This story is dark.
Hurtling along in the dark midnight hours at 75 miles per hour, down a long straight stretch of Arizona Interstate 10-a road to nowhere in particular and everywhere specifically-I become lulled by the monotony of the ride. I'm Bill Dolezol. I'm about 6' around 200 pounds, a little bit overweight, sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. I began dreaming, dreaming of my wife at 22 years old when we were married. She was so pretty, ripe with innocent sexuality, playful, erotic, eternally horny, so desirous; those were the days before pain, emotional scarring, the rage, hurt, insult, unexpected cheating and forsaken love.
We'd been married 8 years when it all blew. We were both 30, well on our ways to successful careers, neither of us desiring children. We both worked hard and played hard. Our wedding was prefaced with serious talks. We'd agreed on fidelity, absolute fidelity. We'd agreed, no children. We'd agreed where we'd live, how to handle our finances, who cooked, who cleaned and when, who took the garbage out and most of the myriads of things couples were likely to face. We were proactive, we told ourselves, and had these talks before we tied the knot. Most importantly, we agreed on our sex lives.
All that is not to say we didn't realize the possibilities that might arise which would create a need for revisions, and we both agreed on how to revise. We were one. We'd left our mothers and fathers and clung to each other.
Our sex life was perfect, at least for me and I thought so for her too. We'd decided we each had the right of refusal at any given time, but we also agreed not to defraud one another by using sex as an instrument of persuasion or control.
We both loved oral, neither cared for anal, she loved my cock, often licking, sucking, stroking and playing with it for long periods of time. She loved it when it was large, hard and purple; she totally perved on wearing it out and enjoyed toying with it when it was spent and small and shriveled. When it was out, she was touching, kissing, licking, scratching, stroking, playing with it.
I worshipped her body, caressing, licking, nuzzling, breathing, kissing, stroking and sucking on her erogenous zones regularly. I loved slowly arousing her, bringing her to the brink of orgasm, then backing her off, only to bring her back and then finally pushing her over the edge, all with my tongue, lips and fingers, before we fucked. We lived for one another and for our closeness.
For me, there was no indication of any restlessness or dissatisfaction. I was content and I thought Brooke was too. She often told me she was happy and that she loved me. I often repeated the same to her.
I'd left on my once yearly week-long business trip to the home office in Atlanta. I went back for a week each year for updating, training on new product development, information about the competition, marketing tactics, and whatever else the company wanted to impart. It was part of the package when I hired on and we both agreed it was ok, do-able and acceptable as part of our overall plan.
The fellow who led the training sessions in Atlanta, Del Mason choked on a piece of his lunch the first day we were there, Monday. Several of us from the class tried the Heimlich maneuver on him to no avail. He died right there in front of us. Distraught doesn't begin to describe how we all felt, but we were helpless to save him without the medical training we might have used to save him.
We were dismissed back to our homes by the company president at 4 pm after we'd waited around in the classroom all afternoon. We were to make our own travel arrangements and go home; they'd be in touch when they figured out what to do about our updates.
The company arranged for a bus to take us back to the airport and we all set about getting our flights back to our respective homes on our own. I never called Brooke, it never crossed my mind. There was so much that had happened, and with the pressure to get a flight back, I was busy, preoccupied and upset by the death of the instructor right in front of me.
I left for Phoenix at 6 pm Atlanta time, having lucked out and caught a 2 stop flight that wasn't full. We arrived at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix at 8:15 pm, we gained three hours from Eastern time to Pacific time, so I was walking into my house at 9 pm, just 16 hours after I'd left it at 5 am for Atlanta that morning.
Brooke is a tall, willow fox of a woman. She's lean, has large hands and long fingers with long dark brown hair to her waist, with green eyes, C-cup breasts, a flat and firm belly, very slim waist and small but round butt that really is something to behold. She's bright, thoughtful and focused. She was my dream girl. I was glad she chose me, glad I'd chosen her and, as far as I was concerned, we were on our happy way to forever together.
Brooke worked in a medical clinic as a Licensed Practical Nurse and was the personal assistant to one of tthe thirty doctors that had offices there, Marc LeBlanc. Her job was to see the patient after they'd been shown into the exam room, take their vital signs, note any comments or complaints on the patient's chart, ask pertinent questions and then inform the doctor that the patient was ready.
Dr. Marc LeBlanc was a distinguished looking, handsome and fit 44 year old endocrinologist with a 46 year old wife and three children. He's into physical fitness, has no excess weight, is very bright and is cool as a cucumber. Meaning, nothing much seems to ruffle his feathers. He's probably 6'3" with dark hair and I'm guessing he weighs in at 180, very trim and fit. Being so tall, he is a commanding presence, especially given his demeanor, which is 'all business and no nonsense'.
Brooke worked for him for 3 years. She loved her job and loved her boss. He was helpful to her obtaining her LPN and she was also working to become a full RN under his tutelage. As far as I'd known there was never any indication of anything untoward happening between them. I had absolute confidence in Brooke, especially because of our understanding from before we were married. He seemed happily married to his wife, Connie, dedicated to his children and his work. He did a strange way about him though.
I'd met him several times, at Christmas parties and summer picnics that the clinic sponsored for all the Doctors and staff from the various doctors' offices. He looked at me as if to gauge me, to sense from me how I felt about Brooke and he watched her and me together. It was strange, but I had never considered it seriously. It was only later that I remembered the feelings I had when I'd met him.
Alarming noises intrude; I tumble back awake with violent motion that becomes rolling over and over, down, down, over and then smash to a sudden stop. I smell the odor of hot rubber, hot oil spilling on a hot manifold, overheated engine coolant and electrical smoke. My seat belt unsnaps easily and I fall onto my head and shoulder. My car is resting upside down, the front and back glass are out, the contents of my car scattered around beside me. I am tangled up in the airbags that all had deployed in the car.
I feel around, try to sense if I'm bleeding or if I have pain. Am I, for sure, conscious? I have no pain, but I'm aware that sometimes trauma is not immediately noticeable. I know that I need to get out of this car right away; because I can smell electrical smoke and that might ignite into a gasoline fire, which would roast me for sure.
The hood is smashed up and in the way of a frontal exit, so I scramble towards the back seat and out the back window. It is pitch black outside and I can sense that I am on a slope. I cannot immediately tell how far down I am from the road surface, but I do know I am below it.
Struggling with not being able to see anything for the thick black darkness, and with confusion, fear and trying to figure out what to do, I begin taking one step up at a time, carefully trying to feel my way back to the road.
It was about 2 am the last I looked at the clock in the car, so there isn't much traffic out. So far, I haven't heard any other vehicle driving by. It is so black, so hard to see. I very carefully make my way, one step-feel around-then another tentative step, uphill and feel around, then another.
I hear a hiss and rattling to my right, nearby. "It's a rattlesnake", I think. I move one step to the left, the rattling stops. Another step up the slope, then a few more; it is slow going. Finally, the ground levels and I realize I am on the roadbed. I feel myself all over, no pain, no broken bones and apparently no blood. I do not detect injury. I am, Without a Scratch.
I follow the road for a ways, trying to distance myself from my car in case it blows up. The force of an explosion and fire might finish my night; I needed to be farther away.
I sat there waiting for someone to come by, my cell phone lost in the debris below me, in the wreckage of my car. It was sitting on the console beside me recharging when I last remember seeing it as I sped down the highway lost in my thoughts.
The stars, set against the deep black sky is literally all I can see. They are beautiful. I muse, "No trouble up there". I sense a spirit of despair, discouragement and hopelessness. I wonder if I'll ever find contentment again. I check my pockets and find the rolled up wad of hundred dollar bills that I'd removed from the bank the previous afternoon. There is five thousand in that roll and I have a cashier's check for thirty thousand more in my billfold, which is in my back pants pocket.
Moments pass, minutes, then maybe a dozen of them before I hear the sound of an approaching vehicle in the distance, coming from the direction I think I have just come. I stand up, hoping I will be seen, but realizing I need to be careful not to get hit, in case the approaching driver doesn't see me in time to react.
Finally, headlights appear on the horizon at last. Frantically, I wave and I yell. The older pickup truck rolls by me, slowing down as it does. About 30 yards down the road, it stops. I begin walking/running towards it and see that there are people in the bed of the pickup truck waiting on me to hurry and get in.
I get to the rear corner and can barely make out the faces of 3 people, staring at me silently. "I, I've had a wreck. I need help. Do you have a phone?" I asked.
Mumbling in Spanish, they say nothing to me directly but the driver says, "Andale. Sientense, vamoose." (Hurry. Sit down, let's go). I hop in and sit next to a young man, across from another. A woman sits watching me from the front of the pickup bed, by the cab.
It dawns on me that these are illegals. Coyotes are driving the pickup, making their nightly run to pick up boarder jumpers along the road as they make their way out of Mexico during the night into the Land of Opportunity. I am able to speak and understand basic Spanish and can communicate with the young man sitting next to me some. The people in the bed of that truck had been told to walk to the interstate highway; to the part that parallels the border a few miles north of their country. Then these coyotes prowled along all night one after another picking them up and taking them to a warehouse outside Tucson, where these fellow travelers of mine, paid the coyote and went on their way throughout the USA.
They have water, gallon plastic jugs of water; the girl in front offers me one that has about two inches of water left in the bottom. I drink it all, telling her, "Thank you," repeating, '"Gracias," in Spanish, handing the empty jug back to her. They seem puzzled. I guess it is because I speak Spanish, and that I'm white. They must wonder why I'd be wandering around out there in the desert, looking for a ride with them.
The driver doesn't seem to be the wiser about me. He's driving along looking for other pedestrian boarder jumpers to pick up, and he must assume I am one of the Mexicans headed to somewhere up north. He'll collect his fee when we got to wherever he is taking them, us ... me. I feel to see if my wallet is in my back pocket. It is. I can feel the hard wad of 50 one hundred dollar bills in my front pocket press against my thigh as we jostle down the highway.
The old pickup lopes along, stopping occasionally to pick up another wanderer in the desert and soon we are crammed full. We are nearing the lights of Tucson, but it's still 45 minutes away at the rate we are ambling along.
My mind wanders back to what the heck I was doing when I crashed. "Oh, I was thinking about Brooke. Yeah, and, me, and, all that had happened in the past few days, all that pain, the death of Del Mason, the hurt the betrayal and treachery of what I discovered when I got home. I remember now. I must have dozed off and drove off the road, tumbling down a roadside washout. But, I don't seem to be hurt."
We pull into a warehouse just at dawn in south Tucson. Yawning and stretching, I hop out of the back of the pickup. The coyote looks at me like a tuna boat captain eyes the shark in his net. He wants to know when I got on and how long I've been in the truck.
"I think about three AM", I tell him, "I had a rollover back on highway 10; thankfully you stopped to pick me up." I speak in English to him.
My fellow passengers in the pickup line up to hand him money, which are their fares for further travel into civilization from the Mexican border. Then, they'll disperse throughout the United States.
Other trucks and cars leaving from this warehouse will take these men and women around the country. This underground network that funnels illegals into and around the United States is centered right here in this warehouse on the outskirts of Tucson. And, I now off the grid to my family, friends, colleagues and wife. Eventually, they'd find my wrecked car, find out it was me driving, that I am not there with it, so I was able to get out, but no record of where I went or where I am.
The coyote is acting like he is on the horns of a dilemma. On one hand he can't charge me money like the others he picked up because I am not illegal and am not seeking a ride any further into the US. On the other hand, he doesn't want me to leave and turn him in to the Border Patrol, exposing his warehouse and operation. It dawns on me that he is seriously considering killing me.
I smile, stick my hand out and walk towards him, thanking him for the ride, saving me. He seems unsure of what to do. As I get to him I swing at him as hard as I can, connecting squarely on his chin. He goes down like a turd in a punch bowl. He doesn't move. The others stand there looking at me not sure whether to run or hide. I just smile and walk out of the warehouse. Oh, how my hand hurts, I wonder if I've broken something.
As I drove up the street to my home, it was only 9 pm; "I might get lucky yet tonight", I joyously thought. "Brooke will be so surprised and happy to see me."
When I pressed the garage door opener, my bay was occupied by a black Mercedes. The vanity license plate read, "LeBlanc". My mouth went dry, my body tensed, I thought, "Oh, surely-NO!"
Entering the house through the connecting door off the garage I came into the utility room. I slipped through the closed door into the living room and stood, listening.
"I am, I said ... I am, said I", Neil Diamond crooning away on our stereo from the bedroom was the noise I heard. "We hadn't played that CD in a long time," I think.
Muffled moans and whispers were softly audible as I walked in disbelief towards our bedroom. They'd never heard the garage door open, or me enter the house.
I turned the corner and the bedroom door was open at the end of the hall, the room was lit with candles and I could see Marc LeBlanc's torso between my wife's legs, his arms on either side of her body, pumping away talking to her, looking into her eyes and her cooing back at him as they slowly, lovingly copulated.
"How could this be happening? No, I'm dreaming, Brooke, NO!" I trembled from within.
As I walked down the hall towards the bedroom, their noises became more intense, he pumps faster, she moans that familiar keen, signaling her impending orgasm, and I sensed they were about to climax together.
I walked right into the room and smashed Brooke's boss on the right side of his head with my fist as hard as I could. As he fell to his left, his cock pulled out of her pussy and he squirted his seed all over. It made an arc in the air as he fell off her and onto the floor. They were fucking without condoms. Add insult to injury.
I stood for a moment looking at Brooke who was trying to stifle her orgasm, looking back at me in silent shock, unable to even utter a sound or move a muscle. I could see she was orgasming, I'd seen it a thousand times on her face, in her eyes. But now, the ecstasy mixed with shame and fear; "wow, what an emotional cocktail that must be", I think.
Marc stood up and came right at me, his average sized cock pointing straight at me, glistening and drooling with their mixed body fluids. He is fourteen years older, but two or three inches taller, I'm heavier and not in shape and he is in magnificent shape. He swung at me and got me on the cheek. We fought. We exchanged blows and finally we were wrestling around on the floor, him naked and I fully clothed. I couldn't get ahold of him because he was slick and sweaty; he was manhandling me easily, pulling on my shirt and making it harder for me to get a square shot at him with my fists.
Though older, he, obviously, was in far better condition than me, and was handling me easily. I struggled so hard to best him that I became labored in my breathing, unable to catch a cleansing breath. Then I felt shearing chest pain like I'd never known. I stopped struggling and fell over onto the floor, ceasing all resistance. I couldn't get my breath and I had crushing pain in my jaw and shoulder and chest so badly I was paralyzed. My thoughts were filled with emotional pain, raging anger, agonizing physical distress and pain, numbing fear. I couldn't breathe and I was fading fast, I knew I was passing out.
When I came around a little bit, Marc was on his naked knees beside me breathing into my mouth and then doing compressions to my chest. As he knelt beside me pressing on my chest, his wet, dripping cock drizzled onto my upper torso, shoulder and upper arm.
Ever the doctor, he was saving my life even as my naked treacherous wife, now finished with her orgasm, dialed 911. I went out again.
Next, I remember waking in the ambulance for a moment or two, watching an ambulance tech taking my vital signs and adjusting an IV she'd stuck in my arm, talking to the driver. We were moving fast and then I was gone again.
I woke and was in a darkened room on a flat hard table with gowned and masked men and women around me, all looking either at my groin or at the tv beside me. A screen was on the left, by my head and I could see what looked like a beating heart and a wire snaking its way around by it in an x-ray like looking picture. I could feel pain, and then hear the click of a camera.
I was in cardiac catheter laboratory and was having an angiogram of my heart. It was my heart on the screen and they were looking to see what was going on, shooting dye through my vascular system and watching for blockages or problems. I remember realizing that I was totally stoned; they'd given me something that cushioned me. I was not alarmed; I was not concerned, though I felt the terrible pain. I was conscious and aware. They had oxygen on me and I just lay there stripped and bare before them as they threaded the camera up through my groin and my aorta to my heart.
Finally, they were done and pulled the wire and all their contraptions out of me, closed my groin up with a stitch or two, and held pressure on the artery to stop any bleeding. I was wheeled into an ICU room where there were two nurses in attendance to me for a few hours. I slept.
Time now not being perceived at all, I woke to the sounds of beeps and electric whirring, but I don't know when or how long it was after all that had taken place. I was alone, but soon a nurse entered and called for the doctor when she saw I was awake.
Doctor Tim Rouse was at my side in only a moment. "Bill, you've had a myocardial infarction, a heart attack. Because Dr. LeBlanc acted so promptly, performing CPR, it probably saved your life, and you have no heart damage at all that I can see. I think the MI, the heart attack, was brought on by a traumatic event, coupled with sudden physical activity and straining, and also, that you aren't exactly a specimen of a good, healthy lifestyle. I expect you to make a full recovery, but you will be on thin ice if you don't change your life style, watching what you eat and start exercising. Oh, and avoid any more sudden trauma coupled with great exertion"
"Avoid it? I certainly didn't go looking for this. I'm only 30, doc. Can this really be my heart that cause all this?" I asked incredulously.
"Absolutely it's your heart, Bill. Like I said, you've had a heart attack. That you're only 30 only speaks to your life style, your lack of exercise and the sudden emotional trauma you suffered along with the sudden physical exertion and straining." He explained again. Apparently he could tell that I was in denial about this and he was trying to making his point to me, again.
I was stunned, silent, and then remorseful. I began to cry. It all flooded back and I remembered what I'd seen, how I felt, what had happened. How I hurt because the love of my life betrayed me and she did it in my own bed, our bed where we'd owned one another, taken possession of each other so many times.
"There's right and there's wrong. This was wrong. Many people suffer wrong and endure it. I won't 'endure' this, this will be recompensed," I resolved from within as I cried and cried.
The nurse seemed alarmed and began to try to soothe me, but the doctor beckoned her back. "It's ok; it's a release for him. It will serve him to cry it out, it's therapeutic for him to relieve some of the pent up emotion he's still got. Let him go for a while, he'll be ok."
The doctor just said he'd look back in on me in a bit, but the nurse stayed. I cried for a long while. Actually, I sobbed.
When I finally dried up a bit, I told her that I needed to make sure I had no visitors, that I did not want my wife in the room at all; or anyone else either.
She said that my wife was waiting to see me, but she'd see to it that I was not disturbed.
I actually do not know how long I was in the hospital. Time had lost relevance and it never registered to me how long I was there. I suppose it was a few days.
But finally I was released. My wife had gone home and so the coast was clear.
When I did look at a clock it was 12 pm as I was wheeled out to a cab at the front of the hospital. I thought Brooke might possibly be at work, so I asked the cab to take me to my house.
My Buick had been parked behind Marc LeBlanc's Mercedes as it sat in my stall in the garage when I got home Monday night. But they'd moved it to the street so they could get his car out, and on the street my car still sat.
Brooke was not at home, so I got my still unpacked suitcase from where I left it in the utility room, and packed two more. I tossed my wedding ring on the bed, and left. I had to make three trips to the car because I was weak from several days in bed and because I wanted to be careful to not induce another heart attack.
I went to the bank and took out in cash, every dime that I could get. The rest they gave me in a cashier's check. I cancelled all our credit cards, drove to my office and quit my job. Brooke had called them and told them I'd returned home early from Atlanta, but was in the hospital, that I'd be in touch as soon as I could. She did not know why I had come home early. The people in my office knew I'd returned early, and why, but nobody apparently told Brooke.
I had not spoken one word to my wife. Our eyes had met while she was in the throes of her Marc LeBlanc induced orgasm, but no words were exchanged between us since I'd returned home.
I was starving after laying the coyote out in his warehouse. I was in unfamiliar territory, but I realized it was a probably heavily Hispanic part of town.
There were no cabs in that part of the outskirts of Tucson at that early hour, so I walked. Because it was right after dawn, it was safe. All the bad boys were either stoned or home in bed, I reckoned.
Finally, after an hour of walking mostly north, I found a busy restaurant. I went in and got a booth in the back. I ordered oatmeal with dry toast, orange juice and a boiled egg.
This was not my usual fare of Bacon and eggs with a side of hash browns, grits and biscuits and gravy, as I remembered Dr. Rouse's stern admonition concerning my diet and life style. "Ok, beginning today changes will be made", I thought to myself. "Actually, beginning Monday night, when I got home from Atlanta, they started."
As I ate, I sat there thinking. I'd already begun the long, arduous journey that I knew I'd need to make to reclaim any sense of direction in my life.
Using the restaurant business phone, loaned to me by my flirty waitress, I called the Arizona Highway Patrol and reported my accident. I told them where I was placing the call from, where I thought the accident had occurred and that I needed my possessions from the car. An officer came to the restaurant, since I had no way to go to him, and took the report over his own breakfast. That was cool, he was cool. You know if the cops eat there, the food is good.
Officer Brian Vance took me back out to the site of the wreck, ordered a tow and took me back to Tucson. I was surprised to see that the car never caught fire.
What a great guy this young officer was. He did write me a ticket, telling me, "It's required, we must assign fault and you are totally at fault here. You fell asleep at the wheel. It won't be bad, just 3 points and a couple hundred dollars or so. I'll lighten the charges so it won't ding you too bad."
I was glad I'd bought the man's breakfast. He took me back to Tucson and helped me find a comfortable room.