialog. Apparently she was satisfied with the braless look that displayed her impressive chest to the best advantage, to say nothing of how the braless condition would allow little Vinnie easy access to those luscious globes and hard, engorged nipples.
She turned to me and impatiently said “Are you just going to lay there and leer at me or are you going to get dressed. I want to leave in ten minutes.” I had a snappy comeback about who was she dressing for, me or little Vinnie, but I choked it back, not wanting just yet to let her know I knew all about her plans to give her body to her old high school lover.
The reunion was not at the high school gym as I envisioned but at the Elks club downtown. First off, the AC was woefully underpowered to cool a crowded space with about 200 thirty-somethings dancing eighties-style dances. Sarah and I tried to dance on the crowed floor and were on the floor for about 10 minutes before going back to our table. It was almost comical to see Sarah swiveling her head around trying to find her soon to be fuckbuddy. She went to the ladies several times in her poorly concealed efforts to find Vince. Thankfully, about an hour after the dance started, Vince and Mario came in. I was watching Sarah as she jumped up and started waving excitedly to get their attention. When the two brothers arrived at our table, Sarah was unabashed in greeting Vince with a big hug and kiss that put both their tongues in action. Mario looked a bit embarrassed as he gave me a firm handshake, and we both made the appropriate greetings.
I knew Sarah would want to talk to Vince, but it was more than that. It was if Mario and I were invisible, and they were a newly married couple. They danced a lot with indecent groping and talked holding hands when they weren’t dancing. Mario and I caught each other up, and once, when the lovebirds were dancing, he apologized to me for his little brother’s behavior. I assured him it was not a surprise to me and told him of Sarah’s and Vincent’s sexy communications over the past weeks. Mario said if I wanted mess up his little pussy-hound brother he would cheer me on.
I was concentrating on telling Mario what was going on and suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen the cheaters for a while. I asked Mario what Vince was driving and was a bit surprised when he said they had both come in Vincent’s vintage 1987 Porsche Carrera 911 cabriolet (convertible). We went to the parking lot, and lo and behold, it wasn’t there. Mario said it was the only red Porsche in town, so it wouldn’t be hard to find. I told him to forget it. I was going home, and Vince could have the slut as far as I was concerned.
I left the Elks lodge and went to the motel. I realized I had had a few more beers than I thought and was too buzzed to drive the 70 miles home. After about an hour combat nap, I grabbed all my stuff, leaving her clothes and suitcase, got in the car, and headed home.
About 2AM, I pulled in my driveway and my phone buzzed. I saw it was Sarah and I ignored her. She called every 10 minutes for an hour before she gave up.
I did get a call from Mario, and he told me about what I had figured. Vincent and Sarah had parked in the Porsche and made out as much as you can in the tiny cockpit of the Porsche. He told me the love birds had a big fight. Seems that Sarah didn’t want to swallow and spit his cum out on the leather seats of the Porsche. He flew into a rage and kicked her out on a country road five miles from nowhere. When Vincent got home, Mario made sure I knew that he smacked his little brother around, and the two of them took Mario’s car to find Sarah dragging her sorry ass down a dirt road near Selmaville, about 12 miles Northeast of our home town. The three of them went to the motel, where Sarah really lost it when she discovered all my clothes and the car were gone. Mario said she tried frantically to call me and when I didn’t answer she begged me to take her home in St. Louis. “Well, good buddy, I’m sorry I couldn’t take her home and get back in time to be on the job at 7:30.”
Mario said that “Sarah cried and wailed that she couldn’t be in that little car with Vinnie for two hours. I told her the alternative was to wait for the 4:30 afternoon Greyhound to downtown St. Louis.”
Mario assured me that if Sarah had any romantic or sexual feelings for Vinnie, they are totally gone now, so he didn’t worry about any sex stuff on the trip.
I told my good friend Mario that I didn’t really care one way or the other, that she was history, and as soon as I could get my lawyer to draw up the necessary papers she could fuck anybody she chooses.
We ended the conversation with the understanding that we both knew his brother was a total asshole, and he asked me to forgive him for not having more control over the situation. He said Vinnie was a fast driver in the Porsche and should be getting there any moment. He did put in a good word for Sarah saying that she kept saying over and over like a chant “I really fucked up--I love Don so much. He’s got to take me back.”
In my mind, I was screaming FAT CHANCE. I hung up and waited for the two cheaters to pull in the driveway. I really didn’t want to be home for that event. But, on the other hand, I did want to tell Sarah to her face that our marriage was in the toilet. Since I was technically on vacation for the rest of the week, I decided to fix some breakfast and wait.
Around 11, I had the thought they might have made up and checked into a motel on highway 161 to spend the day screwing themselves silly. I puttered around the house cleaning all the pictures and knick-knacks that reminded me of Sarah and putting them in black garbage bags.
I was resting with a beer on the porch, when an Illinois State Police car pulled in the driveway, and two troopers got out and walked up to the steps.
The biggest one with the Sgt. chevrons said. “Sir, are you Mr. Donald Madison?” I told him I was. He said “Is your wife Mrs. Sarah Madison, and may I see some identification?” I told the troopers that Sarah was my wife for now and to come in while I got my billfold. The Sgt. had a funny look on his face when I said “for now.”
After examining my driver’s license carefully, he said “Mr. Madison, I have some very bad news for you. Your wife is just now being transferred from the Scott Airforce base hospital to Barnes Hospital here in St. Louis by Lifeflight helicopter. You might get in to see her in about two hours.
I just staggered back and fell on the couch. Lifeflight helicopter? What, what the hell happened?
The Sgt. pulled the ubiquitous notebook from his pocket, leafed through it, and said. “Sir, the accident investigation is not complete. but the preliminary facts are this. At about 3AM, a Mr. Vincent Castilari was driving at a high rate of speed, estimated between 90 and 100 mph, west on highway 161. He was about three miles east of the turn-off to Scott AFB when the accident happened. The proximity to the base likely saved her life. The military EMT ambulance was on scene in less than 15 minutes. Mr. Castilari and the driver of the pickup were DOA at the hospital and were likely killed instantly at the moment of impact.
My mind was swirling with incoherent thoughts. I had questions but did not have the mental capacity to formulate the words.
I suddenly realized the Sgt. was still talking. He said. “The investigators are fairly sure the accident was caused by several factors, chief being the excessive speed of Mr. Castilari’s automobile. However, it is problematic if he could have avoided the pickup that apparently lost control when the right wheels dropped off the pavement onto the shoulder. A recent heavy rain washed the shoulder away and left an 8 to 10 inch drop off. When the driver attempted to get back on the cement surface the pickup that was overloaded with a cargo of used lead-acid batteries swapped ends and continued east backwards traveling about 50 mph in the wrong lane. The Porsche struck just below the open tailgate. The force of the impact that was exacerbated by the speed of the Porsche caused many of the batteries to shatter the windshield and enter the cockpit. Apparently your wife reflexively threw her arm over her face when she went under the dash. Among her many other injuries is a broken left arm and a mangled left lower leg and foot.” Both passengers were wearing seatbelts, but airbags were not standard in the Porsche until the nineties. It is problematic if airbags would have made any difference considering the high speed.
“Mr. Madison, if you are going to Barnes, and don’t think you are capable of driving, I might be able to get a Missouri trooper to take you. We have to get back to our jurisdiction.”
“No, no, I’ll be OK. I just have some calls to make. Have you notified Vinnie’s – uh, Mr. Castilari’s brother?”
The Sgt. replied, “Yes, we have. He is making arrangements to have to have the body transported to a funeral home when it is released by law enforcement. It seems the blood drawn by the Air Force medics post mortem showed a high drug and alcohol content.”
The troopers left, and I just sat on the couch trying to gather my thoughts enough to make plans, short term and a bit of long term.
Sarah! First thing to do is go to Sarah and find out the extent of her injuries. It was as if all thoughts of her egregious behavior at the reunion and the weeks leading up to it sort of faded to the back recesses of my conscience.
I quickly showered, and dressed in better than my mope-around sweats.
After I parked the car in the hospital lot, I went to the front desk at Barnes and asked about Mrs. Sarah Madison. The receptionist gave a quick glance to the other, older woman manning the desk. The older woman--Olivia Davis on her name tag -- handed me a clipboard with about 10 sheets of multicolored forms. “If you are Mrs. Madison’s husband, we need you to fill out these forms and indicate your insurance with the company name and amount of coverage.”