This story is written for Loving Wives and is my first solo submission. It's vengefully dark and sadistic, but something that just came to me. I'm not really this heartless, but I felt I needed to get it out. A bit of sex and a couple of twists. For those who know me, please "Bear" with me...hehehe.
*****
James
My name is James Tremaine, an attorney, and senior partner in the firm of Tremaine, Anderson, and Dowling, Attorneys at Law. I have been married to Sonia, my wife of fourteen years. She works in a money management firm downtown.
I thought I was happily married, but as they say, the husband is always the last to know. We are a medium-sized litigation firm, and we do quite well. There is a bit of pro bono work, and we also advise the local Archdiocese.
A while back, I began to suspect I had a cheating wife problem. It appeared that she and her associate at work, one Marcus Blaine, were swapping bodily fluids on a regular basis, i.e. every Tuesday and Thursday night, and possibly on Friday evenings. That would have been bad enough, and I was just about to get a private investigator involved.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
Her birthday was approaching, and loving my wife so much, I knew she had always wanted one of those 5G smartphones, so I figured, "What the heck, she's worth it." I got her the one with all the bells and whistles, and an instruction manual about three-quarters of an inch thick. I didn't understand half of it, and I'm pretty computer savvy, but the one thing I noticed, towards the back, was a chapter on the tracker app. Unfortunately, my Gibbs-type phone didn't support it. Y'know, Gibbs from NCIS? Never mind.
So, I sprang for a cheap 5G phone for me to load the app on.
She was over the moon with hers, since she was the first one in her office to get one, and you would think that she would be very appreciative of the gift. But no, a perfunctory "Thank You" was all I got. Even a hearty handshake would have been nice.
Then, one Tuesday evening, when she'd gone to a Library Committee meeting, I figured I would try and surprise her with a little late-night drinks, dinner, and dancing. I drove to the main branch of the City Public Library, to pick her up about 8:00 pm, but the building was dark, locked up tighter than a drum. It wasn't very late; she usually got home about 9:00 - 9:30.
I noticed the security cop parked over by the front door, so I strolled over and asked when the Committee meeting was over. He looked at me like I had two heads.
"What Committee meeting?" he asked.
Stunned, I asked him if they had moved it, or rescheduled it.
"What the hell are you talking about?" He asked again, this time like I'd just inquired about a UFO sighting.
So, okay, something just wasn't right. I tried calling her cell from my new phone, the one she didn't know about. It went right to voice mail.
That's when it hit me. Oh, Christ. Suddenly, I remembered the tracking app on her phone. I scrolled to it, and punched it up. Seconds later, it showed a flashing icon. I tapped the "Show Address" function, and it came up with The North Loop Radisson Blu. Oh, Christ-again. Somehow it started being my go-to exclamation...sorry, Lord.) I drove home and swapped out my Jag for my 1980 full-sized Ford Bronco. I immediately drove to the swanky hotel, parked in the lot, went in, and asked where the City Library Committee meeting was being held.
(Hey, don't judge. I'm college and law school educated, and I'd never claimed to be particularly bright, but I began to catch on.)
The guy behind the front desk must have been telepathically linked with the Library security guard, but he had concierge level standards to uphold.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"There is no City Library Committee meeting here, is there?" I said. Without waiting for an answer, I turned and left. I went out, and got in my Bronco. I began to feel sick, my stomach turning over.
I started it up, and backed out of the space. I drove around the parking lot for about five minutes until I saw her three-year-old BMW. 'Fuck this,' I thought. I pulled up carefully to the driver's side rear quarter panel, dropped the transfer case into 4Lo, then drove the winch bumper into it. Satisfied, I backed up, and went home. As I turned onto the street, I saw her come out of the hotel with Marcus Blaine on her arm. Well, at least I knew who would pay for this crapfest.
After getting home and pulling into the driveway on my side, while leaving her side clear, I got out and checked my bumper. Nothing major, just a small scuff, and a scratch on the black, powder-coated bumper. I got a rag, some rubbing compound, and a can of gloss black lacquer. Five minutes later, it looked as good as new. I went into the house, poured myself a scotch, and turned on the Yankees' game.
She came in about five minutes later, looking pissed.
I asked, "How was the meeting, hon?"
She stared at me, then mumbled something about her car getting wrecked. I bolted up, struggling to cover my amusement, "Are you alright?"
"Yes, yes I'm fine," she said.
"Let's go look," I urged, grabbing a flashlight. We went out to survey the damage.
After several minutes of "Oh, man," and "Awww shit, honey," I asked her if she got the cop's card, so we could get a copy of the police report, for the insurance claim.
"UH-uhhh, ahhh...umm, no." she stammered.
"Why not?" I asked incredulously, now in full lawyer mode.
"It's not a big thing, just a dent," she mumbled.
"Honey, it's a BEEMER. The door frame is bent, the glass in the window is broken, and the door itself is, for all intents and purposes, retired to Florida."
"I was too upset. I just wanted to come home," she defended sullenly.
"We'll be paying for this ourselves." I knew she didn't contact the police, because the report would have listed place and time. And that wasn't at the library.
"Fine. I'll pay for it. It's my car
& & &
Arctic, described the climate in our house for a while.
The next day, I took off for some personal time from work and got her car to the dealership. I gave them her office work number, arranged for her to get a rental, and told them to contact her about the cost.
Then, I went to the local electronic spy shop, and picked up several voice-activated recorders, as well as several motion-activated cameras. I also got a landline monitor for our old-style phone.
I went home, and installed one camera in the living room, one in the master bedroom, one in the master bath, and one in in the kitchen. I hooked up the phone monitor to the landline, and the computer mic input, and put a voice-activated recorder in the bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen.
I didn't think Sonia would bring him home to our house, but everything was covered until I got a private investigator involved.
I went into my home office, and couldn't help crying.
& & &
Sonia
I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom of Suite 512 admiring my naked body. Marcus was showering, I was drying myself off and brushing my hair. Not bad for thirty-four, I smirked.
I thought about the nine-inch cock being scrubbed in the shower. When I'd first met James, my husband, he satisfied me for a while with the sex. It was never love-making, although the fool was head over heels in love with me. But I had a degree in financial management, and he had his law degree, so our marriage was a stepping stone.
I'd agreed when he proposed, we married, bought a house, and started to plan a family.
James didn't know about my plan, though, and the steps I'd taken to implement it. I had my tubes tied, because children were the last thing I wanted. Sex, however, and lots of it, was the first thing I wanted. I was screwed, selectively and discreetly, everything I could find, from our wedding until today. I've had four lovers in the last ten months.
Then, I met Marcus Blaine
Marcus is passionate, considerate, and hung. We're now exclusive; he insisted I stop having sex with my husband, and I thought it only fair that he also stop doing his wife. They had three kids, so she was totally not worried about the lack of attention. Marcus and I had plans that would be put into effect in February of next year, on Valentine's Day, no less.
I picked up my lace panties, and slipped them on. Then the demi-cup bra, which just barely conceals my nipples. I retrieved my satin blouse, and pulled it on. Walking out of the bathroom, I went to the bed, and picked up the charcoal panty hose with faux leg seams and Cuban feet, and slowly rolling them on. I couldn't afford to get a tell-tale run. Stepping over to the chair by the desk, I picked up the pencil skirt I'd cast off two hours ago, and stepped into it, smoothing it up over my hips, then pulling up the side zipper. My four-inch Jimmy Choo's came last, and I sat down to slip them on.
Standing to look at myself in the mirror over the dresser, I murmured, "Perfect, he'll never suspect a thing, the clueless clod."
Marcus came out of the bathroom, and picked up his dress shirt. He donned it, and slipped on his shoes. Buttoning his shirt with a grin tossed my way, he tucked it in, and picked up his tie. Strutting over to him with a glass of wine, I pressed my lips to his. As he tied his tie, I redid my lip gloss.
"Hurry, dear, we have to leave to return to our loving spouses."
"You got it, babe."
He finished knotting his tie, and picked up his suit jacket. "Same time Thursday?" he queried.
"Absolutely," I purred. Arm-in-arm, we left the hotel room, and proceeded to the elevator. Descending to the lobby, we walked across to the revolving front door, and proceeded across to our respective cars. As I headed towards mine, I saw something looked amiss and hurried to my BMW. Reaching it, I blanched and stumbled, looking at the destruction of the left side of my Beemie.
"Oh, shit!" I wailed. "Look at this fucking mess!"
Marcus heard my cry and ran over. As stunned as I was, he ran to his Lexus parked ten feet away.
