Maing Ends Meet

The male ego is more fragile than a raw egg dropped from 40 stories up. But when an egg hits the ground, you know there is just one possible result: innards get splattered all over the place. However, with the male ego, who can say what will happen when broken, bruised or bent.

I had always thought that if my wife ever cheated on me I would go psycho and become the wild man of our cave ancestry yore. What happened instead, was I wimped out, becoming a sodden, defeated shell of the man I once thought I was.

My wife is a so-so specimen. Not gorgeous, but pretty in her own right. She has dark, straight hair falling to her shoulder blades that she most often keeps in a bun. She's 5 foot two with piercing dark eyes, slimly built with pert hips and 32C breasts. She dresses professionally but acts saucy and freely expresses herself, especially on the dance floor. Our home life is good and the sex frequent and adequate. She is no bombshell in bed, and neither am I, but we do go at it with gusto and enthusiasm more nights a week than not. I would say the only problem we had in our marriage was money.

We married right out of college, fully intent on starting a family and living the American dream. I found work right away as a mid-level executive in a factory just outside Chicago. We decided she would stay home and do her best to get pregnant. Well, the pregnancy didn't come, but the bills did. A year into our marriage she decided to go to work to make ends meet. Well, for the first year after that, things were tight, then we caught up and it has been smooth sailing ever since.

At least so I thought.

It was the week of our fifth wedding anniversary. I had a big weekend planned for us out of town. I had just cancelled that weekend right after cleaning out my desk.

The economy slowed down. Factory orders plummeted and jobs were cut. Mine included. I stooped at a bar that noon. Blew twenty bucks of my severance check, and headed home in the middle of the day for the first time in my marriage.

When I pulled up to our two-story, four bedroom, aluminum sided house in the burbs, I found my wife's car in the driveway. Not pulled into the garage, mind you, just in the drive. I ended up parking on the curb and hoping this wasn't garbage collection day so I wouldn't be ticketed. You think weird things when you've had a few to drink.

I didn't really think it odd that my wife was home. She often took her lunch break at the house so she wouldn't have to spend money eating out. But when I entered the house, she wasn't in the kitchen. I figured maybe she was taking a quick nap so I tiptoed quietly up the stairs so as not to wake her.

I needn't have worried.

Our bedroom door was standing open and she was in bed all right. But so was this dumpy middle-aged clod. He was pounding up and down between her spread legs, puffing like he was in a marathon. My wife was just lying there, staring at the ceiling, while he rutted in her, groped greedily at one breast and slobbered all over the other.

I stood just outside the doorway in stunned silence. Perhaps my drink-doused brain was slow on the uptake or maybe I was just stunned that my delightful Becky would prefer this out-of-shape old man to me, but I didn't charge into the room and kill the guy like I'd always imagined I would.

I backed slowly away from the door as his puffing grew into groans and a sudden loud grunt escaped his lips. He then collapsed on my wife and seconds later she pushed him off and he rolled onto his back.

I slipped quietly into the next bedroom.

They talked in muffled tones for a few minutes while he got dressed. I don't know why, but to this day, more vividly that anything else, I can hear in my head the sound of his pants zipper being pulled up. For some reason, that sound revolted me more than anything else and has caused me traumatic flashbacks sometimes when I'm zipping my own pants.

I heard footsteps pass the bedroom and head down the steps. The front door opened, then closed. I peeked out the bedroom window and saw a suited man leave our yard, head across and slightly down the street, get into a parked car and leave.

"You can come out now," I heard my wife's voice from the hallway. I jumped and spun around to find my wife in the doorway wearing only a bathrobe, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest.

"You knew I was here?" was all I could think to say.

"Heard your car pull up."

"Oh. And you didn't try to hide what you were doing?"

"Why?"

O.K. That stumped me. Not the response I expected. What response HAD I expected? I mean, what does one say when caught red handed cheating. I must say she was handling it with grace. If the roll had been reversed, I probably would have been stuttering and stammering. Come to think of it, I was stuttering and stammering. It was time to take charge. I was right, she was wrong. Why did I feel like a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar?

"Who was that guy," I demanded.

"Does it matter?" she sighed, taking back control of the situation. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"What? What?" I stammered. "You're sorry I had to see that? See that? What about being sorry you DID that!"

She moved her hands to her hips and just glared at me with those piercing eyes.

"Grow up and join the real world, Robert," she yelled, turned her back on me and went back into our bedroom.

I stood there open-mouthed a few seconds before catching myself and rushing behind her. She had already dropped her robe and was stepping into her skirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed so that I can get back to work before my lunch hour ends."

"What? You crazy bitch! Stop what you're doing and look at me. We are going to talk."

She raised her hands and head to the ceiling, breathed out hard and turned to face me, an exasperated look on her face.

"What?" she yelled. "What do you want to talk about."

I was silent. She was standing there, hands on her hips, naked to the waist, her nipples erect and staring at me with the same venom as was in her eyes.

"Well, you wanted to talk. I don't have a lot of time."

"I don't believe you! You're standing there like nothing happened. You were cheating on me!"

"Yes, and? It's not like this is the first time it's happened or the first guy."

Now I was in shock. My ears were ringing and the liquor had me feeling like I was floating a few feet off the ground observing something that was happening to two completely different people. I saw her pick her blouse up from the back of a chair. In that instant my hand shot our and yanked it from her grasp.

"You bitch," I stepped toward her. "You god damned fucking bitch." I did not see it happening, did not know it was happening until right afterward. My hand dropped the blouse to the floor and came up in a rapid arc striking her hard with an open-handed blow across the left side of her face, knocking her onto the bed. Then I was on her.

"You like a man's hands on your breasts? Huh? Huh?" And I squeezed her two breasts in my hands as hard as I could. Red bruising started to show right away. "You like a man's mouth on your breasts?" I bit down hard on her right breast, gripping that cushiony flesh tightly in my teeth. "You liked being fucked, you bitch?" And my left hand was at her throat squeezing while my right hand rapidly undid my trousers.

Suddenly I was thrusting into her, ramming her harder that I'd ever done anyone in my life. I pounded her with my cock, willing it to tear through her, to grind her into submission, to punish her with my manhood. I slammed into her, each time harder, trying to go right through her, trying to make her regret ever stepping out on me. "You fucking bitch. You fucking whore!"

I finished in less than thirty seconds, spraying cum into her abused cunt, trying to drown her in my sperm. Trying to hose her out. I collapsed on her and started crying.

"Are you done?" She asked, sounding like she was speaking from a far distance.

It was only then that I realized that she hadn't made a single sound, not the slightest whimper while I abused her.

"If you are done, would you mind getting off of me," she said in a calm voice.

I pushed off her, then sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from her, elbows on knees, chin in my hands, contemplating my pants wrapped around my ankles.

"Let that be the first and last time you ever hit me."

I turned to look at her. She was still lying on the bed face up, in almost the same position she had been in while that guy (That Guy!) fucked her. Except that her skirt was now on and bunched up around her waist. Her eyes, though, remained piercing and defiant. That instant I pictured in my mind my impeccably made up, manicured and dressed wife who looked like such a professional woman in her work clothes. Her perfectly cut attire revealed nothing of the woman beneath, but still left me horny for her hidden charms every time I saw her dressed up. She didn't look so professional now, skirt mangled around her waist, a purple bruise swelling on her face, cunt lips puffy and swollen, breasts with teeth marks and welts on them. She was my wife, my beautiful, devoted wife, but all I could see right now through tear-blurred eyes was a used and ragged slut spread-eagled on our bed.

"Well, what did you expect me to do?" I asked.

"Something like that," she replied. "And now that it is out of your system, you need to understand a thing or two." For the first time that afternoon, she reached out and touched me. Her hand rested on my lower back and I stiffened a little. She felt my reaction and moved her hand. She swung her body around and sat next to me. She adjusted her skirt a moment, and then smoothed out her lap to hide her sex from me.

"We haven't been making ends meet for quite some time," she said. "In fact, we never made ends meet."

"What? I don't understand. The bills are paid, we have a few dollars in the bank."

She shook her head.

"Why are you men so dense? Look at your salary. Look at mine. You think we can maintain this house, our cars, our bills on what we make? Christ, Robert. I'm a secretary. I make eight dollars an hour! Do the math!"

To be honest, I never had done the math. Becky took care of the bills, the shopping, everything. I just put my paycheck in the bank, came home, ate dinner, had sex. I couldn't even begin to do the math.

"You and I want a certain lifestyle, Rob. There are things you want and things I want. Things weren't going well even after I took the job. I would see something nice I wanted and couldn't get it. You had things you wanted and we scraped and finagled and robbed Peter and Paul and put ourselves in more trouble. After a year I saw things were going to just get worse.

"There were guys at work, some of them quite cute, who were always hitting on me, some of them saying how well they could take care of me. Well, one day I confessed to one of them that I didn't know how I was going to make the mortgage and power bill next week. We were already two months behind on both. The next day he left an envelope on my desk with a thousand dollars in it and a note saying 'Take care of your family, that comes first above all things'. Just like that. A thousand dollars. I wasn't going to keep it. I told him I couldn't take it since I didn't know how I would pay it back. He just smiled, insisted I take it as a bonus for being such a good worker and friend, and not to worry about paying it back.

"I let it sit there in my desk drawer the rest of the week. But Friday morning the bank called and said that if I missed the house payment that day, they would begin foreclosure. I had no choice. I took the money to the bank, paid down a month and paid the electricity.

"That thousand helped us catch up and I paid the next couple months bills with no problem. But by then our bank account was back into overdraft. I had to go back to my friend. We talked for a couple hours after work. He does accounting and he went over all of our figures and told me that we'd be in bankruptcy within a few months. I didn't know what to do. I started crying. He told me he was willing to help, if I got his drift. I told him I couldn't. I never had. I was married. He told me to think about it overnight, and that if I couldn't accept his help, he understood. He was so nice, so kind to me, that I almost felt guilty not accepting his money.

"By the next day, though, I couldn't see how I could afford not to take his money. He's a good-looking guy, friendly and all. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn't be all that bad, that it wasn't prostitution, that it was two adults, two friends getting together for casual sex and that he was just a concerned friend simply helping me with my household expenses. I separated the two things in my mind. I had to.

"For lunch, we went to a motel. I cried the whole time. He was gentle and kind as a lover, but I didn't feel anything inside. I just blanked it out, went into a trance. I didn't even know when he was finished. I just know we got back to the office and there was another thousand dollars in my purse.

"After that first time, it became easier to do. I didn't cry anymore, but I promised myself that I wouldn't participate in the act other than to lie there. My friend complained once, but I explained to him that I couldn't hold him or kiss him, that it would seem too much like cheating. He understood and said that as long as he could have sex with me, the rest didn't matter. In some perverted way, that made me feel better and he never tried to kiss me or hold my hand again.

"This went on for almost a year, maybe twice a month, before he was transferred out of town. Before he left, he introduced me to a drinking buddy of his, told me it was my choice, but that his buddy would be willing to continue the arrangement. That day I had my first three-way right here in this house and got double the normal from each of them.

"But now that I had been with more than one guy, I had no problem with taking more. It wasn't long before I was checking out the guys in the office who were always hitting on me and wondering how large their bank accounts were. It seems the young good looking guys mostly don't have shit, plus they can't keep secrets. That much I picked up from the office gossip. However, the older execs in the company, they usually had marriage troubles and loved to bend the ear of a nice, good-looking secretary. Plus they had money and had to keep things secret or lose it to their wives in a divorce. I first became their confidant, then their masseuse and finally their lover. They don't have the fringe benefit of being young and good looking, but they are much more generous than my first friend was. I just zone out and bare it.

"So, Robert, that's what I do. That is how I keep this house over our heads. That is how you can watch football on your flat-screen TV. That is how we look respectable and well- to-do to our neighbors.

"So, do you have anything to say to me?"

"Yes," I mumbled. "I got laid off today."

There was a long silence. Yes, I know that was probably the stupidest thing to say at that moment. My wife had just confessed to being a high-priced hooker. I had just caught her in bed with a "john". I had just finished beating her and raping her. Somehow, through my liquor haze, that seemed the only thing I could say. "Well, then," she picked up after a couple minutes. "Looks like I have my work cut out for me and you have no right to say anything." She stood up and started dressing.

"You aren't going back to work today?" I asked.

"Why not? Someone's got to bring home the bacon around here."

"But you face. It's all bruised."

"What, are you afraid people will see your handiwork?" She looked in the mirror, felt her left cheek, and winced. "Don't worry, lover, Make-up hides a lot. THIS time," she stressed.

"Honey," I murmured. "Would it be rude of me to ask how many men you sleep with and how often?"

"Yes, that is rude, but I think I owe you an answer. I've had a dozen friends over the ladt three years. There are currently five men, we don't have a schedule, but I would say I do it three or four times a week."

I plopped backwards on the bed and closed my eyes. Three or four times a week? And I never even suspected. Not even an inkling. I tried to picture my wife having sex with those guys. Each time my stomach tensed into knots and my chest started hurting. My wife. My Becky. My beautiful, lovable woman being groped by all those sweaty, horny guys. Then, despite my rape of a few minutes before, I thought of how often I must have had sex with her just hours after those guys and I suddenly felt like throwing up.

"Don't worry," she called back from the dressing table. "I don't go bareback. Only you get to come inside me."

I felt her lips press softly against mine, her hand stroked the side of my face, and then she was out the door, gone back to work. Gone back to those guys.

I feel asleep and woke up early that evening feeling something soft slurping on my dick. I had passed out on the bed with my pants still around my ankle so I guessed my naked penis was a tempting and inviting target for my wife's ministrations.

I opened my eyes in the dark and vaguely saw my wife lying beside me, facing me and propping her head up with her arm.

"Be still," she whispered and with a start I realized it couldn't be her mouth around my penis. I was about to sit up, but she anticipated me and pressed a hand firmly into my chest, preventing me from rising.

"Take it easy, honey. Relax and enjoy. I brought a friend from work who is willing to pay for your services."

My eyes widened in surprise, then I smiled and started to relax. I closed my eyes and put my hands behind my head. It was a really good blowjob I was getting. My wife's friend was skillful.

Becky lightly stroked my chest and talked soothingly to me about her plans.

"You're going to be home all day now, dear. I know a lot of people how would pay dearly to be serviced by a nice, handsome, energetic stud like you. If fact, when I asked around, I found that you can earn much more than I can!"

"Mmmm," I said as a tongue swirled circles around my shaft. Becky's friend was lightly stroking my shaft with her hand while slurping delicately at the rest of my penis. Her hand movements were gradually becoming faster as she increased the sucking and tongue motion on top. I was getting a world-class blowjob and my wife was telling me I was being paid for it.

"So, you're going to stay home during the day, get the household chores done and by noon, be ready to receive customers. I'm thinking we'll set up two of the spare bedrooms as sex dens. One for you, one for me. From tomorrow on, no one but you and I get to use our bedroom. Fair enough?"

"Yes," I grunted. The blowjob was getting intense now. My balls were being tickled with one hand, my shaft stroked with another and a vacuum cleaner was working at full power on my knob. The pleasure was intense and I was starting to arch my mid section.

"Yes," my wife whispered to me. "Cum, my darling. Come into that beautiful mouth."

My wife started kissing me, pushing her tongue deep into my mouth like she does when she is aroused. I realized she was naked when her breasts pressed into my chest, heating me with their warmth. I wrapped my arms tightly around her as I bucked my hips into the air and let loose a burst of sperm into that lovely mystery mouth below. I spurted a few more times then let out a long shuddering breath as my wife broke her kiss.

"I want you to eat me out while you fuck," she said.

"Anything," I replied and she swung quickly up to straddle my face. Her beautiful pussy winked at me for a brief instant before plastering itself against my lips.

Down below, her co-worker had gently let my spent penis slide from her lips. Now she was playing with my balls and asshole, gently fingering them. I felt something cool and greasy pour between my legs and hands start to spread it around. A finger probed my anal ring then slid past my resistance to pop inside.