by Lyndon Brown

Copyright© 2014 by Lyndon Brown

Flash Story: All relationships face a test. Who passes?

Caution: This Flash Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Cheating   Revenge   .


I'm not much for dancing. Wearing a suit and tie is an ordeal. Annie loves this kind of evening: new dress, new shoes, new hairdo, new dance partners. This dress was green silk, deep cut front and rear, over a white lace basque. The shoes had extremely tall heels: she stood two or three inches over my head. It was like dancing with my big sister. I didn't approve, but I wasn't asked. I endured.

Brad Simms was a honcho from corporate, here to "shake the trees and rake the leaves" in his words. Sales were low nationally, and our R & D department here wasn't doing a lot of developing. Rumors of downsizing and reorganization spread like a grass fire. This evening at the country club was in his honor, attendence by us peons manditory.

Brad's speech was on duty, production, organization, and corporate loyalty. It was a mixture of pep talk and veiled threats. He had my full attention. I needed my job, for a while longer, badly. I was way out on a financial limb. I had no formal position in the table of organization. I was a roving trouble shooter. I solved client problems and corrected mistakes. I didn't make many friends!

Annie danced with anyone who asked, laughing and flirting, paying less and less attention to me as time passed and wine flowed. Brad danced with her often. Toward the end of the evening, they danced only in each others arms.

They never moved far from the table. Annie's dress was open, Brad had plenty of exposed skin to explore, but his hands still roamed below her dress onto her fine ass. I sent silent signals to my love, but her head remained on his shoulder, her breasts pressed to his chest. After the last dance they left the floor hand in hand. Her nipples were engorged, her upper chest flushed. His fullness was evident, from time to time, as he strode toward me.

"Brad is coming home with us for a nightcap. I'll ride with him, and meet you at the house. Mix some drinks.'

I left the lights off when I entered her McMansion. I made a single cup of coffee. I sat in the living room, the center of that dark pile of brick and debt. I sat in my chair, the only comfortable piece of unfashionable furniture in the place. I laid my head back, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm the swirling storm of emotions in my head. Life. Debt. The disrespect of my wife, the painful thought of losing her again. The grind of doing the wrong job, the fear of losing it.

I dealt with Brad Simms's type most of my life. Big kids took my lunch in high school. Stud jocks took my girlfriends in college.

The wrestling program at State isn't much, but Coach had a few scholarships and I got one. I got a room in the athletic dorm, training room meals, books and tuition. I typed, did computer repairs, and helped teach Tai Chi for spending money. My parent's helped as they could, never much.

I fought with my weight for eight years, struggling to maintain in the 165 pound class. It was easier with the college training table. It paid off. I had less than two percent body fat. I was a lean, ripped, fighting machine.I took two titles, un-noticed in a football school, but shit, national championships! I was offered an olympic tryout, but couldn't afford it.

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