Chapter 12

Bitch-Kathy, of course, didn’t know anything of my meeting with Mrs. Pendleton. For that matter I didn’t know whether or not she’d say anything to J. Lucas Pendleton himself. But I now had $150,000 in cash in a rather nice leather brief case. What the hell was I going to do with 1,500 one-hundred-dollar bills? I wouldn’t put it past the little old lady I met in the bus station to track the bills somehow or even to have given me counterfeit money.

First things first, I went to a bank I had no relationship with, and got a safe deposit box. 1,500 bills didn’t occupy a huge amount of space. Not that I counted them. I took one of the bills out, randomly out of the center, and emptied the rest into the safe deposit box. I left the brief case in a trash container behind a Chinese restaurant. Then I went to my bank and got $500 in cash from my account, all in hundreds. I walked about three blocks to another branch and handed the bill from Mrs. Pendleton’s stash to a teller. I got no indication that the ‘questionable’ bill raised any red flags, and got five twenties in return from the teller.

So, it seemed that the money was good. The two hours I’d spent in running my ‘laundering’ routine was good time invested, as far as I was concerned.

I went home early, and pounded on my piano for a couple of hours. I played some of the simpler Beethoven and Chopin from my limited repertoire, while I was running the whole bitch-Kathy scenario through my mind. She came home on time and we had a near normal dinner that Friday night. She accompanied me to the gym in the basement of the building, and then we watched some TV and turned into bed. I got a nice BJ and flipped her over and fucked her doggie style. I could tell she was concerned about a visit from ‘Rufus,’ but it was just a straight vaginal fuck. Well, maybe a little rougher than normal for us, but that was it.

We had a fairly normal weekend, wherein I acted ‘normal’ to the best of my ability. I’ll tell ya, the Oscar’s could just sign me up ... I’m a shoe-in this year. “Best performance by a fucked over spouse.”

On Monday, she dressed in what I called her ‘fuck Lucas at lunch’ clothes: flouncy skirt with patterned stockings and knee-high boots. Where did the knee-high boots come from? I think this was the only time that I’d ever seen her in something less that 4” stilettos; the boots had only 2” heels. Lucas would love to pry her boots apart and plant his thing up in her cooch. I’d bet those stockings would lead to a garter belt.

I guessed that either Mrs. P never discussed the situation with James Lucas or Mr. Pendleton just ignored the message. Either way, I know that the bitch-Kathy would get her pussy filled with Lucas’s sperm. Only I knew that he was shooting his touchdown passes at a target that wasn’t ready to receive.

She should have plenty to discuss with Dr. Applebottom tomorrow, because when she returned that night the pattern of her stockings was different than when she’d walked out this morning. I guess the rough treatment during the Lucas-lunch made her stop at the stocking store after her fuck-a-thon.

She was in a very chipper frame of mind. I was keeping up my Academy Award credentials: I gave her a sarcastic comment on the new design of her stockings – just to let her know that I knew. There was no warm cuddling in bed that night.

She wore a gray business suit, the next day. Something must have changed since this was ass-fuck-Tuesday. I checked her office diary, and ‘Dr. A’ was written in and ‘Meet with P’ was moved to Wednesday. I wonder what she’d tell Applebottom about her ongoing affair.

I faced her down on Tuesday evening. “Why do you bother seeing the marriage counselor? You obviously fucked the asshole on Monday. What does she say?”

She didn’t answer either question. “I still see her since I’m sure you’ll eventually forgive and forget this meaningless interlude. I hope your sessions with her are setting your mind at ease. You and I are the permanent item. He’s just a temporary itch I have to scratch.”

“And do you tell the Doc about your ‘special meetings’ on Thursdays in New York?”

She startled a bit at me throwing that at her. She must have forgotten the card I left for her at the hotel. Memories can be SO inconvenient. “That’s just Bill Clinton sex. I give him a BJ, not ... you know, all the way down ... like I do with you. And then he eats me. He’s very good. Fantastic, in fact ... You know how I can’t go four days without some sex.”

“Oh,” I said, “so that’s just another thing I don’t do very well. I thought I did pretty well with oral sex ... I see. So how long has that been going on? You’ve been going to New York for a couple of years.”

“Um ... No, it’s not like that. YOU are the one I want to be fucking. YOU are numero uno with me ... It’s just that ... Like when you have to sneeze. You just sneeze. And when I have to sneeze, and there’s a convenient guy when you’re not around ... I just do it.”

“A sneeze?” I answered. “I’m here every day. I guess you must have a serious sudden attack of hay fever at lunch.” I turned around and walked toward my office. “Just don’t expect me to wipe your snotty nose in the evenings when you’re done ‘sneezing.’” I closed the office door behind me, and ~snapped~ the door lock.

A sneeze? An itch? What a slut.

I didn’t even turn on the piano. I wound up falling asleep with the internet showing snooker. A pool game – a billiards game – of apparently either interminable safeties or unbelievable runs of amazing shot making and positional play. Anyway, I got to watching it – you know how it is with You Tube videos – and I fell asleep in my comfy chair.

I woke with a start about 3:15, when one of the normally subdued British commentators broke into a loud voice with “Another Century by the Rocket! Just amazing. Why he can...” I’m sure it was riveting fare for the zillions of snooker fans, around the world. I just grogged awake and hit the ‘off’ button on my PC. I stripped down to my dark green briefs, unlocking the office door, and staggered to bed.