Bean Counter Ch. 13byCreamer©
My God, that was a good week.
Calling in to "work at home" was easy enough Sunday night – I didn't have much in the way of appointments, the hiring had mostly been completed, and I had Donna reschedule the appointments I did have. In a fit of seasonal cheer I had her take the rest of the week off too. I'm just kind-hearted that way, I guess.
I did spare a few moments to watch the Sunday Night Fights, direct from Tim and Mary's House of Crap. I even made popcorn.
I wanted to witness what happened when Mary told him what she had agreed to, and I wasn't disappointed. They were eating dinner when I listened in. The fireworks started when she casually mentioned that she would be spending the week with me.
"You did fucking WHAT?" he shrieked. "What about me?"
"I did it for you, silly," Mary said, nervous enough to try that "sweet wife" tone on a guy who wasn't used to it. Every time she used it on me, it set off alarm bells, but Tim didn't have the benefit of my experience. When your wife uses that tone of voice, she's blatantly manipulating you, and a wise man learns to heed it early in his marriage. Somehow I didn't feel sorry for him. "I wanted to get as many BJs out of the way as possible before the holiday. Bill was able to take some time off, and it worked out. I mostly work nights this week, anyway, due to the volume, so I won't even see you during the day."
"That's an awful lot of time to be spending over there," he said suspiciously.
"Don't be silly," she said dismissively. "It's just business. You know that. In a few weeks, if I can work this out, I'll be done. Then I can devote all my time to you."
Tim sounded dubious about that prospect, but grudgingly agreed that it would be nice for her time to be over. The idea must have had an effect, though, because after dinner he dragged her into the bedroom, stuck his cock in her mouth for a few minutes, then bent her over, stripped off her jeans, and sodomized her. From their angle in the monitor I could see her face. She wasn't hurting – his cock wasn't that big – but she had a bored, patient expression on her face. The kind you see on aunts and uncles at a nephew's school play. He came without difficulty, in under ten minutes, and flopped over asleep while Mary cleaned up. I recorded the whole thing, as brief as it was, and sent it off.
The next day Mary came in bright and early, about nine, and brought donuts and coffee – another marital ritual we once enjoyed. I didn't let my misplaced nostalgia show, however, I simply thanked her and grabbed my cup. I also watched in astonishment as she wolfed down four donuts in rapid succession.
"Looks like Krispy Kreme's stock is about to go up," I noted, eyebrow raised.
"It's the hormones," she insisted, picking up number four. "I'm starving, all the time. Unless I want to throw up." She stuffed the donut in her mouth and looked at me. "So what's on the agenda?"
I considered. "How about another donut?" That got her eyebrows raised.
I pulled down my pajama pants and boxers and gave the boy a few strokes. Then I put my cock through a donut hole.
OK, it was silly, I admit, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time. It certainly amused Mary, who wasted no time getting on her knees in the kitchen and making a meal of it. She chewed away at the outside edges of the donut, first, while giving me intense suction around the head and plenty of sugar-seeking tongue-work. Her hands were busy with my balls, too, and before I was quite ready she jacked me to orgasm, my cum spilling over her fingers and down the shaft to cling to the remains of the donut. God, why didn't I have a camera in the kitchen?
"It doesn't count if you don't swallow," I warned.
"I know," she breathed – and nibbled the cum-soaked donut from my softening cock. When she was done she licked the combination of sugar glaze and sperm from her lips with a satisfied smile. She looked like a lion after its fifth consecutive gazelle. And it wasn't even nine thirty yet.
You can see why I married her in the first place.
"You make more coffee," I said as the strength started to come back to my knees. "I'm going to grab a shower. Your outfit is in the guest room. Put it on and join me in the den. Bring me a cup of coffee, too." I didn't even bother saying 'please'. Hell, I was paying for it, wasn't I? OK, not really, but still . . .
Twenty minutes and a Viagra later I was back down stairs, buck naked and starting to get hard again. Mary was there too – in costume.
OK, I know it's a cliché, but this was my fantasy here, and if I wanted to be cliché, oh well. I had found a sexy French maid's costume, complete with apron and cute little cap, and when I came into my den Mary was delicately dusting the bookshelves, her ass sticking out invitingly. I came up behind her and we played a little "bad maid" until I made her get on her knees again. She was really into it until I got out the camera.
"Uh . . . what is that?" she asked, dubiously.
"A camera. I want to capture this precious moment."
"Deny me nothing," I repeated, a hard edge to my voice. "I'm paying you, remember?"
She looked at me and back at the camera while she stroked my cock absently with her hand. Finally she sighed and got back to work, but not nearly as enthusiastically as before. She even visibly winced when the camera beeped.
I let her take me to the edge of orgasm before I pulled free of her lips and stood her up. She looked confused, until I dug my hand into her lacy panties and found her cunt soaking them. She let out a long, low groan as my finger contacted her stiff clitoris.
"OhmyGod," she gasped. "OhmyGod that feels good! Uh, Bill, that's, uh, you're getting me, uh, Bill I'm goingto—"
She nearly collapsed when I abruptly took my hand out of her panties. She looked up dully, a wisp of hair falling out from under her cap and over one eye. I grabbed her shoulder purposefully and pushed her onto the couch on her knees.
"You're going to fuck me?" she asked with a confusing mixture of trepidation and anticipation.
"Accent, please," I directed.
It took her a moment. "Is monsieur going to, 'ow you say, fuck mois?" she said, sounding more like a cartoon character than a Parisian. I took a moment to set the digital camera up on the arm of the sofa to record us.
"Damn straight," I breathed, pulling her panties down to her thighs and positioning my cock at her furry entrance. Without hesitation I pushed in. Even though she was soaking wet, the head of my cock got caught on her pubes and pulled her hair, making her squeak. I didn't mind. I kept going. This wasn't about her.
I made it last, too. Thanks to my earlier ejaculation I was able to pound her pussy deeply for almost an hour. I grabbed hold of her tiny black skirt, reveled in the feel of her stocking-clad thighs against mine, and fucked her long and hard and steadily. She came her brains out, remembering to slip into her false accent between climaxes.
By the time I was ready to drop my load she was exhausted. I came deep in her pussy and then made her spread her legs so I could film my sperm dripping out of her onto the couch. Sure, it stained the couch. I didn't mind. She, on the other hand, was mortified. It's not like I have a burning creampie fetish or anything, but I enjoyed humiliating her like that. To make things even worse for her, I asked her embarrassing questions about her sex life and kept at it until she answered.
We took a short break after that and drank some coffee. She was about ready to go home, figuring that I was done for the day, but I had other plans. After coffee I had to make some business calls, so I made her come to my office, kneel between my naked thighs, and slowly suck on me while I made used the phone.
If you haven't tried it, it's a lovely way to work. Very productive. I highly recommend it.
The first call she was pretty enthusiastic about the chore. After the third call it was as if she was resigned to doing it, and I felt her start to lose focus – I couldn't have that.
So I called her mom.
"Hi, Marge, this is Bill," I said as I stared down at my wife. She had a horrified look on her face. "I just wanted to touch base – I've been pretty busy since Thanksgiving, I'm afraid . . ."
I ignored Mary, except to push her head back to work. I even pushed her to take more of me into her throat, and it was clear that was under protest. Mary's mom started talking about how awful Thanksgiving was, wondering what I was doing with Christmas, gossiped about her neighbors and friends, and generally chatted like a good mother-in-law should – all the time I had my stiff cock buried in Mary's mouth.
For my part, I talked about how lonely I had been, how I was managing to struggle through by burying myself in work, and all sorts of self-pitying things that a soon-to-be-divorced son-in-law would say. I asked to speak to her father, too, but Mary lucked out: he was at a VFW committee meeting. So I told her mom how much I loved her and hung up. Mary looked up at me, accusingly, her lips still wrapped around my pecker as I nodded for her to continue. She broke free of my grip for a moment and gave me a serious, annoyed stare.
"That was just cruel," she stated.
"I don't recall asking you," I shot back.
"That was my Mom," she pointed out. "What you did was disrespectful."
"Sorry, I've been a little out of it since my marriage broke up," I replied, my eyes narrow. "I believe you have a job to do?" Mary gave me a Look and went back to work.
I let her pleasure me for a while – I wasn't in a hurry. I made one more call, to Donna, and left a voicemail that alluded to the fact that my ex was sucking me off even as I spoke – that earned me another Look. The next time the two met would likely be a little uncomfortable.
Finally, I sat back in the chair and motioned her to stand. She got up and looked at me curiously.
"Go ahead, get on," I encouraged her.
"What?" she asked, mystified. Then she realized what I was asking, and looked at me with a subdued look of horror. "You mean . . . on top?"
That had been a minor point of contention in our marital relationship: Not only was Mary conservative in regards to a bit of harmless kinkiness, she had an aversion to getting on top. It wasn't too bad – she still liked missionary and doggie, spooning and such. But she was very self-conscious about me seeing her nakedness jiggle unflatteringly while riding me.
Time to cut that shit right out.
"Yes," I said, patiently, "I mean on top. 'Cowgirl' is the accepted term, I believe. 'St. George' if you want to be archaic. But I'll use small words: I want you to fuck my cock with your pussy. Clear enough?"
"Um . . . yeah," she agreed hesitantly, blushing and a bit humiliated by my rebuke. She gingerly climbed up into the chair – a sturdy overstuffed office chair – and carefully lowered her wet pussy down onto my straining erection. It looked great, with her still wearing the French Maid's mini skirt. She was cautious, at first, but then her foot slipped on the sweaty leather and, despite herself, she fell down on my cock – hard.
"Uff!" she exhaled as she felt every inch of me impale her. Her eyes were wide.
"Just what I was after," I groaned, enjoying the clasping feel of her labia around me and her swollen cervix firmly rubbing the head of my cock.
"I'm just a . . . little tender," she breathed. "And off-balance. Not used to—"
Not used to having a cock anywhere but her mouth or ass, is what she was thinking. I let her keep up the charade that she was talking about cowgirl.
"It's actually quite a good position," I said. "Recently I had a chance to—"
"Um, is it within the rules to ask you not to talk about your . . . conquests?" she asked, the hurt tone returning. "Not when you're buried balls-deep inside me?"
"Actually, most of them approached me," I offered with a chuckle. "It was amazing – within days of it becoming known that you had left me, they started coming out of the woodwork. Apparently there are those who don't find my attention as 'boring' as you."
"I'm so happy for them," she grunted as she leaned forward to get leverage.
"They seemed pleased," I finished, simply. Then I let her start the thrusting.
Now ordinarily when a fuck a woman cowgirl, I take a pretty active hand, using my leverage to drive my cock up into her relentlessly. But this time I wanted Mary, who seemed pretty damned aroused, to take the lead – and the responsibility for her own orgasm. It took her a while to figure out the mechanics, but when she did she started to realize just how much work it was going to be to reach her climax.
"Wow . . . I can . . . feel you . . . in places . . . I've never . . . felt you . . . before," she panted as she pushed herself up and down on my dong. "I keep . . . bumping . . . my clit . . . just . . . right . . . OhGod . . . I'm . . . OhGod . . . I'm going . . . OhmyGOD . . . I'm gonna cummm!" she squealed, and ground her clit between our pubic bones like a grain of wheat in a mill. I chose that moment to thrust back, sending powerful thrusts up into her spasming pussy as she came her brains out.
"Oh my," she breathed, as she came off of her orgasm. "That was fuckin' intense!"
"It still is," I agreed. "I didn't say you could stop," I reminded her.
"Wha –?" she asked, dazed and confused by the power of her orgasm. "Oh, yeah, I guess . . ." she started, then shook her head and began slow thrusting again. In about half the time it took from the first one, she was on the brink once again. I let her tumble over ecstatically, bouncing her ass up and down in my lap as her pussy got the first decent dicking it had enjoyed in a month. Only then did I grab her hips and add my effort to hers, inspiring a cascade of climaxes that left my lap drenched in her juices.
I mean I really fucked her, fucked her good like I had done back when we were young and horny and in love. Only now there was bitterness and vindictiveness to fuel my lust – but, despite myself, there was still love in my heart for her.
That hurt, to realize that. It was tempting just to break down, beg her to come back to me, and resume our lives together with a bastard under our roof. But I couldn't do that, no matter how tempting it might be to the hopeless romantic in me. No, I needed discipline to see this through, and letting her see anything but cold rage and sexual fury right now would dash all of my carefully laid plans. I was too smart for that.
So I fucked her, and fucked her hard. I made her cum her brains out in a way I knew for a fact Tim hadn't been able to. As I blasted my load in the clasping depths of her cunt, her eyes were glassy and dazed from the number of orgasms she'd had. She clung to my shoulders, sweat on her brow, my cock still hard inside her.
"Whoa," she whispered into my ear. "That was . . ."
". . . worth two hundred dollars. Give or take. Now get down off of me and clean me off with your mouth," I whispered back.
"Bil-lll," she whined. "That's—"
"—what I just told you to do, yeah. Refuse me nothing, remember? If you can handle another woman's juices on me, than the taste of your own wet beaver shouldn't be a problem. You know where it's been."
She whined a little more but dismounted and knelt submissively. I then enjoyed another twenty minutes of blowjob fun. Even though I was getting hard again, I eased her off my cock. "That's good enough for today. I've got work to do. Put the costume back in the guest room, you'll find the money on the dresser, and I'll see you tomorrow, same time." She was dismissed.
She left, eyes downcast, not even stopping to say goodbye on her way out. Good. Her feelings were hurt. That was perfect.
I spent the rest of the afternoon working on my new hobby, Operation Fuck Tim Up But Good.
It may seem like I've ignored the bastard who cuckholded me and impregnated my wife – I certainly wanted him to think I had – but the truth was I had been slowly and steadily working on my plan for weeks, now.
If one is going to indulge in something like revenge, then there are two ways to do it. There is the Captain Ahab Method, which involves relentless pursuit and obsession with destruction – the method preferred by Khan in the Star Trek movies and prized for its sense of gratification. I could understand that – pounding Tim's little weasel face into dust had a tremendous amount of appeal. I could make it happen, too. But I'm not that kind of person.
I preferred the second method, the Count of Monte Cristo Method, in which the revenger out-thinks the revengee – who usually doesn't even know that they are the object of revenge until it is too late. This is the more artful form, and the one I had chosen. I didn't want Tim to even suspect what was going to happen to him when it started happening, or know who did it to him until it was too late. I wouldn't be using swords, either. I would be using the naked power of bureaucracy.
It's not hard to get someone's name tagged on the DHS "No Fly" list – just ask Cat Stevens. It took a little digging, but I was able to come up with his debit card number and report it to his bank as stolen – that would be hard to fix. I also flagged his credit report at all three agencies with false information that would take years to clear up. I reported him as 'deceased' to the Social Security Administration – that would take years to untangle. I sent a flag on his accounts to the Drug Enforcement Agency as a 'person of interest', and then didn't bother to put why. Let him deal with that.
I ordered magazine subscriptions in his name, catalogs for hefty gals in erotic poses, ordered information about how to build a bomb from an anarchist's website, left several vaguely worded messages under his name in bio-weapons bulliten boards, made him a member of the AARP (which would bury him in junk mail), and signed him up for a bunch "of the month" clubs. He was also going to get twelve copies of the same CD from a club for a penny – William Shatner's latest album.
I particularly hoped he enjoyed Captain Kirk's rendition of "I Wanna Sex You Up." That's got to be the soundtrack in Hell.
I didn't bother with the typical "IRS audit", which might surprise you, me bing a bean counter. But Tim didn't have enough assets to protect, and it's hard to trigger an audit on an income under $150,000 these days, anyway. Most people can cheat on their taxes with gay abandon and not have to worry about it, except in extreme cases. Trying to get Tim flagged was more trouble than it was worth.
That didn't mean I couldn't anonymously narc on him for having huge piles of cash from an indeterminate source lying around. Or report him to INS for using a false Social Security card and being in the country illegally.
In short, I had been building a massive bureaucratic hemorrhoid in his name that was getting bigger and bigger by the day. And the day when I was to lay all my cards out and finalize my revenge was rapidly approaching. You can't rush these things, though. It takes time to do them right and cover your tracks.
I also tuned in to Mary TV about six that night, and watched with glee as the two bickered. Tim started it off, of course, apparently refusing to kiss her when he came home until he witnessed her brushing her teeth. That pissed her off.
She had made a quick dinner for him before she had to do the late shift at the bookstore, and he complained about the state of her cooking – I couldn't fault him there. Then he made several crude remarks about her "day job", i.e. sucking me off. No, she still hadn't let him know I had unrestricted use of her body. But the insinuations and innuendo were just making her madder.
Then came the arguments about money, which are always fun. Mary tried to be polite about it, asking if Tim had any sort of plan to make up the shortfall before the baby came, and of course he didn't, and that unleashed a torrent of resentment on his part – the term 'nag' came up. That inspired an argument about his maturity level, her fidelity, and their future together as a couple that I positively reveled in.