E Written The Murderous Bridegroom

Reluctance, Group sex, trading partners, blowjobs

An adult re-write of the Grimm fairy tale The Robber Bridegroom

Alleged Ancient Chinese Curse:

May you live in interesting times

**

I was just finishing the day's weather forecast when Halley spoke up. We were to have "🌦 glittering sunshine, interrupted near constantly by rain showers, ranging from the annoying drizzle where you don't even open your umbrella, assuming you remembered to carry one, to drenching rain 🌧, where even with an umbrella ☔️ you're going to get soaking wet. Not a good day for a visit to the beauty parlor." Sure enough, the brilliant sunshine had just given way to a rather intense downpour. I had read and re-read the forecast several times, but it was always the same. At least the guy (or more likely, the woman) who wrote the forecast was enjoying herself. She may have been the only one.

"You do realize, I assume, that this is the modern age?" Halley asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice. Halley needed a new gasket or washer or whatever it's called, the way she kept constantly dripping sarcasm.

"Yes, and trust me, I'm not happy about it," I replied, once again being the master of the understatement. You'd think it would be obvious.

"Then, may I ask, why are you going through with it?" Halley asked.

"He's not that bad, you know. His looks don't break mirrors, at least not yet, and he doesn't smell or anything," I said. "I'm pretty sure he shaves at least several times a week."

"More like several times a month, I'd say. How old is he anyway, over a hundred?"

"No, Halley. If you must know, next month he'll turn 46. Before you ask, you know my age. I'm twenty-six," I said. "I can handle a twenty-year difference."

"Does he have a 12-inch cock or something?"

"Halley!" I giggled. "I have no idea, quite frankly, but I'm guessing: No?"

"Good guess. So, the only thing he has to offer you is money, but your family is already stinking rich, so I just don't get it," Halley said.

"First of all, my family doesn't stink. Plenty of rich people do, but not us, thank you very much. We use Dial soap. Second, our marriage will cement the alliance between Hansen Enterprises and the Glitch Corporation," I said.

"So, you're a sacrifice for corporate greed. Good for you. Ooooh, the shivers up my spine tingle so!" Halley said. Yep -- she definitely needed a new sarcasm gasket. "Please tell me his name is not Glitch."

"Okay, I won't," I said. "I call him Hank."

"OMG, his name really is Glitch? Jesus, girl, you can really pick 'em. Hank Glitch. Wait a minute -- you're not going to take his name, are you? You'll be Isabelle Glitch? Maybe Isabelle THE Glitch? Seriously?" Halley said. "They'll name a new Sesame Street character after you; is that your goal in life?"

I chose not to answer that. If I did, she'd segue into all our Little Glitches, once Hank knocked me up, and that would be quick, according to my mother. My mother thought I wasn't on birth control; she's so naïve! Taking the pill was quite personal for me, and nobody without Top Secret Security Clearance, plus my pharmacist, knew I was on the "the pill." Mom didn't even have low level security clearance. She'd tell Dad, and well, I couldn't have that happening!

"Hank Glitch...Hank Glitch...Hank Glitch...wait a minute! Is he the Glitch who has married three times and killed all three of his brides?" Halley asked. She was serious this time.

"No, that's been explained. Wife #1 was a suicide, Wife #2 was a solitary car accident on a lonely road when she drank too much, and Wife #3, well that one's a little hazy. She was mugged, I know, but after the mugging there was something wrong with her, she was unfocused or something, and the next day she stepped in front of a bus. I've read everything I can find, but nothing really makes sense," I said. "It's sad, too, because Wife #3 was pregnant."

"That's just so reassuring, Isabelle," Halley said.

"Yes, isn't it?" I said. Two can play at the sarcasm game, even if Halley is much better at it.

"He probably drugged Wife #3, and pushed her in front the bus," Halley said. "Occam's razor: the simple explanations are the best."

"He was in California when she stepped in front of the bus," I gently pointed out.

"Or so you read. Who was the father of the baby?" Halley asked.

"What do you mean? Hank was, of course. He was devastated by the loss," I replied.

"Right," Halley said, proving once again the need for a new sarcasm gasket. She had pronounced the simple word 'right' using two syllables; maybe three. She's from North Carolina originally, and she can really turn on the drawl when she wants to. "Men don't like women who cheat. If the men are rich they can murder their slut wives with impunity, you know."

"How can you say things like that? Halley, sometimes I feel I don't really know you!" I almost screamed.

**

It was only a few days later that Tim came to call on me. It was a total surprise. I hadn't seen him since we were in high school.

"Hello Tim. This is a surprise," I said, starting the obvious, once again. I state the obvious much too often.

"Yes, I'd imagine it might be one. What's it been? Five years?"

"Eight," I said.

"Right you are. We're both 26 now. Let me tell you: It was not easy to find you. New York City is so big, and phonebooks are a thing of the past. Besides, if they still existed, you'd be unlisted, wouldn't you?" Tim said.

"Yes," I said.

"Are you going to invite me in?" Tim asked.

"Excuse my manners, please. Would you like to come in, Mr. Barlow?" I replied.

I offered him a drink, and he took a Scotch whisky, on the rocks, even though it was midafternoon. Since he was an old friend from high school, I gave him the good stuff. I could tell he enjoyed it.

We got to talking; you know the routine. What have you been doing for the past eight years? Then reminiscing about our times in high school. I also asked him how in fact he did find me, but he was evasive and vague with his answer. I wondered why?

"You know I've loved you from age 16 on, Isabelle," Tim said, at one point.

"Yes, I suspected. Tell me, did you fall for me when I would show you what bra I wore, every day, behind the band building?" I asked. "That was my way of saying how infatuated I was with you. I guess it's obvious, in retrospect, right?"

"Yes, totally. Each and every time I saw your bra, I fell deeper in love. When you began to wear lace bras, with peeks of your nipples, my erections would last for an hour or more. Anyway, this brings me to why I felt compelled to see you," he said. I began to dread what was coming next.

"Are you really going to marry Hankin Glitch?" Tim said.

"Well, I didn't see you proposing anytime? You disappeared after high school. Please call him Hank, not Hankin, by the way. Hankin is such an ugly sounding name," I replied.

"Seriously? You would've considered marrying me? We never even made love, not for lack of my trying, by the way. You never told me your family is filthy rich, either, you know," Tim replied. "As for disappearing, I couldn't get into Stanford, or wherever you went. I went to the local school. I'm just not in your league, Isabelle. You're smart, pretty, and rich, and I'm just Tim. Tim Average."

"You're not average in any way, Tim.

Au contraire

, you're wonderful in every way. You have a gold band on your finger, however. Want to tell me about her?" I asked.

"No, not really. It's true, we're married, and she's wonderful, but Isabelle, I still long for you. Do you know you're the only girl I've ever wanted and whom I've never taken to bed? And I've wanted you -- I've loved you -- continuously for the past sixteen years," Tim said.

"What, since I was ten years old? You loved me before I got boobs? I don't believe it. Well, even if you're telling the truth, and you have a strange way of showing it, the fact is, you fell in love with another girl, and you got married," I said, teasing him.

There was silence for a while. Tim came and sat next to me on the loveseat. He put his arm around my shoulders. "Is this an amazingly awkward and stupid attempt to seduce me, Tim?" I asked. I guess it was obvious.

"Yes."

"Well, it's not going to work. I'll give you a flash of my bra, just for old times' sake, but that's it," I said.

"Since we're twenty-six, and no longer teenagers, could I have a flash of your bare breasts?" he asked.

"No, Tim. You're married, and I'm engaged to be married, to a wonderful man. You get my bra, or you get nothing. Got it?" I said.

Tim looked hurt.

"Look, Tim, I loved you too, you know. I was hurt when I went off to Stanford and you never even contacted me. No email, no texts, no Facebook, nothing. You just disappeared. Silence for eight years, and now you show up and want to see my boobs? Seriously?"

"Maybe a flash of your entire naked body?" Tim was pushing.

Ignoring his request, I said, "Was it because I never let you, uh, you know, make love to me? Is that why you dumped me for easier college girls, Tim?"

Tim just looked at me. He had lust in his eyes. My old feelings for him returned, and I got mushy.

I looked at Tim. "Do you remember, Tim, when we used to play the rape game?"

"Of course, I do! You'd be the innocent maiden, and you'd be hiding, and I'd find you and try to force you, but you'd escape a few times, and then I'd get you," he said, gleefully.

"And our clothes stayed on," I said.

"Mostly," he replied. There was, after all, that one time," he replied, and I giggled at the memory. I had let him get me topless. He had finally got to see my naked boobs, and he was thrilled beyond all reason. I was scared, but charmed. Our other friends were busy fucking, but I was just not that kind of girl. Tim respected that, or at least I thought he did! As I reminisced to myself, I remembered how very wet I had become.

"How about we play that version of the game, where at least I get to liberate your boobs?" he asked. I was always amused when Tim said liberate, as if my bra were a prison or something.

We went to my bedroom, which was totally private. In the living room, people could see inside just a little, if they were correctly positioned, and in the right place. The bathroom would have worked too, and in retrospect would have been a better choice than the bedroom, since the latter was dominated by a Queen-sized bed.

I didn't manage to fight him off for very long. Tim attacked me in a much more serious way than he had in high school. Before I could catch my breath, he had me down to my panties, and this was with me resisting at every turn! In fact, my blouse was torn and probably ruined. I had liked that blouse, too! It was by Marni.

Even though I was saying "No, stop!" Tim knew it was just a game and he kept undressing me, showering me with kisses in the process, and once he 'liberated' my boobs, he was constantly playing with them, and cleverly positioning his body between my legs. He slid down my body, leaving a trail of kisses from my boobs to my kitten. He pushed my panties to the side, and he began to eat me out. This was a quite severe variation from our traditional, much more innocent game!

"You know, the first guy in college who ate me out got my virginity. I'm such a sucker for that. My goodness you're good!" I said, and then I moaned. Well, that was a stupid fact to share with Tim, just then. Talk about mixed messages!

"We can't do this, Tim. I'm engaged to be married. I'm taken," I quickly added.

"You're not married yet, my little vixen. This is my last chance!" Tim said.

I loved when he used to call me his little vixen, back in high school. "You're assuming I'll be a faithful wife, just like you're a faithful husband, right?" I said, as he ripped off my panties and maneuvered his cock into position. I tried to push him away. He was immovable, and he began to push at me. I always forget how strong men can be, especially when they're determined.

"No, Tim. I can't. I want to, you know I do, but no, you cannot fuck me," I said, and as I said those words and heard myself saying them, I knew they did not sound convincing.

"No, you can't! You mustn't!" I managed to get out, as Tim's gorgeous cock entered me. He bottomed out inside me in his first thrust. My pussy must have been really wet, because Tim's cock slid into me effortlessly, and quite frankly, it felt divine.

"Take it out," I pathetically moaned, as I pushed back against his thrusts. God, the man was a good fuck! Why had he forsaken me, for some bimbo slut wife, who he was in turn forsaking as he fucked me so wondrously?

Tim ignored my pleas, including my plea not to cum inside me. I had quickly climaxed near the fuck's beginning; I had wanted Tim so bad, and for so long. When he unloaded his balls inside me, to my surprise, I climaxed big time! It was the best climax I'd had since Big Bob fucked the bejesus out of me, back in college.

I still, however, managed to say no, even after the deed was done.

Tim and I lay on my bed, side by side, and in silence for a while, after what, in my mind, had become known as The Great Fuck of 2020. Yes, Tim took me against my will, but I had to admit it was a weak protest. Still, there was no question that technically, it was rape. Yet, despite having been raped by my old high school boyfriend, it became The Great Fuck of 2020. Funny, how things work, sometimes.

After the rape/Great Fuck, Tim and I had pillow talk, both lying naked on my bed. "Are you really going to marry that guy? I looked him up. He's 46, he's been married three times, and he's suspected, though never proved, of murdering all three of his wives. Now he wants you?"

"He wants me for my money, Tim. Plus my good looks," I said. I bat my eyelashes. Tim stared at my naked boobs.

"And doubtless he wants you because you're fabulous in bed?" Tim asked.

"I'm only fabulous with married men committing adultery, whom I've always loved. Besides, Hank has not yet taken me for a test drive, so to speak," I said.

"What? You're engaged to be married to him, presumably for the rest of your life, and you don't know how he is in bed?" Tim asked. I noticed his cock was beginning to stir again.

"That's right. Sex is actually just a small part of marriage, you know," I said. "Hank is handsome, loving, attentive, and not too demanding. He understands how it is for me, being young, pretty, and rich. Our engagement will soon be announced in the New York Times, on the society pages, for Pete's sake, and all sorts of paparazzi will be constantly trying to catch me in a wardrobe malfunction, or whatever," I explained. "Hank is very careful, unlike you, Tim. Did anyone see you come into my apartment?"

"Jeez. I hadn't thought about all that. I don't know," Tim said.

"In that case, you've been here too long already. Get dressed and go now, please," I said.

"I was kind of hoping for another one of your fabulous fucks? Or maybe a blowjob?" Tim plaintively said.

"Tim, you're married, and I'm engaged. You had your fun. You got to lay the slut you always wanted to lay in high school, at long last. Now go!" I said, as Tim began to get dressed.

"Oh, and Tim? Never again. I'll soon be married, and I'll never be unfaithful. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Isabelle. It's not a hard concept," Tim replied.

"I think it might be for you, since you're clearly a cheater," I said.

"You don't understand. My wife doesn't enjoy sex with me that much and I have to force her, and we rarely have it, and ..."

"Shut up, Tim. That's in every trashy dime store novel. Look, we had fun, I know I had fun, even though you ignored me when I said no, and you ignored that I told you not to cum inside me. Now go, before some asshole reporter puts two and two together and gets scandal," I said, as forcefully as I could.

**

Three days later was my first formal date with Hank. Yes, it was strange to be engaged to be married and having never before been on a date with my fiancé, but sometimes the world of big capital works like that. Hank showed up right on time, dressed in a charcoal suit, but wearing a pale blue shirt, open collar. I had on a rather short dress, showing the maximal amount of leg allowed by high society. Much as I wanted to, since I do love showing off, I could not possibly dress like Lady Gaga. Maybe I could have, had I been a rock star, but I'm just me.

We went to a fancy restaurant, where I was one of the youngest women there, even though I'm 26. The only hint of color came from one of the waiters; the clients were all lily white; and this in New York, too! I guess it's clear who has the money in New York City. It turns out that Hank is a good conversationalist, and his attention was completely focused on me, and I returned his loving gaze with stars in my eyes. This was love at first date!

Over the cognac, Hank got serious. "I have enemies, Isabelle. You need to be careful," he said.

"I'm always careful," I replied.

"No, you're not. You 'entertained' a man, a certain Tim Barlow. The two of you made love, I assume. Don't worry; I'm not mad. It's before our marriage and you're still free to make your own choices, even bad ones. However, the media is going to catch you at it, and that will be used against me. And if you're careless, you could even be kidnapped and raped, or even murdered, just to punish me. Do you understand?" Hank said, and he sipped his cognac.

Stunned, I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing, I just looked at him, as if I had never really seen him before. What freaked me out the most was the dispassionate way he spoke. Obviously, Hank was keeping tabs on me; quite detailed tabs. I wonder if he had someone planted across the street, watching me and my apartment? Did he have a camera inside my apartment? This was creepy. This was very creepy. I let him take me home, and I was angry enough to plan not to invite him in, but he kissed me at my doorstep. It was our first kiss. Ever.

Hank's kiss was magical and I fell for the man all over again, despite his rather serious foibles. His loving, even adoring nature rose to the surface in his kiss. Suddenly I wanted him to make passionate love to me, but when I invited him inside, he declined. "We have a lifetime together for such things, but right now we're being watched, and I don't want to provide fodder," he said.

"What makes you think we're being watched?" I asked. Was it his own spy who was watching us? If so, why would he care?

"In the building across the street, behind me, fourth floor, third window from your left. Someone is there with a serious camera, with a 210mm telephoto lens. Let's kiss again, I love your kisses, and then we'll say goodnight, okay?" Hank said.

"Okay," I said. "Hank, are my phones tapped, too?"

"It's likely they are; yes. If you want privacy -- and who doesn't? -- you'll have to talk with your friends, family, or whomever, in person, on the beach, or in some similar setting," he said. "Not on the phone, or using electronics like Zoom."

He kissed me. Then he kissed me again. And again. And again. I could tell he was hard, and for my part, I was wet. He smiled, that wonderful smile I live for, and he was off, driving off silently in his Tesla.

When he was gone, I fell onto my bed on my back. My tummy was happy, my heart was happy, and I was happy. What a release of tension! I actually liked, even lusted for, the man who was my very own fiancé! I realized just then just how stressed I had been. You'd think my headaches would have been a clue, but no. I'm in touch with everyone else's moods and needs, but not my own. Never my own.

I figured Hank, or his detective, or somebody, might have a camera (or cameras) hidden in my rooms. There was a guy who worked for my Dad, a Mr. Tebbs, and in the morning, I'd contact Mr. Tebbs and ask him to remove all the spying devices in my apartment. I wasn't sure how I'd get the message to Mr. Tebbs, but I'd figure it out in the morning.