My Blue Angel

[Author's Note: This story is dedicated to Harddaysknight, for reasons he will understand.]

When I came into the office on Monday Dan had said, "you feel like taking a couple of days down in Florida? Elliott Rogers seems to need a little hand-holding, what with all the turmoil in the Dow over the last couple of months."

Since Dan and I co-owned our firm, we didn't usually make trips to see clients any more—that's what young, eager subordinates were for. But Elliott Rogers and his wife had been with us for more than 15 years and had invested close to $100 million; so they got special attention.

"I don't mind—actually, it's a pretty good time. The kids are both away at college, and Carrie is off visiting a friend in Nashville for the week. So sure, I'll go settle him down."

A plus for me was getting to see my uncle Tony. Now nearly 80, he lived right on a picturesque little river an hour or so north of Miami, and he was just as much a character as ever.

I drove home, packed a bag for a couple of days, headed for the airport, and by 3:30 I was sitting with Tony on the balcony of his condo, drinking a Sam Adams and listening to the same old tall tales I'd enjoyed since boyhood. Every time a boat went by, he stopped talking and picked up the binoculars.

"Are you going to finish that story or what, Tony? So the guy at the bar took a swing at you..."

He grinned, without taking the binoculars from his eyes. "Hang on there, young fella. At my age a guy doesn't get to see all that many bare boobies."

He passed me the binoculars, and to my amazement saw three teenage girls and a guy waving from a small sailboat. The girls were all grinning—and topless.

Tony grabbed the binoculars back. "See what I mean?" He cackled contentedly.

We shared family stories, and a few more beers, until I was beginning to think about dinner—maybe a couple of steaks at a place Tony liked around the corner. He picked up his binoculars again, looked at a pale blue motorboat, focused carefully, and just stared.

Then he said, "holy shit,," and passed the glasses over to me.

It was about a 35-footer, called "My Blue Angel," drifting gently with the current. Lying on his back on some cushions in the cockpit was a stocky short-haired guy, maybe 30 or so, and he was being fucked by a beautiful brunette, obviously somewhat older, who was riding him vigorously, her head thrown back and her tits bouncing around energetically. She had a large tattoo of a Chinese character on her right shoulder.

You may wonder why I bothered to notice the name of the boat, or the tattoo on the naked woman. Easy enough to explain: it was my wife Carrie.

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

Without a word I handed the binoculars back to my uncle, and listened to his running commentary until the couple were out of sight around the bend. When they had vanished he put the glasses down and said, "man, was that a sight? Every once in a while I see a couple goin' at it, Jack, but I tell you—that lady was HOT! If I were 20 years younger..."

"More like 50, I'd say," I replied, smiling at him. I was pretty upset, but I wasn't going to talk to Tony about it. We went off to get our steaks, after which I brought Tony home and he went to sleep. I was in my hotel room by 9:30—with a lot to think about.

You might think I would've been destroyed, but I wasn't. Carrie and I had been married about 12 years. She'd been a great stepmother to my two kids—my first wife had been killed in a train accident—and a pretty good wife for me.

I loved and valued her, and I knew she loved me. Yet somehow it wasn't all that shocking that she was fucking around on me. Carrie had always been a restless person—never too comfortable doing any one thing for too long. She'd had five different jobs during the course of our marriage, had been through a number of hobbies (from knitting to country-dancing to horseback-riding), and just never wanted to sit still.

Carrie and I had a sex life that pleased me—certainly she was as interested in sex as I was, and had no problem about grabbing my cock from time to time and dragging me into the bedroom. Sometimes we had gentle, even routine old-married people sex, but other times she fucked the hell out of me. In fact, I reflected, one of her favorite positions for hard-driving sex was riding me, just the way she was riding that guy on the boat.

Even the exhibitionism sort of fit—Carrie had tried several times to get me to fuck her in public. We'd tried a bench in the park, and the back seat of my car a couple of times, but I'd drawn the line at anything too way-out. I didn't really want to see my name in the papers!

To put it bluntly, then, I wasn't crushed. I was angry, and hurt, but I didn't see my marriage necessarily coming to an end over this. I didn't think Carrie was out to humiliate me—she didn't know where Uncle Tony lived, and certainly had no idea I'd be gazing out at the river that day.

But two things WERE quite clear to me. I was going to find out a lot more about what was going on; and I was going to fuck Stephanie Prince.

For the hell of it I called Marjorie Bales in Nashville, where Carrie was supposedly spending the week. She seemed surprised to hear from me—and a little wary.

"Sorry to bother you Marjorie, but Carrie's cell phone seems to be acting up and I couldn't get through. Could you put her on for a minute?"

"Oh, uh, sorry, Jack—she's in the shower. Can I have her call you back?"

We got off the phone and I smiled to myself. As I'd expected, Marjorie was covering for her old friend. I wondered how many of Carrie's previous trips to Nashville had actually been vacations with one fuck-buddy or another.

Carrie called my cell about 45 minutes later—rather a long shower!—and we chatted amiably. I told her I was on a trip to see a client, but didn't mention where I was. Before we hung up she told me she loved me and missed me, and would see me on Saturday.

The thing of it was, I believed her. She DID love me. I didn't think the affair was about getting out of our marriage, or putting one over on me. My guess was that my restless wife just wasn't very well-designed for a life of monogamy.

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

After my meeting the next morning with Elliott Rogers I spent half an hour with Thomas Giardino, Private Investigator. I told him all about the short-haired guy on "My Blue Angel," let him copy a picture of my wife, and left him a substantial check.

"No need to barge in on them," I told him, "and I don't need any compromising photos. Just discreetly find out what the deal is—is she staying with him, or was this a casual hook-up? Who is the guy, where's he from, and what does he do for a living? I want to try to figure out how they met, and how long they've been doing this."

Before I got on the plane back to Charlotte I phoned Stephanie Prince. "Hey, it's the man of your dreams—you free for dinner tonight?"

"Yes, I'm serious. Carrie's out of town, and I want to take you out to wine and dine you. How does The Fig Tree sound?"

"Fantastic—I'll pick you up at 8:00. And listen: wear something that does justice to that beautiful body. I want every man in the restaurant tonight to hate my guts."

I laughed, and hung up the phone. Then I called The Fig Tree and reserved a table.

Stephanie Prince was a tall, extremely hot red-head of about 32 who lived three blocks from me and Carrie. She sold real estate, knew just about everyone in town, dated a lot, and for some unaccountable reason was attracted to me, though I was a pretty average-looking guy of 41.

Three or four years earlier, after we'd gotten to know one another at a few neighborhood parties, she'd made a serious pass at me. We were having a casual lunch downtown and she said, "would you do me a favor, Jack?"

"Sure," I said, "name it."

"I've been going through one hell of a dry spell lately. Can you take a couple of hours off this afternoon and fuck my brains out?"

When I'd finished picking my jaw up off the table, we talked about it. If I were to consider cheating on my wife with anybody, it would have been Stephanie, and I told her so—but I took my marriage vows seriously.

"I know you're happily married, Jack, and I'm not trying to break you and Carrie up. Nor am I looking for a husband, or even some magical romance. I like sex, and I like you. If you want to roll around on a bed with me, whether it's once or more than once, just say the word."

I'd put her off, but not without thanking her for the flattering offer. And I hadn't forgotten about it either; though it wasn't until I saw Carrie bouncing on that guy's dick that I'd thought I'd ever do something about it.

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

The steelhead trout at The Fig Tree was about the best I ever tasted; but it paled next to my night in Stephanie Prince's bed. Based on the time I spent with my dick in her mouth or her hot pussy, I'd have to say that adulterous sex, even with condoms, is every bit as amazing as people say it is. She was eager, experienced, and untiring. I still don't know why she finds me attractive, but she sure as hell enjoyed fucking me until I couldn't get it up any more!

And for at least some of the time Carrie never entered my mind, although when Stephanie was riding me like a bucking bronco, pulling on my hands to squeeze her beautiful tits, I couldn't help but think of what I'd seen a day earlier on The Blue Angel. The thought passed, though; I pinched Stephanie's nipples and felt her pussy clamp on me as she came again, groaning deliciously. That did it for me; I shot up into her, for the third time—God knows what I had left—and a few minutes later we were asleep, with me comfortably spooned up behind Stephanie, a hand on one of her breasts.

Dinner had been surprisingly serious. We flirted, of course, and Stephanie kept alluding to her post-dessert plans for me; but we also really talked. She's so hot-looking that it's easy to overlook how thoughtful and smart Stephanie is, but our conversation reminded me.

It didn't take long for her to ask the $64,000 question—right after we'd ordered in fact.

"Okay, Jack—spill. I'm glad you called, but what's going on?"

I smiled and said, "can't I have a nice elegant dinner with the best-looking woman I know?"

"What about Carrie?"

I said, "yes, she's attractive too, but—"

Stephanie smacked my arm, smiling, and said, "Very funny. Really—what's up? You've kept your distance ever since I, uh, expressed my interest a couple of years ago, so why tonight?"

I told her what I'd seen in Florida and how I was feeling about it.

"That sucks," she said. "I'm sorry, Jack," and I knew she meant it. We spent most of dinner talking about marriages, about adultery and trust. Stephanie had been divorced twice, both times from hot guys who cheated on her, before pretty much giving up on matrimony, so she was very sympathetic.

Over coffee she asked, "so what are you going to do?"

I smiled and said, "in the short term I'm going to take you home and hope that you invite me in." She gave me a half-smile and slid her foot gently against my leg under the table.

"After that, I don't know. I think Carrie and I can survive this—maybe. I need to know how serious this fling of hers is, and I've got a guy looking into it.

"But you know what? I think it's time to stop talking about Carrie." I signalled for the check. Five minutes later we were holding hands, walking to the car. Twenty minutes after that we were necking on her couch, and a bit later we were naked in Stephanie's bedroom.

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

Over the next couple of days, the smile on my face from my amazing night with Stephanie kept coming and going, alternating with the dark thoughts about Carrie and the future of our marriage. People at work must have noticed something, because on Thursday Dan came into my office, closing the door behind him, and said, "what?"

I sighed, and told him the story.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Ask me next week," I said. "It depends on what the PI finds—and what Carrie has to say. She'll be back Saturday night, so we'll see."

I spent Thursday night with Stephanie, and it was just as hot as the first time. I brought over take-out Chinese food and we fed it to each other in bed, when we weren't fucking or licking each other.

"You know what?" I said to her around midnight, when we were sleepily half-watching Letterman. "I'm having a really good time!"

"And that's a surprise to you? Asshole!" she said, laughing.

"No, that's not what I mean." I kissed her. "Sex with you is just fabulous, Stephanie—I mean it. You are an amazing lover.

"But it's—I guess you turn me on so much, it took me a while to notice how much fun I'm having when we're NOT screwing. Just talking with you, laughing, watching you drip Kung Pao chicken onto those amazing breasts." I leaned over and licked her nipple, enjoying her shiver.

"You are just— I can't believe nobody has snapped you up by now. You deserve better than—well, than me, frankly."

She turned off the TV and pulled me down for a kiss. "You're a sweetie, Jack. And I've been having a great time too. But don't sell yourself short, you're more of a prize than you realize. And if Carrie doesn't get her head out of her ass, there're going to be women lined up to try to make you feel better."

"Including you?" I asked. She looked away.

"I'm not sure. I'd pretty much accepted that I was not a settle-down kind of girl, but... Let's just say 'I don't know' and leave it at that."

We let it go at that, both of us aware that things had turned kind of serious. Snuggling up together, we kissed a little more and fell asleep.

And in the morning Stephanie was all lightness and laughter as we showered together, joked over breakfast and went our separate ways.

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

Thomas Giardino, the PI from Florida, emailed me on Friday afternoon. "Here are our preliminary results—please read and examine the attached files, and then call me at the office. I'll be in until 6 pm."

I read through the report, looked at the half-dozen photos, then called and spoke to Giardino for about 20 minutes.

The owner of The Blue Angel was a 34-year old guy named Roger Dionne. He was a vice-president for sales of a medical supply company and, according to his neighbors, something of a pussy hound. There was nearly always a woman at his place, splashing in the pool or sunbathing on the deck, or even moaning and hollering in his bedroom. And the women never hung around all that long—Dionne was apparently into variety rather than monogamy.

The PI's photos included several shots of Carrie and Dionne together—lying out by the pool, getting out of a BMW in his driveway, and one showing them eating together at a table in the back of the house. There were none with any sex in them, though it was apparent that she had been staying with him.

Several people in Dionne's neighborhood recognized Carrie from the photo I'd provided, but no one could recall having seen her before the current week.

So—what could I conclude? First, that Dionne was probably a short-term fuck buddy for Carrie, or at least a recent acquisition. They'd probably met through work, since Carrie's job was in purchasing for a hospital in Charlotte and she was constantly dealing with medical supply companies and their executives. Whether she might be planning to see him again after this week was impossible to say, but he didn't appear to be second husband material.

Since Carrie had gone off to visit her friend Marjorie about once a year in the past few years, it was likely that ol' Roger was just my wife's most recent fling, not the one and only. She clearly was being very careful about her escapades, since I would have had no idea of what she was up to were it not for coincidence, and Uncle Tony's binoculars.

I was left with a few questions, but not many. Really just the big one—what was I going to do about it?

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

"Baby I missed you!" Carrie gave me a sloppy kiss and hugged me tightly. I kissed her back, then took her suitcase and we headed out to airport parking, with her clutching my arm tightly. "I hope you've got a bottle of champagne for us!"

Since both Carrie and I traveled occasionally for work, or in her case for visits to "my friend Marjorie in Nashville," we'd gotten into the habit of celebrating our reunions with champagne together in bed, followed by some steamy sex.

Tonight was no exception. She took a quick shower while I unloaded her bags and got the champagne, and we spent the next couple of hours playing in bed. She seemed as happy and excited as ever; for me, it felt different. Fun, satisfying physically, but a little empty. When we were done she snuggled up against me, kissed my neck, said, "thank you baby—love you," and was asleep in minutes.

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

When Carrie stumbled into the kitchen on Sunday morning, wearing her robe and a sleepy smile, I'd already made the coffee and was just serving up the omelette and toast. She hugged me, smiling, then accepted a cup of coffee. We ate in silence, Carrie looking affectionately at me, squeezing my hand from time to time—me just sitting back and watching.

After her second cup, when she started to be more awake, Carrie said, "that was pretty nice last night, baby. The best part of being away is always coming back and having you remind me of what I've been missing." She smiled at me, lovingly. I liked it but it didn't stop me from saying what I'd been waiting to say.

"Do you think I should have used a condom, Carrie? I mean, since you've been fucking Roger Dionne—do you think we're safe?"

The smile froze on her face. "Jack, I, uh—what? What did you say?"

I waited, letting the silence build. Her face got really pale, and she couldn't hold my eye.

"Roger," I said. "The guy in Florida, with the boat. Don't play dumb, sweetheart—it doesn't suit you. Did you and he use condoms? And how about the other guys you fucked—I figure there have been at least five or six of them. Have you been a good little girl and practiced safe sex?"

Carrie started to cry. "Jack, I'm— It's not, uh, what—oh my God. Baby, I'm so sorry, I didn't—

"Oh my God!" She put her face in her hands, crying harder. When she looked up at me, her face stained with tears, I just stared back.

"Baby, I— Jack, I'm just... I know I've ... oh Jesus ... I know I did something awful, but I—how did you find out?"

Silence. I had no intention of answering that one. She watched me, and shrank back from whatever she saw, crying harder now, blowing her nose into her napkin. I got up from the table, saying "I'm going to take a shower."

When I came back into the kitchen a half hour later, shaved and dressed, Carrie was still sitting at the table; but she'd cleaned up the dishes and washed her face.

"Honey, I know I owe you an explanation. I know I fucked up, and I love you so much, I just can't—"

"Sorry, Carrie," I said. "Not now. I'm due at Stephanie Prince's house. I should be back for dinner—we can talk then."

"Stephanie Prince?" Her sad face had turned baffled.

"Yeah, you remember Stephanie, the real-estate agent? Tall with red hair? Turns out she gives a really good blow-job, like she loves doing it, you know what I mean?"

Carrie looked as though pigs had just flew in the kitchen window. "Stephanie—you're ... having sex with her?"

"Well, when I found out our marriage wasn't what I thought it was I took her up on her offer. We've been fucking, yeah. So I'll see you at dinner!"

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

Stephanie did indeed give a wonderful blow-job, though I wouldn't necessarily say it was better than Carrie's. I gave what I felt was a reasonably good account of myself in Stephanie's bed that afternoon, considering what I'd been up to with Carrie the night before. Then we lay around for a while, eating sandwiches and watching the Carolina Panthers.