Beetlesmith's Ch. 15

I still took it all in stride. However, even the unwanted temptation she put in front of me wasn't as bad as the sickness it induced. Every time Candice pushed close against me, the nausea would well up, as images of her and me—the ones I refuse to act on—flashed through my mind.

That was another thing that was happening over these past two weeks that I hadn't mentioned. Besides the malignant apparition and the upside down behavior of the women in life—sluts into prudes and former prudes into bimbos—the nausea lingered well after the triggering stimulus was out of sight or out of mind. Sometimes the sick feelings lasted for thirty minutes, if not longer, and in that time I couldn't even think about work, let alone complete an assigned task. Consequently, besides my over-exaggerated state of arousal and sexual frustration and the dire feelings of fear and dread, I was also sick most of the time.

It was nearing four in the afternoon and I still had hours of work before I finished, when I ventured one last time to the filing cabinets behind Candice.

This time she didn't just brush against me, she pushed her ass firmly into my groin, pinning my back against the cabinets. At the same time, she wiggled her ass obscenely against me, and said in a smoky voice that panted sex, "Ooh, sorry again, Mr. Henry..."

She stopped in mid-statement when she felt my erection—I couldn't conceal it from her any longer. It pressed back hard against her, and she responded in kind, forcing herself fully into me. This little maneuver of hers was enough to start my nausea building. To add real torment to the sickness, she began to subtly shift her hips up and down with my cock wedged firmly between her buttocks.

I looked around the office, fearing that someone might notice her behavior, particularly the ball-busting mother hen—that Beatrice crone.

Candice giggled softly and seductively.

Turning my eyes away from the room and back at her, I saw that her head was cocked around sideways so that she could see my face out of the corner of her eye. A large open-mouthed grin, full of surprise and sexual awe, donned her flushed face, as she rasped, quietly, "Oh my god, your wife issuch a lucky girl..."

She fell into lustful grunts, gurgles and moans as her hands started to crawl up her backside toward my crotch.

It was then, right in front of God and everyone that I felt the surge of power. Images began to flash through my mind, stronger than ever before:

I saw Candice on her knees, gripping the back of Kendall's old couch, the one still in my office. Kendall was in my vision too, fucking her from behind. He held her by a thick hunk of her hair, and was pulling her head back roughly while berating her about her weight, or about the size of 'gigantic ass,' or the fact that she needed to 'pay' someone to fuck her fat form, because no one would do it for free. For each insult thrown at her, malignant insults that would have made most anyone having such low self-esteem potentially suicidal, I could see her face growing more flushed with imbued arousal...

Well, that clears up both mysteries as to why Candice stayed with the 'dickhead.'

I came out of my vision with Candice leaning her back into me. Making sure she covered my crotch with her body from casual view, she worked her hands playfully, yet firmly along the bulge in my pants.

She asked, breathlessly, "I so much want to be your lucky girl today!"

The images started again. This time Candice was on her knees, and unbelievably—given the position she was in—she was swallowing my cock whole right down to my testicles. Her large tits and the front of her spandex dress were drenched with her own saliva, long strands of which continued to hang off the base of my shaft and balls even as she sucked me all the way in. After throating me until my cock stood out straight and quivering, she spit me out, but continued to slow-stroke my cock with one hand while massaging my balls with the other. Looking up, she asked in a little girl's voice, "Can Daddy fuck Peaches' hot pussy after Peaches swallows all his yummy cum?"

I fought back against the images, against Candice's hands feeling me up through my pants, against the public display of her overt sluttiness, against my own urges to push her down on her knees and make her suck my cock in front of the office staff, against everything...

...My stomach rolled hard, as the nausea came up fast and uncontrollable—like a runaway freight barreling down the tracks out of the High Sierras.

I just had enough time to push Candice away before sticking my head into her wastebasket. I vomited up everything I had that day while making the most gut-wrenchingly vile sounds in the process.

Candice was standing over me, asking with concern, "Oh my God, Mr. Henry, are you alright?"

Even the rest of the office staff, ignorant of the sexual display that occurred in full view a moment ago, began to gather around Candice's desk. I continued to vomit into the trashcan, trying to ignore the growing crowd.

Between the reverberating sounds of my retching, I heard voices of concern from many of those that had gathered.

I also heard snide remarks, said quietly so that I wouldn't hear—but I heard, and I'd remember.

A junior executive whose name I've forgotten, whispered one particularly insulting comment, "I guess Mr. Fucking-Exacting can't take the pressure," which was quickly followed by a sharp laugh from another 'junior asshole' standing next to him.

The sniveling little weasels, I'll give them pressure. I'll invite them over to the house and fuck both of them with a baseball bat without lube.

I felt Candice touch my arm, while asking again, "Mr. Henry, are you okay?"

I finally pulled my head out of the waste can. Wiping my mouth off with a handkerchief, I looked around at the gathered faces, mostly full of pity and concern, although some—the 'junior assholes' to be exact—looked at me with snarky, self-satisfied smiles.

I felt like a genuine, stupid fuck—filled to the rim with utter embarrassment. Trying to muster as much dignity as I could, I stood up weakly, and said to Candice, "I'm okay now, Candice. Why don't you take the rest of the day off, I'll finish up here."

"You sure? We still have a ton of stuff to do. Here, at least let me get rid of the wastebasket first."

I stopped her as she bent down to get the waste can, showing me her cleavage again and starting another wave of nausea, "No, I'll have janitorial clean it out, now take the rest of the day off!"

Then picking up the waste can, I walked back into my office and closed the door. I threw up a few more times before I could call the janitors.

After that, it took a good forty-five minutes before the nausea settled down enough so that I could finish with my reports.

I was able to drop at least something off at Jack's office by six-thirty. Jack had already left—I forgot he always likes to get a head start on his mistress for the weekends—but his secretary was still there.

She said something snotty as I handed her my reports, something about being late and bringing up the rear.

You bet bitch, I'll put something up your rear, alright.

I wanted to punch her, but only smiled back weakly in response.

Worse than the secretary's demeaning looks, was the fact that the reports I did were substandard. I found it pretty difficult writing coherently while vomiting into a waste can—just one of those things I haven't been able to yet master.

I'd hear about my piss-poor work sometime next week. Jack rarely let a crap effort go by without comment.

********

It was about quarter-to-eight when I got home. Immediately, I knew something was amiss.

There was a scent wafting subtly throughout—barely perceptible by anyone, except probably by me with my newly sharpened senses, and by the odd bloodhound. The smell was somewhat familiar, but I couldn't place it yet.

I became irked as I made my way through the kitchen. There was no dinner.

It was probably just as well. A pile of dirty dishes lay in the sink, and another smell, more pungent and foul than the first, emanated from the garbage disposal. I lost any appetite after a short whiff. It smelled like one of the neighbor's cats had crawled into the sink, died, and was starting to decompose.

Karen was falling back into her old ways. Well, that's not quite fair, this was worse. Even in the days before the elixir, Karen still kept a spotless house and had food on the table. What I was seeing now was nothing short of pure, apathetic neglect.

If nothing else, I was going to put a stop to her laziness tonight.

The scent that I'd first noticed when entering the house—the one other than that of a rotting corpse—was stronger in the bedroom, which, coincidently, was where I found Karen, sleeping.

I threw back the covers. She was wearing a pair of shorts and one of my old dress shirts. I smacked her hard on the ass, and said, irritably, "Get your ass out of bed."

I startled her awake, and she reacted to me in the same manner she'd been exhibiting these past two weeks—argumentative and spiteful. Pulling the covers back over her, she spit at me, "God damn it, you fucker. Why do you always have to be an asshole?"

"Me! When the fuck were you going to get out of bed? It's nearly eight at night."

"I've been up all day. I only laid back down a couple of hours ago. What's the big deal? You weren't coming home 'till late, and I thought I'd take a nap to ready myself for you when you got home."

"Ready yourself...For what? It's not like you'd have dinner ready or the house cleaned. About the only thing you've been 'ready' for lately is bed, and not in the fun way I might add."

She threw the covers back off her, and sat up, eyes smoking in anger. Karen ignored my last dig at her subterranean sex drive, and struck at the heart of the matter, "Why should I cook dinner for you? You're always sick lately and you never eat."

"So? It just would be nice to know you made an effort. At least you could wash the goddamn dishes and clean out the sink so it doesn't smell like an outhouse in the kitchen."

"I'll get around to it..."

I laughed, sarcastically, "Well you better 'get around to it' soon, before the county declares the kitchen a toxic waste dump."

"I'm sorry, I've just been so tired lately...," she was going to say more as she came closer to kiss me, but stopped abruptly while blurting, "Whoa, what happened to you? You smell...You smell kinda pukey."

"Yeah, I got sick at work..."

"See! That's what I'm talking about, you're always sick..."

"...And you're always tired."

"Well, at least I'm not puking all over the place..."

I cut her off with a mocking voice, "I don't puke, 'all over the place,' as you put it. This was the first time."

"Yeah...Well...You're still always sick...And you won't go to the doctor like I asked..."

"I've seen the doctor," I snapped back with a half lie. It just wasn't the doctor she meant.

"And?"

"As far as the vaunted medical profession is concerned, there's nothing wrong with me."

Karen didn't like my answer, and made sure to let me know with another of her womanly diatribes, "And when were you going to tell me? That's another thing you've been lately, closed-mouth and secretive. I don't like it. I'm your wife, you know. If something's wrong I need to hear about..."

I threw up my hands in exasperation. I could see another argument pending that I wanted to avoid, "Okay, could we please start over. I don't want to spend the night arguing with you." When I saw the look of irritation drop from her face, I continued, "Look, leave the dishes for now. I'll even help with them later. Why don't I take a shower and then we can have some fun when I get out."

She gave me that look. A slightly sheepish, yet stern look of embarrassment mixed with harried irritation. It was the look she gave when she didn't want to be bothered with sex, but was too afraid to tell me given my predicable reaction. I've seen that look a lot lately, and it told me if I wanted sex tonight, it was going to be with my hand.

She started to say something, but I cut her off. Against my better judgment I let myself get angry again, and inched us closer to that argument.

"Don't bother with the excuses. I've heard them all before, and they're getting old coming out of your lazy mouth. I wonder what it would have been this time, 'I'm just too tired. I promise we'll do it later.' Yeah, right, but later never comes with you anymore."

"I can't make myself get horny, you know," she whined as a defense, and then continued sarcastically, "Maybe you can yell at me like an asshole some more until I get wet."

"Horny! You and 'horny' haven't even been in the same zip code for weeks. Shit, I'd be happy if you and 'mildly indifferent' would get together. At least then you could spread your legs for five minutes so we could fuck."

"I'm sorry...," she started to say.

"And that's another thing I'm getting tired of hearing from you, 'I'm sorry.' You use it as if it were some magic talisman that will immediately make bad feelings evaporate. It doesn't work that way anymore. You've used it too much lately...As well as the tears." I added that last part when I saw her lower lip tremble.

That was her routine of late—'I'm sorry,' followed by tears—done to make me forget the neglectful, apathetic things she's been doing.

She caught herself in mid-cry, and stopped. I knew then that it was mostly for show, but I didn't say anything about it yet. Instead, I cooled myself down, and said what was really bothering me, "I've got this bad feeling that we're slipping back into our old ways, and there's nothing I can do about it because you won't let me."

"Do about what," she asked, with growing irritation, "What old ways?"

"The old ways before that night with Gloria, when you wouldn't touch me because you we're fucking the Dickhead."

"Goddamn it Will," she screamed, "I'm not having an affair. Please, for the last time, would you get it through your fucking, fat head I'm not fucking Roger or any other guy."

"Then what? What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on," she whined, "Well nothing that I can explain, except I just don't feel like it. Sometimes I do, though. Sometimes, during the day when you're at work, I wish you were home because I really feel like screwing you. Then something happens right before you get home. I get really tired, and then I don't feel like it. I know it doesn't make any sense..."

Yes it did. It made perfect sense.

I didn't tell her, but from what she described, it sounded like her version of what was happening to me. Instead of getting sick, however, she was overcome with exhaustion; and where my nausea was caused by my fighting against my lustful feelings for other woman, her tiredness was dampening any lustful feelings she had for me.

It was the elixir fucking with our lives. It was trying to get me to use it once more by driving a wedge between Karen and me. It was telling me with not too subtle hints, 'the only way you're fucking Karen anymore is to use me.'

How was that even possible, though? How could a drug impose such a dichotomy of reaction between two people, and seemingly done as if by design?

I kissed her on the forehead, and said, "Tell you what. Let's take a shower together. We don't have todo anything if you don't want to, but Ido want to feel your skin next to mine. Okay?"

I saw her mood change as she smiled up at me, and saying, "Okay, Baby. And maybe I'll give you a special treat if you get the water hot for me."

My cock sprang to life as she rubbed a hand along my crotch. Halleluiah and amen, Karen was finally back. Pass the lube and let's eat.

Joyful, I walked briskly to the bathroom, but as I took my keys out of my pocket to undress, I tripped on something that wasn't there, and dropped them. I watched them fall to the floor, almost as if this whole event was occurring in slow motion. As an added bit of cosmic comedy—done, I'm sure, to irritate me further—when my keys hit the floor, they bounced a couple of times off the carpet, as if made of rubber, and came to rest somewhere under the bed.

It was then, when I stooped down to retrieve my keys, I found them—pink colored panties, patterned with a yellow, 'Winnie the Pooh' design.

I knew immediately whose they were, and whose scent I noticed when I first entered the house.

I threw panties at Karen, yelling, "Explain these!"

She looked at the accusatory pair of panties in silence. She was mouthing something, but no words came out.

"Explain them!" I yelled again.

"Jesus, calm down you asshole," she finally blurted out, "They're probably Barbara's. She must have left them that night she was with us."

"Asshole!? Fuck you, you cunt! You must really think I'm blind and stupid! She wore red panties with little white hearts that night. I watched her put them on before she called Lisa!"

At hearing me call her a cunt, she flew at me in a rage. Nails at the ready, she took a swipe at my face, but missed.

Before she could take another swipe at me, I wrapped my arms around her. Picking her up, I threw her into the headboard of our bed. She hit the oak panel with her back with such force I saw—and heard—the board crack along its length.

She quickly got up on her knees, nails at the ready, but she didn't dare move closer to me. Instead, she stayed near the headboard, staring daggers with those hard, obsidian eyes.

She screamed, "You fucking cocksucker!"

Seeing the hate radiating from her eyes, and hearing her voice drip with venom as she called me 'cocksucker,' I lunged at her. She tried to move, but I was too quick. Gripping her hard around the throat with both hands, I slowly squeezed...

A fog of rage enveloped me. All I could see was the hatred she had for me...

...And my mind had one singular focus—to extinguish that look of hatred, forever.

Then, before I totally lost control of myself, I heard the air conditioner kick in, and felt a puff of cool air graze across my shoulder. It was such a minor thing, really, but somehow it brought me back to consciousness and out of my rage.

I looked at Karen as if for the first time that evening. I saw my hands around her throat, my thumbs pressing hard indentations into her flesh. She had a strong grip of my hands with her own and was trying to pry me away, but I was stronger. Her face had turned pale, but was quickly morphing into a sickly blue color...

I screamed and released her. I couldn't believe what I was about to do to her. Shame and fear clutched me like a pall as I sat back onto the bed, dumbfounded by the events and actions we had both fallen into at unawares.

Karen began choking for air immediately after release; but between large, raspy gulps of air, she laughed, and it was a laugh without remorse, or conscience or even surprise by our sudden change in circumstances, sounding as hollow and cold as an empty crypt. Sounding like it did in the car that time with Beth.

Unmentionable fear further gripped me, as I realized the person choking and laughing before me couldn't be Karen—not the Karen I was in love with and married, at least.

I must have struck the comical figure, looking at her as I did with opened-mouth surprise and unmistakable dismay in my eyes, for she laughed all the more at my expression.

Finally, she started to regain her composure. I could see that the abject look of hatred was gone, although the spiteful, obsidian blackness of her eyes remained.

Scornfully, as if addressing an idiot child, she started, "Oh William, what did you think I'd do, just stop fucking her? She's been coming over every day since we all fucked that one night. I told you she liked it and would be back for more."