tagLoving WivesShe Did Me a Favor

She Did Me a Favor

byjack_straw©

I might be the first cuckold in the history of fucked-up matrimony to actually send his wife's lover a thank-you card.

Honest. I really did.

I'm almost never sick, but there was a particularly nasty strain of flu going around the office where I was working one Thursday morning, and I was showing the symptoms rather vocally, so rather than infect the whole room, my boss sent me home.

It was around noon, and I figured my wife, Beth, could nurse me properly, get me the chicken soup I needed, take my temperature and generally fuss over me before putting me to bed.

When I pulled onto the street where I lived and approached my house, I noticed a green pickup truck parked in the driveway. I really didn't think anything of it at that particular moment; I couldn't think of anything except how awful I felt.

The vehicle wasn't familiar, and since it was taking up space where my beat-up SUV normally sat, I parked by the curb. I went in through the garage, which opened into the kitchen. There was no sign of Beth in the kitchen or the front den.

At that point, a queasy feeling unrelated to the flu began to build in my gut, especially when I approached the back of the house, where our bedroom was located, and began to hear the telltale sounds of sex.

I tiptoed toward the door, which was cracked ever so slightly, and peeked in. Well, of course, I saw Beth on her hands and knees with some slim fucker I'd never seen before kneeling behind her fucking her for all he was worth.

And was she ever loving it.

"OH GOD! FUCK ME WITH THAT BIG FAT COCK!" she wailed. "Come on! Give it to me!"

"Unh! unh! unh!" the man grunted incoherently.

I was looking at them from behind and they were so wrapped up in what they were doing that they didn't see the door crack open.

I gazed in fascination as Beth's udders swung obscenely under her body, as her ample butt cheeks rippled with each incoming thrust.

My reaction was strange. Part of me, obviously, wanted to go in there and break up their party. But another part of me was just numb. I should say here and now that I was NOT aroused.

When you love someone for as long as I'd loved Beth, the sight of that person cheating on you is not a turn-on, if you're wired normally. And I was – and always had been – a person who took fidelity seriously.

In the space of a heartbeat, the time it took Beth and her boyfriend to come violently, I had an epiphany, a moment of clarity when my future suddenly spread out before my eyes.

I made a decision in that moment that my life was changing, for the better. I took out my cell phone, pushed the door open, raised the phone – with the camera mode on – and took about four really good pictures of the startled lovers.

Having gotten visual evidence of my wife's adultery and that of her lover, I turned on my heel and walked briskly out of the house the same way I had entered.

I stopped and grabbed a screwdriver on my way out of the garage, then casually used it to poke large holes in two of the tires on the asshole's truck. I know, it was childish, but it was the least I could do.

Then I got in my SUV and drove off, though not before jotting down the license plate number of the pickup.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

As I drove more or less aimlessly, I thought about what I'd just seen, and I realized that it had been brewing for a long time. I had no idea how long Beth had been cheating on me, whether this guy was the first or just another in a string.

It didn't matter, because, truthfully, I didn't care.

I guess at this point a little background is in order here.

My name is Peter Thornhill, and at the time of this story I was 48 years old and had been married to Beth for exactly half that time.

At one point, we were passionately in love. Indeed, it was almost love at first sight. We met not long after I graduated from college and started in with a major manufacturing company located in a mid-sized Midwestern city.

I had been raised in western Nebraska, and I had hoped to find something closer to the mountains, where I had camped just about every year as a kid. Beth was from the city where we had lived the entirety of our married life.

I honestly can't pin down when my marriage turned to shit. It was a very long, very slow decline that wouldn't have been noticeable to the outsider. But it was there, and I could sense it toward the end.

We all have dreams, and mine was to live in the mountains and write the great American novel. I think Beth's big dream was simply to land a husband and raise a family there in her hometown.

You know how dreams usually go. They fall apart on the rocky shoals of reality. And the reality for me was that I ended up stuck in this nondescript Midwestern burg writing computer programs for the same company I'd started with after college.

I got to a certain point on the corporate ladder and then got lost as more ambitious men and women passed me by. Part of my problem was I wouldn't cut corners. I was a perfectionist where my work went, and I didn't suffer fools who took the easy way out.

Another part of my problem was that I got to be so good at my particular job that I was indispensable in that position. As a result, I got passed over for promotions, although I did get regular raises and occasional bonuses.

But the other part of my problem was that I had a fairly passive personality. I was content to go along to get along. And that extended to my marriage.

Don't get me wrong; Beth was a nice-looking woman, with dark brown hair and an ample figure, and I had always loved her. She never quite lost all of the weight she gained having our two children, but I still thought she was sexy. And, apparently, so did someone else.

We bought a house not long after we were married. It was in a decent neighborhood, but certainly not the high-rent district. The house was built in the 1960s and some of the things in the house hadn't been replaced in all that time.

So we gradually replaced one appliance after the other, with no particular rhyme or reason, and we were always fixing this and patching that.

We always talked about buying something better, but after refinancing the mortgage as collateral for loans a couple of times, we found we'd priced ourselves out of any chance of selling it.

In other words, what it would have taken us to pay off the loan and get something better was more than the house was really worth. We could have sold it for less to someone as a fixer-upper, but that still wouldn't have solved the problem of finding someplace better to live that we could afford.

And then there was the problem with our children.

Three years into our marriage we had a son, Jason, four years later came a girl, Laura. These kids were the poster children for why adults in the animal kingdom sometimes eat their young.

I tried to be a disciplinarian, as much as I could, but Beth's idea of discipline was to give them whatever they wanted. And she refused to let me spank them for any infraction whatsoever. The consequences were pretty drastic.

Jason was lazy, disrespectful and slovenly; Laura was a neurotic nymphomaniac. They learned at an early age how to play Beth and me against each other to get what they wanted, and as a result, we lost control of them by the time they became teenagers.

Jason was about to lose his sixth minimum-wage job since (barely) graduating from high school. Seems employers like for their workers to show up on time and in a reasonably presentable mode of attire. They're funny that way.

He was living in a dumpy old house in town with three of his slacker buddies, and I was pretty sure he was – at the very least – smoking pot and drinking a lot.

Laura was about to flunk out of high school altogether because she couldn't keep the MP3 player out of her ears long enough to pay attention to anything in class. She was also dating some scuzzy college guy with tattoos all up and down both arms.

Beth was a nurse, and at some point in her career, she decided she liked the night shift. So on the days that she worked, I'd get home about 5:30, we'd sometimes have supper, then she'd leave for work around 6:15.

As a result of our conflicting schedules, we spent less and less time interacting with each other, and our sex life began to dry up. Oh, we'd make time for each other once or twice a month, usually on a weekend afternoon when she was off.

It was decent sex – there is no such thing as bad sex – but it was pretty vanilla. We'd get naked, feel each other up for a few minutes, I'd climb on top, we'd hump for about five minutes, I'd come, then I'd get her off with my hands.

Once in a blue moon, Beth would get horny enough to want me to fuck her ass, and I cherished those all too rare moments. But as for oral sex, forget it. She didn't like the taste of my cock, or my mouth after I'd gone down on her.

Still, we got along OK until about 18 months before this incident, when she started turning bitchy on me. She'd always been a little moody, but I guess when menopause hit, it hit her hard.

Soon, she was finding excuses not to have sex – at least not with me. Maybe it was a headache, maybe she was tired, often she went to bed way before I was ready. Etc., etc., etc. And she was always finding fault in something I'd done, or not done.

Looking back on it, the signs were there, I just didn't see them.

I'd sometimes call the house during the days when I knew Beth should have been up and around, and I'd get no answer. Sometimes, she'd stop in for drinks with some co-workers at some all-night bar that catered to night-shift workers. A few times, she'd come home on weekends when she'd worked and immediately start a load of laundry, like she had something she wanted to wash before I could see it.

Everything pointed up to Beth's adultery, but like I said, it really didn't matter.

So let's review. I was stuck in a dead-end job in a nowhere town, I was living in a rundown house that was overpriced, my sex life was in the toilet, my bitchy wife was cheating on me and my children were budding delinquents.

What would you do?

Probably what I did.

Actually, the very first thing I did was go to the walk-in clinic to see about my flu. I got a steroid shot and a prescription for an antibiotic.

Feeling a little better, I went to Wal-Mart to have my prescription filled and to buy some things I'd need – toiletries, a hotplate, a small pot, some soup and sodas – then I drove all the way across town and got me a motel room.

I had stopped at the bank on my way to Wal-Mart and gotten out some cash to pay for a place to stay for a couple of days.

Once I got settled in, I sat down and wrote out a game plan for the next few days, while I heated a can of soup. I ate as much as I could take, put the rest in the mini-refrigerator, crawled in bed and crashed.

It was dark when I awoke, and I was a little disoriented until I remembered where I was and why I was there. I was still weak from the flu and, really, I was too dazed by my illness and the shock of seeing Beth like that to really absorb what had happened.

I heated up what was left of the soup, drank a Sprite and watched a football game on TV, then went back to bed. I did check my cell phone and saw a dozen calls from Beth. I smiled grimly at that. Let her sweat, I thought.

I woke up the next morning feeling quite a bit better. The first thing I did was call the office to tell them I wasn't going to be in to work. My boss's secretary answered the phone, and after I told her why I'd called, she told me that Beth had called all afternoon hunting me.

"She did, did she?" I said. "If she calls today, and I imagine she will, just tell her I've called in sick and won't be in today. That'll at least get her off your back."

"Pete, where are you?" she asked.

"Let me put it this way, and see if you can figure it out," I said. "I'm not at my house. OK?"

Then I hung up. I had made it very plain, I thought, that I no longer had a home.

I had thought a lot about my course of action, and the more I thought about it, the better I liked it.

I really couldn't be mad at Beth. I mean, it was pretty obvious that she didn't want to be married to me any longer. For some reason, she wanted something I couldn't give her, whatever that was, and I wasn't going to hold her back from whatever it was that she wanted.

She wanted to fuck other men? Fine. I'd give her the freedom to do so, and I'd free myself in the process.

But I still had some work to do. There were going to be consequences for both Beth and her lover, nothing terribly drastic, but consequences nonetheless.

The first thing I did was call the Motor Vehicle Department to tell them I was interested in buying a pickup truck, but I'd lost the owner's phone number. All I had was the license plate number, plus the make, model and color of the truck.

The friendly woman on the other end of the line cheerfully gave me the man's name and address.

My next move was to call a friend of mine who was a lawyer and obtained the name of the best divorce attorney in town. I called that worthy, a lady, as it happened, and scheduled an appointment for 1 o'clock that afternoon.

I showered then, and went down to the lobby for a very light breakfast, then went to the bank. I had two certificates of deposit that I'd bought a number of years earlier. I cashed those in, withdrew half of the money in our joint savings account and half of what little there was in the checking account. I put most of the money in a new checking account that I opened in my name only, along with a bank debit card, and still walked out with a little over $4,000 in travelers checks.

I spent the next few minutes calling credit-card companies to cancel all but one of my cards and have the accounts put in my name only. I also paid up the balances on each of those cards. The one I generously left for Beth I didn't bother paying on. Let her worry about that one.

Next, I went to a branch of the public library, where I bought some computer time. I took the four images I'd taken on my cell phone, downloaded them onto an e-mail address I had and printed out two copies of each one. I have to admit, they were very clear and explicit.

Then I looked up information on the fellow who'd been with my wife the previous afternoon, one Clark Slater.

I found out he was married, so I jotted down his wife's name. Then I put a copy of the pictures with a note attached letting her know where I could be reached for more information and put them in an envelope with her name and address on it. I went to the post office, bought some stamps and mailed it to her.

Then it was time for my appointment with Grace Shaw, the attorney. I told her what I'd done and what my plans were, and she just nodded her head when I showed her the pictures. Her first question, however, was one of caution.

"Divorce seems like a pretty drastic step on such short notice," she said. "Are you sure you don't want to try to work it out?"

"What's there to work out?" I said. "My wife has a lover, and I sure don't want to stand in the way of true love. I have some places I want to go, some things I want to do with my life, and staying here with a cheating slut wife isn't in those plans."

In the end, I agreed to a legal separation, for 90 days. The divorce papers were drawn up, and if after three months, I was still determined to end my marriage, then the papers would be filed and Beth would be served.

"Now, if you go forward with the divorce, what sort of settlement do you want?" Grace asked.

"I've already taken half of the liquid cash in our bank," I said. "She's got a 403B that she's paying into from her work; she can keep that, but she also doesn't get any of my 401K, either. She can keep the house. The mortgage is in her name anyway, and I don't want it. If she does sell it, though, I want half of all proceeds from the sale."

"OK, Mr. Thornhill, I guess that about covers it," Grace said. "I'll look forward to hearing from you in about three months."

My last stop was to the office, but not to work. I walked into the Human Resources Department and asked about what would be involved in taking early retirement. I had 26 years in with the company, so I had a good bit of retirement built up.

I was told I could begin drawing on my retirement pension when I turned 60, which was 12 years away. I frowned at that, but brightened when I asked about cashing in my 401K. Of course, the lady at HRD strongly discouraged that, because of the hefty tax penalty I'd have to pay.

Nevertheless, if I wanted I could get an immediate cash-out of approximately $65,000, if I chose to do so. I thanked the lady, and headed back to my motel. I was tired, and after fixing another pot of chicken soup, I went to bed and slept for nearly seven hours.

It was after midnight when I awoke, and I knew I now faced the hardest part of my day, going back to the house and collecting my things. Beth was supposed to be at work, but I wasn't sure if she'd actually gone in to work.

As it turned out, she hadn't.

Beth was asleep when I slipped in quietly, and the house was silent; apparently Laura was so concerned about my whereabouts that she'd gone out like she always did on Friday night. I wondered if the kids would even miss me when I was gone. Probably not.

The first thing I did was get what I needed out of the garage: tools, camping gear and other assorted useful items. I went into the little office area and got my laptop, plugged it in and downloaded some files from the home PC onto the laptop, then carried it to my vehicle.

I had a couple of boxes with me that I loaded with CDs, along with a portable player, a lot of books and some mementos that meant something to me, including a few pictures – though none of Beth. After I loaded that stuff up in my vehicle, I got some suitcases out and walked softly into my former bedroom.

I was about halfway finished with packing when I heard a small gasp behind me, then Beth's voice.

"Peter, where have you been?" she said. "I've been worried sick about you."

"Have you now," I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

"What are you doing?" Beth said.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" I answered sarcastically.

"P-p-packing?" Beth said in a trembling voice.

"Give that girl a gold star for brilliance," I said.

"Peter, I'm so sor..." she started, when I stopped her.

"Beth, I don't want to hear your excuses or your apologies," I said. "It really doesn't matter why or how, or even who, although I do know that much. You want to love someone else, fine, I'm letting you."

"But I don't love him," she began, "I love you. I don't want him; I want you."

"Could have fooled me," I said in an acidic tone of voice "Sounded to me like you wanted him pretty badly yesterday afternoon. Let me see if I can recall the exact words. 'Oh God, fuck me with your big fat cock.' Isn't that about it?"

Beth just buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. I looked at her evenly. Whatever brief flash of anger I'd had was gone, replaced by ... I'm not sure. Pity? No, not that. Disdain? Maybe a little. Disgust? Yeah, a bit.

But mainly, I realized that the biggest thing I was feeling was emptiness. I realized in that moment that I didn't have any feelings for her whatsoever. I just didn't care any more.

I finished packing and let her sob into her pillow. It wasn't until I started out the bedroom door with the suitcases that she jumped off the bed and tried to stop me.

"Wait!" Beth cried. "Don't leave me, Pete, please. Can't we work this out? Please? I'm sorry, it wasn't anything; it was just sex."

I just stared at her silently as I carefully extricated myself from her clinging arms and walked to the front of the house. Beth followed me, sobbing hysterically. I pointed out the notice of legal separation sitting on the kitchen table, among the dirty remnants of that night's pizza dinner.

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