Occasionally, I get a story idea sent to me by a reader. This story is based on one such offering. It is completely fiction, and the allusion to the infamous Bonnie and
Clyde is per their names only; put another way, this story has no relationship whatsoever to the gangster pair of the 1930s. Similarly, the Ana Campanas character in the story is no relation to the "Woman in Red" of John Dilinger fame either. At any rate, here goes.
"Such is the pow'r of love in gentle mind that it can alter all the course of kind."
"I'm sorry mister Campanas. I just can't see my way clear to sign with you.
You've always been a reliable distributor, but your rate structure doesn't work for me tax-wise. My accountant has advised me against this kind of contract until after the first of the year and then only if the law is changed which at the moment, he assures me, is iffy," said mister Crocker.
"Joe, we can work the contract some to better suit you. You've always been satisfied with our work before?" said Michael Campanas.
"I'm sorry, Michael. It's just not a good time. Hopefully we'll be able to connect next year," said mister Crocker.
"May I ask who your accountant might be?" said Michael.
"Clyde Armistead. He's the best around," said mister Crocker.
"Armistead? Clyde Armistead?" said Michael.
"Yes," said Joe Crocker. Michael Campanas slowly shook his head. He knew
Armistead; well, he knew him to see him. Some of his colleagues used the man for their quantity control.
"I know him slightly. Got a pretty wife as I recall," said Michael Campanas, now trying to lighten the mood himself.
"Yes, I've met her. She's very pretty indeed," said Joseph Crocker.
"She's not an accountant though," said Michael, wondering why Joe Crocker would ever have met her.
"No, no, she works for Roma's salon on third. She's my wife's stylist," said mister
Crocker. "My wife and I had dinner with them a few weeks ago." He didn't see the look in the other man's eyes. "I've never met your wife, have I mister Campanas?"
"Who? Ana? No, I don't think so. She kinda stays clear of my business interests.
She's got a handful just taking care of the kids: we got five of 'em," said Michael
"Hubby do this for you?" said Michael.
"Shut up and fuck me," said Bonnie Armistead.
"Not until you tell me who does you the best," he said.
"You do, asshole, now get busy and do your duty," she said
"And, your hubby?" he said.
"I already answered you. You do me best. Isn't that enough?" she said.
He got off the bed and reached for the pile of clothes on the floor. He didn't even look at her, but he was laughing inside.
"What are you doing! Get back here!" she said.
He ignored her.
"Okay, okay, his tiny cock is near useless and he has almost zero talent when it comes to bedroom skills," she said. "Now are you satisfied?"
"Yes, as a matter-of-fact I am," he said. "He and my wife would make a pair for sure. They could be useless in bed together! Wonder how he'd like to be raisin' a bus load of rug rats." He broke out laughing.
"Shut the fuck up, asshole, and screw me. Do it now!" she commanded.
He made a big production of remounting her and ramming his cock home. She grunted and groaned at the sudden roughness of the man. A roughness she had come to love. The man himself? Hell no, she didn't love him; she didn't even like him. He was good at animalistic sex, but he was virtually worthless in any other respect; she wondered what his wife would do if she knew he was spreading his pollen. Her Clyde had it all over him as a man and a husband. But, sadly, very sadly, Clyde was less than nothing in the love making department.
"You gotta stop putting Clyde down every time we do it," she said as they dressed. "What did he ever do to you? Let me answer my own question—nothing."
"You wanna keep doing this or not," said Michael, ignoring her apparent ire.
"Well, yes, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop talking smack about him while you and I are together. Please!" she said.
"Okay, then, this is the deal. I'll—we'll—stop talking smack about him, but you've got tell him about us and tell him that he can't have sex with you anymore. He's a wimp and a cuckold. I hate sharing a woman of your quality with a nothing like Clyde Armistead.
"You asked what he ever did to me. You're forgetting that he cost me the Crocker contract? Him messing with my business like he did has to have a consequence. This is it. I get his wife for sex, and he gets to eat my cum out of her when I'm done. But except for that, your pussy is off limits to him. Got it?" She was horrified.
"He'd never go for being cut off like that! Not ever" she said. "You've gone too far this time, Michael. The answer is no!" He shrugged. "And, he didn't cost you that contract. He's an accountant, and advised his client to watch his pennies and that's all: I was there; I heard it all. He didn't know that you were courting the Crocker account; he still doesn't!"
"Too bad, but it is still your choice. It's been nice doing you," he said. "I'll let myself out." She stood there open-mouthed and watched him leave.
"Shit!" she said loud enough to wake the dead two states away. Cutting her husband off! Oh yeah, that would go over real big with that good man. Well, it would go over good if she wanted a divorce! Which she sure as hell did not! But...
Could she get along without Michael's cock? Very few ten inch cocks existed at all let alone attached to a man-beast who could give a woman multiple orgasms virtually every time he did her. No, she had to have it. And, she had to make sure that her man, her husband, her real man, didn't leave her. Fucking asshole, Michael; he was blackmailing her; that was the only possible description of what he was doing to her.
I was just finishing up dinner. I leaned back in my seat and smiled at the most beautiful woman in the world, my wife, Bonnie Armistead.
"That dinner was fantastic, honey. I mean really first rate," I said.
"Well, thank you mister man," she said. "Say, honey, can I ask you a question?"
"Of course. What?" I said.
"Well, I was talking to Marie Bradshaw today. You know my friend at the salon: husband's still in Iraq. She knows Michael Campanas. That wholesaler guy we met last year at her birthday party. The one who handles all of those big clothier contracts for the department stores," said Bonnie.
'Okay?" I said.
"Well, she said that Joe Crocker shined him on because of something you said."
"Something I said?" I said. "How so?"
"Said you told him not to sign with mister Campanas," said Bonnie. I started nodding my understanding of her words.
"No, no, I didn't tell him to sign or not sign with anybody. You were there when I met with Joe and his wife last tax time," I said.
"Yes, I was, but for some reason mister Campanas evidently blames you for Joe going with another wholesaler."
"I'm not sure I follow you, honey, but I never advised Joe to go or not go with any particular somebody. I just told him he had to be careful with his reserve funds because it was a tight market and add to that the tax bite this year could be more than a little problematical.
"But, tell me, why is Marie Bradshaw talking to you about this kind of stuff in the first place?" I said.
"Well, Mic ... mister Campanas, is kinda upset with you," she said, "Oh, and Marie knows him pretty good."
"Well, you can tell Marie that I work for my clients not her friend this Campanas guy. I'd be derelict if I didn't," I said. She smiled, but it was a strained smile. Something was up, and it didn't look to be something that I was going to be liking much. And, yes, I did catch her almost refer to mister Campanas by his first name.
We finished cleaning up and headed upstairs. I stripped preparatory to what I intended would be the second night in a row of a very good and very raw sex and romance. She was in the bathroom.
When she came out she was wearing her long nightie, a sure sign that she was not interested. She caught my look.
"Honey I'm just a little too tired tonight. Okay? We did it last night. Just give me a break tonight. Okay?" she said in a plaintive voice.
Her tone, her look, something cued me. "What's going on, Bon," I said. "Something's not right." For no good reason, I decided to take a flyer. "Does this have anything to do with that Campanas thing?" She sighed.
She began pacing back and forth. I could see that she was gearing up to lay something heavy on me. What I never would have imagined, guessed, dreamed in my most horrifying of nightmares was what she did in fact lay on me.
"Honey, I love you. I love no one else. And except for Bobby Russell in the ninth grade, I never have loved anyone else. And, I never will if it comes to that," she said. The words were right, the tone—not.
"But Honey—well—I have a lover. It's Michael Campanas," she said.
"What did you say?" I said.
"Please, don't get mad, and don't worry. He's nothing to us," she said.
"You're not kidding are you?" I said.
"No. But it doesn't have to affect us hardly at all," she said.
"Hardly at all? What does that mean? You mean except for the fact that we'll be divorcing now," I said. Her look screamed shock at my words, but she controlled her tone.
"Heavens no! I don't want a divorce, and I know you don't want one either," she said.
"Well, unless I'm missing something really big here, you've got one anyway," I said.
.... There is more of this story ...