The Fidelity Test

This is a disclaimer like you see on the TV ads for drugs.

If you want a story where the characters are only either white hats or black hats, so that you can cheer one set and relish the tribulations of the other, you will be disappointed.

While this story is more realistic than the Mission Impossible or James Bond movies, it likely won't ring genuine to those of you that strictly demand complete pragmatism.

This is a first person account by someone who isn't omniscient. Therefore he cannot tell you what is in other characters' minds nor be sure what motivates them to do what they do. If you require every detail to be tied up into a nice little bundle your frustration will be real.

This story is relatively short and to the point so if you want lots of flowery language or a detailed history of all of the characters and their breast and cock sizes, once again discontent will descend upon you.

Finally there are "reluctance/non-consent" aspects to the story so if those put you off -- well, you'll be put off.

Having made all the ubiquitous drug company-like provisos that I can think of I am secure in the knowledge that "You've been warned."

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

As I walked into the coat room at the Bellwood Country Club shortly after everyone had celebrated the arrival of the New Year I saw John Brandt feeling up Rachel Tipton. That concerned and angered me. Why? Rachel Tipton is my wife. I had the presence of mind to click off a photo with my iPhone before my rage overtook me.

"What the fuck are you doing asshole?" I rhetorically inquired as I returned my smartphone to my pocket.

The kneader and kneadee were slightly startled, but didn't break contact.

"Don't get upset, Randy -- it's just harmless flirting," Rachel muttered, the five margaritas that she had consumed in the last two hours obviously slurring her speech.

"Cool it fella, the lady don't mind," John added, also perceptibly slightly inebriated, and completely belligerent.

--Aside -- "Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn't have fucked with? That's me!" -- Clint Eastwood said in Grand Torino. It was just a line in a movie for him, but it's my credo in real life! John was the biggest dude in our circle of acquaintances, and foolishly thought that because he outweighed me by twenty five pounds and was three inches taller that he had a physical advantage over me. While I didn't have all of what it took to be a SEAL, a Ranger, or in the Delta Force, I did teach hand-to-hand combat in the Marines for two years and was supremely confident in my abilities to handle any physical situation. --

"Get your hands off her tits or I break one," I growled.

"What the fuck is wrong with you..." John started to snarl, his right hand still on Rachel's left breast.

I grabbed John's free left hand, clamped down on his fingers with both of my hands, and twisted using all the power that I could muster not only in my arms and hands but my entire torso. The sound of breaking digits filled the air, followed shortly by the asshole's scream.

As John was on his knees weeping I grabbed his hair and turned his face toward me. "I suggest that you keep your fucking mouth shut otherwise I'll show Cindy the photo I have that provides the reason why I fucked you up." Cindy was John's cute fiery little wife who for sure wouldn't put up with this shit. I always liked and admired Cindy and didn't want to ruin her day, but I was dead serious.

As John continued to whimper while holding his broken fingers with his right hand I put my nose within six inches of Rachel's and said "I'm leaving right now, bitch. Either get your coat and follow me or get your own fucking ride home!" I never talked like that to her before, but I felt that I had good reason too and was royally pissed-off.

By the time that the valet had my car at the club entrance, Rachel had arrived with her coat on. She barely got into the car and had not yet fully closed the door before I took off.

Despite being married to me for five years, Rachel still didn't "get" my "don't fuck with me" credo. She incessantly slurred away the entire ride home, seemingly getting increasingly angry when I didn't respond to her at all; in fact I was in my own little world working out the details of what I was going to do so my mind honestly didn't register anything that she said although my ears did not like the shrillness in the air.

When we got home I went into the master bedroom, threw her normal bedtime attire into the hallway, and locked the door as I snarled "We'll talk tomorrow when the booze has left your system."

She swore as she pounded on the door for five or ten minutes -- most of the time I was in the shower and it didn't faze me at all -- but didn't have the wherewithal to find the key, and apparently ended up in the guest room.

The next morning the fact that the alcohol had largely been purged from her body had not brightened her mood. "How dare you lock me out of my own bedroom, you prick," was her opening salvo.

"Sit down and listen to what I have to say or by noon all of your shit will be in the driveway and if you try to stop me I'll handcuff you to your car door," I calmly replied.

"You have no right to dictate to me..." she started to say. When she saw me get up -- her jewelry box, which I had hidden on the chair next to me, in hand -- and start for the driveway she suddenly got religion. "All right bastard, I'll sit and listen," she shrieked just before I made it to the garage.

I sat back down at the table across from her, still cradling the jewelry box. "Rachel, I can't stand your flirtatious and raunchy behavior toward and around men. The episode last night with that asshole Brandt is just the latest and most obnoxious in a string of incidents in the last eighteen months, and I will not put up with it."

"It's harmless -- and you didn't have to break his fingers. You're lucky that he didn't beat you up," she snickered, obviously again showing her complete lack of understanding of my nature and abilities.

"It's not harmless; it makes me see red. How would you like it if I groped Cindy like John was groping you?" I inquired trying to hold my anger in check.

"You don't have the chance to do that -- women don't come onto you like men do to me. You wouldn't have the wherewithal to resist Cindy if she approached you the same way that John did me," she twittered, obviously believing her outrageous statement.

"You really are a delusional bitch, aren't you," I snapped. "I've had plenty of opportunities I'm just not a slut like you are."

The conversation degenerated from there. It left me with the uneasy feeling that Rachel had done more than let guys feel her up, and it was apparent that she had so little respect for me that she thought that I couldn't resist a strange pussy if it were thrown in my face.

After the better part of an hour of acrimony I got to the piece de resistance. "In the end Rachel, whatever you believe doesn't interest me in the least. Here's what's going to happen. You're either signing a post-nup or we're getting divorced, and if we get divorced I'm going to do my best to burn you even if it means that all of our savings and the equity in our house ends up in the hands of shark attorneys."

That took her by surprise. I guess that she finally figured out that I was serious. Since Rachel really didn't have any significant marketable skills -- she worked part time as a receptionist at a dentist's office and did some volunteer work -- the thought of losing her gravy train obviously distressed her. After a really long delay during which I unblinkingly stared at her she finally responded.

"Uh...you...uh...really...actually...would file...uh...for divorce?" she stammered.

"I have never been more serious in my life; NEVER!" I replied.

After another pregnant pause she asked "Uh...well...what type of...uh...post nuptial; what...ah...uh...would it say?"

"I'll give it to you on Friday, Rachel; until then I suggest that we leave things as normal as possible."

"OK...but I want you to apologize to John," she responded, trying to salvage some dignity from our conversation.

"Actually, instead I might break John's other hand, or worse yet send Cindy a copy of the photo I took with both of his hands on your breasts and your hand near his fly. He deprived me of a post-New Year's fuck -- which I am going to remedy right now," I continued with determination as I leapt up from my seat and lunged toward Rachel.

Rachel wasn't quick enough to get away, and also unfortunately for her if she really didn't want sex she had only her bathrobe on. Despite her screams, pleas, and flying fists, she really didn't have a chance. Within ninety second she was kneeling on the living room carpet as with my left hand I pinned her arms in back of her with her partially ripped bathrobe off to the side. She continued screaming and tried to kick, but had no leverage. Her demeanor changed once I had been stroking her pussy with my right hand for a couple of minutes.

Once Rachel's screams turned to moans I let go of her hands. She put them on the carpet to support herself. I buried my tool in her now soaking wet cunt in one stroke, then latched onto her ample mammaries and started pumping away. I don't think that I was ever so energized for a fuck in my life since this was the first time that I had ever seemingly forced myself on someone. Once she started banging back and mumbling "Oh...fuck yeah...oh fucking yeah" I knew that she was with the program and went even more all-out.

Our mutual climaxes were epic. She collapsed and I couldn't see straight. When we finally recovered I turned her on her back and started sucking her tits. I know why Brandt -- and many other guys over the years -- were fascinated by them, because they were magnificent, with just the right combination of turgidity, malleability, and sensitivity.

After I sucked Rachel's tits for a good ten minutes it was clear that she had regained complete awareness and was getting hot. She wordlessly maneuvered herself into a sixty nine and while I abused her clitoris she sucked my cock clean -- and got it iron-hard. Soon after that she was on her back, squeezing her own tits while her heels were on my shoulders and I was fucking her brains out. Our second mutual climaxes were -- incredibly -- as good as the first.

Twenty minutes after my last sperm deposit we dragged ourselves off of the carpet, both with some mildly irritating rug burns. We walked arm-in-arm toward the master bathroom, wordlessly until she snarled "You know if those weren't two of the ten best fucks of our lives I'd report you for spousal rape."

I didn't say what I thought, namely "Who would believe a slut like you?" Instead I kissed her for the first time since our New Year's smooch at the stroke of midnight, and then ushered her into the shower where we washed each other clean, with a few giggles and slight penetrations, but not another fuck.

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

Things between Rachel and I went as smoothly as could be expected the next few days; we didn't talk about "the issue," and actually had two more quite satisfying fucks before I came home from work Friday night with the post-nup that my attorney had drafted. We eagerly ate the take-out Chinese food that I had brought home with me before loading the dishwasher, taking out the garbage, and cleaning the table. Rachel had been eyeing the 9 x 13 inch brown envelope lying on the kitchen table all during dinner, but never asked about it, and we talked about other things.

Once all dinner-related issues were taken care of I said "It's time to talk turkey, Rachel." I reached for the envelope, undid the metal clasp, removed the three copies of the three page (double spaced) agreement, and slid one copy over to her. "I suggest that you read it first and then we'll talk about it."

Halfway through reading the document tears started forming in Rachel's eyes. When she finished she asked "Do you really trust me so little, and have such a low opinion of me?"

"What do you expect?" I replied, trying not to be belligerent and confrontational despite the obvious import of my question. "When I caught you with Brandt's hands on your tits and your hand moving toward his fly you essentially told me to bug-out. And there are dozens of other over-the-top flirtations that you've participated in over the years...want me to name some?"

Rachel was lightly sobbing when she spoke. "You just don't understand how hard it is to resist playful flirtations. I can't help it that men love my boobs -- you do too. It's not harmful to just mess around a little. Just because you never get hit on you can't seem to understand..." her voice trailing off at the end.

There she was with that fucking "You never get hit on --- you couldn't resist" mantra again. I guess she really did believe that shit.

Once again reining in my anger I replied "I told you that I discourage flirtatious or physical situations whereas you encourage them. If that hot little number Cindy or anyone else came on to me I not only could resist them, I would."

After Rachel's tears soaked her copy of the agreement enough so that it might be worthless I continued. "Are you going to sign it, or are we getting divorced?"

"I don't like this paragraph 4," she finally got out, "especially combined with the penalties in paragraph 5."

Of course those two paragraphs were the meat of the agreement. In the very most simplistic terms, devoid of any legalese, they provided that if any other man touched her breasts or crotch without her slapping him and/or reporting it to me, it was tantamount to her agreeing to a divorce with the assets split 70-30 in my favor and only one year of alimony for her.

"This isn't even reciprocal," she moaned.

"I agree to make it reciprocal -- I'll have my attorney revise it on Monday," I quickly retorted.

"Let me think some more and talk it over with my own attorney," she responded. "I don't want a divorce but I don't want to be taken advantage of either."

"You mean like Brandt did?" I silently asked myself.

"OK -- that's fair. How about we discuss it rationally over the next few days, and decide a week from today to fish or cut bait?" I said aloud.

"OK..." she demurely replied. Then suddenly she got fire in her eye. "Just don't think that you're fucking me between now and then," she snarled as she removed her top, her braless honkers flopping out like flags in a windstorm.

The way that she said the last statement, and her removal of her top, made it clear that she wanted the opposite of what she said -- she wanted a repeat of the New Year's Day incident.

Rachel did a credible acting job as she snarled, yelled, tried to bite, hit, and kick me, and swore at me while I lifted her up and carried her into the living room as I removed her skirt and underwear. She stopped flailing and screaming only after my rock-hard cock dropped into the valley between her malleable mammaries. She then pushed her tits together and moaned as I stroked while at the same time pinching her nipples. When I ejaculated onto her chin and chest she tried to lick up all of the cum, and when I rolled off of her she immediately went to work getting me hard again.

My second ejaculation was made doggy style into her pulsating pussy, reducing us both to victims of monumental orgasms. When a half hour later we finally were cognizant enough to walk toward the shower she repeated her charge of New Year's Day. "If those fucks weren't so satisfying I'd see you in jail, you bastard," followed by a giggle when I pinched her bulbous ass.

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

That weekend things were fairly normal around our house, although Rachel was pissed that when we went to a friend's house for a small dinner party on Saturday night that I lingered around her like a mother hen with a wayward chick. I got the feeling that she wanted to test my resolve but she probably wouldn't have been able to anyway even without my hovering because all of the males there had heard about Brandt's broken hand and I clearly had new-found respect.

The next week I returned the post-nup with the revision about mutuality that Rachel requested, and we talked about it for at least half an hour every night. Most of her side of the conversation was the same old shit -- I didn't understand how hard it was for her to resist since I didn't have the same situation that she did, and I wouldn't act any differently than she did in the same situations. I remained firm in my position despite her arguments, even when she tried them while I was sucking on her notoriously nubile nipples.

I did notice that Rachel was also spending a fair amount of time on the phone -- and was just getting off of her cellphone just about every time that I arrived home from work -- clearly indicating that she was talking with her girlfriends about it. That would have pissed me off except for the fact that I hoped that some were giving her reasonable advice.

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

There are some things in life that you can plan for; there are others that are mostly unexpected but that you can easily rationally react to; and then there are lightning bolts out of the sky. At the pow-wow on Friday night she threw a lightning bolt better than any Zeus had ever hurled from Mt. Olympus.

"I'm willing to agree to the post-nup on a short term basis; but only if you agree to a fidelity test during that time," she snickered in a very self-satisfied manner.

"What the fuck is a fidelity test?" was my startled reply.

"It means that you get tested by some sexy woman to see if you can resist her. If you can, then I'll sign the agreement for the long term; but if, as I expect, you fail, then you drop this divorce and post-nup shit and just roll with the punches and accept that I'm flirtatious and will get rubbed once in a while but I won't be fucking around on you," she quickly responded, again with a self-assured bearing.

My mind wasn't working that well because I was still taken aback by the import of what she had said. Finally I got on track enough to ask "Exactly how am I to be tested?"

"You go away for a weekend with a woman that I choose, and stay in the same room with her. When you come back if you haven't kissed and felt-her-up -- or heaven forbid if you haven't fucked her -- then I'll sign the post-nup without any date restrictions. If you fail, we rip up the post nup and forget about this divorce shit," she confidently responded, obviously having thought this out very thoroughly.

"So we both sign the pre-nup effective for what, only two weeks, and then after the test either we sign it long term or rip it up?" I asked.

"Exactly," she replied, and then continued in a scoffing manner, "but you sure as fuck are going to fail and might as well admit it right now."

You would think that I was mature enough, especially after my three year stint in the Marines the last two teaching hand-to-hand combat, that I couldn't be cajoled or tricked into doing something stupid in response to a "double dare you" type juvenile challenge. I had never fallen for such a tactic in the ten years that I was officially an adult -- why I fell for it then, I have no idea except maybe that it was because it was coming from my wife and she was calling me a hypocrite.

I took a pen, marked up all three of the copies of the post-nup indicating that it was valid for only two weeks from that coming Sunday, and that it would only become permanent if re-executed; and put in a paragraph about the fidelity test that Rachel dictated to me (I should have been really suspicious when she flawlessly recited the words to me). I called over our next door neighbors -- a lesbian couple whose names really are Thelma and Louise -- and had them witness our signatures on all three copies. Rachel kept one copy, I kept one, and I put the other in a stamped envelope and handed it to Thelma and asked her to mail it to my attorney.