Too Great a Temptation

Howard's story

Believe it or not, I actually got a call from Shelley that Sunday night, as I was reading through one of her logbooks.

That was very unusual. On most of her trips, she was too busy to call – or at least that's what she had said.

For about the first year or so that she spent traveling like that, I'd often call, and more times than not, I wouldn't reach her. I'd leave a message at the desk, and sometimes she'd return my call, sometimes she wouldn't. It finally got where I never bothered, because she was on the road so much.

But she called that night, and she sounded funny, like she was down in the dumps about something. She said she'd just wanted to hear my voice and tell me that she loved me. Considering what I was doing at that very moment, it struck me as quite odd and very ironic.

And it also served to completely confuse me to the point where I was walking around in a fog.

Truthfully, I was in a daze when I went to work the next day. Everyone noticed that I seemed distracted, and several co-workers asked me if anything was wrong.

What could I tell them? That I had spent the whole weekend learning that my wife – the woman I loved, the mother of my children and the person I had hoped to grow old with – was a lying, cheating slut? And that she had been deceiving me like that for seven years?

Actually, that's not quite true. I don't think she'd ever lied to me about what she was doing, because I had never suspected anything to the point where she'd had to lie about it.

And I wasn't sure if I could say she'd been lying when she said she loved me, because I think maybe she really did still love me in some form or fashion.

When I got home that Monday, after a thoroughly unproductive day of work, I had to think about what I was going to do.

Specifically, I had to figure out what, if anything, I was going to tell the boys. What was I going to tell them in the event that I decided that divorce was the only option? They would be devastated to learn the truth about their mother.

Shelley wasn't as much of a hands-on parent as I was, but she had been around enough to be a part of their lives. While I had been the disciplinarian, Shelley had been their buddy, their confidante. Both of them take after her as far as their personalities go, and they have always been close to their mother.

Don't get me wrong, my sons are both fine young men, and I never had to really crack the whip with them, just the normal curfew violations, a couple of times when they had a little too much to drink, but nothing major.

And I have a good relationship with both of them. But not like they have with Shelley. I'm worried that if it comes down to a divorce, that all of the ugly truth will come out, and our family will be split at the seams.

Another thing about a divorce, too, is the difficulty in dividing our assets. Our savings and retirement accounts – not to mention our house and belongings – are so intricately joined that dividing them could be a legal nightmare.

That means that no matter how much we might want an amicable split, if it gets in the hands of the lawyers, I worry that we'll become enemies in spite of our best intentions. And that was something I dearly do not want to have happen.

So I had a real dilemma on my hands about whether my marriage could survive, whether it should survive or whether it would survive.

A younger man would undoubtedly look at me and wonder why I would even consider staying with an adulterous slut like Shelley. But when you put 50 in your rear view mirror, you start thinking a lot harder about how you want the end of your life to play out.

And the cold, hard truth of it is that I still love Shelley, in spite of what I've learned about her, and I still want to spend the rest of my life with her. I'm deathly afraid of growing old alone, of having the joy of my later years sapped by the bitterness and loneliness a divorce would create.

I don't understand what is going on in Shelley's mind, but I don't know if I'm ready to give her up. I began to wonder, too, as I read through the last couple of logbooks, if Shelley really knew herself what she was doing, or why she was doing it.

Quite frankly, the last couple of years were some painful reading in some respects. It was like she knew she was hurting me, knew she was hurting herself, by some of the things she was doing, and that, deep inside, she really didn't care.

And it began to dawn on me, in some corner of my mind, that she had never fully dealt with the emotional trauma of the Sept. 11 attacks, and that maybe that had something to do with what she was doing.

Before that awful day, her log entries were fairly routine, all things considered. I mean, yes, she was having these affairs, but it was fairly conventional sex. After 9-11, however, I began to notice that she got a lot more reckless, started getting into a lot of borderline dangerous situations.

She got a lot wilder with all of her lovers, but in particular, I began to notice that she really went off the deep end when she visited California.

Sometime late in 2000, she had begun working on a big account with a distributing company in Southern California, dealing first with a client named Jim Pearson and then his partner Sid Huguet.

Like all of the others, it started with Pearson wining and dining Shelley, but then it suddenly got a little kinkier, when Sid Huguet started showing up in the logs along with Jim Pearson.

I read in disbelief – but also with a huge, painful hard-on – as my lovely wife went totally out of control...

Shelley's story

As I look back on the shambles of my life at the present time, and how I got to this point, I really think I passed a major threshold the day the World Trade Center towers were destroyed.

Like most New Yorkers, just the idea of those towers collapsing was traumatic enough, and, like most New Yorkers, we lost people we knew that day.

I had two clients who perished in the North tower. There was a woman from the neighborhood who died in the South tower. One of Howard's former co-workers was killed on the ground by falling debris. And there was a guy from my high-school graduating class who had become a New York City fireman who also died that day.

But what made it doubly traumatic for me was that I also should have died that day. You see, I was supposed to be on one of the planes, the one that crashed in Pennsylvania.

I had a meeting with Kelly Marshall's company in San Francisco scheduled for that Tuesday, and I had planned to fly out of Newark that morning. I still have the ticket: United Airlines Flight 93.

The Sunday before, however, I started feeling weak and queasy in my stomach. I'm very healthy and I rarely get sick, but when I do, it's a doozy. And this was a stomach virus that put me flat on my back. I couldn't keep anything down, and I couldn't keep anything up, if you catch my drift.

I writhed on the bed in agony that Sunday night, until I was either hugging the toilet or sitting slumped on the seat. I somehow managed to pull myself together that Monday to make it to work, and actually made it to the office without throwing up. But my boss, Bill Thompson, took one look at me and told me to cancel my meeting with Kelly and go home to bed, which I did.

After lying in the bed all day Monday, and sleeping decently through the night, I felt a little bit better when dawn broke on Tuesday. So I almost – almost – decided to go ahead and make the meeting anyway, but Howard put his foot down. He said I was still weak and in no condition to travel across the country.

As we've both pointed out frequently, Howard is very sweet and very mild-mannered, but he does have a backbone. He has been a manager in his department for a number of years and he was the one who enforced the rules with our sons. So he knows how to assert authority when he has to.

This time, he saved my life.

I went back to bed, and I had drifted back to sleep, glad that I hadn't made the trip after all, when the phone rang. It was Howard, and he told me in the strangest tone of voice to turn on the television.

I turned it on, and I was stunned by what I saw, all the more so when not five minutes later, the first tower collapsed. But I felt strangely detached about it, like it wasn't quite real, until the news came out about the fate of Flight 93.

The moment they said the name of the flight that had crashed in the Pennsylvania woods, I happened to be standing in my kitchen trying to heat up some broth.

When it hit me that the plane I should have been on had crashed, with all aboard killed, my legs turned to rubber. I fell to the floor and I screamed hysterically and uncontrollably.

I kept screaming in utter madness on the floor until David, my oldest son, came rushing in the door and then I just completely lost it. I cried wildly, as my precious baby held me tightly, until he finally managed to get me back to bed.

David doesn't work very far from the house, and when Howard saw the first tower collapse, he called David and told him I was going to need someone to come by and see about me. And I sure did.

I finally had to take a sedative to calm myself down, and I didn't return to work until the following Monday.

Some people when they get a reprieve like that use it for good. Me? I don't know what happened, but I suddenly felt this mad urge to make sure I didn't miss anything in life, especially when it came to sex.

I think subconsciously that I felt guilty about being alive when all of those others had perished, simply because of a cruel twist of fate. Kind of like whistling past the graveyard.

I didn't care about consequences or any nonsense like that, just bring on the cocks. Actually, that's a bit of an exaggeration. I didn't suddenly start going to bars and hitting on all the good-looking studs I ran into.

No, it was a lot subtler. I took risks with Darrell, for example, that I hadn't taken before, things like fucking him in the elevator of my hotel one night. And it was after 9-11 that I got significantly more uninhibited with Alicia. Even Louis, with whom I had maintained a very hot, but very low-key relationship, found me to be a lot more wanton than before.

But the ones who really took me beyond the boundaries of decency, the ones who really made me crazy, were Jim Pearson and Sid Huguet.

Jim and Sid own a large distributing company in Los Angeles that we were keenly interested in securing a contract with. And I was assigned to the task of getting them in the fold. It didn't take them long before they got me right where they wanted me, right on their hard cocks.

It was really diabolical the way they got me. If it had just been Sid, it never would have happened. Jim, however, was another thing altogether. Truth is, it would be hard to imagine two men more different that Jim and Sid, but they both had a kind of bad-boy appeal that made me crazy.

Jim had been a professional athlete – football, I think – and he was built like some jock god. He was probably 6-foot-5 and weighed about 250 pounds, maybe 260, well-tanned, muscular, with short-cropped blond hair, dazzling blue eyes, a cool California smile and a winning, outgoing personality.

Sid was short and rather pudgy, standing maybe 5-foot-8, with dark, curly hair that he wore long and in a perpetual ponytail. He wasn't bad looking, but he was rather intense, with dark, penetrating eyes that he almost always kept hidden behind sunglasses.

And he was quiet, but not quiet like Howard. Howard is a serene quiet, like a soft breeze off the ocean. Sid was an ominous quiet, like the calm before a storm. Jim, I came to like; Sid, I came to tolerate, or at least I did until very recently, when he showed his true colors.

But they had a pretty good scam going with women, or at least they did with me. Jim was the point man, the front guy, and the first one you came into contact with when you dealt with their company. Sid was the guy behind the scenes, the back door man (in every way), but to get to Jim, I had to take on Sid, as well.

And by the time Sid entered the picture, I was so horny for a taste of Jim's big fat cock, that I would have agreed to take on the whole Southern Cal band, which I just about ended up doing anyway.

We started working on the contract in late 2000, and it quickly became apparent that there was a whole lot of sizzle going on between Jim and me. It was the usual flirtation that I had been through with others – the dinners after hours, a few nightclub visits, the looks and the "innocent" touches.

Right before Christmas, Jim told me we needed to bring Sid into the negotiations, and that was my first encounter with Sid. He had an odd effect on me. On the one hand, he wasn't particularly attractive, but he had this oily charm, this aura about him that intrigued me.

I suspected all along that they had something up their sleeves; they just seemed too cozy, but I wanted their business badly. We needed a solid foothold in Southern California, and their contacts with the various professional and college sports teams in the area were just what we were looking for.

When I went back to New York for the Christmas holiday, I felt like I had them all but on the dotted line, and I felt as though one more push would get them.

Problem was, they wanted me to come back out for New Year's for the final negotiations. They had a prime viewing spot for the Tournament of Roses parade, and a box for the Rose Bowl game. They wanted to introduce me to some of the people they dealt with in the sports world as a way of laying the groundwork for future business.

But New Year's Eve has always been a special time for Howard and me. It had been at a New Year's Eve party when we had first met, way back in 1970, and there was a lot of sentimental attachment to the date.

And this particular year would have been 30 years since that first time, when we were basically two out-of-place kids at an adult party who found refuge with each other.

Jim and Sid were adamant, however, saying that this was the biggest day of the year for them, a day when they came face-to-face with a large number of their top clients all in one place. They believed, so they said, that these clients would be hesitant to deal with my company if they didn't meet its representative, which is what I was.

Looking back on it, I think it was just a bullshit line to make me break a cherished date with my husband so they could take advantage of me.

It worked, too, because I was so damned horny for Jim Pearson by then that I couldn't stand it. I'm ashamed to admit now that what I had in mind when I flew to California on the 30th of December that year wasn't their contract, but their cocks.

And, yes, I knew in my gut that it was going to take letting Sid Huguet fuck me in order to get a chance at Jim Pearson, and, at that point, I didn't mind one bit.

Howard was disappointed, of course, but he said he understood how important this contract was to my career, and to enjoy myself at the parade and at the game. God, am I scum or what?

It was Saturday around noon when I got out there, and we dove right into the work of hammering out some final details on the contract. By evening, we had a preliminary agreement, so we knocked off for dinner at my hotel.

During dinner, Jim and Sid worked me like pros. They flattered me with compliments and their hands were all over me. I had dressed down a little – jeans and a sweater – because it was the weekend and because it had been cold as hell when I left New York.

But that didn't stop them from running their hands all over my legs to the point where they could feel the heat from my crotch through my pants.

Indeed, I would have done it with them that night, but I was physically whipped after a transcontinental flight and some six hours of hard work.

So finally I looked them both in the eye, ran my hands over the rather impressive bulges in their slacks, and told them to take a rain check for that night, but to expect a wild New Year's Eve party in my hotel room the next night.

I really was excited about it, once I had taken the plunge and invited them both to fuck me. Sex with more than one man at a time had long been one of my juiciest fantasies, and I was eager to experience it.

I got a good night's sleep, went down to the hotel's business center first thing in the morning and faxed a copy of the contract to our legal department for their final approval, then got ready for two days of debauchery.

And that's the best way to describe what I got into with Jim and Sid. They picked me up in a limousine early in the afternoon, and I was dressed for sex – a tight mini-dress, stockings and garter belt, 4-inch fuck-me heels and nothing else, no panties or bra.

I wanted these guys to know that business with me would be very good indeed. And they got the message. Even before we arrived at our first destination, lunch at a trendy restaurant, both Jim and Sid had gotten their hands up my skirt, feeling my unfettered nakedness, and I just laid my head back on the seat, spread my legs and let them have at it.

After lunch, it was my turn to inspect their equipment. As we drove to an early New Year's Eve party, I sat between them in the back of the limo and delved into their slacks.

Sid's cock was pretty nice, about 7 inches or so and unusual in that he was uncircumcised, but Jim's dick was a beauty. It wasn't quite as long as Darrell's, but it was just as fat, and it was well sculpted. My pussy absolutely flooded as I wrapped my hands around Jim's girth.

I took turns kissing both men as I softly stroked their raging-hard cocks, and they both slid their hands up my skirt. Their fingers alternated stirring my hot slot, until my juices were flowing quite freely.

I was almost to the point where I was ready to fuck them both right then and there, but at that moment we heard a tap on the opaque window, meaning we had reached our destination.

With effort, I managed to stuff both men's cocks back in their pants, but it was pretty obvious to anyone who might have seen us emerge from the back seat of that limo what we'd been up to.

The party wasn't quite an A-list gathering, but it was pretty close. Jim and Sid introduced me around to some of their friends, including some entertainment types. It wasn't until much later, much too late, that I would learn that at least one of those entertainment types was into porn.

We had another party to go to, so around 6 o'clock, we piled back in the limo and headed off. I'd had a few drinks and I was feeling pretty good.

No sooner had we hit the road before Sid simply rolled my skirt to my waist and began to finger my pussy briskly. He got me flowing good, then he slid two fingers down, to my ass. He rimmed my ass then slowly slipped his fingers into my butt.

At the same moment, I felt Jim's fatter fingers begin working on my cunt, and together they brought me right to the edge of a humongous orgasm – and quit. I gasped in frustration, but they just laughed.

"Patience, my dear," Jim said with an evil chuckle. "The night is still young."

They did me like that again, and then a third time before we arrived at our second party of the day. The crowd at this party was more sports-oriented, and I met a lot of the buyers we would be spending a good part of New Year's Day with, and subsequently doing business with.

A lot of these guys were ex-jocks like Jim; good-looking, well-built hunks who could smell the arousal on me. As a result, they hovered around me like sharks in bloody water. Over time, I would come to know some of them VERY well.

Around 8 o'clock, not too long before we left that party, I ducked into a bathroom, pulled out my cell phone and called Howard. I'm actually surprised that I remembered, because by this time I was pretty drunk. I'm not a real big drinker, but in certain situations at certain times, I can put away some wine – or on this occasion, champagne.