“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.
.... There is more of this story ...