Authors Note: TO ALL WHO LIKE A GOOD BTB, THIS AIN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA! DO NOT READ IT AND THEN RAISE HELL BECAUSE THE PROTAGONIST DOESN'T CUT HIS NOSE OFF TO SPITE HIS FACE. He does, however show the old saying that "Even a Rabbit will fight when cornered," MIGHT have some truth to it.
To understand Al, our protagonist, you might remember the joke about the young Marine in the squadron shower being teased about his short dick by his buddies.
"Who do you think you're going to satisfy with that thing?" one asked.
Our hero promptly replied, "Me."
Well, in this story Al makes decisions to suit him, not based on what others might think. Enjoy or not, but you've been warned up front.
This story could have fit in either Loving Wives or Mature. I picked Mature.
THE WORM TURNS
My wife Patricia, Pat to her friends and family, strode confidently into the den where I was trying to watch Clemson get the shit kicked out of them by Alabama's Tide. She was twenty years younger than me and built like the proverbial "Brick Shithouse."
"What are you doing with that junk?' she asked. It was the first time she'd seen me exercising my arms and grip. Usually I do it only when she's not around--too much temptation to test my progress by squeezing around her neck. Naw, let me stop my crap; I wouldn't hurt her for the world but sometime that woman's bossiness can drive me to distraction.
"Just trying to build my muscles a little."
"You? Build muscles?" She laughed. "Honey, you're sweet and I love you to death, but a muscle man you're not. You're not the ninety pound weakling we used to see getting sand kicked in his face in the advertisements, but you'll never be the guy who decks the bully."
Damn! She was never going to forget that time, about ten years ago, when we were on the beach and some bastard had balls enough to sneak a feel of her ass. I saw it and started to protest when he sucker punched me and the next thing I knew I was flat on my back and the bastard was face down in the sand, whimpering like a baby that his arm was broken, and Pat was standing over him saying, "Serves you right, you big bully. Next time pick on somebody your own size."
I never forgot the way she kissed the welt on my jaw as she helped me to my feet. "See," she said, "Told you that martial arts training would come in handy." Then with a final kick right in his balls, she led me back to our car while the cop's sirens were still in the distance.
That incident taught me two things; don't piss off Pat, at least not when she's up close, and it was time for me to start working out. I never could beef up like most guys, guess I just wasn't that into it that much, but I could run five miles without needing EMS and when us guys at work started arm wrestling I got so I could win over half the time.
I snapped back to reality when she came closer and caressed my cheek with the back of her hand saying, "But it doesn't make any difference, I love you anyway, even if you couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag."
Wow! She really knew how to make a guy feel good about himself. I wonder what she'd say if she knew when us guys got to horsing around at lunchtime I could make every one of them cry "Uncle!" in the hand squeeze contest.
Aw, what the crap? It don't make no difference anyway. I know I'm a wimp, she knows I'm a wimp and everyone else knows I'm a wimp. I don't like confrontation and that's all it is to it. Yep, Go with the flow--go along to get along--and all that other crap guys like us spout to keep from admitting we're out and out cowards.
Sweet, tender Pat had disappeared and Hurricane Pat was saying, "We have to hurry and get dressed, Honey. Mr. Jamison is depending on me make a final check to assure this office party is perfect. You know he has invited several important clients to attend tonight and he's depending on me to help land them."
I tried to watch just one more possession, in the desperate hope the Tigers could pull another 'rabbit out of the hat' but Pat was having none of that. Pulling me by the hand, she led me upstairs where she had outfits spread out on the bed for both of us.
"Do you think these will look good on me?" She indicated a pair of lacy black panties, that wouldn't cover the hair around her pussy, much less anything else, and a black bra that was almost there; it might hide her nipples, but I doubted it.
"They'll look sexy on you, but sure ain't gonna cover much."
"Sure they will--they'll look great. Let me show you." In a flash she'd shed her regular undies and turned toward me. That's when I realized she wasn't concerned about the sexy black panties not hiding her hair; she'd shaved it all off. Her mons was as smooth as a baby's bottom.
"You like?" she gave me a good look before slithering into them. "Here, help me snap this thing." She was trying to corral her breast into that black bra. It was like trying to stuff ten pounds of meat in a five pound bag.
After getting her snapped up she gave a twirl, displaying all her assets, and giving me an instant hard-on. I reached for her, but she adroitly dodged my hands. "No, no, no--no touching; this is for looking only." Then she wiggled into the LBD she'd laid out earlier. "Zip me up. Then you can get dressed while I finish my hair."
In my mind I screamed, 'No you stupid Bitch! I've had enough of your shit. That's my pussy and I'm getting some now.' That's what I thought, but what I really said was, "Yes Honey."
Okay, so you think I'm not just a wimp, but a pussy whipped wimp--news flash, you're right. I hate confrontation with a capital H. Why? I don't know, but I always have, I'd always take the path of less resistance--guess I'm like an electron in that respect. Yeah, I'm an electronic nerd--love the crap. It makes more sense to me than a lot of people and the crap thy do--like my wife Pat, for instance.
Why would she act like she does? I make a good salary, in fact a very good salary; I don't give her a bunch of shit about spending money on her wild whims--things like taking a couple of her girlfriends on a shopping trip to NYC, at my expense.
I don't know if she's screwing around on me yet, but if she ain't, she soon will be. Shit, I don't know why I said that. She really hasn't done anything yet--that I know of, but then she's slick; she wouldn't blatantly do anything. No, not her, she'd be too slick to get caught, at least that's how she'd see herself.
Well maybe she wasn't as slick as she thought. Just this afternoon, while I was working on strengthening my grip, I'd overheard her on the phone with Mr. Jamison, her boss, except this afternoon she'd called him "Harry, honey." After that she added "You're such a bad boy," and the way she giggled really pissed me off. I'd heard that giggle and tone of voice before, usually when she's horny and needing a good screwing, but like the wimp I am, instead of throwing her on the bed and fucking her until she's screaming for mercy, (Hey a guy can dream, can't he?) I'm here now helping her get dressed.
I don't understand the big deal; what's he got that I haven't got? I mean, I looked it up on google; my cock rates well up in the higher percentage on size, and she always cums before I do--well most times--okay maybe seven out of ten times or so, but she always claimed she was satisfied and if I finished first I never failed to use my fingers and tongue until I had her screaming how good it was, before she collapsed like a limp rag--so what the crap was wrong?
I was struggling with my tie and thoughts when Hurricane Pat swept into the room. "Aren't you dressed yet?" She immediately set about to remedy that problem. Within minutes she had that stupid bow tie fixed like she thought was right, (Damn I hate those things.) my shirt re-tucked to suit 'Her Majesty,' my coat adjusted just so, and a fancy triangle of a handkerchief peeping out the breast pocket. (There's a name for that damn thing, but I don't know it and don't give a sh*t.)
With five minutes to spare--her timetable, actually thirty minutes before anyone else, except "Mr. Jamison" would be there--we were backing out our driveway.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Carolina Pines, the hotel where everything was being held, just as Mr. Jamison was getting out of his car. He hurried around to open Pat's door. I noticed his eyes were not on her face as she twisted her legs around to get out. Knowing how short Pat's dress was, I'm sure he was getting a good look at an outstanding pair of legs.
I hurried around to escort my wife, but was only partly successful. I got one arm, he claimed the other, and with all the charm of a snake he offered his hand saying, "If I remember correctly, you must be Alfred, of course. Any husband of Pat's is a friend of mine." The bastard almost looked sincere.
Naturally I had to release Pat's arm in order to shake his hand, and as I did he pulled her around so they were face to face as he hugged her tightly and said, "I don't know how the business could run without this little lady."
Taking his hand, I said, "My friends call me Al."
"And I'm just plain Harry to my friends; and Al, I just know we're going to be friends."
The look on Pat's face said she was just eating that crap up. When I tried to take her arm again to escort her in, she sort of pulled away--not blatantly, but I knew whose arm she was really on.
As soon as we got inside, Pat handed me a couple sheets of paper containing names and table numbers. "Al, will you check each table's nameplates and things in general, just to make sure everything is perfect; can't have any boo-boos on a big night like this."
I double checked everything and even stuck my long nose into what the caterers were doing. Judging by the aromas filling the serving area set aside for them, they were doing a fine job. I guess I was making too much a pest of myself because before too long one of them headed my way menacingly waving a long handled ladle.
"Okay! Okay! I get the picture; I think I hear my wife calling anyway," I said. I moved out of the area. I say moved because sauntered sounds too slow, and scurried sounds too undignified. At any rate I got the hell away from that spoon wielding character.
That's when I started wondering just what the crap happened to Pat, so not being very imaginative I wandered into the main hall, where doors opened into smaller rooms. I peeked in the first one and saw it contained what looked like a high class game table, four chairs, and a sofa. The next two were similarly furnished and there was no sign of Pat.
I turned away from the third door and was just about to give up when I thought I heard that giggle again; it was coming from the far end of the hall so I eased down that way. Sure enough I found some kind of storage room, the door half open, and inside, joking as they searched some kind of trunk, was my two missing characters--the one who liked 'bad boys' and the 'bad boy' himself.
I can't say they were doing much that would fail the husband test, but damn it; they just seemed to be having a lot of fun and doing just too much flirting and his hands were 'innocently' touching the body that only I should have been touching.
Damn Right! I'm jealous; but I'm a wimp--remember? I'm the guy who hates confrontation; the 'good guy' who lets the Alpha Males shit all over him. So I didn't rush inside and rescue the fair maiden, instead I stood outside and listened to see what would happen next. Boy did I get an earful!
"Pat, when are you going to tell the worm you're married to about us?"
"Harry! I've asked you not to say humiliating things about Al. He's a good guy, a great dad, a good provider, and I love him."
