One Rule for the Rich a Sequel

Before you begin to read, first thanks for considering this story, but more importantly, you don't have to, but in order to better understand what's below you'll want to read the original by 'badidea211'. They've generously given me permission for this sequel, and once you've finished their easy to read, short, and interesting piece you'll see why reading them first is so important. Their story is called "One Rule for the Rich".

Also...

Sometimes I've found it difficult to locate a story on Literotica by using the "author search" tool, so for those among you who've had similar bad luck I'd like to suggest you'd simply go to the "Loving Wives" genre and tap on the "O" in the alphabetical listing across the top, travel through the "O's" until you find their story and enjoy. Once you've done that you'll be prepared for what's below.

I hope you'll like their story, and I hope you'll like what I've put up below.

And now, on to the sequel...

*****

"One Rule for the Rich, a Sequel"

By Jedd Clampett (carvohi)

I stopped and stepped back, "I see he got you didn't he?"

Arms akimbo she defiantly replied, "So what, we got what we wanted didn't we?"

I was feeling a little unsteady, not sure what she meant, and certainly not sure of myself, "What does that mean?"

"I got you the clubs, and I got you a big contribution for the charity account you and Brea have been working on."

Still fully clothed I walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Clare understood how we got our money. Brea, my supervisor, was an organizer, someone I privately called a charity accountant. She'd find a charity, pay them a visit, and work out an arrangement where the charity would get the benefit of her expertise and connections, but always for a fee.

Me, I was what some might call a collector; hustler was a better term. I'd work through Brea and her people to get as much money as I could for this or that charity. David, being incredibly rich and always in need of a way to move or hide shady money had become a reliable new provider. Of course we didn't come cheap. Sometimes we garnished as much as half the money the David's of the world contributed. Was it stealing? Yes, I supposed some would say so, but if we weren't on hand actively pushing and promoting, worthwhile humanitarian aims might never succeed.

I was a thief and my beautiful wife Clare had been the bait on more than one occasion, but I believed this was the first time a donor had actually scored. I was unsure about how I should feel; should I be miffed that my wife finally had to fuck someone to close a deal, or should I just accept it as part of our arrangement?

What could I say? What was there to do? The Russian David had fucked my wife, and he'd done it to make his point, "the rich live by a different set of rules". The Tiger Woods clubs with that great putter were mine because Clare used her body to buy them for me, plus she got an additional fist full of money. David was telling me he could do anything he wanted. He probably didn't even want my wife; he only wanted to show me that with his money he could do anything and get anyone, and I couldn't do anything about it.

I didn't like it, but looking at Clare I realized she was clueless about what actually happened and my feelings about it. One thing was certain; the semen on her thighs drove any thought of making love with her completely from my mind.

Dress in a heap on the floor, bra beside it, her eyes dark with passion, Clare made a couple lithesome steps in my direction. I held up my hand, "Not tonight."

At first confused, but then angry, she stopped, "You're kidding."

I didn't say anything. She looked down between her legs, took the fingers of her right hand, scooped up some of the sticky goo, and put it to her lips, "He was barely adequate, semi-flaccid, even small, and he had no staying power," then she moved in, sat beside me, and seductively murmured, "I need you now."

She was beautiful, exquisite; and her pride, her long thick black hair glistened in the half light of our bedroom. Her dark almond shaped eyes, her long aquiline nose, her rich full red lips, her slow moving breasts undulating provocatively with every breathy sigh evinced total sexuality. She was everyman's dream.

"Clare," I said, "I thought we agreed..."

The moment evaporated. She pivoted on one foot and started for the bathroom, "So what, there's a first time for everything."

I knew then, I added, "You're going to see him again aren't you."

She turned, "Thursday; he wants to take me out on one of his boats."

"And you said yes."

"Sure, why not. He's rich. We play our cards right you'll get more than a set of clubs. Who knows; he might buy you your own golf course."

Inwardly I cringed, already a cuckold I sure didn't need or want anything more from our Russian friend David. I wondered what his name really was.

I got back to the moment. I sure didn't want a big confrontation with my wife. She'd always been a flirt; in fact that's how we'd met. It had been back in college. We'd gone to the same western Pennsylvania University, taken the same classes. I could have done anything but opted for the easiest way out, and that had turned out to be a major in Liberal Studies, mostly English and American literature with a smattering of other worthless junk. I'd always had a natural facility for languages and so I'd added some French and, would you believe, Russian literature to the program. Clare wasn't so lucky, not as gifted, she concentrated on English literature and poetry. Back then Clare fancied herself some rising new poet. Most of what she wrote was, at best juvenile, but I never told her that.

How we met? I was passing through the main student union when I first saw her. She was marvelous, all decked out in this light brown linen romper, high on the thighs, plunging V-shaped neckline, and spaghetti strap shoulders. God she looked exciting. The guy with her thought so too; he had her on his lap and was pawing all over her. I figured she'd jumped on his lap of her own volition, but the pawing seemed to be his idea. She kept squirming, looking around for help, and pushing his hands away. Me, I've always been a fool for a woman in trouble so I walked over. He was surrounded by his friends, but I wasn't deterred. I got there and as calmly as I could said, "Hey, let her down."

He gave me a look, and for some reason he blinked; he let her down saying, "Sorry Clare." All his friends just looked from him to me, and then back to him again. The girl, whose name I surmised was Clare got off, grabbed what I presumed was her books, and how shall I say, floated over beside me. "Well here I am Mr. Darcy. Where are you taking me?"

"Pemberly," I replied.

Books in her right hand, she wrapped her left hand around my shoulders and whispered not very quietly, "I'm in the Honors Dorm across the street, and I have a private room. You want to consummate this relationship?"

I said, "I did," we did, and we'd been an exclusive item ever since, at least I believed until David.

So where were we? Clare had always been a flirt, I'd been like that too, it's the nature of my job, but I never seriously doubted her fidelity. Sure we traveled on what I considered the periphery of a "sophisticated", I'd say "liberated crowd", but there were those who did and those who didn't. I'd always thought we were among those who didn't. Had I been wrong? I didn't think so, not until now.

What was I supposed to do now? Another look at Clare in her altogether and I was in a fix, "Look, I said, get a quick shower, clean that gunk off your legs while I get undressed and get in bed."

She purred back, "No, you join me. I'll let you scrub me clean."

What the hell, I thought. I was completely undressed by the time I got to the shower. In we went, and while we showered I pushed her up against the ceramic wall and did my duty. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pressed her face into my chest, got her arms tucked up under my arms and tried to crush the life out of me. All the while she kept softly moaning, and weeping, and sobbing about how much she loved me and needed me.

She was small, always been small, and it was sometimes hard not to hurt her by pressing to hard against her cervix. I enjoyed her so much, all of her, not just the sex, but the whole package, her sweet lilting voice, her red lips, her soft warm tanned skin, and especially the words she used when we were alone. She always knew what to say to make me feel like a man. I wondered what she might have said to the Russian and at the moment it bothered me.

After we showered we dried each other off, crossed the bedroom floor, crawled into bed, did it again, and quietly talked about how much we loved each other and would never ever be apart.

Later after she fell asleep I lay in bed and thought about my situation. What was I going to do? I didn't like it. The Russian probably didn't particularly want my wife; he wanted to show me what he and his money could do, and he had. How could I respond? Could I respond?

While I was no fanatic, I liked to play golf, I thought I was pretty good. It often helped me find time to think, plus it was a great way to meet and influence rich and complex people, people like the Russian, people with money and their willingness to help support worthwhile charities. I'd scored quite a few business related points while playing. The rich and powerful like good competition and I could provide that without being arrogant. The golf clubs would be a nice touch, a great conversation piece. But my wife, not golf, was the focus of my life.

I thought yeah, great clubs, but I lost something here, something important. I wondered if my wife understood. I thought deep down she did, but I was convinced she'd talked herself into something neither of us could control. Again, about the clubs I wondered how it would feel if I used them around others. I wondered if they'd wonder how I really came to get them. Some would know. What if I used them around the Russian or one of his associates? What would they think about me? About my wife?

By the time I was ready to sleep I knew I just could never use those golf clubs. I'd put them in the back of my garage, near the workbench I never used, beside the tools I'd bought but never touched. Would Clare notice? I doubted it.

The very next Saturday I was planning on a foursome with some people. I left the Woods clubs inside, but my wife saw me, came out, and asked why I wasn't using the new clubs. I said, "Oh I forgot," went back inside, got them, and threw them in the back of my Mercedes, another toy I didn't want or need, and drove off to where I was to play. I left the Woods clubs in the car and used my old clubs. A few nights later we were at a dinner party, for me a working dinner that also included my golfing partners, when my wife asked if anyone had noticed my new clubs. No one had, and on the way home she asked why I hadn't used them. I lied again and said I'd just forgotten. She let it slide. I knew I was going to have to do something; I just didn't know what.

Now Clare has always been a busy girl, lately she'd carved out her own social set; a group she'd often used to abet my efforts to garner money for the charity business. She'd get calls all the time. I'd noticed the last few weeks she's been going out on Thursday nights, not unusual except on those nights she never said where she was going or who she was going to see. I thought I knew. I thought she was seeing David. I thought he was still collecting on his investment, and I didn't like it. Of course I was too civilized to stir anything up. Then, out of the blue, something terrible happened.

I was playing a round of golf with three men, two were old-time cohorts in the charity business, but one was a new target, someone I'd been cultivating. We'd reached the eighteenth green and had been discussing having a few post-game drinks at the clubhouse when one of my "regulars" came out with something I never dreamed I'd hear. He said, "I saw your wife with David Zinoviev the other day. He was having lunch with Clare at the Intercontinental when I saw them go to the elevators and go upstairs."

I nodded as nonchalantly as I could and said, "Yeah."

Then he said, "I was wondering... I mean is Clare... well you know, is she like fair game? I mean, you know... is it open season?"

I glanced at the three men. All three were looking at me expectantly. I replied, "I don't know, you'll have to ask her yourself."

My original questioner laughed, "Not me man. I know her; she'd kick my teeth in."

I laughed then too; the other two men also laughed, but I knew I had a problem. I'd kept my head in the sand too long, and now things were out of control.

I came up with a different kind of solution. I took the "Woods clubs" to a dealer and had him clean them up real good, he cleaned the bag, filled it with the best, most primo, balls, and then I had him package the things in a satin lined mahogany box, just like a coffin. Then I spread a 5,000 Euro over the clubs and had them sent to David's house.

A week later Clare and I got an invitation to an exclusive dinner party at one of David's associates' houses. There were about fifteen couples. David was there. He wasn't married, never been married, but he was accompanied by the most gorgeous dark haired Italian beauty I'd ever seen. She beat my Clare by a mile. Clare was seated down and across from me, but this new beauty was seated right beside me, and she was smooth. I figured it out, she was the new payment. While my wife was socializing with David and his friends the dark haired Italian beauty did everything but openly proposition me. I was polite, but I made it clear neither my wife nor I were for sale. Well at least I wasn't.

Nothing happened for a couple weeks. I was deeply involved in securing funds for a charitable research group interested in sub-Saharan agriculture when I got a call from Brea, my female supervisor, it seemed a lot of the funding I'd secured for a prior charity had drifted off. There'd been nothing concrete, no contracts, just verbal promises. My supervisor wanted to know if there'd been a problem. I told her about Clare and David. Brea was kind and considerate, but she made it clear, I'd lost my "mojo".

I knew, David had turned. His money, my wife, and my career.

Clare still had her plans with David for Thursday, and of course I'd known but never faced it. Now I felt like I had to. I did. We had a fight. She said she didn't understand, but I knew she did. She was just too absorbed with David, his charm, his money, and the whole mystique. She left me to go be with him.

+++

The jig was up. I knew I was done for, like fried. This part of my life, though pretty much a fraud even if it had been pretty good was over. I turned in my resignation to Brea, left Clare a note telling her I still loved her desperately but I couldn't share her with anyone. I said I'd let her know where I would land, and if she was still interested she could join me, and I left.

Did I still love her? Yes I did. I was crazy about her. I was crazy to leave her, but I just didn't see an alternative. David had her; she was marked "bought and paid for". Would I have taken her back? Yes, in a New York minute; I was ready for a family, and before David had come along Clare had been too. So I might have lost Clare, I still held out some hope, but even so I reckoned I might have found a dram of self-respect somewhere along the line.

Where would I go? What would I do? I had a college degree in 'Liberal Studies' so I wasn't really qualified to do anything except sell, but I had my working class roots. My dad, mom, and brother were all still alive and doing something back in the USA. I decided to go home, eat some crow, and find something. That's what I did; I went home to Pennsylvania.

Mom's brother was a muckety muck with county politics, and through him she found me a job teaching middle school English. No money, no more power lunches, no more big golf trips, no private courses, or country clubs, but I had a job and I had, I didn't know, a little self-respect... maybe. So I plunged ahead, new job, maybe a new life.

Pretty soon I found out Clare wasn't buying. She'd hired someone who tracked me down and had me served. That broke my heart. I tried to keep up with the social goings on back in Europe. I still cared, and I still wondered. Via the Internet I kept up with all the social coming and going in England, France, and other whereabouts. Clare turned up every now and then, often on the arm of her Russian "Friend", but from what I heard and read marriage wasn't a part of his program. Then I heard she'd hooked up with another "business mogul" but that hadn't gone anywhere either. I felt terrible, I knew she was being passed around, but what was I going to do?

+++

Meanwhile back home things hadn't been exactly like I'd hoped. I'd gone home to a middling sized town in south central Pennsylvania. Almost all my friends had moved on. Sure most still lived close to home, but they'd gotten on with their lives, married, started raising families, bought homes, and made lives for themselves, most of them anyway.

They remembered me; I was the guy who was supposed to be bound for glory, the college boy, the big time guy who never got his hands dirty, the guy who always knew what to say, the guy with the golden tongue. Somehow I'd gone from "golden boy" to big time loser, and I'd done it all by myself. My father drove a truck for a food company. My brother never went to college, but he'd started his own auto shop. Now he fixed cars, sold used cars, and got his hands dirty. He'd gotten married, divorced, had a daughter he was raising, and had a live in girlfriend. He sold me a nice ten year old Chevy Cavalier so I could get around. To him I was the "college boy". And yeah I'd earned a reputation as the guy nice girls didn't date, and that reputation seemed to have lingered.

So there I was. I had a storage unit filled with boxes of expensive suits I no longer wanted and would probably never wear again. Sure, they meant something once, but they were all just tinsel now.

The town had changed some. Several of the bigger employers had moved on; out-sourcing I guess. The kids in my classroom were all nice kids from good homes, but their families were struggling, many lived in trailers where a few years before they'd had nice homes. It occurred to me the people I'd worked with, for, and socialized with back in Europe were a part of a group of scavengers who'd been picking the bones off the very people I'd grown up with. It felt like I was back with the "other half', the half that hadn't seen the benefit of the Reagan, Bush, and Clinton budgets.

Maybe I was wrong. I'm sure I was, but I just knew I had to get myself back, I had to get something, I mean real self-respect. I was through with all the "phony and fancy" back in Europe; it was time to get my ass in gear, get a life, a real life.

Funny how that worked; I was ready, but nobody else back home was. No matter what I said or did to all my old associates I was still the big phony who'd gone off to Europe. No matter how hard I worked, no one would listen. I was stale bread. Worse, the one's who'd made something of themselves now held me up to ridicule. The old taverns and dance halls were all off limits; every time I visited one I was haled with phony applause, cat-calls, and jeers.

I still had Clare's papers, just hadn't signed them, then one day while I was mowing my parent's lawn. They had an older home, an old fashioned shingled two story with a modest lawn. I'd grown up there. Well I was out there pushing dad's old Toro mower when a car pulled up, an obvious rental, and guess who got out? Clare. I had to admit she looked just as good as ever, maybe a little too thin, and the blouse she had on was nearly transparent and she wasn't wearing a bra. She looked around, nose high in the air in her oh so well practiced patrician way and asserted, "Well you sure disappeared. You got the papers. Why haven't you signed them?"