Eight Days A Week

by Harddaysknight

Copyright© 2006 by Harddaysknight

Humor Sex Story: Any day can be a bad one and this husband is having a very bad day!

Caution: This Humor Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Humor   Oral Sex   .

My wife, Theresa, worked for a local dental clinic. She had Wednesdays and Sundays off. Over the years I had moved up the ladder at my company and had recently achieved the position of vice president. I couldn't help but notice that it seemed like the higher I rose and the better my title; the less I actually had to do.

I had returned to the office from lunch and realized I really didn't have much of anything on my desk. I had a good team under me and I trusted them enough to delegate the work I was responsible for having done. It wasn't rocket science. Just hire the right people and pay them enough to keep them loyal.

As I paced across the office for the hundredth time, it occurred to me that it was Wednesday and Thersa should be home. Why be a vice president if I couldn't leave a little early from time to time? I told my secretary I was leaving and to call me on my cell if I was needed. I jumped in my SUV and headed home. As I drove I thought about how surprised Theresa would be to see me. In my 19 years with the company, I hadn't come home early more than three times, and then it was because I was so ill I could barely stand.

As I approached our house I noticed a strange car in the driveway. As I pulled in behind it I gave it another glance. It was one of those ridiculous, in my opinion, Mini Coopers. Theresa had expressed more than a passing interest in them, but I would rather be seen in one of those new VW bugs, and I hate them. I casually wondered who was visiting as I opened the front door and listened to determine which room Theresa and the visitor occupied. I heard nothing.

As I moved through the downstairs, I detected slight sounds from the upstairs bedroom area. I began to get a bad feeling as I ascended the stairs as quietly as I could. I even remembered to step over the fifth tread, which always squeaked. It became obvious the sounds were coming from the master bedroom, and it wasn't me making the sounds! In my house, that is a real problem.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar and I crept closer and peeked into the room. What I saw immediately became etched into my brain forever. I could see a medium sized guy's backside. He was totally naked. He was obviously getting a serious piece of ass. I could make out Theresa's legs wrapped around his waist with her ankles locked together. With the door only opened a crack, I could not see any more, nor did I have to see more! I pulled back and leaned against the wall, fearing I was going to either upchuck my lunch or feint dead away. As I tried to steady myself, the bastard slamming my wife started talking.

"You like my big cock, don't you slut?" he demanded. "Hubby doesn't fuck you this well, does he, slut? After I fill your nasty pussy, you'll clean my cock and suck it hard again, won't you, whore?"

Theresa would never allow that sort of speech, especially directed toward her. That much I knew. Then I heard her moan her agreement! How could the woman I knew so well do this to me? In my house? In my marital bed? With some shit-mouthed ass-wipe loser? My first instinct was to rush in and beat the shit out of the guy and then slap the hell out of Theresa.

My anger scared me. I had always been able to keep my emotions in check enough to avoid legal problems. This was one time when I was willing to face the music. Then I considered my 2 kids and my job. When I tossed her cheating ass out on the street, she would want half of everything. If I wound up in prison, I would surely lose my job and she would have everything! Somehow my brain started to function and I realized I could always find the prick and kill him and Theresa wasn't going anyplace if she thought I didn't know her dirty damn secret.

I felt I had two options. I could accept Theresa's unfaithfulness and hope it would eventually end, or I could exact some sort of vengeance. The proper choice has been debated since Adam and Eve, but I had no moral dilemma making mine. I needed time to plan. I left the house as quietly as I had entered, copied the fucker's plate number, and got back in my car. Then I did what any normal guy would do when concentration and clear thinking were tantamount. I drove to a local watering hole.

Everything is much clearer and answers are so much more obvious in direct proportion to the number of beers I drink. I had four beers in the first hour and oddly, they didn't help, so I had a few more. It was the strangest thing. I didn't even get drunk. I just got mad. Then I got morose. Then I felt totally, completely alone.

As I sat there thinking about Theresa, I realized she had come to infiltrate every part of my being. She had been the thing that had made me complete. I couldn't blow my nose or wipe my ass without thinking how she would want me to do it. I succeeded at work largely because she had always pushed, prodded, and encouraged me to want better and to feel I could do better. She had made me feel confident and equal to any man.

The bitch had been so sneaky about it! I never actually realized she had been making me dependent on her. She was like a drug. I had always told myself I could quit any time, cold turkey. The truth was; I was addicted... to a goddamn cheating whore! Could I get a patch or something to help me kick the habit? Was there a half-way house I could use? There was probably some support group someplace where I could stand up, tell my name, and then admit I was addicted to a slut. That scenario was way too embarrassing and I quickly dismissed the thought.

I sat there and tried to think of a solution. It had to be one where the guy fucking Theresa died after his balls were crushed and then ripped from his body. Theresa had to somehow be made to feel that losing me was a bad thing. I could never physically hurt her in any way. I knew that with a certainty that prevented any contemplation of such an act. Even after what I had seen, I realized I would walk straight into hell to save her from harm.

That was the part that pissed me off so much. She had me! She had insidiously taken control of my soul. Maybe she was some sort of witch or something. I was bound more surely than if there were chains attached to my arms and legs. How the hell had it happened? Why hadn't I seen some warning signs that my will was no longer my own? Shit! I didn't even see her affair coming. I was as happy as a pig in shit, and I thought she was, too.

It became obvious that the revenge angle was not going to be simple. She could not have any real feelings for me to do this. If I killed myself she would laugh all the way to the bank. I had no real hold on her, so I was unable to make her suffer.

That was when the beer finally kicked in and clarity flowed into my brain and dissipated the fog. Revenge didn't have to be immediate to be enjoyed. Quite the opposite! It would be so much sweeter. That was when the single dumbest plan ever devised for vengeance was born. I started grinning as I realized that the brilliance of my plan was the very simplicity of it.

I decided to become the perfect husband, friend, lover, and partner. I was going to get a death grip on her soul, just like the one she had on mine. She would need and depend on me so much; it would actually hurt her when I tossed her cheating ass to the curb. I realized it wasn't the conventional wisdom for revenge on a cheating whore wife, but maybe no one ever thought of it before. I would probably be able to write a self-help book and make a fortune after I was finished.

Feeling rejuvenated, I paid my tab and headed for the door. Beer was my friend and it had come through for me again! Some jackass had placed a table right where I was trying to walk and I went ass over tin cup. After I picked myself up and assured the concerned bartender I was fine, I again headed out.

My mental clarity didn't extend to my extremities, which had lost most of their feeling. The drive home was long and difficult. I got lost once in the two block stretch from the bar to the house, but I eventually sauntered into the house, ready to begin my devious plan.

"Joe, are you okay?" asked Theresa.

"I am quite well, thank-you, Darling. Why do you ask?" I smoothly countered.

"Oh, there a couple things, Sweetheart," smiled Theresa. "Your shirt is ripped and the ass of your pants is filthy, there is a bruise on your cheek, you are three hours late, and you are all shit-faced."

Damn, this was going to be harder than I thought! She was good, very good. My mind raced as I thought of ways to be the perfect husband.

"Would you like me to take out the garbage, Sweetie?" I asked.

Theresa gave me an unfathomable look.

"Would you rather we go to the mall and shop for some new outfits for you?"

She began to stare at me like I had three heads.

"How about we try to get some tickets for the ballet?" I quickly added. I knew she loved that.

"How hard did you bang your head, Joe? Sit down here and let me look at that bruise," Theresa insisted.

Shit! That was how she had taken control of me in the first place, being all concerned and caring. I slumped into the chair.

Theresa went to the sink and wet a cloth and wiped my face as she examined me closely. Her touch still gave me goose bumps. Her face had a few lines, but I realized she was more beautiful than the day I married her, and she was really hot then. She had gained a few pounds, but it only added to her feminine charm.

I felt my cock stir as I watched her move around me, checking my scalp and face. I reached out and ran my hand over her round ass. Had it always been so firm and tight? Why hadn't I noticed sooner just how sweet it was? My cock began to throb.

"I learned years ago that if a man gets banged on the head and develops a hard-on, called a priapism, or something like that, he likely has brain damage," suggested Theresa. "Let me see if you have a woody, Joe."

She slid her hands down into my pants and found a raging erection. Quickly, Theresa pulled her hand back and reached for the phone.

"I am going to call the ambulance, Joe. I think you may have a head injury. You are very hard down there and it worries me," she admitted.

My plan was fucked up already! Going to the hospital because of a hard-on seemed really stupid! I stood and took the phone from her hand. I remembered how she had her legs wrapped around some dude earlier that day and my plan dissolved. The beer was wearing off and the anger was returning.

"I thought a little slut like you would think of something better to do with a hard cock," I snickered.

"What did you say?" asked a stunned Theresa. "What did you call me?"

I am six foot and weigh in at 185 while Theresa is two inches over five feet and never gets up 120 pounds. I just picked her up and headed upstairs to the bedroom.

"Joe, you aren't well! We need to get you to a doctor," she pleaded. "Don't mistake an erection for being horny!"

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