I'm Pete Culler. Age 38. 6', 6" tall. Married to Abbi Culler (who was originally Torsdottir), age 35, for the last 7 years. Abbi was, at least to my eyes, a 'looker' with brunette hair and a nice figure, but not a 'trophy wife,' though. I never knew much about her early history or family, as she came here from the Mid-West and I thought it not important.
Up until the events of this tale, I worked as an industrial adhesives engineer (that is, I made up custom formulations of sticky stuff) for the Plavics Company, which had expanded to include construction of homes glued together instead of nailed or screwed. I lived in one of the first constructed.
It was a tiny, bright-red LED warning light that brought down my life and marriage. The one on our complex home phone land-line. The one that indicated the plug-in flash-drive was nearing full of messages. The one that shouldn't have been full for at least a year or more.
Oh, sure, in retrospect, there were other 'classic' signs of a cheating spouse. I could have noticed it when my slightly chubby, brunette wife of some 7 years, Abbi, began to act differently.
I never thought I'd hear the excuses, rationalizations and justifications of the sex-cheating spouse, uttered in public as she got royally fucked.
I could have noticed the little things. Nights spent out with 'the girls'. Housework not done or done in a slipshod, hurried fashion. Dirty dishes, piled high in the sink, to 'soak'. Phone calls abruptly cut off when I walked into a room. Girlfriends 'covering' for unexplained absences. Computer files and logs suddenly concealed behind passwords. Extra mileage on the car. Lots of little things.
Little slights and her being a bit snappish. Comparing me unfavorably against the long-ago, well-edited memories of old boyfriends (which, I remembered, was almost funny). Her starting little arguments, followed by crying and running off to be 'alone'. Getting fed some things she knew I didn't like ("because puree kale-with-liver soup is good for you").
Plus always having precise timeline of excuses, rationalizations and justifications as to where she might have been, where before, it was never so exact, as Abbi had become so enmeshed in her mind-games and deceptions.
I remembered—all too late—when my Abbi had started to give me a lot more sex and doing some kinky things while doing it, including wearing sexy clothes I never saw before and saying dirty talk during sex. She started walking round the house nude or in barely-there outfits. When did she start shaving her twat? I liked it, but this just wasn't 'her,' until lately.
I suppose I could have followed her to a motel at the beginning. Looked in her purse, to find the roll of condoms or search her e-mail. I might have even announced that I was going on a trip I never took, just to stay around and watch her lover(s) go into our house to stay all night.
But I didn't.
I suppose that Abbi must have come to view me as something less than the man she married, because she fooled me so easily. Probably even less than a man. Sort of a fool crossed with a money-pump.
She was smart. I really never had a clue.
Thinking back, it was easy to see that I'd become distracted about the ever-increasing number of sales and scouting trips I was assigned by my Boss's at The Plavics Company. Trips of ever-increasing length and distance, for even-decreasing relevance to the Company's products and services.
It's true that my Company had been expanding into new businesses, particularly house construction, such as the one we lived in. Actually we were in a 'model' house, 3 bedroom, 2 bath, with large living area and rec room. We were third down from the end of a cul-de-sac, with the preceding two still empty, the furtherest one still only framed in but not sided, greasy rags still piled high in places.
We were pleased to have a fire plug within a block of our property, as that lowered our homeowner's insurance premium a lot.
The only drawback was our home's orientation, along a narrow valley, open at both ends, that funneled the dry, hot Santa Anna winds of Southern California right down our street, with houses built by my Company on either side of that street. One broken down car or bad left turn and the entire street could become a solid mass of backed-up cars in 'gridlock'. Two people, both trying to occupy the same space at the same time effectively prevented anybody from getting in or out by car, until the tangled mess was towed away. This happened a couple of times while we lived there.
I thought that Abbi and I would be happy there for many years, past retirement and into old age.
Until I saw that little, tiny red light on the back of the phone, blinking it's warning message to me.
I wouldn't have even bothered with it, except the the phone was temporarily backed up against a mirror, and I noticed as I prepared to go out the door on yet another assignment from my company, this time to Denver, to 'scout out' the location of another plant (the first I'd heard of that expansion). I pulled the phone out, turned it over, flipped open the bottom plate and pulled out the flash-drive, replacing it with the spare that sat right next to it.
Snapping my fingers, remembering I needed cash money, I opened the house safe and got out a couple bundles of bills from what I termed the petty-cash reserve, which was in a big, brown paper sack. One of the smaller bags of cash had an odd-shaped lump, which I stuffed into one of my packed bags. I took the other little sack and stuffed it in my overnight case, which had my computer and other needful stuff. I closed my case and then got Abbi to drive me to the airport that morning.
I told her I'd be back as soon as I could, probably in two or three weeks. I'd swear, now, that she actually giggled when I said that.
A commercial flight is just that. Boring. I worked on my computer, just like any other businessman during the flight time. Ate my breakfast on the plane. Got into my hotel room tired and needing a nap. Had some lunch. Watched some daytime TV.
I called my Abbi at home, who seemed a little out of breath ("just doing some yoga," she said). I can guess, now, that she had someone's cock up her cheating cunt when I called or she was pumping away on him, as she talked to me on the phone.
Already bored to tears, I checked through my carry-on case and found the little flash-drive, as well as a couple of DVDs labeled 'Abbi's fun #3' and 'Abbi's fun #17'. These, I'd look at later.
Because of the often complex verbal data I had to get off my frequent calls, I'd fitted my laptop with specialized software, to allow me to record phone calls and then play them back from memory. These, I activated, wanting to her my wife's voice when she was talking on the phone, alone, without me, so I could hear her mannerisms, unique to her.
The download from the flash-drive took quite a while, as there seemed to be a lot of calls that had been recorded.
The playbacks were ... interesting.
Like the ancient Chinese curse, "May you live in 'interesting' times".
Interesting, like having your testicles suddenly shocked by a Taser shot.
Each file played out of my earphones as a separate file. I could hear both sides of the 'conversations'. The first dozen or so were the usual mix of chitchat with her girlfriend and calls about bills.
Abbi spent an increasing mount of time talking to a woman named Tanya, who was forever moving any subject of talk—groceries, dry-cleaning, politics, or traffic tickets—over to sex and flirting.
Apparently, Tanya worked closely at Plavics with my Boss, Hans Symuleski and his three sons: Gunnar, Heinz and Seig. I kind-of gathered that Tanya was something of a corporate slut, because she was forever teasing Abbi about having her having sex with Hans and this or that son.
Based on the phone calls, Abbi listened in fascinated silence, punctuated by gasps and comments like, 'no, you didn't', while Tanya went on and on about how easy it was to separate her 'love' for her current boy-friend from her liking for sex with any man that took her fancy.
The first wake-up call to me was call number 17 down the list of calls, when Tanya called to remind Abbi of her invitation to the party at my Company's offices. On checking my past schedule, I remembered that I was on assignment out-of-town that day, and had never been invited to any 'party'.
Tanya also reminded Abbi to dress up like a slut, "just for fun," to which my lovely, middle-aged wife agreed. She said she'd wear 4" stiletto heels, a front-zip, fully-lined little black dress, wide-mesh fishnet suspender stockings, but no panties or bra.
My Gawd, she would have been a walking advertisement to 'cum-fuck-me'. The only saving grace had been Tanya's promise to stick by Abbi, to 'protect' her and make sure she got home OK.
Call number 18 was the kicker. It was September, 2006. As in kicking me out of a blissful fantasy of my faithful wife, married to me alone. Tanya called at bout noon, and Abbi took the call from our land line, so the built-in flash-drive recorded both sides of the conversation.
It went:
Tanya: Hi, there, slut! How do you feel? Hung over, I'll wager. Sticky cum all over, too.
Abbi: Groan. Gasp. Giggle. You know it, girl. Look at me, I'm lying here in bed. Suspender hose ripped off. I've got cum all over my tits, belly, and crusted all around my pussy. My ass hurts, too. I always told Pete I'd never do anal, but, oh, wow, now I've got cum up in my ass crack. Even on my face and in my hair.
Tanya: Me, too. Did you think any of the guys would have cum so often? Three times each and 4 times from Heinz.
Abbi: Hey, where's my dress? My panties and bra are gone. I'm shaved, too.
Tanya: Ho, girlfriend, you didn't wear any panties or bra. I remember Hans and Gunnar both shaving your pussy fur off, about an hour in. Hans told me, just before he left your place, that you could have your dress back, if you'd come over to his private office and ask for it ... on your knees.
Abbi: How many? Who?
Tanya: Oh, girlfriend, you were so wasted. At first, it was just sexy flirting and sex talk, until Ahmed pulled up your dress and shoved his fingers into your bare pussy, right there in front of everybody, me included.
Girl, you went off your nut. You screamed, "Fuck me!" and he did. Well, it was Ahmed, both Johns, Tom for the loading dock and Kevin from sales plus Hans, Gunnar, Heinz and Seig. Nine guys. You fucked all of everybody three times, especially after your pussy was shaved bare. Hell, girl, we both made it twice and you masturbated off once, alone, while we all watched.
You remember, I was right there with you, on my back, watching them all pound into you. Just the way you watched them pound into me. We even locked legs together, so the guys could slide from one of us to the other.
Oh, Abbi, you're as big a slut as I am. And you came and came and came, screaming and talking dirty.
