No Reply: Answered

After an original by

HardDaysKnight

.

HardDaysKnight is one of the most prolific and respected authors in the LW genre. "No Reply" is a short tale based on a family tradition: when a male in the family turns 18, he is set up for a weeklong affair with an older wife, during which she teaches him 'the ways to please a woman,' and he plants trees on her and her husband's property. The narrator is a husband who leaves on a fishing trip, only to have his wife call to tell him that she will carry out the family tradition while he's gone unless he tells her not to.

The wife is described as a smart woman; nonetheless, she seems to accept the idea that a 21

st

century eighteen year old would need (or want) an older woman as a sex tutor. When the husband gets home, he's angry enough to throw a pie through the kitchen window, but after one fuck (in front of his mother, no less) he's ready to accept what happened, with no consequences for anyone. He does love his wife very much, but I suspect it's not really that simple. This is what I imagine might have followed.

This is posted with the kind permission of HardDaysKnight, and the invaluable editorial assistance of BlackRandl1958. While I am very grateful to them both, that doesn't necessarily mean that they like it, or that you will.

No Reply: Answered.

Debbie went upstairs to our bedroom and left me to deal with "the ladies," as she called them. My mother told me how glad she was that I was taking it so well. She'd been worried about me, she said, and was glad to see that Debbie and I were going to be just fine. She winked and smirked at me as she said 'fine.' I managed to get rid of her and Janice without telling her what I thought of her cuckolding my father, which was probably a good thing.

Debbie hadn't bothered to put any clothes on. She lay on her side, one arm extended invitingly on my side of the bed, as she smiled lovingly at me. Suddenly, I saw Jeff Emerson lying in my bed, in the circle of my naked wife's arm, looking at me with a smarmy grin on his face. I'm not the sort that sees things, but I saw this as clearly as I've ever seen anything in my life. I froze.

Debbie's smile faded. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"You did it here, in our bed, didn't you?"

"Of course we did, but you don't have to worry. I washed all the bedclothes; that's why I asked your father to take the long way home and stop so often. I told him it was so I could bake you a pie, which was true, but mostly it was to give me time to make sure everything was nice and clean for you."

"So, you couldn't let it end yesterday, you had to get one more fuck in today? Was he that good?"

"Bill, it's over. You're here now, he's gone, and he's never coming back. Come here and show me again that I belong to you."

"Yeah, and all last week I wasn't here and he was, so he could show you that you belonged to him." I'd had enough. I walked away.

"Bill, I love you."

"That's nice. I wish you'd loved me for the last week, or this morning. Or was it this afternoon?" I slammed the door.

I slept in my truck. That was one place I knew they hadn't fucked, because I kept the keys and Debbie couldn't drive a stick. I went to Home Depot early the next morning, and had the new window almost in before Debbie came downstairs.

I saw her looking nervously out at me through the window. I still couldn't decide whether to wring her neck, mourn over our marriage that would never be the same again, or just fuck her silly. My hard cock chose for me; after all, until the previous evening, I'd gone a week without. After putting away my tools, I chose door number three.

I didn't make love to my wife. I fucked her, hard and brutally, just like I had the night before. Whatever lessons I might have learned from Janice Burrows all those years before were completely out the window. Debbie came just as hard and often as she had the previous night, too. When I finally unloaded into her, she was barely moving, moaning for me to stop because she was sore. I pulled out of her limp, fucked-out body, looked at my cum leaking from the lips of her newly-shaved cunt, and wondered if she had made the little fucker use a condom. I bet not. I snarled, turned on my heel, and left.

I had to go somewhere to get my head on straight. You might think the week I'd spent golfing and fishing while I was being cuckolded would have been time enough for that. Debbie obviously thought it should, but there's a difference between knowing your wife is cheating on you, and having it right in front of your face, with her demanding that you accept it. I was angrier at her than I had ever been at anyone in my entire life, and I knew I had to cool down before I did something really stupid.

Debbie was right; I wouldn't kick her to the curb, as she put it. I loved her, but I knew our marriage would never be the same. She'd cheated, and I was supposed to just accept it. Wear the horns, as my father had put it, and be forever reminded of it by those damn trees. When I was fucking her, Debbie shouted at me to show her, show everyone, that she belonged to me, that I owned her pussy. Fine, but why would she say that unless she and everyone had some reason to believe she and her pussy belonged to someone else?

Debbie had dinner ready when I came home. We talked quietly during the meal, avoiding the elephant in the room. She smiled a lot, and touched my hand or arm when she talked. She'd made an apple pie for dessert. Debbie was a great cook all around, but her pies were to die for, and it wasn't just me who said so. This one smelled delicious. I had the first bite on my fork ready to enjoy it, when she had to go and spoil it all.

"Next year, I'll be making you pies from our apples, from our own trees."

I put my fork down and pushed my plate away.

"Your apples. Yours and that little fucker's. Not ours." The smile was wiped from her face. I stood up walked out the front door and sat in the porch swing. If somebody asked, I'd have said I was thinking. I wasn't. I just sat there and hurt, grieving for the marriage I'd had before I left on that damned trip.

"We're not fine, are we, darling?" She sat down next to me on the swing, her face troubled and sad. It wasn't really a question, so I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say, anyway.

"Bill, I gave you a chance to stop this," she reminded me gently. "If it was going to be such a problem, why didn't you?"

I exploded off the porch swing and yelled in her face. "After twenty-some years, I have to TELL you you're not supposed to have an affair? What the hell is wrong with you? What did I ever do to make you think I would be okay with you having a week-long affair that you planned with my fucking mother, and I mean that literally, and planting a permanent reminder of it in my yard? And now it's all my fault because I didn't tell you not to do it? To hell with that!"

I turned to stalk away, but Debbie grabbed my shoulder in a surprisingly strong grip and turned me to face her. "You fucked Janice Burrows for a week twenty-six years ago, that's what you did!" She didn't shout, but she looked as angry as I felt.

"Well then, I guess now you're just as much a slut as she is, right?"

She said something but I wasn't listening. I turned on my heel and stalked away. I started up my truck and peeled rubber as I left my once-happy home.

The next several days we lived in a state of armed truce, punctuated by an occasional outburst. This one was typical:

"Bill, you really hurt me when you called me a slut."

"Debbie, you really hurt me when you acted like one."

"I did not act like a slut! I did something as a favor for your mother and a nice young man, something that would make him and his future wife happy. A favor, I might add, that you had no problem accepting twenty-six years ago. Now it's your turn, your male ego is all hurt and you can't handle something that every man in your family has gone through for generations, including your father. Yes, I chose to do it, just like Janice Burrows did. If you want this marriage to survive, you'd better get your head out of your ass and figure out how to deal with it."

"Why would I want to stay married to a slut?"

"I'm NOT a slut! Didn't you listen to what I said?"

"Yeah, you said you had an affair and I'm supposed to deal with it. What am I missing here?"

"Look, Bill, I'm sorry you're having such a hard time accepting this. I thought that might happen; that's why I made sure you had a week to mull it over. I'll do everything I can to help you, but you're going to have to accept what I did if you want our marriage to survive."

"I'll say it again. You had an affair. You're not sorry, you rub my face in it, and I'm just supposed to 'accept it.' Why should I want this marriage to survive?"

Debbie drew herself up to her full height and stared me straight in the eye. "If you can't figure that out for yourself, I certainly can't tell you."

Neither of us was winning any good spouse awards, that's for sure. We weren't even likable people. We were more concerned with scoring hits on each other than with solving our problem, and said a lot of things we shouldn't have. I'm not proud of it, but that's how it was.

Debbie was obviously talking with my mother, who left me several worried-sounding messages. Finally I got tired of them and picked up when she called. She was very sympathetic, telling me she was sorry I was having such a problem with the family tradition, but it had built generations of strong marriages, including mine, and I needed to get past my male pride and see the big picture. I interrupted her.

"You're telling me that you helped my wife arrange an affair, neither of you is sorry, and I need to just accept it. You know damn well you would never put up with that from my father, whatever flimsy excuse he handed you. I don't want to say anything I'll regret later, so please don't call me again." I hung up, not on my mother, but on the woman who cuckolded my father and arranged for my wife to cuckold me.

"Bill, we can't go on like this," Debbie said one night, coming to sit by me on the porch swing. I took a good look at my wife, for the first time in days. Her eyes were red, her lips were puffy, and her strong, beautiful shoulders slumped. The way she looked reminded me of the rapidly aging man I saw in the mirror. I remembered how much I had loved her, and still did, and I was ashamed of the words I'd thrown at her in my anger.

"You're right. I've said some things I wish I hadn't, and I'm sorry."

"I have, too, but we do have to talk about this."

I noticed the absence of the words "I'm sorry," but decided to play nice and not mention it. "Yes, we do. For one thing, I owe you the answer to a question. You asked why I didn't tell you not to hire the little fucker."

"I wish you wouldn't call him that. His name is Jeff, and I, for one, like him."

"Yeah, well, I sure as hell don't." I saw Debbie was about to say something, and I could see this conversation speeding downhill along the now-familiar road. I returned to the subject before she could respond.

"Anyway, I think part of the reason I got so mad was that it's a reasonable question and I didn't have an answer to it. I can answer it now. Do you want me to?"

"Yes, of course." She smiled, clearly relieved that I had steered the conversation away from yet another fight.

"Part of it was, I thought maybe I would get my revenge when my grandson fucked the little fucker's wife. Problem is, I might not live that long. Jeff Burrows didn't. Besides, how is that revenge for me? It's a dumb reason, and I wouldn't have thought of it at all if it hadn't been for the beer.

"You see, when you called, I was sitting in a bar working up my liquid courage to ask my father if he was a cuckold. Then you dropped your bombshell. You see how that could be a problem?"

"I do remember thinking you sounded like you were only half there. I wondered about that." As if her telling me over the phone she was going to have an affair wouldn't have been enough to explain my not sounding like myself. Still, I'd resolved to play nice, so I soldiered on.

"Yeah, well, the biggest part was that I've always felt guilty about what I did to Mr. Burrows. I tried to be as respectful and polite to him as I could, as if somehow that could make up for having an affair with his wife, though I know it never could. He was always nice to me, and that made it worse. Anyway, it almost seemed like this would be... I don't know, fitting punishment for what I did to him."

Debbie nodded. "Your mother and Janice Burrows said pretty much the same thing to me." They would, I thought.

"This whole thing started at Mr. Burrows' funeral, didn't it? I saw you, Janice, and my mother talking together."

"That's when it started," Debbie agreed. "They told me about the tradition, and they said it taught the young men how to please and respect a woman, kind of a sex and marriage ed thing. They told me about your affair with Janice, and said it had made you a better husband for me. It was my turn now, they said, and they introduced me to Jeff Emerson. I could tell from the way he looked at me that he already knew, and he was anticipating his week with me. They said they'd introduce him to you later, and insist that he be respectful to you.

"I think they expected me to be upset about you and Janice. It happened before we'd even met, so it didn't affect me at all: I sort of enjoyed imagining it. The debt didn't mean anything to me, either: the person you owed was Mr. Burrows, and he was dead. The sex education and training a good husband angle might have made sense a couple of generations ago, but not now. In fact, I wondered if I might learn more from Jeff than he did from me."

"Did you?" She hesitated a moment.

"Well, maybe a couple of things." She blushed and dropped her eyes for a moment, then went on. "You remember that scissors thing you wanted us to try, and we couldn't make it work? I asked him about that, and he showed me. There's just a little trick to it, it's simple, I'll show you... um... maybe later." She saw the expression on my face and ground to a halt. I bit my tongue so hard I could almost taste the blood, but I managed not to say anything, or even growl. See, I really was trying.

"Anyway, I called your mother and said it didn't make sense, and I didn't want to do it. She asked me to talk with her and Janice before I made such a rash decision, as she called it.

"They came over here the next afternoon. Your mother went on about how this tradition had never hurt anyone's marriage, and in fact was responsible for the strong marriages I'd always admired in the four families. Then Janet started in on me about how you and I both owed her, for what she had taught you about pleasing a woman. I'd been thinking about that, though, and a lot of the really special things you do for me, you didn't learn from Janice. You and I discovered them together over the years, after we were married. You've always been willing to learn; that's one of the things that makes you a wonderful lover. I probably don't tell you that often enough, but in case you're wondering, you are far better than Jeff.

"They could see I still wasn't convinced, so they started trying to tell me how this would be good for me. Your mother was pretty brutal about it. 'You're past forty,' she said. 'Your stuff isn't where it used to be, and there's more of it where it shouldn't be. Very soon, you're going to need a man to tell you and show you that you're beautiful and sexy, if you don't already.'"

"Wait a minute," I broke in. "That's bullshit. I tell you that and show you that all the time!"

"I know you do, Bill, and that's what I told your mom. She said you were my husband so you had to say that stuff, so it didn't count."

"Oh, come on, Debbie. That's nonsense. I know you, faults and all, better than anyone else does. When I say you're a woman any man would be proud to have, beautiful and strong, sexy and smart, I'm telling the truth. I'll still say it right now, even though we've been fighting. Because I know you so well, it should mean more to you, not less, than what some little fucker says."

Debbie thought for a moment. "That makes sense, but that's not how it feels to a woman. To me, anyway. Maybe I needed to know I can still attract a man, and you don't meet that need because I've already attracted you. I don't know. Anyway, when your mother said that, I remembered how Jeff Emerson had looked at me, a woman twice his age, and I can't deny I felt a thrill. Then Janice talked about the stamina and ability to recover you'd had at eighteen, and didn't I want to feel that again. I remembered how you were when we were first married; the idea of feeling that again excited me even more. Your mom said it was my chance to teach Jeff all the things you do that make you such a good husband, not just the sex. That's why he would live here the whole week.

"I had liked Jeff when I met him at Mr. Burrows' funeral. I began to imagine what it would be like with him. I never wanted to hurt you or risk our marriage, but your mother and Janet convinced me that wouldn't happen. They said none of the husbands ever knew, which I found hard to believe. Still, they told me all of the women of their generation had done this and I knew they were all still married."

I remembered my father and uncle's request that I not spill the beans, so I didn't say anything.

"I told them I would do it. They said I wouldn't regret it, and if you had any problems, they would help you get through them. The trees would help, they said. 'You can make him pies from your own apples. That should make him happy,' Janice said, and she laughed."

My anger came back in spite of my efforts. "So this whole sorry mess was about you wanting to have a week with the little fucker? As far as you were concerned, the tradition thing was just an excuse?"

"I still wish you wouldn't call him that, but yes, I decided that I wanted my week with Jeff. Bill, I never lied to you. I admit I didn't tell you the whole truth, but I didn't lie, and I told you more of the truth than your mother said I should. We both thought you would figure it out, and wouldn't like it. That's why I told you when I did, to give you a week to get used to the idea. We thought it would bother you less if we talked about the tradition, which you had already benefited from. Obviously that didn't work, so now I'm telling you everything."

"If your mind was made up weeks before, why did you wait so long to offer me my one chance to tell you what you should have known all along?" She didn't rise to the bait.

"Because if I told you earlier, you might have canceled your trip, and we would have had to figure out something else to get you out of the way. I know that sounds terrible, but I won't lie to you. I would have done whatever I needed to have my week with Jeff."

"You wanted it that badly?"

"Yes, I did. Every woman my age in your family has had this; why shouldn't I? Their marriages are all fine, and you can't tell me that you're the only husband who figured it out. As I told your mother, you wouldn't kick me to the curb and throw out twenty-plus years of marriage over something that only lasted a week. I knew my marriage was safe, the whole idea was incredibly exciting, and I did it."

"Did it live up to expectations?" My good intentions were history. I was seething now.

She looked me in the eye. "Yes, Bill, it did."

I stared at her a moment, to see if she would back down, or say something else. She didn't. I went into the house, leaving her alone on the porch swing. I thought about packing and moving out, but to hell with that. She's the one who cheated. No matter how pretty a face she and my whole family tried to put on it, she out and out cheated on me, for a whole damn week, with my mother's connivance.