This is an entry into Literotica's
Valentine's Day Story Contest 2024
.
February is upon us, and we have a 29th this year. What does that remind us of? That's right, the belated Valentine's Day party saga of the Carlisles. Did you also forget their last name? For the ones tempted to roll their eyes and say, "Oh no, not another one!" good news: you're forewarned, and Literotica has several thousand other great stories to read. Go, enjoy!
Once more, a tip of the hat to GeorgeAnderson for his February Sucks story (https://www.literotica.com/s/February-sucks) and blanket permission to add on to it. As most people know, this is arguably the most "added to" story on the entire site, probably because of the provocative trigger - the blatant disrespect by the wife. Oh, and the reconciliation ending, too.
Several commenters on several of these Febsux add-ons scoff that no wife would do that, which made me go back to the original, and the author's explanation of what triggered it. You can find my summary in a previous story (https://literotica.com/s/february-sucks-lindas-welcome). No sense repeating it. What that means is any comment along the lines of 'no woman would ever do that' will be deleted, because as GA documented, some claim they will. Why? Other than selfish hubris, who knows? They didn't say.
So, here's another way that provocative story could have played out. It inevitably will contain ideas from the myriad other endings. A tip of the hat to those authors, too. But hopefully the way they are combined here makes for something original, and enjoyable.
This story starts the night after Linda had left Jim.
I came to, as it were, when I saw nothing but darkness around me, only the road sign saying 'Freudenburg 30 miles ahead.' How had I gotten here? All I remember was the shock of learning Linda had abandoned me in a cruel and cowardly fashion to go screw the arrogant piece of shit football player in his home, no doubt a massive mansion to reflect his equally massive member. Used without a condom, the way I know arrogant assholes like him do.
Some Valentine's Day celebration.
By the time I gathered my thoughts, the 25 mile marker flashed by. What the hell, I may just go bed down there for the night, or what was left of it.
Motel 6
was the first sign I saw and, as promised, they'd left the light on for me.
I dropped the bag we'd packed for the hotel on my room floor and collapsed on the bed.
Next thing I knew was a surprised gasp. "I'm sorry. I knocked and there was no answer." The housekeeping lady backed out when I told her she should come back in an hour. I'd been so out of it, I hadn't even heard her knocking or calling out the usual "Housekeeping!" warning.
After a shower and fresh clothes I'd packed for our drive home from the other hotel, I hit the closest diner for a greasy breakfast. While waiting for the server and then the meal, I turned on my phone to scroll through the messages and voicemails. That took but a second or two, because... there were none. Nobody knew or cared where I was or what had happened to me. Everyone had their lives to live and this was the weekend. And the bitch was probably having a morning round of sexual ecstasy with her new stud, with no thought of her loser husband of ten years, or her kids.
The people who did know what happened probably assumed I'd slunk home with my tail between my legs, waiting for the great football god to fully empty his balls into his cum receptacle
du jour
and dump her on our driveway when done. Like they said, I'd get over myself and survive. After all, it was only one night, right? Which she deserved, because wasn't she chosen by the great football god of the city? I'd be fine, no need to check.
Except I wasn't fine. After breakfast I went to a Walmart Supercenter, bought a few changes of clothes, and returned to the motel to extend my stay for a few more nights.
Back in my room, I opened my laptop and caught up with what was happening in the rest of the world. Not much, as I quickly discovered. Not knowing what else to do, I surfed social media. Not much there, either. Should I shame Linda on her Facebook page?
Before deciding, I Googled the asshole she was probably giving a goodbye fuck to even as I surfed. Below the Google entries sponsored by the league, the team and the charities he supported, I came across an odd post. Someone evidently had videoed Asshole LaValliere from the moment he arrived at Morrison's last night. Who would do that, and why? According to the narrator, he wanted to see which married woman the arrogant prick would select for himself last night to cuckold the next hapless husband. This apparently was not the first time the stud had done this, and this poster knew, because the moment Linda left to go to the bathroom, the videographer got up and went to the side entrance. Asshole's teammates didn't suspect he was on to the plot, so they didn't harass him.
His video captured Asshole starting his Escalade, which he had illegally parked in a handicap parking spot. Football gods apparently don't get ticketed for arrogances like that. Then he pulled it to the side entrance and waited until Linda, with a broad smile on her face, got in and landed a long, fat kiss on her hero's lips. After cleaning her tonsils for a minute or five, he put his monster SUV in gear and took off. King of the world.
As the noise died down, the Google poster's soft narrating voice spoke clearly, "And that is exactly how he ended my marriage a week ago. And everyone thinks this asshole is a hero. When is someone going to expose him?"
After downloading the video as proof for my inevitable divorce, I watched it a few more times through my teary eyes. Finally, I unclenched my fist and messaged the guy.
I'm the husband. Do you have any other videos of him pulling stunts like this?
After waiting a few minutes and not getting any reply, I lay back down and sank beneath the waves of fatigue and depression.
--
A ringing phone awoke me. Linda. "Hi Jim, I'm back. Where are you?"
"Gone. I moved out after you left me."
"What? I didn't leave you. I'm standing in our kitchen. Where are the kids?"
"You most definitely left me, you cruel coward cunt," I snarled.
She gasped. I'd never spoken to her like that in all the twelve years we'd known each other. I was on a roll, though. "Without even a word. You just lied to me about going to the bathroom and walked out to go fuck a football player. If that's not leaving me, I don't know what is."
"I didn't leave you. Dee told you I'd be back today and here I am. Do you have the kids with you?"
"No, I figured when you eventually return to the planet the rest of us live on, you'll start realizing you still have responsibilities and fetch them."
"What, you just left them with Mrs. Porter?"
"Well, yeah. I figured you knew how to deal with that, being the new expert at absentee parenting and all."
"Jim, stop it. I told you I never left you. I'm in our house and you're not."
"Damn straight I'm not. I'll never set foot in the same building as you again, ever, you slimy bitch."
If I thought I'd spark some guilt in her, I had another think coming. "Oh, get over yourself and stop overreacting. It was only one night."
"Sorry, honey, I must have missed that part. When you were so adamant about how you'd bust my balls if I ever stepped out on you, even for one night, I missed the part that said you'd be off the hook if
you
did it for one night with a celebrity."
