Moments Of Discovery

My first submission to Literotica. An example of 'super focus:' Marital revenge. Minimal sex. I leave the angst of revenge to those who do it better. I have tried to follow my 'Three C's' of good writing: to be Clear, Concise, and Complete. Conversations have been edited.

1. Exposition

All of us have them. Some are universal: your first Indian Restaurant; first competitive game; first kiss with someone your own age; your first sexual experience (I confess that mine was not that great.); your first painful romantic breakup.

Then there are unique, personal Moments of Discovery. Not for everybody. Ones you seem to suffer alone: your first failed test; your first job firing; first car; first house payment; your first revenge against a spouse. That one hurt most of all. My revenge was both unique and typical.

Met Karen our senior year in college. Slender. Beautiful. First date was the fall Homecoming Dance. By Christmas we were pinned and romping in bed. She accepted my proposal at the beginning of Spring Break. We married in August. Returned to Cincinnati, our home town.

Yes, our love life as newlyweds was incredible. We diligently practiced what I call FIVE sex: Frequency, Intensity, Variety, Equality. No "I've-got-a-headache" nights. After two very active months we found out that Karen was infertile and I had a low sperm count. Facing a life together without children of our own didn't seem frightening at the time. We simply focused more on one another. Delightful.

Finally we settled into sex every Wednesday night and Sunday morning. Long, lingering, exploring occasions. Every new oral variation on Karen, no matter how small, brought her fantastic orgasms. Her oral skills on me carried lots of creative finesse too. A beautiful life together. Curiously, nothing anal. It didn't appeal to either of us. But I digress.

In early summer after college, I passed the CPA exam and went to work for an investigative accounting firm in Cincinnati, Ohio. Hunted for crooks in the business world. Good money. Home every night. Weekends free. But very busy around tax time in the spring. That overtime, that extra income, paid for nice traveling vacations during the December Holiday Season and Mothers Day weekend. Yes, we had the 'Good Life.'

Also, abundant 'typicals: nice apartment; two late model cars; big TV; fancy BBQ grill (my 'crematorium' - enough controls for a light plane) ; a nice circle of young, newly married friends. Lots of dancing: Ballroom, Folk, European, English, Latin American, Texas-style Line Dancing. No Modern Square Dancing. We both worked out and jogged. Began making house payments as we moved to south-east Cincinnati to be near my work. Our life was a beautiful cliche.

The pivot point seemed to come about six years into our marriage. Friends were having babies, thus limiting our social contacts. Childless, and likely to remain so, we began to feel a bit isolated. That fall, Karen got religion in a big way. This promptly turned into church every Sunday morning and choir practice for her each Wednesday evening.

You can guess the impact on our sex life. It tanked. Downhill. And more downhill. By year's end we were making conjugal efforts every other Saturday night. For Karen, it obviously became little more than a 'Duty Fuck,' something to be endured instead of enjoyed. She'd lie there, spread her legs, and say "Hurry up. I'm tired." Not encouraging.

About then I became a very good investigative auditor; quick at finding problems, scams, and frauds. Worked out specific areas where you'd most likely discover irregularities quickly. Found ways to turn a two day audit into just a half day. Big savings for our clients. Wrote it up. An accounting publisher put the whole package together and I received some nice royalty money. I kept that for myself. Used it to buy high quality home-beer-making equipment, supplies, classes. Had fun. The homemade beer complemented my crematorium efforts.

After looking at other peoples' money problems all day I didn't have the emotional energy to come home to our own household books. We set up a simple system and Karen did it all. Occasionally I'd come into our den/home office during an evening and Karen would be finishing her bookkeeping chores, writing one or two last checks.

So far, this has all been background for Karen's betrayal and my revenge.

2. Development

One weekend in early May, Karen was off attending a distant niece's wedding in Louisville, Kentucky. I stayed home. On Saturday morning I worked out and tended my latest batch of homemade beer that was brewing in our basement. Then I wandered upstairs, had lunch enjoying some earlier brewed and bottled beer. From the fridge. Tasty, cold, strong.

With no particular place to go and nothing much to do, I became curious about our household money situation. For the last three years Karen had kept the bills paid. She never told me where we were financially; what we had in checking, savings, investments. I sat at our desk in the den and reached for the tall, lower left drawer where our money info was stored. Found it locked. Oops! Why would she do that? There seemed to be no good reason I could think of.

Where was the key? Not in the long, shallow middle desk drawer. I checked the rest of the desk. Then I drifted around the house looking in all the obvious spots: little boxes, ceramic cups, and hooks where we hung our keys. Finally found it in Karen's tall jewelry case on her dresser in our bedroom. Alone, on a metal ring. Third drawer from the top, way in the back. Why there?

It took me less than two minutes to find the problem. Things seemed just great until I looked over our credit card situation. The most recent statement had a charge every Thursday for the last month: The King Royal Motel out by the Cincinnati airport: a large motel and conference/convention center. Three stories high with three wings. Folks fly in; get picked up by the shuttle bus; stay at the nearby motel; enjoy their event; maybe stay a night or two; take the shuttle bus back to the airport; fly home. Simple.

I checked previous monthly statements. The Thursday charges went back to January: $70 a pop. I didn't bother to look through previous years. Then I put things back correctly in the tall desk drawer, locked it, and returned the key to Karen's jewelry box.

3. Minuet: The Dance

The Duty Fucks now made sense. Bitter bile rose in my throat; my forehead became overheated. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Rushed to the bathroom. Puked. So much for lunch. Awful.

Next Wednesday I took a long lunch hour. Grabbed Karen's photo that sat on my work desk and visited the King Royal.

"Sure," said the day man as I showed him Karen's picture. "Every Thursday from 10:00 a.m. until about 1:00 p.m. when she returns the room key."

"Alone?" I asked.

"She's the only one I ever see. Always has room 117. It's on the back side, first floor, 'bout halfway along. Just beyond our middle cut-through passageway, from front-side parking to back-side parking. Stroll down 'n see for yourself."

I thanked him; gave him a twenty for his trouble. Wandered down the hallway and found the room. Checked its outside window location. As I drove back to work I wondered what to do next. Then a great idea hit me. Creative and easy.

Next day, Thursday, I drove to a gas station/Quick Trip hole-in-the-wall across the street from the back of the King Royal Motel. Arrived about 9:45 a.m. Bought a cuppa really piss-poor coffee. Didn't have to wait long. In a short time, Karen's car drove around to the back of the motel and parked at the very left end of the parking strip. She got out, walked to the middle of the row and entered the motel's center passageway.

At 10:00 a.m. on the dot, a new Buick pulled up in back of the motel and parked at the extreme right end. A paunchy, partly bald guy got out and entered the middle passageway. Why him? I knew I was in better shape, better looking. What gives? My face flushed deep red. Took five minutes to pull myself together, subdue my rage.

Following my stroke of inspired genius, I drove around to the motel and parked in back, next to Karen's car, on her right. We kept the keys to both cars on our key rings so I knew this would work.

I walked down to the other car. Just as I thought. The license plate on the back said: "Walter Goodell Buick Dealership." The following words on the plate, "See Walter Good Deal for your new car needs," appeared in all their advertising. I pulled off the license plate; it was held on by strong magnets. My stomach was really jumping. I walked back to my car, put the plate on the driver's seat and locked the doors. Karen would have to unlock my car to get at it Yummy with joy, I got into Karen's car and drove it back to work. The old switcheroo. HAH! What an afternoon at work. Highs and lows all over the place. Excited and sad by moments.

I arrived home after work wondering what I'd find. Didn't have long to wait. I headed to the kitchen; took one of my beers from the fridge. Karen was sitting at the kitchen table, hands in her lap, crying; tears streamed down her cheeks. She had me. I'm a sucker for a weeping female, any age. Karen stood up, came to me. Put her arms around my shoulders, head on my chest. Sobbed louder; soaked my shirt front.

"I'm so sorry," I heard through her tears. "Don't know why I did it."

I held her close for long moments. Asked quietly: "When did it start?"

"At our ten-year high school reunion last May. Walt and I dated our last two years in high school. Toward the end it didn't go well. I got pregnant. The abortion was botched. That's why I can't have kids. I didn't want to tell you. Ever. But there it is. In July last summer, we picked up where we'd left off in high school. Back then he was my first. I gave him my virginity. He's always been my one and only love." (Side point: Usually, females don't 'lose' their virginity. They 'give it away.')

"I broke it off with Walt today. He's got a wife and three young kids. No, I don't want to marry him. He doesn't want his family to find out." Pause. More sobbing. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"But of course," I said quietly, holding her close, gently. "We can weather this storm. Let's go away and find each other again." And we did. Acted like newlyweds. The first two months of our marriage in three days over Mothers Day weekend. We were back together and deeply in love once more.

Then again, maybe not. As the weeks rolled by I had a sense that Karen was putting on an act. The 'genuine' element seemed to be missing. We had shifted our Sexual Intimacy encounters, 'SIs,' to Tuesday evenings and Saturday mornings. Tuesday sessions were fine. But there was always an activity, shopping, yard work, some commitment, that needed doing every Saturday morning. I felt rushed. Felt that Karen preferred it that way. Suspicions returned.

Within two weeks, as I observed from across the street again, Karen was back to Thursday mornings, 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., at the King Royal Motel. Walt arrived right on time. This began in mid-June. I checked the next Thursday to be sure. Didn't it occur to them they ought to go someplace else? Dumb!

Took the desk picture back to the King Royal day man again. "Yeah. She took some weeks off. But she's back again. Pays cash. No credit card. Just between us, I pocket the money. The maids clean the rooms assigned. They don't know the difference. Don't care. A room to be cleaned is a room to be cleaned."

Now it was time to plan. My stress level ramped up something fierce. But I never planned anything so carefully in my life. Starting in early July, I selected a Thursday about mid-August. I could move it back a week if necessary, but not closer.

First contact was my sister Sharon who lived about two blocks from us. Much nicer house and grounds than ours. Husband Arnold Carson was a highly successful divorce attorney. Specialized in representing men at that. What a fortunate coincidence. We talked. They had a fine servants' apartment, completely furnished, over their garage. Sharon said I could use it whenever and as needed. Bless them.

Arnie said I needed proof, the more visual and graphic the better. He sent me to a business called 'Forbidden Photography.' I gave them the date, the place, the time, paid a deposit. We set it up.

Then it was off to see the day man at the King Royal Motel. He was willing to let me have room 117 for twenty-four hours. Start on the Wednesday at 4:00. Set up the evening before. Take down the following afternoon. I gave him $250 now and promised the same that Thursday afternoon when we took away the equipment . "My pocket appreciates," he said as the money disappeared.

"Stay in your office, out of sight, between 11:00 and 1:00. Don't hear anything." No problem.

I surveyed what I wanted to take with me from our house: clothes, books, recipes, DVDs and CDs, a few platters and bowls inherited from my grandmother. Also my beer equipment, any beer still in the fridge, and don't forget the crematorium.

Arnie drew up the necessary papers. Walter Goodell was named in a separate set: alienation of affection and adultery. Arnie told me it would get tossed out immediately. But it would bring his bed-hopping fun out in the open. He also assured me that Walt's wife would own the dealership by the end of the year. I didn't like it but, after all, choices lead to consequences. This would cost him his ass. He'd be lucky to ever see his kids again.

In the meantime, I contacted my old high school football buddy, Tony Stampino. We were killer linebackers our last two years of high school. Sports writers called us 'The Immovable Objects.' Nobody but nobody got by us. Winning the state championship our senior fall proved it. We had to beat a good team from the Cleveland area to do it. Tony didn't go to college, but entered his family's business. Now, he pretty much ran it.

We met over lunch one Friday. I told him my situation. Then my plan. He liked it. Never been done before as far as he knew. Said "I'll handle the delivery myself. All you pay for is the materials and mileage on the truck. No personnel costs. Just pay cash." He quoted me a price. I thanked him. Tony promised to follow a 'recipe' his family never used.

The day finally arrived. On Wednesday, August 20, 2014, I told Karen I'd be late that evening. Had a new client to help interview. Only time possible. Forbidden Photography's tech showed up right on schedule. Using a stepladder, he put the miniature video camera in the overhead smoke alarm. It was motion-sensor driven. Checked the focus. Tested the microphone. It meant the little white light in the alarm wouldn't shine, but in daylight, who would notice? The camera wi-fied video and sound to a recording machine set in a motel maintenance room, about thirty feet down the hall. One of their techs would show up about 9:45 the next day and oversee the recording. Afterward, he'd go out for lunch. We'd meet about 2:30 p.m. and break down the equipment. I needed to be there both times because I had the room key card. I wanted to bypass the day man at the main desk. That's what the techie and the day man wanted too.

Next morning I picked up the small moving van I'd rented. Smallest they had. My stuff at the house was all located and organized. Took me about 15 minutes to load. Drove to Sharon's house and moved into the apartment. Nothing to it. But I sweated and stressed the whole time. What would my neighbors think about me putting stuff in a U-Haul van and driving off? What could Sharon's neighbors think about my obviously moving in? Worry about it later. Then I stepped into my sister's house and picked up the papers to spring on Karen and Walter.

That same morning the combatants arrived on schedule. At Walt's end a VW bug and a '95 Ford pick-up truck were parked in the last two slots. In the third space we put a large yellow trash barrel - loaded. Right at the motel end of the parking space. Whatever Walt drove, he would park in that third slot and stick out beyond the parking line, about three feet. If he parked in the fourth spot, we'd have even more room. Today he was driving a shiny forest green Buick convertible with dealership plates. Brand new. Perfect. He parked in the slot next to the trash bin.

Shortly after 10:00, I moved the pickup and the VW bug to the front of the motel. The trash barrel to the far-right parking space. Now there were the two-and-a-half empty spaces. My friends would retrieve their vehicles about 11:00.

I had borrowed a stethoscope from our company nurse. Used it on the window of room 117. About 10:45 I listened to their explicit, crude dialog for five minutes. The verbal highlight during that time? Karen screaming "Oh yes! Oh God yes! Put it in my ass. My ass. I love it! I love it in my ass!" Like hearing 'goodbye' from a long gone friend. Sad, but not overwhelming this time. I had moved on. Emotionally and physically.

Tony called me on my new throwaway cell phone. Said he'd be by in 20 minutes. Sure enough, about 11:15 a huge cement delivery truck, gigantic barrel turning, backed around the end of the motel (with its beeper off) on Walter's side. Simplicity followed. Tony set up the trough and began to pour cement into the convertible's front seat. We didn't talk. About two minutes later he pushed on the business end of the trough. Backseat's turn. The results were exquisite.

The wet cement weighed over two tons. One cubic yard. First the car's wheel rims began to distort. All four tires went flat. Next the axles broke, followed by the tie rods and sides of the frame. Instead of a straight car, front to back, we had a long, shallow arc. The muffler crunched flat. The car was totally destroyed.

It was too sad for me to laugh. Not Tony. He roared. The 'quick' delivery took about seven minutes. He drove the truck around to the side of the motel, cleaned it up, rinsed it off. I paid him and he drove away.

I waited until about 12:30. Using the key card, I went down the hall to room 17, papers in hand. Familiarity and eagerness bred sloppiness. I found that out as I keyed the door. The lovers had not bothered to set the inside lock or the security chain.

What a sight. Walter was getting a last chew/suck on Karen's magnificent left tit, pants and briefs down around his ankles.. She was diddling what looked like a short cock, shorter and skinnier than mine. (She gave up my larger, better equipment for that?) The lovers froze. In slow phases, they realized: 1.)someone was there; 2.)that someone was me; 3.)that I approached them with papers in hand; 4.)I gave each of them the proper papers; 5.)I mumbled a cheery goodbye; and 6.)I left. Walter had yet to know what happened to his car.

I wish I had been there when Walter found his convertible. I checked later. It had an MSRP of about $43,000 including extras plus sales Tax, license fees, and insurance. Now, a total loss.

Later that afternoon, after the tech and I were through, Arnie and I watched the video. Good sound. Clear picture. Graphic. Advanced sex techniques and sensuous noises. Marvelous view from above. Arnie said it was "a great asset to our case." Then he laughed and laughed. Forbidden Photography gave me eight copies. Grinning, the tech asked if he could make a copy for himself. "Of course," I said. "Keep the master. I won't need it anymore." I gave one of the copies to the day man. "Enjoy!" I said. He grinned.

I returned the room key card with $250 folded beneath it. "Thanks," he said, putting the money in his pocket, the video in his top desk drawer. "Any time."

4. Coda: Tail of the Tale.

"Mary Janis, Live from Channel Five at 3:15. I'm here at the back parking lot of the King Royal motel. Near the Cincinnati airport. Behind me you can see what was once a beautiful brand new Buick convertible." The camera panned. "Acting on an anonymous tip, we found the front and back seats of the car loaded down with fresh cement. Our best guess is that the wet cement weighs more than 3,000 pounds. Although it appears to be drying rapidly, already firm to the touch on the outside. [She had strolled over to the car and touched the cement to demonstrate.] The dealer license plate indicates our 2015 Buick convertible came from Walter Goodell Buick. Employees at the dealership refuse to answer any questions. Phone calls to Walter Goodell and his lawyer have not been returned. We are waiting now for a response unit from the Cincinnati Police Department. More news at 6:00 and 11:00." [Siren sounds in the background as she closed.]