That's right. Fuckin' LW. I was happy as a clam, until I got bored one day and surfed around on the internet for porn. Tired of more and more videos of blatantly fake situations, I found myself looking at stories, where characters were developed with a tad more realism. As anybody knows, Literotica is the mother lode, and it wasn't long before I found myself bookmarking stories, even brutal BTB stories. That's when I learned about the cheater's handbook, and the giveaway signs of your wife having an affair.
Shit.
I couldn't believe it. A few things not only niggled at me but pissed me right off. The first one was she had totally stopped initiating sex. She being Brenda, my wife of five years. That's right, only five measly years! Some stories had this kind of shit taking decades to develop, like when the last kid left the nest. We hadn't even
started
the nest. Shit, shit, shit.
I tried to figure it out by myself. She was usually home on time--we both worked, doesn't matter where. She never ran to the shower or anything like that. However, I noticed that on Tuesdays and Thursdays her hair smelled different. So, if she was cheating on me, those were the days. I shook my head when the realization hit me. Every freakin' week! No wonder she no longer initiated anything with me. Bitch.
I'm an accountant, mild-mannered by appearances, but I was fucked if I was putting up with this. I took the next Tuesday off, and parked in the parking lot opposite her job (HR at at a small manufacturing plant). I figured she met her stud either over lunch or after work, leaving early. Just before lunch I spotted her leaving, and loitering in the parking lot. I called her work, and the receptionist told me she had just left for lunch.
"Alone?" I asked. "Maybe I'll go surprise her. Do you know where she went?"
All of a sudden, the receptionist became evasive. Sounding cagey, she said, "Uhh, nobody left with her, and she didn't say."
"How long is your lunch break?"
"An hour, usually," she replied, "but our boss doesn't get upset if we run over a few minutes now and then. Do you want me to leave a message?"
"No need. I think she might go to Sammy's Subs. It's close and they're quick."
A few minutes later an older guy also walked out and headed to a black Mercedes. He got in, and out of nowhere Brenda appeared and slid into the passenger seat. As they left, she either ducked to avoid being seen or get a head (ahem) start on his lap. Whatever, it looked to any observer like he was leaving alone.
He obviously didn't know me, so it was easy to follow them... to a close-by no-tell motel. He got out, registered, returned, and opened room #106. She opened the passenger door and joined him in his room.
My juvenile brain sprang into action, and cost BimboGuy one of his four valve stems. I didn't want to overdo it--hopefully this would seem like a coincidence, and that was good enough for the first time.
While I waited, I called my brother, whose wife worked as a clerk for the local police department. I told him what was happening and asked him to get his wife to look up the license number, and get all the info on the guy she could. Mr. Frederick Halsen he was, married to Alice, two kids, living in an upscale neighborhood we knew about, but had never been to. He was the sales VP for Brenda's employer.
I called the company, asking for the president. I explained to the receptionist I was a potential customer, and Mr. Halsen, their VP, was standing me up for a lunch appointment. I happened to see him enter the no-tell motel with a woman, and wondered if this was the way their company did business. While the receptionist put me through, I hung up. This should be interesting--cat among the pigeons.
While waiting for the pigeons to start scattering, I sat and wondered. Should I let the dickwad's wife know? While pondering the question, I decided to mess with Mr. Halsen. I called the motel and asked for him. "Please wait. He's on another call."
I hung up and chuckled, wishing I could be a fly on the wall of #106.
Brenda's fuckbuddy must have opted not to answer the phone. I could just imagine him asking aloud who could know either of them was there? Apparently, their boss wasn't taking no answer for an answer, so the clerk speedwalked to #106 and banged on the door. Halsen cracked open the door, red-faced, hair standing on end, sweaty and clad only in a wife-beater and red boxers.
My phone has a nice telephoto lens. Hee hee. Poor Mr. Halsen. How did his boss know he could be found at the no-tell? That had to make him sweat even more. What could be so urgent anyway?
Less than five minutes later, the harried couple burst out of the room and scrambled to his car. Click, click, said the fake shutter noise on my phone.
