Her 64

She was on her knees.

Again.

This time she is sobbing. In fact, the last time was nothing like this time, except both times she was on her knees, that part is the same. Ok, both times she has been naked, too.

True, this time, Chad was making a whole set of different noises. He is soft; my one good shot to his gut had all my rage packed in it...and he is down on the floor, struggling to breathe, crawling away from me. I push the call button on the phone.

"911. What is your emergency? Do you need fire, medical or police services?"

"I need police! I'm at my home and some guy is trying to kill me! He has my shotgun! HELP! Send the cops now!"

I dropped her phone on the floor, you could hear the 911 dispatcher calling out to me from the phone's speaker.

I racked my 12 gauge, and yelled out, "OH GOD DON'T SHOOT ME!!"

Then I stomped my boot's heel down on the phone, hard. It went dark.

As I walked past her, she grabbed my leg. I dragged her along with me. She was sobbing, begging me through her tears, "Ppplllllessee, no no, oh god, please!"

Step, drag, step, drag, I started going around the bed. Step, drag, step, drag. I shook my leg, dislodging her. She slumped to the floor, defeated, her sobs broken by her moaning. She sounded like an old coon dog whose leg was caught in a trap.

I shoved my 12 gauge at him, I'm holding the barrel in my hand. I saw him realize hope. I smiled as he grabbed, desperately, at the shotgun. He grabbed the stock, his finger on the trigger, I pulled the gun toward me pushing the barrel to my left, pulling the gun in his hands, forcing his finger to pull the trigger. I felt the bite of a couple of pellets of shot grazing my upper left arm.

I feel and smell the barrel scalding my hands; I then used my favorite 12 gauge as a club, and went to town. After the third whack to his head, he was out. I kicked his legs apart and used my 12 gauge like a 3 wood.

I turn back towards her. She is breathing hard, her screams have stopped. Her eyes are large. She is in shock. Fear is etched on her face.

We look each other in the eyes. I toss the gun across the room as I hear my front door break open.

I hold up my right arm. My left sleeve is bloody.

"POLICE POLICE POLICE" they shout, as they enter the bedroom, guns drawn.

I shout out, "I called you! He tried to kill me!" I pointed to the unconscious Chad on the floor.

She didn't refute my statement.

He couldn't refute my statement.

——————————-

The EMTs were wrapping my arm with gauze and slathering ointment on my scalded hands. The cops were trying to piece it together. We are in my living room. I can see the media gathering on my front lawn.

It was question and answer time. I was in my house. It was my gun, in my bedroom. My story was holding up well. The physical evidence backs up my story of him finding my gun and him trying to kill me with it. Me charging and grabbing the barrel of my shot gun. The 911 operator's tape seems to back me up.

There really wasn't any reason for me to go to the hospital.

Chad was a different story; he did have reason to go to the hospital. She, they decided, didn't need a hospital visit. However, as an accomplice to attempted murder, she was going downtown. The cops took her in for booking.

"Ok, Mr. Smith, I think we have everything we need for tonight. You gave all your contact information to the officers?" asked the Detective, looking up from his notebook.

"Yes, sir," I said with a tired voice. The adrenaline rush was long gone and I was beat. It had been a tough night.

"We will be finished up soon. We need you to stay out of the bedroom tonight."

I shook my head, "That's not a problem; no way I am staying here. I guess I'll get a hotel room for the night."

"Ok, we will secure the house when we are done." He handed me his card.

———————————-

A while ago

I knew there was a problem. I didn't have a clue what the problem was. Shit just wasn't right. Nothing I could put my finger on, but...

So, my antennas were up. I just watched.

Little by little I was able to eliminate cause after possible cause, until I was left with an unmistakable sense my problem involved her. In fact, it was the little things she was doing that gave me clues. Her reactions were telling.

At least now I know where to turn my attentions.

—————————

About a month ago

She was pretty good at leaving no trace. Nothing hidden. No odd calls. No texts to follow up on. However, when I started to really pay attention, a whole hell of a lot of things became plain as day. Her reactions were very enlightening.

She was spending more and more time with Samantha. Mutual friends had introduced us to Samantha and her husband, Maurice about a year or so ago.

Maurice was pretty quiet and somewhat effeminate. He did have a wicked sense of self-deprecating humor. So, at least when we got together, he kept me laughing. We weren't buds, but I could do dinner or a backyard barbecue with them.

Personally, I wasn't impressed by Samantha. She was bossy and dismissive to Maurice. But who am I to say anything about someone else's relationship? None of my business. Samantha also tended to talk down at me too. That I didn't like. I called her on it quite a few times; Samantha was stubborn, I'll give her that.

She and Samantha hit it off. Every time we got together the girls would go all Chatty Cathy on us. Eventually instead of couples getting together for dinner now and then, she and Samantha would do lunches or a girls' night out every week or so.

———————————-

Three weeks ago

I got some bugs. One for her car. 4 for her purses. She had a lot more than 4 purses mind you, so I targeted the ones she used most often. They were very small and digital with a radio transmitter. They kinda looked like a couple of stick pins that were glued together. They were easy to hide.

I was listening to yesterday's lunch. They were at Samantha's house. Samantha kept going on and on about her bull. Samantha had one and wanted to share him with her. It took me a bit to figure out what they were talking about. Oh man, was I pissed when I figured that bit out. Just on the weight of their little chat I realized she had and would continue to betray me. I am listening to them planning the destruction of our wedding vows, which were as yet, still, apparently, intact. But those bitches were drawing a bead on them.

Now, I've lived with this woman for more than half my life. As I listened to them chat away, I was realizing I didn't know her at all. It seems Samantha got off on humiliating Maurice. They were planning to do that to me. I just couldn't understand how she could be that cruel to me. I listened to them chatting away as Maurice serviced them.

You could hear the sexual excitement in her voice.

I sat at my desk, frankly, in shock. I must have just zoned out. I realized I was in great need of time and space away from my wife. No way did I have it in me not to cancel the bitch on sight. After I puked into in my office trash can, I had my assistant call her and tell her I had to go out of town

My assistant said she'd pack my bag before she left for lunch (with Samantha) so I could swing by on my way to the airport.

———————————-

Two weeks ago

It has been hard for the last week. I have thought and thought about this whole mess. How could she even imagine I would put up with this shit is beyond me. And that bitch, Samantha, was up to her eyeball in it. Yet, she professed her love for me in every conversation with Samantha. I mean, what the fuck? Her head was so very fucked up. I had to consider. Did she have a medical issue?

But even if it turned out there was, they were coming for me. I had to protect myself.

Just charging in would get people killed and me doing too long a stretch in The Big House. Hell, in this state, I would be lucky if I didn't get the needle. So, that wasn't going to be my path. No, I needed to permanently remove the threat. I knew this would get bloody.

Now, she likes the world that my hard work built for us. She likes the Country Club membership. She likes being in that social circle. She likes having money. She likes having everyone think she is miss wonderful. I have lived with her for 25 years. I do know how she actually operates.

I have had to work hard at being a clueless fool while around her. My anger at her has helped me keep my cool. I will unleash hell on her. In actions, it's all about timing. It isn't quite time, yet.

I used her computer to buy another $2 million in life insurance on me, double indemnity for being a crime victim or accidental death, naming her as sole beneficiary.

———————————-

Last week

Apparently, her bull is named Chad Culus. I got to knowing all I could about Chad.

A Stanford grad with an MBA from Wharton. A rich Daddy. In politics. He was going places. It was pretty clear he was entirely entitled.

He wasn't married, never had been. Engaged a few times, at least, according to the society pages at Backdoor.com. I looked at a number of pictures of him, watched a couple of his rallies.

So, he was in politics...hummmm. I got to thinking.

What was that old sayin'? Any publicity is good publicity. I wondered, if that was true.

———————————-

This week

You could sense things were coming to a head. She was tense and keyed up. We were fucking like rabbits. She had a hair trigger. I lost count of how many times she came before I busted a nut in her.

Thanks to her purses I was pretty well up to speed. I was spending much of my time in a slow simmering rage. From what I can figure, ol' Chad had Samantha and perhaps two other women that he was a bull "for". All married. The Country Club was his happy hunting ground. Seems everyone was also on the funding committee for Chad's re-election.

I also learned that Chad was planning a foursome next week at Samantha's house. I found and hired a very desperate despicable character. He broke in and wired up Samantha's house. I paid cash. He was in a hurry to leave town, as he was heading overseas. It was a win-win situation.

———————————-

Monday

She is climbing the walls. She is racked by guilt, and yet her pussy is dripping with anticipation. She damned near fucked Bob to death while obsessively fantasizing about getting fucked by Chad and having her husband clean up her pussy, joining Chad's harem; and she came and she came and she came.

Tuesday

I now have videos of Chad with the three women. Maurice and one of the other woman's husband were there as sissy maids. They fluffed Chad's cock and cleaned up the pussies and asses. The video and audio recording were amazing. It was like you were right there in the room with them. The verbal abuse the sissy maids took was over the top. Humiliation of the men got everyone off. Their cock cages were brutally tight. There were toys. Overly large strap-ons. There was a lot racy speech. Lots of bragging about how great he is. Chad is quite the talker. He loved playing ringmaster.

There were a lot of names dropped by Chad. Bragging about corporate jets and how he would be King. How Samantha should strap on the extra-large "nigger dick" dildo and fuck Maurice's ass and "fuck the white outta him! Ha ha ha!" Chad fucking the sissy maids in the ass. There were lots of drugs.

It was all very sick and perverted.

The cameras caught it all.

Tonight

She is nervous. She had broken a plate in the kitchen. I knew she was planning on having The Talk with me tonight. Chad was coming over, and they were going to explain things to me. Chad was 32. He had been a jock, he worked out. He wasn't even worried about an almost 50-year-old out-of-shape, overweight husband

He actually was looking forward to fucking with me more than fucking my dumb-shit wife. All I can say about her head is she simply must have lost her mind. I knew it wasn't blackmail. Samantha's tales of sex with Chad were a Siren's song to her, I guess.

I'm as ready as I can be. Let the games begin.

Kickoff is at 8 p.m. tonight. They planned to put me in a box. There was the divorce that would ruin me. They were happy to blackmail me over made-up shit. Tie me in legal knots. There was also the political pressure Chad would bring down on me. Even threats of cops and the tax man being up my ass full time. Physical intimidation was on the list; and if all that failed, they were just going to take what they wanted and fuck me over anyway, figuring I was just a wimp.

I hear Chad opened my front door. I'm sitting in my living room drinking a beer with the game on. I headed out the back door.

It was kinda fun hanging out in the backyard watching them searching all over the house for me. Chad was pissed. They finally gave up on me. That's when they headed upstairs to MY bedroom.

I gave them a couple of minutes, finished my beer, then I creeped back in the house. I had set my shotgun just inside the garage door; I grabbed it and headed upstairs.

———————————-

The next morning

I awoke in a strange bed. My arm hurt. The shock and drugs had worn off. My hands hurt, too. Everything flooded back. My rage returned. It energized me. I flipped on the TV.

It didn't take long to find breaking news stories about Chad. Hospitalized, under arrest for attempted murder. Lots of early spin from Chad's office. Fake News! It was a set up. Blah blah blah. Tellingly, no one in his political party was saying a damned thing. When asked by the media about it, they were all dodge duck weave.

I went to the bathroom, removed the dressing from my hands and arm and jumped into the shower.

———————————-

The caller ID matched the detective's number from his card, so I knew it wasn't an auto warranty call.

"Hello," I said.

"Mr. Smith, this is detective Green."

"Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?"

"Would it be possible for you to come down and chat with us this afternoon?"

"Sure. I don't think I am in any shape to go to work today."

"2 o'clock work for you?"

"Ok, I can do that. See you then, Detective."

———————————-

"Thanks for coming in, Mr. Smith," said The Lead Detective

"Sure, no problem. I'm still pretty rattled by things. I hope you have some answers for me. None of this makes any sense to me," I said, with resignation in my voice.

"How do you know Chad Culus?"

"I don't know him, except seeing him being a stupid loud mouth on the News."

"Why do you think he was attacking you?" asked the Detective.

"Apparently he was fucking my wife. I didn't even know he was in the house before I walked in on them in my bedroom."

"What happened?"

"I heard his voice when I came in from the back yard. I followed the sound of his voice up to my bedroom. They were both naked, and he had my shotgun next to him while she was on her knees giving him head. I had grabbed my wife's phone and already dialed 911. He started yelling at me, picked up the gun and started waving it at me. I hit the call button. That's when he pointed my gun right at my face, I charged him. I caught him off guard. I grabbed the barrel and pushed it aside. Honestly, it all happened so fast, but that's the best I can recall."

I stopped and rubbed my arm.

I continued, "I think it actually shocked him when he missed me. I held on to the barrel and pulled it out of his hands and used it on him until he stopped coming at me."

"You had to rupture his nuts to stop him?" asked the detective, smirking.

"No, he was out; that was for me. I just couldn't help it. But I only hit him once."

That little truth resonated with the Detective. He could see himself extracting a little revenge, in the same circumstances. It humanized Bob to the Cop. The Cop saw Bob as one of the good guys, and swallowed all of Bob's lies.

Though the Detective was good, subconsciously he bought Bob's storyline. As he investigated, his natural confirmation bias gave more weight to the things that backed up Bob's story.

The Next Week

Chad's allies finally started circling the wagons. Chad's Dad had to pull out the big bucks and started spreading it around. Suddenly lots of talking heads were wagging their tongues on TV. It was a setup. The other tribe clearly was the problem. And Antifa. And BLM. The Socialists. They started to say there was no gun, there was no husband, no wife, there wasn't a house, hell the town wasn't real! Then the talking heads went after Bob. He was the problem. He WAS the issue! Look, when Bob was 17, he was busted with a joint! Drug dealer! And a Libtard! IT'S ALL FAKE NEWS!! IT NEVER HAPPENED!! The talking heads were losing their minds.

Members of Chad's political party started to poke their heads up like prairie dogs. They looked around trying to gauge which way the winds were blowing. Lots of fingers in the air.

She was still in lock up.

The media show was at full steam ahead on the bail hearings. Chad's hearing was scheduled for Thursday at 11:00 am. Wednesday morning, media supporting Chad's tribe was in full lather. The other side was having a field day. The ratings soared.

By noon the claims and bloviation had reached a fever pitch. It was getting more and more heated. By the start of the 7 p.m. shows, pitchforks were being passed out and torches were getting lit. Chad was held up by some as being righteous. In fact, several faith leaders no one had ever heard of before were asked grave and serious questions on air.

Thursday 8 a.m.

Inboxes at several media news departments received e-mail. The e-mails had a link. Media has sandboxes for such e-mails.

The link takes them to a website with all 6 hours of Chad's night with his harem and sissy maids. There was footage from several camera angles.

The website had a few juicy bits in separate links in case folks wanted to go right to some juicy bits.

At 8:10 a.m. the links started to show up around the web. More emails are sent to political contributors and corporate sponsors. The Wall Street Journal first reported the story.

The talking heads stuck their heads in the sand.

By 10 a.m. Chad's political director, campaign manager and director of campaign funding announced their resignations.

A tsunami of really ugly shit was headed Chad's way.

Needless to say, Chad didn't get bail.

The Country Club Harem, as the media was calling the three wives, were in a panic. The media was brutal on the sissy maids, but they didn't hold a candle to the memes that flooded social media. The scandal rocked the Country Club to its wealthy Foundation. The media spotlight was pretty brutal. The stories of rich excess and poor behavior burned their way across high society. There were many pots calling kettles black. Many members closed up their houses and flew away to some other property they owned.

Chad's whole world was now a shit show. He was alone. Talk about rats deserting a sinking ship. Everyone even remotely entangled with Chad had gone 'every man for himself' in the mad dash to escape the blast radius. Even his Dad was walking away. His son was a toxic mess.

There were several investigations of Chad announced.

———————————-

She was wearing orange (it really wasn't her color) and in chains, sitting at the table in the interrogation room. She hadn't spoken since that night. She looked sad and pathetic. Her kids hadn't called or written. Nor had her folks. She just sat in her cell. She could hear the TV in the main area from her cell. Once the inmates and the guards figured out who she was they turned it to a 24-hour all-political news channel. The folks on the TV had no shame.

Her court appointed lawyer was with her. The DA came himself to give her the plea deal. When she first looked into the DA's eyes it shocked her. His eyes were that of a predator. She was only important as she related to her usefulness to him. The DA was from the other political tribe. Chad's shit show was a godsend for the DA. He was going use it for all it was worth.