Her Blue Dodge Minivan

[Author's note: This story is inspired in part by an incident from one of the many terrific stories by Harddaysknight. I hope he'll forgive me; after all, as Mark Twain should have said, "plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery".]

[Author's note #2: The continuation to this story will probably not appear right away.]

*

There are certainly lots of blue Dodge Grand Caravan minivans in the state of Ohio—probably thousands of them. But there's only one with the license plate RH-1016, and with a big sticker on the back that says "Chaminade Prep Hockey". That one belongs to my wife, Eileen. So why was it parked in the back lot of a Courtyard by Marriott in the suburbs of Dayton at 12:20pm on a Wednesday afternoon?

I nearly didn't see her car. I was driving my truck around the motel towards the back service entrance; I work for a security-system company, and the manager had called in some sort of electrical problem. I'd never been out to this Marriott, so I was driving slowly, and I happened to glance over and see a car that looked all too familiar.

I stopped suddenly, right in the middle of the parking lot, and wondered whether my lunch was going to come back up. I put the truck in Park and tried to think for a minute.

Eileen worked for a real-estate firm in Dayton, and spent a lot of the day on the road showing properties to customers. But that didn't explain the Marriott. Her van was parked right in front of room 147, and right next to a flashy green Mercedes convertible that looked very familiar to me for some reason, though I couldn't recall why. There were only a handful of other cars in the whole lot, all parked in front of other rooms some distance away.

So the only explanation for this that I could come up with was the one that was trying to bring my lunch back up. I pulled out my phone and called Eileen's cell, wondering if I'd hear her breathing heavily as she answered. Wondering if I'd go break down the door. Wondering if I'd kill her or her lover, and spend the next twenty years in jail.

The phone went to voice-mail. Eileen simply NEVER turned off her phone during the work day—she didn't want to miss any chance of a call from a client. So that was more than a subtle clue.

I looked again at the Mercedes, and thought about Brian Monteiro. He was the newest agent in Eileen's office, and she seemed to think he was sweet and funny. I found him smarmy and insincere, myself; plus he certainly wasn't shy about looking approvingly at Eileen. I had no reason beyond that to be suspicious, but....what the hell. I dialed her office and followed the phone-tree to Brian's direct line.

"Brian Monteiro, how may I help you?" That was his oily voice, all right! I hung up. So my first thought was wrong. Eileen wasn't banging Brian Monteiro, at least not today. But she seemed to be banging somebody.

My stomach calmed down a little. I realized that I was still pretty shocked. The anger and hurt were going to come later. I needed time to think, and I figured I might as well go do the job I was here for.

When I got to the service entrance and the manager showed me the problem, I was able to take care of it in about eight minutes. A secondary relay, the kind that the manufacturer guarantees will never ever burn out, had burned out. I had several replacements in the truck, I popped one in and re-set the system, and I was done.

All this time I'd been thinking about Eileen, of course, and I had an idea. "How would you like to save $168 on this service call?" I asked the manager.

He was interested, of course. I explained what I had seen out back. "I'm not going to bust in or cause any trouble—I just want to know who's registered in room 147. Would you let your desk clerk check it for me?"

Somewhat warily he agreed, and we walked up to the front desk. I showed the young man Eileen's picture and asked if he'd ever seen her or checked her into a room. He didn't recognize her.

With the manager's approval, the clerk looked at the computer and found that room 147 was registered to Martin Netrebko. Now I knew why I knew the Mercedes! Martin and his wife Renata lived a couple of blocks away from us, and we'd met them a couple of times at neighborhood parties.

"Can you check the computer and see if he's been here before?" I asked. After a minute, the clerk told me that Netrebko had taken a room five previous times in the last two months or so, always in the middle of the week, always on the first floor in the back.

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

I went back to my truck and sat for a few minutes. By now the shock was wearing off, and the anger and hurt were coming on pretty hard. After 21 years of what I thought was a good, loving marriage—and a completely faithful one, on my side at least—learning that my wife was cuckolding me with some asshole from the neighborhood was a pretty bitter pill.

Pounding on the door and catching them in the act didn't appeal to me much, after a few moments of consideration. It was too sudden, and not painful enough. I realized that what was making me the most angry right then was being deceived, being fooled by a woman whom I loved and completely trusted. And suddenly I wanted very much for her to know what it was like to feel jerked around.

It was still only 12:55, and they'd presumably be there awhile. I parked my truck and went over to Eileen's minivan. Using the extra key I always had with me, I quietly backed her van out and re-parked it, three spaces away from Netrebko's Mercedes.

I figured, if I moved it too far away, say eight or ten spaces, she'd know for sure, and guess that somehow I had been there. On the other hand, if I moved it only one space she might not notice, especially if Netrebko parked his car after she had already arrived. I wanted her to wonder—and worry.

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

I called my dispatcher, told her I was getting sick—not far from the truth!—and took the afternoon off. I went and had a quiet beer, and found that the more I thought the angrier I got.

Eileen and I had married at 22 and been pretty happy ever since. I certainly had been, and I think she would have said the same. We raised two twins, both hockey players (one of each: Emily and Frank), sent them off to college, and were now enjoying a quieter household once again.

We'd been good friends and, I would have said, mostly satisfied lovers for those years too. Actually Eileen was always a bit more adventurous than I was. We both liked sex, but I would have been happy with just her and me in the bedroom—with an occasional trip to the kitchen table or the living room rug—in the usual six or eight positions we liked the most.

Eileen liked all that, but she wanted to play, too. Over the years we tried a little bondage, she brought home a variety of dildos and vibrators we had great fun with, and we did a little role-playing: Eileen alone in a bar in a tight cocktail dress, men trying to pick her up, I come along pretending to be a stranger, and she goes off with me. That one really made her hot the few times we tried it (always when the kids were at the grandparents' or away at summer camp). We also had fun with her being in bed in the dark and me coming in and taking her forcefully, pretending to be a stranger. I liked that one—she absolutely loved it!

But, fortunately, it wasn't always games. They were the occasional treat, and our usual love-making was intimate and loving. Maybe less exciting than it had been when we were first married, but pleasurable and satisfying for both us. (Or so I'd thought!)

Once in awhile she wanted to go further than I liked, though, and I had to say No. Several times Eileen wanted to extend the "bar pick-up" game to letting some other guy come on to her, buy her a drink, even neck with her or feel her up before I would come along and rescue her.

"C'mon, baby, it'll be a turn-on, you'll see!" That's what she said to me, the first and only time she talked me into trying it. I didn't believe her one bit, and I was right. I sat across the room at a table by myself, and let her have an hour while this greasy guy bought her drinks, got her to a booth in the back, and pawed at her chest. He may have gotten his fingers into her panties, too—I couldn't really see.

I didn't get a hard-on, I didn't get excited, I just got angry. That was my wife! And so, not waiting for her signal, I walked straight over and said, "oh, there you are, honey! It's really late, we need to go." And I took her hand and dragged her straight out of the bar.

All the way home Eileen sulked, and when we got there she blew up at me. "It was just a bit of flirting, Danny—why do you have to be such a stick-in-the-mud? I was having fun! It was exciting, feeling his hands on me and knowing he wanted me so badly! He was desperate for it, you know. And I was perfectly safe!"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Eileen—but I didn't!" I snapped back at her. "Like all our games, we agreed that we'd do this only if it was fun for both of us. I HATED seeing another man touch you! It wasn't a turn-on for me, it was painful. And I don't want to try that again."

It took us almost four days to get over that fight. And we never really worked through it, I realized later; we just both sort of agreed tacitly not to be mad anymore. We started being civil, and then affectionate, and then we got back to making love again. But something was left unresolved.

The other big sex issue between us was swinging. About two years ago, around the time the twins were high-school seniors, a new couple moved in a few houses down from us and we became quite friendly with them. Dennis and Amy. Amy and Eileen became particularly close, and after a few months Eileen started telling me some of their secrets.

"They're swingers, Danny, can you believe it? They go to these parties, I guess every month or so, and people just switch off and go at it!"

I could tell right away that Eileen was tempted, and I wasted no time in making clear that I did not share her interest. "That's fine for them, honey. Different strokes, and all that. But I could never, ever, share you with another man. That doesn't seem sexy to me, just painful. You married a one-woman man, and I need you to be my one-man woman."

She came over and hugged me, and told me I was sweet. But I could see the disappointment in her eyes. She would have loved to try one of those parties.

Eileen brought it up only one other time, two or three months before the day I saw her minivan behind the Marriott. She was subtle about it--had a whole conversation about a lunch she'd had with Amy, where they'd gone shopping, and so on. But I could tell she was leading somewhere, and finally she got back to the swap-parties and how fabulous both Amy and Dennis thought they were.

"Amy says that her sex with Dennis afterwards is like, super-charged! For weeks after a party they're just all over each other—it sounds incredible!"

I smiled at Eileen, affectionately. "It sounds like you're leading up to asking me again, honey. And my answer is going to be the same. Screwing other women may be a nice fantasy, but I don't want to do it in real life. And the idea of you with another man is upsetting to me, not sexy."

This time I went to her, and held her. "I want to be enough for you, all by myself." And she smiled at me, and hugged me back—but the same disappointment was there. And now it was two or three months later, and I was sitting in a bar wondering about the connection between that day and this one.

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

Sitting over my second beer, I remembered a day about a month earlier that now—with the benefit of my new, unpleasant knowledge—seemed pretty strange. I'd dropped in to take Eileen out to lunch, and there on her desk was a bouquet of a dozen pink roses. I glanced at the note, which said, "From your Secret Admirer".

"Beautiful flowers, honey—do I have something to worry about?" I said with a smile.

She kind of stumbled in answering me. "No, Danny, they're...they were from a client. He...you remember that big house on Glen Terrace Road? Well, we were able to get it cheaper than we thought, and he was very grateful."

By then she'd recovered herself, and she went on. "Believe me, the money I saved him and his wife will pay for that bouquet many times over!"

That was the end of that—she got her coat, and off we went to lunch. But in thinking about it now, I realized that she'd been slightly strange, slightly tentative, the whole time we were together. A little worried, maybe.

Now I pulled out my phone and called the receptionist at the agency. Julianne was a middle-aged lady who had known Eileen and me for years, and we always joked around together. I asked her if Eileen was in, and when Julianne told me she was out showing a house I went on to my real business.

"Julianne, you remember those beautiful pink roses that somebody sent Eileen last month some time? Do you know where they came from? I'd love to send her some myself."

Her response surprised me. "Actually, Danny, there have been three bouquets like that—all the same, pink roses. And each one with the same note, about the "Secret Admirer". I'm pretty sure they were from Hawthorne Florists on Tenth—do you want me to check?"

"Oh, no, don't bother. But do me a favor—whatever you do, if more bouquets come don't let on that they're from me, all right?"

Julianne agreed and we hung up. I called Hawthorne and ordered four bouquets of pink roses to be delivered, the first one the next day and then at two-day intervals, each signed "From your Secret Admirer". Let Eileen stew on that one!

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

One more thing to do before facing my cheating bitch of a wife. I called my oldest friend from high school, Raymond Notisar, who also happened to be my doctor. After what was surely one of the strangest conversations a doctor and patient had ever had, he agreed to call in the prescription I wanted.

"Now this stuff is reversible, right Ray?"

"Absolutely—once it's 24 hours out of your system you'll be good to go again. And Danny—I really am sorry about Eileen. I hope that somehow it'll work out..."

"I don't see how, Ray, but thanks."

I picked up the prescription and headed home to cook dinner.

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

At six pm I was chopping onions and sauteeing chicken breasts in the kitchen, waiting for Eileen to come in. It had been a strange afternoon emotionally, to say the least. At first I'd been shocked, and then deeply hurt and angry. But as I'd made my plans my anger had turned into a kind of manic glee. The woman I loved had cheated on me; she'd deceived me; she'd made me into a fool, a cuckold. And I had every intention of returning the pain with interest! I was more than ready to be just as dishonest, just as dissembling as she had been.

When Eileen came into the house and put her purse down, I smiled warmly, watching her very carefully. She tried to smile, but her face and manner were filled with caution, even confusion. It was incredibly obvious: did I know, or not? Was she totally dead, or had she somehow dodged the bullet?

I wasn't going to give a thing away! "Hi sweetie, how was your day?" I came over and gave her exactly the usual hug and kiss, neither more nor less. She smelled fresh and clean—obviously she'd showered at the motel, and her shampoo was one I'd never smelled on her before. A little something for me to keep in mind!

I then casually turned back to my dinner preparations—all the time watching out of the corner of my eye. She was pale, and wary, but she made an obvious attempt to pull herself together. "Oh, okay—just long. You remember that house on North Wagner? Well, now the wife isn't so sure she's ready to sell! I spent over an hour with her on the phone!"

I let her go on with her story for awhile, watching her relax, while I finished up the cooking and brought the food to the table. As we ate I said, "so, nothing else special today? You didn't go anyplace new or out of the ordinary?"

Her eyes darted to my face, and her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. It was just a second, and then she recovered herself. "No, just the usual driving around. How about you?"

"No," I lied, "not a single repair call I hadn't done before. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but once in a while a problem I've never seen before might be fun."

She sighed to herself, and steered the conversation to a far safer subject: the kids. They were sophomores, both at Middlebury College in Vermont—they'd surprised us by wanting to be at the same school—and both were among the leaders on their hockey teams. In their spare time they appeared to be doing a little bit of studying, too! It was a happy subject, and I found myself warming to Eileen and our shared pride in our wonderful children. Until I remembered what she'd been doing that afternoon, and I had to restrain myself from jumping up and leaving the room.

I managed to keep smiling throughout the evening, keeping everything normal, and waiting for the grand finale. I figured that Eileen would certainly want to make love—to reassure herself that we were all right, to reassure me, just to make sure that things were normal.

That was the reason for my prescription, which I hid carefully behind a beam in my basement workroom. Raymond had told me, "30 minutes after you take it, you'll be all set—no erection. Not a chance of one, I don't care if twin 18-year old pornstars do a striptease in your bedroom!"

Just to be sure, though, I took the pill at 10 pm and promptly had a shower, where I jacked off to visions of Eileen's younger sister Diana (not quite as busty as Eileen but still very sexy—and she loved to flirt with me when she visited, too).

So at 10:45 when I climbed into bed, and Eileen put down her book and snuggled up to me, I was ready for action! Or, rather, for non-action. Sure enough, Eileen suggested that we have some bedroom fun, and I pretended to be enthusiastic, hiding the rage I felt at going anywhere near that pussy which had been so recently filled by Martin Netrebko!

We kissed and cuddled and stroked; but there was no action below the Mason-Dixon line, as Eileen once whimsically put it. I claimed to be baffled, and she tried harder: she slid down and sucked me, caressed my balls, ran her hands over my chest and nipples, came back up and slid her big breasts all over my face, murmured dirty words to me, French-kissed me passionately. In short, she did all the things that usually would have me rock-hard within a couple of minutes—but nothing doing.

I loved every minute of it! Not just the pleasure, but Eileen's frustration and concern. She kept looking up at me, wondering what on earth the problem was. (This was not something that had happened to me before.) I kept saying I didn't know, maybe I was just tired, but it sure felt good, and sorry, but could she try a little longer?

After about twenty-five minutes she finally gave up, nearly in tears. Pretending to be distressed myself, I apologized again, and said, "do you want me to...do something for you, honey?"

But by then she was far too upset to feel sexy, and we quietly went to sleep. I know Eileen was worried and frightened, and it took her a long time to fall asleep. I wasn't exactly HAPPY—how could I be, after what I'd learned that day? But at least I was beginning to feel like the shit that had hit the fan was beginning to fly in the other direction.

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

The campaign continued for the next several days, and I tried to make sure that each new day had its terrors for my straying cunt of a wife.

On Thursday just before lunch I checked with Julianne that my flowers had arrived; then in the early afternoon I went over to see Eileen "just to say hello" with a bouquet of my own, blue irises that I knew she liked.

"Hi babe," I said, strolling into the office. "I just brought you these, and...whoa, I see your 'secret admirer' isn't giving up! Are those pink ones from that same client over on wherever it was, Glen Terrace?"