Just a quickie for the LW crowd. I usually write at the other end of the spectrum in that category, so I thought I'd put something together for those who want to see the cheating bitch get her just desserts.
If you're expecting hot, nasty sex then I suggest you don't bother reading this submission. There's some stuff in it, but it's mainly to describe the scene that confronts the [anti] hero. If you want to leave feedback on it you can PM me on Lit, leave a Public Comment below, or email. If you want a reply or response, then email is best.
There might be typos and other errors in the text, if there are any remaining after I check the piece a few times, then I can only apologise.
I hope you enjoy the following; it was fun to write.
GA -- Langkawi, Malaysia, 21st January 2013.
She thought I didn't know.
Lynda left the house at half past seven in the evening, kissing me on the cheek like she had done every Thursday for the past three months.
"Just going to see Cynthia," she lied as she rolled her eyes and then walked out of my study on those long legs and a waft of perfume.
The problem is, for her, that one Thursday night I ran out of smokes and walked the five minutes to the big supermarket in the mall. I'd picked up a latte -- a recent discovery of mine, I was a hardened black-coffee man until I succumbed to the lure of the latte -- and was just on my way out of the shopping complex when I saw Cynthia down by the cash-point. At first I was sure I'd made a mistake, but when I went closer, just to be sure, I found that I'd been correct, it was Cynthia. That led me to wondering where Lynda was. If she wasn't with Cynthia, then where in the hell was she? Something held me back, stopped me from approaching Cynthia, and I later realised that I'd known then, even at that early stage and despite the shock, that Cynthia would be aware that she was an alibi for Lynda and would warn my wife if I challenged her in the mall.
I walked out of the place, reeling, my head in a spin and I had this awful, greasy slide of suspicion in my guts. The questions ran through my mind, a sushi train of the same old fishy smell over and over and over. The main questions being, where did Lynda go on Thursday nights and what did she do?
I had an inkling, of course I did. Lynda took at least an hour to get ready for her Thursday night appointments, and like an arse I'd been too naive and innocent and trusting to question why she went to all that trouble, the clothes and the make-up, just to sit in a pub with her friend.
The answer was fucking obvious, she had another bloke on the go -- what other explanation could there be?
With hindsight I wish I'd never followed her a couple of weeks later, there are some things that can turn a man's stomach, so corrosive and bitter that he can get so bent up that it twists his character and turns him into someone he isn't.
But I did follow her, and I saw it all. And I suppose I'm better off for knowing, but it has taken a while to recover.
"See you later," Lynda whispered in my ear as she leaned over me and read the text on the computer screen. "Wow," she breathed. "It looks like you've got a nasty character there."
Without looking at her I replied, "Yep, although he's actually the good guy, but it seems his wife's been sleeping with another man. He's pretty pissed off and I'm just expressing how he feels -- how he wants to take both their cheating arses and stick them in the boot of a car and put them through the crusher at the scrap-yard."
"A touch extreme," Lynda responded, her hand resting on my shoulder as I sat in my chair and stared at the words of my latest novel. "But I suppose that makes for an interesting character in a book." She sighed and stood upright after bending over my shoulder to read my work. "Right, I'd better get off." I turned in time to catch the eyeroll. "Cynthia's got man trouble," Lynda lied, right to my face.
She swanned off in twirl of a canary yellow dress that complimented her light tan and blonde hair. I stood in on the second floor of the house and looked out of the big window while Lynda faffed around, lowering the top of her little Peugeot cabriolet, putting a pair of huge sunglasses onto her face, checking her make-up for the third time in the rear-view mirror before finally driving off.
The night I first followed her, a week after seeing Cynthia the alibi in the mall, I was out of the house in seconds and into the old VW Golf. I kept the car because I'm a sentimental fool and couldn't bear to part with it. I'd had that car since before my first book; it was my good luck charm, a talisman. It was also the place I'd courted and won my wife. I nostalgically recalled picnics up on the moors and a hundred other adventures out in that car, some of them pretty dirty -- risky sex in public places had turned Lynda on. We'd spent one summer doing most of our fucking outdoors with that car somewhere in the background.
Following at a discreet distance I tailed the silver Peugeot for twenty minutes until, eventually, Lynda turned off the main road and took a B-road that skirted around the periphery of Gatwick airport. The light traffic on that stretch meant I had to drop back, but I tried to keep the flash of silver in view as we drove around the English countryside, along narrow lanes and past quintessentially English pubs with beer gardens filled with happy people enjoying the late summer sunshine.
I cursed when I realised I'd lost sight of Lynda's car. After flooring the Golf and speeding along for a mile or so I came to the conclusion that she must have turned off down a side road of some description. I turned the Golf around in a pub car park and quickly reached the point I'd lost contact with the Peugeot. Driving slowly along, retracing our route, I carefully examined both sides of the road for any sign of a turn off.
Nothing.
I cursed again when I came to a point where I knew I'd seen the silver car ahead of me. She couldn't have just disappeared; I must have missed the road.
This time my heart quickened and my chest filled with dread when I saw the track. Lynda had to be along that lane. Did I really want to know? I sat there with my knuckles white as my fingers clenched the steering wheel, only moving when I heard the sound of an engine approaching behind me.
What made up my mind to investigate further along that leafy track was the fact that the approaching car, rather than overtaking me and driving on, slowed and turned down the lane. Whoever it was must have been aware of the track's existence since it was bloody difficult to spot when driving past.
I found a place to park the Golf a few hundred yards down the road and went back on foot. By then the light had begun to fade, the onset of dusk that signalled the end of a late August day, but I knew I had about twenty minutes of decent light left to conduct a reconnaissance.
Another car coming along the track behind me made me step into the woods and hide behind a tree. There seemed to be a lot of traffic down this lane, which had me wondering why and what the hell kind of business Lynda had to bring her here.
After ten minutes of slowly advancing along the lane I came to a clearing. There were seven cars parked there, Lynda's silver Peugeot being one of them. I recognised a large Mercedes among the vehicles clustered in this out of the way spot. It belonged to the husband of one of Lynda's friends, a bloke I'd met a few times at barbecues and parties.
What the hell were Lynda and Simon Baxter doing out there?
I soon had my answer. Every sickening detail of that moment of realisation is imprinted on my mind -- an indelible stain of depravity that I can't wash out.
My wife, my beautiful, sexy, and by then mostly naked Lynda sat in her car, with the door wide open while she sucked on Simon Baxter's cock.
At first I thought I was dreaming or that I had somehow become one of my own fictional characters, but, oh no, the hideous, disturbing scene was real enough. My wife was the centre of attention at a dogging site.
I'd read about doggers and dogging on the internet. The origins of the euphemistic term dogging aren't clear, but what was pretty fucking clear to me that night was that dogging meant a load of men standing around watching, and occasionally joining in if invited, a couple engaged in some kind of sex act.
That night, shocked and numb with grief I watched my wife suck Simon Baxter's dick before she climbed out of the car, her tits hanging over the cups of her bra, as she leaned over the bonnet and took Simon Baxter's cock from behind.
"Wank those cocks, boys," my wife called out before her head lolled forward and she groaned.
Simon Baxter had moved behind Lynda, yanked her underwear aside, and had slid balls deep into her in one thrust. Lynda's fingers clawed at the smooth metal as Simon fucked into her, his own fingers digging into the flesh of my wife's hips.
I felt sick; I'd held Lynda like that; I'd fucked her and heard her groan just like that cunt did to her in that God-awful clearing in the woods.
My wife called out, gasping and groaning for more cocks. The men gathered closer, huddling in a semi-circle, some jacking at an erection while a couple had Lynda's hands around their dicks. She sucked two cocks after squatting on Simon Baxter's upright stalk while he lay on a blanket. I stared at her riding the man's cock while she cranked one in her fist and sucked the other, swapping her attention between the two as the men grunted and pushed their fingers through my wife's hair.
"Come for me, boys," she cried, and then gave a yelp of delight and triumph as the dick in her hand spat its load of viscous spunk over my wife's face. "More," Lynda urged after slurping the guy clean, her tongue all over the oozing knob-end. "All of you wank over me," she gasped, smearing the ejaculate over her face.
I heard Simon Baxter grunt and announce he was coming. Lynda kept him inside her cunt and took his seed while a second man squirted jizm over her breasts.
I couldn't take any more of the filth and depravity, stumbling away back down the track when I saw my wife kneel on the blanket, Simon Baxter's muck dribbling out of her opening as she offered her body to anyone. A man knelt behind her and groaned as he slid his hard-on into the porridge sliding from Lynda's pussy.
