Should I Stay or Should I Go?

I knew it the minute I arrived home. Something just didn't feel right.

I pulled forward into the darkened garage. The door was already up, which was not normal for us, but the garage light had turned off, meaning the door had been left open for quite some time.

I keyed into the house through the garage and the utility room, turning on the light. Both dogs were outside, laying on the patio outside the utility room door. I let them in and they bull-rushed their water bowl, having been outside for some time evidently.

I strolled into the living and dining room area when I first caught glance of a suitcase, near the front door.

It was then that I first heard them. Voices, low and in broken phrases, included my wife's, speaking to someone else.

I headed down the hall toward the media room and bedrooms, a bit curious now.

I then clearly heard a second voice, possibly that of my son, John. That would explain the suitcase by the front door, he obviously was here for the weekend from his place in Dallas.

He must've taken an Uber from the airport, or else Carmen had picked him up. But where was her car? I'd forgotten about her car, usually parked in the garage.

As I neared the media room door I heard Carmen say, "Ohhhh, right there. Ahhh, you're right. This feels SOOOO good."

"These hands are like magic," the guy said. Now, it no longer sounded like John. I listened closer for a few seconds. "Now lie still. Let me rub in this hot oil."

My wife of 27 years, Carmen, is a carmel-colored, attractive sensual black woman who probably could have modeled if she had been taller. But at just barely 5 feet tall, that wasn't an option. She got her degree in fashion merchandising, took a dozen years off to raise our kids, then returned to the workforce as an administrative assistant at an area four-year college.

She's petite, but built. She is not an exercise hound, or a yoga devotee, but eats right and maintains her shape. 5-foot, 108 pounds, 30C breasts (which look HUGE on her body frame), straightened hair to her shoulders. She has a slight bubble-butt; not too big for her size, but enough to grab onto when "going at it."

The massage continued, from what I was hearing.

"Uhhhhh... yes. Oh, hey. That's -- oh, a little close to -- OHH!"

"Relax, relax, Mrs. B, relax. I know what I'm doing," he said. "I'll work that kink out in no time."

"Oh, uh, ohhhh. Mhhmmmm. OK," Carmen said. "But, towel -- uh, the towel. Put it back?"

There was another few seconds of silence before Carmen let out a guttural moans. "OHHHHH, Gawwwddd. Mmmm,... ohhhhh."

"That's right, Mrs. B. I know my shit. Just enjoy," he paused, "... THIS."

And with that, my wife gasped and let out a short screaming moan, the kind you make when you bash your toe on the end table, or spill hot coffee in your lap.

"Ohhhh yeahhhh," the guy said, "Ohhh yeah. You are awesome, Mrs. B."

I peeked around the corner into the media room and saw my wife sprawled over what looked to be a probable massuese's table.

Beside her, with his back to me, stood a guy I'd never seen before. He had a phone cradled on his shoulder, a hand on my prone wife's back, and the other, firmly rubbing between her legs.

"Yeah, you're loving this, aren't you," he asked my wife, who didn't respond with anything but a nearly inaudible squeak.

"You were right, man, she's lovin' it," he said into the phone. "Come on n' get some. Hahaha, you're right. How soon you be back?"

"John, I --" my wife started to say before the guy cut her off. "Ahh ahh ahh, Mrs. B. No no no. You wait. He'll be back soon enough."

What was going on here? I backed up a few steps into the hallway, puzzled -- 'John, on the phone, Carmen talking with him, and who was this?'

Just about that time, I heard it. Carmen. I'd know it anywhere. Or, at least anytime -- every time -- we make love.

"Oh Gawd," she said, just like she always does. "Oh God. OH GOD. OH GOD-OH GOD-OH GOD!"

This, this stranger was now fucking my laid-out wife, just feet away, in the other room.

I was just about to rush into the room when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, still muted on silent from my drive home off the turnpike.

I turned and practically leaped toward the spare bedroom down and across the hall. I eased the door closed behind me,turned toward the walk-in closet, and looked: JOHN, it said.

I answered.

"Hey dad," he said. "Whatchyadoin'?"

At first, I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Then I managed a verbal thought. "Nothing. Ah, driving."

"Oh, OK," John said. "You still got that showing of the Randolph place, over on Washington after work?"

"Uh, yes. Yes I do," I said. I lied. The Randolphs took the first offer they received on their home last week, needing the cash and ownership to be settled before their divorce. "What's up with you?"

"Ohhh, uhhh, very little. Thought I'd come over and visit for the weekend. On my way now. That OK?" he said, as if searching for my approval.

I threw him a curveball as I opened the door and walked out, heading toward the garage.

"No, I'm headed home in a bit. Got some salad dressing all over my shirt. Need to change before the showing."

I could hear Carmen moaning and groaning, the guy fucking her with abandon now.

She was letting out this, this sensual moan which sounded to be timed with every one of his thrusts into her.

My wife, the whore. Or slut. Or, whatever, I'm not sure.

John was in my wife's car, I'd surmised, with it missing and the garage door up (he had ALWAYS forgotten or neglected to put it down when he lived here, or was home).

I reached the garage and told John I had to go, I was approaching the interstate and needed to focus on the road.

"OK, see you when you get home," he said, before hanging up.

I turned and walked back through the utility room headed toward my wife and this guy. I heard his cellphone ring.

"Yeah! What?" the guy said loudly, plunging into my wife, who was delivering her usual sexy "uhh-ohh, uhh-ohh, ohh--ohh" she does when I'm driving into her pussy with a good rhythm.

"You're right, bro. She's fuckin' LOVING it, aren't you, babe?" The guy asks.

"Mmmm-mmmm-Mmmm-MMMMMM," she was responding.

"Didn't I say she would?" John said, now on the phone's speaker. I peeked in and saw why. The dude had both my wife's ankles in his hands, way up in the air, pushed back toward her ears. The phone was laying on the table, beside them.

"But hey, listen. You gotta... my... my dad might be on his way... pick up, dude, pick up," John said.

There was a slight pause before I heard Carmen cry out with an almost devilish scream, cumming all over this guy's dick.

"What? Huh? I thought you said the coast was clear?" he said, slight panic in his voice as Carmen screamed loud and fast for a few seconds, then stopped.

"Yeah, yeah just... get ba- yeah, no shit, before he does. Hurry the fuck up," before the phone conversation ended.

"Mrs. B., ohhhh you're so fuckin hot Mrs. B. Yeah ohhh babybyyyyyeah," he said, obviously still driving into her.

I smartly took out my phone, set it on no flash, reached around the door, and rattled off 6 or 7 photos.

I pulled it back in, then hit "Record" on my Voice Recorder.

"Gonna come, ohh, yeah bitch, gonna come in your married black pussy," he said."Yeah I'm lovin' this."

"Ohhhh. Ohhhh. Ohhh, gawd. Ohhhh," she said in almost a whispered scream.

I peeked in again as Carmen cooed somewhat seductively, with a wiggle and thrust in her hips that gave me an instant hard-on, just thinking about.

The stud grounded deep into her, slowing his pace to an almost stop, grunting loudly -- obviously cumming.

"Ohhhh, gawd, ohhhhh shit yeah," he said, my wife's legs now held sprawled out to her sides.

I knew I either had to intervene or leave. I had a sudden gut feeling that "This is the end" for me and her. How could I live with her, love her, after seeing this? And to think, my son was in on this? I mean, how the fuck did this happen?

I turned and strode to the garage, my mind a blank as I climbed into my car, backed out of the garage. I drove down Mesquite Street toward Eisenhower, which would lead me away from my 'first' home on a path to my second, my office.

As I rounded the corner, in my rear view mirror I saw my wife's white Malibu coming from behind, and turning onto Mesquite several hundred feet behind me. I'd just missed John as he steered toward home.

At a red light, I pondered -- do I turn around and go back, to see what else transpires?

Or do I go to the office and start thinking about "what comes next" while listening to the audio of Carmen getting fucked senseless by this guy?

Confront John and stud; or contact an attorney while planning my revenge?