Chapter 2

Robert

First off, don't call me Rob. Ever since that slut down in Oklahoma started fucking around on me, I hated that name. She used it all the time. So did her father – excuse me: her Daddy.

I got wise to her cheating on me when she started talking about 'Wouldn't it be more fair if we each got to have as much sex as we wanted? What if I wanted more? Couldn't I get some on the side?'

It wasn't real hard to follow her to the gym and notice that she'd disappear for long times with the 'personal trainer.' Then she'd come out of the exercise room and head for the showers. A friend used the free trial period at the gym to follow her.

So, I called a fraternity brother (from my undergraduate days at Cornell) who was a lawyer and talked to him. He said the best thing to do was just cancel the marriage and do a reset on my life. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to do that. I had a real lush job, paying $150,000 per, with a car, with a house (if we got married), with an expense account. I couldn't afford to give all that up and try and make payments on my excessive student loans on some minimum salary job.

He suggested that I just live with it. So if she fucked a guy once in a while – so could you, right?

Well, she did say maybe and sometimes.

I won't bore you with the details of how that turned out. I found Christy's description of how she used and abused me in the months before we got married in her on-line journal. I edited it down (there was a LOT of porn in her original) and you saw what's left. That's the previous chapter. This chapter is my history of events. I want to get it all down so if something happens to me, people can wrap things up sensibly.

I believed her 'maybe' and 'sometimes' up until the wedding. I was hoping that her fun times with Eric at the gym would go away. Okay. So I was living in a dream world.

Sex with her was mind-blowing. Besides, I couldn't not marry her, now, and keep my job. So that makes me a – what? Whore-by-proxy? I was marrying her to keep my job. Well, that and the sex, which was a whole lot more that just okay.

I didn't trust her though. She was a slut, and sluts did stuff that I didn't approve of. Would never approve of. How could I marry somebody I didn't trust? That's why I intentionally messed up my family's flights to come to the 'wedding.'

That's right. I said 'wedding.' In quotes. The little mix-up in the days leading up to the ceremony? Yeah. That was because I canceled the preacher and hired some actor from Memphis to fly in and 'preside' at the 'wedding.' I told him it was an elaborate joke, and gave him a letter that indemnified him for working the gig. So you see, I never married the bitch. I figured that, later on, we'd do it for real with one of those 'renew our vows' things in Vegas or something on our first or fifth anniversary. If there ever was a later.

Good thing I worked it that way. Because the wedding night was brutal. That night started fine. I fucked her 'til I physically couldn't fuck any more. I had some hopes for us, the sex was great, and she seemed to love me. In an hour or two, I knew I could probably do it again, but that wasn't to be.

I was surprised when she got out the cuffs, but I suspected she was kinda kinky, so I went along with it. Then she belted me down to the chair. When she opened the door to my groomsmen, I lost it.

The groomsmen, you see, were all friends of hers. Who knew they were her fuck buddies, too? I didn't have any close friends, and couldn't get my original 'best man' – my brother – 'cause I messed up the reservations. So I was stuck with her recommendations.

When she called one of them over to fuck her, I knew how it was going to be. Then she started with the 'cucky' and 'cuck-boy' shit. That was it. I had to work out something else for the rest of my life. She started sucking my dick, but I was so turned off that I couldn't – wouldn't – get it up. To be fair, I had just gotten fucked out: four times in under an hour.

I closed my eyes and tried an old trick I learned while I was at Cornell. I used to use self-hypnosis to help me relax on my study breaks. I really needed it now. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Pretty soon, the sucking on my cock stopped and that let me concentrate more. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.

It's amazing what you think of when you're meditating like that. I mean, I didn't know whether it's self-hypnosis, or meditating, or bio-feedback, or what. I think they're all the same, but who knows? Anyway, I formulated a plan.

When she freed me, I waited until she went to the bathroom, and then I got the hell out of Dodge. I got dressed in the hallway, pulling on just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I didn't even get my sneakers on 'til I got to the car.

My half-assed plan called for me to convince her of my acceptance of my cuckold-ship. That I'd accept her sexcapades, accept her giving me sex once a week, and that I wanted to drool over her videos of the games.

I was gonna let her out to fuck some locals, get some evidence on her, and then cut bait on her nasty ass. Daddy would have to choose, and I felt that was up in the air.

My job required me to be in South Dakota, Aberdeen to be exact, for a week at a time. Dumb-ass Daddy had some leases in the southern Williston Basin. It was all he could afford. They weren't exactly on prime oil land. The main action was up in North Dakota and Canada, west-northwest of Bismarck, ND.

So I planned to hide out there, get some video of my cheating wife – well, near-wife – and then leave her in the lurch.

The first night of the honeymoon went as planned. While the slut was fucking honeymoon-man, I contacted a guy in Tulsa. I gave him the address of Daddy's wedding present house, told him where the spare key was and had him wire the whole place for video. The feeds went straight to satellite and then to my cloud storage. And the whole thing cost only a few thousand.

I went back to Tulsa and planned for my next trip. Towards the end of the week, I went back to the casino and waited for the slut to show up. We went 'home' to the house and I packed. I wouldn't touch her, because of the STD thing. When I went to SD, I went to the first doctor I could find and got myself tested. I don't know why I didn't think of that before. I hoped that I didn't show up HIV positive.

Let me take a moment to talk about the oil fields and what I was up to, up there, and what I found. And let me take the opportunity to introduce someone who turned out to be a key architect in my full-assed revenge – as opposed to the half-assed plan I originally came up with.

I made a few trips out to the leased land in S.D., found some interesting drilling sites and was going home. 'Home' in this case being a rented room in Aberdeen. For no particular reason, I felt like taking a jaunt up Route 85, to Williston, ND. I wanted to see some real production under way, not this marginal shit that Daddy and his fellow wildcat lease holders had.

Williston was pretty small and had a diner about half-way into the town. I was hungry so I pulled in. It was about 6 p.m. and I'd had only a part-eaten Subway sandwich that I'd picked up in Aberdeen way back this morning. The diner was mostly deserted: there were only two old cowboys – real old, probably over 70 – and a girl in a shearling jacket in a booth. Well, I knew there were only two reliable meals you could order at a strange diner and get something guaranteed to be edible: eggs and a club sandwich. Couldn't hardly screw up either. I ordered the club sandwich and a cola.

As I was giving my order to the waitress, the girl – woman if you want to be more accurate – said, "The open face roast beef is better than the club. Get it with mashed potatoes and gravy." Her voice was pitched to reach practically everybody in the place. I turned around to look at her. She was worth a look.

She was a big girl. I can't help it: I say 'girl' a lot, but she was a woman. Had brown hair, with pushed up sunglasses holding it back. Broad shoulders for a girl, a small amethyst ring on her right hand, middle finger. I couldn't tell anything else, due to the shearling jacket. She was sopping up the gravy on her nearly empty plate with a dinner roll. A mug close at hand said 'Stolen from Wilson & Wilson, Attorneys.'

She spoke again: "Put him on my tab, Darla. He's obviously new to town and needs some guidance about good food ... Why'n'cha come set a spell, cowboy?" And she pushed the salt and pepper shakers to the side to make room for me.

I took up my soda and 'set' at her table for a spell. "Thanks. Open face roast beef, huh?"

"On Tuesdays. It's the special. If you hang around to Wednesday, I'll tell you about the meatloaf." She smiled. It was a good smile, one that crinkled her eyes and showed lots of even, white teeth. "I'm A.C. Wilson." She stuck out her hand.

I shook it. Good firm grip, dry palm. "Robert Metcalf. You the Wilson of Wilson & Wilson?" I gestured toward the mug.

"Nope. The Wilson was my dad. I'm the other Wilson."

That's when I noticed her eyes. They were almost a golden color – on the brown side of yellow gold – and set wide apart. Almost like an animal. They had kind of an almond shape. They were set in an open face that looked like it couldn't tell you a lie. That must have been useful for an attorney.

"Oh. Sorry to hear about your dad," I backpedaled.

"It's a long time back," she shrugged. "You married?"

Wow. That was about as direct as I'd ever been asked. Not two minutes into the conversation and she was checking out the land for possibles.

"Uhm ... kinda. It's a long story. Very long story ... You?" I asked back.

"Kinda short cutting the chit chat, eh?"

"Hey, you asked first." I smiled, but internally I was making plans to head back to the counter.

She laughed again. "Yeah, I guess I did. I noticed the ring and asked. It's easier than making small talk about the Bison and their horrible football team." She didn't know football, I guess: N.D.S.U. were the Bison – and they had a great team.

The food came. I asked her if being a small town lawyer kept her busy. She was busy enough.

"What'cha do fer a livin'?" she asked me.

"I dowse for oil," I said with a grin.

"Really? Dowse?"

"Not really. Mostly I study the underlying geologic formations and then tell the roughnecks where to sink a hole. I'm pretty good. I do it for a small engineering company out of Texas."

"Ever do any freelance work?" she asked. A flicker of interest showed in her expression. "I don't trust any of the big companies to give me a straight answer."

I'd never thought about freelance oil dowsing. Never had an offer before. So I said sure. It was about 7:30 when I finished my meal – the open face roast beef was good, by the way. She led me up to her office: a one room office that was very neat. She had an almost new computer, and some worn out chairs that hadn't seen a bottom in them for donkey's years. She turned things off and locked the doors.