I had to drive across town one Friday to deliver some high-priority files from my precinct to Police Headquarters. For the past two weeks I'd been stuck at a desk, because of a shooting my partner and I had been involved in. It was a totally legitimate shoot—we stopped the perp coming out of a crackhouse and he aimed his gun at us—and it wasn't even me who shot him, it was Jim. Nonetheless, we were both on a desk until IAD finished the investigation, and I was bored stiff.
Since there wasn't much for me to do, I decided to stop by my house on the way over. Helen had cooked a fantastic brisket for dinner the night before, and I figured I'd make some of the leftovers into a sandwich for lunch. It was only a couple of blocks out of my way, and I knew no one at the precinct would care how long I took on my errand.
Driving slowly up my street, I pulled over opposite Mrs. Ferguson's house to admire her flower garden. She worked at it eight months of the year, and it was always spectacular. As I was about to drive the last 50 yards to my house, I glanced up and saw to my surprise a man coming out of my front door. It was Mark Malchek, a guy who lived around the corner—some sort of computer whiz who worked from home.
What the hell was he doing coming out of my house at 11:30 in the morning? I watched as he sauntered around the corner and out of sight, and then I pulled up in front of my house and went inside.
The house was quiet, but I thought I heard the shower upstairs. Climbing the stairs and walking into my bedroom I got a nasty shock. A very nasty shock.
The bed was totally destroyed, with pillows and sheets and blankets everywhere, and there was a big wet spot in the middle. And the room smelled like sex. It was all too obvious what Mark Malchek had been doing in my house.
The shower was running in the bathroom, and I could hear Helen singing to herself, as she usually did when she was feeling good.
Son of a bitch! I could feel the anger rising, and threatening to overwhelm my utter and complete amazement. My wife was fucking somebody else, some asshole neighbor, behind my back?
***************
Helen and I had been married for 24 years, and I thought we were pretty happy. We met when I was still at the Police Academy. She was one of the assistant caterers at my cousin's wedding, and the cutest girl I had ever seen. Short, kind of pretty, not a knockout, but with a fantastic figure. I managed to flirt with her enough to get a phone number, and we dated for about a year before we got married.
In almost every way our marriage had been terrific. I worked for the Department and she stayed in the catering business, doing a lot of free-lance work for a company run by a friend of hers from high school. It left her schedule very flexible, so that she could be an involved mother to our two daughters, Linda and Veronica. Linda was now out of college and working in Chicago; Veronica was a junior at Kenyon. They were terrific kids, and Helen had been a wonderful mother to them.
Helen and I were devoted to one another; we had the same values, we cared about family in the same way, and we enjoyed each other's company. When we met other married couples who were obviously bored with one another, we smiled smugly at each other—after two decades together we still had fun together, and never ran out of things to talk about. I felt pretty damn lucky, except for one thing.
That one thing was sex. Helen was stacked and very sexy—I'll never forget my excitement the first time I got to see her naked, after several months of dating—but she just wasn't a very sexual person. After our courtship and the first few months of marriage, I quickly found to my dismay that sex about every 10 days or two weeks was plenty for her. It was a far cry from the 3-4 times a week that we had begun our marriage with, and I wasn't slow to complain about it.
Over the years we'd struggled with this issue more than any other. We even saw a marriage counselor for a while, when the girls were little. After many years of frustration and unhappiness, I eventually came to understand that my wife really did love me. Her lack of interest in sex with me wasn't personal—she just didn't have much libido. The counselor helped me learn not to get so angry, and helped Helen see that she needed to make more of an effort.
So once every ten days became perhaps once a week, sometimes twice if I could talk her into it. I had high hopes that once the girls left for college and we had more free time—no driving them to voice lessons or tennis practice or dances or friends' houses—things might get better, but they never did.
What made it even harder to take was that when we did have sex, it was often a frustrating 'quickie'. I longed to take my time, to kiss and caress Helen, to lavish attention on her beautiful breasts, to touch and kiss her all over. But most of the time she simply wouldn't let me! She'd cross her arms over her breasts protectively, and say, "not tonight, honey—can't we just do it?"
And so, with a sigh, I'd get out the KY jelly, she'd slather it all over my cock, and we'd fuck. Not that I don't like fucking! But it seemed like not more than once every other month that we'd take our time and she'd let me touch her. Aren't women supposed to be the ones who want more foreplay? Time after time, we had sex without my ever getting my hands on her tits, or down between her legs—at all! Imagine how it feels to go three months at a time without getting to touch your wife's breasts.
And forget oral sex. I was happy to go down on her, and I did from time to time, despite her lack of enthusiasm for it. But in 25 years she'd only taken my cock in her mouth three times—for about 30 seconds each time.
You may be thinking, "what a cold-hearted bitch—why don't you dump her?" But the fact is, Helen loves me; and I love her. She makes it clear every day, in a million little ways, how much I mean to her and how much she values me. We look forward to growing old together. She just isn't into sex. And over the years (with the help of my trusty right hand) I've learned how to deal with it.
***************
Which is why, as I stumbled down the stairs and back out the front door, I was as stunned as I was furious. Not only did I know Helen loved me, and not only did I have total confidence in her faithfulness—she just wasn't interested enough in sex to ever have an affair! So what the fuck was going on?
It took me no more than three minutes to get to Mark Malchek's house and ring his doorbell. When the door opened a few inches and he peered out at me uncertainly, saying, "hi Rob, what are you...?" I slammed the door hard into him, knocking him to the floor.
Closing the door behind me, I picked him up and kneed him hard in the balls, sending him to the floor again, gasping and wheezing. I pulled him to his feet once more, relishing the sight of his face, pale and terrified. He couldn't even get a word out.
Holding him by the shirt collar with my left hand, I smacked him repeatedly in the face, being careful to inflict plenty of pain without breaking my hand. I topped it off with a final punch straight to the center of his nose, and relished the spurting blood and the crunching sound.
I tossed Mark onto his living room sofa, watching him gasp for breath, and put my hand gently around his neck.
"Listen carefully, you little cocksucker. I know just where you've been and what you've been up to this morning, and I'm about an inch from just shooting you and burying your body in the backyard."
He didn't speak; he just looked at me with terror in his eyes.
"Now you're going to tell me everything I want to know, answer every question I ask you. Then you're going to clean yourself up and go on with your life. And you are never, ever, going to talk to Helen again. Am I speaking clearly enough for you?"
I tightened my grip on his neck just a little, to make sure I had his attention, and he nodded frantically. "Yes, yes Rob! I get it!" he said in a quavering voice.
He was totally cowed. I let go of him and got him started talking. I made clear that he damn well better tell me all of it, no leaving things out or minimizing what they did—and he spilled it all.
He and Helen had been fucking for more than two months. To my astonishment, he said that she had come on to him. At a July 4th neighborhood party, she flirted with him heavily whenever other people weren't in sight. Three days later, she called in mid-morning and asked him if he could come over to help her move a filing cabinet.
When he arrived she was wearing nothing but a short bathrobe. She greeted him at the door with words of thanks and a big kiss. While kissing him, she wrapped herself around him, and slid her hand down to caress his cock through his pants. Before he had time to say much more than, "are you sure we should be doing this?" they were in our bedroom, her robe was off and he was staring at her gorgeous tits.
She yanked his clothes off and fucked him for the better part of two hours. I made him tell me all about what they did, that first time and after that. I was flabbergasted. She was loud and vocal, and she came at least once every time they fucked. She eagerly sucked him up for a second and then a third go-round, and asked him to do her doggie-style the last time.
Mark said he asked her several times, "are you sure this is all right? What about Rob?" I have no idea if that was true, but he insisted that she said she could keep it a secret from me.
Since that first time they'd been getting together a couple of times a week, either in my bedroom or at Mark's house. She did everything but anal with him: 69, all sorts of positions, and lots of blowjobs. She even had him tie her to his bedposts once, and he said she went just about crazy when he ate her while she couldn't move.
"This morning," he said, "when I got to the house she opened the door wearing just a lacy black bra and some pearls, nothing else. We went upstairs and she had me eat her first, for about twenty minutes—she must have come five times, she was moaning and yelling. Then we did it with her on her hands and knees, and after that she sucked me until I was hard again and we fucked a second time with her riding me."
When I'd heard it all, I just sat back in utter disbelief. The woman I thought I'd been married to for 24 years bore no relation whatsoever to the slut who'd been fucking Mark so enthusiastically ever since the summer.
"One final question, dipshit, and then you can go clean yourself up. I can't believe you've been the first guy she's whored around with like this—did she tell you anything about anyone else?"
He didn't even hesitate—by now he was thoroughly broken. "She made it sound like there had been a few guys before me, but she only mentioned one of them. Joe something, Oberman or Olderman; he's a fireman. She said he broke it off because his wife was starting to get suspicious."
Joe Olderman! He and Stephanie had been our good friends ever since their girls and ours had been five years old. That cocksucking son-of-a-bitch!
***************
Both Helen and I were probably lucky that I had the afternoon to calm down a little and get myself under control. Helen was lucky because I might have killed her; I was lucky because I would have gone to jail for a very long time.
