A 'thank you' goes out to readers who have checked for updates regularly and gotten in touch. Despite being plagued by a combination of work overload and some doubts over beliefs in creativity after a minor saga (in relation to a sequel posted on this site), outofshadows is back. Inspiration tends to strike at the oddest of times and this new story is my effort to practise what I preach.
The story's conclusion has been written and will be posted in a month's time. My hope is for readers and fellow writers to take on the challenge of writing their conclusions to this story before the original conclusion is posted. While I retain ownership of this original story, I believe in keeping it active and alive through a creative hackathon of sorts. So let's keep the creativity going! To enable tracking of the various conclusions, for writers taking on the challenge, please include in the title of your conclusion the acronym 'TSOAB' and send me the link to your story because I would like to read it!
For the haters, you wouldn't like the story, so save yourself time and conserve that vitriol! For readers, do leave feedback in the comments or in private messages via the feedback function Literotica has kindly provided. Read on!
"I don't believe there is a single person I loved that I didn't eventually betray."
― Albert Camus
The Fall
Regret.
Was that the name of the sharp pain fading into a dull burn and an indescribable ache that sat in my gut?
I could almost see the inscription on the headstone: Jackson Miles, (1974-2017), Beloved Husband and Father. Of course, Willa would probably replace the "Beloved" with "Asshole" or "Jackass" or whatever descriptive she seemed was appropriate. That is if she got away with murder. My murder. Or my death. Semantics was the least of my concerns right now.
A dark shadow. At least that was what it looked like to my blurring vision. It was that startling azure blue of her irises that told me it was my loving wife who now loomed over me. She looked like an avenging angel. She probably was one. Great, till the end, I was the fallen one. Lucifer — about to be slain by the sword of good. Somewhere in the beyond, Catherine Dubois, the Sunday school teacher who had warned my mother of my "inherent wickedness", was chuckling.
Willa raised her hand and I waited for the blow. Not cringing or resisting. After all, what would have been the point? Between Ashton and Willa, I was already done for. They had gotten me good. I was as good as dead. The wriggling specimen of insect pinned to the board, only alive because I was still breathing.
Even on the edge of oblivion, I could not understand how I'd messed up so badly...
Earlier in the day
"Damn it!" I cursed under my breath.
Not for the first time in the last fortnight, I regretted, sincerely regretted, ever having been involved with Rita Heynous. What had my old man said? Never eat where you shit. Well, he may not have been location specific but it sure applied to Rita. Not only was she the wife of our neighbour, Ashton Heynous, the mild-mannered lab technician at the local laboratory of the Centres for Disease Control and Prevention, she was also the long-time friend of my wife.
Well, at least Willa regarded her as a friend. I'm sure what Rita did in those afternoon sessions over at her house and in her car was outside of any definition of friendship, even the broadest definitions possible. She'd given a demonstration of the legendary Rita deep throat the first time we got together and the sight of her climaxing as she stretched those red lips around my cock while frigging herself was a scene that rivalled any porn video.
She had clearly pulled out all the stops that first time. To her twisted mind, I was probably a trophy of sorts, something else she'd managed to steal from her friends. I was very likely the latest in the line of boyfriends and husbands of friends she managed to hump behind their girlfriends' or wives' backs in the slutty hobby she'd revived some years back. Back in high school, or so I was told by some of my drinking buddies down at the local bar, Rita was legendary, having slept her way through entire teams. Some of her cheerleading squad mates had gotten into catfights with her after rumours spread of her spreading her thighs or lips for their boyfriends. The fact that she retained some friends from those days always amazed me. They fought but remained close. Particularly Willa, who was as different from Rita as the sun was from the moon. Everyone knew Willa was the quiet, nice girl while Rita was the biotch who thought nothing of screwing over her friends for something she wanted.
Despite all of Rita's hijinks, none of the girls did the sensible thing, that is, sever ties with her. Even when Becky looked like she was about to blow a gasket after finding her husband deep in the throes of ecstasy and equally deep in Rita's throat. Rita's one-liner always managed to silence the group, "Remember, you owe me." That one line inevitably brought silence and looks of guilt among the ladies. I remembered an occasion where the claws were out. Literally. And that one line brought those painted nails to a dead halt, just before they shredded Rita's skin. No matter how I bugged Willa about the story behind Rita's magical line, she simply refused to breathe a word about it. It was through a combination of what I'd overheard on occasion and town gossip that I managed to piece together the fact that Rita's past and her transformation to town slut owed much to a prank gone bad, date rape and a boy named Steve. In fact, the one time I mentioned all three in front of Rita, she went ballistic and threw me out of her house with my pants around my knees. I was just glad there were no witnesses, or so I thought.
Willa said nothing to me about Rita when we first got married. And to be fair, Rita seemed perfectly normal in the early years, like any ordinary housewife that lived in our neighbourhood. That changed in the last couple of years. At gatherings where her friends turned up with their boyfriends or partners in tow, the women invariably watched their men with eagle eyes whenever Rita made an appearance. There were occasions when sheepish or guilty-looking male companions were seen chasing after enraged females who stomped off from a party while Rita looked on with a smile Cruella de Vil probably patented. On a memorable occasion, Elaine's husband, Vic, was seen running after her with his shirtfront waving from his open fly. Yet, in the small town that we all lived in, there was an absurd need to maintain appearances so no one called Rita out for what she did. No one told Ashton either, who was more often than not working hard at his job and missing out on all the social gatherings in a bid to "provide a better life for his wife" as Willa reported after she tried to talk to the guy. She'd been in a dilemma, wanting to alert Ashton to the dangers his marriage was facing but hesitant about selling her best friend out.
****
Looking back, I can't, for the life of me, remember what it was that drew me to Rita. I'd thought she was skanky when she revived her career of being the neighbourhood whore. I pitied Ashton for having such a wife who went around making a cuckold of him. Of course, none of those thoughts came to mind on that hot fall night when I'd been brooding over a beer on the front porch and that peroxide blonde chatted me up. Didn't help that Willa and I had had one of our quiet arguments over bills and the future of the garage just that evening and she'd taken the kids to her sister's for a sleepover.
Well, I was still paying all the bills, wasn't I? I didn't stop her from going out and getting a job when she wanted to, though I would have preferred her to stay home with our kids. No, the fact that she cleared more in taxes last year than I did didn't make me feel bad. Neither did the fact that I was no longer getting those openly lustful stares from chicks who couldn't stop ogling me in my younger years. I knew the days of being that mysterious, brooding biker who got all the women he wanted and then some had to come to an end sometime. Just not now. Not when life seemed to beat the crap out of me with endless bills, screaming brats and mind numbing routine.
Could anyone blame me if I gave into temptation and got a little chance to blow steam with a woman who was obviously offering to blow me?
Willa, the kids and my life were nowhere remotely near my mind when I felt those clever hands moving over my crotch. I'd not been so hard in years as her tongue and lips wrapped around me and licked the precum from the tip of my cock. And when I pounded into her on the sofa where I'd had great times with Willa, the twinge or two of guilt that hit me were quickly brushed aside. As ridiculous as it seemed, my only thought was 'This has nothing to do with Willa. This is just something for myself. Surely I deserve something for myself!'
Somehow, despite everything I'd done to prevent it from becoming a disaster, it snowballed from a one-time mistake to a full-on affair the next day. I'd told myself when I'd woken up to another blowjob and a pussy riding me that this was a one-off mistake. All three times in the last 24 hours. Washing my face in the bathroom, I'd even convinced myself that alcohol and depression were to blame for the whole mess and I could settle matters with Rita and clear up everything without Willa ever knowing or being hurt by it. It had sounded reasonable in the bathroom.
I exited the bathroom with brash confidence and hustled, trying my best to clean up everything while Rita lay there looking at me with a smile on her face. Tamping down the urge to fuck her again, I told her in as cold a voice as possible to get her ass out of the place before my wife returned.
"Why? Feeling bad, lover boy?"
"I'm not your lover boy. I don't love you. I love my wife!" I gritted out as my jaw clenched.
Her narrowed eyes told me I'd pissed her off.
"Really? That's an ironic thing to say when you're still dripping from me, don't you think?"
The venom in that hiss made my blood run cold.
"What do you want, Rita?"
"I want more of what I had last night, more of what Willa's been having all these years. I knew she snagged a good deal when she hooked up with the bad-assed biker. I just never figured it was that good."
Somehow, in the light of day, Rita's antics looked vulgar beyond belief. Even the sight of her licking those red hot lips made me slightly ill. I couldn't understand what I saw in her the night before. My dick didn't have the same instinctive revulsion however. It began to stiffen at the sight of those breasts that were barely contained by the shirt she'd hastily thrown on. Didn't help that the drying cum on her thighs and mound looked sexy as hell. Seeing the rebellion of what lay between my legs against the voice of reason which was fading into oblivion in the white noise of lust, Rita smiled and said, "Well, a part of someone agrees, even if they deny it."
The chime from the clock brought the haze of lust that was quickly enveloping my senses to a halt.
