She Only Got What She Deserved

One Saturday afternoon, Phil came by while my wife was out shopping. Phil's a neighbor, and a stand-up guy. "Rock," he said, "you need to have two whiskies. No, make that three."

"It's a little early, isn't it Phil?" I said.

"Trust me Rock," he said, "you're going to need them." Phil's a straight-shooter, so I did what he said and downed the drinks.

"Look, Rock, I hate to have to tell you this, but you need to know about it. You know Canard? He's been fucking your wife. I've seen him coming over here while you're at work."

Canard is another neighbor of ours. Rich guy, about 25, blond Aryan chiseled type.

"No way, Phil," I said. "Canard is a dick, but my wife would never do that to me. We're in love."

I was certainly in love with Jez. We'd gotten married 21 years before, back when she was a beautiful woman with big breasts. The truth is that about a year into our marriage she started letting herself go, and eventually became fat and ugly. But I wasn't the kind of guy to notice that. She was my wife, and I loved her. When she wanted sex, I gave her tender, romantic, highly-competent physical affection. This happened less and less over the years, but I wasn't the kind of guy to notice that either. I also gave her frequent footrubs, a BMW for Christmas, and diamond tennis bracelets for her birthdays. As I have said before, I was in love.

Phil had a sad-but-knowing look on his face. "Look, Rock, I hate to have to show you this, but you need to see it. I snuck over here and filmed them through the window on my iPhone." He played the video.

It was the worst thing I ever saw. I ejected the contents of my stomach into a nearby trash can.

But I kept watching. I watched Canard's steely masculine shaft plunge into my wife, over and over. I watched that steely masculine shaft fill her up with cum, till the cum dripped on the floor. I didn't want to watch it, but I knew that I needed to watch it. Only then would I have the strength to do what I knew I needed to do.

When it was over, I retched again.

Phil's a lawyer, and he helped me print out divorce papers from the internet. When my wife got home from the mall, I hurled the binder down on her foot. "I know about you and Canard!" I growled, my face intimidating.

She cringed. "Rock, you weren't supposed to find out!"

"Yeah," I said, "but I did find out. All the times I've been slaving in the office to make money to buy you things, you've been screwing around. Why? Wasn't I enough for you?"

She sneered. "I just did it because I could. Why shouldn't I have you work to support me, and fuck anyone else I wanted? You were such a sucker, it was easy. And don't think Canard was the first. I've let dozens of blond, chiseled, 20-something men fuck me over the years!"

"Geez," I said, "all this time I thought you were a Madonna, but you were just a whore!"

She laughed at me then, but she stopped laughing when I pulled out my Glock-19.

She dropped to her knees. "Please don't shoot me Rock! We did have good times!"

I pulled the hammer back with a tactile click, and my finger gently caressed the trigger. But then I eased the hammer off again. "You're not even worth the price of a bullet. Sign those papers before I get back."

She smiled in triumph. "I knew you couldn't shoot me. Canard will give me everything you couldn't."

I knew that wasn't going to happen, though, because Canard would be dead. Canard worked Saturdays, and I knew where, so I stalked out of the house and drove to his office. There was an ambulance there when I arrived.

"What happened," I asked one of the onlookers.

"Some guy, Canard Rockefeller, just got hit by a bus. Killed him!"

I holstered my sidearm. I guess a guardian angel must have been looking out for me, because that bus saved me a good few years in the Federal Penitentiary.

Still, even if he hadn't died, Canard wouldn't have wanted my wife. He was thrilled to fuck an old, fat, ugly woman when she was married, but he would never have done it once she was single. Soon, she'd made the rounds of all her other boy-toys too, and found that every single one of them had jilted her. She was entirely alone.

She lived in her BMW for a while, till I had it repossessed. Then, I heard, she was living under an overpass. One day she came by the house. She was a pathetic sight: dirty and shabby, like a bag lady. Stress had made boils break out all over her skin, and she was crying and sobbing and got down on her knees and clasped her hands to beg. "Please Rock," she sniveled, "won't you please take me back? I'll be a good wife and I won't fuck anyone but you. And you can fuck me anytime."

I laughed imperiously. "There was a time when I worshiped you, but now I see who you really are." She'd lost a lot of weight, from hunger, but it didn't make her look any better. I threw a handful of dog kibble on the ground and laughed to see her crawling around to eat it. Then I threw her out.

Soon I met a couple of 22-year-old big-breasted blondes. They were twin sisters, and coincidentally the reigning Miss Michigan and Miss Minnesota. They were really into me, because I was a newly-single 40-something man with a steady job. It was too hard to choose between them, so eventually we all moved to Arabia, where I could legally become a devoted and faithful husband to both of them.

Imagine my surprise, some years later, when I ran into my wife walking down the street in Riyadh, pushing a shopping cart full of all her worldly possessions. I can only guess at the long and winding road that must have brought her there. She didn't recognize me, and was mumbling to herself like a crazy lady. "I wish I could die, but I know God has doomed me to go on living this life of torture. If only I hadn't cheated on Rock. I feel so ashamed and pathetic, but I know I will never be able to redeem myself."

Then I went back to my 24-room compound. Miss Minnesota and Miss Michigan each sucked me to completion, and then I fucked each of them to completion. They each achieved screaming orgasms. (One thing I have noticed is that I have much more sexual prowess since kicking my wife out. Her weight gain, lack of personal care, and emasculating personality must have been diminishing my ability to perform.)

When we were done, we three stood on the balcony and watched my wife, trudging off into the desert pushing her cart. It was a scene pregnant with metaphor. She was once my wife, and some part of me will always love her. But I must admit that I'm thrilled about how things have turned out.