While You Sleep

by

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Tear Jerker, Cheating, Slut Wife, Rough, Gang Bang, 2nd POV, Violent, .

Desc: Sex Story: Every Day I look away when we meet...

Hi Folks. This is another longer story. It is an LW story in that there is a wife cheating on her husband as the backbone of the story. But there is also much mote going on here. So those of you who just want the usual strange car in the driveway story might want to pass on this one. Those of you want the whole thing to be resolved in three pages also might want to keep it moving. Those of you who have a pacifistic nature might not like this story. Those of you who want a burn the bitch story might be a little upset because there are no bitches getting burned here. There is also not a reconciliation so those of you who want to see the couple get back together no matter what will probably have your feelings hurt. For the three people that are still here, I hope you like this one. It's a bit long so sit back and enjoy it. This one is an action movie. To get you in the mood you might want to lieten to Charlie Sexton's version of "While you sleep." It was originally written by Steve Earle who never recorded it. I'm trying to get Kat into 80's music. Thanks as usual to Mikothebaby for everything. She's like a combo sister/best friend. She does so much more than just edits, she keeps me grounded and sane. SS06


As I shut down my Mustang's engine, I let out a heavy sigh. I actually hated coming here. The irony of that statement wasn't lost on me, since there was a time when to me, this place, not Disney World, was the happiest place on Earth. Looking at the small grouping of detached apartments, it's hard to imagine that there was a time when all of them were well-maintained and looked nearly new. Even stranger is the fact that the current state of disarray and disrepair has occurred over a period of less than three years.

The unit I'm parked in front of is pretty bad, but the one I'm going to is far worse. I couldn't actually get my car in front of that one because there are several cars in various states of repair parked in front of it, in the driveway and there's even a truck on the lawn.

Actually, you can't really call it a lawn when there's no actual grass. I think there's a law somewhere that says that. I also think it's pretty specific. There have to be at least ten or twelve blades of actual grass present for an area to be called a lawn. An uneven, rough trod collection of dirt, mud and weeds with a dead pickup truck thrown in for decoration is not legally a lawn.

When I lived here, I was proud of my lawn. It was watered every other day and cut every weekend. My neighbors and I traded lawn care tips and always tried to one up each other in having the coolest garden equipment. Now the place looks like no one lives here. Only the thumping from the loud, raucous music coming from inside gives any indication that people actually live in the unit. The peeling paint and sagging wooden steps, help to reinforce the impression of the place being unoccupied.

The screen door swings freely in the wind. There is no screen in the door, nor is there any glass. In fact the only thing keeping the door anchored to the building is the one lone loose hinge near the top. The opposite corner on the bottom of the door seems to be planted into the rotting wood of the porch. It acts as a type of pivot and every time the wind blows the door seems to noisily swing. It's that lone, tortured hinge making the noise apparently. The corner of the door also scrapes further into the porch with every breeze.

I wonder what it would look like if I were to come back in in two years. Would the wind and the constant movement finally rip the hinge from the wall and let the door simply fall off? Or would the constant scraping simply dig the door deeper and deeper into the porch until it couldn't move?

I often wonder why none of the neighborhood's scavengers don't simply come up onto the porch in the middle of the night or the day for that matter and simply steal the door and take it to the scrapyard.

As I close the door of the Mustang, that solid, "thunk," sound as the door closes draws attention. I have no illusions that my car's security system would be a match for any of the neighborhood's cadre of professional car thieves. But if my car has drawn attention, I use that scrutiny for my own benefit. I let my black trench coat slide open until my gun is visible. I also make a show of pulling my piece as if I'm checking it over before confronting someone inside of the unit I'm visiting.

My movements suggest that I'm an undercover cop on an investigation. I walk around behind the car and open its tiny trunk. I pull out a giant stuffed animal. It isn't just any teddy bear or unicorn. It's a giant stuffed skunk. The skunk is kind of an inside joke between my daughter and I. Ever since I took her to see that movie "Over the hedge," when she was three years old, my daughter has loved skunks. I know that she'll love this one as well.

I step gingerly on the shitty wood of the porch expecting at any second for the rotted boards to give way under my weight. But they hold and I knock on the door hard and wait. After a few moments when no one has answered, I try the knob and it turns and opens.

The scene in front of me looks like something out of Caligula. Inside the room the noise of the country music station pouring out of the cheap stereo at ear splitting volume is countered by the sounds of loud moans and groans. Three naked men are all pumping one small chubby woman. All of them are covered in sweat and the woman's screams are the loudest in the room.

"Ohh ... Baby ... harder ... fuck me ... fuck me," she screams, oblivious to everything else going on around her. In one corner, a guy is smoking weed or a mixture of marijuana and God knows what else. I'm not interested in him. I'm more interested in the would-be porn star on the couch. She's flat on her back with her thin legs flailing in the air while a large greasy looking guy rams his dick in her ass. She alternately moans and then plunges another guy's dick down her throat. The third guy is currently rubbing his dick against one of her large breasts and pumping his hips in time with Lynrd Skynrd's "Sweet home Alabama."

Two other guys appear to be playing cards in the kitchenette unit in the next room. I wonder what happened to the stove we had when I lived here. One of the guys is wearing a suit and a good one. He seems to be the only guy in the room who's noticed that I'm here.

I drop the skunk and draw my piece. I don't go for the gun though. I drew my iPhone. I snapped off several still photos concentrating on Danielle's face and a few shots of the entire scene then I switch to video and march past the scene through the house talking as I go. I walk, video-taping the entire scene to a door on the second floor. I open the door and video tape my sleeping eight year old daughter.

I close the door behind me and start to pack some of her clothes into a small suitcase in her closet. Just as I get as many clothes as I can fit into the suitcase the phone rang.

"Hammond," I said, answering it.

"Rick," says my boss, Jeremy Clarkson, the agent in charge. "I've got an assignment for you. Your plane leaves for DC in an hour."

"On my way," I said ending the call. I storm back down the stairs and nothing in the room seems to be any different.

I kick the plug out of the wall and the stereo ceases abruptly. "God damn it Danielle," I yell. "Rina is upstairs asleep while you're holding an orgy with all of these fucking losers. I was about to take her out of here but my boss called me. I have another assignment, but when I get back..."

The sound of the gun clicking silenced me immediately. I should have known it would be the guy in the suit.

"Who are you?" he asked. He and the guy he was playing cards with are completely different from all of the other guys there. For one thing they're the only guys who are dressed. For another, neither of them is drunk or high. And the fact that they're both holding guns isn't lost on me either.

"He's my husband," said Danielle. "Don't worry about him ... Oh I forgot who you are. You should worry about him..."

"Shut up bitch," said the guy in the suit. "Donnie, shut your bitch up."

I figured that the Donnie he was referring to had to be Donnie Simmons. He was Danielle's latest boyfriend. His father was Big Al Simmons. He owned and operated a chain of appliance stores throughout the Midwest. I could see that over the next five to ten years the big chains like Best Buy, and Good Guys Inc would slowly squeeze them out of the market. The online vendors like Amazon would also cut into his profits if he didn't find some way to either diversify or move into a different business. But for now, Big Al's Appliances was at least a regional powerhouse.

Donnie, of course, had very little to do with the actual management of the stores. He saw himself as a business genius who simply hadn't been given a chance. His dad had given him some kind of titled position in the organization that really sounded far more important than it was. Donnie probably figured that when his dad died, he'd run the stores the way he wanted. But anyone with half a brain could see that by the time Big Al died, there probably wouldn't be much left.

Donnie was about six feet tall and fat as hell with lips that looked too big to be a man's. Apparently, Donnie was a sharing individual because he was allowing his friends to fuck Danielle too.

"Oh shit, boss," said the guy next to the man in the suit. "He's got a piece and there's metal next to it. I think it's a badge."

"You a cop?" asked the guy holding the gun on me. He began to lower his gun.

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