No Reply at All

This is a derivative work and alternate ending to Harddaysknight's story "No Reply," written and posted here with his generous permission. Harddaysknight is the author and owner of his story and characters. This is one of several such alternate versions. The original is here:

https://www.literotica.com/s/no-reply-1

Bill Grey's wife, Debbie, has agreed to participate in a disturbing tradition: When coming of age, boys from several families sexually service MILFs under the pretext of planting trees. Debbie has informed Bill that she'll be fucking Jeff Emerson, the grandson of Janice Burrows, who had taken Bill's own virginity in his own youth. At the last minute, Debbie gave Bill a chance to say "no," (against several generations' advice), but he was too thunderstruck to reply. We begin as Bill returns from a fishing/golfing trip with the men in his family who'd kept him away from his wife's pending tryst.

From "No Reply":

I pressed my remote to open my garage door as we pulled into my driveway. My dad and cousin quickly dug out my golf clubs and fishing equipment from the back of the Expedition. I grabbed my small suitcase. Everything was hastily placed on the garage floor, then they hurried off. As I walked through the garage toward the kitchen door, I thought back to all the signs I had missed throughout my life. Would it have been better if I were still clueless?

...

Debbie was in the house, right there, on the other side of that door. How would she be? What did she feel? Was she Nervous? Defiant? Ashamed? Pleased with herself? Angry with me? Contemptuous? Proud? Some combination of all of these? Or, was she just numb to it all, just another day of doing business as a WHORE?

I didn't want to know.

I didn't open the door.

I threw my small suitcase and camping gear in my truck and drove away. I didn't even close the garage door behind me. I'd just spent seven meandering hours on the road with those three men, but that didn't stop me.

She must have heard me come home. She must have heard me leave again.

My phone was still turned off. I imagined it would light up like Times Square when I turned it back on. She'd want to know if I was all right, if WE were all right, if I was angry, and if so, why didn't I say "no"? She'd call my mom, and probably Janice Burrows, too. They'd planned all this at her husband's funeral, they even introduced me to the little shit Debbie was going to fuck. I never really forgave myself for cuckolding Jeff Burrows. He was a good man, a dear friend to me and all my family... he never treated me poorly. He must have known. All the men did, but nobody talked about it. The women apparently believed that their husbands never figured out their tradition, but COME ON of course we had. The only people who didn't know were the eighteen-year-old boys.

Well. I was clueless, anyway, when it had been my turn twenty-six years ago. I remained in the dark for years afterwards, convinced that the affair had been "our little secret." At first, there was more thrill than guilt. As the years went by, the tide shifted so that the reverse was true, and now the guilt was crushing. After my talks with Dad and Uncle Steve and Jim, I felt like an idiot. When I planted those trees, everybody knew. I'd been kidding myself for two decades, and I'd let it slowly eat me alive the whole time. Now, little Jeff Emerson apparently had been looking FORWARD to fucking my wife for months, goddamn it. I wonder if our son Jason knew what he was getting into when he "planted trees" for Nancy Fullmer?

I was almost through town when I realized I didn't know where I was going, or when I'd be back. Or even IF I'd be back.

I needed gas. I stopped and filled up the tank, and the spare jerry can, too. I realized that would probably be the last time I could use these credit cards, if I wanted to stay gone. My phone could be tracked, too. And the truck. Shit. I swung by the bank and took out as much cash as I could. I turned towards the highway and faced a choice: North or South? East or West?

***

Five days later, I was sitting in the law offices of Marvin Timkins, Esq., in Savannah, Georgia, a city where I'd never been. To the best of my knowledge, I don't know if I'd ever said the name of the place out loud. Why Savannah? I went South, then East, and I would have kept going, but there was an ocean.

The one and only time I'd turned on my phone along the way was in the pleasant suburb of Fayetteville, Georgia, near the Atlanta airport. I'd downloaded my contacts and photos and files and all my usernames and passwords onto a cheap laptop, then promptly disabled the wifi and bluetooth. I set up new checking and savings accounts at a national chain bank and dumped in half of whatever was in the accounts I'd shared with Debbie. Okay, it was a little more than half, but I was leaving all my shit and my share of the house behind, so she'd still come out ahead. I traded my truck in for a nondescript car that would get better mileage. I also bought three super-saver tickets to Dallas, Chicago, and New York, on red-eye flights on a discount airline known for its lack of leg room. I used none of those tickets, but that actually WAS the last time I used those credit cards before cutting them up and throwing the pieces into five different bins.

I'd set up a new burner phone with a different number. As I was ditching my old one while saving my data, I scrolled through the texts and played a few of the messages. I didn't want to hear any of it, but it was pretty much what I expected. "Where are you?" "I know you're mad but everything will be all right." "I still love you. We still love you." "Please come home." "You can't do this!" "We need to at least talk about it." YADDA YADDA YADDA. She'd gotten my mom and my dad and Janice Burrows and half a dozen others involved, yes, including my son Jason. I didn't want to lose touch with Jason. All the rest were dead to me.

With that phone in my hand, I thought about the last thing I'd said to Debbie, on this very device.

"Debbie, do you take me for a complete damn fool?"

My voice had cracked and failed me when she'd told me about Jeff Emerson and the apple trees she wanted.

"Do you hold me in such contempt? You must be laughing your ass off at this!"

"No, Bill. That's why I'm calling. If you tell me not to hire Jeff, I'll call the whole thing off. No apple trees, or... anything else. I understand I'm breaking tradition here. Your mother insisted that I should do it without telling you. She's convinced you'd never know. Apparently, no man in your family has ever questioned the tree plantings. But you guys must know what goes on, since you've all done some 'planting' of your own. I have too much respect for you to try to hide anything or lie about it. So. I'm willing to do my part for the families and guide the boy into manhood, but only with your approval. Jeff will be here at eight tomorrow morning. He'll spend the week planting trees, and I will provide him with the same experience that Janice gave you. I cannot be any clearer about this. If you don't want those apple trees planted, tell me now."

I'd just looked at my phone for a few seconds and turned it off. Then I lurched back inside to grab another beer or three. To the men I was with, I must have looked as bad as I felt.

Why the hell hadn't I just said "No"? Was it guilt over having reaped the benefits of the tradition, and then refusing to 'pay it back'? Was it that I was just too stunned that Debbie would willingly go along with it? Did she WANT to fuck that boy? How long had she been planning this? Was it mere shock? Was my entire LIFE a goddamned LIE? Was it because MY OWN MOTHER had conspired to pimp out my WIFE? Was I never even going to have the CHANCE at marital fidelity? If I had said "no," would Debbie do it anyway, but without the trees, just to play me for a fool? SHIT. Maybe I DID say "no," but it just kind of failed to come out of my mouth. I had no idea. I only knew that was the single worst moment of my life.

I'd made no reply.

I could face none of it. 'No reply' would become 'No reply at all, ever.'

With the memory of that final exchange spinning around in my head, I introduced my phone to the business end of a tire iron. Vigorously. Several times. Then I scattered the shards and hit the trail again.

***

"So, how can I help you, Mister Grey?" Timkins was a pleasant looking guy of medium height and shrewd mind. He kept his suit jacket off, even though the room was air conditioned enough to safely leave the milk out.

"I want to disappear."

He tilted his head one point four degrees. Otherwise, his expression didn't crack. I could almost hear a robotic version of his voice saying 'accessing,' as he took up the problem.

"You've retained me as your attorney. That means legally, I can't be forced to divulge any details about any crime you may have already committed. However, if you're a fugitive from justice, I have to advise you to turn yourself in. As an officer of the court, I'd be compelled to report you."

"I've done nothing illegal. Except maybe littering." I recalled the sharp bits of my former cell phone in the red Georgia clay. "I'm estranged from my wife and family. The situation has become toxic and I need to escape them, their friends, the whole goddamn town. I don't want them finding me. I don't ever want to see or to speak with any of them ever again."

"I see." That's all he said out loud. His face, however, said

'There's clearly a story here, but I'm going to be professional and I won't ask.'

I really appreciated that.

"So. I, um. I guess I want to change my name. I want nothing tying me to my old identity. Bank accounts, credit cards, email, social media, nothing. I want something like, er, 'witness protection,' but without the government, for people who haven't done anything wrong."

"Well. There are a number of things we could do. The first thing I'd suggest is to incorporate. We can create a few companies that only exist on paper, as LLCs and sole proprietorships and the like. Their only function would be to own your bank and credit accounts, and any real property you might wish to purchase which has to be registered. You would own the companies, and they would own your assets, which would not be easily traceable to your name without jumping through several inconvenient hoops."

"Wow. Yes. That kind of thing."

"We can petition the courts for a name change, of course. There would be an official record, and of course there's a requirement to publish your intent. We could comply with that requirement using an obscure source, such as a local paper or a special interest rag with limited circulation. It might still turn up in a search, if anybody thinks to look. Changing your name is a pretty drastic thing to do."

"I think it would be unexpected."

"No doubt. Also, even without changing anything, it's perfectly legal to just USE any name you like, as long as you're not attempting to defraud anyone. You'd be surprised how many people you know whose full names you've never heard. If you move to a new town and insist upon everyone calling you 'Skippy' or something, the trail would lead nowhere. If you use different nicknames in different social circles, most people wouldn't realize you're the same person."

"I can do that. Maybe not 'Skippy,' though."

"Just an example. What are you doing for work? Is it anything that requires professional certification or licensing?"

"No. I've done a lot of contract labor. And I used to be in sales. I could pick that up again anytime, anywhere. Nobody cares who you are or where you come from as long as you make your numbers."

"Good, good. Also, it's good to be portable. Keep moving around, change everything up every few years. Go live in different states or regions, places you've got no connection with. And stay away from things you're used to. Like, I don't know... maybe you're into model railroads. Star Trek conventions. Skydiving. You ought to disassociate from anything like that from your old life. If anybody thinks to look for you there, you'll likely be recognized, because those communities are small. Instead, branch out. Try new things. Learn new skills and activities, stuff that would be completely out of character for William Grey."

"That's good advice."

"You're not the first client I've had who's wanted to make himself scarce."

"And all this is legal?"

"There's no law against trying to stay under the radar. Unless you're up to something else."

"No, I just want to steer clear of anybody from Washington County, Virginia."

"Well, that shouldn't be too hard."

"I do want the option of staying in touch with my son. Not right away. I guess I just want to be able to reach him, without opening the floodgates to everyone else."

"Set up a dummy email or separate phone. Better yet, do it through third parties. I'll retain someone local to act as legal counsel for you through me. That's for any property issues, or for handling the divorce. They can also be a point of contact for your son. Assuming you don't want everyone thinking you're dead."

"Maybe I do. I don't know. I would like to know how the shit hits the fan in that town. Go ahead, set up a local guy. We'll make it clear that any attempt to ambush me will have Jason cut off, too."

****

As you get older, time goes by quicker. Ten years passed like ten weeks.

It helped that I stayed busy. I sold boats and personal watercraft out of a marina in Jacksonville. I drove the monorail at Walt Disney World one summer. I renovated old houses in New Orleans, then moved west to Galveston. I wanted to see the mountains, so I lived in El Paso for three years. Then I went to Boulder, Colorado, making a halfway decent living selling solar panel upgrades for residential homes. I lived in a rental, my vehicles were leased, and all my personal finances were funneled through two or three dummy corporations. I had a few girlfriends here and there, but I avoided anything serious. My longest relationship after Debbie lasted all of three months.

Through my proxy lawyer's office in Virginia, I remained in contact with Jason. I think he liked being the only one in town who knew anything about what happened to me, while everyone else was running around in a panic. There's a kind of pleasure in secrecy, a feeling of power, kind of like how all those women enjoyed the idea that their husbands had never cottoned to their affairs.

I told my son about the whole tradition of tree planting. I said everybody knew about his thing with Mrs. Fullmer, despite whatever promises he'd made never to speak of it. The price of his adultery would be that he'd have no right to faithfulness from his own wife. His mother and grandmother and aunts and cousins would make a point of pimping her out to some young creep, whether he liked it or not, without a word to him. When Alicia reached her late thirties or early forties, it'd be his turn to "wear the horns." as my own father had crudely put it.

These revelations caused a huge meltdown of a fight with his wife. Alicia promised that she knew nothing about any of it, and would never cave to the demands of the women in his family. Jason took a few days off from work, drove to State College, PA, tracked down Jeff Emerson, and broke his nose. Knocked his front teeth loose, too. He even got a few good body blows in before someone intervened. He spent two days in jail before Alicia bailed him out. She had some help from me, through my attorney.

The word "scandal" doesn't begin to describe the storm that raged through my former hometown. Jason's trial dragged everyone through the mud. His defense was that Jeff had sexually assaulted and raped Debbie over the course of a week. The marriage of his parents had been destroyed, his mother had been coerced by the Washington County Women's Sex Mafia, his emotionally bereft father was now missing and presumed dead. The doyennes of four families had conspired over the ritual molestation of young men for generations. He named names. He had Nancy Fullmer called as a witness. Alicia and Debbie and my mother and Janice Burrows, too. Nearly every man in the Mason, Burrows, Fullmer and Grey families were called to testify about the impact of the systematic infidelity of their mothers, daughters, and wives. It made national news for a hot minute. To end the shitshow, Jason eventually pled down to misdemeanor assault with probation and time served. He also had to pay Jeff's medical bills and perform community service.

That "community service" meant removing trees from the property of any cuckolded husband who'd allow it. He, and some number of other young men who were also facing the eventuality of having their own wives Turned Out by the Cougar Gestapo banded together and ripped several hundred trees out of several dozen yards over the course of the next three years. It was as much of a rebuke to the women as it was an apology to the men.

Debbie had stopped talking to my mother. She moved out of Damascus and settled in Raleigh, where she took classes at UNC and tried to put the past behind her. The failure of our marriage put a bullet in the crazy idea that all this was somehow "good" for young men and their future families. The conventional attitude became that young men should be taught NOT to cheat, NOT to lie, and NOT to fuck around with married women. That's at least as important as ensuring that their ladies enjoy reliable orgasms. There was also a consensus that, if a cadre of men in their forties had been seducing eighteen-year old girls like that, their heads would have been put on pikes.

I wasn't surprised by any of that. I was more surprised at what DIDN'T happen.

My estranged wife didn't date. She didn't remarry. She didn't file for divorce, or abandonment. She didn't have me declared legally dead. Most curious of all, she didn't look for me. At least, she never seemed to make the effort. My mom and dad and extended family tried, for a while. They found my truck and some of the early bank accounts, but they lost my trail after Atlanta. After some time, my disappearance had cooled off, and everyone seemed to just accept it.

I was in regular touch with Jason. He and Alicia had two kids of their own now. Jeremy was six and Penelope was three. We exchanged notes a few times a year, and to the best of my knowledge, he never told a soul about me. He also kept up with his mom. You only get one mom, after all, even though my own was dead to me. But somehow, over the years, Debbie got the sense that Jason still knew me. She didn't ask, and he didn't say, but it was still there, under the surface.

Things might have gone on like that for the rest of my life, but then there was cancer.

***

"Mom's got breast cancer. It showed up on a mammogram. She's had her second biopsy already and they've scheduled surgery."

I was on the phone with Jason. I'd relaxed my precautions around him. We'd gone from contact through my lawyer, to emails from dummy accounts, to text and talking on burner phones, and now he finally had the regular number I was using for most things. Jason had me saved to his contacts as Allan Corbett, my new legal identity.

"Wow. Well. I'm sorry to hear that."

"It hasn't metastasized. We're hoping they caught it in time."

"I hope so, too."

"Dad. She's scared. She'll probably be fine, but she's scared."

"I'll bet. I know that kind of thing can, well, awaken fears." I knew a woman in western Texas who had gone through metastatic breast cancer and beaten it. I doubt there's a stronger test of character and resolve that anyone could endure. "You know, I don't wish her any harm or anything. It's been a long time and I've done my best to move on. I'm out of ill will. I really do hope she'll be all right."