I was stunned. What I was hearing was making this day the worst day I had yet lived. As I stood there, behind her, listening to her arranging her liaison—with another man—for sex, I was sick at heart. Still, I was in control; that was something, damn little, but something. I didn't lose it.
I'd gotten home early from my job at Crowley Software. The boss and company owner, Harris Crowley, had given us all the rest of the day off because of the successful completion of the project. Done in time, under budget, and complimented on our achievement by the client—our biggest client, Statten Industries—had brought a smile to the boss' face. The bonus checks, he'd just handed out, brought smiles to everybody else's face.
I worked as a trouble shooter for special software that made organizational problems go away for many major business concerns. But, occasionally—all too often actually—it was necessary to tweak the software to keep things running smoothly for the companies we did business with. Anyway, that was my job. Travel was always in the works for me; it was part of my job description. Weatherly Inc. was a case of installing new and upgraded software this time around and it promised to save their company millions over the next few years; they were very happy.
But, hearing my wife now, the smile on my face faded. The $5,000 check in my coat pocket meaningless at that moment
"Yes, Emile, noon at the usual place ... Yes, $500 for the afternoon, no limits ... Yes, you can have my ass as usual ... Yes, you're the only one who gets that, not even my husband," she said. They talked for another minute or so, while I stood there all but turned to stone, and she hung up.
She was smiling as she turned in my direction. Now it was her smile that quickly faded.
"Well, that's true isn't it," I said, acting more calmly than I felt. "You never did let me have your ass. I stopped asking for it years ago. I guess if I'd have had a few C-notes I could have had it. Right?"
"Ritchie..." Her speech died as she realized how busted she was.
"What? Nothing too say? I would think that you might want to try and save our marriage," I said. "I mean, I confess I don't know what you could say that would unsay what I just heard, but you could at least have the decency to try." I so loved this woman; could the marriage be saved? Hell, I didn't know.
The supreme irony? It had long been my fantasy to watch her with another man. We'd even talked about it, but that had been in years past. Now, that I was a de facto cuckold, an ignorant one, but one nevertheless; how did I feel about it? Bad, I decided.
"Ritchie..." she tried again but finally sank down into a chair at the dinette table. She wasn't looking at me; she was studying the pattern on the tablecloth.
"How long?" I said.
"Ritchie, we need to talk. I need to explain. I know it looks bad, but it's not as bad as it looks if that makes any sense," she said.
"Not really. You wanna stay married, Diana?" Her head snapped up. I was angry and bitter and acting on impulse. One thing I was going to do and that immediately regardless of anything that might happen later.
"Oh god yes!" she almost screamed.
"Then drop your pants," I said. She looked at me funny.
"Huh?" she said.
"It ain't rocket science, Diana. Sounds like you're kind of an expert at this kind of thing. You're a prostitute, right?" I said. She looked down; she knew the jig was up.
"Yes, sort of a call girl," she said.
"So?" I said. I reached into my back pocket pulled out my wallet and threw a one dollar bill on the table. She looked at it not comprehending.
"Huh?" This was getting to be monotonous.
"So, drop your pants," I said. "I'm paying." She looked at me, then at the dollar bill, concern written all over her. She decided to cooperate; she stood and dropped her pants.
"The panties too," I said. She hesitated.
"Just do it Diana—or not. If not I want my money back." She complied. She was standing naked from the waist down in front of me. I dropped my pants and underwear. She stared at me, well at my cock at any rate, all six inches of it. It was stone hard. She might be a public whore, but she would never stop being able to arouse me.
I came to her, bent her over the table, and kicked her legs wide apart; she didn't resist. I knelt behind her and spit on her anus pushing a finger deep inside of her. Her head snapped around when she finally realized what was about to happen.
"Ritchie! Please," she said.
"Please what, Diana? You gonna deny me again? You gonna deny me what you apparently give to everybody else? If you say don't do it, I'll back off, collect the money I paid you, get dressed and just leave; and you can go to your little afternoon party and never see me again." I said. She shook her head and reassumed the position. "Good decision."
I worked her back door for some few minutes probing with my fingers and licking her to a state of readiness; her ass did taste great. I was as hard as I'd ever been as I pressed my penis against her sphincter. It spread easily for me; it had clearly had more than its share of usage even if not by me. I pushed in and she grunted from the pressure.
"Please, go easy, Ritchie, okay?" she said. I didn't respond, but I did push in slowly. Soon, though, I was banging her quite properly, and she was responding. I could feel myself ready to cum. I stiffened and unloaded into her. I stayed in her until I literally fell out.
She was showering. I waited in the kitchen for her to come back in.
About twenty minutes later she came back dressed and looking pale—worried. But, she'd had time to think about her situation, our situation. I had to admit to being curious about what she could possibly say to me.
"One question before we get into the rest of it," I said. She nodded for me to go on. "Why them your ass and not me, I mean until now?"
"I wanted to give it to you, Ritchie, more than anything; but it's something that I thought might make you suspicious. I didn't used to like the idea; you know that. So, all of a sudden changing my mind? Well, you can see the dilemma I was faced with," she said. "Plus, I still don't like it all that much; it hurts unless the man is very considerate. So..."
"Okay—okay, so, like I said before, how long? I'd appreciate the truth," I said.
"A year, a little more," she said. "Ritchie—do we have a chance?"
"Not sure. You gonna quit?" She looked down. I looked at her.
"You like it don't you?" I said. "You like giving it to other men who pay you to cuckold me?"
"Honestly? I guess I do on some level. Not the cuckolding you part; and I have never allowed any of them to talk about you when we were doing it. I love you and only you. But—the sex—I guess I do. It's exciting, I guess. I mean doing something really naughty like that."
"But now, knowing how you've killed my heart? You gonna quit?" I said. I just couldn't make up my mind if it would make any difference to me if she did say she'd stop, now that I knew. I sure did love her, no doubt about that. But, the staying or the going? it was something that I was going to have to do a lot of thinking about.
"I can't," she said. Okay, that one stunned me. I had expected her to say that she would quit. She had to know that I wouldn't be tolerating anymore of her fucking around behind my back. She couldn't expect me to be okay with it—could she?
"You'd lose your job." She said.
"Huh? What are you talking about?" I said.
"Ritchie, your boss—he—he—he's the one got me started in this. And, the one you heard me on the phone with just now was Emile Weatherly." She said.
"Weatherly!" It was my turn to literally fall into a chair. Mr. Weatherly was CEO of our largest customer; we'd just completed doing a big contract with him and his, actually his wife's company, she being Annabelle Statten Weatherly: two million dollars worth it meant to us. I'd met Annabelle a number of times; she was a looker, and several years younger than me or my wife; I'd guess maybe thirty-five. She was the granddaughter, and sole heir of the Statten advertising agency's founder Wolf Statten. A player on Madison Avenue in times gone by. Why an old goat like Emile Weatherly would be playing around on her was beyond me. Of course, why she'd even married him was an even bigger mystery, but, whatever.
I guess the rich and famous were never satisfied.
"It was a bit over a year ago. At the Christmas party. You were there. Your boss, Harris Crowley, put it to me. Make a certain client happy, he told me, and you'd be a regional manager by summer. I did it, and you were promoted. It's escalated from there," she said.
I had to think back. I had been promoted. I was now regional manager for public relations. Our software company, one of the most successful in the Midwest, was becoming known internationally. That my wife had been whoring herself out so that I would be promoted made me sick to my stomach.
"You can quit," I said. "I'm done with Cowley Software as of this minute."
"Ritchie! You can't quit. You make $250K annual. You could never get a job like that again, at least not on short notice. We have responsibilities!" she all but screamed.
"Yeah, and chief among them would be to be able to look myself in the mirror every morning and not throw up," I said. "You have any idea how humiliated I feel now, at this moment, knowing what you've been doing behind my back?"
"Ritchie—there was a time when we talked..."
.... There is more of this story ...