Red Hot

Maybe you would call me, Everleigh Chilton, naïve, or too trusting; or if you're impolite "a sucker." Maybe I once was, but not anymore.

My husband Harris and I had met just out of college when we worked in adjacent buildings. We seemed to almost instantly be attracted to each other; he's very good-looking and charming. After five or six dates we were screwing zealously, each always getting a nice orgasm. Despite the fact that we got along well and had good rhythm in the sack I was surprised when he asked me to marry him. The reason that I was surprised was because I had seen photos of all of his old girlfriends -- he didn't hide them from me, and I didn't hide my past from him either -- and they were all "well endowed;" each with nice soft curves and probably a DD or larger cup. While I'm proud of my perky tits with elongated nipples, they barely fill a B cup. Also, I don't have nice soft curves; as a result of weekly intense exercise I have a hard body with an oversized muscular round ass.

Anyway, Harris and I married with my best friend Ashley Morton as my matron of honor. Ashleigh's husband Bill, who owned an event planning company, was nice enough to plan our wedding for costs only. Harris seemed to really like Bill -- and not just because he did our wedding for costs only -- and Ashley -- her probably because she has an E cup (ha, ha). We became and remained great friends with Ashley and Bill, who were part of a set of six couples that regularly got together, either in pairs, or as a group.

Harris and I agreed on many important things, not the least of which was that we would have at least two kids, but not until we had been married for at least six years. Therefore I regularly got a birth control shot every three months, important because our sex life never really tapered off, a pleasant three or more times a week, essentially always with a very nice orgasm for each of us.

Ashley is a little older than I am so at the time that Harris and I had been married about three years, and she and Bill about six, she went off birth control. She told me, always with a laugh, that psychologically that made her a little hornier and "I wish that Bill would fuck me more often!"

**************

While Harris and I shared almost everything (except for toothbrushes), one thing that we didn't was our cars. I have a Prius while he has a Dodge Challenger. He thinks my car is too prissy -- I think his is too macho; he detests prissy, I hate macho. Plus, while Harris isn't sloppy in our house, his car is -- at least to me -- like a trash heap, with papers, used plastic drink cups, and sports equipment all over it, so that when we ride someplace together in it I usually need to throw the junk from the front passenger seat into the back seat before I can sit down.

On a fateful Saturday in May we were going to a local minor league baseball game, and would meet Bill and Ashley there. For some reason I was ready before he was -- being a typical woman that happens only about 10% of the time -- so I did a more complete job than normal of clearing out his front seat before I got in, even spraying it with a cleaner and wiping it off. Just before I finished wiping it off I noticed a small box underneath the seat. The label said "Trojan Pleasure Pack."

I removed the box; on the front it listed four types of condoms -- I didn't know that there were that many -- and a total of twelve. I opened the box and counted three left. I carefully put the box in my purse and got in the car just before Harris arrived.

For the rest of my narrative to make sense, you need to know that two of my passions (besides exercise) are theater and cooking. I have been an amateur thespian most of my life and was in a community theater production only ten months before that banner day, and I love experimenting with all sorts of spices and unusual dishes which 90% of the time are well received by all who consume them.

Pulling off one of my better acting jobs, I was warm and playful in my discussions with Harris on the way to the game, while being pissed inside and already working on a plan of what I would do about it.

Despite the adverse effect my find had on my inner mood, outwardly I had a good time. I was tempted to mention my dilemma to Ashley, but then realized that I had to handle this alone and gather much more information before I decided on all aspects of my investigation and likely certain revenge.

One of the players on the home team was a hunk and a half. He wore No. 7, just like Hall-of-Famer Mickey Mantle. I surreptitiously looked him up in the program. "Derek Voorhees" was his name. Vital statistics were 23 years old (I was 26 at the time), six foot three inches (1.9 meters) tall, 220 pounds (100 kg), went to North Carolina at Chapel Hill, first year on our AAA minor league team, and as of that date leading the league in home runs.

Using a long-ago-taught technique I fixated on Derek when my anger started to boil. Much later, after dinner with Bill, Ashley, and another couple, when we went to bed I was in no mood to fuck Harris; however, for one of the very few times since I got married I thought of fucking someone else in my mind as I fucked Harris. I had an over-the-top orgasm as in my mind I fucked hunk baseball player Derek Voorhees.

Harris must have really liked our fuck because afterward as our sweaty bodies huffed-and-puffed he whispered "You really outdid yourself Everleigh -- you've got to be the best fuck in the state."

"Fun, huh," was the most I could say in return without anger pushing through my façade. Fortunately it was enough so that after a quick kiss and a short cuddle, he was snoring. Surprisingly I fell asleep shortly thereafter, having convinced myself that I needed a good nights' sleep in order to figure out my next move.

I knew that I needed to do something fast so that I could return the box of condoms to Harris' car without him knowing that they were gone. As I was getting out ingredients to make pancakes including nutmeg, which I add to give my cakes a special tang, my eyes rested on one of my home-made spices in my spice drawer; a habanero-based concoction that I use for Mexican dishes. An idea popped into my head causing me to whistle as I made the flapjacks -- which Harris ate six of.

After breakfast while Harris was washing our cars in front of our apartment building I got out a pin and an eye dropper. I mixed the habanero concoction with a little alcohol to liquefy it, pin pricked each of the three condom wrappers in the box, and with the eye dropper carefully introduced the liquid into the condom wrapper throiugh the pin prick. Then I covered up the pin prick the best that I could. I knew that dosing the condoms like I had was unlikely to get me all of the information that I needed to catch Harris but that it would be a nice revenge before I went to hire a P. I.

I returned the Trojan box to exactly where it had been under the passenger's seat in Harris' Challenger and then tried to put it out of my mind.

****************

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I work from home. I even had sex with Harris the next Monday and Tuesday nights, again having to think of the hunk baseball player in order to legitimately orgasm.

The very next Thursday, about one p. m. Ashley called me up. "Everleigh, something is seriously wrong. My pussy is burning up so much I'm afraid that I'll wreck the car if I drive and Bill is in a meeting the next town over; can you run me to the local clinic?" The sounds that she made while getting those words out were scary, so I immediately got my Prius keys and drove to her house, fortunately only about a mile away. She was walking bowlegged and had an ice pack on her V-Jay as I helped her into my car. She had no explanation as to why she was burning up.

Fortunately, the local clinic was also close, and there was a parking space right in front; I helped her in, and even signed her in with her insurance card and ID from her purse as she went back into the clinic.

After I signed her in I asked the nurse if I could go back. Apparently the nurse thought that I was her sister since our facial features, height, and hair are very similar (only our tit size and butt size and shape readily distinguish us when clothed) and mumbled what I interpreted to be a "yes." As I was standing just outside the door to the room I had seen her go into -- the soundproofing wasn't what it should be -- I heard her say "It started during sex at noontime..."

I didn't open the door. I went into the lobby and waited for her. Since Bill wasn't in town at lunchtime, and Harris had habanero-laced condoms, it didn't take a genius to know what happened. As hard as it was to believe, I could think of no other rational explanation. Fortunately I had twenty minutes before Ashley came out -- still walking bowlegged, but with her face much less contorted and sweaty -- so I had regained my composure and relied on my acting skills.

On the way home I briefly and subtly interrogated Ashley. "Did they tell you what it was?" I asked.

"Uh...they think...yeah...it was an allergic...uh...reaction to a new...skincare cream I used around my thighs and crotch...uh...area," was the lie Ashley stammered out.

"How long before you feel better?" I asked (with an inward snicker).

"Uh...probably two or three days."

"No baby-making for you for a while," I chuckled.

Ashley didn't chuckle in response.

If there was any doubt -- there wasn't -- it vanished when I got a look at Harris' crotch while he was in the shower that night; red hot! He begged off sex when I fake tried to initiate it that night. "I'm sorry, Everleigh, but for some reason I feel shitty tonight; not sick to my stomach, just shitty."

"That's all right, honey, you just get better," I replied with apparent concern while laughing to myself.

After Harris was asleep I went to an all-night drug store, bought two condoms exactly like the ones he had left in his box of Trojans, and replaced the habanero-laced ones with the new ones. After I threw the old condoms into the kitchen trash bag I took it out to the can on the street which was being picked up Friday.

**************

The next step was to catch them in the act. I met with a P. I. but when I found out how much it cost I wasn't sure that I could hide that amount of money from Harris since our finances were intermixed. What I could do, however, was talk to Bill -- but I had to do it right.

The next Monday -- fucking Harris Sunday, after he recovered, was completely unrewarding since I couldn't conjure up fucking the baseball-playing hunk so I had to fake an orgasm for only the second time in my life with Harris -- I asked Bill to lunch on Tuesday. He was a little surprised, but happy to accommodate me. He was perplexed when I told him that it related to a surprise for Ashley so not to say anything to her.

I met Bill in an out-of-the-way dive. He laughingly commented on its lack of charm. "This is a business meeting, Bill," I seriously replied.

"Oh shit! What is it?" he replied.

"Before I start I need to extract a promise from you -- in writing," I responded as I handed him a simple one page document. Basically it provided that in exchange for me giving him worthwhile confidential information that he would hold the information confidential unless I gave him permission to divulge it, or after 45 days even if I didn't give permission. It had a liquidated damages provision of $25,000, although that part was probably not enforceable.

Bill raised his eyebrows, stared into my eyes and obviously concluded that I -- and the information -- were serious, and we both signed and dated the document.

I told Bill what I had found out and that I needed his help in hiring a P I. He needed to pay using his business account, and when everything was concluded I would reimburse him for half.

Bill just picked at his food while he commiserated with me. Having had longer to adjust, I ate everything on my plate -- while the place had no character it had good food.

Not letting any grass grow under our feet, after lunch Bill and I went straight to the P I's office and signed a contract. We gave the P I and his associates written permission to surveil our houses -- inside and out -- and recent photos of Ashley and Harris.

Bill and I both worked out fake out of town trips during the next week, me Tuesday and Wednesday nights, Bill Wednesday and Thursday nights, so that it wouldn't be suspicious that we were out of town at exactly the same time. I worked out of Bill's office the days I was supposedly out of town, and he worked out of mine (my business office, not my home one) while he was.

We met with the P. I. the Saturday after our fake trips. Unfortunately the news was what we expected; Ashley and Harris fucked three times between Wednesday night and Thursday morning in the guest room in Bill's house, all recorded in vivid color or infrared, with crisp audio. Fortunately Harris did use a condom when in Ashley's pussy, although not when in contact with her tits or ass.

The only good thing was that they didn't bad mouth me or Bill. For the few seconds they discussed it, it appeared that Harris just needed a titty fuck once in a while (which didn't really explain why he fucked her cunt, although he did warm himself up between her tits) and Ashley just needed a little more cock action than Bill was providing.

Then the question was what to do about it?

After talking to the P. I. Bill and I went to a park to discuss things. We had been anticipating it so we had been thinking about things for a while. I went first:

"Bill, there are two things that will come of this regardless of what else happens. My friendship with Ashley is over; and my marriage with Harris is over too. I won't interfere in what you choose to do, but I also want some revenge on both of them."

"More than the habanero concoction provided?" he chuckled even though the situation wasn't funny.

"Yeah, even more than that!" I snorted.

"I think that I want to try to salvage my marriage," Bill said with a hang dog look. "It will depend on how Ashley reacts when I confront her about it."

"OK -- but remember our contract. I need another few days to figure out what to do so don't spring it on Ashley until I give you to go ahead; I promise that it will be much less time than the 45 days in our contract, probably by Wednesday of this coming week."

Bill dejectedly shook his head, we briefly hugged, and he moped away.

That weekend I had to fake another orgasm with Harris, but on Monday morning as I went through the local morning paper for some reason instead of just putting the sports section in front of Harris' chair I actually looked on the front page. On the front page of the sports section was a photo of Derek Voorhees tipping his hat to the home town baseball crowd. The caption mentioned that he tied a team record by hitting three homers in one game.

I got an idea.

Before I reveal my idea there are two things I need to divulge for it to make sense, one flattering but probably proven true, and one unflattering but definitely provably true.

#1 My hard body is considered hot, and my face is pretty. #2 I am a mean, nasty, over-the-top vindictive bitch when wronged as a half dozen people from my past will attest to with their hand on a bible.

I went to see Bill that Monday morning, and caught him between meetings. "Bill, I want you to confront Ashley as soon as you are comfortable with it. However, there are two conditions I insist that you give her to stay married -- I don't give a rat's ass whether you follow through with these or not, I just need to know one thing and need her temporary agreement to another."

"OK," Bill warily replied.

"I want you to make her confess to how many times, over what time period, she and Harris have been fucking and who initiated it; and I need you to make her promise NOT to let Harris know that we know until I'm ready. Can you do that?" I concluded, holding both of his hands and staring into his eyes.

After a long delay he responded, "Yes; I can do it. I will confront her Wednesday and call your cell afterward."

*************

When Bill called me Wednesday night and told me that Ashley tearfully confessed to having had an affair with Harris for more than a year, typically once a week, and that he initially came on to her with the line "I love your tits," my head almost exploded. I would now go through my scorched earth revenge. I believed that Harris would want to save the marriage and that I could get him to do something that would rip his innards out. Of course I had no intention of saving the marriage, but he didn't know that. If he wasn't interested in saving the marriage then I'd devise another no-holds-barred plan.

I didn't wait to confront him. I threw the affair -- including a couple of compromising photos from the sessions our P. I. recorded -- in his face that Wednesday night, screaming like a banshee. I called him every name in the book, destroyed two keepsakes of his from his youth, and threw his pillow and relevant possessions of his out of our bedroom and into the guest room. Then I closed and locked our bedroom door and placed a door security bar that I had recently purchased between the door knob and the floor.

I ignored the begging and pleading at the door, and actually got some sleep thinking about how delicious my revenge would be.

Harris begged and crawled over the next three days. Eventually I heard the words that were music to my ears. "Everleigh, we can get past this. I love you so much and want kids with you. Please don't file for divorce; I'll do anything to stay married; ANYTHING!"

"Bullshit," I snarled. "You say that, but you won't. I guarantee that you are too fucking weak, and care too little for me, to do the one simple task that I require to give our marriage another chance." After that I turned to walk away. He gently grabbed my arm.

"Please, Everleigh darling; I do really mean it," he plead, with what appeared to be actual tears in his eyes.

I stopped and stared at him; he got on his knees. "OK," I snickered, "get me a night with Derek Voorhees in a local luxury hotel that you pay for." Then I turned and walked toward the garage to get in my Prius.

"You can't be serious...you mean the minor league baseball player...I could never do that...even if I agreed to it I have no way to accomplish it..." were some of the things he called after me.

I stopped at the garage door, turned toward him, and with venom dripping from my mouth snarled "I told you that you're not just a fucking cheater but a liar; you said 'anything' and you lied. Fuck you! Tell me where you want the divorce papers served!"

Then I stormed out to the sounds of his weak cry of "Wait."

**************

During the wait for Harris' decision, Ashley tried to contact me. After avoiding her for a week I took a call from her. After pleading how sorry that she was -- to which I responded "You're only sorry that you got caught, bitch" -- she asked how I caught on. "We were so careful, and whether you believe it or not never disrespected you," she whined.

I didn't reply to her irrational whining but I saw no reason not to tell her how I caught on -- although leaving out the part about me lacing the condom with a habanero concoction. "I caught on because you really are a dumb shit," I cackled.

"I screwed up?" she responded with true shock.

"Hell yes. You called me to take you to the clinic with your pussy burning up. I thought that your skincare product allergy story was bogus, and I was sure of it when I was about to walk into your room at the clinic and heard you tell the doctor you had just had sex."

Ashley loudly gasped.

"I knew then that you were getting some strange on the side, and I was disgusted with you. Imagine my surprise when that very night I saw Harris with a red hot crotch. After that I hired a P. I. and the rest is history. You are such a dumb cunt that you had the nerve to ask me to take you to the clinic right after fucking my husband. Don't contact me again -- you're dead to me!" I yelled before I cut off her call.