Birth Day Club

This story was told to me over cocktails at a hotel bar. Is it true? I don't know but the guy swilling his third martini swore it was. I'll leave that to the reader to decide. All names and places have been changed.

*****

I. Friday night

I was sitting on the living room floor watching a learn to count video with our sixteen month old son when my phone beeped to say I had a text message. I looked at the clock; 7:45 PM.

I crawled over to the coffee table and dug my phone out from beneath a mountain of toys. I assumed the text was my wife asking if she needed to make a grocery run on her way home from the restaurant.

Instead I read, "If you want to save your marriage you will get over to After Hours on Washington Street IMMEDIATELY!! "

I thought it was a sick joke and was going to delete it when I noticed there was an attachment. I opened it and saw a video of a woman in a red dress dancing; her partner's hands were taking great liberties with her ass. When they turned I immediately recognized my wife. She appeared to be having a very good time. .

My mind fumbled to make sense of what my eyes were seeing. Karen was wearing a pair of designer jeans and an embroidered black blouse when she left for Birthday Club. "What the fuck!"

The video ended with a close up of her dance partner. I had never met him but I knew that bastard was David Robertson.

II. Earlier that same evening

Karen had already fed the kids dinner and dressed them in their pajamas when I got home from work. She gave me a quick kiss, thanked me for giving her a night off, and said she wouldn't be late.

It was the third Friday of the month. That meant Birthday Club.

Now Birthday Club was an alien concept to me. My mother never stepped out on our family one Friday a month for a hens night. Nor do the women who work for me. I know, I asked. Instead, when it's somebody's birthday Peggy from accounting shakes everyone down for a couple bucks. She buys a funny card and a cake, always chocolate- my favorite. We sing happy birthday then everyone has a piece of cake and we return to work. At five o'clock I turn the lights off and everyone goes their own way. Forty hours together is plenty for people who have lives and families who love them.

This Birthday Club idea seems to have sprung from the fertile mind of one of Karen's co-workers, one Susan Eastmann. Let me describe Susan to you. She is an overweight 30 year old woman who dresses like she was a size two college girl. It ain't pretty. The sad fact is she is representative of the women who inhabit this strange group. I could understand why she didn't want to go home; all she waiting for her were a couple of cats.

When Karen first broached the subject she was six months pregnant with our son, Brandon. Susan claimed it was her thirtieth birthday...I opined that she hit thirty about thirty pounds ago. Karen rallied to her defense. A spirited discussion ensued. I was the oldest of four kids and remembered something my mom used to tell my dad, at great volume, when she was pregnant, "Never argue with a woman whose hormones are screaming kill the bastard that did this to me!"

Karen assured me they were going to a restaurant they frequented for lunch; strictly the girls from work complaining how they're overworked and underpaid.

The plan was to exchange cards and inexpensive gifts. Karen finally sold the deal by promising to bring me a piece of cake so we could have our own party.

When Karen came home she regaled me with the story of eight women trying to divide up the check. "Who had the large Diet Coke? " I pity the waitress having to work a table full of penny pinching women on a Friday night.

The following month was a repeat. Home by 8:30 with enough tales of woe to carry us over the weekend.

Karen would be going on maternity leave in four weeks so the next month became a giving birth-day club. I suggested I attend since it was a baby shower for our first born but was reminded their group was for the girls. No male interlopers, no matter how intimately involved with one of the girls, were welcome. I joked she had better hope she wasn't carrying a boy, shrugged my shoulders, and gave her a couple of twenties. "The first round for everyone but you," I patted Karen's tummy, "is on me."

Karen giggled and gave me a very nice kiss. "I won't be late." She was home, once again, by 8:30, with a shopping bag full of clothes for our soon to be born baby and a hunk of cake for me. Of course it was chocolate.

As her due date drew closer Susan wasn't the only one wearing tight pants.

Brandon Morrow Junior, BJ for short, was born on January 22nd which, coincidentally, was the night of birthday club.

Our life changed overnight with our son commanding all attention. Days flew by as we studied our son for or any changes. We played the "who does he look more like game." We were amazed at how quickly he developed a personality.

Despite all of Birthday Club's complaining, Amherst Ltd. had a very generous pregnancy leave package. Karen was able to stay home for eight weeks on full pay. But all too soon it was time for her to go back to the office grind. The proud maternal grandma, Connie, volunteered to babysit for her little guy.

Life soon settled down to a dull thunder The only thing that hadn't returned to normal was resumption of our sex life. Because of medical issues, which are none of your business, we were instructed to wait a few more weeks.

I didn't think it was a coincidence her first day back to work was birthday club. Karen was very vocal in her excitement about seeing her friends again.

Come Friday morning I caught a peek as Karen buttoned up a black silk blouse and glimpsed a lace bra hiding under it. She had a most impressive cleavage.

Karen had always been relatively flat chested; now her breasts were huge. My grandfather would have called them bodacious ta'-tas'. She had been working out hard on her tread mill and looked incredible. Her body was as tight as a cheerleader's and she wanted everyone to know it.

She chased me out of our bedroom so she could finish getting dressed without me leering.

She came out wearing a fuchsia colored skirt that hit about three inches north of her knees and a matching jacket. Black nylons and a pair of high heels completed her ensemble. Damn she looked good...too good. I was about to say something when she said,

"The outfit is to show off for the girls," Karen gave me a wicked smile. "What's underneath will be your present tonight."

I stammered, "What are you saying?"

"I saw the doctor yesterday...he said it's okay."

I almost came in my pants. It had been ten long weeks and I had a smile bigger than a kid on Christmas morning. So did Karen. I had a hell of a time concentrating on work that day.

I got home from work at 5:30 and relieved Connie. She had already fed Brandon dinner. That gave me 180 minutes until heaven. I staged our bedroom for seduction. I checked the time every five minutes. 8:30 came and went. By 8:45 I was pacing.

At nine I could wait no longer and texted Karen, R U OK. A minute later my phone rang. "I am so sorry. We were gossiping and I lost track of time. I'll make it up to you I promise."

Karen started to undress her before she got through the front door. She tossed her jacket on the floor followed by her blouse. Her breasts rode high and proud in a lace demi bra. My cock got hard as I watched her skirt drop to the floor and saw she was wearing my favorite fetish lingerie, sheer panties and a lace garter belt with sheer black nylons. She dropped to her knees and unzipped my pants.

Karen made it up to me twice that night and again on Saturday morning before the baby woke up..

Once Brandon was up our day was his. It was evening before Karen could tell me her monthly recap of birthday club. One name kept getting repeated, David Robertson, her new supervisor. He was brought in right after Karen left for her maternity leave. "He even took me to lunch to bring me up to speed."

I wasn't too happy having him take my wife to lunch dressed as she was; I was even less when she mentioned what a gentleman he was, holding the car door open for her. Now every guy above puberty knows the easiest time to look up a skirt is when she is getting out of a car; getting in is a close second. I had no doubt he has gotten quite the eye full.

I would hear his name a hundred times over the next couple of weeks.

On Monday morning Karen wore a short plaid skirt and a black sweater and pantyhose. My wife has incredible legs and loved showing them off in short skirts. Once before she got pregnant Karen got sent home for wearing too short of a mini skirt and creating a distraction. That was a skirt!

Most of her sweaters and blouses hugged her new assets. Coupled with short skirts Karen was the hottest mother any of the men in her office had ever seen. This was not lost on Robertson; that bastard was always on the prowl.

He seemed to hover around her desk. She would reward him with a flash of her panties. Karen thrived on the attention. The ancient Greeks had a word for it; hubris... a great or foolish amount of pride.

He was selling a load of bullshit and she was buying every last ounce.

Several of her co-workers began calling Karen David's work wife. They quickly became the hot topic of office gossips speculating whether they were having sex when they said they were going to lunch.

It didn't take long for the head of HR to call Robertson down for a chat. "David, I know you're married. Personally, I don't care what you do on your own time. That's between you and your wife. Unless it's with an employee of Amherst Ltd., that is. You're Morrow's supervisor. I've received several complaints from her co-workers about how the two of you are acting. You're management, she's not. I'm not going to risk a sexual harassment lawsuit. So I'm putting you on formal notice. Back off on Morrow or you're fired."

Robertson gave Karen a wide berth. Karen took that pretty hard. She must also have received a talking to as she began wearing pants to work.

The reason I know this was I received a text message one afternoon. If it wasn't for the last line, "Robertson is avoiding your wife like the plague" I would have went to war. Instead I thanked God we had dodged that bullet.

Karen was moping around the house as though her dog died. I tried to talk to her but was rebuffed every day for a week. Finally she opened up and said she thought she was suffering from separation anxiety. I suggested she quit her job and stay home with our son since we could get along on my salary. She said she was torn because, until recently, she enjoyed her job but promised to think about it.

I didn't say a word.

A couple of weeks later I came home to find Karen sitting on the couch crying. I sat down and wrapped my arms around her. It took over an hour before she reached in her pocket and pulled out a home pregnancy test which showed positive. Brandon was going to have a brother or sister.

I was overjoyed but confused. When Karen told me the doctor said it was okay to resume having sex I assumed he had prescribed birth control pills.

No, it seems my college educated wife made a significant error in taking birth control advice from her mom. Connie, who had given birth to seven, assured her she could not get pregnant if she breast fed. That's how we ended up with Irish twins...eleven months apart to the day. Damn, she must have gotten pregnant the first time we made love. I though back to the incredible sex we had after Birthday Club and wasn't at all surprised.

After our daughter was born we agreed the most important place for a mother was home with her children. So Karen bid farewell to the office and began life as a full time mother of two babies in diapers.

Liz was nursing and fought to keep from being weaned to a bottle. That pretty much tied Karen down since I couldn't feed her.

Karen said she was having a tough time making the transition from an executive secretary to a stay at home mom.

Now she thought she was suffering from post par-tum depression. It took a while but once I was able to get her to talk about what she was experiencing she admitted she felt a sadness to the depths of her soul and couldn't stop crying, even when there's no real reason to be crying. "I didn't feel like this when Brandon was born," she wailed. I tried to get her to see a professional but she shrugged and said no, she would outgrow it. I wondered if she was missing her former boyfriend.

We agreed as soon as Liz was weaned she would start going to Birthday Club again. It was five long months before she would take a bottle. Karen circled Friday on the calendar as she called Susan to tell her she would be coming. Unfortunately, Robertson overheard Susan passing the word. Since Karen no longer worked for Amherst Ltd., he thought this would be the perfect opportunity to get in her panties.

Karen couldn't stop talking about how excited she was to show off baby pictures to the girls. But she was also a little upset that she hadn't been able to lose the thirteen pounds she put on during her pregnancy. She spent a couple of hours trying on outfits to see which made her look the least fat.

In Karen's defense she had no idea the group had changed their meeting place to one which featured live music, dancing, and scores of men who were willing to buy a lady a drink. The ratio of horny men to unescorted women was so favorable even Susan got hit on.

Karen wasn't a vain person but that night she was a magnet for compliments. Businessmen in custom suits competed to offer to buy her a drink. Karen was nursing and turned each down. She did, however, accept their invitations to dance and soon lost track of her friends as well as all sense of time

She was taken by surprise when Robertson walked up behind her and said, "Guess who." He tried to pretend it was a coincidence they ran into each other.

III. Enough history. Back to real time

I punched in Karen's number; it immediately went to voice mail. I tried to control my rage, "This is an emergency! Call me!" I hit redial and left the same message again.

Without thinking I scooped up the kids, grabbed the diaper bag, and set off to rain hell upon my betrayer.

I keyed the name of the bar into my phone and got directions. I buckled the kids into their car seats and we were off. The mechanical voice beckoned, "In 500 feet turn left then go straight for 2.5 miles."

Ten minutes later I realized I forget to grab a couple bottles of breast milk from the fridge, but it was too late to go back now.

It took about twenty minutes to get to the bar. It was located on the first floor of an office tower out by the mall and the lot was jammed with expensive cars.

I found a tight spot and slipped my SUV in.

When I leaned over to take the kids out of their car seats I smelled something nasty. I didn't even think of changing Brandon, I had to get inside. A minute later I had Liz and the diaper bag draped on one shoulder. Brandon held onto my other hand while he announced to the world, "I made poopie!"

The lobby looked like a thousand other office towers with one exception, a frosted glass door boasting After Hours, MEMBERS ONLY. I could hear muffled music through it. When I tried to enter I noticed the door lacked a handle. I debated kicking it in when it swung open to discharge two smarmy looking middle management types. Both gave wide berth as they walked by.

"Where the fuck does Mr. Mom think he's going," one said loud enough for me to hear.

I stuck my foot out and held the door open. Brandon covered his ears as the pulsating music engulfed us.

The bar was packed with predators in expensive suits and slutty looking women in tiny dresses. It took a couple of minutes to spot Karen. She was sitting on a bar stool next to the bastard who was mauling her in the video. I waited for the band to start playing because I wanted to nail her in the act. The lead singer announced they were slowing things down and began to play a cover version of Lady in Red. The bastard took my wife by the hand and led her onto the dance floor. She went willingly.

Rage burned in my soul as I watch him reclaim Karen's ass. I could see a gold wedding band on his left hand. I pushed our way through the crowd; we were close enough to hear her saying, "I told you to stop that!" as she pulled his hand off her ass. The rest of her sentence said it was time to end this shit.

I pointed Karen out to Brandon and said, "Look, there's mommy." I let go of his hand. Our son ran to Karen and threw his arms around her legs. Her scream drowned out the keyboard's solo. Our eyes met. She looked terrified.

I got in the molester's face. "The lady said no," I thundered. The crowd took notice and gave us a wide birth..

"Who the fuck are you?" He shouted as he pushed me. I staggered a back couple of steps then found solid footing. I assumed a boxer's stance and responded, "Her husband, asshole."

"What are you going to do about it babysitter?" This guy was truly dense.

"I'm going to kick your ass."

"Fuck you!" He came at me. I held Liz tight and sidestepped his pathetic attempt at a punch. It landed harmlessly in the blanket I had draped over my shoulder. My daughter's timing couldn't have been better as she let loose with an ear piercing screech. Everyone assumed the asshole had punched her.

I answered with a textbook perfect right cross that shattered his nose. I felt the cartilage separate from the bone. It made a sickening crunch as I followed through with my punch. I had never hit a man that hard with my bare fist;

it felt good. Real good. Unfortunately for him the concrete floor was very unforgiving as the back of his skull slammed into it.

Six years of Golden Gloves Boxing had come in handy. One punch, one knock out. Coach Watkins would be very proud of me.

I stood over his prone body like Muhammad Ali used to do to his vanquished opponents, taunting him to get back up as blood spewed from his former nose. "C'mon. Get up pussy boy. I'm not finished with you." He couldn't move. He was out cold.

Someone yelled "Call an ambulance!" But no one moved. A few assholes whipped out their cell phones and took pictures. A waitress pushed her way through the crowd. "Back off. Give him some room to breathe!" She got down on the floor and tried to stop the bleeding with napkins.

The crowd parted leaving my wife standing next to the bleeding man while our son tugged at her obscenely short skirt. "Mommy I made poopie!"

I handed Liz to Karen. She was hungry and wailing at the top of her lungs, So too was my wife, "Please let me explain. We were only dancing. I swear to God."

"You lied to me about where you were going. You lied to me about who you were going with. And you brought a change of clothes to go whoring in!"

"No, let me explain," Karen pleaded.

"Explain!" I thundered, "I saw you destroying our marriage with this piece of shit." I kicked him in the balls for effect. He still didn't move. Brandon kept shouting, "Mommy, I made poopie."

This was not a real man's bar. It was chock full of pretend men in very expensive suits; all gave a wide berth lest a drop of blood land on their French cuffed shirts. The women however were getting wet at this display of raw machismo; you could smell it on them. Not a skirt there had ever seen a man holding a baby defend a woman's honor from a lout.

One aggressive woman, nattily attired in a gray pinstriped power suit, walked up to me and stuffed her business card in my pocket. "I don't do married guys, so don't call me until you've divorced the cheat." She kissed me on the cheek then faded into the crowd.

There were no knuckle dragging Neanderthal bouncers to eject a troublemaker like me from the premises. A moment later the manger, a wisp of a man, appeared and politely asked me to please leave.