The Call of Blood

Monday, Monday. On Saturday, I made sure Amy sucked my cock dry, thinking as I came in her mouth what a fine pleasure it was to use her as a sperm receptacle. On Sunday, I used a vibrator on her until she was almost unconsciousness and then fucked her pussy with the vibrator stuck in her ass. As much fun as that was, I have rarely so looked forward to the ending of a weekend.

As Monday dragged by, I was glad not to be home. The time waiting helped me prepare for what I hoped would be a terrific performance, with the curtain rising at about 7PM. I felt like the Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" mixed with the wrestling announcer's call "Are you ready to rumble?"

My plan was to be second on stage so I could play off her reaction. If she was her loving wife self, then I'd swallow the disappointment and be super husband, the sexual satyr. If she was in tears, begging for forgiveness . . . well, I decided not to play out the alternatives. Better a fresh, real performance than one over-rehearsed and stagey.

Her car is in the garage. The lights are on. Let's see which Amy is home.

"Hey, honey," I yelled. No answer. Amy was in the kitchen, an open bottle of wine next to her on the kitchen island. I saw it was already half empty. Bingo. "Starting early?" I asked.

Amy shook her head. "I had a very bad day."

I assumed the supportive husband role. "Ah baby, that's too bad." I put my arms around her. "Turn around and I'll rub your neck." I massaged her shoulders and nuzzled her neck. My intention was to get laid while she was a wreck.

"I'm not feeling very sexy," Amy said as she tried to pull away.

I wasn't letting her off that easy. "Come on, babe. It'll take your mind off things." I pulled her to me again, slid my hand up and down her side, running it around to cup her breast. I kissed her neck. "Besides, thinking about having a baby with you . . . I'm horny all the time." I had my hand inside her shirt. I put my other down the front of her skirt. "Let's do it right here."

Amy looked like she'd been hit with a tranquilizer dart. I took command. I bent her over the island, unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor. I kicked it to the side and pulled her pantyhose down past her knees. Inspiration hit me: the drawer next to me held kitchen scissors. As I massaged her clit and pussy, I pulled out the scissors and cut through the pantyhose so her legs were free. Amy didn't seem aware of what was happening.

I took the extra five seconds to remove my shoes and take off my pants. Then I stuffed my cock into her. Amy gasped.

"Yeah, baby, let's take your mind off your troubles," I said as I humped her from behind. I rubbed my hands all over her shapely cheeks. "Spread more for me." She did. I pulled her back from the counter so she was at a better angle for serious pumping. "Come on baby. Come on baby. Give me a ride. Give me a ride." I was laying it on thick.

"Uh, uh, uh," Amy grunted with each thrust.

I wanted to own her. "Here sweetie," I said while slowing down. "Have some more wine." I held the glass to her lips and fucked her as she drank. Some dribbled down her chin and onto the counter. I wiped it up with my hand and then put those fingers in her mouth.

"Wiggle that ass for me. Yeah, that's it. Let your loving husband fuck your troubles away."

Amy pushed back at me hard.

"You want it? You got to ask for it, babe."

"I want it. You know I want it." Amy pushed back harder. I guess we know you do want it, don't you, you cheating bitch?

It was like watching myself fuck in a movie. Bam, bam, bam. Stop. "Ask me again, Amy. Ask for it." Totally drilling her while making her wiggle and moan for more. I could feel her pussy tighten around my cock as she became more excited. I came in her but didn't pull out. Instead, I walked her forward so her whole torso was resting on the island. I slapped her ass with both hands, hard on each side. She moaned again.

"Come on. Let's get in the shower. I want to clean your pussy and then eat you until you can't think of anything but my tongue."

Amy was my sex toy. She stood in the shower, water running over her head, naked except for the remnants of her pantyhose - which I then stripped off and rubbed between her legs before tossing them to the floor. She lay on her back as I pulsed the shower head against her mound. Then I got under her, into 69, and leisurely ate her out as I played the shower head over her ass. I licked every part of her body, flicking her nipples with my tongue, biting the soft undersides of her breasts.

As my crowning achievement of that night, I fucked her ass. We'd done it before, but this time was special because I was fucking a whore in the butt, which meant I could do it right, without worrying about her feelings. Everything was for my satisfaction. Right there in the tub. I didn't even ask her permission.

"Be right back," I hopped out of the tub and darted into the bedroom to retrieve the lube from the night stand drawer. I left soggy footprints on the carpet. Amy lay in the tub on her side, face to the wall, eyes closed. I took her shoulders and eased her gently onto her stomach. She looked sexy, wet ass, tits flattened under her, legs bent at the knee, feet dangling in the air. A lot of lube in that hole of hers, then working it in with my finger, then more on my cock and then I was on her, stiff as a board.

"Tighten up as hard as you can, then release," I ordered. As soon as she released, I invaded. Amy gasped. "Do it again. Tighten and then release." Deeper. Two more times and I was nicely in.

The best part about ass fucking is the feel of her ass. The angle is different than when you fuck her pussy so her cheeks sit more into the natural curve of your own body. The physical act of being in the butt is not that special. While a tight hole is always good, the ass requires lube and lube never feels like real pussy juice.

I took Amy's ass slowly, persistently, keeping my angle steady so my cock wouldn't hurt her. "I'm going to put it all the way in." She was totally under my command. "I want to feel your ass against me." She whimpered as I pushed.

I grabbed her wrists firmly. I took the edge of her ear between my teeth and stroked my hard cock in and out of her tight butt. Over and over.

The hot water began to run out, but I twisted around to shut it off before we were doused with cold. "I'm fucking your ass, baby. I'm fucking your ass," I said. "Want me to come in your ass?"

Amy turned her head, eyes still closed, and nodded faintly, her mouth opening for a kiss. As I pressed my lips to hers, I said, "I'm going to come in your ass." With my tongue deep in her mouth, I had one thought in my mind. Not love, not lust, just that I was unloading my balls in this whore's ass.

I lay on top of her, my half-softened cock still tucked in her butt, licking the condensation off her cheek. Amy shuddered. A few minutes later, giving time for the water to get hot, I cleaned my cock and then her ass. Standing together, her legs gently trembling from the sex, I ran my tongue over the edge of her hip.

"Hungry?" I asked.

Amy buried her face in my shoulder and shook her head no. I dried her off and wrapped a towel around her wet hair. She went to the bed, lifted the edge of the sheets, slipped under them and curled into a ball.

Alone in the kitchen, dressed only in a robe, my hand massaging my cock, I polished off Amy's wine. "What a great day," I thought. I'd fucked Amy twice from behind. "Monday must be doggy day." As I ate a cheese sandwich, I thought that, yes, it was possible my message had not been received, that Amy had merely had a bad day at work. The only way to know would be to unleash part two of Operation Destructo. I went to bed, to sleep next to my loving wife.

Tuesday's email contained more explicit instructions. We, meaning the bad Russians, needed that credit card information fast or her husband and family would find out. My email and her parents' email were included to show they meant business.

"We are not nice. We charge you $500 US CASH now. To show good faith, we take down picture of you from website but only after pay."

I don't want you to think I was growing overconfident. I wanted Amy to think she might get off easy. I wanted to twist the knife in her, to drag out her pain. That is the point of revenge, isn't it, to inflict as much hurt as possible. Let her think she could buy her way out of trouble for $500.

I checked the website several times during the day and discovered that she paid the $500 at 3:10 in the afternoon. I imagined her tumbling over the possibilities for most of the day, agonizing over what to do, maybe even discussing it with hot, sexy stud. If I'd been on pins and needles wondering what she'd do, how much torture had she suffered? I pictured her heart pounding as she opened the email. A mixture of denial and hope as she read the contents. Then the wavering. Do I tell Jack? Do I pay? If I pay, they'll only want more but if I don't pay . . . maybe, maybe, what should I do?

"Amazing, just amazing" I thought. "This is actually working." Perhaps the most gratifying part of executing a plan is seeing what you imagined actually taking shape. While revenge is the goal, planning and execution have lives of their own. A good plan is like a child you send out into the world, full of your hopes and dreams.

Tuesday night was not a repeat of Monday. My idea was to be on stage when Amy got home, partly to avoid suspicion by varying the routine, partly because I wanted to see her mood. I greeted her at the door and, for my trouble, received a huge hug and a smoldering kiss. Her happiness was palpable, though a little forced. After all, she'd paid but didn't know if her black-mailers would keep their word.

Amy is a wonderful courtesan. She's intelligent, makes good conversation and has interesting opinions. We made dinner together, flirting, taking food from each other, playing like lovers. She teased me that her ass hurt. She thanked me for taking her out of her bad mood - and so vividly.

Her hand was on my crotch as I poured us each a glass of wine. She knelt, placed her wine glass on the floor, and unzipped my pants. I handed her a kitchen towel, which she placed under her knees as she started to suck.

Ah, this is the life. A blowjob before dinner. As she sucked, I rested my elbow on the counter and sipped my wine, reflecting on the other girls who'd had my dick in their mouths. Amy was in the middle of the pack in suck skills . . . but she was better at straight fucking, with top marks in missionary. I looked down at her bobbing head. She stopped to swirl her tongue around my cockhead so I moaned in appreciation. I played with her hair. Possibly the best on her back fuck I've had . . . and definitely top third in riding cock. Not usually big on doggie - just about average - and not enough marks in anal for a final grade. The last thought ran through my head as I exploded in her mouth.

Later, we lay together in bed talking about getting pregnant. Her pill cycle would end in a few days, which meant two to three weeks before she might be fertile.

"I can't wait," I told her as we snuggled.

"You are the sexiest man . . . I love you with all my heart," Amy said. She curled into my shoulder, her body forming a perfect sculpture of loving faithfulness.

You may think, by this point, that I'm a ruthless bastard, that I don't deserve sympathy, that I've been mistreating Amy as badly as she has been treating me. It's true that I'm lying to her but I'm not fucking anyone else. I've always been faithful, always been caring, always pulled my weight at home, as a provider and in the bedroom.

Thinking about Amy's betrayal and the context - that we'd been through this before, that we were thinking of having a baby - brought to the surface all the bad feelings I've ever had about myself. My first serious girlfriend cheated on me. I forgave her, thinking at the time that I loved her, but realizing over the next few months that I was only in love with her tits, which were huge, with gorgeous, suckable nipples. Her pussy was tight and she could squeeze my cock with it but she wasn't a very good fuck. That's called growing up, when you can look past the tits to see the girl to whom those attractors are attached.

Did I really need revenge? I thought about this on my daily run. Anger. Hurt. Should I turn the other cheek after making her suffer? Wouldn't the more manly choice be to divorce her and walk away?

The answer shocked me as it welled out of the depths of my soul. I wanted to inflict pain. I wanted to humiliate her. I had no desire to change her into a genuinely faithful wife and mother. I wanted to wreck her life in a way that would stick with her until her dying day. And I wanted her never to know it was me, so she'd always feel completely that I'd been the innocent victim, that she'd lost me and the family we'd been planning.

Revenge. These weren't the easiest thoughts to stomach. I stretched my hamstrings and remembered Hamlet. His murdered father visits him from hell - clearly, the dead king wasn't a good man. His uncle, now also his step-father, makes him his heir, the closest Claudius can come to making up. As I ran along the river, I thought about Claudius praying to heaven though he knows God can't forgive him because he can't repent, can't give up what he killed for, his throne and his queen. Hamlet, driven by the call of blood from beyond the grave, takes his vengeance.

Panting at the end of my run, Shakespeare's message was all too clear. Revenge costs Hamlet the woman he loves, Ophelia, who literally drowns in her sorrows. It costs him the life of Polonius, her father, and Laertes, her brother and his best friend. It costs him his mother's life. It costs him his own life. In the end, the entire kingdom is lost as, with the crown vacant, the Poles take over.

As I walked back to my car, fishing in my pocket for my key, I knew that Shakespeare was certainly right. Following the call of blood leads only to more blood. I reached into the back seat for my towel. I wiped my face. Fuck you, Will.

I sat with my legs hanging out the car door, head down, towel in hand. Will Shakespeare lived 400 years ago. Jesus lived 2000 years ago. What about Jacob and Esau? Didn't Jacob confess his sins to the brother he wronged? Didn't Esau forgive Jacob in turn? Didn't Joseph forgive the brothers who sold him into slavery? How fucking far back in time do we have to go? Wasn't there a flood that drowned iniquity?

We're fucking human beings and we never learn. Believe in the progress of civilization. Tell that to the fucking Nazis. Want more recent? Try the Khmer Rouge. Try the dumbfucks in Bosnia or the shitheads in Darfur or the sons of bitches in East Timor. That's the fucking state of humanity, Will. That's what your goddamn lessons are worth.

So what am I, I asked myself? I'm a man. I shook myself hard. I'm a man. "All my life," I said aloud. "All my life I've played the wrong fucking game. I've been the nice guy. I've been the one who believes." I'm not a believer anymore. I'm just another guy, the same as millions of others of us unteachable human beings. I want revenge. I want to hurt somebody. I want to get in a fight and leave some bastard moaning in pain. I yanked the car door shut and started the engine. Amy was going down.

Wednesday. Thursday. Nothing but hot loving. The Irkutsk gang had done as promised and taken Amy's pictures down. My sweet wife couldn't get enough of me. I basked in her attentions. Like a soldier on leave before battle, I gave myself completely over to pleasures of the flesh, as though nothing existed but our love play and the world outside were the illusion.

The guns were rumbling in the distance, the summer offensive gathering steam for the big push. I could feel it in my bones as Thursday wound to a close. The assault troops had taken their positions in the front line trenches, huddled in their bomb-proof shelters, picking desultorily at their rations, praying the shells flying overhead were demolishing the enemy lines. Before I left for work the next morning, I poured myself the traditional ration of rum. I tipped my glass to the brave men who had gone before me, their gray figures disappearing through our wire into the murk of no-man's land. Fix bayonets. It was time to go over the top.

I set it up for Friday. A horrible email, a terrible, oh my God, oh no email. We'd have two whole weekend days to enjoy the mess.

Ten thousand dollars. Five hundred she could hide. Spread out over time, she could hide a lot. But ten thousand in one fell swoop. Uh uh. Due by noon her time on Monday. Or else.

You can see why I needed the drink. I wanted to force Amy to tell me. "Oh Jack, I'm such an ungrateful whore who doesn't deserve you. I've lied and cheated. I'm a worthless slut." True, but I didn't expect quite that conversation.

A brave man dies once but a coward dies a thousand deaths. Or so they say. To face Amy, knowing that I was the author of her current misery, was my test for myself. I would stand out in the open as witness to the crime, both hers and mine.

Amy called me at 11 in the morning. I knew when her office number flashed on my caller ID. Putting aside the compulsion to let her go into voice mail, I answered, "Hey babe. What's up?"

"I need to see you right away." She sounded serious.

I was instantly alarmed. "Are you all right? Are you okay?"

"Please," she paused. I thought I heard her sob. "Please. Meet me at home as soon as you can."

Rather than rush home, I drove around for an extra ten minutes, listening to loud music, pounding on the steering wheel until my adrenalin subsided. She was waiting at the door. She looked bad.

I was concerned, supportive. "What's wrong?" I tried to put my arms around her, but she held me off. She was crying. Her hands were shaking. I grew calm.

They say one mark of a serial killer is increasing calmness as anger rises. Rather than explode, the serial killer pulls it all inside, perhaps into his sick fantasy world. Here was my wife, my beloved, about to confess to cheating, to having pictures taken of her fucking another man, to being black-mailed, and I was furious but calm. I could see my hands around her neck, screaming "Give me back those two years! Give me back my life, you cheating, cocksucking piece of shit!"

Instead, I grabbed her trembling hands and reassured her, "Whatever it is, you know I love you."

That nearly killed her. Amy's knees started to buckle. She drew back as if hit by an electric shock and stumbled. Her back hit the closet door and she froze for moment, then ran in the direction of the bedroom.

I went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, drained it and then refilled the glass. I took the water to the bedroom. Amy was lying face down on the bed, her back heaving. I sat next to her, rested my hand on her back and offered her the water. She shook her head, so I leaned over and kissed her hair.

Amy sat and took a sip from the glass. "I love you," she said between sobs.

I had decided to play strong and silent. Let her carry the dialogue. I raised my hand to acknowledge her feelings.

"I'm a terrible person." She placed her hand on my arm. I'm strong and silent. I shake my head to indicate no, she's a wonderful person.

"I'm a terrible person," Amy repeated.

She obviously needed a prompter to get her off that line. "Now why do you say that?"

Have you ever seen a person choking on a piece of meat? They can't breathe, can't inhale or exhale, can't speak. You can sense their consciousness moving into their throat, becoming completely enveloped in the moment of the choking. I reached behind Amy, took her hair in my hand and squeezed, both reassuring and forceful. Pull it out of her but make it look like you're being kind.