The Tortoise and the Hare

by Matt Moreau

Caution: This Erotica Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Cheating, Cuckold, Humiliation, Slow, .

Desc: Erotica Story: Sloth, to this hubby, was definitely a virtue.

Aesop's amphibian had nothing on me speed-wise. I can go as slow as he ever could. My problem, as one might imagine, is catching up with the hare. Unlike the unconcerned tortoise, I'm concerned. I'm concerned about the hare that's hitting on my wife early and often. As far as fast operators are concerned, he's one helluva rabbit! Me? Not.

A lot of times I'm not near focused enough, and, like I say, sure as hell not quick enough to beat the damn rabbit at his own game, so I have to resort to other means to come out on top, like patience, painful long-suffering patience. Well, they say all's fair in love and war, and this is definitely war! But for some damn reason, I can't seem to get overly excited about it. I know I should be getting excited, but I just can't seem to get the knack of it. Hey, it's my nature.

Garland Wakefield, is not merely always the runner up; he's always, well virtually always, dead last—in everything! And who's Garland Wakefield? Well that's me. Not exactly stupid, not really handsome, not especially talented, not big, and he is not possessed of large scale manliness if you get my meaning; but, I have one characteristic that over the years has more or less made up for my myriad mediocrities: I never, but I mean but never, give up! I'm tempted to at times; I am human, but so far, when it has come to anything meaningful, I haven't.

I work as a short haul delivery driver for a West Madison Building Materials: mostly rock and sand; it pays okay, and I get the usual union benefits.

At any rate, knock me down a hundred times and I'll get up one hundred and one times and beat the loving fuck outta your gasping-for-air ass even if it kills me in the end. That particular characteristic did get me a pass from most of my would be tormentors in my youth, and the same could be said of me and my would be tormentors, at my age fifty, today. Well, except for one of them: my wife Annette.

Annette is a nice looking redhead of forty-three. She's never worked a day in her life until about a year ago when she got a job checking groceries at the B&B supermarket: said she needed to do something with her free time; I'd made no objection, and then it had begun.

Annette's lover? It's Patrick Brand, a tall good looking asshole who has made me, along with the connivance of my wife—until today—an unknowing cuckold. But, now I know. How do I know? Well that's an interesting tale. Just hang in there with me for a little bit, and I shall explain. Anyway, now I have decisions to make.

Dear Patrick is a grocery store owner, the owner of B&B supermarket; how fucking convenient. Mister Brand, too, has a penchant for fucking anything female that's still breathing. In times gone by, he'd been correspondent in at least two divorces that I know of, those apart from his own I should mention; they, the stories of the divorces, had made the papers. Oh, and Patrick's married—again—third time I think. His wife, Gerrie Brand, is a sweet but mousy little thing, afraid of her own shadow. But, that fact might at some point be made to work for me; we'd be seeing about that. We know Gerrie and the asshole from church, First Methodist. Helluva thing huh.

Okay, how do I know I've been made a cuckold? Well, my wonderful spouse told me; that's how. You can imagine my chagrin; when she, Annette, laid it on me, I was floored. Married twenty-five years and now this. Oh, she says she loves me, doesn't want a divorce, hopes I'll understand; it's just sex, she says. What the fuck does that mean, please tell me. Oh yeah, I have decisions to make. Mister Brand will eventually find himself having to dislodge a size seven-and-a-half suppository from his no doubt virgin anus if I can work it!

"Garland, calm down, okay. It's not the end of the world. You'll still get sex whenever you want it. Just calm down. Try to understand, okay." She was really trying to sell me on the idea that what she was telling me was no big deal. Well, it was a helluva big deal to me for fucking damn sure.

"Calm down, Annette! I'll calm down all right. You don't have to worry about me. For the record what about his wife. Is he going to do for her what you've just done for me?" I said.

"Huh? What?" she said.

"You know be good enough to tell her so she won't feel that he is sneaking around on her," I said.

"Anyway, just leave me alone. I really don't want to deal with you right now. I'll be sleeping down here tonight; I'd feel funny sleeping next to you now I know what you think of me," I said.

I wasn't actually bitter, but I was plenty pissed. Still, slow, go slow, I reminded myself, just go slow. I didn't want to actually lose the numbskull I'm married to. Yes, yes I fully understand that she's cheating, and biggee though it is, it really isn't that all fired a monster of a deal, not to me. Everybody has does dumb things. But, it does have to end. And, there will be punishment, as there always must be when someone transgresses. I guess what I mean is, that unless somebody dies, almost anything can be straightened out and forgiven, even a lapse in one or another's wedding vows. At any rate, the two of them will fuck up soon enough, and I will exact appropriate retribution. They were messing with the wrong cat. I just had to collect all of the rat shit that I could to mess them up when the time came.

The downstairs guest room had one advantage: it would be easy to mark her comings and goings, at least at night.

"Garland, you don't have to do sleep down here. Come to bed with me. I'll make you know that you're still my husband and lover," she said, smiling benevolently at me.

"You mean your husband and 'one' of your lovers, don't you, Annette?" I said.

"Garland, don't be like that. I told you about Patrick so that you would know that I'm not hiding anything from you. I couldn't do that to you anymore," she said. "I love you too much for that."

"Damn nice of you, Annette. How long Annette? And why, if I might ask?" I said.

"It was at the church bazaar last year. You wouldn't go with me, and I was pretty upset about you breaking your promise to go with me. I was the chairperson of the event for goodnesssakes, but I couldn't even get my husband to support me. I was hurt and vulnerable," she said.

"A church event? You chose a church event to fuck me over! How blee-bloody fucked up is that!" I snarled at her. I take back what I said before; I am bitter, bitter as can be.

I stood up and looked down at her. "Continue to do this and we're done, you and me, and not on a friendly basis. Hell, the fact is we may already be done," I said. "And as far as dear 'ole Patrick is concerned. You tell him he best be leaving town: he doesn't want to be running into me by accident," I said.

She actually smiled at that. "Garland, don't do anything, you know, like that. I don't want you to get hurt. Patrick is a very big guy. All of that macho stuff is nonsense anyway. I couldn't forgive myself if he hurt you," she said.

"Oh, but you can forgive yourself for cuckolding me and making a public laughingstock out of me! Have I got that right?" I said.

"Garland, you are not a laughingstock nor are you a cuckold or anything like that. I'm just having a little fling and it'll be over soon enough, and then we'll just forget about it and things will be fine. And, they're fine now Garland. I deny you nothing. I don't let it, our playtime, interfere with our lives, yours and mine. It's just something on the side apart from us, not part of us, of you and me. Okay? Do you understand?" she said.

She stood and came to me. She put her arms around me. Mine hung at my sides. "There, I know you can see that this is nothing to us," she said. She leaned in to kiss me, but I turned my face away from her. "Garland!"

I turned and headed down the hall to the spare bedroom. I plopped down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. I would go slow, but I would not be idle. Let dear Mr. Brand run with her for a while; I couldn't stop him, them, but there would come a time. I would let him think he had a clear field, believe he was far ahead, that his cuckold was a coward, a wimp, impotent. I wasn't any of those things, I knew; but I was slow, slow and deliberate. The time would come when the error of his thinking would be clear to him. I knew too, that I would be thinking of little else over the next days.

Some things she'd said kinda rankled. "He's a big guy, Garland ... I don't want you to get hurt ... she couldn't forgive herself if..." Yadda, yadda, yadda. Yeah, right, if I got a whippin', she'd be all weepy and upset with her boyfriend. My expressing my conviction that she should warn his boyfriendness to steer clear of me and her reaction had actually brought a smile to her face. Well, there was damn good reason for me to paint a smile on my face.

It'd been some years ago, but I was state golden gloves welterweight champion back in the day, something my wife either forgot or didn't think important enough to worry her or her mister Brand. I still worked out three times a week at Harold's Hole: the local gym for wannabes from the old neighborhood. Thinking about it, I realized my wife never came to the gym anymore. The first few times after we were married she did, but she said it was too stinky in the gym; she never returned. Footspeed? Much reduced. Hand speed, not at all. Mr. Brand really would be well advised to step aside if we should pass each other on the sidewalk. There was damn little doubt that he'd be goin' down. Hell, I'd beat him like a cur dog and piss on his prostrate and comatose form to punctuate the slaughter.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Romantic / Cheating / Cuckold / Humiliation / Slow /