This is a repost of a 2008 story that has been re-edited.
This is satire, please. Have fun. There is no actual sex in this story. Sorry.
*****
My name is Bruno Randazzo. Most people consider me to be a nasty son of a bitch. I run my own construction business and last year did over a hundred million dollars. I am a great businessman and I am proud of it. Most of my workers are union members. They cost me more in wages and benefits, but I make up for it in getting contracts, that I might otherwise have missed out on, and no work stoppages. I also have no problems with inspectors or permits. There are rumors that organized crime people are associated with the union but I don't have any knowledge of that. Several competitors of mine have had accidents and problems with equipment and such. I have been blamed for some of this but there has never been any proof. I am, of course, innocent of any misdeeds. Some people even whisper that I have been the direct cause of a few deaths. Of course, that is pure bullshit but I find it to my advantage to let the stories persist.
About ten years ago I found it necessary to be married for business reasons. I obtained a trophy wife for myself. There was no love or courtship involved in this union. She was a very attractive and classy chick that seemed to be interested in me. At the time I was a good catch so I had a lot of girls to choose from. Unfortunately, I didn't do too good of a job. While she met all of my meager criteria, she turned out to be a less than loving wife. The only smart thing I did was to have a strong prenuptial agreement. For the last four years, Betty has been trying to get a divorce. Of course, she is looking for the big bucks. She seems to believe that by making herself a miserable bitch I would be more inclined to dump her at any cost. Sorry, it just doesn't work that way. I was raised to believe that divorce was not an option.
"Bruno, I am not going to be able to put up with this shit marriage much longer. Just what the hell do I have to do to get you to give me a divorce?"
"We have been over this before and you know the answer."
"Come on, Bruno, neither one of us is happy and there is no reason to perpetuate this misery."
"Take up a hobby or something. I am not going to give you a divorce, and that is final."
"Well, how about if I file for it, what then?"
"What are you going to use for grounds? My lawyers will eat you up. I haven't done anything to justify it and you know it. I don't beat you, I don't cheat on you and I don't even verbally abuse you. Anything you can come up with will not hold water. I am afraid we will be married until you are ready for social security."
"Damn it, Bruno, how about if I cheat on you. Will you divorce me if I start sleeping around?"
"No sweetheart I won't, but I can assure you that there will be a couple of dead lovers around. Pretty soon the word will get out and they will start avoiding you like a Typhoid Mary."
"You are a son of a bitch, do you know that?"
She turned and stalked out of the room. I couldn't help but admire her beautifully rounded backside as she slithered out of the room. She swayed from side to side when she walked. Her dark hair, down past her shoulders, would swing back and forth in time with her ass cheeks. It was a sight to behold. She wasn't skinny like a lot of trophy wives. She was curvy and shapely. She never did seem to be that bright thought. If only her brain was as sharp as her tongue.
I put this conversation behind me like I had countless others. I figured she would be up to something but I didn't feel like sitting around waiting for it. But all good things come to an end.
It was a simple plain brown manila envelope. It was addressed to me and didn't have a return address. I looked at it carefully because something did not seem right. Finally, I opened it. Inside were about twenty photographs. They were of my loving wife, Betty, having sex with a big Latin looking guy. After flipping through the pictures quickly I sat down at the kitchen table with a cold Fosters.
I arranged all the pictures on the table very carefully. It was funny, I thought I would be outraged but I wasn't. Something was strange and the longer I looked at the pictures the more mesmerized I became. Several of the pictures were of very clear cum shots. There were eight of them. Three were on or about her face, three on or about her pussy and a couple on her ass. They were all different. They were not the same cum shots taken from different angles. Now the guy in the picture was well endowed, granted, but I doubt very much that he shot that amount of cum for eight times in a row. It was evident that all the pictures were taken at the same time.
After several more Fosters, I was starting to get a clear idea of what was going on. There was a third person involved because the pictures were all taken from different angles and were well focused. There was no actual penetration showing in any of the pictures. His cock was close to her mouth but never in it. It was close to her cunt but never in it. Hell, I never got into her ass so I was sure he didn't. Some of the pictures showed them bumping hips but still no actual penetration. I was convinced now that the gobs and gobs of cum all over her face and body were something other than what it appeared to be. How stupid was that? My dumb wife was simulating sex and showing me the pictures. The pictures were so phony that there was no way I could use them to prove adultery on her part because her lawyer would make me a laughing stock. How ever, if I looked at them and got raging mad and went out and killed the guy, I would go to jail and she could get the money. Sneaky bitch.
Ok, now who was the guy? I separated the photos so that I could get a good look at his face. There were only four of them but it was clear enough that I knew who it was. Carlo Quarteira was a Portuguese import that moved here from Rhode Island about five years ago. He tried to set up an earth moving business in my area using nonunion labor and charging a lot less than I did. He was gambling and it didn't work. I put him out of business in less than a year. Betty knew I hated the guy for muscling in on my operation. I can see why she picked him. For some reason, he stuck around, even after he lost everything. I thought for sure he would head back to RI. Ok, I knew where to find him so now what do I do? I was out of cold beer.
I went to the bedroom. I looked in Betty's nightstand. Her 25 caliber Berretta was there. I thought about it a few minutes and I decided I would use my old Army Issue .45. I still wasn't sure how I was going to play this but I hated being baited. It took about thirty minutes to get to Carlo's place. A worn out 89 Chevy was parked in front of the house. Things got very busy after that.
About six-thirty, I got home. I walked into the kitchen. Betty was sitting at the table picking at a salad. I yanked open the drawer to the buffet, threw the .45 into it, and slammed it shut. I had blood on my shirt and pants. I stripped them off and carried them over to the laundry room. After throwing them in the washer I walked back into the kitchen in my underwear. Betty was just staring at me.
"What's wrong darling? Do you have a problem?" I asked.
"No. Nothings wrong. Would you like me to make you a sandwich?"
"I'm going to take a shower and go down to Porzio's and get some linguini. Don't wait up."
As I walked out of the room, I noticed a small smile on my wife's face. Everything was going just like she planned.
There were some very important people at Porzio's that night. In fact, they were there almost every night. I stopped by the table and paid my respects. I mentioned that I was going to be tied up for a few weeks and that everything was going to be Ok. I took a table over in the corner and ordered a bottle of Lancer's rose. I felt a Portuguese wine was appropriate for the occasion. I started with an antipasto. There was no hurry; this was going to be a long night.
About nine-thirty they showed up. Two detectives in cheap suits walked over to my table. There were two uniforms by the door. I smiled and pushed myself back from the table to greet them.
"Bruno Randazzo, you are under arrest for the murder of Carlo and Louisa Quarteira. You have the right to remain..."
His voice went on and on and I didn't hear anything else he was saying after that. They led me out of the restaurant in handcuffs and I smiled as I was put into the police cruiser. What they didn't know was that my lawyer was already down at the police station waiting for us. I always liked to plan.
The session at the police station was as expected.
"Mister Randazzo, do you know Carlo and Louisa Quarteira?"
My lawyer, John Fermi, would nod if it were OK for me to answer and shake his head if it wasn't. He nodded on this one.
"I knew Mister Quarteira but I never had the pleasure of meeting his wife."
"How did you know him?"
"A while ago he opened up a non-union construction company in the area in direct competition with my company. He was in business for less than a year and then folded up."
"So you had a grudge against him?"
"No, he was out of business. I settled my grudge and moved on."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
