So you are Mary's husband, the loser, the wimp, the shrimpdick that I've heard about. Well, I've got good news and bad news for you, wimp. The good news is that until last week, Mary had been faithful to you. Faithful for five years of marriage. That's almost a miracle. That such a drop dead, knock-down gorgeous babe like Mary could have remained faithful to a wimp like you for five minutes is hard to believe. It just shows how religious she really is. And to think that a girl like that was a virgin when she got married. By the way, she told me how with your limp dick, you tried and failed several times to break her cherry on your honeymoon, and she finally had to do it for you with her own finger. Even with her religious devoutness, how could she have remained faithful to you? Of course, she really didn't know any better. You couldn't turn her on, so she figured she just wasn't highly sexed. Oh, brother!
Anyway, the good news for you is that until last week, your wife had been faithful to you. Until then, you were the only man who had ever fucked her. Which is to say, she had never been fucked by a MAN. The bad news, you can probably guess. Last week, I cuckolded you, wimp. That's right, I gave your beautiful Mary the kind of fucking she deserves and couldn't get in a million years from a wimp like you. Mary's still your wife, but she's my woman and I'm her man.
Right now, you probably think this is some incredible hoax. But if it's a hoax, how did I know about you being unable to deflower your wife? To set your mind at rest, why don't you take this letter right now to Mary. Ask her to look at what an incredible prank someone is trying to play on the two of you by sending you such a letter. Go ahead and ask her. Then you can read the rest of the letter in the proper frame of mind...
Okay, Wimp, did you show her the letter? And the minute she saw it, those beautiful blue eyes of hers dropped to the floor, and you saw tears rolling down those soft, soft cheeks, right? And finally she looked up at you through those eyes sparkling with tears, and in a voice you could hardly hear, she said, "Yes. Yes. I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry, but every word is true. God knows, I don't want it to be true, but I just can't help myself." Am I right? Right. And then you felt your stomach drop to the floor, right wimp? Oh, how I regret not being able to see your shit-eating face when Mary dropped that blow on you just now. But don't feel sorry for me. I'm getting pleasure just thinking about it, and thinking about how you are going to feel, reading all the wonderful details I'm about to give you.
First, a bit about myself. I think that's only fair, so that now that you've lost your wife to another man, you can assess your chances of winning her back. Do you think you can compete with me, wimp? (By the way, when I say you've lost her, I don't mean you won't be able to live with her. It's just that as I said above, she'll be my woman--one of my women, I should say--and I'll be her man. Her only man! And you'll be shit! At the end of this letter, I'll lay out the conditions under which you'll be allowed to go on living with Mary. They aren't conditions that any real man would consider accepting for a minute. But obviously, what a real man would do has nothing to do with what you will do. You're so attached to Mary, that she's certain you'll agree to anything, no matter how humiliating.)
To start with, I'm 42 years old. So, perhaps you think you have the advantage of youth, since you are only 34. But then, Mary's only 25, so the difference doesn't seem that great from her perspective. And I'm so much more fit than you are. You are five feet, five inches, five inches shorter than Mary. And your five feet, five inches, are composed of pure flab. Mary showed me a picture of you in a bathing suit. What a shapeless mess you are!
I am SIX feet, five inches, a full foot taller than you. Literally as well as figuratively, Mary looks up to me and down at you, wimp. At 190 pounds, I'm the same weight as you. But what a difference! You could look with a magnifying glass and you wouldn't find a speck of flab on my body. I have dark hair with just a dash of gray, and people tell me I have movie star looks. But perhaps you think I'm exaggerating... Why don't you go ask Mary to show you the picture of me in my dress suit. Go ahead, before you read any further...
Why the crestfallen look, wimp? So I wasn't exaggerating a bit! In fact, I was being modest, wasn't I? Guess what, wimp? Throughout this letter you are going to be thinking I must be exaggerating, but you are going to find out that every word is the truth. The painful, stinging truth, wimp.
Well, looks aren't everything. Let's see, Mary told me you graduated from junior college, with a degree in bookkeeping. You've got a crummy job as an insurance actuary, earning $30,000. Your chances for promotion to any significantly better job any time in your career are nil.
I went to college at Yale, got a Ph.D. in economics at the University of Chicago, and a business degree at Harvard. I finished first in my class by a substantial margin at each of those places. I then went into venture capital and hit Silicon Valley just at the right time. I think I can claim to have been a success. Successful enough, at any rate, to retire seven years ago at the age of 35, after I had made my third billion.
Not that I've completely detached myself from the world. CEO's of Fortune 500 companies and politicians in both parties are always kissing my ass--sometimes literally--because they want my help or advice on one thing or another. And I'm well known in the world of cultural affairs. Every major arts and cultural organization in the country has asked me to be on its board, though I've accepted only a select few of the positions that were offered. So when she's around me, Mary meets the most successful, the most glamorous, the most sophisticated people in the world, and she participates in conversations that you wouldn't even be able to comprehend, wimp. Now let's compare. Mary tells me your main interest in life is your bowling league. You think you are going to win back Mary's affections by impressing her with your bowling scores, wimp, when with me she meets Senators, CEOs, movie stars, and Nobel Prize winners?
Even though I keep a hand in world affairs, my main pursuit since retiring has been man's greatest pleasure: Seduction! I love the feel of women and of sex. I love the desire that women feel for me. I love overcoming them and holding absolute power over them, the sense that I am irresistible to them. And the power they give me over their men!
Now you may find this hard to believe, wimp, but I've never failed. I'll target any beautiful woman I see, and I always fuck her. Always. So I look for challenges. Virgins, of course, are lovely. I guess I've popped a couple of hundred cherries, probably more. But people who think seducing a virgin is the ultimate pleasure are wrong. Very wrong! The ultimate pleasure is being the first to seduce a married woman. Especially if she's extraordinarily beautiful. And if, out of religious or moral convictions, or love, she's never dreamed of cheating on her husband. If the idea of even thinking of having sex with another man would strike her as incredible and repulsive. In short, if she's a woman just like Mary. So seducing Mary was a rare pleasure for me, wimp, and now I'm going to tell you all about it.
Mary has told me that in order to maintain even a semblance of a middle-class lifestyle, she had to go to work to supplement your measly income, wimp. Since she's got much more intelligence and energy and imagination than you'll ever have, it's no surprise that soon she was earning more than you. And getting more responsibility. Including business travel. Of course, you never worried about those business trips Mary was always taking. There was no need to. Prim Mary, so religious and so moral and not even aware that she was married to one of the all-time wimps, would never think of being unfaithful. Well, you were right to be confident, wimp, because she never, never would have thought of it. Not until she met me, that is!
Remember that business trip she took back in June? She was part of the team trying to sell consulting services to a big city government. It was a deal in the tens of millions, and the mayor asked me to come along to give him some counsel. Since I had fucked the mayor's wife and plucked his pretty 14-year-old daughter's cherry the day before, I figured I owed him something, and I sat in on the meetings.
The meetings were dull. I could see in five minutes what the issues were going to be, and what the solutions were. It took the rest of those bozos five hours to figure it out. If Mary and I hadn't been there, it would have taken them five weeks.
I was attracted to Mary immediately. First of all, she was obviously brighter than anyone else in the room. Second, she was a babe. That silky brown hair, hanging straight down to her shoulders! Her beautiful baby blues! The softness of her skin and the sweetness of her mouth! Her neck! You know, Victorian novelists used to talk about women having beautiful necks. (Actually, you probably don't know, since it's unlikely you've ever read a novel, other than porno perhaps.) I don't think I've seen more than five women in my life who I'd single out for having a beautiful neck. But Mary is definitely one of them. Her neck is so long and graceful.
.... There is more of this story ...