A Mishap of Circumstance Ch. 01

This story is the property of the writer Kalimaxos.

Any unauthorized reproduction or reprint without the express authorization of the author is strictly prohibited.

My characters are often flawed, and like real life, my stories are a shitshow, like life.

I want to thank my newly found editor Legio_Patria_Nostra for taking the time to review my work.

One more thing, you are on an erotica site reading smut. The last thing we need to hear is about your morals. What are you doing here reading porn and smut then trashing the writers for it?

I moderate comments. Be warned: Make any derogatory or violent comments, lie about the story content to influence readers, or give me a lecture on morality, and your comment is gone.

Partial lyrics of three songs were included in this story, and the original artists should be credited.

"Games People Play" 1980 by The Alan Parsons Project, and

"Monster Mash" 1962 by Bobby Pickett should be credited.

"Mrs. Robinson." 1968 by Simon & Garfunkel

I hope you find them and listen to them on any music platform or buy them. They will set the mood.

I also love movies - which leads me to use lines from or references to them from time to time. Indulge me.

***

Bugger!

I am a bloody idiot. That's what I am. And at my age at that! Forty!

Alright, alright, I guess I should explain. Maybe you will understand as no one else is likely to believe me. None of this was planned. It just happened.

It all started when my daughter and son, Bonnie and Clyde, decided to have a Halloween party. Yes, those are their names, chosen from a movie my husband and I liked. When we used to enjoy the same things, that is. More of that later.

So yes, a Holloween costume party for their friends and some of our neighbors. I was against it as I didn't want to be a maid, cook, waitress, and chaperone to everyone.

"Mom," my nineteen-year-old daughter opined. "Everyone attending will be over eighteen, now that Clyde is of age."

"That's what's worrying me. A bunch of late teens who think they can do anything they want. Cats and Dogs, living together. For the record, beer only. I see any hard liquor or drugs, and I toss whoever brought it out."

"Mom, most of our friends are band-geeks and honor society grade-chasers. I don't think there is anyone who has an arrest or out-of-wedlock child between us. Mom, you did a great job raising us. Now get an outfit and enjoy yourself."

"It's your kind that I worry about. Goody-goodies that hold it in until you let it out."

"Come on Mom! You're overreacting to this. Relax and go with the flow. Plus, we have invited older neighbors for you and dad not to feel out of place. The Goldsteins, the Andersons, and the Donatos are going to come. If anything, I hope you parents behave. Mrs. Anderson is a party-animal."

"She's a slut. I have to keep her off your dad. She is working through all the dads in your class."

"Mom, you're silly. Wilma is just friendly."

"Too friendly," I scoffed. "I'm keeping my eye on her."

"Good luck with all the masks and costumes everyone will be in."

"I'm going to be at the door and will know what the bitch is wearing."

"Whatever mom."

And just like that, I was dismissed. It was just twenty years before, I was her age when I married Bonnie's father during college. We had to. He knocked me up. Then a year later, her brother came along - another accident. But neither of them knew. Placing my college education on hold, I stayed home to raise two kids and be Randy's happy little homemaker.

When I turned twenty-eight, Randy got promoted, and we had enough money for me to return to college. At thirty, I graduated with a degree in business just as my kids were finishing grade school. Then I went to work like everyone else in my circle. Only I was beginning my career at thirty instead of twenty-two as they had.

Like all marriages, Randy and I had ebbed and flowed. Good one year, bored with each other the next, but we somehow managed to get ourselves out of ruts with vacations or sheer willpower.

To be honest, I was at fault for him considering stepping out on me in the first place. Randy is handsome, witty, and a shameless flirt. Women gravitated to him like bugs to a lightbulb -- zzzzap! (Burned bug smell follows.) Sorry about that, but I don't take well to husband poaching sluts. And they were everywhere around him.

From Marcia, the junior VP of marketing at his job. Bamby, his secretary... excuse me, personal assistant. I have to be 21st century, as my son Clyde reminds me. But you get the picture. The neighborhood, soccer practice where he coached, church... the F-en church! Can't these sluts keep their legs closed in the house of God of all places?

The answer is no, and it drove me crazy. Not that I am or have been a slouch in the looks department. Far from it. I watch how much I eat, exercise at the gym, and run in the mornings to stay fit.

Yoga. I hate that crap, but the class is held by a good-looking Japanese American stud ten years younger than me. Not that I have a shot at him with all the sluts in the class spreading their legs for him.

Do I sound angry? Too many references to leg spreading? Well, damn it! It was all around - or so it seemed to me that summer when I turned forty. Oh God... not that. Not the dreaded four-Oh!

I mean, I still looked good. My boobs didn't droop -- much. And my ass and legs were still tight. And, thanks to family genetics, I was still pretty. Botox, facelifts, or anything else would not be needed for a few years. Still shapely and cute, I always got my share of stares and even a few propositions at work and around town. But...

Cute. At forty, I was cute. Never beautiful or hot. Not like the bitches that threw themselves at Randy. Not like the one I know he is banging. Marcia Brady-Cyran, the executive at his job. Miss perfect face, perfect tits, legs, ass, and everything else. Who would blame him? I bet she does everything for him.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! I so wanted to choke the bitch. And the way Randy talked about her to his guy friends when he thought I wasn't listening. It's all about Marcia. Gag!

I had to be honest. I should have given Randy oral. All the other wives I know do for their husbands -- or at least for their boyfriends. I used to. But I just can't, ever since I learned of Marcia. I just can't suck the cock he has put in her. It's like sloppy seconds in my mouth. Like making a husband eat some other guy's creampie. Right?

You probably hate my husband from what I have said. And at times, I have. But lately, I realize that maybe I should have given him more. I should take him in the shower, wash his dick and get on my knees to suck it. Perhaps even invest in a tube of lube and give him my ass. Why don't I?

Pride and ego.

I just can't stand the thought of being second best. What if Marcia does it better and Randy rejects me? I bet the bitch deep throats. I know I can do it. I swallowed my dildo a few times to see if I could, so it's not that I would gag. It's that I would submit to him. I would be admitting that I let some other woman give him what I held back on.

Then there was the time I cut him off. OK, go ahead, hate me. But I was trying to make it through college while raising two kids practically alone, and... Look, I'm not proud of it. It's why I say I pushed him into her arms. And why I feel guilty about this. He didn't just cheat. I cheated my husband out of his sex life for more than a year.

Oh, he tried to get my attention. We talked, and I promised to be there for him, but always tomorrow -- always busy. I took him for granted and thought nothing of it when he stopped asking. Then I thought all was well when he and I went on vacation to Hawaii - when things were romantic, and we reconnected.

Yeah, we reconnected, but Randy and Marcia never "disconnected." Six months ago, my husband moved out. He told me off, saying that I used my pussy to control him and gave him lousy sex whenever I felt like it. When I was alone, I cried and realized that he had been right. But again, pride and ego.

Neither of us filed for divorce. I wish I could tell you why. Maybe we both hoped what? That we would sort things out? That in some magical way, the other would admit they were wrong? Grown adults, living in fantasy land. Go ahead, laugh.

Then one day she called. Fucken Marcia! The bitch. The other woman. And she used his phone, so I thought it was Randy when I picked up.

"Gabriella? Gabby?" she asked as if we were best friends.

I had met her at his company parties where she flaunted her platinum blond hair, fake boobs... OK, they are not fake, but they are bigger than mine and don't droop. And that ass and long legs. Did I say the near-perfect face with blue eyes? I want to scream now as much as I did the day she called.

"Who is this?" I replied, knowing quite well it was her, the work wife/slut.

"It's Marcia. Am I calling at a bad time?"

"What do you want?"

She hesitated for a few seconds. Marcia knew that I knew and that I knew she knew. Fingers out with nails at the ready. It was a female "Mexican standoff." Where did that come from anyway? My dad used to say that all the time. Not the nail thing, the standoff part. I miss you dad. I could use your wisdom right now.

"Gabby, I'm calling about Randy?"

"What about him?"

"You need to take him back."

"I never tossed him out. He left on his own," I replied. "Why? Are you bored of him already?"

"I guess I deserved that," she replied.

"You think?"

"Gabby, I like your husband, but I don't want him as a husband. I have one of those." Yes, the bitch was married.

"And?"

"Look, Randy and I... I mean."

"I know what you and my husband did - have been doing more likely. How long Marcia, years?"

"Does it matter? You just need to take him back. He is miserable, and honestly, instead of fucking me as he used to, he is crying on my shoulder."

"Oh. Sorry if my husband cramped your style, Marcia. But you didn't mind him when he was between your legs, did you?"

"Go on Gabby. Get it out of your system." she said with a sigh.

"Fuck you, Marcia!" I snapped. "Fuck you. My husband, and your husband. Although that would be a good way for me to get even with you."

"You are welcome to him if that's what will make you feel better," she replied with a slight laugh. "I did your husband because mine is dreadful in bed. If you can fix him, have at it."

.

"Why don't you fix him?" I blurted out.

"You think I didn't try? The same way Randy tried to get you to be a wife and lover for him?"

Oh, that was below the belt -- but true. The bitch knew. He had told her. Of course, he would have.

"Anyway, that's not why I called," she continued. "Would you consider taking him back?"

"Why should I do that?" I snapped back.

"Because that's where he belongs, Gabby!" she yelled through the line then calmed herself. "And I can't figure out why, but he loves you."

"Tell him to grow a pair and call me himself!" I had replied angrily and hung up on her.

Since that day, Randy and I have talked about getting back together and even gone to counseling. It was a "good-this-week-and-bad-the-next" situation. In short, a mess.

But on the day of the party, he had promised he would be there. That had been my son's request. Clyde swore up and down that his father had not put him up to it but that it would be good if the family did an event together. That we would socialize with other people, then talk at the end of the evening. Reluctantly, I agreed.

The way I saw it, before Randy and I went our separate ways, we had to make sure we exhausted all avenues of reconciliation. We had put twenty-some years in our relationship and marriage. Tossing it aside when there was still hope would leave lingering notions of what could have been. I wanted to be sure either way.

***

Party day

I prepared for the party for three days after work. It's a woman thing. People are coming over, and we have to clean. As I had a project for work to finish, there was no way I could get everything done on my own. Maybe back in my happy homemaker days, but not with a job. And forget about the kids helping. They have... wait for it... "their own lives." But they sure wanted me to throw a party for their life, didn't they?

Sorry... venting. I have a lot of pent-up frustrations. One being I have not been laid in a... quite a while. So much so that when Clyde came by with his buddy Chris, I had to stop myself from staring. Chris is so... not cute. Attractive. Handsome. Manly.

He is twenty but carries himself as if he is older. Something about him being from Europe? The men from there are so hot. Just a slight trace of an accent, or is it those green-brown eyes?

I mean, he caught me staring, and instead of blushing or glaring back, he gave me this knowing smile in an almost polite, 'it's OK what you did, I understand' way. I looked away in shame, because I was getting wet under his soulful eyes.

Did I say I need to get laid? But Chris is too young, right? I mean twenty years younger and my son's friend? I know, I know. I was separated and neglected, and all those other 'ands' that gave me the rationalization it was OK for me to let the kid have at me. But once again, I thought of my son or daughter catching us and walked away from the hot European stud.

Did I say he is a runner, swimmer, and rows crew in college? Those legs and shoulders! Look, I may have walked away from a troublesome situation, but I didn't say I stopped thinking of Chris and what I wanted him to do to me. Or what I wanted to do with him -- to him.

Anyway, before I need another cold shower telling this story, I hired a maid service to clean the house and catered some food. But I had to pick an outfit for the party - something I had to do myself. So the next day, I picked up a safe, Princess Leia costume. OK, say it, boring and... non-sexual.

I mean, it fit the curves better than that scrawny kid they had in the movie, but then I'm forty, and she was maybe eighteen. Safe was fine. Let Wilma Anderson show her tits or whatever else she wanted to show. How does her husband put up with that? I mean, Fred is almost proud of his wife flaunting her flesh for others to see.

And their names! Wilma and Fred? Seriously? No wonder the kids in the neighborhood yell Yaba-daba-doo when they see them. That's almost as bad as naming your kids Bonnie and Clyde. But, it's not like we are the Manson family. Right?

So, by this point, you have determined that I get distracted easily. And that leads to the next part of the story - the how-everything-got-started part.

I got home that Friday early to get ready for the party. The maid service had done its work the evening before, and all I had to deal with was the catering service setting up the beer keg and the food. It was too cold to have the party outside in late October, so the event was held in our living room, playroom, kitchen, and dining room. The spare bedroom upstairs, next to the hallway bathroom, became the coat depository for our guests.

I have to say my daughter Bonnie was gracious enough to show up early to help with the finishing touches. One of which was watching the caterer as I ran upstairs to become Princess Leia of Starwars fame. Something that didn't take long as I had a whig complete the look of the long white dress.

As I stood in my underwear, I wondered if I should have picked the outfit Carrie Fisher, the actress, wore on Episode Six. You know, the one showing all that flesh? It would have been fun and served my husband right seeing me in it, for leaving me to go bang that slut!

But... since we were supposed to reconcile, I toned it down and went with demure Princess Leia. Checking myself one last time in the mirror, I walked downstairs twenty minutes before the first guests were to arrive.

"Nice touch, mom," my daughter, dressed in some cosplay outfit, said.

"Who are you supposed to be?" I said, staring at how much skin Bonnie was showing.

"Fay from Cowboy Beebop. That anime sci-fi series? Remember we watched it together?"

"Aren't they making a live-action series of that?" I asked, remembering something I had seen on YouTube.

"Yes," my daughter replied.

"Something about the new Fay dressing more demurely?" I said, raising an eyebrow at her skimpy outfit.

In the original animated series, the Fay character had dressed in a revealing outfit that my daughter was wearing. The live-action remake producers had chosen to tone down Fay's dress style. Fans were still going back and forth on it.

"Yeah, about that," Bonnie scoffed. "I'm a purist and supporter of the original show. So this is what you get."

'No point arguing with my nineteen-year-old daughter over this,' I thought. She is too headstrong. Arguments during her teens had drained me of any need to repeat those years. And she was right to remind me that she and most of her crowd were well-behaved kids.

So she was showing more than usual. I wondered what she wore when she went out around the University. But once again, she was now an adult, and I had to cut the cord. Bonnie was my stable child. Her brother was the inquisitive and adventurous one to worry about.

And then it happened.

***

Double double, toil and trouble

I was in the dining room where the caterer had set up the buffet for the party when it did. I had skipped lunch to get home early and was a bit hungry -- especially with all that yummy food smell wafting about. Taking a chip, I dipped a dollop of spicy sauce on it and raised it to my mouth. The chip chose that instant to break in my hands, and the sauce tumbled onto my white Princess Leia outfit down the front.

I stared down at the stain, aghast, as the door chime announced the first guest's arrival. You men are laughing, but to us girls, that is an unmitigated disaster. Some of you women are laughing too. Shut up bitches. We've all been there.

"NOoooooooo!" I screamed in terror as my daughter tried and failed not to laugh.

Without thinking, I dabbed a towel in water from the sink to start dabbing the stain off.

"No mom!" Bonnie tried in vain to stop me. "Water will set the stain. Use liquid soap... Oh shit, too late now."

And it was. The clingy white dress was stained beyond doubt. I growled in anger and frustration, seeing how my party plans were going to hell early.

"Mom, relax," Bonnie said. "I'll get the door. You go to my room. I still have last year's Holloween costume in my closet. Go try it on."

"What is it?"

"A sexy witch!" my daughter laughed as she walked away. "Go... before anyone sees you in that stained rag."

Well, she was right, and I had no choice but to run upstairs to my daughter's rarely used room. In her closet, I rummaged through old outfits until I found the said slutty witch getup. I took it to my room, still on the hanger along with the stupid pointy hat.

Tossing my outfit off, I kicked it across the floor in anger. My daughter's old costume had a short black dress that seemed torn at the sides, a belt, and a bag with black pantyhose clipped to it. And there lay the problem. My daughter is five foot one -- relatively short. In contrast, I am five foot six. The prerequisite black pantyhose would not fit me. 'What to do?' I thought.

Then I remembered the lingerie that I had bought some years ago. Part of the ensemble was a black garter belt and black fishnet stockings. Fishing them out of the dresser bottom drawer, I quickly tried them on. I would need black heels to go with them. All I had were these five-inch black pumps. They would have to do. But not the white panties and bra I had worn under the white Princess Leia outfit.