"He's a good guy, Conrad. He's no threat to us, and he's nobody gonna be spreading any bad stuff about us out there either. Okay?" she said.

"No, it's not okay. You're either his or you're mine. Which is it going to be, Pamela. There is no in between. Call him now tell him he's history or I am. History that is," I said.

I'm Conrad Winston. Age thirty-eight. I'm a building contractor, mostly commercial stuff. Pay's good, 200K annual on average.

Pamela my wife is twenty-eight, average looking, slim, and kind a tall; but, she is young and she is sexy. I won the lottery getting her to marry me; for her part she won my income and security. Seemed like a fair trade to me at the time. That said.

Now she wants to sweeten the pot—her half of it—by having a lover. His name is Ron Pollard. Tall, slim, good looking, got a little money as I've been able to find out, but it's mostly tied up in houses he can't sell for what he paid for them, so it's problematical. Oh, and he's thirty-two! Chance I'll go along with her doing him? Really really slight!

"Conrad, lighten up, okay. Me doing him is just for the variety. I don't 'need' him and you don't need to worry about him. If you were able to get it up more than you do now; well, I wouldn't even need the guy," she said.

"So you're doing him because I don't satisfy you, not just because you want variety," I said.

"Both, sort of, okay. I mean variety yes. And, it isn't that you don't satisfy me, I mean not exactly. You do when you do me, but you're limited. All men are limited. When you run out of spunk, you're done. And, usually I need more. A woman doesn't have those kinds of limitations," she said. "Am I getting through to you?"

"I don't like it, and I'm not going to be putting up with it," I said. "You wanna be a whore. I'm gone. Got it?" She sighed.

"Jesus, I never should have told you," she said. "But—I just didn't want to be keeping things from you anymore. It would have been far more hurtful for you if you'd caught me. I know it. I know the male ego.

"Yeah, well it is kinda hard to argue with you on that one. But, that said—fuck you!" I turned and headed out.

I was talking Humphrey Bogart, but inside I was Don Knots. My stomach was roiling, my heart was beating an irregular staccato, and I was praying to all the gods at once that my staunch position on the matter would get her to stop her cheating on me. But, even then, could I forgive the cheating cunt! Hell if I knew—yet.

When I left I had determined to stay out and away from her until she made up her mind one way or the other. At any rate that's what I was telling myself. The Horseshoe Inn was close to work and cheap. I had a small bag of clothes with me and a few other necessaries. I could hold out for a short time.

The morning after our discussion found me antsy and alone and lonely and wringing my hands. I needed her. Hell, she needed me too. I knew that this boyfriend of hers was a player. I had to think that she did too. She just couldn't believe that she wasn't his one and only. Hell, he had a reputation for dropping women, when he was done with them, like hot rocks.

I thought it telling that she so far hadn't called me. But, then she did. I was eating breakfast at the café across the street from the Horseshoe. My phone was on vibrate; it buzzed. I looked, sure enough it was her. I answered it.

"I'm eating Pam, whaddya want?' I said, that in my most sardonic tone.

"Conrad, please come home. I need you. Okay? Please?" she said.

"You dumping shit head?" I said, silence on the other end of the line.

"Conrad, please, come home. We'll talk. If I can't convince you to lighten up about him, I will break it off with him. How's that?" she said. Now, I had gone silent. She couldn't convince me, so according to her; I would be getting my way: she'd be dumping the asshole.

"How do I know you'll keep your word. I mean you know damn well, I'm not going to knuckle under to letting you fuck another man," I said.

"Maybe, but At least give me a decent chance to convince you. Okay?" she said.

"A decent chance to convince me that it's okay for you to be indecent with him? That about it?" I said.

"Conrad!" she said.

"Okay, Pam, I'll be there tomorrow. Tomorrow's Sunday. I'll be there around 10AM. You be there, or I'm history, and you'll be talking to me through my lawyer. We understand each other?" I said.

"Yes, okay," she said. "And thank you. I know it seems a little weird to you now. I understand that, but it's not the bad thing you think it is, really."

"Tomorrow, at 10AM." I hung up.

She sat by the phone and stared at it. She picked up the receiver and dialed. It was answered on the second ring.

"Yes, it's me ... Come over ... No, he ran out on me. But, he's coming over tomorrow to talk ... Yes, yes. You and I need to talk strategy. I can't lose him ... He's my meal ticket ... Just come over ... Yes, right now ... Yes, we need to plan ... Okay, you too." She hung up.

Her legs were draped over his shoulders as he pounded into her. His arms were wrapped tightly around her arms and torso; she had no control as she fucked her, and she loved it. Submitting to this man was fantastic. Now, all she had to do was convince her stupid husband that it was going to be a good thing for him too. He, her hubby was going to be getting twice the sex he ever had from her, and maybe some agreed to extra-curricular pussy as well. She had to work it out with the man fucking her at that moment, but she had an idea.

He stiffened, shuddered, and unloaded a sea of cum inside of her; she felt its heat, and she smiled. She just couldn't give him up. "Jesus that was good," she said. She'd made it twice. With her hubby? She made it maybe twice a year; there was no comparison. Conrad Winston was tops in a lot of ways but none of them had anything whatsoever to do with sex.

"Glad I could accommodate yuh," he said. He had rolled off of her and was breathing heavily. The two of them lay still for some moments.

"We have to talk," she said. "Let's shower and go downstairs. We'll grab a bite and figure out what I'm gonna do. I need your help here, Ronald. Okay?"

"Yes, yes, like I said yesterday. I'll do what I can, but I sure as hell can't think of how you're going to get him to come around. He ain't stupid as you keep saying he is. He's just pussywhipped. But, he won't remain PW if he thinks you're shining him on. I know I wouldn't," he said.

"Yeah well maybe. But, I have a plan, and if I can get it to come together, we'll all be getting everything we want and then some, including my stupid husband," she said, and she laughed.

I don' know why you don't just divorce him; I mean if your opinion of him is that low," he said.

"Because I need him," she said.

"No, you don't. You make enough. Your business is taking off; soon you'll be making as much as he is," he said.

"Ronald, Ronald, Ronald you don't get it. The reason Winston Interiors is doing well is because Conrad's contacts keep sending me well-heeled clients. If he divorces me, that would end. I'd be lucky to make half what I am now. No, I have to keep him around, on a short leash, but I have to keep him," she said. He smiled.

"Okay, count me in. What did you have in mind?" he said.

I looked up at the clock; it read 9:30. I was still sitting in a booth at the Horseshoe. Had been since 8:00AM. I'd eaten breakfast, which was actually pretty good for a twenty-four hour bar and grill, of course it was only a bar from noon to 2:00AM, but food and coffee was available anytime, very convenient. I threw a twenty on the table, signaled Eve, and headed out.

I pulled up in front of the house four minutes early. I saw the front room curtain drop; she was anxious. Good, I thought. Maybe she'd had an epiphany of sorts. Well, one could hope.

I knocked. The door opened, and a slightly irked Pamela smirked at my gesture. "And you knocked why?" said Pamela.

"Doesn't feel like my home anymore," I said. "You wanted this sit down; are you gonna ask me in?" I said. My sarcasm was but barely veiled.

"Why yes, Mr. Winston, do come in won't you," she said, false formality fairly dripping from her tongue.

I could tell from her look that these opening gambits were not rolling out quite as she'd expected. As for me, I was more than satisfied that they were. I needed for her to be off balance. Whatever she'd prepared for me had to fail if I was going to get my wife back; that is, the wife I used to think I had.

She'd already poured the drinks—whiskey at freakin' ten in the morning! Well, it was five o'clock somewhere. We sat at the dinette and sipped.

"Well?" I said. She sighed, gathered herself and shook her head slowly.

"Conrad, Conrad, Conrad I don't know what to do about you. You are so fucking wrong about me and us and Ronald and all of it. That said, I know that I am in tough here trying to get you to lighten up. But, anyway, here goes my pitch.

"I've done you wrong. I was selfish and stupid and crazy all at the same time. That I love you never doubt. That I can do with just your cock only; well, that would be real hard for me," she said.

"Evidently," I said. "So where does that leave us?"

"It leaves us, me, ready to make things right by you. To be fair. To tender you an offer you will find damn hard to refuse. At least—well—I hope so," she said.

"An offer?" I said.

"Yes, like I said, I've been selfish. That will no longer be the case. From now on it will be the both of us getting it on. That's the both of us without guilt, without a lot of stupid questions, and equal in all respects," she said.

"I'm not following you," I said.

"You have my full permission to play on the side too. I only want the same thing you have a right to require of me," she said.

"Huh?" I said.

"You have to promise me that you will not become emotionally involved with any of the fluff that you take to bed. Play all you want, but always come home to me. There will be no questions from me, no sidelong jealous glances from me, no unreasonable demands from me, none of it—ever!" she said.

"What the..."

"And again, of course the reverse will be so. I promise that I will never become emotionally involved with Pollard or any other man ever. You, for your part, will not question me, do the jealousy thing, make demands..."

"What the fuck are you talking about. I don't want to fuck anybody else. I only want you! Are you getting this? Now, do you have anything else to say," I said.

She deflated. "No," she said.

"Are you going to honor your promise?" I said.

"Can't I even hope to get you to think about my offer?" she said. "Maybe on a trial basis?"

"Trial basis? What the hell is that?" I said.

"We both date. You go your way to your favorite bar or church bazaar or business soiree, whatever; and I do the same. After a month's time, if it's worked out as I'm certain that it would, because you are a hunk and lots of girls are gonna want to be with you; then, we sit down and make up our minds how we will proceed from there on out," she said. I sat there staring at her. Stunned? I think I was.

"No can't do it," I said.

"One last try. I will stop seeing Pollard while you think over what I said, I mean my offer. And, if having thought about it, you still feel the same way; then, Ronald Pollard will be history permanently. Is that fair enough?" she said.

"Let me get this straight. You'll stop seeing him, but you're asking that for the time being I am to think over what you said—offered? That about it?" I said.

"Yes," she said. Well, she was being fair, at least in her mind. And, the Pollard thing would be at an end as of that moment. I nodded.

"Okay, I can go that far, but I can tell you right now; I'm not gonna be changing my mind. I don't need any pussy but yours. And this—what is it—swinging thing is not my cup of tea. Oh, and one other thing. Not only Pollard, but no other man either; that is what you mean to say—right?" I said.

"Yes," she said.

I moved back in the following morning. I suppose that I had to give her that she was trying to find a way to be fair to me, twisted logic or not, even though I adamantly did not want any part of what she was selling. And think over her proposition? Not real seriously, but I would keep to the letter if not the spirit of my word.

At work I had jobs that were ongoing, but my subs were taking care of things okay for the moment. I just had to tour the three contracts once day, usually in the afternoon, to make sure that things kept progressing as they should. After that I'd be going back to my office and make calls or call backs as the day dictated.

Pamela had meetings during the morning hours and that almost every day. She was busy. I knew she was doing well, and that mainly because of me. I had to think, given all that had gone down, that her strenuous attempts to get me back were related to those salient facts. If I pulled out, she would be left without three-fourths of her leads, and, they were first class leads.

Things were cool for the first few days I was back. We ate. We did work around the house. We even went to a movie on Friday night.

Returning home after the movie, I got the look. Well, okay, I was horny, she was horny; so what the hell.

"Let's make it easy on ourselves, tonight," I said, "and let's go to bed naked. Whaddya say."

"Good idea. It'll save time," she said. "Besides, I've been deprived these past few nights and you need to make sure you do me good. Got it mister?"

"Got it," I said.

We kinda wrestled for a few minutes as we rolled on top of the covers trying out what some might have described as imaginative foreplay. I was finally able to force her onto her belly and I took her from behind. Unloading my spunk, I rolled off of her and she rolled on to me and began kissing me. A first gently, then rudely, then gently again. God how I loved making out; it was the best as far as I was concerned.

Spit dribbled from both of our mouths. We stunk of sweat and drying spit and sex and I loved it. I think she did too, but I was still suspicious of her motives and her sincerity. But, if she was being phony, she was one helluva an actress. We slept.

The following days and weeks were good ones; well, she was on a mission. We were nearing the end of our thirty day window of decision. The dishes were done. The past five days especially had been a period of frenetic sexual adventure. We were seated in the living room. The kitchen was clean; we each had a glass of burgundy in front of us.

"Whatcha thinkin' about, Conrad?" she said.

"Same as you, I guess," I said. "It's nigh on decision time." She nodded.

"Any hope?" she said.

"For you or for me?" I countered.

She shrugged. "The both of us I guess. For me?" she said.

"This—what—open marriage thing. I have a question?

"You plan on stickin' with Pollard exclusively if I say it's a go?" I said. I'd caught her flat footed," I said.

"Uh—no—I mean not necessarily," she said. She'd caught my meaning. If she said yes, that would be very close to one of the no-nos on her own list: no emotional attachments. A single long term lover equated very closely with an emotional attachment. Several lovers would likely indicate no emotional attachment whatsoever. Several would create a host of other problems, but not emotional entanglement.

"No necessarily?" I said.

"I mean, for now, he and I would be doing it, but he isn't a forever lover, just a temporary one, if the only one for the moment," she said. I nodded.

"I see," I said.

"Let me ask you a question. If you do accept my proposal, are you going to be going out too? I mean I want you too. I'm afraid that if you don't, well..."

"Not sure. I don't have any plans that way as of the moment. In the future? I don't know, not yet," I said. She nodded.

"Conrad, no matter what, our sex life will remain as active as it has been here these last weeks. Okay?" she said. My turn to nod. I had no doubt that what she was saying was a true thing. She didn't dare let me down. But, that said...

I knew that she was the draw, not me. Women would not be flocking to my tent. Hell, I'd be lucky to find me a couple of ladies who'd grant me mercy just because I looked so forlorn. Oh, there would be those that I could entice with my income, plenty of them, but otherwise? Not real likely.

We talked a little longer. Finally, having gotten up to refill my wine glass, I sagged against the door jamb. "Okay," I said. "No guarantees how long I'll be able to handle it, you being fucked by him, but I will put up with it for the short term."

She rushed into my arms and almost killed me with her enthusiasm. The sex that night almost most made me wish that the asshole was on hand to help me out. And, add to that that I was almost certain that that was exactly the reaction from me that she was hoping for.

She didn't immediately avail herself of her opportunity. I think she wanted me to go first, make it easy on her. I didn't. It was exactly seven days later, a Friday night, that she announced that she would be going out. I nodded, and headed for den to get some serious sports watching in. Well, I had to kill time some way or other while she was out fucking him, making me a cuckold, a knowing cuckold.

She took two hours plus getting ready for him. I had to wonder if she realized how humiliating it was for me to wait while she did that; and, to watch her go to such lengths for a man I viscerally hated—and feared. I guessed not.

She came downstairs dressed to the nines. I couldn't remember her looking so beautiful. Short red dress, tawny locks in set in billowing curls, understated jewelry, makeup perfect, and the smell of her: God she was wonderful.

"How do I look?" she said, smiling like an angel. I stared at her without saying anything at first. Then I did.

"You never dressed like that for me," I said, my voice a wimpy whisper. "Oh, and you look positively stunning."

"Now, Conrad, I have so dressed nice for you. But now, you need to get up there and get yourself all cleaned up and dressed too. You need to go out and have some fun. I mean it now. It'll be an adventure for you. Come on; lighten up. Okay?" she said. I returned to watching the game. And, yes, I was pouting, so fucking shoot me. My stomach was roiling. I got up and went over to the mini-bar to get a glass of water.

When I turned around she had her purse over her shoulder. "Conrad, really, go out, okay?" she said.

"No," I said. And like the wimp I was I started to cry, silently but the tears were coming. They were tears of frustration.

"Are you actually crying!" she said, without so much as a shred of empathy.

"We're going to have to get a divorce," I said. "No rancor, no hate or any of that, just get it done and you can have your big cock, and I won't have to see you all dolled up for my adversary while I sit here watching a fucking basketball game and wait for you to come home. Yes, a divorce. That's the ticket." I was talking, but mostly to myself; I wasn't looking at her; I didn't have the balls.

"That would not be good, Conrad; not for you, not for me, not for anyone. I won't stand for it," she said. "I need you and you need me." She came to me. I was standing with my back to her sipping my water.

"Look, I promise not to be too late. When I come home, you and I will do some playing of our own. How's that?" she said. "I promise to make it up to you."

Now my stomach broke into in open revolt. She'd come close to me, now with empathy—phony or not—to comfort me, get me to feel a little less put upon. Then it happened.

She put her arms around me, and turned me around to face her. I couldn't help it. I vomited all over her, her dress, the floor, and it kept coming. She jumped back, tripping in her high heels, swearing like a drunken sailor.

"Fuck-fuck-fuck!" she screamed. "What kind of miserable wimp are you. Look what you've done!"

"I—I couldn't help..."

"Clean it up you wimpy little shit, and if you're man enough to actually go out, make sure you're home before midnight.

"Fuck!" she screamed again.

I watched, sick to my stomach, as she went upstairs to clean up and change.

It took her another forty minutes for her to repair the damage. She came down, still angry, and shot me a glance that was not real friendly. She stormed out without another word said to me.

I was humiliated, but I was also angry. There was no fixing this one. I had to leave, and I had to do it now. I cleaned myself up a little, but not the floor or anything else. I'd shower later; I had an idea.

She had at least a thousand dollars' worth of cosmetics and women's stuff on her vanity. I pulled the bathroom clothes hamper, and it was nearly full, out next to the vanity. Her red dress was in the sink, rinsed, but not yet cleaned of course.

I dumped all of her dirty clothes—which included some of her delicates on the bed, our bed. Then, I went into the closet and pulled all of her clothes out of that and added them to the pile. Next I got her expensive underwear out of the dresser and added them to the mix. I smiled.

Going back to the dresser I got every kind of spray and liquid I could find. I doused the pile flipping the clothes to get at the stuff underneath as I did so. Then, I peed on the pillows. She'd be able to salvage a lot of it I figured, but it would take some work. Then, suddenly, I had an idea. I was going to be very naughty, oh yeah!

I headed down to the laundry room. I looked around. I smiled. A half-gallon of Clorox would do the trick. I took it back upstairs with me. This was going to be fun. This time I made sure I got the mattress and bed clothes too. I was pretty damn sure that this was one message she would understand.

I remembered the red dress in the bathroom sink. I went and got it. I threw it on the pile, kind of the cherry on top, I thoughts.

Now, I did my thing. I showered, collected stuff that I wanted and needed, loaded my truck, and headed out. Then, it occurred to me. I had no idea where I was going. But, then I did. She'd told me to go out and have fun, but to be home by midnight. It was a little after 8:00PM; I decided to follow her instructions.

The Calaboose was a country western bar and disco that I'd stopped at occasionally. I knew the bartender from high school, Jerry Moncrief. And, a plus, he had Philippine Red Horse on tap; well, he was half Flipp, as he proudly announced to anybody who'd listen, so I guess it made a kind of sense; that he had Red Horse on hand that is.

"Hey, Skip, long time no see," he said, as I commandeered a barstool.

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "Decided to do some cruisin' tonight."

"Cruisin'? Ain't you still married to that looker from your college days?" he said. It'd been at least a year since I'd been back to this place, but he remembered Pamela. Sign of a good bartender, I thought.

"Yeah, but not for long. She's out with her boyfriend tonight. We're done," I said.

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"Got any Red Horse," I said.

"Sure do. Let me get you a draught," he said.

"That'd be a winner," I said.

I began surveying the room. Lots of women, but all of them seemed to be taken. Well, it was my first night out alone in years. I'd hook me up sooner or later, and, if it even mattered, later would probably be best anyway.

Ten miles away, at the Elegance night club, I knew the two of them would be talking. And, I didn't have to guess what their topic of conversation might be. No indeed, it would be about her "asshole, wimp" of a husband; of that I was totally sure. Was I humiliated? Of course, but I was also pulling myself up out of that mess: wimp-city would be staring at my back from now on. I started laughing.

Jerry came back up to my end of the bar. He looked me askance. "Something funny?" he asked. I waved him off; then, I changed my mind and called him back.

"Well, yeah, kinda," I said. "Before I left, I sabotaged all of my wife's clothes. I was just thinking about her likely reaction when she discovers it—smells it."

"Her clothes?" he said.

"Yeah, I poured her makeup and a bunch of other stuff all over them," I said.

"Yeah, well, it ain't gonna be so funny if she catches up with you. Does she know how to shoot?" he said, only half in jest.

"No, I don't think so," I said.

"Well, you better be thinkin' about cutting your financial ties right quick or she will rape your economic ass," he said. I know I paled.

"Jesus, you're right, Jerry. I was so upset that I didn't even think about that stuff. I'll be doing that in the early A.M." I said. "Anyway, I can't do any of that now. Besides, I really am Cruisin' tonight. Actually, my personal whore told me to."

"You know, I think I might have someone you might want to meet. Just broke up with her guy too. He traded her in on some younger fluff," he said. I eyed him.

"Really?" I said.

"Buy her a drink. Then, it's up to you," he said.

"Buy her a drink?"

"Yeah, that's her over there talking to her lawyer," he said. I looked where he was looking. Blond hair, porcelain complexion, great overall package, maybe mid-thirties: I liked what I saw.

What's her name?" I said.

"Helena. She's Russian. Some dude brought her over, married her, and dumped her after two years. She's lookin' to hook up," he said. I saw the lawyer get up and head out: business concluded I supposed.

She was headed for the bar.

"Uh—Jerry, can I get a Red Horse," she said. I liked her taste in brew. I threw caution to the winds.

"Uh—miss? I'm well acquainted with the barkeep here. Let me use my influence if you will," I said. She gave me a look that let me know she thought that I was crazy.

Jerry joined us. "Jerry, please get this lady a horse, okay?" I said, playing the big roll.

"A horse?" she said.

"Yeah, drink a horse, ride a cowboy," I said. She laughed.

"I think you have the lyrics mixed up there, mister... ?"

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "Conrad Winston."

"Helena, Helena Cross nee Pavlov; and no I don't have any dogs," she said. I smirked.

"Okay. Me neither," I said.

We talked for some minutes, and I asked her to dance. We did and oh did she feel and smell good. I almost forgot why I was there. I was there to follow my wife's instructions. And, then I thought about her final instruction: to be home by midnight.

Helena had joined me at the bar, and we talked up a storm. Her husband was an asshole, she was alone in a strange land. Resources fast running out, I supposed, and nowhere to turn. I made my move.

"Helena. Any chance I could get a date with you for say next Saturday night?" I said. She smiled.

"I think I could go for that," she said. "But, let's dance some more; it makes me feel human again." And we did dance, several times actually.

We were walking back to our seats at the bar after a particularly grueling chacha.

"Jerry, got a post it I can have—and a pen?" she said.

He handed her the requisite items and she wrote down her numbers and her address. I nodded.

"Great penmanship," I said. "Seven o'clock?"

"That'd be good," she said. "I do have to go now. But, I will be waiting for you on Saturday at seven."

"I'll be there," I said. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and was gone.

It was 11:30PM. I smiled at Jerry. "Jer, I gotta go too. See yuh," I said. He waved me goodbye as he polished a glass.

I parked on the next street over, so she wouldn't see my car. I walked to the house. The lights were still out; she wasn't home yet. I figured to go in and hide out. I wanted to be there when she went upstairs and saw the disaster of her clothes. I had to hear her if not see her.

I was in the laundry room, and I had the door to it closed as it usually was. It was highly unlikely that she would go into it this time of night. She'd use the hamper in the master bedroom's bath for the clothes she'd worn for him tonight. I at least had our little frig in the Laundry room from which to extract beer.

I just couldn't miss her reaction: her surprise and shock. It was me that got the shock.

She'd brought the asshole home with her. I checked my cell it was almost 1:00AM. She'd obviously wanted me here so she could rub my nose it for messing up her dress and delaying her leaving. Now, I actually felt good about what I'd done to her clothes. It figured to mess up the fucking good time that they'd planned for I was sure.

"Aren't you—we—kinda rubbing his nose in it?" said Mr. Pollard.

"Yes, I guess. But, her deserves it," she said. She went quiet. "The mess—on the floor—he didn't clean it up! Well, he fucking will tomorrow!"

"Pamela?" said Pollard after a full minute of nothing having been said. "Pamela, this is a statement." I could almost see, feel, her snorting her anger: mentally listing all of the things she was going to do to me.