I had seen enough. I decided on a course of action. My stomach was twisted in knots, but somehow I sucked it up and walked to my closet. I pulled out a small suitcase and a larger one. I quickly and quietly removed clothes from the closet and packed them into my larger bag, hangars and all. It took only a minute or so to fill my suitcase.
I moved to my dresser and pulled out all my underwear and tossed everything, including undershirts, into the smaller bag. Then I switched to my sock drawer. I had managed to remove two large handfuls of socks when I heard Janet shriek.
"Sorry to bother you, Janet," I apologized as I shoved the socks into the suitcase. "I'll be gone in a few minutes and you'll once again be able to have Steve 'stuff your pussy with his big cock', as you so colorfully described it."
"Tom! This isn't what it looks like! Steve's just a friend. He'll leave right now! We have to talk, Honey," suggested a visibly upset Janet. "Steve, it would be best if you left now."
Steve seemed to agree that leaving my bedroom was a good idea. However, his clothes were nowhere in sight and walking around naked in front of a very angry man is not something most men feel would be beneficial to the all around well being of their balls. Quite the opposite. Steve demonstrated discretion and pulled the sheet up to his chin.
I had seen my old Ruger .22 single action revolver in my drawer when I had removed the last handful of socks. I had actually forgotten it was even there. I had placed it in that drawer so long ago I had lost all memory of it. I realized that I must not wear some of my socks very often.
I picked the weapon up and turned to face my wife of 23 years and her lover. I stepped to the bed and sat on the edge, by Janet's knees. As I sat holding the gun in my hand, I realized there were several quick solutions to a rather messy situation.
"Janet, it looks like you and Steve have been fucking like bunnies. It looks like his cum on your chin. I even see a few drops on your tits. It looks like you gave him a great blowjob and continued to suck his cock until he was hard enough to fuck the living shit out of you. I have the distinct impression that you urged him on, even to the point of demanding that he 'cum in your married pussy'. Can you tell me what part I misinterpreted?" I demanded.
"My God, Tom! You were here that long? I can't deny what you saw, or heard, but it doesn't mean that I love you any less. This was just a stupid fling, Tom. It meant nothing to me," sobbed Janet.
"Somehow, Steve, I think you should feel a trifled dismayed at my loving wife's last statement. It would seem that neither of us mean a hell of a lot to Janet, and that our prowess under the sheets leaves something to be desired. Perhaps she has someone else that fucks her better and you and I are simply substitutes to be used only when she can't find a real stud to stuff her cunt properly!"
"Tom, don't say that! You're my only love and the best lover, ever! Please put that gun down and let Steve go. We can discuss this between us. There's no reason to drag Steve into our personal discussions," reasoned Janet.
"Well, Janet, I think there's a very good reason. His cum is drying on your chin and in your cheating cunt. I don't know if he had the chance to fuck your ass or not. You and Steve are intimate. You don't need my cuckolded ass sitting around moping and putting a damper on your hot monkey sex. You did tell Steve how wonderful he feels inside you and how he owns your married pussy," I reminded her.
Janet was bawling her eyes out now and Steve was squirming. I placed the gun near Janet and stood. I had briefly considered offing myself with the revolver, but a fucking .22 would only wind up doing brain damage, blinding me, or causing some other non-fatal, but painful, injury. I didn't need to rush into death. It was always an option, if a rather permanent one. I would never harm Janet and what good would dusting Steve do me? Janet was an attractive woman and could always find another lover while I spent 20 years yielding to the desires of Bubba. I realized the situation just wasn't that dire.
I zipped my second bag closed and stood to leave. My back was to the bed and its occupants as I straightened up. I heard the unmistakable sound of what I have always called a "dry fire!" That is the sound made when a firing pin hits an empty chamber. I always keep the firing pin on an empty chamber. I even keep the next chamber empty, just for safety, since cocking the gun brings that chamber in line with the pin. I must have missed the sound of the gun being cocked as I zipped my suitcase.
I knew that if it the gun was cocked again, it would fire. Then I heard the distinctive sound of the old revolver's hammer being pulled back. Without even glancing at the bed, I sprinted for the doorway. I almost made it out unscathed. To go down the stairs, I had to turn left after leaving my bedroom. As I made the turn, I felt something smack my forehead. The pain was somewhere between a real bad sting and a swift rap with a hammer. Instinctively, I dropped the bag from my left hand. I already had blood dripping into my left eye as I wiped my hand across my forehead. I felt more blood and a lump. By now I was getting dizzy, but I was too frightened to slow down. I negotiated the stairs mostly by memory.
I had difficulty getting the front door open because my hand was so bloody I was unable to get a good grip. I looked around frantically and realized that the remaining suitcase in my hand was only half closed. I grabbed a sock and used it to clean the knob enough to enable me to turn it. I ran for my car and sped away as quickly as I could. Every couple minutes, I would pull another sock out of my bag and use it to wipe the blood from my eyes so I could see to drive.
Getting shot in the head turned out to be far less agonizing than the time I spent in the emergency room at the local hospital. The questions were endless, from the name of my insurance carrier to my would-be assassin. The short story was that the small lead slug was easily removed from just under my skin and several stitches closed everything up. That was the easy part.
The cops were called since there had been a shooting. I had to relate the sordid details of not feeling well at work and going home before lunch, only to find my wife and my accountant doing the horizontal mambo. I explained how I had picked up the gun, briefly considered popping a cap in my undersized brain, but finally placed the gun on the bed and tried to leave.
"Mr. Moore, who shot you," asked the cop. "Did you actually see the shooter?"
"I didn't actually see who fired the shot, but I've narrowed the list of suspects down to two people for you, officer," I answered sarcastically. "You'll have to take it from there."
"You feel that your wife is capable of shooting you, Mr. Moore?" he persisted.
"Try finding out that your wife of 23 years is sleeping with your fucking accountant. Then have someone ask you if she might shoot you! You suddenly realize that you have no idea who she is, or what she'll do. To answer your question; I think it's a real possibility," I admitted sadly.
