tagLoving WivesA Case of Self Defense

A Case of Self Defense


I've never submitted a story in the Loving Wives category, and I'm doing so now with great trepidation. Frankly, the commentators in this section are brutal. Many, though, are very insightful and offer genuinely thoughtful comments about writing style, character development, and the like. My only complaint with this category is that much of the basic plot lines appeared to have been thoroughly explored. Moreover, many of the themes are beyond cliche. Though it may be true, I long ago tired of every poor cuckolded bastard bemoan that his "slut" of a wife had violated their marital vows to foresake all others. No, I wanted to write something different. I don't really think I've succeeded, and I'd appreciate the readers' thoughts on this.

Finally, much of this is a courtroom drama, and quite a bit of law is present. For those of you who watch too much Law & Order, I should tell you up front that the vast majority of the law as set forth in this story is an accurate depiction of the law in the State of Illinois and under the Federal Constitution, particularly the final bit at the end. I am an experienced attorney, and I have tried to keep as faithful to the law as possible.

Finally, I fully realize that almost no lawyers act as depicted in here, but enough do act like this to make the story believable. (Remember the sleazy prosecutor in the Duke LaCross Team Rape Case? Or how about all the mob lawyers serving time in prison for conspiring with their own despicable clients?)

Though I realize this is a very long story, I didn't want to drag it out so you're getting it all in one fell swoop. Please take some time to comment and let me know what you think.


"That was nice," she said, regaining her breath.

Alain Broussard only grunted, too winded to speak. Instead, his fingertips traced over her distended nipples. He loved her nipples. They were tiny, surrounded by small, light pink areolae, but they got hard as pebbles when she was excited and stayed that way.

"You remember what we talked about this afternoon?" she said after finally settling her breathing. "Over lunch?"

"Uh huh," he said, not really remembering.

"Well," she said, rolling onto her side and facing him, "I think I've got an idea."

Broussard was alert now and flipped onto his side to face her. "Let's hear it."

Her eyes blazed with excitement as she began.

"All right, here's the deal." She sat up, sitting Indian style. He looked at her pussy, the bare mound and lips now slick with sweat, semen, and arousal. He focused back on her eyes and caught the sly smile.

She gets me going more than any of them, he thought. So comfortable in her body, flaunting it and knowing how to get him aroused.

"Concentrate, Alain," she said. "This is important, and it'll make us a bundle."

He shot his eyes back to hers and nodded.

"Good boy," she taunted. "So, everyday we calculate interest. Every day. On all deposits, investments, mortgage loans, short-term and long-term commercial paper. On all of it, and we do it every . . . single . . . day."

He nodded. "Yeah. So what?"

"Right down to the ten thousandth of a cent, right?"

He nodded.

"Well, let me ask you something. When you get your savings account statement, does it show the fractions of a cent? Or does it just show the actual cent?"

"Just the cents."

She nodded. "Exactly. Your statement says, like, twelve dollars thirty-four cents, right?" He nodded. "Not twelve point three four two nine six three, right?" He nodded again, not seeing where this was going.

Her grin got bigger. She enjoyed playing him along like this, but he was getting impatient, wanting to look back between her legs. "You'd never know if someone took the fractions off of the cents, would you?" He opened his eyes, realizing the import of what she was saying.

"So we set up a dummy account, funnel all of those fractions of a cent from every single account–every single day–into the dummy account. Then we automatically funnel the dummy account balance to a numbered account, maybe Switzerland or the Caymans. It's only fractions, but–"

He finished the thought for her, unable to contain his excitement. "But on millions of accounts every single day, it's. . . . Jesus Christ, it's a goddamned fortune."

She nodded, pleased with herself. "Actually, it's about nine hundred grand a month, give or take," she said. "Some months the fractions will average lower, some months higher. But on average, we're looking at nine hundred grand a month."

He nodded, all thoughts now on the treasure about to be amassed rather than the treasure between her legs. "But can it be done? I mean, I'm sure it can be done somehow. But won't we get caught? Who checks this shit? And, frankly, I don't know shit about computers."

She nodded and bit her lip.

"Out with it," he said.

"Well, we've got you to cover our ass from on high. You're a senior vice president in commercial paper, so you routinely sign off on overseas transfers."

"Yeah," he said. "And that raises the first problem. We'll have to create a whole mess of new accounts, not just one. The system will trigger IRS flags on any daily transfers from one account in excess of ten grand. So we'll have to set up, what, four or five accounts just to be safe."

"Good," she agreed. "And we've got me. I'm in audits. Not a big wig, mind you, but I can keep an eye on things there. So we've got two out of three bases covered. We've got the money out covered, and we've got hiding the trails covered. Now we need someone to break the computer security and program the system to do what we need." She raised her eyebrows at him. "Any ideas?"

For the first time, he felt a smile coming over his face. "I think I do," he said. "And we're going right to the top."

"Richards?" she said.

Broussard nodded. "It's perfect. He's the best, that's why he runs electronic security. He's a fuckin' genius to hear Jensen go on about him."

"But will he do it? I was thinking someone a bit more . . . I don't know . . . vulnerable."

Broussard rubbed his hands together. "Oh yeah, given the right amount of enticement he'll do it. Just got divorced. I heard him talking in the executive dining room, and he's getting clobbered on child support and alimony. He needs the money."

She frowned. "Yeah, but will he get in on this? I mean, we get caught we go to prison. And we're ruined, professionally and financially."

"You chickening out already?"

"Hell no," she said. "I know the risks, but I'm willing to take them. And you know them, but it won't stop you. Our chances of getting caught are slim–especially with all bases covered–but there's still a chance. And he's a mousy little shit. He'll be scared off by the down side, no matter how small the chances of getting caught."

"That's where you come in," Broussard said. "You see, he's also lonely. And I've seen him look at you. We play this right, you'll have him wrapped around your finger in a matter of weeks."

She frowned, mulling over what this meant. Broussard laughed, getting hard at the thought.

"Think about it," he said, "it'll be like banging a high school virgin. You'll have your own little sex slave to keep you pleased. Train him to do what you want."

She laughed back. "I've already got one of those," she said. "He's called my husband."

"Then what's another sex slave?" He reached his hands to her head and jerked her head–and that wonderful mouth–to his now throbbing erection. "I'll make sure your other needs are met," he said, then groaned as his cock sank to the back of her throat.


Alain was right: Jeff Richards was a lost puppy dog. His divorce had caused a crushing financial burden that required him to give up half of his net income in child support and alimony, he was displaced from his five-bedroom home on the North Shore to a one-bedroom apartment further from the city, and he hadn't been laid in over a year.

At first, she was subtle. A smile, light touches on the arm, leaning into him for his answers to her innocuous questions. After two weeks, she sat with him in the executive dining room and chatted gaily about work, music, movies, and art. Soon, she was sitting with him every day, and the conversations got more personal. When he told her how crushed he was by his divorce, she even managed a tear as she stroked his arm.

The seduction was complete a month after it began. They were leaving the office together, and she invited him for a drive along the lakefront. Thirty minutes later, after stroking his thigh and murmuring her sympathies at his continued tales of woe, they were parked in the far corner of a forest preserve parking lot, away from other cars and prying eyes.

"Jeff," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "I want to do something for you."

"What?" he replied, confused.

She was enjoying this. He hadn't made a move, and she knew he would do nothing even if she was stark naked beside him.

"I want to help ease your pain," she said, her fingertips now running over the growing bulge in his pants.

He yelped, almost a squeak. "But . . . but . . . you're married," he stammered.

She lowered her head, closing her eyes. Her voice went lower. "I know," she said. "But this isn't about that. I want to help you, and no one ever needs to know. I'm . . . well . . . these past few weeks, the pain you're under, I feel myself. . . ."

She pressed into him, hugging with one hand and tracing his bulge lightly with the other. After a minute, he hugged her back, running his lips lightly through her soft blonde hair.

"I can't explain," she said. "I just have to do this. You've become . . . someone special to me. Please?"

She unbuckled his belt and slacks, then drew his zipper down. Reaching her hand in, she pulled his cock from the fly of his boxers and stared at it. She smiled. It was enormous. Experience taught her that, unless it was really small, size made little difference in actual sex. No, technique was far more important. Still, it was one hell of a visual turn on, and she was happy to see that Jeff Richards was certainly well above average in the endowment department.

"I don't know," he said, his breath coming shorter.

But his body knew, she realized. His cock was throbbing with the pulsing blood, and his hips were rising toward her lowering mouth.

She took him into her mouth, sliding her lips slowly up and down, sucking in as she did so. With her hand, she firmly grasped the base of his cock and began stroking him up and down in time with her mouth, feeling his pulse quickening and hearing his breath shortening to sharp gasps.

"I'm getting real close," he warned after little more than a minute.

In response, she picked up the speed of her hand and mouth, taking him in deeper and sucking harder.

"Oh my God," he groaned, shooting torrents into the back of her throat.

In response, she pushed her mouth down as far as she could, feeling his release on the back of her throat and around the head of his cock. She tried to swallow as quickly as she could, but his buildup was too much, and she felt the fluid escaping from her lips and onto her cheeks and chin.

"Thank you," he whispered as she released him and looked up. He reached into his pants pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and licked the end. Then, as she sat up and looked at him, he dabbed the semen from her face.

"No," she said when he was done, leaning in to kiss him, "thank you."

Three weeks later, they lay together in the bed in his cramped apartment. She had spent the previous weeks giving him the rides of his life and planting the seeds of their plan in his mind. She knew he was now addicted to her, and he had reached the point where he'd kill for her if she asked. The time to strike was now, and she warmed him up with a blowjob.

Promising him they could use the money to run away together and never be found, she told him the plan and what he needed to do. Richards was reluctant at first, but she poured it on.

"You're right," she said. "Really, we don't need that much to be together." She stroked his softened cock. "All we really need is a bedroom and a good strong bed."

She saw his eyes light up at the thought.

"But unless you want to pay child support and alimony for the rest of your life to that cheating whore who ruined you, we're going to need to get far away, set up new identities, and have enough money to live on until we're all set in our new lives."

"What about your husband?" he responded.

"I can't stay with him any more," she replied, trying to bring a tear to her eyes and getting close. "He's a bastard, cheating on me with everything that moves. Now I've got you, though." She feathered her fingers over his chest, teasing his nipples. "I just want to be happy, and I need you for that."

She looked deep into his eyes. "Please, Jeff, please tell me you'll do it. When we've got enough, we can go away together." She kissed his chest. "Forever."

He sighed, and she knew she had him.

"Okay," he said. "But first. . . ."

He pushed her onto her back and leaned in, beginning a trail of kisses and darting licks from her neck, over and around her breasts, then to her stomach, concentrating there.

"Don't tease," she whimpered, pushing his head lower.

He obliged, and she groaned long and low when his tongue started circling her clit. My God, she thought, Alain was right. He was getting very good at pleasuring her. Maybe she'd dump Alain when all of this was over and concentrate on making Jeff Richards the ultimate walking dildo.


She had seen his car when she pulled into the garage, but she didn't want to see him just now. No need for any confrontation.

"Hello, Deborah," he said from behind, startling her.

She froze. "Alain," she responded, turning to see him leaning against the breakfast bar.

"Where've you been?"

Now unable to avoid talking with him, she put her purse on the counter and walked to the refrigerator, retrieving a bottled water and unscrewing the top.

"I asked where you were," he insisted.

She took a drink from the bottle before fixing her eyes on his and responding. "What do you care?"

"You're my wife."

She snorted. "What, no girlfriends free tonight?"

His expression went from cold to hot in a flash. "I've told you, there are no girlfriends. Jesus Christ, there's been no one for seven years, since you caught me and–"

"And your whore of the month?"

He said nothing, just clenched his jaws and tried to stare her down.

"Really, Alain, please don't play me for the fool."

"If you think I'm still having an affair–"

"Affairs, honey," she said, smiling. "Plural."

"Fine," he snapped, "affairzzz. If you think I'm still having affairs, then why are you still here? Why don't you just dump me and move on."

She sipped her water and held his gaze. They'd had this conversation before, too many times to count.

"I'm Catholic," she said. "Very Catholic. You know that. And what's worse, Daddy's even more Catholic. So I'm supposed to be the good little wife and overlook your transgressions and stay by your side."

"He'll never cut you off," Broussard said. "You know that. You're his little princess."

He emphasized princess, and Deborah felt her blood rising. "No sense in taking that chance, though, is there? Not when the pre-nup cuts you off at the knees. So you just keep having your own life and I'll keep having mine, and ne'er the twain shall meet."

She took another swig from the water bottle before continuing. "But rest assured," she said, "the second he's gone, so are you."

"So you're fucking someone else?" he said. A sinister smile curled his lips. Combined with the mane of dark hair streaked with gray, he looked feral. For a moment, she remembered the intense attraction that had originally drawn her to him twenty years before. Then she thought about what a true bastard he'd turned out to be, and the pleasant memories evaporated.

"I asked if you're fucking someone else," he repeated.

She only smiled in response.

He laughed. "You frigid bitch, you probably haven't been laid in years."

Her smile only broadened. "Wanna bet?"

A look of fury came over his face and he was around the corner and on her before she could flee.

"Is that what you're doing?" he said, tearing her blouse open and squeezing her breast roughly. "You've been fucking someone else? Giving it away to tennis pros and plumbers?"

She tried to push him away, but he was too strong for her.

"Maybe I'll show you who the king is around here," he continued, now gripping her forearm tightly with one hand and fumbling to get his belt undone and pants down with the other. "Maybe a good fucking will keep you in your place."

He ignored her slaps and scratches as he reached under her skirt and tore her panties away before pushing her to the floor and getting on top of her, stabbing his cock toward her center.

"Get the fuck off of me," she yelled, struggling in vain against his weight and feeling his cock pressing against her and into her. She was dry, but the loads still seeping from her afternoon of fun minimized the pain as he began thrusting.

"You're pretty goddamned wet for someone who doesn't want this," he said, picking up the pace of his thrusting.

Stopping her struggles, she started laughing.

"What's so fucking funny," he growled.

"I'm not wet from you, you pathetic pig," she said, glaring into his eyes and now meeting his thrusts with her rising hips.

The look of recognition came across his eyes.

"Oh yes, darling," she said, now bucking into him. "How does it feel to be sloppy fourths. Not seconds, dear. Fourths. To be sliding around in another man's loads?" She felt him going soft. "What's wrong? Not enough friction? Did he stretch me out too much for you to feel anything? Because I'm telling you, it was like being fucked by a baseball bat."

With a roar, he pushed himself off of her and pulled up his pants. For a moment, she thought she'd gone too far. Then she saw his features slackening and a dead look come into his eyes.

"You fucking whore," he said, and stalked from the room, leaving her on the floor with her panties around her ankles and her skirt bunched up under her ass.

She bellowed laughter at his retreating back.


An hour later, Broussard was in his locked den, gazing at the images on the screen in front of him.

Why am I so mad? he thought as he watched the action on the screen. His thoughts drowned out the dialogue from the images, but he knew the dialogue by heart.

She's cheating on me, but so what? I've been cheating on her for years–haven't had any interest in screwing her for years–and God knows that even the ice queen needed to get laid once in awhile.

His mind switched back to the screen. This was his favorite part.

"No," the slim blonde pleaded with him. "Please, not that."

"Yes," he said on the screen, his lips moving silently along with the dialogue. "That."

He watched himself on the screen, his mind reliving the moments as he slowly pushed his cock into the woman's clenching anus. His cock got harder as he heard her wailing intensify on the screen.

I know why, his thoughts resumed as he watched his screen image continue the journey deep into the woman's tight ass. It's because she's mine. Deborah is mine, and it's my job to fuck other men's wives, not my wife's job to fuck other men.

"Don't worry, Karen," he said on the screen, "the pain will go away in awhile."

And she had to point out it was a bigger cock, he thought, trying now to banish the thoughts from his mind. He felt a twinge, worried that she was getting better somewhere else than she'd gotten from him. He felt his erection subsiding, and tried to focus again on the screen, concentrating on the dialogue.

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