My Lawyer Was A Shark

Arrogance. Pride. Hubris. Whatever you want to call it, cheaters have it in spades.

I think it's a side effect of continually getting one over on the people who are closest to you. I suppose it makes them feel like they're particularly clever, or like a secret agent out of some movie. In any case, they're special, or at least they think so. Better than you or me and any other decent person who wakes up every morning thinking they're safe amongst friends, family and the people who love them.

Of course, that's all bullshit. It's not terribly hard to lie to people who trust you. At least until they catch you at it.

"Honey, great news!" effused my wife, Traci, as she set her keys and purse down on the small table near our front door.

I smiled at her; it was a tepid thing. She hadn't noticed for weeks.

"What's that dear?"

"We've been invited out on a company cruise next weekend!" she said.

Now, this was a lie, and I knew so for a couple of reasons. First off, her eyes were twitching, and her smile was a bit too tight - after 10 years of marriage, I knew when she was being duplicitous, but these were two of her major tells. Secondly, I had read every single one of the text messages between her and Austin Butcher, the man she had been fucking for the last five months.

"Wow! That's great! I said, the false sincerity practically oozing from my vocal cords. How could she not tell?

"What's the occasion? Where are we going?

Traci headed towards the kitchen and continued to talk to me over her back.

"Oh, it's just for meeting our sales targets for the year and I think we'll be heading out to a private resort for the weekend. It should be a lot of fun, don't forget to pack a swimsuit!"

As I listened to the sounds of Traci screwing around with our coffee maker, I pondered if there was any significance to the two more lies she just told me. You see, I knew for a fact that our destination was Butcher's private island, just a few miles off the Keys and that the occasion was so that he could fuck my wife in front of me.

Text messages, remember?

Just as Traci appeared with her customary after work Keurig cappuccino, I wondered, not for the first time, if I should just serve the silly bitch and take off for parts unknown. It definitely would be the sensible thing to do - at least far more sensible than getting on the private yacht of a millionaire that wants to cuck you. However, I did have a couple of advantages over Butcher and my wife - For starters, I knew everything about their plans, but perhaps more importantly, the two of them were dumber than door posts.

Traci was staring at me with a shit eating grin. The kind of smile that made me think that her internal monologue was something along the lines of, "

I can't wait to destroy this cuck faggot and make him eat my lovers cum out of the nasty pastrami slices I call a cunt

" - Paraphrasing here of course.

I just returned her grin, tooth for tooth and politely asked what was for dinner.

I think it slightly unnerved her.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Austin Butcher was nobody special. Not really, anyway. His daddy had created a reasonably large real estate empire back in the 80's and then had a stroke at the Piggly Wiggly, leaving everything to his idiot son. Austin then spent the next 10 years dismantling it, largely through his own incompetence. Still, he had a giant pile of money, which is what ultimately led him to my wife.

My wife Traci worked as a broker for a gallery that dealt in fine art and antiques. The kind of shit that people with too much money bought, mostly because it was the only kind of long-term investment you could use to politely show someone how rich you were since lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills fell out of favor in the 1920's. Butcher had an office he needed to furnish, and Traci had a commission she wanted to collect. The rest, as they say, is history.

Honestly, I think it began innocently enough. I still remember Traci walking through that door with a beaming smile waving around a commission check like she won the lottery. It had been a hard year for us - the COVID lockdowns having turned our local economy into a tailspin, so Traci's unexpected windfall was more than welcome. She practically leapt into my lap and kissed me with a fervor that I hadn't felt in what seemed like years. That's how depressed we all felt at the time.

"Oh honey!" she exclaimed, "We have this new rich guy client and he's spending money like it's water!"

If I had been paying more attention, I think I would have seen the dollar signs in her eyes, hindsight being 20/20 and all that.

It was kind of cute in a way. She bought me presents, at least at first. She talked about Austin all the time - that was less cute. Eventually she stopped talking about him all together and I never saw her wave another check as she walked through the door, but I knew the money was still coming in. Until it wasn't.

I probably would have remained blissfully ignorant of my impending date with Austin Butcher if my wife had been more intelligent, and yes, I'm pretty sure the guy is after me - his fetish revolves around the husbands and the wife is just a proxy for his suppressed homosexuality. I have a theory about this that I won't bore you with, but to summarize in a nutshell, I think Butcher is a latent homosexual with internalized homophobia which expresses itself as a desire to have sex with women while their husbands watch. It seems one of his most frequent fantasies is to get men to consume his semen. I mean, really - that should pretty much say it all.

Sorry, I got sidetracked. Traci is stupid. She opened a "secret" bank account and used our home address. I found the statement - there was a lot, and I mean, A LOT of money in it. More than the both of us typically made in a year. I was a bit stunned, so I asked her in a roundabout way over dinner that night.

"Hey babe", I said while pushing my peas around on my plate, "What happened to those big commission checks? I noticed you haven't gotten one in a while."

Traci, to her credit, only dribbled her red wine out of the corner of her mouth instead of doing a full-on spit-take.

"Uh..." she floundered for a moment, the little hamster that ran the wheel in her brain was obviously chugging overtime.

"I think he moved."

I have to admit, I almost fucking giggled at her. She was acting like a pre-teen who got called out for cheating on her boyfriend. Oh, don't worry about him -

he moved, we don't ride the bus together anymore

.

"You mean that big real estate guy, right? What was his name again?

I was pretending not to know who he was to allay any concerns she had that I might be on to her. It was probably a waste of effort, because as I mentioned before, Traci is dumber than a bag of hammers.

"Uh... Austin something, I think" she said.

Now, I'm sounding flippant recounting all this after the fact, but at the time, Traci's juvenile attempt at deflection hit me like a gut punch. It was at that moment that I was pretty sure my marriage was over. Still, I held out a little bit of hope. Maybe she was just fucking him for the money. I know, it sounds pathetic to me now as well, but hey, your brain plays a lot of bizarre tricks when it's trying to rationalize your entire life and a ten-year marriage going down the shitter. So sue me.

It wasn't until later that night, when I woke up and unlocked Traci's phone (she never bothered to change her code - she's stupid, alright) and read her text messages that I fully understood how bad the situation was. I didn't cry, I'll give myself that, but it took me about two weeks until my stomach didn't feel like it wanted to rebel at odd times during the day. Anxiety will do that to you if you don't deal with it and the best way for me to deal with it was to start working on a plan. Knowing where you're going, at least sometimes, is just as good if not better than knowing where you've been.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Their plan, like them, was very simple. They were going to drug me at dinner, then with the help of one of the yacht crew who was actually a bodyguard, they'd carry me to Butcher's suite, tie me to a chair and then wake me up and start their games. They were going to take pictures of me sucking on Butchers cock to blackmail me into further degrading acts. Remember my internalized homophobia theory - doesn't seem so silly now, does it?

Now, I need to point out that as good as this plan might sound to a moron, unless you want to go to prison for murder, you really shouldn't try to drug people with sleeping pills in booze. I'm serious, you can kill someone that way. And you definitely shouldn't discuss such a plan in text messages, especially ones your husband has copied to a cloned phone being held by his lawyer.

I mean, if your husband was less scrupulous, he might decide to Uno reverse card your dumb cheating slut ass, be a bit less careful about how many pills he feeds you and then just claim that you fucked up your plan, because, as self-evident, you are a fucking moron and wrote it all out.

Now, I might actually have a bottle of extremely potent benzodiazepine based sleeping pills in my luggage that "my wife" ordered on her credit card from an online pharmacy. And it might even be in my overnight bag right now, but it was just one of many plans I had for the night. There was a whole bunch of goodies, a virtual pharmacy (see what I did there?) just waiting to be put to bad use. Everything from liquid magnesium citrate (guaranteed to work in under 30 minutes) to more street level pharmaceuticals that I obtained from my college aged cousin.

The point being - I had a deck of Uno reverse cards, I just had to figure out how to use them.

=-=-=-=-=-=

We were out cruising on the yacht; despite myself I actually found the sea spray coming over the bow invigorating. The crew was exactly as I expected it, a captain, a first mate, a cook and a porter who was actually a thug. The rest of the guests were just a couple of people from Traci's office and her boss, Thurgood and his wife, Eliza. Eliza at least had the good sense to look slightly uncomfortable about what was going to go on. She clung to Thurgood's arm and every now and then would look at me and frown.

Butcher, the pompous ass, was flirting shamelessly with my wife. I didn't care to stop them, after all, I didn't really give a fuck. Instead, I kept hitting on one of Traci's coworkers - a slender redhead named Claire, and I made sure to do it front of her husband.

Now, before anyone gives me grief for it, her husband wasn't some unwilling cuck like they were trying to make out of me. He was in on the entire setup, just like Claire was. Just like everyone on this little floating shit heap was.

I complimented Claire on her bikini. I ogled her ass. I kept refilling her drink. I asked her what her favorite sexual positions were. I completely ignored Traci. It was clear to me that no one knew what to make of my behavior and no one was amused by it. Traci was absolutely livid, and I could see Austin calming her down out of the corner of my eye.

Good.

We were all supposed to dine on the yacht this evening and then after a rousing bout of Butcher orally raping me, or whatever else he wanted to photograph, we were going to lift anchor and put in on his estate for the morning. I'm certain the weekend would continue from there, with me getting fucked over, quite literally.

I had been trying to decide if I wanted to spike Traci or Butcher's drink tonight. Butcher was appealing for the poetic irony of it all - the dumbass wife accidently kills her lover instead of her husband, when I saw something off in the distance.

"Hey, isn't that a whale?" I said and pointed off the port side of the yacht.

Everyone came to the side of the deck. Eliza must have had some pretty good eyesight as she said, "Something seems wrong with it."

"Hey, Williams, port side!" Butcher called back to one of his lackies. The boat shifted and crawled forward over the waves and as we pulled closer, we could all see that it was indeed a whale... a very, very dead whale.

There were the appropriate signs of sadness from the female members of the trip and a command from Butcher to move us away, but as the ship turned to leave, I caught sight of something interesting, but I'll get back to that later.

It was getting close to showtime, so I excused myself, claiming I needed to use the head. I went to the galley and introduced myself to the cook. We had a nice talk about both the dinner being served tonight as well as her previous employment. She was very busy, her back turned to me most of the time, so I finally asked her where the cleaning supplies were, after all, I made a mess and wanted to clean it up. She showed me to a small closet on the aft side of the ship and I thanked her. I chuckled to myself. There were two big jugs of what I was looking for.

I made a few preparations and then returned, making sure to slap Claire on the ass, once again complimenting her bikini. I swear I think this time she smiled. Maybe I should have been giving this sexual harassment thing a try from the start. It seemed to work for assholes like Butcher.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

We were all sitting at the large table in the state room when Butcher stood from his chair.

"I'd like to propose a toast!" His voice cracked, either in excitement or nervousness. Maybe both. This guy was a predator, and I didn't feel like my asshole was safe.

I dutifully raised my glass along with everyone else.

"To good friends and new beginnings!"

We clinked. They drank. Momma raised no fool, so I set my glass down untouched. A nervous look passed between my whore wife and her doughy playboy.

"Honey, you're supposed to drink" she whispered to me.

"I don't like champagne." I said.

Again, I could see that hamster wheel starting to spin. The vacant eyes were a great giveaway.

"But... but... it's rude!" she insisted.

"Don't care. I gave up alcohol. It's bad for your health, you know."

Another look was exchanged, this time between the porter and Butcher.

"We'll get you something non-alcoholic to drink, sorry sir."

"Make it a coke."

"Of course sir."

I nodded graciously and then cut into my steak. It looked like a decent cut, well marbled, cooked medium rare and the only thing on the plate that I hadn't doctored.

The conversation was sparse and banal. My wife was uncharacteristically silent. I wondered if she was having a last-minute bout of conscience. Probably not.

"Here sir" the porter cume thug said as he placed what looked like a glass of coke on the table. I smiled and reached for it with a bit more enthusiasm than I had intended and instead of knocking it over, it went flying across the table.

"Oops!"

"Damn it! Can't you do anything right!" exclaimed Traci.

"Sorrrrrrrrrrry" I whined like a petulant teenager and huffed dramatically.

"It's okay! We'll just clean this up and get you another one! "said Butcher. I could see more than a few beads of perspiration on his pasty brow. Everyone else looked extremely uncomfortable. It was going to get a lot worse for them pretty soon.

You see, liquid magnesium citrate is one of the fastest acting and most powerful laxatives you can purchase. It's an osmotic laxative, which means it works by pulling water into the small intestine. Earlier, when I left for the head, I had made a small side trip to the galley and liberally dosed everything, well everything but the steaks. I liked steak.

Poor, put upon Claire was the first person to succumb. We all heard the tell-tale gurgle emanating from her gut and she politely excused herself with a blush on her face. I momentarily mused that blushing redheads are pretty cute. It went downhill from there, or more like knocking over a row of dominos. Next was Eliza, then Thurgood (she must have had a weak constitution, he was a fast eater) then Traci, Claire's husband and finally Butcher himself. The dumbass had enough sense to feebly say, "Something must be off" when he returned to the table. He was gone 4 minutes later for another trip.

"Here, drink something!' I said, holding out glasses of water that I had poured from the large carafe on the table.

"You don't want to get dehydrated; you can die!" I said with false seriousness.

Traci accepted the first glass from me, then others started to partake. The porter came back from the kitchen to warn everyone that there seemed to be some food poisoning served along side with dinner tonight, only to be greeted with the foul smell of Thurgood literally shitting his pants while clutching his gut.

Now, those of you who are clever, or particularly fiendish, probably realized that me offering water to everyone wasn't an act of altruism. I mean, of course it wasn't, right? No, every glass was liberally dosed with MDMA. Better known to most of you as ecstasy.

Now, if you thought a yacht filled with scum sucking assholes literally shitting their guts out was funny, just imagine that - but also tripping balls on Molly. I really wanted to stay and enjoy the show, but frankly after a few minutes the stench was overpowering.

"Traci. Traci honey, are you okay?" I asked my wife. She was prone, clutching her guts and sweating like a whore in church.

"I... I... don't know what's wrong with me."

I helped her up to feet and led her from the room, claiming some fresh air might help her. It was cool outside, cooler than you might think for winter in Florida, even with the ocean breeze at night.

"Traci? Can I ask you something?"

She turned her head up from the deck and looked at me. For a moment the moonlight caught her face and I almost regretted what I was going to do.

"Why did you do it Traci? Was it just for the money?"

Her face, already pale, seemed to instantly lose all color. Her mouth hung open like a goldfish gasping for breath.

"Wha... what?" she gasped.

"Austin. Traci, why were you fucking Austin?" My voice sounded sadder than I thought I actually was. That was interesting.

"I never..." she started to lie. I cut her off.

"Traci, I know. I know everything. I know what you did. I know what you were planning to do tonight. I just don't understand why. Do you really hate me that much?"

I sighed and leaned back against the railing. Traci was obviously struggling to hold in her shit.

"I don't hate you... I swear... I don't know..." she grunted. She was losing her battle.

"You must hate me. There's no other explanation that I can think of trying to hurt me that much. Trying to drug me. Traci, you were going to let that asshole rape your husband."

I was getting angry now. My hands were clenched in rage.

"What the absolute fuck Traci! What did I ever do to you to deserve that!"

She was openly weeping now. The wracking sobs finally caused her to lose control of her bowels. The stench was nauseating, just like her.

For me, this was my moment of truth. Did I carry out my improvised plan, or did I just call the coastguard. It wasn't too late for me to end it without bloodshed. To end it with a clear conscience. Unfortunately for Traci, she was a fucking moron.

"Just... shut up. Shut up! You did this! You did this didn't you?" she screeched at me. It seems like that hamster finally arrived at the obvious point.

"You... you son of a bitch. Why couldn't you just be a good little cucky! You were eating his cum, the cum of a better man out of my pussy for weeks, you wimpy little faggot!"

The moonlight caught Traci again and this time, instead of the sweet and beautiful girl I married, I finally saw her for what she was. A piece of shit, covered in shit. And you know what they do with shit at sea? They toss it overboard.

"Put me down!" she screamed as I heaved-ho and tossed the stupid bitch over the port side of the yacht. It wasn't that far down, but she hit with an impressive splash. There was a blessed moment of silence and then she broke the surface of the water, and the caterwauling began again.