Night Talk

by papatoad

Tags: Ma/Fa, Cheating, Slow, Violent,

Desc: Romantic Story: A happily married man cannot decide if he wants to confront his wife about her possible infidelity. A sudden change of events make the decision more difficult. A story full of unanswered questions.

Thanks to the H & K doctor for editing assistance.

Cassie and I had been married five years and we went together for about five years prior to our wedding. I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts. I had been with several girls prior to going with Cassie, but she had been with only one other guy, as far as I know. Everything was going as planned with our marriage. We had both been working and had saved enough money to start looking for our first home. Children would come next. My career, as an engineering designer, was coming along fine and Cassie was planning on being a stay at home mom, as soon as the first of the kids arrived.

Cassie was as pretty as the day I started going with her. She had shoulder length brown hair with long, thick bangs coming down to her eyes. Her eyes were dark and they shined when she laughed. She was only about five three, but seemed taller because of the way she carried herself. She had well-defined hips and a nice waistline. I myself was a tad average, nothing at all to talk about. I stood under six feet and under two hundred pounds. The best thing about me was that I still had all my hair. I jogged at least three times a week, so I was in pretty good shape.

The sex was fine. Over the years we had tried just about everything and openly discussed what each of us liked and didn't like. I was happy with her sexual performance and I assumed that she was ok with mine. Life was good. The future was bright. It was bright until we had the night talk.

Normally when we go to bed, we do one of two things: have sex or go to sleep. We have never lain in bed with the lights out and discussed personal matters of any type. It was a routine for which we both seemed comfortable. I now know why it was a good policy.

"John, can we talk about something for a second?"

"What? Now? Can't it wait till tomorrow?"

She was silent for a moment.

"John, Clayton Brenner is in town for a few days. Would you mind if I saw him while he was here?"

She had my attention. Clayton Brenner was the one guy that Cassie had had sex with other than me. He was a real pussy hound when we were in school. His family had money, and Clayton always dressed smart and drove a fancy car while the rest of us guys were trying to keep our junk heaps running. The girls were all attracted to him and he had his pick of them. He would go with one for a few weeks and then dump her and pick up another one. The girls knew what he did, but they still thought they would be the one. Unfortunately, Cassie was one of the ones that he used and dumped. He used to brag about his conquests to the other guys, which I found to be really low class. He was also supposed to be pretty good in the sack, and as far as I know none of the girls ever complained about his performance, including Cassie.

"Why are you asking me this now?"

"I just don't want to do anything that you might not want me to do."


"At the Deska Inn restaurant."

"Cassie, Clayton Brenner is not one of my favorite people."

"I know, but we were friends back in school."

"Cassie, you weren't his friend, you were a notch on his belt."

She said nothing and the pause was maddening.

"When did he call you?"


"Why are you telling me now?"

There was another silent moment, with this one longer than the first one.

"I am not going to comment one way or the other. You do what you want to do. Let your conscience be your guide." I always wanted to say that.

I rolled over on my side facing away from her. Things were quiet for a while, and then I heard her very softly crying in her pillow. This was something that she never did before. I lay perfectly still so she would not know I was still awake. She whimpered to herself for a long time and then finally fell asleep.

It was the longest night of my life. Why would she be crying about my refusal to condone her meeting with an ex-boyfriend? Why did she wait a whole day to tell me about his being in town? Why did he call her at all? The conversation we had was short and was not emotionally charged enough to bring her to tears. I was missing something. There was something that I did not understand. I tossed and turned all night trying to work it out. Of course there was an easy solution to my dilemma. All I had to do was ask her.

Did she already see him?

Why did she want to see him?

Was she planning on having sex with him?

Did she already have sex with him?

I was driving myself nuts. I knew that I could not ask her any of these questions. Anything I learned would be from information that she gave to me of her own free will, without my asking. I felt strongly about that, and was determined not to give in to the easy way out. If she told me it would be fine, but I would not ask.

I looked over at the clock. It was almost five AM. I got out of bed and quietly went to the bathroom to relieve myself. I was still thinking. I tried some mind tricks to stop, it but nothing worked. Before leaving the bathroom, I glanced over to the hamper. I slowly lifted the lid and looked in. Moving a few things around on top, I found a pair of black silk panties and a black pushup bra. These were special occasion underwear. She wore them on birthdays, anniversaries, and other times that were cause for celebration. The special underwear always meant special sex. Yesterday was not a special day. We did not have special sex. I didn't even get to see her in the underwear. There was only one more thing left to do. I slowly brought the crouch of her panties up to my face. There was no indication of any fluids or sex on the panties. I was relieved, but remembered that that really didn't mean there was no sex.

All I knew for sure was that she had worn her black silk panties that day and I had to assume that she wore them so someone could admire her in them.

I carefully laid the bra and panties on the vanity by the sink. Making as little noise as possible, I got dressed and left the house.

The Waffle House was always open. As I sat nursing my third cup of coffee, my mind was still going a million miles an hour. I pushed away the plate of half eaten eggs and grits, paid the bill, and had no idea what I was going to do next. Emotions were running rampant. First, was the disappointment I was feeling for my wife's infidelity. Second, and growing rapidly was the emotion of revenge.

Clayton Brenner was wrong to call my wife. He was a smooth talker and a devious son of a bitch. Just the thought of him invading the sanctity of my marriage was making me furious. A woman never forgets her first lover and because Clayton was handsome and rich it made everything so much harder to take. Taking vengeance on my wife was another matter. I knew what Clayton did. I was not sure what Cassie had done. Spirit and intent mean a lot to me. If she did anything, what was her motivation and what was she trying to accomplish? I didn't feel that I could condemn her, till I knew more. Then again, I really didn't want to know more.

I was driving around aimlessly for hours, until it was time for me to go to work. I finally convinced myself that I did not want to know what Cassie had or had not done. Knowing either way would have an effect on our marriage, possibly destroying it. I was determined not to let her explain her actions, no matter how hard she tried, if she tried.

I was tired and depressed. I didn't want to go to work or anywhere else for that matter.

Cassie was awake by now. I was sure she had found the bra and panties on the vanity by this time. I tried to envision what was going on in her mind, but couldn't. There was too much going on in my own head to think about what she was thinking. She now knows that I figured out something had happened. I was not able to concentrate on my work at the office. About ten o'clock the phone rang.

"John. It's Cassie."

"Yes." There was a short pause on the other end.

"I am going to go down to my mother's for a few days. Is that all right with you?"

"How long is a 'few days'?"

"About a week. Is that OK?"

"Sure. Give me a call when you are ready to come home."

"Okay. Thanks." There was another short pause.

"John, I love you."

I didn't answer. I quietly hung up the phone, sat in my private office, and softly cried for the first times in years.

I took the rest of the week off using some accumulated sick leave. I knew I was going to do something dumb, I just didn't know what yet.

The most probable scenario that I could come up with was that Cassie had gone to see Clayton at the motel restaurant, and then went to his room and had sex with him, for old times sake. After she got home, she felt guilty and was trying in some fashion to admit to me what she had done. She waited till we went to bed so that I would be a little more responsive to her confession. It was already a done deal and she was trying to get some sort of left-handed approval from me to justify or compensate for her transgression. I didn't give her any slack and now she had a real problem. She knew that I knew that she was not being entirely truthful, and she had no idea what to do next. Of course, I could be totally wrong.

I found the black underwear in the trashcan in the garage when I got home. I spent the next two days making myself more miserable. I stayed in the house and played the damn mind games over and over. I felt that Cassie and I had a special relationship and more than anything I wanted to keep it. Any confession on her part would crumble the trust between us. Any inquiries on my part would do the same thing. We were trapped. I felt certain that she would want to confess everything to rid herself of the guilt, and that she was willing to face the consequences that would come with it. I didn't want her confession any longer, because I felt that it would destroy our marriage.

Cassie used poor judgment concerning the whole situation. Was she now a slut, a whore, an adulteress, or just a housewife who screwed up and regretted it? What was Clayton? He was a skirt chaser who was going after married women who he felt were a sure thing, since he had had them before. He called my home, my sanctuary, to seduce my wife. It was pretty easy to figure out where my aggressions should be directed. I decided to take care of part of my problem the next day, and I didn't give a damn what the consequences would be.

It was easy to find out what room Clayton was in. I decided that a simple approach was best. I would knock on his door and when he opened it, I would shoot the son of a bitch. At this point, I didn't care if I got caught or not. I wasn't going to make a big show out of it and thought that a low profile, in and out, would not be noticed. I decided on the Ruger .22 automatic. I figured three hollow points in the heart, and one in the head, would do the job. I am not a big gun person. I don't remember the last time I had used or even cleaned my guns. I didn't have that many, a shotgun, a deer rifle, an S&W .38, and my Ruger. The problem today was that I couldn't find the Ruger. I tried to think of where I might have put it or if I lend it to anyone, but couldn't remember. Finally I just grabbed the Smith and Wesson and took off for the Deska Inn.

Well, the next step in my plan didn't work out too well either. I arrived at the motel to find the place overrun with police cars. I put the .38 under my seat, and got out of the car. I casually strolled over toward one of the cruisers. They were escorting a lady out of Clayton's motel room. She had a blanket over her shoulder and a female officer had an arm around her. I was afraid to look. As they got closer to the cruiser, I recognized the woman. It was Susan Bradford, an acquaintance of ours. She and her husband, Barry, had graduated from high school with us. They moved up to Reading so that Barry could open up a car dealership. It was sad to see Susan, but I was relieved it wasn't Cassie. Susan was also one of Clayton's old conquests.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Cheating / Slow / Violent /