David
Cheating stories always seem to begin with a description of how perfect the marriage was... right up until it very much was not.
I won't stray from that template, because our marriage was good. Robust, loving, happy. We communicated, we held hands, we kissed for no reason. I told her I loved her. She told me she loved me. We cuddled.
I thought we would last forever.
We raised two wonderful kids, twin daughters. Erin and Shelly grew up strong and lean and intelligent. 18 years old at the time of this narrative, still living at home but preparing for college.
My name is David London. I own a tree service. We plant, we prune, we clean up after storms, we cut down, we grind away the stump. Business is good, as this is New England and the trees are always growing. I have twelve trucks and four teams of five employees each.
My wife's name is Catherine -- Cat to her friends. She is the office manager for a local doctor's group. Two GPs, one pediatrician.
We met 20 years ago when I was trying to get my business started by taking odd and small jobs. I didn't own a big crane back then, just a selection of chain saws, cables, ladders, pickup trucks, etc. I was cutting up a fallen limb in the parking lot of an office building when another limb which I had stupidly not seen was under tension snapped up and smacked me in the side of the head.
I staggered around for a second wondering where the bell tower and who was ringing the damn bell before I realized what had happened. Luckily, I was wearing a helmet.
I stumbled into the office building to take a look at the damage in a men's room mirror, but before I could find one a beautiful petite blonde came down the corridor. The sight of her cleavage really took the edge off of my pain. She took a quick horrified look at me and dragged me to the suite where she worked.
One of the doctors shined a light in my eyes, declared me free of concussion, and bandaged my face. All the while the sexy blonde, whose name I learned was Catherine, stood in the treatment room, blatantly against many regulations, and monitored my progress. She had discovered me and it was obvious that she had claimed responsibility for me.
No permanent damage done, I returned two days later with flowers. She cried and hugged me. One year later we were married. Two years later the twins were born.
We made a good team. We fit together. She is emotional, I am phlegmatic. She is quiet, I am verbose.
I have to be ready with words and good with them. My business is all about gaining the trust of potential customers and servicing the needs of existing ones. My day is spent on the phone, on the job sites, in supplier warehouses, directing employees. I have to be talking all day, every day. I can talk about anything to anyone.
My kids think I have a wonderful voice. Even on those rare occasions where I have had to yell at them, they frown at the message but smile at the sound of it. A customer once tried to convince me to become a freelance audiobook narrator. I told her that I would consider it when I retired. When we have company picnics, I am always expected to call out the Bingo numbers, announce the winners of drawings, make introductions. We do not have square dances or I would be tapped to call the steps.
I read bedtime books to the kids starting when they were one and they did not let me discontinue the nightly read until they started to get boyfriends. Even then sometimes the boyfriends wanted to listen in.
During the turmoil of the upcoming events, I had a random memory of Cat calling me one day and telling me she had nothing to say.
"I just wanted to hear your voice," she whispered.
Over the phone. The damned phone. It seems to be the phone, more and more, that becomes the pivot of the plot in these narratives. Back not too many years ago, the phone hung on the wall. It didn't record what you said or what number you literally dialed with a physical dial. You could not get messages or photos or video on it.
How did cheating wives get exposed before they all carried smartphones?
Cat dropped her phone one morning. It was in a protective case, but it fell at just the right combination of angle and velocity that the screen shattered anyway.
I heard her cry of anguish. You would have thought her puppy had gotten run over. I glanced at our dog on my way to the kitchen. He was still asleep next to his bed.
I found Cat kneeling on the floor examining her broken phone.
"Yikes," I said.
She glared up at me.
I paused. Sure, her phone was out of commission, but it was just an object. For some reason it seemed to anger her irrationally. I had noticed that lately her ability to shrug off adversity had gone missing. For any of the past 20 years, she would have cursed her luck for maybe ten seconds and then moved on.
Now she held the phone and looked at me like I had thrown it at her.
Well, I thought. This could be the first symptoms of menopause, or it could be the anxiety of losing both children at once. Whatever it was, I needed to be tactful.
"Take my phone this morning," I suggested. "I will take yours over to the Apple Store, get the screen fixed, and we can swap back later."
She agreed with my plan by letting loose with an exaggerated groan of frustration that told me she blamed me, the Universe, and Fate, in that order, and none of us was forgiven for this inconvenience.
**********
Let me put in a flashback right here. This isn't one of those stories where the wife suspiciously begins to distance herself from the husband. I did notice that she had begun to get frustrated at small inconveniences and would stay angry for longer than I thought was usual. She seemed a little more hesitant when I would sweep her into my arms for a passionate kiss. But we fucked just fine once I got her past that.
Again. Menopause? 40ish female cycle readjustment? I didn't know or care. I just backed off as needed.
The day before broken phone day, I came home about 5. She came home ten minutes later. I met her at the back door and grabbed her. Caveman style. I kissed her and bit her neck and had her shirt off in short order. I slipped her bra down and licked her nipples.
"Kids...," she gasped.
I was having none of her hesitation today. "Lacrosse practice," I whispered in her ear. And picked her up and threw her down on the living room sofa and slid her pants off.
She lifted her hips. "They could get done early." She was panting.
I kicked off my pants and underwear. She looked at my erection and bit her lip.
"I taught them about birds and bees and penises and vaginas long ago," I growled. "And if they see their parents fucking, that's healthy. Nothing is better for a child than knowing their parents love each other."
"Oh God," she replied. Not to my profound wisdom, but to my tongue lapping up and down her fuzzy blonde cunt. "Oh God!"
"And if daughters see their mother having an orgasm, then they will know what they deserve from their future lovers." I returned my face to her pussy.
"Fuckfuckfuck!" She was fast today. She came. Too bad there were no students present for this teachable moment.
She was sprawled backwards against the cushions, her feet on the floor, legs spread wide. I shuffled to her and slid my cock all the way inside. I held it still, and we kissed. Our tongues danced in that shared space, then without breaking the kiss I began to fuck her.
She thrust her hips up at me. I rammed into her as hard as I could. It was fast and it was good. It was like we were in high school and had to get it done before the parents pulled into the driveway. We were young again, flush with hormones and immeasurable desire.
She had come already, so I did not wait around. Those glands in my lower abdomen twitched and I felt the juices start to fill the chamber. Before my brain pulled the trigger, she opened her mouth wide like she wanted to scream but did not make a sound. She just wrapped her arms and legs around me and started to shake.
That pulled the trigger. I grunted and pushed into her. I shot everything my balls contained into her cunt.
When the twins got home, they found us standing together at the stove, arms around each other. I was tending the pasta and Cat was stirring the sauce.
"Oh for the love of --." Erin said. "Get a room!" And they ran up the stairs giggling.
I kissed my wife. It was the last true and innocent kiss of our marriage.
*********
Back to broken phone day. Cat was still upset when she left for work. We kissed, but it was like getting a kiss from your elderly aunt.
I drove to the local Apple Store and waited in line for a while. When I was able to give the phone to a nice young woman, she looked at it with calm understanding and asked for the unlock code so she could back up the data, just in case.
I put in what I thought Cat's code was but it did not work. I then borrowed the woman's phone and called Cat at her office. I explained that they needed the code to do the repair.
Cat hesitated much too long. I did not think anything of it then. I was distracted by a shiny new iPad on the nearest table. When after a while she gave me the code, I repeated them to the woman, thanked Cat, told her that I loved her, and disconnected.
After the repair was done, I went to a sub shop and ordered an Italian. I sat down with Cat's phone to text her about the repair. I scanned the Messages list for my name, but my eye was drawn to the second line, a message thread from a Donald. That would be Dr. Donald Wilson, one of the doctors in Cat's office. Underneath his name was the first line of the message. I read it and my whole body started to shut down.
YOU ARE ONE HOT FUCK!
I sat there staring at those words. My throat tightened. I could feel my blood pressure rising. My guts felt full of liquid. I could not move.
I put the phone down and stared off into nothing. My brain was full of white noise. The world was not real. Somehow, I managed to make it out to my truck, the Italian long forgotten. I sat there for a long time before I had the courage to open the thread.
It was worse than I could have imagined.
The comment was attached to a video.
It was taken by a phone probably propped up on the counter top in one of the examining rooms. Cat was lying on her back on the little padded table. She was not fully nude. Her blouse was open but her breasts were not exposed. Dr. Wilson was standing between her naked legs, his pants down, pushing his cock into my wife.
Part of my brain freaked the fuck out while another part calmly made notes. He didn't have a giant cock. It was average. She wasn't screaming in ecstasy. She wasn't restrained. He wasn't choking her. She was willing.
The note taking part of my brain looked at the date. Then flicked back through the tread, back in time. More movies, pictures, even sound files. They went back three months, about the time span where she had started to stay an extra hour a couple of times a week at the office to prepare for an audit. So she claimed. I didn't look at the videos in full, just enough of each to verify that they were all of my wife being boned by Donald.
The fucking was bad enough, but the lying for some reason hurt more.
I drove home, ignoring the ring tones. My name showed on the display. Cat calling her phone. I also ignored the text message alerts.
