The Cuck
The Deputy Prosecutor's wife.
Author's notes: Everyone in the story is over eighteen. It is fictional. Fair warning for those that do not like stories about adulterous liaisons especially when the female strays, this story is not for you. This is not a loving wife story. Please vote and comment constructively. That is how I learn.
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I was at a party. Usually, I don't go to parties. As a widower, it is hard to know what to do with myself. Most attendees are couples. The single person is the odd man out. If you ask a woman to dance, the chances are she is married to someone in the room, and you can never know how that will play out. If the woman is not presently married, she is either divorced and looking to get a husband to prove the breakup wasn't her fault, or she will be so bitter she will piss on any single male's shoes.
Adele, a friend of my late wife, Margaret, threw the party. She had been trying to hook me up with someone for over a year. It was hot and summer, and I just gave in to my idiot side and accepted. As is usual with my luck, at least lately, when I arrived, Adele was all apologetic that the woman she had hoped to hook me up with, although she never used that phrase, had the flu and couldn't come. Her description of her had been interesting, physically somewhere around Raquel Welsh in her heyday, intellectually on par with Madame Curie and spiritually close to Mother Teresa while in her fifties. Curiosity got the better of me, and I came to see this female wonder of the world.
I shrugged and said, "There is no need to apologize, Adele." And then I lied, "I kind of needed a night out. It will be fun."
Frankly, I did need a night out, but not to one of Adele's swareys. There were lawyers, bankers, insurance people, government people, high brows, and plain old stuffed shirts. They bragged about their money, jobs, and elite status in society. I much rather would have raised a glass at the local watering hole watching a baseball game, but Adele and her husband Biff, yes, that was his fucking name, were friends.
I didn't plan to stay long, and thankfully, I was already nearly an hour late to the party, you know, fashionably late. So, I went for some of Biff's Scotch, his twelve-year-old Glenmorangie, and got two fingers over ice from the bartender. Good stuff! As is always the case, some guy was talking, with a small crowd surrounding him. The conversation looked animated, and although I am now classified officially as old, I would have enjoyed it if it had broken out into a brawl. It is always a gas when the elites act like peasants.
The guy was tall, handsome, in good shape, and a blue suit. The word lawyer should have been stenciled on his forehead. He was seriously thinking of putting his hand in the ring, a political ring. Damn, I would have enjoyed a good fight. He and another guy, fiftyish, well-dressed, dumpy, red-faced, and out of shape, were discussing some current political crisis and trying to save democracy as we know it, obviously on opposite sides.
"You are just a damn Nazi, Herb," the guy who was in better shape said way too loud. "You want to..."
"I'm a Nazi, you fucking communist," the other guy cut him off and abruptly turned and walked away.
The good-looking guy then turned and shrugged, saying, "Damn, conservatives just will not debate. They just run off."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"What?" the guy bellowed, looking right at me.
Now, I am a mild-mannered grandfather. I haven't been in an actual fight since Vietnam. I had no idea what the two were arguing about and could have cared less, but this guy's attitude rubbed me the wrong way.
"You called him a damn Nazi, I believe. Pejorative language and personal invectives have no place in civilized debate. You, sir, were the one that stepped outside of the purview of proper etiquette in debate," I said remarkably calmly to the oohs of some of the crowd as they shrank back.
Now, I am still determining where I came up with the calm or the fancy language, but the effect was immediate. The good-looking guy got red-faced, and I saw him clench his fists.
As calmly, I took a sip of my Scotch, the ice cubes tinkling in the glass, and said in an air of supreme confidence, "Careful, son. Don't let the white hair make a fool of you."
The look on the faces of the crowd was of shocked surprise. The man just turned on his heels and walked away.
A man beside me whispered, "Do you know who he is?"
Looking at the man, I replied in a conversational tone, "No idea."
"He's Kenneth Stokes, the county prosecutor," he whispered.
"Well, good for him," I replied and walked away.
I found an overstuffed chair to sit in and plopped down, intending to finish my drink, have another, and find Adele and Biff to say goodbye. As I enjoyed myself sipping Biff's, did I say good Scotch, and listening to the music, she caught my eye. It was subtle but an unspoken acknowledgment accompanied by a sexy smile and nod. Unsure if she was looking at me or someone behind me, I played a dirty trick. I yawned. Yawns are catching, and if you are in a situation where you don't know if someone is intent on you, give it a try. Most of the time, if they are looking at you, they will yawn themselves. Sure enough, that is what happened. Her surprised look as she moved her hand to cover it and attempted to stifle the yawn was cute.
I smirked, knowing what I had done, and then I was surprised because she rose with her glass of white wine, her eyes locked on mine, and walked across the room toward me. She was about five feet four inches tall, blond, with long hair framing her lovely countenance. She had more than ample breasts, a slim waist, and rounded hips shown off nicely in the red midi-length party dress. It was very low-cut, form-fitting in one of those stretchable type fabrics. A short slit up the side of her left leg enhanced the sensualness of her walk, carefully placing one foot directly in front of the other causing her hips to undulate like a runway model and so very seductively and slowly, causing her hem to edge up. Matching stiletto heels with a delicate gold chain around her left ankle topped off her outfit.
She stopped in front of me as I rose and smiled with her left hip thrust to the side, seductively opening the slit to its max, her hem ending quite some distance north of its starting position.
"I see your mother brought up a gentleman. That is so rare today. Do you mind if I sit here," she cooed, pointing with the glass to the overstuffed chair next to me. It was placed at a ninety-degree angle with the arms almost touching.
"Sure," I croaked, intrigued, but let us face it. The woman looked in her forties, and I was in my late sixties. Oh shit, I can't lie, in my early seventies, and she was obviously married to someone in the room. I knew this was something with no future.
She smiled and turned to sit. I remained standing, allowing her to sit first as not my mother but father had pounded into my head long ago. As she sat, she did not scoop her dress underneath her in what my mother had hammered into my sister's head, nor did she demurely cross her legs at the knees. The woman did close her knees but pointed them at an angle toward my seat, not away. In the process, the hem of her dress slid north again about mid-way between the original midi length and her crotch.
"Sorry, where are my manners?" I began. "I am Jim Bolton. Nice to meet you," I said as I reached my hand to shake.
She took it and replied, "Catherine Stokes. Nice to meet you."
"Oh, shit. This may be fun," I thought sarcastically.
