O'scouries Valentines Wife

by scouries

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Teenagers, Consensual, NonConsensual, Heterosexual, Cheating, Incest, Father, Spanking, Rough, First, School, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: 33 yo happily married man suspects his wife. Story flashbacks to their college romance and then forward to Patrick O'Scouries discovery of her secret sex diaries. Raped as a teen, Vikki has entered every one of her sexual trysts in her diaries. And who really fathered the girls?



February 14th 2008, Valentines Day

I watched her through hooded eyes as she slipped into the bedroom, and then tried to control the grin I felt growing on my lips when I saw what she was wearing.

Fuck, she's still capable of giving me a hard-on I thought as I watched her full, round breasts moving under the diaphanous, ivory colored, silk babydoll she was wearing. To her husband of fourteen years her already hard, dark pink, half dollar sized nipples indicated her excitement, the wetness I knew I'd find when I explored through the trimmed triangle of blond pubic hair that highlighted her sex.

"Wake up sleepy head," she whispered in my ear even as one of her hands lightly touched my nipple, actually tweaked it before she moved it lower.

Christ after all these years together she can read every nerve in my body I thought as I felt her tongue probe wetly into my ear. I was already hardening, lengthening when she closed her soft palm around my penis.

I groaned, then arched my body in a languorous stretch before I opened my eyes slowly.

"I know you're awake," she accused in her sexiest voice.

"Do you?" I asked my ex-wife. Mind you she didn't know yet that her status had changed from loving wife to ex. Today was the 14th of February 2008, St. Valentines Day, the day for lovers, the day I was going to tell her her new status. But before I did I was going to sample the charms of the unfaithful bitch for one last time.

"Daddy's cock is so big today," she whispered huskily, "does daddy want to put his penis in mommy?"

"Suck it," I ordered her harshly, then put my hand on the back of her head and slowly forced it down toward my straining prick.

"Is this my Valentines candy?" she asked leering, then she stuck out her tongue and flicked a drop of cream from its tip.

"Jesus," I moaned as my hips involuntarily tightened, lifting my ass from the sheets.

"Daddy's big lollipop," she said between licks of her moist tongue that trailed wetly from the thick base of my shaft right up and over the ridge that separated my prick's Valentine heart shaped cockhead from the piston that supported it.

"Suck it bitch," I ordered as each of my hands grabbed a handful of her long, silky blond hair.

The slut still hadn't realized that something was wrong, that within an hour her world would be turned upside down. I let my eyes rove over her still stunning thirty-three year old body as her head bobbed in my lap, making me wonder for just a second if I'd made a mistake. Because, even after all the crap I'd silently endured for the last eight months, I knew I'd always want her. Fuck that, I thought as I tightened my grip on her hair and violently pulled her head off my cock.

"What baby? You don't want to cum in mommy's mouth today?"

I simply threw her to her back and rolled on top of her, then drove deeply between the engorged lips of her cunt in one brutal push.

She cried out in protest at the attack but was ready when I made a second and even deeper thrust. She had her ankles locked behind my back by the time I'd pumped my prick into her for the fifth time, then was moaning, urging me on as I started to rhythmically pound inside her.

"Slut ... bitch ... cock sucker," I yelled as my orgasm approached, language which just seemed to excite her more.

"Hurry baby ... HURRRRY ... I'M READY," she suddenly screamed as her back stiffened and arched off the bed.

And then it didn't matter what I thought of her. The sudden tightening, then the first release, almost painful but also euphoric, then feeling my sperm as it hurtled down my shaft and then splashed violently deep into her vagina. And then again ... again ... fuck again ... Her cunt was tight around him, pulsing as I bucked my creamy spunk into her.

I finally rolled off her, lay panting on my back, gasping, my anger almost drained from me.

Still hungry the bitch straddled me, her now bright pink, exposed sex leaking cum down onto my stomach. She threw her head back and yelled, sending her long blond hair swinging in a wild, mesmerizing dance. "Giddee up big boy, mama's in the saddle now, show me what you got," she urged as she slapped my butt like a jockey might whip his steed towards the finish line.

Looking up into her face for a second I saw the face that had seduced me so easily so many years before. Two babies and fourteen years later she could still pass for the coed I'd fallen in love with.

I saw her for the first time on September 14th, 1993, fourteen and a half years ago. We'd both been eighteen years old.

She was one of those rich girls, the daughter of a Wall Street tycoon— I was the son of the Irish working class, I'd needed a scholarship.

I was a virgin — she, it turned out, wasn't.

Both freshmen, we'd been on campus just seven days...

September 14th, 1993, Middlebury College, Vermont

It was just one of those Freshman Week social gatherings, a party that had brought together half of our class to meet and mix. A class that was made up of the sons and daughters of the ruling class with a few scholarship students like me thrown in. They didn't take us because of our brains — hell the school had a good enough reputation that if it wanted to it could fill itself up with just smart, rich kids. No, the working class kids like me (and the token Latinos and Blacks) were wanted to expose these private school kids to the kinds of people they'd rule for the rest of their lives.

I'd been asking myself all week why the hell I'd enrolled at this snotty college filled with little snob bitches and preppy assholes. That is until I saw her!

It was her blond hair that had first drawn my attention that night, swinging like a golden halo around her head as she turned from one rapt Middlebury boy to the next. Although surrounded by these fawning, potential beaus, I could see at a glance that even in this company she was someone special. It wasn't just her beauty (and she was beautiful), nor the way she was dressed, nor the regal way she carried herself. She had something else, a sexual charisma that effortlessly drew the eyes of every boy in the room. And it was clear to me as I watched her that she was aware of her power and would readily exploit it. She pissed me off even as she excited me.

I found myself grinning at the way she played the crowd around her even as my virgin penis hardened in my pants. And then she looked up and caught me. Just for a second I caught the question in her eyes, 'what's he laughing at' before she dismissed me and flicked her eyes back to the group around her.

An hour later as I stood waiting for a beer at the bar I felt an elbowing nudge in my back and turning my head found my blond friend.

"Oh sorry ... I didn't see you," she said imperiously as she slipped in front of me. Then she looked me up and down, a slow appraising glance that was exceedingly rude coming from a classmate and someone my own age.

Fuck her I thought. "Yeah, I did read that you had trouble seeing ... I think they said you had suffered some rare childhood ocular disease," I said as I lightly nudged her aside and put my arm on the bar.

"What? You read about me? Where?"

"Yes ma'am," I said as I turned towards the bartender and signaled to him with my finger.

"Ma'am? I'm a student ... here ... at Middlebury you imbec..."

"Nice try miss ... I saw you giving your autograph to those guys," I interrupted without looking at her.

"I'm a freshman ... in Hopwell," she insisted, referring to a residence on campus.

"C'mon, I know you're Miss August ... I saw the picture spread." I said as I turned and let my eyes zero in on her chest.

"WHAAAAAAT!"

"But you don't look that bad in clothes either ma'am ... are you here promoting some product? Beer? Are you giving out condoms?" I asked as I slowly ran my eyes up and down her curves.

"I'm a student you dolt ... from New York City ... Manhattan ... you have heard of it haven't you? My name is Victoria Penelope Smyth-Worthington. I'm in Fine Arts!"

"Is that your stage name? Could you sign this napkin for me," I asked feigning a boyish, leering enthusiasm.

"Do you even go to this school? What's your name?" she asked in a tone that the most officious Dean of Students would have trouble matching.

"O'Scouries ma'am, Patrick O'Scouries."

"You're Irish?"

"From Brooklyn miss ... we're sorta neighbors. You can call me Paddy ma'am," I offered with a smile.

She sneered at my suggestion that we could possibly be neighbors, she looked as though she doubted we were from the same planet. "You're a student here?"

"Can I call you sometime?" I asked, ignoring her question.

Stopping, she turned her head and asked, "Call me what?" She'd had a funny little smile on her lips when she'd spoken but it was her eyes that captured me, the challenge in them clear — Do you really think you're man enough for me?

"Call you what? Yeah that is a tough one ... I mean given your weird name," I said with a grin as I turned and moved away from her and back into the mob surrounding the bar.

"My weird name?" I heard her screech at my back.


"Hi ... is this Miss Vicki?" I asked, even though I'd recognized her voice. Her number had been easy to find in the student directory.

"No it is definitely not MISS VICKY ... Who is this? What time is it?"

"Paddy ... Patrick O'Scouries," I answered.

"Who?" I just laughed down the line in answer. "The boy from the party?" she finally asked.

"You know in that Penthouse article they said you were pretty smart."

"Fuck you!" But she hadn't hung up! And I'd heard the curiosity in her voice.

"Do you know why I'm calling?" I asked.

"Because you have a sleep disorder? What time is it anyway?"

"Three fifty-seven a.m. Eastern Daylight Saving Time," I replied after checking my watch.

"You're nuts. Where are you?"

"Across the street."

"From where," she asked.

"From the Hopwell Residence for Unwed Women," I answered.

"You are?" then after a couple of seconds silence she said, "Where? I don't see you?"

"The phone box ... where are you?"

"Look to your right ... second floor," she instructed. I looked up and quickly spotted her standing in the middle of the large plate glass window. She was wearing a short little white nightie that stopped at mid thigh.

"Hi," I said into the phone as I waved up at her.

"So what do you want?" she said impatiently.

"Do you want to go get a pizza or something?"

"Are you crazy? It's the middle of the night. I was sleeping." But I'd caught the hint of amusement in her voice.

"I like your pajamas," I answered.

"Pajamas? This is a House of Versace Italian lace, embroidered chemise that I bought in Paris you twit. But I don't suppose you know where Paris is, do you Paddy?"

Twit? "Is that the town down in Texas little missy?" I snapped back.

"Paris, France you ass!"

"Throw it down."

"Throw what down?" Victoria asked and then, "Why?"

"I've never touched a garment from the House of Versaaaacee," I answered with a grin.

"So I should throw a three hundred dollar Couturier creation out my window because some hick from Brooklyn has never seen one."

"I'd also get to see you naked ... which wouldn't be all bad. Are you really a blond?"

She looked down at me for seconds without replying, then suddenly slipped the straps off her shoulders and let her nightie fall to the floor. Then she flicked on a lamp and then walked right up to the window and pushed her body against the glass. "Well?" she finally demanded.

She was definitely a blond! "I'm a virgin," I said softly down the line as the realization hit me that I'd just fallen in love with this girl

She stared right down at me, pushing her eyes into mine across the twenty yards that separated us. "Show me your penis"

"My penis?"

"You do have one don't you?" she demanded.

And so I lowered my zipper and fished around and finally pulled out my cock, which proved relatively difficult given its state of full erection.

"Do you always get hard-ons when you're on the phone?" she asked, a new huskiness in her voice.

"Only with dumb blonds," I answered as I grabbed my penis in my left hand and started to wave it.

"Are you really a virgin?" I nodded my head, then my cock. "I'll meet you at the front door in thirty seconds," she ordered, then the phone went dead.

I was waiting at the locked, glass front door of the Residence, my cock still hanging out, when she appeared on the opposite side of the lobby. Still naked! She stood watching me through the glass for seconds, her eyes flicking back and forth between my face and penis, almost as though she was trying to decide between yes and no.

"People get arrested for that," she said pointing at my cock after she'd finally opted for opening the door.

"I better put it somewhere where no one can see it then," I answered.

"Yes, I think you'd better," she agreed as her left hand closed around my shaft.

And then I, Patrick O'Scouries, an eighteen year old virgin, pulled Victoria Penelope into my arms while her hand directed my cock into the most perfect spot it had ever been. Impaled, I walked her over to the glass door where, standing up, I proceeded to pump my penis into her until, for the first time in my life, I splashed my sperm deep into a woman's pussy.

Finished, but still hard and deep inside her, her legs still wrapped around my waist, I stood smiling crazily at her.

"What are you smiling at?" she demanded, but in a tone that was more happy than angry.

"Thank you," I finally whispered.

"What? Oh ... so it was..."

"Perfect," I finished for her.

"You weren't that bad yourself ... for a novice anyway. In fact ... pretty good," she conceded.

"Do you think we could do it again?" I asked.

"I think you already are," she said, then giggled as she looked down between our bodies to where my penis was half buried in her vagina. We ended up on the couch in the lobby, both of us butt naked, me pounding wildly into her while she screamed out her pleasure. It was a miracle (or the fact that Middlebury was a rich school and had spent a fortune on soundproofing) that no one interrupted us or called the cops. I lasted much longer the second time! And I was one hundred percent sure, as I watched her panting at my side after we'd finished, that Miss Victoria Penelope Smyth-Worthington had no complaints about the Irish boy from Brooklyn.

"C'mon," she finally urged, grabbing me by the penis as she stood, "we'll go to my room." From which we didn't leave for the next forty-eight hours.

So I lost my virginity to a girl I knew nothing about, and had just met, in the lobby of a college residence in my first week at university, my first week away from home. And somehow got incredibly lucky. Or so I believed at the time.

We fell in love. Impossibly in love. Shit, I'll admit it - it was the sex at first, nothing but the sex. We were like two animals that first couple of weeks. We made love in the library, in the stacks between the high rows of leathered volumes ... on the college's common at midnight ... fucked under the shower in the women's locker room in the Athletics Center ... on a professor's desk after a Philosophy lecture ... and of course in our rooms.

We were a perfect match — it was only years later that I realized we were extraordinarily super sexed, that what we were doing wasn't just normal sexual behavior. There was no shyness, no embarrassment as we coupled. Relatively naïve by today's standards (pre Internet) we innocently tried every sexual position that occurred to us. Anal, oral, bondage — whatever popped into our heads was acted on. Enjoyed by two lusty teens.

And yet it didn't turn out to be one of those two week college flings. Yes, in many ways she was the rich bitch who I'd normally hate, but she was also smart. Somebody who forced you to think before you opened your mouth on a topic. Who'd whimper as you rode her but who'd cut you apart if your arguments lacked thought.

She was different than the girls I'd known in high school. Confident ... funny ... forever surprising me with her originality, her intellect. I fell for her hard. I'm not sure what she saw in me but she fell just as hard for me. And so as that fall passed we became both lovers and friends.

"Well, I guess I better take you home to meet the family," she told me one night in late October.

"They probably won't like me."

"That's for sure Mr. O'Scouries," she agreed with a grin on her face, "but if you think you're going to marry me without meeting them you're crazy. We'll go next weekend, everyone's going to be at the big house on the island." She'd already described the family 'house on the island' to me, it apparently was a fifty room mansion far out in the Hampton's that the Worthington clan used as a summer residence and for special occasions.

"Marry you? Who's the crazy one?" I kidded, pretending the idea had never crossed my mind.

"It'll be the luckiest day of your life," she crowed.

"Well I don't know about me but at least you'd get a normal name out of the deal ... just think, Vikkiiii O'Scouries," I said laughing as I tousled her hair.

"Hah! You'll have to take my name you nut," she promised laughing as she pushed my hand away.

And so, a week later, after much cajoling by my love, I was led to the slaughter. No, it really wasn't that bad. Yes, they were a bunch of right wing Republicans who believed that all union members were communists. And that somehow they had earned every one of the millions of dollars they controlled even though they'd inherited most of it. That the poor were lazy ... that the immigrant tide had to be stopped (even though they employed teams of illegal aliens as cooks and gardeners and chauffeurs) ... that capital punishment was absolutely necessary ... that God was white and had voted for Ronald Reagan...

But, even though everything they represented and believed in was diametrically opposite of just about everything I believed in, by and large they were a pretty nice group of people. Which is always the problem with labels — no matter their class, or religion, or color, or ethnic origin, most people are pretty nice and have much the same concerns and hopes as the rest of us.

Mind you there are real bastards in every crowd! And sixty-two year old Reginald Andrew Smyth-Worthington, who was clearly the biggest prick I'd ever met — good old Reggie, who happened to be only five foot, four inches tall, also happened to be Victoria's father. He hated me ... and the feelings were mutual.

... We visited my parents for Thanksgiving. Victoria didn't particularly like Brooklyn but surprisingly she got along well with my dad and mom.

... We each went home alone for the Christmas holidays but I was invited to spend the week after Christmas and right up to New Years at the Worthington's Manhattan town house. And I got down on my knees and asked Vikki to marry me just seconds after 1994 dawned. Sweet girl that she was she hiked up her skirt and insisted I perform cunnilingus on her before she'd give me her answer. Then she screamed out her acceptance as her orgasm washed through her.

Reggie was a tougher sell! My wife-to-be reported that I'd been called everything from a low life piece of Black Irish scum to a gold digger out to steal the families millions. Then he got really ugly!

But with her mothers tacit support and my parents backing we simply started preparations and so, on June 1st 1994, after our freshman year, both of us nineteen, we married in a much fancier ceremony than I'd have liked but a much smaller one that the usual Worthington blowout.

My daughter Abigail was born in September of that same year. We juggled married life and baby with jobs and university life. My parents helped and Victoria had various trust funds to draw on. We were happy — happy in a way only a young couple in love can be happy. Two years later we had a second daughter — Bernadette.

We both graduated in May 1997. Returned to New York City. I had an idea and started a company that filled a small niche in what eventually became the Internet boom. Slowly we prospered. Bought a larger house in 2000. Vikki, her family background an in, joined the Women's Auxiliary of the Metropolitan Museum and did other volunteer work.

We bought a place of our own on the north shore of the island in 2003 — a place just for the O'Scouries — where when we wanted we could get away from the Smyth-Worthington madness.

By 2007 my daughters were growing into beautiful and loved young girls ... my business was flourishing and offers to buy me out arrived almost daily ... my wife and I were in love ... the sex between us was still extraordinary ... we had a perfect life ... until...

June 2007

What caused it? Was there one action, one spoken word that gave birth to it? Or was it just the accumulation of a hundred small, almost imperceptible clues that had filtered slowly into my unconscious brain until finally it bubbled up as a conscious thought?

Looking back now I can't say, all I can say is that sometime last June it was suddenly there. An idea rejected by me at first ... shit, we'd been happily married for thirteen plus years ... our sex life could only be described as spectacularly successful and full.

Hell not everything was perfect with our married life — anyone who's been married as long as we had knows that there are bad days as well as good. Small arguments ... irritants ... unkind words...

But the sex had never been a problem ... never! From that first night in the lobby of Hopwell Hall, from the second my thick cock had slipped inside of her, stretching her moist, welcoming tightness, it had been perfect.

And, as the weeks had turned into months, and then the months into years, that reality had never changed. The two of us were highly sexed animals whose hunger for each other had never varied. Ten years into our marriage we still were making love every day and often twice a day. The possibility of sexual infidelity by my wife should have been the farthest thing from my mind.

But once that ugly nugget of suspicion is born it becomes impossible to ignore.

It grows ... slowly at first ... then every action, every word your partner makes suddenly takes on a new and disturbing meaning. You try and shake it off but it's always there, growing ... and growing...

Late August 2007

It took me two months before I finally acted.

He was ex-Special Forces, ex-Army Intelligence, a guy who'd left the Service of his country at forty-five and had started Briggs Security, a company that had grown over the last ten years into a regional leader in the fields of Internet Security, Executive Protection and Employee Screening. My company had awarded his company significant contracts over the years and so it was to him that I turned to when I wanted someone to investigate my wife. We weren't friends but over the years had built up a respect for each other.

"I usually don't do this kind of work," he demurred when I broached the subject on a steamy late August afternoon.

"I need someone I trust," I'd answered.

"Personal surveillance in expensive ... it can take months ... it can turn ugly," he explained impersonally.

But I finally convinced him to do it, then he spent an hour questioning me about every aspect of my personal life.

And then all I could do was nervously wait.

October 30th 2007

I couldn't read him at all as he sat down opposite me after shaking my hand. He slowly put the thick file on my desk and then looked deep into my eyes. "I'm afraid your suspicions were correct Patrick," he started. "I'm sincerely sorry."

My stomach turned as I tried to keep my pain from my face.

I listened, broken hearted, as he led me through his report. "Mrs. O'Scouries had sexual liaisons with three men over the period of surveillance," he'd started.

"THREE?" I asked unbelievingly.

"The first rendezvous that we observed occurred on September 12th, with a certain James R. Black."

"Jimmy Black?" I asked, thinking it couldn't be the guy we'd both known back when we were at Middlebury. Christ, I hadn't heard his name in years.

"Apparently he and your wife have had a relatively long term love affair," he explained as he passed over sheet after sheet of evidence. I was hardly listening.

"We have pictures ... I'm not sure if you'll want to see them," he said but then when I held out my hand he simply handed them to me. He said nothing as I flipped aimlessly through them.

"The others?" I finally asked.

"September 27th. Greg Davis ... a barman at the Big Apple Brasserie."

"A barman?"

"We believe it was just a random pickup sir ... a one time thing."

"Random ... But ... Why?" I stammered.

"We believe it was a spur of the moment thing ... she just took a sudden fancy to him and took him back to your house."

Spur of the fucking moment? Where were my daughters as she was doing her random spurring?

The third was a teacher at my daughters' school. From their eavesdropping on the lovers the Detective Agency believed that the two were meeting for the third time over the last two years.

"I don't understand," I finally murmured as the detectives narrative finally ended.

"I'm sorry sir," he responded sincerely but I couldn't help but think that behind his façade was both pity and scorn for the man who let his wife turn him into a cuckold.

After he'd left I drove out to our family weekend retreat on the north shore of the island, a retreat we'd bought four years earlier so we'd have someplace private and away from the Worthingtons, and then I proceeded to get drunk after I'd called home and told my loving wife that I'd be out of town on business for three or four days.

Do you divorce her? Kill her? Kill yourself? Become another sensational story for the Post? You better believe that I thought about it! And cried. And got drunker. And kept asking myself why? OK, I could have understood it if our sex life was shitty ... if we'd stopped doing it or something. If I couldn't get a hard-on anymore. But Christ, we did it every day, often two times a day ... and my wife loved every second of our matings ... shit, she would have to have been the greatest actress in the world if she wasn't enjoying them.

I studied the detectives report, checking the dates of her cheating against my own schedule that I easily accessed on my Blackberry. I'd been in town all three days! Knew I'd made love to her all three days. And yet I hadn't had a fucking clue.

I'd resolved that I'd have to divorce her by the time I finally got in my car and headed back to town three days later. Not immediately but soon I thought as I drove, knowing I had to decide about a hundred things before I jumped. My daughters ... money ... the company ... the houses ... fuck her if she thought she was going to get a dime out of me I said to myself as I drove.

And so my life returned to a superficial normalcy over the next few weeks as I started to plot and plan.

And then the other shoe dropped...

Xmas 2007

I found them in a shoe box (under three others) on the top shelf of the cupboard of the room my wife had spent her teenage years in. I really hadn't set out to find any more evidence — it was just an accidental discovery fueled by my boredom and curiosity.

We were spending the week after Christmas at the Smyth-Worthington's, something we'd done for the last ten years. Christmas day at home with just the four of us, Victoria, the two girls and I, then the twenty-sixth we descended on my in-laws. Not my favorite week of the year but what the hell — marriage demands some small sacrifices.

And so, on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, I'd found myself alone and bored in the Smyth-Worthington Manhattan townhouse after a variety of chores and excursions had emptied the house of the whole clan.

They were exquisitely bound in red Moroccan leather, small four by six inch books with intricate gold clasps. There were five of them. Although locked the mechanism that held them shut was clearly meant more for decoration than it was designed to prevent someone serious about it from opening them.

I didn't hesitate. Fuck it ... why should I. Just some silly, female teenage musings is what I expected. The first page had just four lines:

VICTORIA PENELOPE SMYTH-WORTHINGTON O'SCOURIES

MY SEXUAL LIFE

VOLUME TWO

AUGUST 1993-JANUARY 1996

What the fuck??? I quickly opened the other four — Volumes three, four, five, six. Volume Six ended at December 31st 2006. I stared at them for minutes before I picked up Volume Two again. I wondered where Volume One was.

Turning the page I was faced with:

AUGUST 28TH 1993

GREGORY MASON (con't from vol. 1)

Rating: 22

As it turned out the description of her afternoon with Gregory that I found on the two facing pages was quite brief. He had already made an appearance in Volume One so that much of the background on this gentleman was omitted. I figured out later that her rating system was based on a scale of one to one hundred so that Gregory's performance clearly hadn't been exceptional.

She wrote in the diary that she was glad her affair with this senior at Dartmouth was finally ending, what she'd hoped would be an exciting summer romance had turned into a series of desultory couplings in the boathouse on his fathers estate.

She then described in exceedingly blunt detail what they'd done that afternoon. Fortunately it was mercifully short.

I flipped to the next page:

MIDDLEBURY COLLEGE

SEPTEMBER 9TH 2007

PROFESSOR RICHARD HAVEN (Art History)

Rating: 56

The good professor, whom I only vaguely remembered, was described as a forty-five year old married man with a very thick but short penis. One of her professors for the coming term, she'd sought him out and somehow seduced him in about ten minutes. She performed fellatio on him and then they had penile/vaginal sex (something she abbreviated to p/v in her recaps) during which she experienced a Grade 7 Orgasm (on a scale of 1-10).

Flipping another page I arrived at yours truly:

MIDDLEBURY COLLEGE

SEPTEMBER 14TH — 17TH 2007

PATRICK O'SCOURIES

Rating: 100 - he's a god!!!!!!!

Which made me break out into a grim smile. And then I read about the night I lost my virginity from her perspective. Read what she was thinking as she'd looked down at me in the street below her dormitory window. Those first three days of us together took up twelve pages of her diary. There was a picture of my erect cock on the third page. With exact measurements for length and girth and diameter carefully noted under it. I have no memory of her taking the picture but the background was clearly her room in Hopwell Hall so she got it somehow.

At the bottom of the twelfth page she totaled up our various activities for the three days: 12 p/v's, 5 bj's, 2 ap's, pat 21 o's, me 37 o's. It wasn't hard to figure out her codes.

Then she wrote and underlined it: I think I'll marry him.

I continued to flip through the pages. The next fifteen pages were all me, each of our couplings noted, the date, where it occurred, what sexual acts we performed, a description of her orgasm, etc., etc. I was always rated between 95 and 100. Our afternoon in the stacks she rated 110%! Her orgasms were always tens.

So why did she sleep with Greg Brown? On November 13th, two weeks after we'd returned from our weekend with the Smyth-Worthington clan, after we'd started to discuss details of our upcoming marriage, Victoria slept with the captain of the hockey team. He was given only a rating of 13. He'd refused to go down on her! And, although he had an almost eight inch long prick it turned out he was a premature ejaculator. There was no explanation in her narrative of why she'd decided to cheat on me. It made no sense!

I slammed the book shut.

Then I drove to a local Kinko's and copied every page of all five volumes. Then had the originals back in their hiding place before anyone got home.

I woke up at four-fifteen the next morning! Petrified. I dressed quickly, then I grabbed the locked attaché case I'd put the copied pages in and fled the house. And after finding an open Starbucks I started to read. Trying to figure out what (and who) she'd been doing around Christmas 1993.

During the Christmas break of 1993, my wife had made love with two men besides her husband-to-be. Neither entry provided much info. One, an old high school boyfriend, was a continuation, someone she'd apparently described more fully in Volume One.

The entry for the second, referred to only as Mr. X (an older neighbor, a schoolteacher?), was maddenenly brief. Rating: 5. A non-consensual encounter during a Christmas party. And it wasn't the first time this unnamed man had raped her.

And why were these two encounters any worse than the others I'd read? Why had I woken sweating outside and screaming inside?

It was quite simple — my first daughter, Abigail, named for my mother, had been born on September 27th 1994, and now I knew that my wife had slept with two other men during the period she'd conceived her.

It had never occurred to me before that night that I might not be the father of my daughters. That someone else's sperm had impregnated the egg from which my beautiful Abigail had grown. I'd accepted the detective's report of Vikki's infidelities but had never taken it to the next step, that she'd started almost as soon as she'd met me. And too engrossed in my reading it hadn't occurred to me when I'd first leafed through her diary that afternoon.

I just made it to the Starbucks washroom before I puked up half my stomach. Then I checked the dates for Bernadette, my second daughter. Again there were other possible fathers besides myself. Including Mr. X! He'd raped her two nights running!

It's relatively easy to collect the required samples for the DNA paternity test, especially if you all live in the same house. Two thousand bucks and ten days later I knew...

And so, two weeks later, on January 9th, I sold my business to one of the three companies that had been courting me assiduously for the last year. On my threat of voiding the deal and selling to one of their competitors, it was contractually agreed that I'd have the money (forty-eight million) on February 1st but that the deal wouldn't be announced until the fifteenth. I agreed to stay on with them for one year. He money was hidden in Switzerland by the second.

I transferred the deed to our two country houses to an offshore corporation. And then called a friend who'd had dinner at our place over the holidays and who'd mentioned over coffee and brandy that if I ever decided to sell the house to give him a call. That his wife was in love with the house.

He was interested. "You can't say a word," I'd told him as we negotiated in my lawyers office. "I'm giving Victoria a new house for Valentines Day," I'd explained when he'd asked about the cloak and dagger stuff. Delighted at the idea he promised to say nothing, saying he'd tell his wife the same day — that it would be a perfect gift for her. The sale closed on February 8th with occupation given for March 1st. I'll give the cheating bitch two weeks to get out I told myself as I sent the money abroad, convinced it was more than she deserved.

February 14th 2008 Valentines Day (con't)

"Hey, pay attention you," my wife demanded as her slap on my butt brought me back to the present. I could feel the approaching orgasm building in my balls as she continued to raise and lower her hips.

I reached up and grabbed her head, pulling it down until our lips met.

"Think you're pretty good don't you," she teased when they finally separated.

"Better than you deserve," I agreed angrily.

"Fuck you buster," she chortled, then reached back and grabbed my balls just as the first strand of cum exploded up my cock. Then she squeezed hard until I almost passed out from the pain and pleasure.

"You'll pay for that," I promised as, my spending over, I shriveled inside her.

"Promises, promises," she challenged.

Then in a second I had her over my knee, her pretty little bum an irresistible invitation. My hand fell ... then a second time ... again ... harder ... harder...

"Bastard," she yelled, but without malice, thinking that this was just another one of our endless sexual variations. Her butt was beet red when I stopped, her squeals of pain still echoing around the room. But when I slipped a hand between her legs I found her sopping. Then I took her ass!

She squirmed and protested under me as I pumped my cock through her anal opening but the wetness that coated the finger I'd inserted in her cunt conveyed her real response and feelings.

"Christ, what's got into you this morning," she panted when I'd finally finished, when my sperm was deep inside her heaving ass.

"Well, it is my last day here," I said softly as I lifted myself from the bed and headed for the shower.

"You're last day where?" she asked my retreating back. She joined me in the shower within seconds and catlike, rubbed her sticky, sperm coated skin against mine. I pushed her down to her knees and then forced her head to my prick, then watched as the warm water cascaded over her beautiful blond curls as her mouth started to move on me. I came in her mouth ... deep down her throat...

Back in the bedroom, naked except for a towel I was drying my hair with, I waited for Vikki to appear before I opened the door that led into my private closet and dressing room. It was deserted except for two large leather suitcases sitting side by side on the floor. A large envelope lay atop them.

"Where are your clothes ... your things," my wife asked as she looked at the bare shelves, the empty racks and hangers.

"I packed most of them yesterday ... shipped them to my new place. Everything in my library and office too."

"Your new place?"

"I've rented a condo ... for a year ... then I'll probably move somewhere else."

"What are you talking about? We're moving to a condo?"

"Just me. And I've also sold the company but as part of the contract I've agreed to stay on with them for a year," I said calmly as I started to dress in the one outfit I'd left out.

"But..."

"I've sold the house too ... you and the girls have to be out by March first."

"What do you mean? Are you crazy?"

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