The Last Goodbye

(c) Daniel Quentin Steele - 2010

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This is the third story I've done for Literotica. I hope it's a little different from the first two and once again I hope readers like it. I've been very pleased, and surprised I must admit, that readers have responded as strongly as they have to my first two efforts.

I would again like to thank editor LadyPineRose74 for her help and contributions to this story. Her comments were very welcome. And I'd like to thank her publicly as I have privately for being willing to donate her time to help me in this way.

*

All of our lives, no matter how long we live, boil down to moments. Moments and decisions we make in those moments. The rest of our life is just the filler, the stuffing to occupy the space between those moments.

Right now, I'm in one of those moments. My last moment. I see my death spelled out in stark detail on the instrument panel in front of me. It says that my single engine Cessna Centurion will be airbound for a few more seconds, maybe a half minute or more, and then it is going to plunge to earth a half mile below like the proverbial rock.

There is no rabbit I am going to pull out of my hat, no McGyver stunt I am going to carry out using rubber bands and plastic cement to somehow keep my little plane aloft. Below me is only the rugged terrain of what must be Gilmer County in Northeast Georgia. I passed the lights of the small town and county seat of 20,000 plus residents, Ellijay, a few minutes before.

It's too late to turn, and even if I could, I don't think there's much of anyplace I could set down. The whole county is lousy, with rivers and national forests, no really good easy sites to try a controlled crash landing. I must be approaching the outskirts of the Chattahoochee National Forest. If I try to turn or if I head straight ahead, I'm going to come down in a forest wilderness no matter what I do.

Right now, I hope that my Sunday school teachings about Heaven are correct, but I have my doubts. I've always had my doubts, although I've always kept them from my family and loved ones.

I'd call myself an agnostic, but deep down I know I'm an atheist. There is nothing after this. There will be a moment of pain, a moment only I hope, and then nothing. Like a candle in the wind, Lewis Walters and everything he's known and seen and loved and been in the last 34 years will simply vanish into the ether.

I'm an attorney, and don't even bother. I've heard every lawyer joke ever made and even coined a few myself. I wonder if it's too late to draft a last minute contract, a deal with God, to spare me if he's up there, and walk away from this, but I know the answer already.

A few more seconds gone by, as I frantically fiddle with the radio controls. The only thing worse than contemplating my imminent demise is the thought that I will die without a single word to anyone I've loved or cared about. I will just vanish, and they will never know what and who I was thinking about in my last moments.

I've lately developed a liking for music again after years of basically being addicted to talk radio. One of the songs, "Live Like You're Dying' has a line it it, "Who would you call with your last goodbye?"

I was listening to it on my IPOD just a few minutes ago, as a way to pass the time during a boring commute from a Tennessee court date for a client on my way back to Jacksonville, Florida, which is where I was born and bred.

I find myself thinking real hard about that line right now, as it has been transformed from an idle speculation to the most important question in my life.

The other thing on my mind, oddly enough or perhaps not so oddly, is a comic book. Besides being a late developing music fan, I also have loved comic books and science fiction and fantasy, since I was a kid. One of the greatest comic book series ever made, and I think hands down the best movie from a comic book, is called The Watchmen.

It's an adult story about superheroes and one of the characters, the only real superhero, is Dr. Manhattan. As a result of some typical comic book accident, he has gained godlike powers, which is okay but what always fascinated me was the fact that he stands outside of time. For him, every instant, past, present and future is NOW. He sees them all simultaneously.

I'm not Dr. Manhattan, but in a sense, as I'm staring at my death, I see time the same way. Even as I sit in the tiny cockpit and stare at the controls and rain hits the grayish cockpit windshield and wind rocks the tiny aircraft, I'm also...

##########################

...at the wheel of my 2007 Escalade. I turn in to the gated entrance of the Queen's Harbor Golf Club and Condominium community and wave at the guard on duty at the gate. This is some new guy I've never seen before. Usually there's black Sam or Hispanic Eduardo. He makes me show him my ID, and I ask him where the usual guys are?

"Oh, Sam came down with one of those stomach bugs. It was sudden. They had to call me in from my day off. And Eduardo's father died yesterday. He took time to go be with his family in Puerto Rico."

I don't think anything more about it. I'm just anxious to get home and get a hot bath. I've just flown in from New York when a trial ended after both parties to a particularly nasty, multi-million dollar divorce intricately intertwined in an epic family business battle had suddenly decided at the last minute that they really loved each other and wanted to make another effort to save their marriage.

As an attorney who makes money off broken hearts and dysfunctional families and companies, it's always depressing when a happy ending comes along and slaps you in the face.

I would have called Norman, my partner in our two-man firm, but it was Friday, and he had told me he was going to be turning off his cell phone early. "A hot date" was all he had said, but I could hear the grin in his voice. He's a hound, always has been since we went into business 10 years before fresh out of the University of Florida law school. I lost track of the number of secretaries, legal aides, female reporters, waitresses, female judges, female cops, you name it, he's fucked, sometimes juggling three or four of them along at the same time, usually without any of them knowing about the other women.

I've always been fairly happy with my marriage to Mona, but even if I'd been of a cheating nature, I got exhausted just watching Norman running from flower to flower depositing his load of -- well, the anology breaks down there -- but anyway, I got tired just watching him juggle his women. How the hell he could even managed to get it up that many times a week amazed me.

Mona is Mona Walters, formerly Harrell; a tall, 5-10, brunette with long hair, respectable boobs and an ass that at one time I thought should have been insured for at least $10 million. We had met in law school, and she actually had her law degree and had practiced for a while after we started dating.

But after we married and I started pulling in decent bucks, she decided she was going to became a Volunteer Queen. She volunteered for EVERYTHING. Of course, her contacts helped our business, and after we found out we couldn't have kids and we -- that's basically me - didn't want to adopt, the volunteering filled a void in her life. I was busy as hell and only occasionally found myself staring at friends' kids and missing what we'd never have.

We'd had a fairly hot love life when we married. But, we were young. As we got older and I poured more of myself into the practice, basically making up for the energy that Norman poured into chasing pussy, Mona and our face time got less frequent. It seemed like she got most of her pleasure from doing good works and similar shit, and she was tired more and more often when I'd roll over late at night and try to play with her.

Our sex life never ended, it just kind of dribbled away. And, I found myself more often than not jerking off to some movie on Cinemax involving huge breasted starlets simulating sex with limp dicked studs.

So, long story short, from experience I pretty much counted on Mona being out at same charity event, and she probably wouldn't much care when I got in.

As I pull around a corner and see our two story townhouse in front of me, it surprises me that the lights were on in the upstairs. I'm even more surprised when I get out of my car and look into our two car garage and find it occupied by -- two cars. One is Mona's sporty little mustang. The other is - surprise, surprise - my loyal partner's SUV. It's 1 a.m. in the morning.

I'm an attorney and while I don't specialize in divorces, I do come into contact with them. So you can't call me naïve. Like you, the first thought that pops into my head is not a nice one. But then, feeling pain that I didn't really expect to feel, I make myself take a deep breath and consider the options.

It could be something really bad, But, it could be fairly innocent. Norman has been a partner for a long time, I thought he was a friend, and as best I could tell, I thought Mona at least cared for me, even if we didn't share the white hot incandescent passion of our early years.

Norman's hot date might have fallen through, Mona might not have had an event this weekend, and maybe they were just having a drink and talking or maybe they had gone out to dinner.

Despite everything you read in porno stories and my experience as an attorney, every time a man and woman meet they don't automatically fall into bed and start fucking with great abandon.

I can't deny nervousness, as I unlock the front door and quickly press the alarm code on the downstairs burglar alarm. I don't think anything is going on, but I don't know. Even if all was innocence, the alarm going off would probably scare the hell out of both of them.

I set my suitcase down in the living room. The downstairs lights are on, but that's no big deal. We pretty much keep them on all the time. I do wonder why they're not down here in the living room, but we do have a den on the second floor where there's a music center and a big screen television. I hear music from above.

I almost turn around as I put my hand on the staircase to head upstairs. If there is something going on -- let's call a spade a spade -- if my wife is upstairs fucking my partner, do I want to know? If I go away and come back tomorrow, I'll still have a marriage and a working partnership that has made me prosperous and fat and happy. If I find out something I don't want to find out, then I'll have to do something and my life will change drastically. I've discovered that I hate change.

I think about it some more. She's always been a good wife in most ways. Do I still love her? I hadn't even thought about that in years. I guess I do. That strange pain I feel in my gut wouldn't be there if I didn't have some feeling for her.

If she's screwing around on me and it's just for sex, maybe I can heat up our relationship. Or go out and find some horny divorcee or secretary to fuck myself and boost my ego enough to live with her stepping out on me.

I put my hand back on the staircase and start walking up slowly. I'm not even sure why I'm going upstairs. It makes so much more sense to just walk away and preserve the life I've got. But still I climb the stairs.

Then I'm on the second floor. One way lies the den. The light is on, but the music is coming from the other door. Our bedroom. There is music. And other sounds. I am feeling more and more nauseous. Must have been something I ate on the flight home.

It's like something out of a damned stupid horror movie. You know, the witless teenagers are running toward the serial killer with the big knife, and you scream at them, "go the other way you dumbasses," but they don't listen and run to their doom.

I try to tell myself, 'don't open the door, don't open the door, don't open the door,' but NOOOOOOOOO, I open the door.

Only the lamp on the bedroom stand closest to the window is on, casting a pale light on the scene in front of me. But it's enough. And I realize with a sudden shock, I really do love my cheating bitch slut of a wife. It's true, that old saying. You don't know what you have until you don't have it any more. I had a wife I loved, even though I'd forgotten that fact. But now I don't have her any more, and I never will again.

They're not looking at me. They're too caught up in what they're doing. Mona has her eyes shut tight as if she's in pain, Norman is staring up at something on the ceiling, it looks like. They're naked on our bed, on my bed. Mona's legs are spread wide and Norman is hammering his cock into her pussy, which I notice dully is wet and glistening with white. Apparently, he's been a busy boy and already come inside her at least once tonight.

It's weird, really. I've seen porno films, but this is my wife. Every time she's ever had her pussy open and wet and ready for fucking, I've been the guy inside her and too close to really get a birds' eye view. It's kind of impressive. If I wasn't ready to throw up, I'd probably be getting a hardon.

I take a closer look at Norman. I've seen him in the shower, that kind of thing, but never seen him hard. Naturally, I don't swing that way. He's pretty impressive. He looks to be bigger than me, maybe eight or nine inches and I'm lucky on a good night to hit maybe seven. It's thick and glistening with my wife's juices all over it.

It's as if I turn on the sound and suddenly I'm hearing their voices.

"Oh oh oh oh God, baby, baby, harder harder...so good....."

So clichéd. Why the hell don't people having sex come up with better lines.

"Oh shit, I love that pussy. Mona, it feels like you're on fire down there..."

If I wasn't already nauseous this conversation would have sent me over the edge.

"Your damned dick is so big, Normie. Oh my God! I can never get enough of it, no matter how many times we do it."

"Then why the hell aren't you married to Norman, Mona?"

I say it in a conversational tone, and it takes a moment for it to register.

Now, NOW, I wish I'd brought a videocam. The expression on their faces, as they realize what they've heard, and that I'm standing near them., would probably have won me the $100,000 prize on America's Funniest Home Video contest.

Norman's mouth just gapes open. Mona opens her eyes, as she turns toward, me, then she closes them. This is priceless.

Norman's pistoning motion has ceased. Wanting to be polite, I say, "Looks like I interrupted you guys in the middle of something. Carry on and finish up and when you're ready to talk I'll be down in the living room. You should know your way around here by now, Norm, obviously."

I stand there for a moment, and suddenly, Mona shoves Norman backward, and he and his still hard dick fall backwards. She opens her eyes for a moment, stares at me with an expression that after ten years of marriage, I can't read, and rolls off the bed and runs toward the bathroom. Trying to shield her tits and pussy from me, her goddamned husband. That pisses me off.

She gets into the bathroom, I hear the door shut and then there's the unmistakable sound of wretching, hard vomiting. What the hell is wrong with her. Just seeing me is enough to make her vomit? I now realize we had some serious problems in our marriage, but this is adding insult to injury.

Norman leans back against the wall, his dick still hard and leaking cum or pre-cum.

"Lew...I ...this is...I mean...you ....Mona..."

"I sure as hell can't figure out how you can charge $200 an hour with those kinds of speaking skills, Normie."

He takes a deep breath, tries to compose his wits, finally realizes his hardon is very visible and covers it with a corner of the sheet, which I realize is virtually soaked through with various male and female fluids. Even naked and embarrassed, he's still a good looking guy. I can say that because I'm not gay, not that there's anything wrong with that....

If you're too young to remember Seinfeld, just forget it. But Norman is the traditional tall, dark and handsome ladies' man. About an inch taller than me at 6 foot 3, lean because he works out every day to keep his midsection, even at 35 fairly, taut. Like I said, I don't have an innate emotional reaction to his looks, but I've talked to enough of his current and ex-girl friends to know there's something makes him catnip to a lot of females.

"Lew, Lew, you know...this is not....not what it looks like."

"Coulda fooled me, Normie. Looks like you were fucking the living daylights out of my wife, with her enthusiastic cooperation."

He makes a desperate attempt to regroup.

"I know, that was stupid, Lew. What I meant was...was...this just happened. Neither one of us meant for it to happen. We thought you'd be...you'd stay over in New York, and my date fell through. Mona called...and said her event had been cancelled. We were just going to have a couple of glasses of wine and....we drank too much. And, it was my fault Lew. You know me, I'm an asshole around women, and Mona is so fucking hot. Blame me."

"Oh, I do, Norm, trust me, I do. So this was a one-time thing?The first time you two stabbed me in the back, so to speak?"

He is almost pathetic, so eager to feed me this lie.

"Oh, yes, man. We're -- believe it or not, Lew, we're friends. I would never have moved on Mona if I wasn't drunk and horny, because of that date that went south."

The vomiting sounds have stopped, but there's silence from the bathroom.

"Mona, sounds like you're better now. Come on out. We need to talk."

Silence.

I keep it light and conversational, but I can't keep the edge of anger out of my voice.

"MONA. If you're not out of that fucking bathroom in five fucking seconds, I'm going to start trying to kick it down, and even I don't, I'm going to raise such a fucking ruckus that the cops are going to be called and pretty soon all of your high society friends are going to get an earful on how you were caught by your husband while you were fucking his partner."

I give her 15 seconds, and then the door opens and she steps out. She's found a robe, so she's not naked anymore and doesn't have to hide her private parts from her husband. She walks gingerly like she's crossing a minefield until she reaches the bed, then realizes Norm and his rapidly deflating dick are sitting there and almost falls as she moves backward to sit on a chair by the nightstand. She won't look me in the eye.

"Look at me."

She keeps her head down.

"Look at me you motherfucking, cheating slut. Look at your loyal husband, you bitch."

She looks up at me, and I realize there are no tears. She's unhappy, because I interrupted her fuck session, and she's probably figured out already that our marriage is over, but she's not hurt by what she's done to me.

"Normie says this was the first time. It just happened, because you were alone together and started drinking. He says it was all his fault."

She looks over at him, and he's visibly begging her to confirm his story. She shakes her head.

She's talking to him, not me.

"Norm, don't be so fucking stupid. He's an asshole, but he's not stupid. He heard us."

Then, she looks at me.

"We've been fucking for a year. Almost every time you went away and anytime you were tied up on a case and he and I could get together."

I am determined that this bitch will never see that she has ripped my heart out, how much she's hurt me. I am going to walk away with my pride, if nothing else, and I am going to make sure these cheating assholes never forget me.

"Why?"

She looks at me and smiles, and this is when I realize that I not only don't love her any more, I hate her with a white hot burning passion.

"Just look at him, Lew. Look at that cock. He is so much bigger than you, and he really is a much better lover than you've ever been. You may have noticed that I haven't been interested in you lately. I really didn't need your fumbling efforts, and I really did worry that you'd notice he'd really stretched me out with that big dick."