Danikas Devil Dogs

I, born Danika Jury and at one time Danika Sussex, have always had "exotic" looks. I'm not being unduly modest, or immodest, in saying that; I'm being realistic. As is true of almost any female with exotic looks some guys think me strange, others think that I'm "OK" looking, and maybe 10-15% think that I'm sultry as hell; in other words some guys would rate me a four on a ten point scale, and others a ten. It's easy to see in which group a guy falls in just by his eyes and/or body language when I meet him.

The only other things that I'll say about my looks, since they're only marginally important for my story, are: I'm 5 feet 3½ inches tall, 118 pounds; I look quite a bit like (though not as muscular as) Instagram queen and CrossFit competitor Lauren Fisher; and perhaps my most outstanding characteristic is that I'm as fit as any 28 year old (at the most relevant part of this story) woman with a 50 hour-a-week desk job can reasonably be. This includes a blue belt (4th level of six) in Krav Maga.

I met Greg Sussex when I was 23. He was one of that small percentage of guys who thought that my exotic looks were sultry, as was easy to tell both by his eyes and body language the moment that we met. I was introduced to him after a men's recreational flag football game that I was dragged to by my bff Gloria who was dating a guy on the team. Greg is big (likely six four, 230 pounds), fit, and handsome. I do believe that either he was pranking me with an electric handshake buzzer or I was very attracted to him because there was a jolt running up my arm the first time that our hands touched.

I normally play hard-to-get. I tried that with Greg but my body overruled my brain and we were fucking after the fourth date. Rather than viewing myself as a failure for not making him work harder for it I viewed myself as privileged because he really knew how to use his proud uncut Shillelagh. In the two other prolonged sexual relationships that I had before Greg I'd get off from fucking about three quarters of the time with an average of 1½ fucks per session, and an orally-induced orgasm maybe once a week With Greg I got off 90% of the time, 2-2½ fucks per session, and orally-induced orgasms two or three times a week. Yum!

Oh, by the way - at least a dozen times he told me that I was his best fuck ever; since he was bordering on comatose just after an energetic sexual encounter when he said that I tended to believe him. He especially appreciated the fact that I did daily Kegel exercises.

While Greg was perfect from the sexual satisfaction standpoint he had some issues. Firstly, he wasn't as mature as a 24 year old (when I met him) should be; he still seemed to have somewhat of a "college" attitude, maybe harking back to being a big man on campus because of his feats on the gridiron as a star tight end at a decent Division I football school. Secondly, football still seemed to be equal to his relationship with me as his number one priority, just ahead of money. Thirdly, perhaps going along with the first issue, he seemed to have a wandering eye. Fourthly it seemed that he thought that women took a far back seat to men as far as general capabilities were concerned.

Fidelity and monogamy are very important to me. His third issue would have been a deal breaker with me if he acted upon it - I don't mind a guy on a diet looking at the dessert menu, I just didn't want him ordering and wolfing down a piece of cherry pie ala mode. I had hoped that I had cured him of the third issue (and probably the fourth issue too) when a situation arose after we had been dating about five months, the last three months of which we had agreed to be exclusive.

Since football is so important to Greg I usually attended his games. I didn't like the fact that a number of slutty and hard looking almost-groupies also attended, but I never had occasion to deal with them. That is I had no occasion to deal with them until one September 8th I had a work obligation so I told Greg that I would probably miss his 7:00 p. m. game. My function finished early so still in my business suit I went to the game. I had a little trouble finding the field where it was being played at and didn't get there until about fifteen minutes before it ended, and had to sit on the side of the field opposite Greg's team's sideline. It was clear that Greg hadn't seen me and that he was enjoying a victory.

Since where I was sitting, then standing, was on the side of the field closest to the parking lot Greg would have to walk past me to get to his car so I just waited there for him. I was very distressed when I saw him approaching - oblivious to me - walking and laughing with one of the hard-looking almost-groupies with what appeared to be his hand on her ass.

He finally saw me standing there with my arms crossed and a nasty look on my face, removed his hand, and stuttered "Oh...uh...hi Danika...uh...when did you...uh get here?"

"About fifteen minutes ago; did I just see your hand on this bimbo's ass?" I snarled.

"Who you calling a bimbo you little bitch?" the slut said, rushing up to my face. She was a big girl, probably five feet ten inches tall, 150 pounds. She made the mistake of not only getting in my face but pushing me. Since I was in my heels I fell backward onto my ass, but before anyone could react I flipped back onto my feet without using my hands, flung my high heels off, and kicked her in her stomach with my right foot. As she stumbled backwards I hit her in her tits with a strike from my left elbow, then in the head with a right palm strike just under her chin. She was out before she hit the ground.

I felt someone grab me around the neck from behind. I acted instinctively thinking that it was another attacker rather than one of the guys on Greg's team trying to "break up" the fight. With lightning instinctive speed, doing what I had practiced dozens of times and used successfully in a tournament, I placed both of my hands on his hand and forearm, tucked my chin to the left, pressed my left shoulder into his chest, placed my left foot between our bodies, ducked my head under his arm, and wriggled free. Without even looking at who it was as soon as I wriggled free I immediately kneed him in the groin, and he went down writhing in pain. Only then did I realize that the guy was Jordan, one of the nicest guys on Greg's team and not a threat.

Apparently Greg thought that the mayhem was going to continue so he yelled "Stop Danika; there's no threat!" I noticed that he didn't try to grab me after seeing what had happened to Jordan.

I quickly regained my composure and snapped out of my defensive stance.

There was a lot of commotion. Fortunately one of the guys on the other team was an EMT and he attended to the unconscious bimbo. Two guys on Greg's team helped Jordan up. The looks on all of the spectators' faces were classic; a combination of awe, fear, and humor - at least that's what it appeared to me.

One of the guys on the other team gingerly approached me and chuckled "I thought that you were bigger than you look, Cris Cyborg," referring to maybe the top female MMA fighter in the world.

"Sorry to disappoint," I replied, with some levity, but my blood was still boiling from the encounters so I wasn't laughing.

"Geez, Danika," Greg said as he approached me, "I wasn't doing anything wrong."

"You and I have a different understanding of what's wrong, shithead," I snarled. "Putting your hands on a slut's ass is wrong when you're supposed to be exclusive with me." I then pushed my finger into his chest and continued "When you figure out what 'exclusive' should mean call me - but don't bother until then."

I noticed in the background that the EMT and two of the bimbo's friends had her on her feet and she looked dazed, but OK.

With that I turned, picked up my heels and without bothering to put them on stormed back to my car. The crowd split like I was Moses parting the Red Sea.

When I got to my apartment I called Jack - probably Greg's best friend on the team, and the only one whose number I had. "Hi Jack; congrats on your win," I started out.

"Thanks, Cyborg," he chuckled, apparently having overheard the comment from the guy on the other team.

"Funny, Jack; the reason for my call is that I need Jordan's phone number so that I can call him and apologize."

"You're in luck; he's here celebrating our win and unsuccessfully trying to explain his ass-kicking. I'll put him on," Jack replied.

Jordan came on a few seconds later; apparently Jack didn't tell him who it was. "Hello," was his stellar greeting.

"Hi Jordan; this is Danika. I want to apologize to you for kneeing you in the groin. I thought that it was someone attacking me and I just acted instinctively," I earnestly said.

"How can I forgive you; I'm scarred for life after having had my six foot two ass kicked by a five foot three girl," he laughed.

"I'm 5 3½, doofus," I chuckled.

We had a nice two minute conversation; he allowed how he never should have grabbed me, and I apologized again. As we were getting ready to sign off he said "Oh...Greg's here and he wants to talk to you," and then the phone went silent for a moment. I didn't wait for Greg to get on the line. I terminated the call. When my cell rang a minute later with "Greg" on the caller ID I let it go to voicemail.

****************

Greg did more begging in the next two weeks than he had done in the rest of his life combined up until that point. At first he tested out a "you didn't see what you thought you did" theory; he never actually said that, mind you - he just raised a few trial balloons, all of which I shot down. Then he floated out an "inadvertent" notion, then a "it didn't mean anything" theory, and when all trial balloons were shot down profusely apologized and promised no other incidents in the future.

I really did like the way Greg fucked, and he did seem really contrite, and I had seen a little increase in maturity since I met him, so I gave him another chance but with a "no other chances" mandate. He rewarded me by taking me away for a three day weekend to a four start resort during which time he did his very best to make sure that I was as sexually content as possible. Getting my pussy eaten three times a day, getting a good doggy fuck every day, and getting experimented with twice a day (including The Wheelbarrow, which I loved even though it wiped me out) was sexual nirvana.

I became happy enough with Greg so that within six months after "The Episode," as it was referred to by his teammates, he asked me to marry him and I accepted.

Growing up I never had a vision of a dream wedding with hundreds of people, $20,000 worth of flowers, and a horse drawn carriage. Instead I wanted it relatively simple and unusual. We had an "Ancient Greece" theme, even though neither of us had any Greek heritage. Greg dressed in a Greek God (Apollo) costume and me in a Greek Goddess (Athena, I wasn't vain enough to try Aphrodite) ensemble. The best man, Jack, and two groomsmen were dressed in Ancient Greek soldier outfits complete with swords and shields, while my maid of honor, Gloria, and two bridesmaids were dressed in Greek slave girl outfits with floral crowns. The ceremony was at the local country estate of a friend of Greg's father with a tent and portable dance floor set up in a large expanse of grass, and we had an awesome DJ. The total number of attendees was seventy four. I loved it!

Married life was great for two plus years. While then the sex and the fun of marriage didn't change, my view of Greg did. I don't like cheating in any form, and I found Greg cheating in two areas that were very important to him; money and football.

In money he cheated on his taxes. He got a substantial bonus at work in kind, and had a few shady part-time endeavors, and a few other schemes, that I wanted no part of. Therefore the second and third years we were married I insisted that we file separate tax returns. There was no way that I was going to sign the joint tax return he had prepared since there were missed income sources, and deductions that stunk; Greg made a good living and really didn't need to cheat to live comfortably. Therefore I used a CPA friend of Gloria's to do my taxes and filed separately.

In football he cheated by, as player coach, recruiting guys who lived outside of the County that we lived in. While for a pseudo national championship tournament the teams do not have any residency restrictions, for the top County league that his team played in the rule was only two non-county residents on a fourteen man roster. By fudging (a polite word for "falsifying") addresses Greg got eight ringers on his roster, some of whom were starters at football powerhouses like Ohio State, Texas, and LSU when they were in college. When I questioned him about the ethics of that he maintained that the rule was silly and that he needed to have top talent in order to compete in the pseudo national championship tournament after the league play was over. He insisted on proudly displaying his three past County league championship trophies in our living room, much to my chagrin.

The first year that Greg and I were married his football team did the best that they ever did. Not only did they go undefeated and win the County league championship but they won three games in the pseudo national championship (the reason that I call it "pseudo" is because there are only teams from 35 states and the District of Columbia and there is no true national adult flag football governing body). There was one reason for their enhanced success - their new quarterback, Brian Reynolds.

Brian Reynolds was the most valuable player for two years in the Ivy League. While many people don't give Ivy League football much credit, it has produced a number of excellent pros including Ryan Fitzpatrick who over his fourteen year (as of this writing) career in the NFL has more than 32,000 passing yards and 210 touchdowns. Brian Reynolds was behind only Jeff Kemp, Ryan Fitzpatrick, and the famous Sid Luckman, as the best quarterback in Ivy League history, and unlike the other three had no aspirations to play pro football. Instead got an MBA and was a rising star in the business world.

Brian was not only an accurate passer - in one flag game his only incompletion was a clear drop - but at 6 feet tall, 190 pounds, extremely shifty. Once he became quarterback of Greg's team they went from really, really good to great.

There is one other thing about Brian notable for this story. From his reaction when he first met me I instantly knew that he was one of the small percentage of guys who think that I'm as sultry as hell. Unlike Greg, however, Brian is all about honesty and ethics and he never made a play at me despite the fact that he surreptitiously ogled me whenever in my proximity, and at a team party his completely drunk date pointed her finger at me and said (slurs and mispronunciations removed) "How in the fuck can I have a chance roping Brian in when it's obvious that he's nuts about you, you bitch." In view of her state of inebriation instead of punching her lights out I just walked away.

Anyway, back to my issues with Greg:

Considering how easy cheating came to Greg as far as taxes and football were concerned, I guess that I shouldn't have been surprised that after we were married four years I began to suspect that he was cheating on me. It wasn't one specific thing that I could put my finger on, but I sensed it. He still had a magical mouth and cock in the bedroom, and we had basically in-sync high libidos, so I had no issue on the sex front. However, there were just too many suspicious things - including some Saturdays far removed from football season - when he had football-related "obligations" that didn't include me.

I had been contemplating hiring a PI, even though I would much rather have spent the money on productive things. Before I could decide on whether to do that, however, the issue became moot in such a cliché way that I'm almost embarrassed to relate it. I would rather have had to do something really inspired and get conclusive proof in a distinctive way.

**************

I had an out-of-town trip to a business seminar on a Wednesday and Thursday but I told Greg that I wouldn't be home until Friday night rather than my real Thursday early evening return I. Greg told me that he would be out Thursday until late so not to call him, or expect a call from him, until 10:00 p. m. or later. Therefore I was "surprised" (yeah, right) when I arrived home at 6:10 p. m. on Thursday and his car was in our apartment complex parking lot.

I quietly entered our apartment and heard voices coming from the guest bedroom.

"Come on Greg, honey, I let you have my ass. You said that the little bitch won't be back until tomorrow night, why can't I stay the night?"

"Because, Mona, I told you that I promised Julie that she could stay the night."

"Why do you have to fuck her too? I know that you have to fuck the little bitch to keep her happy, but how come I'm not enough for your extramarital sex?"

I had gotten a quick video on my cellphone by then and was ready for the next stage.

"Mona, you're really fun but..." was all Greg got out before I stepped into the room (now having hidden my cellphone) and interrupted the naked lovebirds with a booming "Because he's a cheating piece of shit who wants every pussy or ass he can get no matter of how smelly it is, bimbo."

That's right; the naked woman in our guest room bed was the bimbo that I had knocked unconscious several years ago. When she saw me she got the most frightened look on her face I've ever seen, clutched Greg's arm and moaned "Don't let her hurt me Greg."

Greg was stuttering some shit or another - but I wasn't listening to him. I was staring daggers at both of them. "Don't worry, skank," I continued directing my comments to - well, the skank - "I'm not going to kick the shit out of you. I am going to be really mean to you and leave his cheating ass to you and Julie."

With that, not shedding any tears even though I was sad that Greg cheated in everything and not just taxes and football, I walked to the master bedroom and took out a couple of suitcases and packed my most valuable possessions. I heard low voices in the guest room, and a few minutes later the front door open and close, and a minute after that Greg came into the master bedroom fully dressed. I ignored him. He put his hand on my arm and I turned viciously and hit him hard in a rib, breaking his hold. I then got into a Krav Maga defensive posture.

"Look asshole," I snarled, "I know that eventually you'll beat me but two things will happen if you touch me again. I'll inflict as much damage on you as anyone in your life has, and when I get out of the hospital I'll pursue assault charges against you with a vigor you've never seen before."

Despite his flaws Greg was no woman beater, and my words and response hurt him as much as if I'd kicked him in the groin. "I just want to talk, not fight," he said holding his arms out in a peace position. "I know that you're filet mignon but I need hamburger once in a while too; it doesn't have any effect on how I love you."

"Yeah, I could tell that by how you defended me the two times I heard the skank call me 'the little bitch.' Well this little bitch doesn't want to talk to you. All talking will be done to my lawyer. Now get the fuck out of my way before I go postal on you and you'll have to knock me out to prevent me from turning your testicles to mush," I shot back, not retreating from my defensive position.

"OK, OK," he mumbled as he backed out of the room.

Once I was packed I videoed the entire apartment. "What are you doing?" Greg asked from the kitchen.

"Making a record of all of our stuff in case it somehow disappears before our divorce," I snarled.