Oliver and Emilie WrightbyMatt Moreau©
"For godssakes stop the silly crying, Oliver, and be a man. So Billy screwed me. So what? It isn't like it means a damn thing," said Emilie. "It made me feel good and didn't hurt you or us one little bit."
"I'm not crying. I've just got something in my eye. But, as for the rest of it, it means plenty to me, and in case you actually give a damn it did hurt me. And also in case you actually give a damn there is the indisputable fact that this marriage is over," I said.
"Oh, pooh," she said. "Talk about overreacting. Go out and get yourself a revenge fuck if you're so bothered by it," she said.
Who was this woman? I sure as hell didn't know. But, she was going to be history in short order. If and when, that is, I could swing the cost of a divorce lawyer. Oh, yeah, history for damn sure! But, I knew two other things, also for sure: one, I couldn't afford a lawyer at the moment; and two, there was no way any other woman was going to let me into her pants. There had been a time, but not now, not at my age fifty. My days of scoring were long past, and my wife knew it. She on the other hand was clearly by no means done as the sage might have averred.
All of the above said. I would not be sticking around so she could humiliate me anymore than she already had. No sirree, I was getting the hell outta Dodge. She might not believe it, but it was going to happen and happen immediately. I headed down the hall to the bedroom we'd shared for most of the past twenty some years we'd been married. I needed a couple of suitcases, and a box or two to pack up the stuff I'd need for work and to set up housekeeping in whatever new digs I could—well—dig up. She smirked as she watched me march off.
I was busy packing when she came into the room. "Oliver, you are wasting your time. You know it and I know it. You'll be back with your tail between your legs begging forgiveness, and you'll just have to be putting it all away again," she said. My turn to smirk.
"Think so," I said. "You're wrong!" She'd just put the final nail in the coffin of our marriage. Her look did change a little with my tone. She decided to soften her original stance.
"Look, I'm sorry. Okay? But, it was nothing but a little funnin' I swear it. It won't happen again. I promise," she said.
"What won't happen again, Emilie? You fucking other men or just not doing it in our bed!" I said. I went back to my packing.
"Jesus, you're making a federal case out of nothing whatsoever. You need to stop and we need to talk," I said.
"You still haven't answered me," I said. I continued to pack.
"Answered what?" she said. I stopped packing for a moment and looked her straight in the eyes.
"What is it you're not going to do anymore," I said. She looked away. Her look was pure frustration—no—disgust.
"Neither in our bed nor at all," she said. "How's that?" My eyes were hot from the acid of my tears, the tears I'd denied having but shortly before. She shook her head sympathetically.
I sat down heavily on the bed, the half packed bag I'd been loading up beside me. "How do I know you'd keep your word?" I said, and that not unreasonably. She came toward me, but stopped a few feet away.
"I don't know. I guess you'll just have to take a chance. But, I will not break my word. No more hurting you by screwing other men. I really do promise. And, I was serious about you going out and getting yourself a little strange on the side. A little revenge so to speak, like I said," she said.
I'd heard her, and I'd also heard something else. Her tone when she said she'd not be hurting me anymore by screwing other men. It, her tone, bothered me. It was like she was almost saying that she wouldn't hurt me because I would never know she was screwing other men. That she was just planning on being ultra-careful in the future. She'd not said that obviously, but she'd sure as hell "toned" it. Tone of voice is everything; boy did I know that for a fact. How did I know? Well, maybe it's time for me to introduce us.
My name is Oliver Wright, age fifty, short at five-six, spare at one-thirty-five, slightly balding, and perfectly average in the face. I'm a voice coach for wanna be actors. I know pretty much all there is to know about tone of voice; hence, my earlier remarks. The job—I work at Merlin Studios—pays well, and I meet lots of interesting people, that including any number of celebs.
Emilie Wright, nee Allen, is my wife of many years. Emilie is forty-six; also five-six, maybe one-fifteen, she won't say. Emilie has long flowing dark hair, a dazzling face, shoulda been a movie star herself; and a personality that's purely magnetic. Oh, and a figure that is but a trice short of amazing. Yeah, yeah, I know totally out of my league. Emilie is a hair dresser, a fairly talented one as it happens. She works at Merlin's too. In fact it was at a Merlin's New Year's Eve party those many years ago that we met. She gave me a tumble—in the hay—appreciated my enthusiasm if not exactly my more or less than average skills and tool; decided I'd do, and married me.
Oh, I knew it likely had more to do with my six figure income—she makes a third of what I do— than either my wonderful good looks or my aforementioned bedroom skills; but what the hey, I wanted her body. Oh yeah, I wanted it real bad. Pussywhipped? Me? Damn straight. She knew it, and she used it. She's gotten everything she's wanted from me over the years, but not this. Not my willingness to be her cuckold. Not in this life nor any other: no way in hell I was going for that.
I looked her askance. Trust her now? That was the question. A moment before I had one foot out the door. But, did I really want to dump her. The short answer was no. This despite the fact that she had thoroughly humiliated me, and that with a man we both knew well and considered a friend. I decided to go for it.
"Call Billy's wife now. You're going to tell her all of it over the phone," I said. She actually smiled.
"She already knows. Mavis and Billy have an open marriage," said my wife. My lower jaw dropped a yard and bounced off the floor.
"Mavis Walcott's into other men!" I said.
"Yes," she said.
I decided to test the waters. "Call her anyway. Tell her to come over. I'm going to screw her. You told me to go out and get some strange, so okay, I'm ready. After all you did her husband; I'm going to do her," I said. Now it was time for my wife's jaw to bounce off of the floor. And, hell, Mavis was a dazzler.
"I can't do that," she said.
"If you and her Billy can cuckold me, I can cuckold him. That's fair," I said.
"What if she says no?" she said.
"Then she says no, and you get one of your other friends in here to do me," I said. But, I really do want her. And put it on speaker phone; I want to hear it all," I said.
"Ollie, let's talk this through a little more, okay?" said Emilie.
"No, call her. Call her now," I said. She shook her head.
"Okay, then, I'll do it," I said. I headed for the hall and the little phone stand that was there with our personal phone book beside it. I looked up the Walcott's. I dialed as she watched me.
"Hi Mavis, this is Ollie, Ollie Wright...yes-yes you too...uh huh...Look Mavis my wife just got done doing your hubby...right, right...really...so you really do have an open marriage?...Really...Well okay, that's cool, but now I have a request...yes a request...I need you to come over here so I can do you...Huh!...but..."
"She laughed at me, hung up on me. Guess you were wrong about me having something to offer another woman. Hell if I'm not enough for my own wife, what could I expect," I said with a sneer. "No problem though, now I go after the two of them—and you." I continued my packing.
"Ollie, wait. You and I need to talk things out. This is not good," said Emilie.
"No it's not good, not at all," I said. Five minutes later I was out the door.
I hadn't known a bit ago where I was going to go, or really, what I was going to do, but now I did. I knew just where to find what I was looking for, at least in terms of a place to stay. It was but four blocks from my shop at the studio; it was called the Coronado: my new place was a fourth floor three bedroom that was more than tastefully furnished. It was a bit pricey, but what the hey, I did make the big bucks.
I'd picked up a bottle Old Overholt at the liquor outlet near our house on my way to the apartment building. I liked rye better than bourbon when I could get it; it was hotter than bourbon and maybe a tad less sweet. At any rate it, Old-O, was my friend. I sipped it now as I looked out at the city lights spread out before me. I wondered what she was doing, who she was calling. It was going to be a busy next few days; I was sure of that. Tomorrow? Tomorrow I would have to be doing some thinking, planning. Oh yeah. But tonight, tonight I would be kicking back and brooding, maybe feeling a little bit sorry for myself. And—getting blasted. Hell, I was entitled.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. And, you were right, but we were in a hurry. Billy had an appointment or something. He told me..." started Emilie.
"Yes, he had an appointment all right—with Jessica hardass McCoy," said Mavis.
"You're kidding me!" said Emilie.
"Nope. Anyway, whaddya gonna do about Oliver?"
"I don't know. I don't even know where he is, and his cell is turned off," said Emilie. "But to answer your question more directly, find somebody he can get revenge with. You could have been a bit more helpful there, Mavis! I mean would it have killed you?"
"Em', we've talked about this; he's not my type: too short, too boring. Hell, he's clearly not enough for you. What'd you expect letting him pin me like that! That said, I do hope I didn't queer things for you. I didn't mean to hurt the guy's little feelings. He's okay so long as a body doesn't have to sleep with him." Emily gave her a look that was less than appreciative of her sentiments.
"But, the other thing, I can maybe can help you find him. Jimmy Corson said he thought he saw him pulling into the Coronado," said Mavis.
"Really. I should go there and try and talk some sense into him," said Emilie. "He's not going to be able to find someone to replace me' he's too old and to short and too boring, as you accurately point out, to really be allowed out without supervision. Plus, he's vulnerable right now. Some little chickee is certain to come along and dig for his gold as soon as he flashes that black Amex of his. But, until she does, he's gonna be one lonesome critter. And, he's gonna be stayin' that way if he doesn't cool down and learn to fly right."
"Dig for the gold? You mean like you did?" said Mavis.
"So what. He got value for his money. It's not like I deny him his due when it comes to sex. Hell, he gets more than any of the others. I treat him right. But...
"I really should not have had Billy over to the house. That was a major error in judgment. Now, I have to figure a way to make it up to Ollie, make him forget his hurt and embarrassment. And, damned if I have any ideas," said Emilie.
"Yes, I see what you mean," said Mavis. "That's gonna be a toughie. Better be thinkin' about lookin' your best when you go to see him, I mean your very best. You gotta see to it that his little head does his thinking for him." Emilie snickered.
"Yes, that would be the ticket if I can, I mean if I even get the chance," she said.
"You can, and you will. Men, all men, are the same. They need us a helluva lot more than we need them, especially men like your Ollie," said Mavis. "I don't know if I ever told you. When I first met Billy he was bragging to a group of us, but mainly to me, about how his cock was something no woman had and all women wanted. I told him that, while what he said was so, it was also true that a pussy like mine could get a 100 cocks like his and then some. That shut him up right quick.
"Funny, very funny," said Emily. "But, the Coronado, you say?"
"Yes. Corson seemed pretty sure about that," said Mavis.
My morning hangover was stupendous. I'd dumped a dozen ice cubes in a towel and was conscientiously holding it to my right temple which seemed to be the primary seat of my pain. It was then that the German army attacked! Well, it sounded like an attack by the German army. But, in reality it was the damnable doorbell. I considered not answering it. But, creature of habit, I did.
"You!" I said. "Fuck!"
"Yes, if you want. And I can't deny it. It is me," she said. "Got any coffee."
"What I got is a hangover. And, I ain't sharin'" I said.
"Then, stand aside. I'll doctor you and make the coffee too. You can toss my ass out afterwards. How's that," said Emilie. I turned and walked back inside without answering her. She followed me in and closed the door behind her.
I fell into a chair at the dinette. I was still holding the ice pack to my head. I could hear her fussing around in the kitchen.
She emerged five minutes later with a couple cups of coffee and some toast. "Eat," she said.
"I can't, I'll throw up," I said.
"Maybe, but that wouldn't necessarily be bad," she said. I ate the damn toast. "Now, drink the coffee." I started to sip it.
"Whaddya want, Emilie? There ain't nuthin' for you here. You're getting' your jollies elsewhere."
"No I'm not. I was, but no more," she said. "It's time you forgave this old slut and let me come home. Or more accurately, you come home to me, to our house."
"The coffee and the couple of pieces of toast were reviving me. That fact was both good and bad. Good, because the German army was in retreat. Bad, because I was remembering just how bad the hurt was that she'd laid on me.
I leaned back in my chair. She was the one holding the ice pack against my temple now. I took it back from her and laid it on the place mat in front of me.
I took a deep breath. Jesus she was pretty. She must've spent an hour doing herself up to snooker me.
"You don't want me, Em'. I doubt if you ever did. I could wish that you did because I do want you, big time," I said.
"I do want you big boy. And, I want you way more than you can ever imagine. I thought that I needed something more, but these last days? Well, I discovered that it was all a chimera. I don't need, and likely never really did need, anyone but you. So, if you'll just be kind enough to give me another chance; well, I will more than make up for my crimes against our marriage. Whaddya say?" she said.
"I don't know. I want to believe you. But—another hit to my heart like a few nights ago; well, I don't think I could handle that. And, the truth is I don't trust you anymore, and that's a fact," I said.
"I know it's only words, Ollie, but I love you, and you can trust me. I can't prove it except by being trustworthy from now on. I know it'll take some time. But, I want to start proving it to you right now, right here," she said, " at least the loving part. Whaddya say?" I was wavering.
And, while I wavered, she came and stood in front of me kinda swaying back and forth. Then she started to strip. She went real slow, and the tease was working. My little head took over and controlled me.
Naked, she lay down on the floor. Her legs were straight out in front of her and together. Her mound was bald and the mere sight of her slit was capable of enslaving any man, especially a wimp like me. Her arms lay by her sides immobile. She looked the picture of vulnerability. But it wasn't her that was vulnerable; I knew it. The really vulnerable one was me: short and less than useless in bed me. I stood and stripped. I had no hope of defending myself against an onslaught like this. I lay down beside her on the carpeted floor.
I didn't touch her with my hands at first. Instead, I leaned over her and kissed her nipples; I could feel them harden. Well, at least I could get that much of a reaction from her. I began suckling on them. I allowed my hands to grope the fleshy parts of her breasts. God she was a turn on for me. She might not love me; she might not appreciate my love making skills, but I sure as hell got off on what she had to offer.
I began to kiss my way down her body. I was close enough now, to her pussy, to smell her femaleness. She hadn't cleaned herself; that was clear. She'd made herself up to entrap me, no doubt about it, but she hadn't washed her cunt, and I loved it. The smell of my woman had always done me in; she knew that about me. I had no hope!
I gently helped her spread her thighs. I spent some time licking and sucking her. I paid special attention to her pee hole. I loved the acrid taste of it.
Looming above her, I pushed my way into her. All very thick almost five inches of my manhood began pile driving into her. I heard her suck in her breath as I was less than gentlemanly about the way I was treating her. She bucked and drove back at me as I began to feel myself about to cum; I had the feeling she was trying to get even with me. I exploded inside of her. Had to have been the most cum I'd dumped in her in years. I fell off to the side.
She was breathing hard; I was breathing hard. I was satisfied. Her? Doubtful. Oh, I knew what she was going to say, but I was so warned as to doubt the truth of it.
"Jesus, honey that was good. Best in a long time. Try and remember the formula, okay?" she said. Like I said, I knew what she was going to be saying. I weren't no idiot, although I'm sure there were those out there in readersville who would fain argue the point.
"It was good for you then," I said. "You came. Right?" I said. I was pushing her buttons.
"Oh yeah," she said. "Big time!" Now, she was pushing my buttons.
The experience and her enthusiasm were enough—barely—to convince me to try one more time. Try yes, but I had a very bad feeling about doing so regardless; that's what a lack of trust will do to a person. There is always that feeling in the pit of the stomach that one could wish wasn't there; it made every day a sad day or seemed to.
Once back in the house, things only tangentially related to my problem of trust with Emilie began to cause some little bit of tension; well, and not so little actually.
For one, since her basic insult to me, Emilie's friend Mavis was going to forever be a pariah. I made the case to Emilie that the Walcotts were no longer welcome at our place: she'd insulted me, and he'd cuckolded me. The combination made any kind of fence mending with them an insuperable problem. Emilie countered that they had done nothing that was not forgivable. She owned to the fact that everything was at least as much her fault, Emilie's, as it was either of the Walcotts. Yeah, I said, but I ain't married to them; have no investment in them, and really couldn't even stand to be around them anymore.
Emilie acquiesced, but grudgingly. I figured she'd still talk to the woman while avoiding the man, but if she did, talk to Mavis, it would never be in or around our house; that was ironclad. And, yeah, avoiding the man was not negotiable.
We fell into a groove of screwing almost every night. I think she was trying to prove two things. One, that she did want me sexually. And two—and this was only a suspicion—that I wouldn't be able to keep up with her, and that maybe her playing on the side actually made sense on some level. Well, it was just a suspicion I had.
It was three months later, and after a particularly raucous night of rolling in the sheets, that things started becoming a little dicey.
"I came this time, harder than you, I think," she said. I smiled.
"Yeah, like that's the truth," I said. She didn't take offense at my obvious disbelief because I was laughing. I remembered a scene form an old movie: the Virginian. Two gunfighters were in a saloon. One says something mildly insulting to the other, to the Virginian. He retorts: "When you say that, stranger, smile." It was the same kind of thing.