The Panic Room

"Whatever you want."

"I'm hiring Marcie's decorator for the nursery."

"Nursery? Decorator?"

"Why do you think I was so pissed at dickface? He risked our baby! Drugging me, using me, dumping me on the floor. The floor? It's my fuckin' panic room! My bed. He's lucky I didn't strangle him!"

I didn't hear anything but 'our baby'. Now I know I was going insane. I was hearing things.

"Gerard is a genius. You should see the murals Marcie got."

I was still one conversation behind. "Our baby?"

"Stay up to speed, Sean. We're talking about Gerard." She rolled her eyes at me. Another practiced move, not quite as good as The Pout, but usually quite effective. At the moment, it was wasted on me.

"You... your pregnant?"

She looked at me in horror, and covered her mouth. "Shit. That was supposed to be a secret. Forget I said that."

"Forget that you're pregnant? Damn it, Denise! When were you going to tell me?"

She looked embarrassed. "It was going to be a surprise, Honey. I'm getting that old family bassinet from your mother—"

"From my mother? My mother! She knows?" I thought about it, the decorator, Marcie's insistence. "Crap! Marcie knows too, doesn't she? Who else? Who else got to know about my baby before me? Who, Denise?"

She shrunk away from me. "Nobody. Not really. I mean, well, your sister, since she wanted the bassinet. And Tina, you know Marceau did her nursery. I might have let it slip to the girls at the club. Hardly anybody, when you think about it."

I was devastated. After five years, we were going to have a baby, and I was the last to know. "Don't I matter, Denise? Why would you keep that from me? Why would you tell everybody else first?" I was shaking, I was so frustrated. I recalled an image of her in that video, talking to Dale. Rubbing her belly.

"Fuck! You told Dale, didn't you! You told your fucking rapist before you told me! How could you?"

She glared at me. "He wasn't my rapist when I told him. He was just a friend."

"A friend? What a great fuckin' friend. You know I couldn't stand him. And still you told that bastard before you told your husband. Thanks a lot, Denise. Thanks a whole, helluva lot." I got out of the shower. "Now I know where I stand in your list of priorities. One step below my mother who you can't stand, those bitches at the club you're always harping about, and your rapist. Fan-fucking-tastic."

She had followed me out of the shower. "Don't get mad at me, Sean Manning! Don't forget, you didn't trust me. You locked me in that room with my pencil-dicked rapist!"

"Why would I trust you? You treated me like crap for the last couple of weeks. You were always upset about something. You were never home. You were avoiding me. We hadn't had sex in two weeks, Denise. You know I didn't like the guy, but you always insisted on having him around. And then I found you having sex with him! What the fuck was he even doing at our house?"

She looked like she was in shock, as I stomped out of the bathroom. Denise chased after me. "How could you say that? None of it's true! I love you."

"Two weeks without sex. True or not?" I asked, glaring at her.

"I, I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. I had so much on my mind..."

"It's true, not that you care! Never home, Denise. True or not?"

She shook her head. "Alright, maybe I was out a lot, but it was for you, for us. I was making plans for our baby!"

"You were never home! You treated me like crap. You were always finding something wrong. You were constantly bitching at me about one thing or another. True or not?"

"That's not fair. I was under a lot of stress. I had morning sickness. I had to deal with your mother and sister..."

"You know I didn't like the guy, but you kept dragging him around. You even invited him into your home when you were alone. True or not?"

She was starting to get irritated, but at the moment I didn't care. "He's my best friend's husband. I just wanted you guys to be friends."

"I told you the guy was scum! You kept bringing him around, when you knew I didn't like him. If I had my way he'd never have been welcome. Instead you invite the bastard into our house, when you're home alone. What kind of wife has strange men visit in the middle of the day? If you had listened to me in the first place, none of this would have happened!"

"So it's my fault he raped me?" she snapped.

"It's your fault you put yourself in the position to be raped. Yes. And it's also your fault I jumped to the conclusion I did. If you'd been honest with me, none of it would have happened."

"That's not fair! I was trying to surprise you," she whined.

"Looks like you got the surprise, not me." I finished drying off and threw the towel on the floor. I knew she hated that. "You're not getting the Maserati."

"Sean! You locked me in that room! You felt up my friend!"

"No Maserati, and we're getting rid of your Audi too."

She stared at me in shock. "Not the Cabriolet," she pleaded.

"No way my wife and child are driving around in a convertible. You're getting a Volvo.

"A Volvo!"

"The XC60. Safest damn car on the road. I'm not going to argue with you on that."

The woman had no shame. She sidled up to me, putting her arms around my waist. "Aren't you happy we're going to have a baby?" she asked softly.

"I'm not happy being the last to learn about it!"

She leaned her head against my shoulder. Of course her sexy tits were pressed against my chest first. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I really wanted it to be a big surprise. That was all. I didn't realize I was doing all that other stuff."

I couldn't help myself. Like I said, my anger half-life with her was about 10 seconds. "I know, baby. If I'd only known—"

She hushed me with her full, teasing lips. "Has it really been two weeks?"

I nodded. "Two weeks yesterday. I was going crazy trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. Why you didn't want me anymore."

"You should have said something," she whispered, kissing my neck.

"I did. Twice. You said you weren't in the mood. That hurt. You're always in the mood. I don't think you've turned me down twice in five years."

Her hand was on my limp cock, stroking it slowly.

"Are you disgusted with me now? Because I'm soiled?"

Her words hit me hard. In the heat of the moment, I'd almost forgotten how traumatized she must be. I clutched her to me tightly, then lifted her and carried her to our bed. I laid with her, holding her. "I'm sorry," I told her.

"I know. We both screwed up didn't we?"

"Mine was worse. I left you with that bastard. I should have known. I should have trusted you. I'm so sorry, Denise."

She kissed me, and I saw the moisture in her eyes. She had her hand on my flaccid cock, the angst eliminating my erection before it could start. "You don't want me, do you? I'm dirty now. Used."

"Don't say that, please. It's not your fault. He drugged you."

She shook her head. "You're right. I put myself in that position. I invited him over. I let him get too close. I strained your trust in me by keeping things from you, important things."

"Why? Why would you have him here, when you know how I feel about him?"

She sighed. "I wanted his help. He was supposed to keep you occupied on Saturday, before the surprise party."

It kept coming back to that, and the irritation returned. "How could you think I'd want a party? It should have been just you and me, a romantic evening. Do you have any idea how hurt I'd be to walk into a party to find out we're going to have a baby, when everybody else knew first?"

"No," she mumbled. "I thought you'd be happy. I really did. I guess I'm just stupid. You should have married someone smart like you."

"You're not stupid, Denise."

"Yes I am. I know it. Everyone says so. I'm not smart like you, or like Marcie. Not like your family. I'm the dumb blonde. I get it."

"You're not blonde."

"I could be. All it would take is an hour at the salon."

"Enough, beautiful. You're wonderful. You're not dumb, but we do need to communicate better, alright? I trust you, and I'm excited I'm going to be a daddy. If you want to have a party to celebrate, I'm fine with that. All I really want is to have you beside me."

"You sure you really want me? It doesn't seem like it," she said, wiggling my inattentive cock.

"I bet you could wake him up pretty damn quick."

"You think so?" she teased.

"I know so."

She grinned, and less than a minute passed before her talented mouth proved me right. "I guess you do still want me. Now what do you think we should do with this guy?"

"You might want to sit on it," I suggested.

"I don't know. It looks awfully uncomfortable. Maybe if it was a teeny-tiny one, but this thing's way too big."

"I think you'll be fine."

She straddled me, her amazing body in full view. She rubbed the head between her lips teasingly. "I'm not sure. It feels awfully huge. I'm tiny down there."

"You can do it, beautiful. You have before." I'm hardly huge, but I guess in comparison...

She pouted. "You're such a beast to remind me. Maybe I should just give you a hand job, you were pretty naughty tonight."

"I said I was sorry."

"You gonna forgive me for not telling you first?" she asked. She squatted down a hair, the head of my cock feeling the pressure of her pussy parting for me.

"Already forgiven. You'll forgive me for screwing up?"

"For Marcie, yeah. I know she was the instigator," she dropped down an inch, making me shiver, then backed off again.

"For the rest?"

"Ask me right, Sean. What did you do bad?"

"For locking you in there with him," I said.

"I already forgave you for that. What else?"

"For not trusting you. For thinking you would do such a thing."

She sighed, sliding down about halfway, then lifting up again. "That's the tough one. That really hurt my feelings."

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

She nodded, then sank all the way down. "I'm gonna forgive you, but you're still gonna have to make it up to me."

"What do you want?"

"Can I keep the Cabriolet?"

"Volvo," I said, trying to stand firm under the assault.

"For me and the baby, I get it. I want the Cabriolet too. For when it's just the girls." She gave me a long slow teasing stroke.

"Any more speeding tickets, and it's gone."

She laughed, leaned over and gave me a quick kiss, then gave my cock a few nice long strokes up and down. "My tennis bracelet?"

"It's for your birthday, you'll have to wait three weeks."

She gave me a pout, but it wasn't the full one. I knew she was teasing. "My show in New York?"

"Show and carriage ride, but we eat at Peter Luger's or Keens. You know I hate French food."

She started grinding against me, "Hawaii?"

"Two weeks, and only with the doctor's Ok." It was a struggle to get the words out, the way she was working me.

She got a nice little rocking motion going, her tits swaying beautifully. I saw a little pout creep over her lips. "Marcie's tits are real, aren't they?"

"Not half as nice as yours," I answered quickly.

The pout grew, and her motions slowed. "You're just saying that."

"God's truth, Denise. Ok, half as nice might be wrong. They're nice. Yours are better. I love your tits."

She started rocking again, making me moan. "They're going to get bigger."

We spent about an hour forgiving each other. It was wonderful and just what we needed.

* * *

Epilogue:

Dickface got 10 years. Marcie had a new man within a year, and he was everything her ex wasn't. John's a self-made man, a successful business owner, and all around good guy. We became close friends. The day after the trauma, it was as if Marcie and Denise had never had a harsh word for each other. I don't understand women.

Denise didn't tell anyone else about our Panic Room. She made me change out the furnishings, and wouldn't go in there until she had an app on her phone similar to the one on my tablet, so she could get in and out. It cost quite a bit to get EF Secure to convert the tablet app to a smartphone, but it was worth it. I'm just glad she didn't make me remove the whole thing.

No more surprises for us, and we make sure to communicate better. When she got pregnant with our second, I was the first to know. I never questioned her loyalty to me again, and I've never had reason to.

Then again, with the amount of surveillance I have on the house, the grounds and the vehicles, it's not likely she could get away with anything even if she wanted to.

Every once in a while, when socializing, I'll dance with Marcie. She'll look at me, and we both remember what almost happened. It's kind of fun to have that little bit of larceny in our past. She'll blush, then give a little shimmy, rubbing her tits against my chest, and I'll chuckle. My hands might slip a little too low if we've been drinking, and the old hands remember the night they partied in her panties. During Christmas season, the mistletoe might get a little workout. It's fun, and just a little naughty.

But that's all it ever is, and all it ever will be. Those nights, Denise will ravage me, reminding me exactly who belongs to whom. And that's why I'll never stop that little bit of teasing or take it any further. She's not a very jealous woman, but when she is, she's a tiger in bed. Marcie's the only one that sets her off like that.

I hope Marcie's husband John is as good to her as Denise is to me. I pray that none of us ever jump to conclusions again, without at least trying to find out the facts, and giving our spouses the benefit of the doubt to start.

I know I never will, and I'll always feel guilty for the time I did. Sometimes more so than others.

Denise says she likes the guilt. Any time she wants something special, she reminds me of the time I didn't trust her. So I spoil her, and those nights I make sure she understands that for all the games and teasing, there's only one woman for me. I keep reminding her until she's a limp wreck in our bed. Well, sometimes I'm the limp wreck, but she knows.

We've never had to use the Panic room, thank God. I don't know how I'd feel being in there with her for any length of time. I figure after a few hours she'd be able to finagle the Hope Diamond out of me.

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Hope you enjoyed it. A favorite movie around my house this time of year is National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I imagine you can see where the inspiration for some of the 'ranting' came from. Please remember to vote and/or leave a comment.