It had been a bad day all around. The car had a dead battery when I left the house to go to work. I got a ration of shit from my foreman for being late to work and thirty minutes before quitting time I cut my arm so bad that I had to have four stitches. I got home to find my wife not there and my dinner not ready which I admit is no big thing in the great scheme of life, but it was my bowling night and for the last six years the pattern was I came home to a ready dinner, grabbed my bowling shirt and split for the bowling alley getting there just in time for the start of the early league. Ten minutes after I got home Shelly came in with an arm full of packages from the stores at the mall. Normally I am a calm, quiet guy and I tend to think before I speak, but it had been a bad day and dinner not waiting and Shelly shopping was just too much.
"Damn it Shelly, I told you that we needed to watch the budget. What the hell are you doing out spending money instead of being here fixing dinner. You know it is my bowling night."
It was stupid of me and I knew it before the words were completely out of my mouth. Shelly's response was as predictable as was my response to her response. Voices got louder and the conversation, if it could be called that, got more and more heated. By the time I grabbed my bowling ball and slammed the front door behind me the temperature in the house was below freezing.
The drive to the bowling alley gave me time to realize that I had let the happenings of the day put me in a foul mood and I'd let that foul mood rob me of my common sense. I'd had no good reason to jump Shelly the way I had and over something stupid like my dinner not being ready at that. Now I was going to have to crawl on my knees to try and fix my fuck up.
The God's must have decided that I needed some cheering up and so they smiled down on me. I carry a 173 average and rarely does a week go by that I don't have a game in the high 190s or low 200s, but that night I found my grove. My first game was a 256 and I followed it with a 237 in the second game, but it was the third game that made my night. The tension mounted as I threw strike after strike after strike. I had seven in a row and my palms were sweaty as I contemplated my first ever 300 game. In the eighth frame I knew as soon as I released the ball that I was fucked. I had hit one board to the left of my spot and as I stood there and watched I thought oh well, maybe next time. But the God's were still smiling down on me. The ball came in on the Brooklyn side of the head pin, I got good pin action and all of those puppies went down. I began to think I could do no wrong. The ninth frame was another strike off of a poorly thrown ball and I just knew it was my destiny to roll that 300. Bowling out in the tenth I threw two more strikes and suddenly the sweaty palms were back and no amount of playing with the rosin bag would dry them. I eyed my spot, looked down the alley, took a deep breath and went. The approach was perfect, the release a thing of beauty and then I stood there and watched as the ball made its way down the alley. It was absolutely and without a doubt the most perfect ball I had ever rolled. It tracked down my grove, came straight in at the pocket and then the crack of the hit and pins flying everywhere and when all the action was done I stood there and stared. The fucking ten pin was still standing. The most perfect ball I'd ever thrown and it left a fucking ten pin. For an instant I was one highly pissed individual and then I remembered that Brooklyn hit from the eighth and shrugged. It all evens out. Besides, a 792 series isn't anything to sneeze at and as a consolation I took all four jackpots that night. The team retired to the bar and we celebrated for a couple of hours.
I was in a great mood on the drive home and I knew just what to do to start working my way back into Shelly's good graces. She was usually asleep when I got home, but that night I was going to wake her up. I would do it by doing what Shelly loved the most — I would eat her pussy. The house was dark when I got there. I put my bowling ball in the hall closet and quietly entered the dark bedroom. I heard Shelly's even breathing and it indicated that she was sound asleep. I undressed and pulled the sheet off her and then slowly worked her underpants down. She must have been really pissed at me; she always sleeps naked and never wears panties to bed unless she plans on denying me sex. I grinned, let's see her try to deny me when she wakes up with my tongue in her box.
I eased her legs apart and moved in to position. Her pussy smelled a little different that night and I couldn't quite place my finger on why I thought that. She was wet, very wet, when my tongue probed the folds of her pussy and she moaned and her pussy seemed to rise up to meet me. I wanted to be firmly in control when she woke up so I slid my hands under her ass and pulled her to me and then I got busy eating pussy. I heard a couple of grunts, a snort and then, "Wha... , oh, oh, oh" and hands grabbed my head and held me in place. At that exact instant that the hands grabbed my head I realized why her cunt smelled different and why she was so wet. I had just tasted the wetness and I knew what it was! She had been very recently fucked and I was licking up another man's cum!
It is hard to try and explain the thoughts that roar through your head at a time like that. The emotion is anger and rage, but the thoughts are a jumbled mess and they all run together. In no particular order they were:
-The bitch had been so mad at me that she had gone out and let another man fuck her. Then she had come home and gone to bed with her panties on to tell me that I wasn't going to be getting any pussy for a while.
- Had she done this before? I'd never know because the "no panties, no sex" was a given after we'd had an argument.
• Did she get mad and just go out and get laid, or did she have a regular lover?
• She hadn't showered when she got home. Was she getting some perverse kick out of lying next to me in bed with another man's cum soaking her insides?
• Did I really know what she did on the nights that I bowled?
• She had cum in her. Did she have unprotected sex every time she fucked another guy? Was that another kick of hers — to let me possibly raise some other guy's kid?
• Just how fresh was the stuff? How long had she been home, or had she even gone out? Had she fucked him here in our own bed?
Was it a white man's cum? She'd told me once about s fling she'd had in college with a black basketball player. Was there any truth to the "once you go black you'll always go back?"
All of that shit bounced around in my head in the time it took Shelly to go from, "Wha..." to "oh, oh, oh." The natural reaction probably would have been for me to leap out of the bed, turn on the light and scream, "You fucking whore! Who was it?"
.... There is more of this story ...