Betrayed Over Conception

Engineer Mike Giles and wife have been unable to start a family and neither will undergo tests, fearful of being identified as the problem party. Gloria takes a lover leading Mike to suspect her motive is pregnancy. The tip off came from his wife's sister Liz. He sneakily identifies this bastard before deciding how to deal with it.

FOUR

Nancy had gone back to her cabin when I awoke to the alarm at five in the morning. She'd slept with me for most of the night and then left discretely. We pretended that no-one knows we sleep together, but of course everyone on-site knows because we are a close-knit work group.

A code exists without anyone publicizing it or enforcing it. Nancy could walk along the 2.7 mile construction site with her tits hanging out and it would be doubtful anyone would do anything but blink, as she was branded as 'Mike's girl'. Honorable men honored the code because that's how they do things whereas men who'd rather like a piece of Nancy knew if they touched her and she complained they'd have a visit from me and the result would not be pretty.

Everyone knows the stories of drunken brawlers who'd been put to bed, literally by me – often hospital beds. In the toilets of the machinery workshops is a newspaper cutting of the battered face of Big Irish MacKellar – teeth missing, cuts everywhere; MacKellar, is still in prison.

That horrible incident centered on a young administrative assistant on a project under my supervision going missing, and was found battered and sexually interfered with, although not raped. Suspicion fell on everyone but after lengthy investigation the police was stymied.

One night MacKellar, drunker than usual, mentioned the young admin assistant's name and claimed he'd "messed her up a little". No one believed him until MacKellar pulled out the missing silver clip the woman had worn around her pony-tail that day. "I couldn't fuck her, I was too drunk," bellowed MacKellar.

Fred Stockman called me.

I entered the room, dressed in a tracksuit and wearing working boots.

"Sorry boss for messing up Jenny a bit but there's nothing you can go about it – rat on me to the police and no-one in this industry will trust you to ramrod a job."

"You're going to pay for this, MacKellar," I said and space around us quickly cleared.

MacKellar looked almost twice as big as me, and knew it, grinning and licking his lips. I went in and kicked at his right kneecap, only grazing it and the big Irishman laughed bullishly and threw a looping punch to knock my head off but missed.

I kicked his other kneecap and everyone heard bone crack and MacKellar roared with pain. Then I drew from my pants pocket an assault weapon given to me by a friend who trains in martial arts. Its two eight-inch pieces of black metal are linked by a short piece of chain.

I went for him. There were five sickening cracks of metal hitting MacKellar's face, administered in almost a blur and he crashed to the ground.

"Fix it up for me boys," I said walking out through the silent throng.

The police and press were called and arrived almost together. They entered the deserted recreation room to find MacKellar unconscious, with a note pinned to his chest stating, "I'm guilty of messing up Jenny van Den Burgh."

At least thirty-five men witnessed that beating and the police questioned everyone on-site but couldn't find a single witness and everyone had an alibi.

In next morning's regional newspaper the heading on the page 3 story above the pictured beaten face of MacKellar was:

Brutal Beater Surrenders to Police After Mysterious Accident

.

That incident earned me a lot of respect but my family and friends never got to hear about it. In fact I'm not a violent man, which is why I've not tried to slap sense into Gloria to break her pulsating desire to get pregnant, a pressure within her that's threatening to blow our marriage apart.

It's now three months since she'd refused to have sex with me and now appears to have taken up with another man, supposedly to get pregnant. I groan whenever thinking about this, knowing how stupid we are.

Stupid?

Well, I think so and realize Gloria's thinks the exact opposite – that she's attempting to carry out her reason for being a reproductive female, which is to bear at least one baby and alleges my bloody-mindedness is frustrating that mission.

My restraint has been such that I did not jump on her lover the other night and beat the crap out and her as well, the treacherous bitch.

Because my work project passes hard on the boundaries of two churches, we don't work Sundays. On that free day I usually walk the 2.7 mile site looking at everything, which takes some time, and then I take a nap and go out to early dinner and get back by seven when Nancy usually arrives from spending the day with her folk. We lounge around fucking and talking and then have supper at eleven and the project crews resume at midnight and it's all on again until midnight Saturday.

At the end of every second month, a relief engineer comes in and I get a week off, and now this was my first visit home since I began on the bypass contract.

I'd called Gloria giving my ETA as I didn't want to walk in and find her humping. She sounded warm and pleased to hear from me.

"Get that little bushy box of yours all hot and ready," I said, trying to sound as normal as I could. There was no indication that her legs would open for me, but actually I wasn't too sure I wanted a hairy cunt any more. I'd gotten used to Nancy's completely bald one which meant not having to pick hair from between my teeth.

Hmmmm, I thought. Sounds like you no longer find your wife desirable? That rattled me, I was close to making a definitive judgment and wasn't sure I was ready for it, mainly because I still have no proof that Gloria is having sex with this Mercer bastard for fun or really is attempting to have him impregnate her.

I thought about that one deeply and the light bulb popped alight over my brain and an idea was born. I'd need Liz's cooperation; that could be given unselfishly, or perhaps it may require taking her out to lunch while Gloria was working as marketing manager for J B Homewares.

FIVE

Gloria came running out to meet me as I rounded the rear of my 2002 Chevy Silverado 4WD, its black metallic paint and matching tonneau cover looking travel weary, not having been washed for a fortnight.

"Your truck's filthy," was her greeting.

She looked a litter thinner, a little stressed which was something. I kissed her, grabbing an ass cheek in one hand and a thrusting in the other to secure a boob, just to show her I still cared.

"Let's go inside; the neighbors," she said.

It hadn't always been like that; until the past year we'd practically be ripping clothes off on the driveway if we'd been apart for even two or three days.

"Are you pregnant?" I grinned, again to show that I cared.

Her face turned scarlet and she turned, saying come in as she had coffee ready. I noticed she'd not answered the question and remained silent just to let her know I was waiting for an answer, which should have been something like, "However could I be? You're been away."

Thirty minutes later Gloria kissed me goodbye, saying she had to be back at work. Her last words to me were unwifely: "Remember, no sex until you get tested re our unsuccessful attempts to get pregnant."

"Have you had yours?" I called, but she drove off waving.

Last night Nancy had refused to have sex, saying she wanted to send me home with a full load. She was, I must concede, a smart girl. But what a waste that had been, or was it?

I phoned Liz but there was no reply from her home. She'd ended up with the house in the divorce settlement whereas he landed the car, boat and very valuable beach site down at the 'narrows'.

I spent an hour looking round for signs of Mr James Henry Mercer (43), company director and my wife's lover. The sheets were freshly laundered so my check for male hairs was fruitless.

I checked the phone bills and there were a many calls to a number I didn't recognize – I looked up my notebook and found the number matched the business number I'd taken off James Henry Mercer's business card. Well, I suppose if you are all alone at home and feeling lonely you'd either phone you husband or your lover, wouldn't you? I did not require my calculator to work out that asshole Mercer was getting at least two calls from the Giles's phone to every one I got up country. Oh yeah, it's devastating to find that you are no as popular as you'd thought, I grinned sourly.

Thinking about sex and more particularly about my wife having sex without me, made my balls feel rather tight. I was thinking about masturbating when I thought of Jacqui Jones, a cute redhead potter who my randy father used to fuck until mom found out about her and placed her off limits. I'd gone to lunch with Jacqui and dad a few times and we went sailing together one weekend.

Sex with Jacqui? The thought rattled my mind – she was only six years older that me so why not, if she brought it up? But my interest in her was she'd been a nurse and then a private midwife before she took up potting fulltime.

I called and she sounded really pleased to hear from me and she yes, come around now and she'd have beers on the table waiting and added, excitedly, what a wonderful way to spend an afternoon – "Are you still as handsome as you were?"

Rather immodestly I replied "Of course", but managed to button my lip and not comment about her tits. Dad once told me she had the nicest knockers of any woman he'd bonked. He preferred that word to fucked.

Figuring I was at last about to get somewhere with this problem with Gloria, I went across city to the river where Jacqui lived, just above flood level, half wondering about how she could help me intellectually or at least as a practical counselor and half hoping she'd exposed her tits.

When dad had mentioned her knockers to me – were quite drunk at the time – he did say she loved to...how did he put it? Yeah, to flaunt them. I'd thought at the time that's my kind of woman, and right now I knew she really was. It would just be my luck to find she was remarried or had some fucker sitting with her, arm around her, and grinning at me.

I parked on the street and walked down the very steep driveway down the ancient riverbank – over centuries the river had lowered itself by some fifty feet. I rehearsed how to behave politely by not looking at her tits and to smile and say what a pleasant afternoon it was. I remembered dad had taught her to greet people saying in his ex-Pommy voice, "Good afternoon, how do you do?" I used to practice it as well.

Jacqui was reading on a sun loafer under the trees when I approached. She saw me, the book went flying and she rushed me. She smashed those tits against me and kissed me, flush on the lips and gushed, "I'm so happy to see you again, my sweet boy." And then she stepped back, straightening her hair; that magic moment was over, or so I thought.

Rather stupidly,or so it seemed at that moment, I grinned and said, "Good afternoon, how do you do?" in what dad calls Best Royal Accent. Jacqui's mouth fell open, she screamed with laughter and came against me and held up her face to be kissed. And did we kiss.

"Naughty boy," she chided at the finish when my tongue had 'accidentally' slipped into her mouth. But she was laughing and I could see the look in her eyes had intensified: she was now thinking about it. I told myself not to rush it, that I needed to say things to coddle her feelings then she'd open those legs for me, if that's what I wanted.

Oh yeah!

We went over to table on the terrace and I opened the two pints, and we sipped straight from the bottle like guys do up north. Dad had taught her to throw away the glasses.

I talked about my current work and she answered questions about her potting, and she said since her six months working alongside great potters in Japan her income had gone through the roof and some of her work was now appearing in collector's publications. She looked quite embarrassed when I smiled at her in admiration.

"How's your wife – Gloria, isn't it?"

During the next few minutes I told her everything and she listened, not interrupting which, thinking back, was quite amazing for her, but to be fair I was now seeing the semi-professional side to Jacqui for the first time.

"Firstly," she said when I'd finished and was, I think, looking at her like a hound dog, "I have to say you both had been very childish over your reasons for not seeking medical help. What on earth do you hope to achieve by such churlish behavior? Can't you see if you are shooting blanks you may as well be shooting them into your handkerchief if conception is the purpose of firing them, and then even if each shot is premium quality its fate it similar when entering a female if her reproductive system is either temporarily or permanently faulty?"

I groaned, "Yes, we are both aware of that. But we seemed to get entrenched in our positions and there was no-one to dig us out."

"Is talking to me going to make any difference?" asked Jacqui, almost mocking me, which started to make my boiler steam.

Then I thought yelling at her would achieve nothing, so I shrugged and muttered, "It could."

Her lips opened and turned into a tiny smile.

"Good," she said, "I'm getting you two into professional counseling."

"Whoa!"

Jacqui looked pissed off but listened as I told her about 'Bring-in-a-Cock Mr Mercer' as I called him. She looked at me sympathetically as I spoke about my suspicions and then travelling all the way back here to do something about it, but in the end virtually doing nothing.

She clapped her hands when I related how I scoured 'I'm a Mother Fucker' on the door of his F-150, but chided me saying I should have written wife fucker as I was bringing the name mother into disrepute.

I apologized as she laughed and told me to continue. When I got to the bit about destroying the guy's trouser zip by ripping it apart she almost fell out of her chair laughing. But then turned serious.

"So, I gather you want to sort this matter out before even considering counseling?"

I nodded.

"I see," she said. "So you've not come here seeking solutions, you just wanted to be able to talk to someone about it?"

I nodded.

"Oh my poor darling," she said and came and sat on my knees. We kissed and her tongue slipped into my mouth and found mine. Instantly my dick was trying to lift her up from my knees like an elevator."

"Oh dear," she said, in a tone that I interpreted that this little session would be going no further. "Just feel your finger nails, will you?"

She told me afterwards it was quite common for women to feel a man's fingernails before opening her vagina to them. I'd never known that.

Jacqui shot off into the house and came back with a fucking manicure set. My dick slumped in despair.

She went to work. Part way through looked up and caught my scowl.

"Here, you better have something to play with," she smiled, opening the front of her dress.

It didn't surprise me that Jacqui turned out to be the best fuck I'd ever had to that time. We'd collapsed, both lightly panting, on to the crusty old brick patio, oblivious to the hard, lumpy surface that was to play hell with my knees. I ripped her bra apart as she screamed lustfully and got my face between those two silken beauties. Surprisingly the nipples remained little bigger than pimples, even when erect, but still large enough to latch my teeth on to and they did s-t-r-e-t-c-h.

My plan was to bounce around in tittyland until I tired, then go down and lick her into ecstasy, but Jacqui had other ideas, obviously wanting the main event early. I felt her lift up and guessed that was her panties coming off and then felt her unzip me and fumble around.

Just as I was lifting my head to enquire what was going on she said in a very aroused voice – "For fuck-sake, Mike, start plowing."

So I turned from titty-licker to plowman instantly, and got her gurgles of delight and affectionate slaps on the back as indications of her appreciation as I slid my willing mate into her channel. Although regrettable I still was fully dressed, there was no problem about feeding her enough length.

"Ohmigod, your father..."

She tailed off, but I knew what she was thinking. She'd about to say that dad was long and thick but that I...well what else can a guy do but smile proudly.

"It's all in the genes," I said, whispering into her ear as I nibble it, and she convulsed into a series of orgasms.

"Oh, diddle-me-dee," she sighed, as if floating above us on a balloon.

A little later she sighed again and I felt her climax inside and then leaking out on my backstroke and it washing on to her thighs, increasing our squelchy slapping and we came together on our down strokes.

"Come on slowcoach," she grinned, but hey, I was in for the long haul. I...

She rested there, her brown hair fanned out on the bricks, her hazel eyes sparkling; it would have made a great photograph. I watched the corners of her mouth tighten slightly and enormous pressure came on to my dick and it struggled to pull back for the next thrust, Jacqui by now was motionless.

There was lube galore, so that was not the problem, and this seemed to be a lot more than a bit of cunt muscle byplay.

"Pull back a little more," she whispered.

Sweat jumped to my brow as I pulled back through a vice.

"Withdraw more please darling," she whispered and I obliged until my ass was way up and only a couple of inches of my squashed dick remained in her cunt. And then my dickhead was clamped fearsomely, and my eyes watered in near pain; then cum shot from me like a rocket, and I wheezed and rattled and groaned as if I'd been run over by a truck.

"Oh darling, you ejaculated for little ol' me," she simpered, wearing a triumphant grin.

When we adjourned to the comfort indoors for some more fucking.

During a break Jacqui said that when a midwife she used to teach women how to strengthen their muscles after birth to avoid leaking urine.

"I began doing the exercises myself upon learning that a side effect was that it helped enjoyment in sex," she said. "You're got the same PC muscle, though different in shape and location to a woman but you can use it to control the coming of ejaculation. It's called the pubococcygeus muscle.

'Cumming of ejaculation' indeed.

I staggered home and had a long bath and felt refreshed when Gloria arrived home just before 6:30.

It was almost like old times. We chatted away freely and shared the chores and eventually it was bedtime.

"Remember darling," she said, not looking at me. "No sex until you get yourself checked medically.

I said nothing but on my back in the darkness, with a very exhausted dick resting very limp, the image of an unshaven vulva filled my mind – the hair over it was brown, not blonde. For the next couple of hours I thought about what the owner of that brown-haired vulva had been telling me about conception difficulties faced by many couples.

She'd said statistics indicated the problem or problems were weighted 40% to women, 40% to men with the remainder shared between both parties.

Well, that at least cleared up something for me. All along my little fucker of a wife had insisted that the problem was 90% a male problem.

Next morning Gloria kissed and cuddled me and I played along, played with her tits to make it appear authentic although I was not a happy husband. I made no effort to touch pussy, nor was it presented to me which was fortunate; I'm not sure I would have jumped at the chance of having full on sex with my wife.

After she left for work I went through the stack of accounts to pay, and there was no account from the security firm for a call-out to inspect our alarm. That puzzled me but working on a hunch I went though last month's folio of paid accounts waiting to be filed, and found that account had been paid – and paid out of Gloria's personal check account.