The Round Up . . . Is Over

We took a couple of small brandies out into the living room and sat on the sofa. "I had a visitor, today," Cindy began, "an investment banker from Litchfield and Associates down the hall. He introduced himself as Ethan D' Shane and said that he was a member of the Omega Sportsman's Club. Perhaps I'd heard of it?"

"Ethan D' Shane, Ethan D' Shane . . . I used to know an Ethan D' Shane back in college." I replied.

My wife grinned wickedly, "You sure did and, yes, it's the same guy. He's a little greyer and fatter but his nose is still crooked from that time you took a pool cue to him in the Stars and Bars."

Hellfire and damnation! After Desert Storm, I took my GI Bill, some small federally insured loans and a determination to work part time and study full time to a small college in the Old South. The major attractions of the place were their financial appreciation for what we veterans had done and a respectable business school. There were, however, drawbacks.

Also attending were a group of men descended from the antebellum aristocracy whose families had managed to keep hold of their plantations during Reconstruction. They'd prospered in the succeeding century and a half by treating their sharecroppers even worse than they had their slaves, marrying each other's money and running for offices that allowed good opportunities for graft and corruption. By the time I came along, the student body was divided between us, the 'ordinary population', and them. Not being willing to belong to any interfering national organization, they formed their own fraternities and sororities. There was no love lost between those polo-playing SOB's and the rest of us and it all came to a head one night in a local bar called the Stars and Bars. The beer had flowed too freely, games of pool were described as cheating, ethnic slurs were exchanged and by the time the police arrived the bar was a wreck. We all ended up in the Dean's office the next morning being coldly advised that if anything like that happened again, "some people" were going to have to find new schools to attend.

Since I knew full well that "some people" were a lot more likely to include Mario Vacchi than Neville Beauregard, Coral Witherspoon or, damn his eyes, Ethan D' Shane, I gave up billiards and joined the local ballroom dancing club. It was the best idea I ever had because that's where I met, wooed and eventually married Cynthia diMarco.

"That fucker!" I yelled, "he's coming after you to get back at me? I'll kill him!"

"Calm down, Mario, calm down." She patted my hand. "Ethan never knew me from Eve. Guys like him never had any interest in dark-bushed dago girls; they only accepted blow-jobs from sluts of their own class, except when they were trying to snag the black chicks. I'm just another target on the list. And that's what he as much as told me I am. On the basis that I should be honored to be included in such esteemed company, he invited me to his hotel for a drink. I played innocent and dumb, like I didn't believe him but I did flirt a little to keep him interested. Now for the good part. Mario, it turns out that Ethan married Jennifer-Lynn Lafayette. Remember her? She was my room-mate until she pledged Alpha Delta Theta and according to the alumni records, they're still together. They only live about 50 miles away and have the requisite big columned house, two kids in private school, BMW's, etc. They don't have polo ponies anymore, though. I guess Ethan would rather ride two-legged fillies these days. I'll string Ethan along until Wednesday. That will give me a chance to call her and let her know just what her snake of a husband is up to. We'll make a date for the 14th and when I knock on his door, you and Jennifer-Lyn will be right behind me. Won't that just make your Valentine's day?"

Would it! Now if what Smith/Lee told me was true, today's Omegans used digital proof of their conquests. There isn't enough memory on a camera-phone for an entire tryst so I was willing to bet that the process would be done with a spy-cam and a laptop. After all, wouldn't any guy who could afford to pay $50K for his entry fee be naturally carrying a laptop to better keep track of his portfolio? I had to call McAllister, not in the morning, now!

Wednesday evening we were waiting in the lobby when Mrs. D' Shane made her entrance. Jennifer-Lynn was enough to make me seriously doubt the sanity of the Omega Sportsman's Club's members. She was tall, she was blond, she was stacked, she was leggy, she looked über-fertile and right now she was furious. As she strode into the lobby of the Marriott to meet up with us, she had in tow a butch-dyke-looking woman who could only be her lawyer. They walked over to us, sized me up in a couple of seconds and announced that they were glad Cindy and I had informed Ms. D' Shane of her husband's catting around. Catching him in the act of attempting to cheat on her would make taking him to the cleaners during the divorce proceedings really, really easy.

Nearly immediately afterwards, the four of us were joined by another couple. They introduced themselves as agents Cockerin and Chang from the FBI. They told us that their job was to present the search warrant. Search warrant? Hmmmmm . . .

Ethan had told Cynthia to present herself for a drink and a thorough fucking at 5:00 p.m. so shortly before five, she wondered over to the hotel desk and, announcing her name, asked if there were any messages for her. The clerk said, "Oh, yes" and handed a keycard to her labeled Room 303. We all got into the elevator for the third floor.

All the witnesses took our places on either side of the door to keep out of sight. Cindy slipped the keycard into the door and opened it, carefully leaving the card in the lock. When it closed behind her I plastered my ear to the door and waited. Through the door I first heard nothing and then came Cindy's voice.

"Mmmm, Ethan, what a sexy cologne you've got on! You know, since it's Valentine's Day I think we really ought to have a romantic little party."

That was my cue. I reran the keycard and threw open the door and we all rushed in.

Ethan's eyes grew huge in shock and horror as Cindy cheerfully continued, "Since she's your wife, I invited my old roommate, Jennifer-Lynn to the party and of course you remember Mario!"

That was as far as she got because Jennifer-Lynn swung her Back-Saver purse like a baseball bat and nailed Ethan on the left side of his head. The stream of profanity and obscenities she cut loose would have impressed my old Sergeant-Major but I was in no mood to be an appreciative audience. Quickly looking around the room, I saw, as expected, a laptop case sitting on the dresser at the foot of a king-size bed with its sheets already pulled down in anticipation. There was a large tube of lube next to it but what struck me most was that the case was slightly unzipped and one corner was raised up. As I grabbed it and headed for the door I could see the spy-cam concealed inside. It's really nice to be right, now and again.

Jennifer's lawyer and the Feds competed for Ethan's dazed attention, reading him the Miranda rights and serving him with divorce papers at the same time. Cindy and I didn't care as we ran down the hall, down the stairs, across the lobby and out to our Honda. Fifteen minutes later we were on the top floor of Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister.

Ms. Kruczynsky was also there accompanied by a very intense young man who introduced himself as Agent Nakano. He relieved me of the laptop and before my astonished eyes proceeded to override the password to it. He located and opened the proper "secure" website and start to download every byte of information about the organization soon to no longer be named the Omega Sportsman's Club. Whoo-wee! The amount of data that spilled out of the nearby printer even impressed the legal staff. Those clowns must be really proud of what they've done because they kept it all in cyberfiles.

McAllister kept chuckling to himself as the printer chattered away and while the DVD burner went into action pulled me off to one side. "Noo, laddie, we're goin' t' be worrrkin' all night. You, on the other hand, could really use a run, a roll w' yer lady and a guid night's sleep. Take this phone number. It's Andrew Lee's cell. Call him arrround midnight, the same time he called ya and set up a meetin'. I'd recommend the same place at the same time. Coom by the office in the morrrnin' and we'll have everything y'll need t' break him doon. By the time ye're done, he'll be beggin' t' tairn state's witness."

Two weeks earlier, I'd made Valentine's Day reservations at Mama Pesto's Trattoria Genovese so we stopped there first. In the middle of as good a meal as my Grandmother could have made, Cindy announced that she needed to go use the ladies' room. She came back and I nearly choked on mymanzo when my formerly demure little wife took my left hand in both of hers and squeezed her panties into my palm. I'm not sure what the rest of dinner was or how it tasted.

After my evening run, what happened between Cynthia and I could hardly be called a roll. I came out of the shower to find that her on all fours with her back arched and her pussy pushed out in invitation. There was a bottle of lube on her back, of all things, and I made best use of it pounding her sex until she screamed and I collapsed onto her back. Finally, around midnight, I picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hello, is this Robert Smith of the Omega Sportsman's Club?"

There was a silence and then a curt "You must have the wrong number."

"Oh, no I don't, Mr. Smith. This is Mario Vacchi and I am not sorry for calling you so late as I need to set up an appointment to meet with you atmy earliest convenience. I have an important matter to discuss with you. Five p.m. at the Marriott Hotel bar will do and I will expect you to be prompt. Good-night, sir."

Cynthia and I were waiting at the same table as the first time I laid eyes on 'Smith' when he entered the room and stalked over to us. His face was flushed and his jaw set. He looked really angry and I couldn't have been more satisfied. He threw himself down onto the waiting bench and glared at my wife.

"Mrs. Vacchi, what you did was completely reprehensible. All you needed to do to prove your faithfulness to your husband was simply tell Mr. D' Shane 'no' and walk away. Have you any idea how much effort and expense the club will have to go through to repair the damage you've done to the man's life? Our membership is wealthy, powerful and influential and you have upset them badly. I have to tell you right now that the two of you are in a very bad position!"

Cynthia slowly took the ice cube out of her Disaronno and silently, contemptuously sucked it into her mouth. She lifted her lip in an ugly sneer. As for me, I just stared into the man's grey eyes a long while, the way I had done back in November. Then, I slowly reached into my valise and pulled out the first stack of papers. "I'm presuming you mean the 51 remaining participants in the Round Up? The participants listed here with their names, addresses, phone numbers and places of business? Note also that the list includes their wives' phone numbers and places of employment."

'Smith's' angry red face turned pale. "You're bluffing. You can't prove that these names belong to the club!"

"Can't I?", I responded, "you might also take note of this letter that each of those wives received by special currier this morning, some at home and some at the office. It details the activities of their husbands from January 1st of this year and includes a DVD duplicating the pictorial proof required for each entry into this year's competition. Of course, the women's faces have been digitally distorted to protect the victims of your contemptible contest but the men's are quite clear. Please take especial note of the last paragraph of the letter offering the services of Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister in completing the divorce papers and offering them a discounted rate based on the expected volume of responses. I'm sure that I don't need to tell you that when I left their law offices this afternoon, the phones were ringing off the hook."

By now 'Smith' had gone from pale to chalky white.

I withdrew another set of papers. "Here we have a legal opinion written by Charles Smyth-Jefferson and co-signed by Deputy US Attorney Susan Kruczynski stating that entering into a conspiracy of fraud to induce anyone into adultery constitutes a violation of the RICO act, especially since the 300 women targeted live in most of the sovereign states of this nation. As we speak, indictments are being delivered to the Round Up participants, the selection committee and to the rules committee. Naturally, those activities of the club which violate the Endangered Species Act have been referred to the US Fish and Wildlife Service and those activities dealing with the looting of foreign archeological sites have been referred to the US Customs. It seems that the braggart frat-boy mentality of the Omega Sportsman's Club required you all to keep boastful records. It was considerate of you to leave evidence of every illegal and immoral act you committed, either individually or collectively. Was it to show off your alleged superiority to 'the general population'? It will make the Grand Jury's job so much easier."

By now, 'Smith's' face was a fallen, ashen wreck.

"Just one more little detail, Mr.Lee," I snarled, "This is a copy of the letter your wife received this morning giving every detail of your disgusting behavior and including affidavits from the last six of your conquests. Note the last paragraph of the letter again offering the services of Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister in completing the divorce papers and offering her the same discounted rate that is being offered to the other wives involved."

At that moment a shadow appeared on the table followed by an additional sheaf of papers. "And here, you bastard, are the divorce papers Mr. McAllister was so helpful in preparing. Don't bother trying to come home tonight, the locks have all been changed and your suitcases are on the porch!"

Emma Lee was slim and Asian. She was also coldly angry. If looks could kill, Andrew Lee would have not only been dead but judged and condemned to burn in Hell for eternity. Whatever he managed to retain when the divorce was final would, it appeared, be unlikely to keep him in the style to which he was accustomed.

"Well," my wife spoke at last, "that about wraps it up." We both stood. "I won't waste my breath telling you to have a nice day because you won't," she continued, "not today, not tomorrow and not, I suspect, for the foreseeable future. Toodles, Mr. Lee!"

I linked arms with my wife and was turning to go when Emma Lee threw down one more envelope, a fat one. "And here, Andrew," she smiled sweetly "is a thousand dollars, cash. I intend to be worth every penny of it. And, of course, you will get pictorial proof . . . after the divorce is final. By then, it should be feature-length." Her grin was pure revenge. She turned and to my surprise put her arm through my vacant elbow. "And you two," she continued while flashing a more winning smile at Cindy, "just how kinky will I have to be?"

We walked out into what looked to be a really nice day. -------------------------------------------------

Epilog: Today is Cesare's first birthday, October 15th. The excitement has left him too sleepy to stay up past dinner time so he's in the crib while the rest of his family laughs, talks endlessly and continues to consume champagne.

And it now is a large family indeed! When we left the Marriott last February, I was going to try and let Emma down easy because happily married men just don't get into kinky threesomes with someone they've just met. But to my utterly dumbfounded surprise Cindy thought the idea was wonderful, sexy and appropriate under the circumstances. She insisted that we take Emma home, strip her down, tie her to the bed and give her a thorough workout with tongues, fingers, cock and dildo. We must have gone through an entire tube of KY jelly before we finished and, yes, Cynthia and I took turns filming the entire thing. It wasn't digital quality but we didn't think Andrew Lee would be in any position to complain.

Emma spent the weekend with us, each videotaped session getting stranger than the one before. I mean, what is this weirdness about spanking people while wearing black leather boots and spiked collars? I thought that once she had her tape to send Andrew we'd see the end of her but she and Cindy evolved into buddies and started doing things like going shopping together and watching those chick-flicks I can't ever get into.

Then the old roommate, Jennifer-Lynn, started dropping by for coffee and gossip. A couple of times, when I was coming in all hot and sweaty from running, I thought I caught the two of them looking at me and licking their lips. I tell you, it was making me really nervous. My old dream of quiet, dull comfort was coming apart at the seams and I felt in need of help.

There was a June victory party at the Smyth-Jefferson home. The evidence we'd downloaded (under federal search warrant, thank-you very much!) was so overwhelming that members of the Omega Sportsman's Club started plea-bargaining in droves. With more of the accused turning state's witness than the prosecution really needed, the whole lot pled guilty in hopes of reduced sentences. I was the hero of the hour. Conservation groups invited me to banquets so they could sing my praises in defense of endangered species. Safari Club International made me an honorary life member for stopping the illegal rhino killings. Art museums, foreign governments, anthropology departments and honest collectors sent emails, telegrams, old-fashioned letters and phone calls of gratitude for months after the case hit the media. And let's not even talk about all the religious and political "family values" folk who were enraged that the sanctity of marriage was being abused for mere sport. I even got a commendation from the National Organization for Women and George and Mary Hanson think I should be canonized by the Pope. I should have been one happy fella.

I wasn't. My quiet home life was in tatters. I hadn't played golf in months and every time Cindy and I made love I had this really odd feeling that someone else, somewhere, was rating us like they do figure skaters.

Finally, at the victory party, I managed to get Charles aside and tell him what was going on at home and how I worried I was about it. He made sympathetic noises but didn't have anything concrete to say. However, he must have told his wife. I was sitting on a sofa alone with my vino, sort of feeling sorry for myself, when Victoria plumped her luscious body down next to me. She reached over and grabbed both my ears, pulling my nose tip to hers. I found myself enfolded by caramel hands, entranced by golden eyes and enchanted by Chanel. The look I got was stern.

"Warrior," she murmured, "they came to your home to plunder your family and to assault your woman. Where a thousand other men meekly submitted and accepted their insults, you fought back. You carried the battle to the field of their own choosing and there you utterly defeated Omega leaving them shattered and demoralized. By Right of Conquest their property, their children and most especially their wives are yours as spoils of war. Cynthia agrees and both Emma and Jennifer-Lynn would much rather be mated to an honest man who will defend his own than to some sexual predator. Take the trophies you have earned . . . and quit being such a prude!"

I ask you, how do you say 'no' when that many women with such strong personalities all gang up on you, especially when they are offering pleasures of the flesh (and such wonderful flesh!) beyond anything you've ever known before? I couldn't and I didn't. Once all the divorces were finalized we sold all three houses and pooled our money to buy one that was big enough for the bunch of us. It was down the block from the McAllisters. Emma and Jennifer-Lynn went to court to legally change their names to Vacchi and Jenn did the same thing on her two kids' birth certificates. Now I can play catch with Kevin, bake cookies with Courtney and watch Cesare chase the puppy around the yard. Emma is expecting her firstborn in April and Jennifer-Lynn insists that she's next in line.