Not on My Watch

This is a short story about a man who thought he had a fantasy and a wife who was reluctant to give it to him. There is very little explicit sex in this story and any names similar to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

*****

To say that I was having a bad day - - - - - - well, I won't bore you with the rest of the cliché. However, after eight months, many miles and far too many hours of putting up with James and Carol Morton, in their search for a newer, larger home, they were ready to make an offer. Like many, would be, home buyers they thought that if every aspect of their dream home was not found in the house then it should be reflected in a lower price.

The sellers, Richard and Belinda Lafler, like most sellers, thought their home, which they had loved and cared, along with having raised their three children there, was the Taj Mahal of St. Louis. After a year on the market they had begrudgingly lowered their price from 1.1 million to $985,000. They had already informed me that this price was "firm" but I also knew that they had already purchased a retirement home in Florida, on which they were making mortgage payments. Therefore, I knew there was some more flexibility.

Against my better judgement, and at their insistence, I allowed the Morton's to follow me to the house to present their offer. No matter how hard I tried to convince them that this was a bad idea, my pleas fell on deaf ears. As an agent I worked "for" the seller and "with" the buyers. Their being with me severely hampered my ability to "cajole" the sellers and "coax the buyers into a negotiated price, especially considering Lisa Morton's abrasive personality.

As I expected, the meeting went to hell in a hand basket almost as soon as we entered the house when Mrs. Lafler started making — not so whispered — snide comments to her husband, such as:

"We'll have to have every room repainted; who uses paneling anymore; the kitchen will certainly have to be updated, and to everyone's horror - even her husband's, they have pets, I just hope there aren't any urine stains under the carpeting." Needless to say, their offer of $825,000. was flattery refused and after the Laflers' left I was told that if I didn't find a serious buyer within the next six weeks, they would find another agency.

At that point I would actually be happy to be rid of them. They had a nice home and it was the largest one on the block, with the largest piece of property. The problem was that it was not in a million-dollar neighborhood. The average comparable selling price was $629,000, so there were not many potential buyers knocking on my door.

I had parked my car on the street when I had arrived, which was two hundred feet from their front door. I was pissed off at both the buyers and sellers and as I headed down the driveway a cold rain had started to fall. Of course, I had left my umbrella in the car so I was pretty wet when I finally reached the shelter of my vehicle. It was after 3PM and deciding I had taken enough of a beating for one day, I cranked up the heat and started my twenty-minute drive to my home. All I could think of was a hot shower, dry clothes and an even drier martini.

My name is: Audrey Pryer and I have been in the real estate business since my youngest started middle school, almost twenty years ago. I must have my mom's genes because at fifty-four I still look pretty good, at least when I'm not soaking wet. I have shoulder length auburn hair. Okay, I do have to touch it up a bit - but not often. I'm 5'7", green eyes and my 36C boobs haven't sagged much, even after raising two kids. My husband, Paul, tells me that I have the nicest ass on the planet and people that I meet, even the ones that aren't trying to hit on me, tell me I don't look a day over forty-five.

At fifty-seven, my husband, Paul, still strikes an imposing figure. He's 6'1", 205 pounds, dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. He is the love of my life, even after thirty-five years of marriage. We've been empty nesters for quite a while. Our oldest, Jennifer, is para-legal with a large law firm and is attending night classes with the goal of getting her law degree. Our son, Tommy, is a senior at Washington University, with an eye towards software design. We have done quite well financially and have plans on retiring when Paul turns sixty.

The light rain which had soaked me when I left the seller's house had blossomed into a torrential rain with gusty winds, by the time I reached home. Despite having the car's heat on high my hair and clothes were still wet as I pulled into our driveway. I pushed the automatic garage door opener several times, with no results. When I took it off the visor to aim it from a different direction I noticed that the red indicator light did not go on when I hit the button.

"Just what I need, I thought, a dead battery." The wind was blowing at, almost a 90-degree angle on the driver's side and the rain was cascading down the side of the car. I angrily pushed the remote button several more times just like some people push the elevator button in frustration. It doesn't work on elevators and it didn't work on my garage door. So, facing the inevitable I grabbed my small collapsible umbrella from the door's side pocket and readied to open the door. As I stepped out and pushed the release button the umbrella opened with a "thunk" and was almost immediately turned inside out by the wind. I dropped the umbrella and immediately began running for the door in my four-inch heels. Fortunately, I had my house key in my hand

Once inside I kicked off my soggy shoes and hung my jacket on the door knob of the hall closet. The stairs to the bedrooms were to my right and beyond that was a short hallway leading to the kitchen. I had intended to run upstairs to get out of my wet clothes but when I saw that Paul was in the kitchen, talking on the phone, I decided to let him know that I was home. However, the wind and rain were making such a racket pelting the house and since Paul's back was to me, I had to move into the hall way to yell to get his attention.

Between the roar of the storm and my bare feet, Paul didn't hear me approaching. As I was about to enter the kitchen, the world that I knew collapsed around me as I heard my husband's words:

"No, it's definitely inoperable and they confirmed that it is malignant."

Of course, I could only hear Paul's side of the conversation, as he continued:

"Yeah, of course I got a second opinion and they confirmed the original diagnosis."

"Sure, I'm upset, who wouldn't be but there is nothing I can do about it. What I'm most worried about is Audrey, I don't want her to know about this until it's unavoidable and that could be up to six months."

"Thanks, Billy, I appreciate that. Please don't say anything to Marge, she may inadvertently let something slip and there is no use in upsetting Audrey until it's necessary."

He started to say some things that indicated he was ending the conversation so on shaky legs I backed down the hall way in a haze of heartache and confusion headed upstairs. I layed on the bed in my set clothes and sobbed.

"How could this be, I thought, he's never sick. Even when people around him get colds and the flu, he manages to avoid it. How can I let him go through this alone? How can I pretend not to know, it's what he wants but how can I feign ignorance? And, oh my god, how can I live without him?"

After lying there for two hours trying to wrap my head around my new reality I finally got my soggy clothes off and dragged myself into the shower. When I emerged, I had regained some semblance of composure — — — — and, more importantly, a sense of determination. If my husband could be that brave and selfless I was going to make the time we had left together the best that it could be.

As I finished dressing I heard the cell phone in my purse. When I retrieved it I saw that it was Paul calling and that it was after 5PM. I'm usually home between 4:00 and 4:30 unless I have an appointment, in which case I call him. Paul does most of his work from home so he does the lion's share of the cooking and we usually eat around 6:00.

"Hi Honey," I answered with a forced cheerfulness.

"Hey Babe, came the reply. Are you going to be late? I was planning dinner for the usual time and you're usually home by now."

"Actually, I'm upstairs. I got caught in the rain at a client's house and then the battery in the garage door died and I got soaked again getting to the front door. You were busy in the kitchen when I came in so I just ran upstairs to shower and change."

After a pause, he said: "Really -- you sure you weren't with some handsome client and you didn't just sneak upstairs to wash off the evidence?"

"Well, I returned tauntingly, you wouldn't want sloppy seconds -- would you?"

"Hmmmmm, he replied -- I'll have to think about that."

"You pervert, I laughed with false indignation, I'll be down in five. Pour me a glass of red, I've had a hell of a day."

We often teased one another with sexual innuendo. Paul was my one and only sexual experience -- well, the only one I ever fucked. During some pillow talk once he told me that he sometimes wondered if I might get curious, someday, and want to try a strange cock. I assured him that would never be the case and teasingly, added:

"Besides, if I did you'd have an excuse to try some strange pussy."

He laughed, and said seriously: "no, that's not my fantasy."

We had just finished a very satisfying love making session and I was gently caressing his soft penis, when I asked, "so what is your fantasy?"

"Me, you and another man". He seemed serious and his cock was getting hard at the thought.

"Really! Wow!", was all I could think to say initially. I put my head by his crotch and started teasing his, now rigid, cock while massaging his balls, I asked, seductively:

"Sooooo - you'd like to see another man's cock in my mouth, huh? You'd enjoy watching me get fucked by someone else? What would you be doing while all this was going on?"

I then put his whole cock in my mouth as he gasped his reply:

"I'd be at whatever end that he wasn't."

"And you could handle that I cooed," after taking my mouth off his shaft, just long enough to speak.

He hesitated before answering, "Maybe -, I'm not sure. Maybe, just one time."

His excitement was contagious because I immediately straddled him and guided his cock inside me.

Nothing was said about our erotic conversation after that. Some teasing innuendos here and there but I enjoyed keeping Paul's fantasy alive, especially since I was the benefactor of his increased libido.

+++++++++++++++++++

When I came downstairs, Paul had made one of my favorite dishes - chicken Alfredo. I forced myself to eat despite the turmoil coursing through my brain. He had opened a bottle of Pinot Noir and him, not being a wine drinker, he was surprised when, a half hour later, I poured the remainder of the bottle into my glass. He laughed and said, "you really must have had a shitty day."

I knew I shouldn't have had that much wine because I started to choke up and to cover my emotions, I said:"

"Yeah, well - my deal went south - then I got rained on ———— I forgot my umbrella —— then, the garage door thing and I got soaked again." Then I started to cry.

Paul came around to my side of the table, put his arm around me and told me to forget about the dishes and suggested that we go into the living room to relax. When we sat on the sofa Paul put his arm around me and Max our - well really my English bull dog, waddled over and laid his head on my bear feet as Paul clicked the TV remote. Max was 12 years old and he loved me as much as I loved him so it was comforting to have my two guys near me. Until recently, when his arthritis started to prevent it, Max would have jumped up on the couch and snuggled next to me.

If my life depended on it I couldn't tell you what we watched on the television. My only thoughts were of my husband, the challenges he was facing down the road and how I would be able to live without him. Several times my eyes filled up with tears but in the dimly lit room and with Paul's attention to the TV, he didn't notice.

Later, when we went upstairs to bed Paul was in a frisky mood but sex was the farthest thing from my mind. I could count on one hand the number of times that I faked an orgasm, but that night was one of them -, I vowed to deny my husband nothing.

We had invited Bill and Marge for dinner that following evening and if Paul's condition was affecting him he didn't display any signs of it that night. He was his usual cheerful, optimistic self. Bill and Marge Dickerson have been our neighbors and best friends since they moved into the neighborhood, fifteen years ago. They are a devoted couple and have one son who is a senior in high school so, they will be 'empty nesters' pretty soon, also. Billy was the person that Paul had been talking to on the phone when I had over- heard that one-sided conversation that shook my world and changed my reality.

The conversation before and after dinner was lighthearted and Bill didn't exhibit any signs of their conspiracy to keep me in the dark. They both acted as if they didn't have a care in the world - laughing frequently and teasing us wives about one thing or another. I was sure that Marge had been told nothing because she was the type of person who wore her heart on her sleeve and would not have been able to act so nonchalant.

Marge was leaving Sunday night for a three-day training session and she was excited telling us about it since the new certification might lead to a promotion in the near future. Even I forgot my troubles for a while and related the story of the Morton's and the Lafler's - the fiasco of the low-ball offer and my getting soaked in the rain.

I wasn't surprised when Marge rang my bell the following Saturday while Paul and Bill were out golfing, she often stopped by to have coffee and chat. Marge is a very upbeat person so I was surprised that she seemed, somewhat, distraught. I immediately assumed that she had found out about Paul's condition. That thought afforded me some comfort since I would at least have a shoulder to cry on and not have to go through my anguish alone.

After pouring us both coffee, I decided to let her set the tempo for the conversation and was hoping that she had more detailed information on my husband's illness. When I, casually, asked how her training sessions went, she completely broke down. After she was able to compose herself, she tearfully confessed that on the last night of the training session she had wound up in bed with her boss.

I was completely shocked. Marge is an attractive woman, a few years younger than me but was conservative in dress and demeanor. At 5'2" and 125 pounds, I would describe her as cute, rather than beautiful. Her husband, Billy was an inch or two taller than Paul and she once joked that their difference in size made for some challenging adjustments to their positions in bed. That was about as intimate as our conversations about our love lives, ever became.

I was still trying to process what she had just said, when she went on to describe how she and her boss went out for some drinks to celebrate the successful completion of their course and after some drinking and dancing, and then a couple of night-caps, they decided to retire for the night. His room was adjacent to hers and since she was having some difficulty walking, he held her arm as they got off the elevator. When she had trouble inserting the key card in her door he took it from her and inserted it himself. When he pushed the door open and she started to enter the room he took her in his arms and kissed her.

She went on to describe that at first, she tried to pull away but when he wouldn't let go and his kisses became more ardent, she got turned on and stopped resisting his advances. Marge didn't relate the sordid details other than to say that they -- "did it twice that night" and that she had even swallowed his seamen - something she had never done for her husband. She told me that she was distraught with guilt and shame and intended to confess to Bill that evening and beg his forgiveness.

Her boss was a younger attractive guy and she admitted that he had been hitting on her for a while, and he being ten years younger, she had enjoyed the flattery. She admitting that if she hadn't had too much to drink she would have never succumbed, but now she was having "buyer's remorse."

It took copious amounts of coffee and a couple of hours of counseling for me to convince her that while confession may be good for the soul, it certainly wouldn't be good for her marriage ——— even if it survived. For a moment I thought about telling her about Paul's affliction, if for no other reason than to lighten her relatively insignificant burden but I couldn't bring myself to violate Paul's trust.

Another week had gone by and despite my lack of enthusiasm I had gone to work as usual. Miracle of miracles, the Morton's contacted me Friday afternoon and told me that agrred to pay the Lafler's asking price. Normally, I would have been ecstatic since my commission would be over twenty-five thousand. Now the money didn't mean much. After very little deliberation I decided to put the money to good use.

Every year when the topic of vacation destinations came up, Paul would mention Las Vegas - he likes to gamble. Specifically, he loves to play poker and is convinced that he's pretty good at it. I always shot the idea down. I'm not fond of gambling and I'm not much of a drinker so free booze doesn't excite me. The smoky atmosphere, along with young girls flaunting their short skirts and push bras as they serve drinks, doesn't do much for my ego either. Being the sweet heart that he is, Paul always goes along with whatever place I chose.

One year it was a cruise, one time a two-week tour of Italy and last year a trip to the Grand Canyon. Even though he had already been there while in college, Paul enthusiastically agreed. He said he might enjoy more being sober. I remember watching him turn green during our helicopter tour of the canyon, but he took it like a trooper.

This year would be different -- very different.

He was thrilled for me, later that day, when I told him about selling the Lafler's house. Even though he had started dinner, he insisted on putting it the refrigerator and going out to celebrate.

"It's just sausage and meatballs, I'll put it in the frig. Tonight, I want to take my wife out on the town, get a few drinks in her and maybe get lucky later," he said as he gave me a wink and pinched my ass.

He had no idea how lucky he was going to get.

After a wonderful meal and two bottles of red wine at Ponty's we went to the Briarcliff for some dancing and another glass or two of wine. Actually, Paul had Diet Coke, since he was driving, and but I needed the wine to bolster my courage.

While the band was on break and we were sitting in our booth, I took the plunge, saying:

"Honey, I want to do something special with my commission money --a vacation for you this time. I'd like us to go to Vegas for a long weekend, what do you say, can you get away?"

"Sure, I can get away he said somewhat unenthusiastically, then added, but you hate Vegas. You don't like gambling and the one time that we were there you certainly let me know that you didn't appreciate - I think your term was, 'all the boob flesh' bouncing around. Besides, what would you do to amuse yourself while I played cards?"

"Here goes, I thought, but if Paul wasn't going to be with me much longer I would do this for him, even though it terrified me." so I continued:

"Honey, you don't play all day and there are places I'd love to see. I'd like to go to the Hoover Dam. There are a bunch of desert Jeep adventures that we could take. Maybe a couple of shows, like Penn and Teller -- I would love to see them."