tagNonConsent/ReluctanceBean Counter Ch. 16

Bean Counter Ch. 16

byCreamer©

"I need a new windshield," I told the clerk as I handed him the keys. "The Jag, outside. I'll wait."

"Yessir!" the young man at the counter said, his eyes gleaming a little. Jag windscreens are expensive -- no doubt with a hefty mark-up, too. He grabbed the keys and left me a clipboard, a pen, and a form to fill out. I spent the next five minutes filling in my insurance information. Under "cause of accident" I listed "marital infidelity". It would get my claim rejected first time around, but I didn't mind. The irony was worth it.

After I dropped the form back on the desk and kicked around the seedy waiting room for a while, I poured myself a cup of the complimentary bilgewater they called coffee and went back outside. It took them ten minutes to get to my Jag. It took another half-hour for them to remove the old glass and set the windscreen. I waited until they were nearly done before I approached him.

I had spotted him the moment I entered the store, of course, in that way you see people who have a special place in your life. He was dressed in the same work-blues as the rest of them, but even from behind I knew which one he was. Probably the Great Clips $12 haircut gave him away. Lucky for me, he was one of the ones assigned to my Jag.

"Nice work," I called from behind him as he polished every imagined speck and smudge off the new glass. "Probably the best thing you've done in months."

The compliment/insult startled him, put him off balance. He turned and it took a bare moment for him to recognize me.

"Bill," he said, calmly and quietly -- and nervously.

"Howdy, Tim," I answered cheerfully.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, guardedly. "Finally come to kick my ass?"

"Now Tim, I think I've assured you already: I'm not a violent man," I chided. "I'd never be one to blindly strike out in a moment of pure, raw rage. It would do nothing but demean me."

"You're afraid I'd kick your ass instead," he said as if to convince himself.

"No, not really," I shrugged. "I'm not a violent man. But I'm not a pussy, either."

"Then what are you doing here?" he repeated, puzzled.

"Well, I needed a new windshield, and your future father-in-law recommended this place. It seems a friend of his runs it."

"Yeah," he agreed with a snort. "I found that out at Thanksgiving, too, remember?"

"So you did," I said with a smile.

"So how did you break the glass?"

"A fit of raw, angry rage. Petty of me -- it'll cost me over a grand. But what the hell? I've got it."

"I thought you weren't a violent man?"

"I'm not," I agreed. "But I'm not a pussy, either."

"If you're thinking this little visit is going to somehow intimidate me," Tim said, wiping his hands, "think again. And I don't buy that it's a coincidence, either. So what do you want?"

"What do I want?" I asked, eyebrows raised. "You mean, apart from my old life -- and my old wife -- back?"

"Dude, I was doing you a favor!" he said, adamantly. "Mary, she's hot -- don't get me wrong -- but the chick just won't shut up. Money, money, money, that's all she's interested in. Hell, last night she was even too tired to put out."

I chuckled, remembering the day she had had. "Oh, you don't even know the half of it. Just wait until you're good and married -- and have a kid. You'll look back fondly on these days as a fairly quiet, sex-filled 'honeymoon' period."

The man had the good grace to turn pale. "You do realize that this could be construed as harassment, don't you?"

"Not at all!" I protested. "I'm just getting my windshield replaced, chatting with the help. It's just a coincidence you're fucking my wife."

"Yeah, right," he said, sarcastically. "Just a coincidence. And now you're trying to rattle me by telling me how she's gonna turn into some hateful bitch after we're married."

"No, no, just letting you know what you're in for. Only fair. But anything I could say couldn't possibly prepare you for the ugly, brutal reality. You'll have to discover that on your own. It will be hell, pure hell, from your perspective. And I couldn't be happier."

He made a sour face. "Look, you weren't—"

"Let's leave me out of this for a moment, shall we?" I said, softly. "The fact is, Tim, I want to see you suffer. A lot. A hellish existence of perpetual torments. You deserve no less, for all you have done to me. The neat thing is, you've provided your own. I don't have to do a thing! The moment that ring goes around your finger, you can kiss your cojones adios, amigo, because you won't be needing them any more.

"A wife controls a man in ways that no single man can appreciate. She knows how to push your buttons, manipulate you, and punish you when you don't do her bidding. She will nag, and bitch, and complain every day that you are inadequate. And every day she looks at you, no matter how hard you work or what you do, she will always -- ALWAYS -- know she could have had a better life with me. And that will probably come up in your nightly arguments, too. She traded down, Tim. Mary's sensitive to that sort of thing, as you'll come to find out. And she'll let you know it every day for the rest of your life."

"You're just trying to spook me," he countered, not sounding at all sure of himself. He tossed his rag back and forth between his hands nervously. "You're just pissed because I won her and you lost her."

"I'm not pissed, Tim," I replied, mildly. "I'm enraged. There's a subtle difference. And when I get enraged, well, things happen, Tim. In this case, I don't have to do all that much. You've 'won' your own personal chunk of hell. Enjoy."

"You're just pissed because I won, because the kid is mine, not yours," he gloated. "You had her for all those years and never had a kid, and here comes ol' Tim to put a bun in your oven. Get over it, dude."

" 'Get over it?' " I said, the hair on the back of my arms standing up. "Oh, I will. But in the mean time, consider this: that baby you've been so proud of these last couple of weeks? It's been getting bigger. Every day. And it needs building blocks, proteins and such, in order to grow."

"Yeah, so?" he asked, confused and sullen.

"I've been feeding dear sweet Mary plenty of protein, at least once or twice a day. My sperm has about two teaspoons per load. That little bastard in her belly? Way I figure it, over half of his little body was developed because his darling mama swallowed the spooge of a man not his daddy. So you think about that for the rest of your life, Tim, every time you pat the little tyke's head. His body was created out of my sperm. You may have provided the blueprints, pal, but I built him. Suck suck suck, swallow, swallow, swallow -- who do you think contributed more—" I was expecting his hit. Indeed, I welcomed it. We were in a public place, surrounded by witnesses and security cameras, and there were (I discovered later, n the police report) eleven sets of eyes on us when he came after me, fists flailing. Like I said, I was expecting it. I took a glancing blow off my jaw on the left side and a punch to my shoulder on the right. I didn't fight back -- that would have looked bad. To the casual observer and the security cameras, it looked for all the world like Tim just up and attacked me.

Three of his coworkers pulled him off of me, and another two helped me to my feet. His manager was there in microseconds with a first-aid kit, hollering for his people to hold Tim down until the police arrived.

They were all very good about it. Everyone talked to the police and filed a report. There was no real dissention: everyone saw it happen, and the tapes didn't lie. For the second time in a month, Tim went downtown in the back of a cruiser to face criminal charges.

Oh, if he had a decent lawyer he would get off -- what I had said would be construed as "fightin' words" in most jurisdictions in the South, and therefore an incitement to conflict -- but on the heels of his other arrest, it didn't look too good for ol' Tim. He couldn't even really make bail, yet -- the cops confiscated his cell phone and I knew Mary was using a cosmetic gift-certificate I'd given her at the Mall.

The manager tore up my bill -- decent of him, I thought -- and apologized profusely. Of course Tim was fired on the spot.

All in all a productive morning.

***

"How do I look?" Mary asked, in my kitchen later that morning. I slurped my coffee and nodded approvingly.

"First rate," I agreed. "Good enough to fuck."

"Well, isn't that nice for a gal to hear," she shot back, sarcastically. She was acting almost playful this morning, after yesterday's orgasmic excess. Tired, but playful. And she didn't know yet that her beloved was once again a guest in our county's legal system. Hell, she didn't even notice the bruise on my jaw. Just as well.

"Your costume is waiting in the guest room. I'll be upstairs in the master bedroom when you're ready. And just so there are no misunderstandings, your money," I said, taking two hundred-dollar bills, "is right here."

"I'll . . . I'll just get it on my way out," she agreed, biting her lip.

"Fine. See you in a moment," I said, a little stiffly, and went upstairs to change into my own costume. This would be our last time together, under our agreement. I wanted everything to be perfect.

You see, I had put an awful lot of thought into this. I mean, what could I do to further humiliate my wife? I'd put her on her knees and made her suck my cock in front of strangers. I'd seen her humiliated in front of her friends and family. She had catered to almost every zany perversion I'd thought up. I'd pushed the envelope, and now was my last chance to make an impression.

You might think I'm too hard on Mary -- or too easy. I guess it's different for every man in my position -- I mean, not many would have let Tim go without a beating, at the very least. But as much as I despised him, my beef was with Mary and her betrayal. And while I had no doubt she knew what she had put me through, I still had anger unburnt in my soul, anger that needed an outlet. I wouldn't have found much solace in acting violently. I'm not the type. You can usually recover from a beating. Humiliation was the next best thing -- and far more permanent, if you ask my opinion.

I'd already laid the groundwork. Now was time for the big show. I readied my supplies, got into my outfit, turned on the cameras, and waited for Mary to knock on the door. Which she did . . . eventually.

"You have got to be kidding me," she whispered when I opened the door. "Bill, I can't do this!"

"You did it once before," I reminded her. "Hell, you were chompin' at the bit, if I recall correctly."

"Bill, the schoolgirl thing? The slut thing? The French maid thing? Those were kinky. Kinda fun. This, this, this is just . . . wrong!"

"Not at all," I said. "And you really look beautiful. Radiant, even," I said, taking her firmly by the hand and pulling her into the bedroom that she hadn't been in since she left me. I spun her around a little, and the skirt of her dress whirled prettily.

"Bill, I can't fuck you wearing my goddamn wedding dress!" she protested, her eyes tearing up. She stood there, breathtakingly beautiful in the elaborate construction of silk and satin and chiffon and taffeta that had set her pappy back about half the cost of decent bass boat. She hadn't lowered the veil, and the dress was obviously a little tighter around her abdomen than it had been when she had first worn it, but other than that she looked just as virginally sexy as the day we wed. My bride.

My pregnant, cheating, whore of a bride.

"Why not?" I repeated, straightening my tie. "Probably doesn't fit as well, maybe, but—"

"IT'S NOT THAT! Jesus, you're an asshole sometimes! You wanna fuck me in my wedding dress? When we're trying to get divorced? That's some sick shit, Bill," she accused.

"Sorry, I've not been feeling myself, lately," I said, darkly. "I just wanted a happy memory to get me through. This dress reminds me of when you loved me -- passionately! Of when the thought of marrying me was the happiest thought of your life. Of when you got up in front of the altar and vowed to God that—"

"Yeah, yeah, I was there," she said, acting jaded to keep from bursting into tears. "Let's . . . can we just talk?" Her professionally-painted lip quivered. "I'm not trying to back out of our deal or anything, I just need . . . a moment to get used to the idea."

"Sure," I soothed. "Here, let's have some champagne," I said, going over to the dresser where I had a bottle chilling. I popped the cork and poured some in the flutes without spilling a drop. The secret is to hold the cork and twist the bottle, not the other way around. Spewing expensive sparkling wine is the sign of a poseur.

"Champagne? It's just barely noon, yet . . ."

"You really want to do this without a buzz?"

"You're right, you're right," she conceded, taking the glass and sipping it heartily.

"Now, what did you want to discuss?" I asked, smoothly.

"Our marriage," she said, simply.

"Oh, NOW you want to discuss our marriage?"

"Where did we go so fucking wrong?" she asked. "I mean, when I wore this the last time I . . . I had such high hopes for us."

"Just what I was thinking," I agreed. She made a face. "Why did you stop . . . stop paying attention to me?" she asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice. I returned it.

"I didn't. You just quit paying attention to me paying attention," I countered. "You wanted more, more, more, and the only way to get it was to work my ass off. By the time I got home, I wasn't really in the mood for romance."

"Oh, but plenty of time for sex," she said, a little more bitterness leaking out.

"Well, yes," I said. "Sex is easy. It's fun. It's cheap. Romance, on the other hand, is hard. Especially with a woman who has seen all of your best moves, long ago. Romance is tiring and expensive. And if you fuck it up, there is little forgiveness in your woman's heart. Much easier to go for sex, and let the romance come as it will."

"You could have worked harder at it," she accused.

"I'm sure I could have," I agreed. "But my frustrations with your . . . teasing, for lack of a better word, promising sex and then withholding it, well, not exactly the thing that inspires a man to fits of romance."

"I . . . I'm sorry about that," she conceded. "I shouldn't have used your weakness for sex against you like that. Yesterday was . . . amazing, simply amazing. But you made your point."

"It certainly would have improved your chances of the kind of love-life you wanted if you hadn't been such a goddamn prick-tease. A man wants few things in life: status, success, and sex are at the top of most lists. I was working hard. When you didn't show your appreciation the way I wanted you to, I didn't feel like making the effort to woo you further. At first I just felt rejected. Then I felt unappreciated. Then I felt unloved."

"It might have given me second thoughts about Tim," she admitted.

"I would hope that you'd had second thoughts, anyway," I said, darkly. "You were a married woman, after all."

"I . . . I did have second thoughts. Tim wasn't supposed to mean anything, at first. He was just a . . . an escape valve, I guess. A fling on the side to make me feel more like a woman, less like a trophy wife."

"You wanted to be a trophy wife," I reminded her. "Car, house, jewelry, money -- you wanted all of that AND romance. Greedy of you," I admonished.

"I wanted . . . I don't know what I wanted. Happiness. And I wasn't getting it in our old life." "Yeah, as opposed to now," I jibed sarcastically.

"Yeah," she agreed, noting the irony. "Look, I didn't mean for things to get out of control. I certainly didn't want to hurt you. I was . . . I was trying to get your attention."

"Well, that worked out well. Now you're about to be divorced. Cheers!" I said, raising my glass in a mocking toast. "The days when you got my romantic attention are long gone. You've hurt me too badly. Now all I want you to do is be my whore. From trophy wife to whore in a few months. And then straight on to squalid poverty and thankless motherhood. What a grand adventure!"

"Look, all your evil bullshit aside, I do want you to know that I . . . I still love you. My feelings for Tim are confused, right now, and so are my feelings for you. But I do still kind of love you."

"It's a little fucking late—"

"Let me finish!" she spat, savagely. "I've learned something about myself, sexually, in the last few weeks, too. I've learned . . . I like sex. I do. I like it a lot. Maybe it's pregnancy, or the perversity of our situation, but I like the sex we've been having. It's been exciting. Probably the most exciting sex we've had since we were newlyweds. More," she admitted, hesitantly.

"Then you won't mind getting on your knees and reliving an old memory," I agreed, unzipping my fly and hauling out my cock.

She grimaced at my crude advance as she glanced down. But then she sighed and set down her glass. She floated to her knees on a cloud of white chiffon.

"I just said I loved you," she whispered, looking up at me with tears dotting the corner of her eyes. "Doesn't that mean anything?"

"More than you know," I said, gently. "And I still sort of love you -- or at least who you were. The fact that you love me now, some, still . . . yes, it makes a difference. It means something. Many things. Among them, that making you blow me under these circumstances is going to burn a hole in your memory so that you'll remember the shame and humiliation of it for the rest of your life."

"Bill, why be so—"

"Get to sucking, my darling bride!" I sang dismissively. She almost broke, there, staring up at me from her knees. She started to implore me, I could tell, but in the end she just swallowed her tears with her pride and affected stony disinterest. That was fine. I knew what she was thinking, and that was enough.

"It's your money," she said hoarsely and shrugged, scooting closer to where my cock was growing out of my pants. She gave a few preliminary strokes with her nimble fingers, and then began to get to work with her dainty lips and tongue.

I never got a chance to have sex with her while she wore the dress the first time. We had the ceremony and the pictures, and then she was whisked away by her bridesmaids to change into another gown for the reception. Of course we didn't take it on our honeymoon, either. And when we got home, it was part of a treasured, cherished memory, not a sex costume. But I always wanted her to wear it, so I could ravish her properly while she wore it. I had always imagined such an encounter to be the height of erotic romance, a celebration of our love for each other, etc. but using it as an ironic prop was somehow almost as fulfilling. I would have my scene, but there was nothing romantic about it.

She licked the head gingerly, keeping her fingers around the base while she attacked my glans with her lips. I moaned, unconsciously, and watched enrapt as she fed on my pre-seminal fluid like a hummingbird does nectar. She lingered so long on it that it started driving me mad. Finally, she took the entire head between her lips and sucked powerfully on it. Think "Hoover".

"Oh . . . Ohmygod," I sighed. "THAT's why I married you!"

She looked up, one eyebrow raised. "I thought it was because you loved me," she replied quietly.

"That was one of the things I loved about you," I agreed.

"Great," she said, rolling her eyes. But she didn't decrease her efforts. In fact, she got even more passionate, as if she was trying to convince me of her oral prowess for the very first time. She took me deep in her throat and then looked up at me, her sweet face framed by her thrown-back veil. It took a great effort of will and the recollection of actuarial tables to keep back my orgasm.

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