Illing Me Softly

First, an apology. About a year ago, someone posted a story about a 45-year-old or so couple, at a charity event, on a Friday night. The wife is hot and a professional woman. The man is well to do, and they are happily married. Or he thought they were. A predator seduces her for a weekend of uninhibited sex. She would go up to him, tell him, then leave till Sunday night, Monday morning.

I don't remember which. I don't know the author or the name of the story.

But it stuck in my mind. It ended up with him divorcing her, but then, about two years later, taking her back. I was not too fond of the ending.

This is my take on the story. My apologies to the author. I would give him all due credit if I could remember who it was. If anyone does, please e-mail me. I will make amends.

It is killing me softly.

My name is Michael Barron. My wife's name is Sofia Dawes Barron. I am the Executive Editor of the Chicago American Globe. She is the Senior Vice-President of Gravely Publishing. We have two children, Michael Junior, 23, and Ashley Sofia, 21. Junior is a senior at Princeton, studying International Diplomacy; Ash, as I call her, is at UC Berkeley, learning underwater basket weaving. (She will kill me.) Both are excellent students.

We both make very good money, she a little more than I. We were happy, or so I thought. We were looking forward to a fantastic weekend alone.

She had had a very stressful week and had been looking forward to this gala for a while. She had a new dress, black, backless, strapless, cut about 2 inches over her knees, and slightly slit up the left side.

She was wearing a diamond necklace I had given her for our 25th wedding anniversary. Sapphire earrings (her favorites) and a Princess Diana Replica ring. Her blonde hair was done in an upsweep; she looked stunning.

I had on my Brooks Brothers tuxedo. Nuff said about that.

She was standing above 12 feet away with her back against a fake fireplace, drinking from a champagne flute, laughing and giggling like a college co-ed. I didn't have a problem with that; it was the sleazy, slimy-looking bastard that was chatting her up, with subtly little touches to her arm, shoulder, whispering into her ear with his smug grin. He had just said something to her, and she was nodding her head yes. 'O.K., this has gone far enough. It's time to rescue her from this preditor.'

I put down my old-fashioned glass and was just about to go to her aid when a soft female hand grabbed my arm.

"Don't do anything. My wife is under his spell, and his goons are watching you." I looked down to a striking brunette at my side. She motioned to a tough-looking mug about 15 feet to my left, who appeared to be watching only me. Then she motioned to the balcony doors, and there was another one standing there, studying the crowd.

"He's going to take her onto the balcony and try to do something and make his pitch to her. He will probably try to feel her up and get his hand in her panties. It's what he does. If your wife doesn't succumb to his advances, he will choose someone else. But he hardly ever strikes out."

"No offense."

I watched as my smiling wife walked with Mr. Slime across to the balcony and out the doors. The two goons closed the doors and took up positions. I turned to the woman, who had a sad look on her face as she took a sip from her whiskey sour.

"Who are you, and how do you know these things?"

"That was me, seven years ago."

I was shocked. Lana maneuvered me to get my back to the doors to the balcony and proceeded to explain.

"I was here with my husband, supporting the children's society, and we were having a good time. We were going to make a sizable donation. He started chatting me up. The next thing I knew, he was caressing my back and suggesting we go outside. I was swept away by his good looks and followed him along to the balcony. Outside, he grabbed my breast and asked if I like it like that. I was stunned but excited. He twisted my nipple just enough for me to gasp, then slid his hand up my dress and into my pantyhose.

"He slid two fingers into my pussy, and found my g-spot. I instantaneously orgasmed, wetting myself like never before. Then he made his proposal; he would take me home for the weekend. We would make mad passionate love, and then I would return home. A one-time thing, never to be repeated. I was to walk back to my husband and tell him I was leaving for the weekend with him. He would stand behind me and watch, and then we would go.

"That's what I did. My husband was an accountant; it devastated him.

"When I got home from the weekend, he would not even look at me. I told him it wasn't anything we could not overcome. But he could never get an erection again. We began to drift apart. I started going out at night looking for random hookups. He withdrew into himself. His work started to suffer; he got fired.

"I came home one night and found him hanging from the rafters in the basement. I spent seven months in a hospital psychiatric therapy ward.

"My three children were fourteen down to ten years old. They refused to talk to me; someone told them what had happened. My parents sued to get custody. I have no idea what they are doing, even though I have visitation rights. As soon as they get old enough, they sue for emancipation, and then they refuse to see or talk to me.

She looked at her watch; "It took about fifteen minutes to turn me. He's been our there about twelve, and I..." With that, she said to me, "Don't turn around. Don't look at them. Ignore them. If she talks to you, refuse to look at her. She is going to say she has something to tell you. If she does, say what you think you want to, and we will leave. Together.

"It will piss him off something fierce, and it might change her mind. It might be the only satisfaction you get, for now.

"We will go somewhere and decompress; talk. Can you do that?"

"Hide and watch."

He heard her heels as she came up behind him. She placed her hand on his upper left arm. "Michael, I have something to tell you." I shook my arm free and snarled at her behind my back. "Get away from me, slut. Do what you are going to do. But if you don't come home tonight, DON'T COME HOME AT ALL. WE ARE THROUGH, AND I WILL DESTROY YOU. YOU HAVE MORE TO LOSE THAN I DO." "Miss Lana." I extended my arm, and we left.

"Michael, I need to speak to you. NOW."

It had gotten tranquil, and people moved aside to let us pass. We made our way out to the entrance. "How did you arrive here?" I asked her. "Car service." "Allow me, ma'am," I said. They brought my Lincoln up front and opened the door. She got in, and I tipped the young man on the driver's side, got it, and left. "I know a place we can go and talk if you don't mind."

"Excellent suggestion, Michael. I need a drink."

We drove to the Corral, a spot I knew which was relatively quiet and catered to a middle-aged crowd. We parked, went in, got a table in the back, and ordered drinks and potato skins. She told me her story, what was left of it, and I filled her in on Sofia and myself.

She was a college professor and had taken quite a hit in her career when the story got out. I told her I was the Executive Editor at the Chicago American Globe. I had six years in the Air Force, 17th Spec. Ops and had been a reporter and newspaperman for close to twenty years. We had two children, a son, Michael Junior, and a daughter, Ashley Sofia. Both in college, out of state.

"So, what do you think you are going to do?"

"Do??? I don't even know what I am feeling, let alone what to do. If she isn't at home when I get there, it's scorched earth time. She will pay, and he, Oh he will pay. I..I ... OH, CHRIST," ...And I started to cry.

She took my hand and looked at me like the world was ending for both of us.

I studied her face and could see that I could get lucky if I wanted to. But I couldn't. If there was any chance, I couldn't.

"Look, I'm sorry, but rebound sex is not me. I have to get home and take care of this. Please give me your number and contact info to stay in touch and maybe bounce things off you. I also need shithead's name so that I can start his demise."

She took my phone and put her full name, Lana Toolie, and her phone number in, as well as her address. "Micheal, you're a good man. You have been wronged. I was hoping for something more, but I can respect your decision. Go home, and try to fix this. Good luck."

I paid the bill, and we got up and left. I took her home, and she got out and went into her townhome.

I drove home and went inside. Sofia wasn't there."O.K., She's made her choice."

It was 12:39 a.m. I got my cellphone and called my best friend, Steve Dawson. He was also my lawyer. We had been in the Air Force together and always joked that he became a lawyer, and I got a respectable job.

A groggy voice answered my call, "Hello?? Micheal? What the fuck, Mike? It's a quarter to one. Is everything O.K.?"

"No, Steve, it's not. I need you here at 10:00 this morning in full lawyer mode, and maybe in best-friend mode. I need a divorce."

Now I had his attention. I could hear his wife in the background. "It's Mike; there's a problem... You went to that gala, didn't you? Sofia met Darren Wodson, didn't she?? ... Oh, Christ, you didn't know..."

"Just be here, Steve, please?... For me."

"No problem, I'll be there."

I started to make a list; things to do. I looked up the name of a bonded locksmith and noted his phone number. Then I got online and found a site that paid cash for a clear title car. I had gotten a BMW for her for a twenty-fourth wedding anniversary present. It was in my name. I made a note of their number and then went and packed her two tiny overnight bags with underwear, two changes of clothes, and two pairs of shoes. I took them down to the foyer and put them by the front door. Then I went to bed.

I awoke at 7:00 a.m. and went and made coffee. I spooled up my computer and accessed the newsroom bullpen. I saw that Joe Spillane, an investigative reporter, was on duty. I called Joe and told him what I needed: Everything he could find on one Darren Wodson. This was for my eyes only. It would be a favor. " No problem, chief. I will get right on it."

Still no sign of my soon-to-be ex-wife. It was now almost 10:00, and I was getting more and more morose. I called the cash-for-car guy and told him I had a car for sale: clear title, valid Illinois title, and registration, and I was the owner. I told him make and model and that I wanted a quick sale. "I don't know, a two-year-old BMW, how much do you want? A fancy ride like that, it might be hard to get the money quick ..." "Two thousand dollars," I said. He stuttered and asked if it was hot. "No, but you have to be prepared to take it with you." "What's your address?" I told him, and he said he'd be there in twenty-five minutes."Don't sell to anybody else. Wait for me, Andy," and he hung up.

About ten minutes later, as I was getting off the phone with the locksmith, my buddy Steve showed up with his paralegal, Dottie. We went in, and I treated them to coffee and English muffins. About twenty minutes later, Andy showed up. I showed him the car, the registration, and the title. He asked me what was wrong with it. I told him nothing was wrong; I didn't need another car. He looked at me funny and wanted to know why I was selling it. I to him I was getting a divorce, and my ex-wife won't be needing it anymore. "Wow, I'm glad you're not divorcing me."

They had brought a flatbed tow truck, and I signed everything and dated it. Andy paid me and loaded up the car. I shook his hand, and he wished me good luck. Still no slut wife.

I went into the house and found my legal beagles hard at work in the dining room. The divorce decree was drawn up, and the restraining order was ready. They were working on the alienation of affection lawsuit.

Steve asked what was going on with the car? I told him I had sold it; I didn't need it. "You didn't do anything illegal. A little nasty, but what the hell. Actually, I am impressed with the amount of restrain. So, let's get online and take care of all the financials."

For the next forty-five minutes, we alternated between the bank, the investment companies, insurance companies, cell phones, mortgage carriers, and HR with my pensions. By noon, still no missing wife, and the locksmith had changed all the locks and added a keyless deadbolt on the front, back, and side doors.

I took them on to lunch, and we met Steve's wife, Deirdre, nicknamed Dee-Dee, at the Saltgrass Steak House. She ran up to me and wrapped me in an embrace that told me I was still a good guy.

We got a table, and Dee-Dee looked at me, waiting for me to take the lead. Finally, I looked at her and said, "What??" She said she wasn't sure what the situation was, what was my course of action and did I do anything to precipitate it.

"I didn't do anything except assume my wife loved me. The cunt blindsided me, and I'm still reeling with it all. Is there any way back? FUCK, NO!! She still isn't home, and about the only way around this is if she turns up dead."

Dee-Dee looked at me sadly, and nodded, and said she understood. She couldn't understand what made Sofia do it.

We talked for a while, and then we left and went home. I arrived at about 6:00 p.m. and still was alone. No wife.

I cracked a Bud and fell asleep in my recliner.

I awoke at 7:00 a.m. and dragged my tired and aching body to the shower. I cleaned up and did something I hid not done in several years. I went to church.

The church was somewhat helpful. I sat in the back and bowed my head, praying for guidance and intercession. Nothing. God was hanging me out to dry. Mass ended, and I stayed for a while, praying for something. I guess I'm on my own. So be it.

I drove home and got a coffee at a fast-food place. I got home and put the Lincoln in the garage next to my 1980 full-size Bronco. Pretty soon, the weather would make that a daily driver.

I locked the garage door and pinned the rod. Then I went in and spooled up the boob tube: Bears-Lions football, the first game of the season. Of course, the Bears got their ass handed to them. That was my life now. At 5:30, I got a text from slut girl- 'On my way. Be home in twenty minutes.' The restraining order went into effect in thirty minutes—everything coming to a head.

Twenty minutes later, I heard a foreign engine whining in my driveway. I looked out the window and saw some European piece of shit sitting there, and Sofia unfolded herself from the passenger side. She leaned in and laid a kiss on someone. I could only assume it was Darren Woodson.

She stood up, and shut the door, and waved as he drove away. Then she turned and toddled up the walk on her four-inch heels to the stairs and climbed to the front door. She tried her old keys, then realized they didn't work in the new electromagnetic locks. 'What the hell?' she thought. Then she noticed the two small overnight bags to the side of the doorway. "What the hell is this??"

She leaned on the bell, ringing it ceaselessly. She yelled two or three times, "OPEN THE GODDAM DOOR, MICHEAL!!"

I finally got up, and went to the door, and opened it to my very pissed-off wife. She looked at me with murder in her eyes and asked me what the hell was going on? "Simply, Sofia. Your keys don't work anymore because you don't live here anymore. My former wife used to live here, but she's not around anymore."

Her eyes got huge, and she attempted to draw me in for a kiss." But honey... "she started.

"Don't even think about it. I don't know where that thing has been. Or who it's been on. How many times did you fuck the asshole, or suck his cock, or eat his ass??"

"We didn't 'fuck'; we made love, and it was beautiful."

"OH, SPARE ME! You were gone for two days and two nights. You didn't even call. I bet you never once thought about your 'loving husband.' Did you keep your wedding rings on while you stroked his cock, or stuck your finger up his ass??"

She recoiled in horror and started to stutter.

"At least you kept your anniversary necklace and earrings. Well, they were gifts, so they are yours," and I grabbed her left hand and removed her rings. "But these are mine. And your engagement ring was my grandmother's. You do remember when I proposed to you, don't you? You won't be needing them anymore." She started to cry and was shaking.

"Why are you doing this?" she blurted out. "It was just sex; I was entitled to it. You don"t own my body." She was getting some of the bluster back. "You need to lose the ego, Michael. We have to get on with our lives."

"You're right, and I have been trying to do that. Here, this is for you." I handed her the envelope, and she just looked at it. "What's This?" she said. "Money. I sold my car, the BMW. I didn't need it anymore." You would have thought a snake had bitten her. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY CAR??"

"It wasn't your car; I bought it for you. My name was on the title, the registration, and the insurance. I owned it free and clear. So I sold it. I figured it would be a nice gesture to give you the money. That's all of it."

"Ther's only," she ruffled through the bills, "what, two thousand dollars here!! That car was worth more than that. What's the meaning of this??"

"That's all it was worth, a lot like our marriage after Friday night. I told you I would destroy you, and you had a lot more to lose than I did."

The look on her face was priceless. Her eyes bugged out, and she started to whine again.

"HOW COULD YOU BE SO CRUEL!! I CAME HOME TO YOU!!"

"Boy, I guess I'm a lucky guy." Stats when iI notice her right hand had no rings on it. "Where's the Princess Di ring, Sofia?? The one you HAD to have. I wanted to get an actual facsimile of it made for you, but you said you liked the knockoff. You just wanted that one. So I got it for you, to make you happy. WHERE IS IT, SLUT??"

Her complexion went pale; She started to stutter; "I-I -He..." "HE WHAT, SLUT??"

"He wanted a memento of our weekend," she blushed, her eyes downcast.

"SO, IN ADDITION TO YOUR BODY, YOU GAVE AWAY THE RING YOU SAID YOU LOVED!!"

She blushed and nodded her head yes.

He looked at his watch. 6:03 p.m. "Get the fuck out, Sophia. We are done."

"No, I want to come into the hose. I live here."

"Not anymore, you don't!" He slammed the door in her face and threw the deadbolts. He turned and leaned his back against the three-inch-thick oak door. Tears sprung unbidden to his eyes, and he finally felt the pain.

She started ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door, screaming and yelling for him to let her in. He pulled out his cell phone and hit 911.

"911, what is your emergency- police, fire, or emergency rescue??"

I have a restraining order against my soon-to-be ex-wife. She is standing on my front steps, screaming and yelling like a deranged fool. Please sent someone; QUICKLY!!"

She continued to rant as I gave them my name and address.

Even minutes later, I heard the sirens and, looking through the window, saw two squad cars pull up, lights flashing. Three Male officers and one female officer got out. They approached a very irate, pissed-off wife and asked her to step away from the door. They asked for her I/D and noted her name and address. Then while the female officer talked to her, with one male cop standing by, the other two came to my door. As they were about to knock, I opened the door and presented them with the restraining order. They read it and called into the station. I then handed them Sophia's copy and said she would be served with apers tomorrow, but I would appreciate it if they didn't say anything about that. The one cop went to my wife, and handed her the order, and spoke to her. She read the notice and paled; then she went ballistic. They restrained her, and she screamed," Where am I supposed to go?"