Wife sharing, wife swapping, cuckolding, ugh! I'm the type of person that could never get over something like that happening to me. Unfortunately something like that did happen and the anger, hurt and humiliation from it has turned my caring, loving heart into a dead black organ of vile that now directs all its energy towards my wife.
Why she strayed, it doesn't matter. There's always a justification for our actions and if you can speak long enough on a subject, sooner or later you can convince anyone that it was your fault even if it was theirs. Like I'm the one that took her pants and panties down and placed her on that other guys cock! Quickly she admitted it, threw it in my face, laughed and walked out of my life.
The next two years I spent learning a new way of sex, a new way of relations. Perverting BDSM into an unethical twisted code, I refined my techniques with many partners and mentors. So many because once they had seen what was inside me, they quickly moved on wanting to have no part in my darkness. A few wondered if they had trained the next serial killer, others just stopped talking to me, avoided my gaze whenever we found ourselves in the same area together. Such was my repressed rage.
I attracted the real edge players. My name and reputation got around in circles, and the internet. Edgy Goths, punk rocker wannabes, tattooed and pierced freaks sought me out to see if I could challenge them, push them past their edge of comfort. I did of course. No real feeling within allowed me to be callous and cruel even by their standards. I wasn't over my wife. That would have taken a lot longer than two years if things continued as they were.
They didn't continue, of course, nothing stays the same and things change. One evening the phone rang and when I answered it, my legs gave out on me as the croaking whisper of my wife responded through the phone. "D ... D ... Da ... vid?"
I was silent, in truth I couldn't speak. My throat swelled and I couldn't breathe. I eventually mumbled my assent.
She composed herself. Something was wrong. The cocksure manner of her voice from when she strode out of my life had vanished. There was fear in her voice. She finally got to the point and wanted, no needed to see me.
Shocked and still off guard from her call, I stupidly agreed before I knew what I was doing. All a haze, before I knew it she had arranged to come over that evening after I had gotten off work.
A few minutes after hanging up, I hit myself in the head over and over again. FUCK! I said to no one in particular, what a fucking idiot I was. I didn't want to see her, at least I think I didn't. My heart reopened. The wound fresh again. How dare that bitch do this to me again! I hadn't thought about her for a while and now this.
Work sucked. I was a zombie just going through the motions, trying to figure out what the hell she wanted, why did she call, why was she scarred. I tried to plan out all my best responses to anything she said to me, but she was cryptic in leaving me not much to go on as to why she needed to see me.
I naturally thought that she might want to get back with me, but I really couldn't think about that as that distracted me even more at work. There's no way she wants that, I told myself. The way she walked out on me and the things she said to me made that almost impossible. Still a small part of me thought that was it. The rest of my mind and heart came up with many reason why that wouldn't be the case, no use hurting myself again when that turned out to be false. Most likely, I told myself, that she was finally ready to finalize the divorce.
When she left, we cut off all communication. I literally hadn't seen, spoken or heard from her since that night. Where and what she did, I often, in bed all alone at night, wondered, but that just made me more furious. I refused to pay for a divorce. She walked out on me, fuck her, let her pay for it. She never did.
I left work right on time, eager to get home before she got there and try to compose myself. I pulled into the driveway and saw her car there as well. Fuck! She couldn't even give me the time to myself. I got out of the car and saw her waiting at the front door.
Wow! She looked tired. She looked old. The bitch, when we were married, was a decent shaped redhead, a tad overweight with a pretty face, she was three years younger than I. Now she looked almost ten years older. Hard living in the past two years, I muttered to myself, not that my time had been fun and games.
She had now packed on at least another thirty pounds from her former weight, wrinkles around her face made her look like a smoker, and her skin seemed rather yellow. She had a look of total misery on her face. It could have been a ploy for sympathy, a way to get me to go easy on her, I thought. I smiled. Even if the look on her face was false, she still had not had the "better" life she had run off to while ditching me.
I lead her inside our house ... my house, she had given up that right when she had left. I put my stuff away, pulled out two glasses of bourbon and offered her one as we sat in the living room. She sat on the edge of the couch, I in my chair. She glanced around, made small talk, mentioning the changes that I had made, keeping to herself the fact that all evidence of her being in this house were gone, pictures, stuff she had bought on her own, picked out, etc.
I kept quiet, nursed my drink, and tried to remain as calm as possible and push all thoughts of strangling her right then and there, as deep within me as possible. She took another swig, and sighed.
"I, guess you're wondered why I called..." Tersely, I said, "Yeah ... a bit of a shock"
She was shaking, and I could see the composure fall from her. Suddenly, she blurted out, "Oh David, I've made a terrible mistake," she broke down crying.
A mistake? Really? No fucking shit! I wondered.
I said nothing, I did nothing. I tried to be as cold as possible. No way was I going to make this easy on her.
"I was such a fool," she finally said between sniffles after she had given a good cry.
She tried to look at me; her eyes teary, mascara running, she looked pathetic, and I just now had noticed that she had made an attempt to do herself up for me. It was a failed attempt. These past two years, while she was gone, I played with far better, far sexier, far fresher women and girls than what she had become. I met her eyes, I showed no emotion. Here comes the pitch, I realized, and I didn't want to give anything away by showing her a weakness. She pushed forward. "David, these past two years has been horrible, miserable for me. I never realized what I had with you until I walked out that door."
Coldly I interjected, "Horrible for you? And it has been nice for me?" Her mouth dropped open, she stammered for a moment, her train of thought broken. She sniffled and asked if I had any tissue.
"You ought to remember where they are, go on, get some," I said. She looked at me and then slowly got up and trudged over to the bathroom and cleaned herself up. Coming back out, she sat on the couch, a little closer to me. She started again. "David, I'm truly sorry for what I did to you. What I did was selfish, childish and wrong. What I went after was a fairy tale, something that doesn't exist, and I've been paying for it ever since."
I said nothing, curious as to where this was leading, well I kinda figured where this was leading, but still wanted her to take it to that destination.
"I know I hurt you badly, David, I don't expect you to ever forgive me, but David," she slide toward me and held my hand, the warmth ness shocking me, "David, I want, no need you, no I'm begging you to take me back."
There it was, she was crawling back to me. She had had her fun, realized that it wasn't for her and now wanted to come back like nothing happened. I sat there for a minute, saying nothing. There was rage in my eyes, there was sadness too, but there was hurt.
"I don't know," I said. She grimaced. There was fear on her face, it seemed like the fear was a little to strong to be employed in me not taking her back, maybe she needed to come back, maybe she was in some sort of trouble.
"What's this all about?" I asked. "Your words say one thing, your face says something else. What's really going on? I don't hear from you for two whole years, and then all of a sudden you beg me to come back?"
She coughed and sniffled. She looked up into my eyes again, hers watery with new found tears, "Please." She croaked. "Tell me what this is all about," I prodded. She was reluctant until I made it clear that this conversation was over until she cleared things up a little more.
Finally, without giving too much detail she relayed to me that almost as soon as leaving the house that night to be with her new boyfriend, who "understood" her, things had gone horribly wrong. They just didn't fit in together, and he had gone on sleeping around with everything that had a skirt and two legs. She had lost her job, her savings, her looks and her confidence as he became a boy instead of the man that she had fantasized about. Alcohol had been abused by him and he had gambled, gambled everything away. And now they owed some loan sharks money, money which they didn't have. They had been kicked out of their rental, and the loan sharks had taken him away. It turned out that he was never coming back. She admitted that they had probably killed him and now the debt was placed on her. She was homeless, penniless, and jobless. With no one to fall back on, with money owed, her looks now really shot, she really had no other choice than to come groveling back to me. Gee, it was really nice being the "last resort" to your bitch of a slut wife.
.... There is more of this story ...