February Sucs - Linda's Choice

THIS IS A 3 PART SERIES. READ THE WHOLE THING BEFORE PASSING JUDGEMENT.

I KNOW YOU PEOPLE VOTE ON HOW THE WIFE GETS SLAGGED IN THE END.

BUT IT DOESN'T HAPPEN ON PART ONE.

This story is the property of the writer Kalimaxos and written by permission of

George Anderson

.

It is my version of his famous runaway story.

February sucks

While you don't have to read his to follow my version, I HIGHLY recommend it. Especially the lead-in.

This part is told from Linda's point of view.

I push boundaries and question everything and everyone in my stories. All my characters are flawed and have to deal with their own failings. Some rise above their shortcomings, while others do not. Their choices define them.

In my stories, nothing happens for "no good reason." To me, the real meat of the story is the before and the why.

Like real life, it's often a shitshow.

***

Now here is my premise and how it came about. I've been reading stories on LW for some time, then discussing some of them with the wife in conversation. In the case of the original February Sucks by GA (also by other authors previously), we have the seemingly perfect and content wife who jumps the shark and goes full-on slut. Just because the guy is a celebrity, and of course, he "would be" a stud. So how does this perfect, conservative wife turn into a cock jumping bimbo? What happened?

Well, I believe that no woman "just snaps" as if the Whoreona virus infected her because she didn't wear a mask. The wife just laughs at that and says, "why I always do social distancing and wear mine." (She thinks she is funny.)

But I regress. Let's go back to the mythical wife in these stories. Let's say she is real and not sniffing the airborn Whoreona Virus. She was either a slut all along, or something happened to change her. And that something is usually gradual and rarely instantaneous. Maybe something happened to change her. Or her reaction caught the clueless hubby by surprise. But there was a cause, a process, and she thought her response out.

So this is my version of the story. Which, while based on GA's narrative, is different in multiple details and aspects. You will get to meet Linda and Jim Johnson from Linda's point of view. Up to that fateful evening at the nightclub when Mark LaValierre asks Linda to dance.

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Fuck Machine. Early December 2007

"Fuck me! Stick it in!"

I was on my knees on the bed as he stood on the floor behind me, holding me in place. Lining up his thick head with my now wet cunt, he rammed it in me with no hesitation. Used to his girth, my pussy did not resist, taking all of him in one thrust. The force of his thrust traveling up my spine as well as deep within me.

But it hadn't been that way at first. Gone were the gentle slow entries and gradual insertion of his length in successive strokes. He now took me as he wanted. Fast and hard. I didn't come to be with him for gentle sex.

"Do it... fuck... aw..."

As he pumped me, I felt the wetness dripping from my stretched pussy, leaving a frothy white ring around his base. The scent of me, of a woman in heat, filled the room. So do the sounds of his body slamming on mine. His strong large hands were holding my hips as he pulled me on it.

IT!

That large thick pole of a cock that made me return to him these last two weeks. A pulsing broad muscle that has used and pleasured many women before me. And just like with them, he used me to his contentment. Prodding my insides and grinding over my cervix. Plunging into my depths, he rocked my entire pelvis with a near seismic thump. Repetitive, steady, mechanical, invasive, and imposing.

"Oh... so big!" I gasp.

And it is the biggest I ever had.

"Yes, it is Baby Girl," he chuckles as he continues to service me. "It's what you come to me for, isn't it?"

I feel, as well as hear the slaps of his thighs on my ass while he pile drives me to submission and wild abandon. My tits rock back and forth; nipples burning. My entire abdomen on fire.

"Tell me," he persists.

He always makes me say it.

"Yes, I need it... I need that dick... fuck me hard... like that..."

"I own this married pussy, don't I?" he boasts as he continues fucking me.

I say nothing as I enjoy what he does. But inwardly, I know that all I come to him for is his cock and what he does to me with it. When we are done, I will take a shower and go back to my family. And he will be but a memory. Until next time.

"Yes, you own it... take it... " I say in a fit of erotic abandon.

I tell him what he wants to hear so he can give me what I want to feel. So he can fuck me as I wish, rocking my world.

There... I feel the first of many orgasms approaching. Oh yes...

"Oh, Gawd!... Aw!... fuck... yes... aw!"

As I cum, he continues thrusting inside me at the same pace. He is at his physical peak. His body a perfect athletic specimen. To me, he is a fuck machine. The way he is going in and out, I will be cumming again in a couple of minutes. Maybe less. And just like I have times before, I stop thinking and let him use me. Or I use him.

I get the fucking of my life, and he gets his rocks off knowing he fucked another man's wife. It's a symbiotic relationship. We both get what we want.

He flips me over on my back and spreads my legs. My ass is on the edge of the bed as he pushes that huge cock back inside me.

I gasp...

In retrospect

It is years later since my life changed, but it could have happened yesterday. Every detail of it burned in my mind. Every word said. Every gaze, smell, sound, and touch. Every bit of the pain and fear, guilt, and remorse. Somethings in life are like that. Not when they happen. Not at first anyway.

I remember that Jerasic part movie. I think it was number II when the Jeff Goldbloom character is talking about dinosaurs.

"Oh, yeah. Oooh, ahhh, that's how it always starts. Then later there's running and screaming."

Well, that was what happened to me.

Life has not been bad. I am now a successful fitness and eveningwear model. Who knew that the girl next door/tomboy would do that... after turning thirty and having two children. But then stranger things have happened. I am also in charge of four B-Fit locations in my area. And about to move up the corporate ladder to Midwest Region Manager.

Professionally, I am doing quite well. Physically, I look better than most women my age. Living and promoting the B-Fit lifestyle has kept me fit enough for the modeling I do on the side. A healthy diet, no smoking, rare drinking, daily exercise, and at least eight hours of sleep a day. OK, you get the picture, and you can join one of our locations for more.

I wasn't always this person. But life can sometimes take strange paths to changes. Paths... that often have a price.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Linda Reed-Johnson. Mother of Emma and Tommy. They are twenty and eighteen these days, but they were five and four when it all started. November 26, 2007, to be exact.

Emma would turn six that school year and begin first-grade next fall. We had them in a kindergarten certified daycare center that cost us a fortune. But it was close and accredited with our school district. Lord, I just had a young-child-mom flashback!

Funny how we never know that our life is about to change one way or another on that fateful day it does. It was no different for me. Just days before my husband Jim's birthday, and right after Thanksgiving weekend. How ironic.

Just days before, our family had the annual holiday gathering at our house. We had my parents over and our friends Jane and Phil Nesman; our good friends. Well... they are better friends with my friend Dee and her husband Dave, but Dave was overseas on business, and Dee was surprisingly unavailable. Usually, she invited the Nesmans over for Thanksgiving, as they have no family in town and could not afford to travel back to Alaska. Life right? But no, Dee. I wondered where she was as I had planned to invite her as well.

Any way... we had dinner and said our thanks. Jim and I were thankful for our jobs, family, friends, children, but most of all, each other. You know, the usual stuff people say on Thanksgiving. Things we are expected to say.

The next day, my mother and I went shopping at the mall. You younger people may not know what a mall is. Many such places have either disappeared or are empty buildings waiting for the wrecking ball these days. But back in 2007, before Amazon, Google, and e-bay wiped out brick and mortar shopping establishments, we did our shopping at stores at these mall buildings.

We women used to dress up and make a day of it. Finding parking was near impossible at our closest and most posh mall on Black Friday back then. And the crowds and lines! You won't believe how many people had fights outside stores and inside as well. That was mainly Wallmart. But by then, Jim and I made enough money not to have to shop there much.

Call me a snob, but I started shopping at Walmart during college, and after when Jim and I first got married. The place was not beneath me. I still went there for some things we needed. But how some people behaved and dressed there was.

After all, I grew up on Wendy's, not the posh restaurants I go to now with clients. Hey, I'm not knocking the place. My brother and I worked there during high school; also during my first two years of college. It was where I took Jim when we first met, and he was short on money. But by 2007, Wendy's was an occasional "remember when" meal for us and a treat for the kids.

By that point in our life, going with mom to the mall turned into shopping at the name-brand corner stores, including Nordstroms and Sax. In between, we hit a few boutiques and mom's favorite shoe store. Mother kept making jokes about some lady called Emolda or Esperalda, something Marcos and her shoes, but that was before my time, and I just nodded along as if I knew who this Marcos woman was. Or what she had to do with shoes. Then we went to, where else but Delmonico's for lunch. No Wendy's or Walmart at that mall.

It is where all women on our side of town went after shopping to show off their outfits. It's a good thing mom knew the owner and reserved a table, or else we would still have been standing outside that Christmas Eve waiting to be seated. One thing led to another, and mom had a bit much to drink. She explained the whole Marcos woman and shoes thing and had me in stitches with that and other stories. I love mom.

Distracted by the special mother/daughter time we had, I forgot to get presents for my husband Jim's birthday as I had planned to do. After driving mom home and making sure dad walked her in, I had to get back home where Jim had been watching the kids with Phil. More like watching football than the kids, that is. But then... men.

It's why on Monday morning, the 26th, after getting Jim off to work, I took the kids to daycare only to find the place had a small fire over the weekend. It was closed for cleanup. Great! Calling my boss, I asked for a day off after telling him. He was nice enough to give it to me. I had fifteen days of vacation I had not taken, so he didn't mind. He hated us turning those days in for money at the end of the year. So... mom had the day off with the kids.

Then I remembered the gifts I had to get for Jim's birthday. So back to the house to get dressed up and go to the mall. Look. Even to this day, I will not wear trashy clothes to go shopping. Style had always been my way, even when I had to make the kids' and my own clothes for a time. These days, I can afford to dress better, and I do because I choose to. Class is a state of mind. You can be living in a trailer park and be classy.

Some of you may think I'm prissy and pretentious. But it's not that at all. I was never the beauty queen or poster girl. Yes, I was athletic in high-school. I played soccer, volleyball, field hockey, and I even gave cheerleading a try for two years. Girl jock of sorts, you could say; semi tomboy type. The cheerleading attempt was to salvage my social reputation and hopefully land a date with the popular guys.

It's a miracle I made the squad. The girl that beat me contracted mono, and I was the backup as a junior. At least I didn't have to suffer that indignity senior year. But you get the picture. Highschool Linda was cute and fun. But let's face it. None of the popular guys, jocks, or pretty boys ever asked the girl working Wendy's on weekends out. I learned my place and carried that with me for years to come.

Those days were a decade and more in the past, back in 2007, but they had formed my self-image. Older, smarter, fit, and shapely, but not one of the stunning types at the top tier of womanhood. And we women indeed take measure of each other by that scale. And harshly at that. What is worse, we judge ourselves harsher than other women.

And that is what I thought as I dressed the kids and put on a green off the shoulder blouse with white circle designs. Complemented by tight fitted jeans and black mid-thigh heeled boots, they made Mommy looked good! At least I thought so as I fixed my then wavy blond and highlighted hair. Yes, I was blond then as I am again now. But that story is for later.

"OK, kids," I said joyfully. "We got dressed up. Now let's go to the mall!"

"Yeah!" they both yelled and jumped up and down.

And off we went to my and their destiny.

The Mall

The mall was not as packed with shoppers as it had been that Black Friday. Still, it was busy of sorts with the coming holidays. Dragging the kids around didn't help much either. Now don't get huffy with me. I love my babies, but ever try to shop at a busy mall with two little ones in tow? Yeah, now you remember. Those that never had the "privilege" take my word for it. It's tiring and stressful. You can't let them out of your sight for a minute. Pervs go shopping for kids at malls, and they target busy moms. But not me. I made sure of that as the stress mounted.

After a couple of hours, I had to go to the bathroom, and so did the munchkins. My boy was coming with me. With him being four, it was easy to take him into the ladies room. I wondered how long it would be before he refused to go "in there" with mom.

And then it happened.

Just as we were going in, I saw this dad with a little boy and girl by the men's room. She looked around my daughter's age and was not happy with her father. I could only see him from the back. He had muscular legs, thick dark hair, and yes a tight ass in tight jeans. I made out broad shoulders, but I couldn't make much else as he was trying to convince his daughter that she had to go with him.

"Sorry, Kelly, but I'm not leaving you out here alone," he replied to her pleading.

"No, Dad, I have to go too. Let me go to the girl's room."

I felt sorry for him. But to be honest, the look of indignity in the little girl's face reminded me of being that young. One of my earliest rights of passage to womanhood was going to the ladies room alone. But I understood her father's concerns about cutting a cute young girl loose in a crowded mall. So... I hesitated for a second and stepped in.

"Maybe I can help?" I asked, getting their attention.

The father turned, and my heart skipped a beat. His piercing dark eyes locked with mine, and it was all I could do to concentrate and speak. The man oozed sensuality. Smiling politely, I reached in my wallet. Taking out my business card, I offered it to him.

"I can take your daughter in the ladies room. That's my contact information. You and your boy will probably be finished before we girls are anyway. Right?"

I saw hesitation on his face as he looked first at me and then his daughter, who was hopping from leg to leg.

"Dad... I have to go!" she said, looking up at him, almost begging and hopping from foot to foot.

"OK," he replied reluctantly. "Kelly, go with the nice lady..."

He looked at my card.

"Go with Ms. Johnson... and be nice in there and behave."

"Gee, Dad, I'm only going to pee," the poor girl said and bolted for the ladies room.

"I better go in," I said, looking back at him as he smiled hesitantly at our situation.

"Can I go to the boys' room?" Tommy asked.

"NO!" I said as I dragged him away. "You're too little."

The last I heard was the gorgeous dad laughing as he took his boy in the men's room.

His little girl was already in one of the stalls as I took my brood to the last open one.

"Kelly, when you are done, please wait for us," I called to her. "Don't run out, OK?"

"Sure," she replied with the tone of a little adult.

I practically had to hop from foot to foot myself waiting for my kids to pee. I also had to clean the seat for my daughter as Tommy peed on it. You know, little boys. By the time Emma was finished peeing herself, I almost wet my pants after waiting so long. Oh yeah, the joys of motherhood shopping with little kids.

"Mommy is peeing," Tommy giggled as he faced the stall wall.

An adult woman and the little Kelly girl giggled from the other stalls.

"Mommy, will my wee-wee get big like daddy's?" Tommy blurted out.

I about died from embarrassment as the women outside burst out laughing. But I was more embarrassed that little Kelly would hear and tell her dad. Wiping and pulling my jeans up, I flushed and went out to face the shame. A woman by the mirrors gave me a smile in the reflection as another eagerly ignored me and took our stall. Thankfully, little Kelly was waiting patiently with her back on the wall.

'Good kid,'

I thought.

'Now keep your mouth shut.'

Washing my hands, then my kids', I called Kelly over and had her wash her hands too. She surprisingly let me.

"My mom usually comes with us," she said as if nothing phased her.

"What does your mom do?" I asked.

"She's a model," Kelly replied. "She is at a photo shoot."

She said that like a child who thought all moms did that.

"Oh... that's nice," I replied.

It figured. Mr. Perfect teeth, body, and face WOULD be married to a model. And looking a the near-perfect lines on Kelly's face, I believed her.

"OK, everyone," I said to the pack. "Let's go."

Outside, stud-dad was waiting for us holding his boy's hand. He smiled when he saw us, and I swear I think I got wet just from that. He had his jacket off on one arm and wore a sweatshirt with a number and team colors of the local football team. Great! A jock fan, I thought. Number 22! The number was somewhat familiar, but I could not place it.

"Thank you so much," he said with a smile. Such a simple phrase that meant a little more than that the way he said it. "My name is Mark. Mark LaValliere."

Then he turned so I could see his name emblazoned on his sweatshirt. Yup, number 22 himself. Mark LaValliere! The tight-end idol of most male sports fans in our town, including my husband and his four guy friends. Also, the heart-throb of most women in our city. I have to say; he was making mine race just then.

"Nice to meet you," I said and raised my hand when he offered his.

I was surprised that it was soft, and his touch was gentle. Even though my hand eclipsed in his substantially larger one, he made me comfortable with his gaze. There was a certain warmth and more as we touched. And maybe we held the handshake a bit longer than expected as our eyes locked again. Yet not as much to cause the kids to notice. My daughter Emma and Kelly were busy getting to know one another, and so were our boys Tommy and little Robbie. Letting go, we smiled nervously again.