Molly and Her Sisters

"How are we going to work it?"

"No problem—I'll just spend a few nights with Ted when I'm most fertile. It's a little boring only being with Scott every night, anyway. And at the end of my cycle, when I'm safe, I want a couple of nights with Arnie."

"No way, Moll, it's not foolproof. You don't get Arnie again until you're knocked up!" (laughter)

It was still too soon for my shock to turn into anger. I tried as hard as I could not to believe the only conclusion I could reach from what I'd heard: that Molly intended to let Ted get her pregnant!

I realized that Ted and I looked quite a lot alike, though he was 3-4 inches taller. We had the same hair and eye color, and the same overall body type, unlike Arnie who was shorter and heavier.

I sat, motionless, horrified, on the chair in the dark living room, confronting the sudden end of my happy marriage. I could barely think—and then I realized the coffee-klatsch in the kitchen was breaking up. I quietly retreated to the bedroom, where I hopped back in bed and lay still.

As stunned as I was, I knew that I could never confront Molly without doing some thinking first. For that matter, who knew which sister would be coming up to sleep with me?! So I calmed my breathing, and when one of the girls slid into bed a few minutes later, she assumed I was already asleep.

I felt a gentle kiss on my cheek, and her soft voice said, "love you, baby", the way Molly so often did last thing before we went to sleep. It was all I could do not to jump up and yell at her. "Oh do you, you cheating whore? Then how do you explain fucking my two brothers-in-law?"

But I lay still, controlling my breathing. Waiting for her to fall asleep. Planning.

****************

Within a few minutes I could hear Molly's—or whoever's—breathing get slow and regular. But I waited a full hour, to be absolutely sure she was sleeping, before I got out of bed.

I thought about how they could have pulled it off, and realized right away that it wouldn't have been tough at all. If they were switching husbands for sex alone, they would have changed clothes during their evening get-togethers. They all worked part-time, as co-managers of an interior design shop, so none of them left their houses in the morning before Arnie, Ted and I. Switching back in the morning would have been easy.

The only difficulty might have been weekends. Either we got to sleep with our own wives on weekends, I figured, or they arranged to make the switch sometime later in the day. But it still would have been possible, since the six of us had a barbecue or a brunch or some kind of get-together nearly every weekend—and if not, a quick trip "to my sister's house to pick up a catalogue she's got for me" or some similar pretext would have worked just as well.

No, figuring out the "how" wasn't difficult. It was the "why" that baffled me.

You might think that we husbands should have been able to tell the difference. I mean, can't you tell your own wife apart from another woman, for Chrissakes? But here's the thing: we had no reason to be suspicious! We had no doubts, or at least I had previously had no doubts, about the identity of the woman in my bed.

And there was something else, I realized. Early in our marriage Molly and I had loved to lie in bed at night, just talking. Either before, after, or instead of sex. We talked about our relationship, our future plans, work, our families—everything under the sun.

But that had changed. I don't know quite when, but several years earlier Molly had begun to discourage late-night conversations. She would come into the bedroom after her get-togethers with her sisters and we'd just go to bed. We might have sex or we might not—but any conversations I tried to start were greeted with, "I'm real tired, honey. Could we talk about it tomorrow?"

In fact, for years now all our important conversations, all our sharing about our days or plans for the future, were at dinner-time or earlier in the evening, never late at night in bed. This must have been a conscious strategy—since the women were switching partners, the less talking that went on the less likely that a wife might be caught not knowing something she should, or failing to remember something from the past.

******

When I was certain "Molly" was asleep I crept into the study, found the ink pad that we use for the deposit stamp on our checking accounts, and got some of the indelible black ink on my finger-tip. Then, returning to the bedroom, I gently made a small mark on her back, on the right side about midway between her shoulder blade and her shoulder. It was no bigger than a pencil eraser—and she would never notice it unless she were carefully examining her back in the mirror.

I went into the bathroom and used soap and warm water on my finger. As I had thought, the ink remained—even hard scrubbing only removed some of it. I worked on it for a while with a pumice stone, until what was left was faint enough that no one would be likely to see it.

Climbing back into bed, I smiled grimly to myself as I contemplated my next move. The worst of the shock had worn off, and I was deeply angry. If what I had understood from the women's conversation was accurate, Molly had betrayed me: thoroughly and systematically, perhaps for years. She and her sisters had put themselves and their common bond ahead of the duty to love and be faithful that they all owed to their husbands.

I felt used; tricked; humiliated. I tried to imagine a way all this could be made right—but I didn't see one.

****************

On Saturday we had a barbecue in the afternoon at Ted's house. I waited for a moment when the women were inside, presumably getting the food ready. Ted was fussing with the grill, and I asked Arnie if he felt like taking a quick walk around the block. He was always a little worried about his weight, so he was happy to get a bit of exercise.

When we were a safe distance from the house I said, "Arnie, if you don't mind I'd like to talk about something personal for a couple of minutes—is that okay?"

"Sure Scott, what's up?"

"Well, first, let's agree that this will be only between us, all right? I don't want Molly or Hannah—or Amy and Ted either, for that matter—to know we had this conversation. So if anybody asks what we were talking about on our walk, let's just say I was feeling you out about next summer's trip, getting your ideas about whether we might go to Greece."

Arnie seemed pleased by the cloak-and-dagger; he grinned and said, "my lips will be sealed."

"It's a little embarrassing, but I wanted to ask about, well, your and Hannah's, uh, sex life. Molly and I make love about once or twice a week, and I frequently wish it could be more. I just wondered whether her sisters were the same."

Arnie clapped a hand on my back heartily and said with a laugh, "afraid you're getting the short end of the stick then, pal! Hannah and I do it every night, pretty much. I guess we miss an occasional night when she has her period, or one of us is really worn out, but other than that it's as regular as clockwork."

He saw the look on my face and chuckled. "Picked the wrong sister, didn't you? Well, how could you have known? Or any of us, for that matter. I guess I just got lucky!"

Keeping a disappointed look on my face, to hide the rage I was feeling, I said, "I guess you did, Arnie. Tell me: has it always been like that? I mean, since the beginning of your marriage?"

He reflected. "Pretty much. Hannah and I have this routine, I guess you'd call it—a little game we play. You know how the girls have their get-togethers in somebody's kitchen, most nights?"

I nodded, and he went on.

"I'm usually in bed, reading or watching TV by the time she gets back. And when she comes into the bedroom she gets this look in her eye and she always says the same thing, in a sexy voice: 'well, big boy, how do you want me tonight?' And I suggest something—you know, cowgirl, or maybe warming up with a backrub or a blow-job—and then we do it.

"Or once in a while she'll come in and say, 'hey, big boy, how about doggie-style?' But almost always it's the exact same line: 'how do you want me tonight?' I know it sounds silly, but as long as I'm getting laid I have no complaints!" He laughed heartily, and I tried to join him.

"One more question," I said. "It used to be that Molly and I would talk a lot in bed, about ourselves, our relationship, that sort of stuff. But in recent years the bedroom has been pretty much only for sex and sleep—we never really just talk any more. Is Hannah like that too?"

"Pretty much. Those 'meaningful', relationship type of conversations we seem to save for other times of day. Doesn't matter much to me, I have to say. But I guess it's pretty much like with you and Molly," he laughed a little, "the bedroom's for fucking, then for falling asleep afterwards."

As we walked back to the house Arnie chattered away, mostly about the Bengals (his one great love apart from Hannah) and I tried to say, "yeah" and "I know" and "really?" at the appropriate moments. But my mind was miles away. In some really cold, dark, desolate place. Getting very, very angry.

****************

I managed to get through the afternoon and evening without blowing my top, although people seemed to notice I was a little withdrawn. I was determined to keep it together for one more day, so I took "Molly" out for Indian food, her favorite, after we left Ted and Amy's, and I tried to be a cheerful companion all evening.

At around 10 "Molly" spent a little time at Amy's with her sisters, as usual, and when she returned and we were getting ready for bed I made a point of coming up behind her, gently rubbing her neck and shoulders, and looking for the ink mark. It wasn't there!

Okay, that's it, I thought. You fucking whore! Whoever you are, it's time for you and your sisters to feel the heat.

"Honey," I said, "how is that scratch on your leg? Let me take a look."

Whichever sister it was, she stiffened a little. "The scratch?" she said carefully.

"Yeah—from yesterday after dinner, when you bumped into the door of the dishwasher," I said, bending down to look at her legs.

"Oh—that!" she said, a bit too casually. "It's fine—it didn't even leave a mark!"

"Yeah, you're right," I replied, looking closely. "I can't see any trace of it. That's great! It really looked nasty at the time."

I straightened up, and I could see her practically sigh in relief. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, chuckling to myself. There never had been any scratch—and her reaction only confirmed that whichever sister was in my bedroom tonight was not the one who had been there the night before.

A few minutes later I was lying in bed, waiting for her when she emerged from the bathroom.

"Hey, honey," I said, "let's end tonight the way we did last night—that was fantastic!"

"What you mean, sweetheart?" she replied, looking more than a little wary.

"Don't you remember? You came up from downstairs with this gleam in your eye, and said something like, 'so, big boy, how do you want me tonight?' It was so hot! And I said, 'gee, a blow-job might be nice,' and then you pushed me back on the bed and sucked me and licked me and teased me till I was going crazy, then you climbed on top and rode me like a wild woman. God, it was fantastic! You don't remember this?"

For a moment "Molly" looked utterly stunned. Then she got a pained look on her face, and I could see her thinking fast. "Of course I do, honey—I'm just not sure I'm up for something so energetic again tonight."

"Okay," I said, "let's be slow and gentle instead, if you like. But say those things you said to me last night, all right?"

She slid into bed and immediately embraced me, pulling me close so I couldn't see her face.

"Of course, baby," she murmured. "I'll say whatever you want—I just love turning you on! Which were the things you especially liked?"

I grinned to myself. You're not getting off the hook that easy! "Oh, you know, all of them. What you said while we were doing it."

There was silence from her, as we stroked and caressed each other. I was turned-on in no time, despite how angry I was; but, surprise surprise, "Molly" seemed to be having a tougher time getting into the mood. My usual stroking, licking of her nipples and so on wasn't getting her wet at all.

I pulled back to look at her. "Everything all right, honey?" I asked innocently. "You seem not to be quite with me tonight."

Holding my gaze she said, "sorry, Scott. I guess I'm just a little tired, and my stomach is bothering me—must have been the spicy food. Let's go ahead and make love, but please don't expect me to be wild and crazy again tonight, okay?"

I smiled lovingly and said, "of course, Molly. Let's just do it missionary, nice and gentle. We can save all your hot words for another night."

She kissed me, looking relieved, and I climbed on top of her as she spread her legs. What followed was an utterly ordinary, routinely pleasant married-people fuck. Just like I'd had on countless previous occasions with my wife Molly—or at least I had always thought it was my wife Molly.

****************

Sunday was the day it would hit the fan. The three couples had a date for brunch downtown at Trentino's, a place we all liked, and then we'd head back to Arnie and Hannah's. The men would watch the Bengals game, and the sisters would talk and laugh together all afternoon, as happy as can be.

I kept "Molly" in my sights all morning, making sure she didn't call either of her sisters ahead of time. I figured she was well and truly pissed, thinking that my Friday bed-partner (whoever it was) hadn't adequately briefed her either about the scratch on her leg or the wild sex with me (neither of which had happened, of course).

When we were all seated at Trentino's and the waiter had taken the drink order, it wasn't ten seconds before "Molly" looked meaningfully at one of her sisters and said, "Hannah, I need to powder my nose. Can you keep me company?"

And off they went, "Molly" looking angry and grim, "Hannah" slightly bewildered.

It was several minutes before they returned. This time they looked alike: pale and worried. They fidgeted with their drinks and kept losing track of the conversation. Both of them tried as hard as they could not to look at me, but I could see the tense glances whenever I seemed not to be looking at them.

As I anticipated, "Molly" must have accused "Hannah" of not letting her know what she and I had done the previous night. "Hannah" had told her no such things happened. And the two of them had started to be worried—very worried.

Only "Amy" seemed unaffected at first, chattering away happily to her sisters and to us. But after a few minutes she picked up on the mood—she didn't know what was up, but it was crystal clear that something was wrong.

When we'd finished our eggs Benedicts and our salmon omelettes and our Belgian waffles, she said to "Hannah" with elaborate casualness, "Han, one of my contacts is really bothering me—can you come take a look?"

And when the two of them returned a few minutes later, there were three pale and tense-looking sisters at the table, none of them looking at me or doing very well at participating in our conversation.

Their nervousness and misery persisted all afternoon, to my immense pleasure. While Ted and Arnie and I enjoyed watching the Bengals win one for a change (over the Browns, who were even more woeful this year than the home team), the girls huddled at the far end of the house. We didn't hear a word from them for three hours, and when it was time to leave neither of my two sisters-in-law could look me in the eye as we hugged goodbye.

And it was a quiet dinner at our house, even though I reveled in putting on a cheerful façade, telling "Molly" amusing little stories about colleagues at work or talking about our vacation plans for the upcoming year. She could barely manage to smile, or to offer one-word replies at the appropriate moments. I could tell she was terrified.

All evening, while we cleaned up the kitchen and watched TV, I pretended that everything was fine, while I watched "Molly" watch me with fear and dread in her eyes. Around 9:15 she said, "honey, I'm going to go over to Hannah's for a little while, okay?"

"Sure, babe. While you're gone I'll probably pack up my things and put them in my car. Of course, the furniture and stuff I'll need a truck for, so I'll do that later in the week."

The color disappeared from her face. "Scott, what do...what are you talking about? Why do you need to pack up your things?"

Casually I said, "because I'm leaving, of course. You don't expect me to keep living in the house with a lying, cheating whore, do you?"

She gasped, and stared at me. "Honey, I don't...I don't, understand what...."

I just watched her, and her words trailed off. Of course she understood, and she didn't know how to finish the sentence.

"See ya when you get back," I said, and turned away towards the stairs.

"No, Scott, wait!" she cried out, her voice trembling, but I ignored her and went off to pack. I figured her first step would be to call her sisters, and I was right. No more than three minutes later "Molly" appeared at the bedroom door and said, "honey, Amy and Hannah are here. Could you come down and talk with us?"

She looked terrible—her cheeks were stained with tears and her make-up had run. She looked deeply frightened and unhappy, and for a moment, just a brief one, I even felt bad for her.

"Yeah," I replied, turning away, "I'll be down in a minute."

I made a quick stop in the den for my digital voice-recorder, a little one about the size of a cigarette pack that I used for dictating notes sometimes in the car. I set it to record and slipped it into my pocket.

When I got to the kitchen the three women were already sitting at the table, looking tense and miserable. I sat down, looked from one to the other, and said, "so?"

There was a long silence. None of them wanted to begin. Finally "Molly" said, "Scott, you know how much I love you, right?"

"I'm sorry," I said coolly, "which sister are you?"

"I'm Molly," she cried, "your wife!"

"Oh, really? Hold still a minute please."

I went around behind her and checked her back—no black mark. I checked the other two sisters, and there it was on one of them. They watched me uncomprehendingly.

I sat down again. "Okay," I said. "For the sake of argument let's say you're Molly. Then where were you sleeping on Friday night when your sister here" (and I pointed to the one with the mark on her back) "was in bed with me?"

They all stared at me.

"Take your time," I said, "I'm in no hurry. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why at least two, if not three, of you spent the night in my bed over the past three nights."

A long silence. "Molly" began to cry, while the other two just looked grim.

I made as if to get up. "I've got packing to do," I said.

"No, wait!" "Molly" said quickly. "I'll explain, I will! Only...only, please, Scott—please give me a chance to make you understand."

I considered yelling at her that it was a bit too late for explanations, but I realized that I actually wanted to hear what she'd say—what sort of twisted rationalization the three of them could offer for what they'd been doing. And, for that matter, whether they'd tell me the truth.

I waited, but "Molly" was crying too hard to speak. One of her sisters began instead.

"It was...just a silly game, Scott. It started as kidding, and...I don't know, it, took on a life of its own."

"And you are...?"

"Hannah. Listen, it was just teasing, kidding around, you know? About a month ago. We were joking about each other's husbands, you know, what we love about you, what we don't love so much—and we started to talk about sex.