Chapter 12

Harold came back to his old apartment frustrated and pissed off. He looked around at the dump he had left his wife in and he couldn't believe how he had managed to survive all those months living like this. Or how that bitch who called herself Mrs. Wilson could call this 'home.' The place was a fucking disaster. A squalid, vermin-infested sty.

They had laughed at him today. At Suzie's Whorehouse, out on Route 117. When he was living here, he'd been going there every fucking Wednesday for almost a year before he came home to his cold wife. He'd never been laughed at before. It was humiliating.

He couldn't figure it out. For more than a month now he'd been putting the wood to Marcy like John Henry drove railroad spikes. All fucking day long, day after day. He felt like he had been reborn, come into his own, his virility greater than when he had been a pimply-faced teenager. Then today, when he had strutted in and slapped down his new Gold Card, he had taken three of the most expensive whores upstairs, booking them for two hours. They had fucking fallen asleep waiting for inspiration to strike him, but only after they made sure the whole establishment had heard of his flop. Inadequate, they had called him and then made him sign the charge slip, including a huge tip.

To add insult to injury, he couldn't even get a twitch in the vertical direction for his loving wife, the cold bitch. It didn't even help to remember her bending over the couch like last time, her tight little asshole squeezing him dry as he humped her ass. There was nothing. Nada. Zip.

He had to be so fucking sweet to her tonight, too. He had hoped to get her in a good mood by balling her. Then he could have gotten her to do anything. Sweet talk the cunts and fuck them good. Then they'd do anything for you.

He'd managed the sweet talk but she seemed cool, distant somehow. Oh, she was very polite and smiled at him, but she seemed sad. Probably that time of the fucking month. Just his luck. There was no way was he going to stick his dick in that smelly swamp of a pussy, so maybe it was just as well to give his pride and joy a well-deserved rest.

He had to get her to sign those papers. He had shuffled them in with a lot of health insurance forms and general information stuff from the company. There wasn't a ghost of a chance she would even notice it was there. Marcy had marked all the places for her to sign with an "X" and highlighted it in a neon pink color. All she had to do was move the fucking pen with her hand.

He watched her as she waded through the forms. She was fucking reading them! What did she expect to do, understand Corporate America? She was from fucking Hicksville, Minnesota, for Chrissakes!

He had to think of something else. He had to keep cool. He-- they needed her cooperation for the plan to get put into effect. Oh, God! She was reading the life insurance policy and was checking the fucking actuarial tables and projected payouts. He was an accountant and he had trouble with those fucking things... Oh Shit!... No, thank God! It looked for a second like she was going to ask a stupid ass question... There! One signature... Oh, for fucking shit. Just sign the damn things... Oh, Christ! Don't look back at what you've already done. We'll be here all fucking night and this place in giving me the creeps. What a rat-infested shit-hole.

Alex finished signing the stack of forms and placed them in a neat pile. They were an interesting assortment of nonsense, almost enough to make her want to breeze through them without reading them. But Daddy had taught her to never sign anything without understanding it.

"Should I take these to the post office and mail them for you, Harold?" she asked. "I think I have enough money for stamps."

"Oh, no. Don't bother. I'll have Marcy drop them in the outgoing mail when I get back. As an executive, I get free postage from the company. It's one of the special perks." Fucking bitch just wanted more money. Well, now that she had signed the forms, he was done with her. She had gotten the last dime she was getting from him. She could get a job and make her own money, like he did.

Alex heard the name 'Marcy' and her heart broke in two. She died a little more inside herself, even though she had known it was over between them for a long time. She had known, ever since she had overheard the telephone call that night. True, Mr. Smith had not used Harold's name, but she knew. A woman knows.

Hearing Harold speak the name of the 'other woman' so easily in her presence was the hardest thing she had ever heard. Yet she didn't cry. They still had to spend the night together. She wondered if he would be able to tell the difference in her, her increased sensuality and her increased sexuality. She was still his wife and she was not only obligated, but ready and willing to give him whatever he demanded. She hoped and prayed he wouldn't take her mouth, but she would sacrifice even that for her husband if that was what he wanted. In her heart, she hoped he wouldn't, and she wasn't going to offer, either. She was saving that for, for, well, she didn't know what to call him.

Yes she did. She wanted to call him 'Master.' With all her heart and soul, that was what she wanted. It shook her to her core as that became so clear to her, yet at the same time, the realization of it calmed her. Grinning wryly, she now understood her first misunderstanding of what he said he preferred to be called. He had told her, from the very first time they had met. "Master Smith." He had instinctively known about her need then and had been so patient with her.

Unbelievably, Harold didn't want sex from her. He didn't even undress before he went to bed. He acted like the sheets were dirty or that there were bugs or rodents crawling around the apartment. Soon enough he was snoring and Alex was able to get back up and re-examine those insurance papers.

She found them very interesting and vaguely familiar as she read through them. If she was reading all the paperwork correctly, what Harold was involved in was a variation on a huge scam that a race horse owner had pulled off back in Wisconsin. Or nearly pulled off. He got caught and everyone knew about it.

The only difference was that in this case, Harold was the horse. Back home, the guy had used a trumped up, worthless old nag with a false, but documentable track record. An altered ID tattoo here, a few charred remains in a barn fire there, and the insurance company was paying out a couple of hundred thousand bucks for what amounted to a pile of overcooked dog food. Too bad the guy couldn't tell a gelding from a stallion.

Harold's life insurance policy was too big. That's what made her suspicious. That and the off-shore bank account. Why did they need one of those? She thought long and hard about telling Harold of her suspicions. She had started to say something when she first saw the policy stuck in among all the other crap. But she hadn't. He wouldn't have listened to her, anyway. He was too excited about this, too involved.

She wondered how they had suckered him into doing this. She figured they had made it seem like his idea, his scheme. Now, he thought that this was his big break.

Alex sighed. She was his wife and he needed her help to pull it off. That made her an accomplice to it, sort of, plus she was the named beneficiary. She figured that that explained the off-shore account. They wouldn't be likely to check if he was supposed to be dead. All he needed to do was match the signature card. Still, it was a risk and he was putting them both in danger, but if he was willing to take it, she would support him.

She did, however, make a couple of changes to the policy. Minor checkboxes that wouldn't add much to the premium, but added tons to the benefits as well as splitting the deposit accounts into two accounts. Just in case someone else could get access to the account. Like Marcy. She doubted Harold would notice.

What kept nagging at her was Mr. Smith's involvement in the scam. What part did he play in all this? That was what she couldn't figure out. She had already witnessed his ruthlessness. Alvin had warned her Mr. Smith was involved with something to do with Harold. But maybe Alvin was just saying that to confuse her. He had tried to scare her by telling her Mr. Smith had beaten a girl to death. She didn't think he could, but, well, maybe. He had been very angry that day.

She was confused, pulled by her longings one way and her gut instinct in the other. She so wanted to believe in Mr. Smith, wanted him to be the Master she was longing for that it was hard for her to believe anything bad about him. She was even beginning to doubt he had really killed Lewis. Maybe he was just scaring him. There hadn't been any police asking questions or anything.

Alex went back to bed and didn't sleep.

Harold left at first light. She had his coffee waiting for him, made just like he liked it. He had sipped it and tossed it out, said it tasted funny. Marcy's was better, he had told her, smirking.

She didn't say anything to him about the scam. Now, she didn't care.

Alex waited for Damon's call for three days. She wasn't used to being idle, so she made use of her time. She borrowed one of her nicer neighbor's sewing machines and made some alterations in the few clothes she had. If she had learned anything from the past couple of weeks, it was how to look sexy and how to make clothes look as sexy as possible.

With quick and sure stitches and snips, she altered her one remaining blouse, modified Harold's one silk shirt that he had left here when he moved out and then completely redid her Sunday dress. The white one with the little flowers. When she was done, she stood in front of the cracked mirror on the closet. She'd probably best not wear this to church anymore, she giggled to herself. She could see clear through it and it fit a lot tighter now. She brushed her thumbs over her protruding nipples and watched as they stiffened to their full height. They were always aroused now, and it made her feel sexy.

The slits up the side of the skirt had gone a little higher than she had intended, but with the high waistline the long skirt bound her thighs too much. She could have cut the bottom off and hemmed it up, but she rather liked the sexy effect of the slits. When she twirled around the material flew up and you could see her dark hair between her thighs. Oh, she felt wicked. Wonderfully wicked.

Damon came back from his meeting late and furious. It had not been the meeting he had been prepared for. Someone was feeding them all the wrong information. He was convinced now it was Alvin, and that made the bastard expendable. He had just the thing, too. He had picked it up from an untraceable source, but it was delicious revenge. It was un-fucking-believable. Give the guy a break, help him make something of himself, and how does he repay you? Fucking stabs you in the fucking back, that's how!

As soon as he had got to the resort he had sensed something was wrong. First, the bitch was there with her sniveling toadies. She never came to these boring business meetings. What was she doing here?