O'Scouries Valentines Day Wifebyscouries©
But with her mothers tacit support and my parents backing we simply started preparations and so, on June 1st 1994, after our freshman year, both of us nineteen, we married in a much fancier ceremony than I'd have liked but a much smaller one that the usual Worthington blowout.
My daughter Abigail was born in September of that same year. We juggled married life and baby with jobs and university life. My parents helped and Victoria had various trust funds to draw on. We were happy -- happy in a way only a young couple in love can be happy. Two years later we had a second daughter -- Bernadette.
We both graduated in May 1997. Returned to New York City. I had an idea and started a company that filled a small niche in what eventually became the Internet boom. Slowly we prospered. Bought a larger house in 2000. Vikki, her family background an in, joined the Women's Auxiliary of the Metropolitan Museum and did other volunteer work.
We bought a place of our own on the north shore of the island in 2003 -- a place just for the O'Scouries -- where when we wanted we could get away from the Smyth-Worthington madness.
By 2007 my daughters were growing into beautiful and loved young girls...my business was flourishing and offers to buy me out arrived almost daily...my wife and I were in love...the sex between us was still extraordinary...we had a perfect life...until...
What caused it? Was there one action, one spoken word that gave birth to it? Or was it just the accumulation of a hundred small, almost imperceptible clues that had filtered slowly into my unconscious brain until finally it bubbled up as a conscious thought?
Looking back now I can't say, all I can say is that sometime last June it was suddenly there. An idea rejected by me at first...shit, we'd been happily married for thirteen plus years...our sex life could only be described as spectacularly successful and full.
Hell not everything was perfect with our married life -- anyone who's been married as long as we had knows that there are bad days as well as good. Small arguments...irritants...unkind words...
But the sex had never been a problem...never! From that first night in the lobby of Hopwell Hall, from the second my thick cock had slipped inside of her, stretching her moist, welcoming tightness, it had been perfect.
And, as the weeks had turned into months, and then the months into years, that reality had never changed. The two of us were highly sexed animals whose hunger for each other had never varied. Ten years into our marriage we still were making love every day and often twice a day. The possibility of sexual infidelity by my wife should have been the farthest thing from my mind.
But once that ugly nugget of suspicion is born it becomes impossible to ignore.
It grows...slowly at first...then every action, every word your partner makes suddenly takes on a new and disturbing meaning. You try and shake it off but it's always there, growing...and growing...
Late August 2007
It took me two months before I finally acted.
He was ex-Special Forces, ex-Army Intelligence, a guy who'd left the Service of his country at forty-five and had started Briggs Security, a company that had grown over the last ten years into a regional leader in the fields of Internet Security, Executive Protection and Employee Screening. My company had awarded his company significant contracts over the years and so it was to him that I turned to when I wanted someone to investigate my wife. We weren't friends but over the years had built up a respect for each other.
"I usually don't do this kind of work," he demurred when I broached the subject on a steamy late August afternoon.
"I need someone I trust," I'd answered.
"Personal surveillance in expensive...it can take months...it can turn ugly," he explained impersonally.
But I finally convinced him to do it, then he spent an hour questioning me about every aspect of my personal life.
And then all I could do was nervously wait.
October 30th 2007
I couldn't read him at all as he sat down opposite me after shaking my hand. He slowly put the thick file on my desk and then looked deep into my eyes. "I'm afraid your suspicions were correct Patrick," he started. "I'm sincerely sorry."
My stomach turned as I tried to keep my pain from my face.
I listened, broken hearted, as he led me through his report. "Mrs. O'Scouries had sexual liaisons with three men over the period of surveillance," he'd started.
"THREE?" I asked unbelievingly.
"The first rendezvous that we observed occurred on September 12th, with a certain James R. Black."
"Jimmy Black?" I asked, thinking it couldn't be the guy we'd both known back when we were at Middlebury. Christ, I hadn't heard his name in years.
"Apparently he and your wife have had a relatively long term love affair," he explained as he passed over sheet after sheet of evidence. I was hardly listening.
"We have pictures...I'm not sure if you'll want to see them," he said but then when I held out my hand he simply handed them to me. He said nothing as I flipped aimlessly through them.
"The others?" I finally asked.
"September 27th. Greg Davis...a barman at the Big Apple Brasserie."
"We believe it was just a random pickup sir...a one time thing."
"Random...But...Why?" I stammered.
"We believe it was a spur of the moment thing...she just took a sudden fancy to him and took him back to your house."
Spur of the fucking moment? Where were my daughters as she was doing her random spurring?
The third was a teacher at my daughters' school. From their eavesdropping on the lovers the Detective Agency believed that the two were meeting for the third time over the last two years.
"I don't understand," I finally murmured as the detectives narrative finally ended.
"I'm sorry sir," he responded sincerely but I couldn't help but think that behind his façade was both pity and scorn for the man who let his wife turn him into a cuckold.
After he'd left I drove out to our family weekend retreat on the north shore of the island, a retreat we'd bought four years earlier so we'd have someplace private and away from the Worthingtons, and then I proceeded to get drunk after I'd called home and told my loving wife that I'd be out of town on business for three or four days.
Do you divorce her? Kill her? Kill yourself? Become another sensational story for the Post? You better believe that I thought about it! And cried. And got drunker. And kept asking myself why? OK, I could have understood it if our sex life was shitty...if we'd stopped doing it or something. If I couldn't get a hard-on anymore. But Christ, we did it every day, often two times a day...and my wife loved every second of our matings...shit, she would have to have been the greatest actress in the world if she wasn't enjoying them.
I studied the detectives report, checking the dates of her cheating against my own schedule that I easily accessed on my Blackberry. I'd been in town all three days! Knew I'd made love to her all three days. And yet I hadn't had a fucking clue.
I'd resolved that I'd have to divorce her by the time I finally got in my car and headed back to town three days later. Not immediately but soon I thought as I drove, knowing I had to decide about a hundred things before I jumped. My daughters...money...the company...the houses...fuck her if she thought she was going to get a dime out of me I said to myself as I drove.
And so my life returned to a superficial normalcy over the next few weeks as I started to plot and plan.
And then the other shoe dropped....
I found them in a shoe box (under three others) on the top shelf of the cupboard of the room my wife had spent her teenage years in. I really hadn't set out to find any more evidence -- it was just an accidental discovery fueled by my boredom and curiosity.
We were spending the week after Christmas at the Smyth-Worthington's, something we'd done for the last ten years. Christmas day at home with just the four of us, Victoria, the two girls and I, then the twenty-sixth we descended on my in-laws. Not my favorite week of the year but what the hell -- marriage demands some small sacrifices.
And so, on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, I'd found myself alone and bored in the Smyth-Worthington Manhattan townhouse after a variety of chores and excursions had emptied the house of the whole clan.
They were exquisitely bound in red Moroccan leather, small four by six inch books with intricate gold clasps. There were five of them. Although locked the mechanism that held them shut was clearly meant more for decoration than it was designed to prevent someone serious about it from opening them.
I didn't hesitate. Fuck it...why should I. Just some silly, female teenage musings is what I expected. The first page had just four lines:
VICTORIA PENELOPE SMYTH-WORTHINGTON O'SCOURIES
MY SEXUAL LIFE
AUGUST 1993-JANUARY 1996
What the fuck??? I quickly opened the other four -- Volumes three, four, five, six. Volume Six ended at December 31st 2006. I stared at them for minutes before I picked up Volume Two again. I wondered where Volume One was.
Turning the page I was faced with:
AUGUST 28TH 1993
GREGORY MASON (con't from vol. 1)
As it turned out the description of her afternoon with Gregory that I found on the two facing pages was quite brief. He had already made an appearance in Volume One so that much of the background on this gentleman was omitted. I figured out later that her rating system was based on a scale of one to one hundred so that Gregory's performance clearly hadn't been exceptional.
She wrote in the diary that she was glad her affair with this senior at Dartmouth was finally ending, what she'd hoped would be an exciting summer romance had turned into a series of desultory couplings in the boathouse on his fathers estate.
She then described in exceedingly blunt detail what they'd done that afternoon. Fortunately it was mercifully short.
I flipped to the next page:
SEPTEMBER 9TH 2007
PROFESSOR RICHARD HAVEN (Art History)
The good professor, whom I only vaguely remembered, was described as a forty-five year old married man with a very thick but short penis. One of her professors for the coming term, she'd sought him out and somehow seduced him in about ten minutes. She performed fellatio on him and then they had penile/vaginal sex (something she abbreviated to p/v in her recaps) during which she experienced a Grade 7 Orgasm (on a scale of 1-10).
Flipping another page I arrived at yours truly:
SEPTEMBER 14TH -- 17TH 2007
Rating: 100 - he's a god!!!!!!!
Which made me break out into a grim smile. And then I read about the night I lost my virginity from her perspective. Read what she was thinking as she'd looked down at me in the street below her dormitory window. Those first three days of us together took up twelve pages of her diary. There was a picture of my erect cock on the third page. With exact measurements for length and girth and diameter carefully noted under it. I have no memory of her taking the picture but the background was clearly her room in Hopwell Hall so she got it somehow.
At the bottom of the twelfth page she totaled up our various activities for the three days: 12 p/v's, 5 bj's, 2 ap's, pat 21 o's, me 37 o's. It wasn't hard to figure out her codes.
Then she wrote and underlined it: I think I'll marry him.
I continued to flip through the pages. The next fifteen pages were all me, each of our couplings noted, the date, where it occurred, what sexual acts we performed, a description of her orgasm, etc., etc. I was always rated between 95 and 100. Our afternoon in the stacks she rated 110%! Her orgasms were always tens.
So why did she sleep with Greg Brown? On November 13th, two weeks after we'd returned from our weekend with the Smyth-Worthington clan, after we'd started to discuss details of our upcoming marriage, Victoria slept with the captain of the hockey team. He was given only a rating of 13. He'd refused to go down on her! And, although he had an almost eight inch long prick it turned out he was a premature ejaculator. There was no explanation in her narrative of why she'd decided to cheat on me. It made no sense!
I slammed the book shut.
Then I drove to a local Kinko's and copied every page of all five volumes. Then had the originals back in their hiding place before anyone got home.
I woke up at four-fifteen the next morning! Petrified. I dressed quickly, then I grabbed the locked attaché case I'd put the copied pages in and fled the house. And after finding an open Starbucks I started to read. Trying to figure out what (and who) she'd been doing around Christmas 1993.
During the Christmas break of 1993, my wife had made love with two men besides her husband-to-be. Neither entry provided much info. One, an old high school boyfriend, was a continuation, someone she'd apparently described more fully in Volume One.
The entry for the second, referred to only as Mr. X (an older neighbor, a schoolteacher?), was maddenenly brief. Rating: 5. A non-consensual encounter during a Christmas party. And it wasn't the first time this unnamed man had raped her.
And why were these two encounters any worse than the others I'd read? Why had I woken sweating outside and screaming inside?
It was quite simple -- my first daughter, Abigail, named for my mother, had been born on September 27th 1994, and now I knew that my wife had slept with two other men during the period she'd conceived her.
It had never occurred to me before that night that I might not be the father of my daughters. That someone else's sperm had impregnated the egg from which my beautiful Abigail had grown. I'd accepted the detective's report of Vikki's infidelities but had never taken it to the next step, that she'd started almost as soon as she'd met me. And too engrossed in my reading it hadn't occurred to me when I'd first leafed through her diary that afternoon.
I just made it to the Starbucks washroom before I puked up half my stomach. Then I checked the dates for Bernadette, my second daughter. Again there were other possible fathers besides myself. Including Mr. X! He'd raped her two nights running!
It's relatively easy to collect the required samples for the DNA paternity test, especially if you all live in the same house. Two thousand bucks and ten days later I knew...
And so, two weeks later, on January 9th, I sold my business to one of the three companies that had been courting me assiduously for the last year. On my threat of voiding the deal and selling to one of their competitors, it was contractually agreed that I'd have the money (forty-eight million) on February 1st but that the deal wouldn't be announced until the fifteenth. I agreed to stay on with them for one year. He money was hidden in Switzerland by the second.
I transferred the deed to our two country houses to an offshore corporation. And then called a friend who'd had dinner at our place over the holidays and who'd mentioned over coffee and brandy that if I ever decided to sell the house to give him a call. That his wife was in love with the house.
He was interested. "You can't say a word," I'd told him as we negotiated in my lawyers office. "I'm giving Victoria a new house for Valentines Day," I'd explained when he'd asked about the cloak and dagger stuff. Delighted at the idea he promised to say nothing, saying he'd tell his wife the same day -- that it would be a perfect gift for her. The sale closed on February 8th with occupation given for March 1st. I'll give the cheating bitch two weeks to get out I told myself as I sent the money abroad, convinced it was more than she deserved.
February 14th 2008 Valentines Day (con't)
"Hey, pay attention you," my wife demanded as her slap on my butt brought me back to the present. I could feel the approaching orgasm building in my balls as she continued to raise and lower her hips.
I reached up and grabbed her head, pulling it down until our lips met.
"Think you're pretty good don't you," she teased when they finally separated.
"Better than you deserve," I agreed angrily.
"Fuck you buster," she chortled, then reached back and grabbed my balls just as the first strand of cum exploded up my cock. Then she squeezed hard until I almost passed out from the pain and pleasure.
"You'll pay for that," I promised as, my spending over, I shriveled inside her.
"Promises, promises," she challenged.
Then in a second I had her over my knee, her pretty little bum an irresistible invitation. My hand fell...then a second time...again...harder...harder...
"Bastard," she yelled, but without malice, thinking that this was just another one of our endless sexual variations. Her butt was beet red when I stopped, her squeals of pain still echoing around the room. But when I slipped a hand between her legs I found her sopping. Then I took her ass!
She squirmed and protested under me as I pumped my cock through her anal opening but the wetness that coated the finger I'd inserted in her cunt conveyed her real response and feelings.
"Christ, what's got into you this morning," she panted when I'd finally finished, when my sperm was deep inside her heaving ass.
"Well, it is my last day here," I said softly as I lifted myself from the bed and headed for the shower.
"You're last day where?" she asked my retreating back. She joined me in the shower within seconds and catlike, rubbed her sticky, sperm coated skin against mine. I pushed her down to her knees and then forced her head to my prick, then watched as the warm water cascaded over her beautiful blond curls as her mouth started to move on me. I came in her mouth...deep down her throat...
Back in the bedroom, naked except for a towel I was drying my hair with, I waited for Vikki to appear before I opened the door that led into my private closet and dressing room. It was deserted except for two large leather suitcases sitting side by side on the floor. A large envelope lay atop them.
"Where are your clothes...your things," my wife asked as she looked at the bare shelves, the empty racks and hangers.
"I packed most of them yesterday...shipped them to my new place. Everything in my library and office too."
"Your new place?"
"I've rented a condo...for a year...then I'll probably move somewhere else."
"What are you talking about? We're moving to a condo?"
"Just me. And I've also sold the company but as part of the contract I've agreed to stay on with them for a year," I said calmly as I started to dress in the one outfit I'd left out.
"I've sold the house too...you and the girls have to be out by March first."
"What do you mean? Are you crazy?"
"I got a divorce from you last week when I was in Las Vegas," I said as I buttoned my shirt. Then bent and handed her the envelope that contained the copy of the quickie divorce and the bill of sale for the house.
"You love me!"
"I used to..."
"Its Valentines Day...we have a party at the Browns tonight," my mystified wife said as she opened the envelope and looked inside. "You sold the house to the Grahams?"
"I'm sorry...I've found someone else...we're leaving tonight for fifteen days in Jamaica. She's younger..." I lied.
"Younger than who?" there was a blazing anger finally growing in her eyes.
"It's best this way," I said as I bent to lift my bags.
"This divorce isn't worth the paper it's printed on," she said as she threw it at me. "Do you really think I'm going to let you just walk away? I'll sue you for every cent you have...I MADE YOU," she screamed as I started towards the door. "You'll never see the girls again," she threatened.