Broadcast Lust Ch. 06

And eventually he changed. He changed from my strong, powerful Miles who I couldn't help but love to . . .

To my Hubby. My depressed, skittish Hubby who curls up and shows me his belly and looks at me with sad eyes and doesn't bother fighting anymore and (metaphorically) begs me not to hurt him again.

Sigh.

So now we're one of those couples where all the passion has run out. We sit in restaurants not talking and go to couple's counseling once a week (at which Miles utterly refuses to take responsibility for the fact that his depression is ruining our marriage) and read books about loving communication and have scheduled sex on Thursday nights where we both close our eyes and pretend to fuck who we used to be.

******

When Sarah Watkins came to see me I recognized her immediately because I

recognized a part of myself. I recognized the pain around her eyes. The defeated sag in her shoulders. The terrible disappointment in every breath she took. In every word she spoke. In every smile she tried to carve onto her face but just couldn't.

She'd ended the marriage, blah, blah. He just wasn't the man she thought he would be, blah, blah.

And I did my part like I always do: "I understand exactly what you're feeling. He made you a promise. He took the best years of your life — your child bearing years — and you're not the one who failed, Sarah, he is. I can see how much you loved him. I can see how much you tried. I can see how hard this is for you. But I don't want you to make bad decisions just because you feel guilty for taking care of you. You deserve every dime you can get because he lied to you. He lied to your heart, Sarah and we're going to make him pay."


And then I hugged her just right like I practiced. I hugged her like sisters are supposed to hug in a way that told her "You're the victim here and Helen Martin is on your side."


And then I got to work destroying Mark Watkins.

First I popped by his Facebook page to get a look at him. Handsome. Tall enough (about 6'1" it looked like, so still taller than me in heels.) I sent him a friend request through a dummy account where I posed as a 23-year old model so I could see if he said anything incriminating online (men are so stupid about these things.) I gathered everything I could on their shared property and was only a little bit sad because Mark and Sarah don't have kids and really, truly destroying a man is much, much easier when there are children involved.

Ahh, well.

Then I wrote the terror letter and sent it to Mark's lawyer (Sarah gave me her information.)

The terror letter? 
 


Oh, it's just my traditional first salvo. It's how I let my prey know they're being hunted. It's just a simple letter saying Helen Martin is representing the aggrieved wife. Then some lies about how eager we are to settle things quickly and fairly for all parties involved. Then the list of information we require so we can make sure he's not hiding money somewhere and a few demands and insinuations about the terrible things he did in the marriage. Maybe a subtle accusation about infidelity. Or a reference to a socially unacceptable "hobby" or some skeletons in the closet a man would rather not have brought to light.

You know, the basics. It's really not fancy or poetic or anything. It's not meant to be deadly. It's just meant to let a man know that by the time we are done he will lose. And he will wish he was dead.

Anyway, I wrote up the letter and sent it off and didn't think of handsome Mark Watkins again.

Well, until the next morning, anyway.

I guess I was just horny or disappointed at Miles failing another little test or something. Or maybe it's just that smile in his picture. He's a handsome man.

It was weird though. I was at my desk at work with my headphones on listening to "Four Tet" (techno. It calms my mind.) . . .

And then suddenly I'm 23 again, wearing tight, high-waisted yoga pants, pointing my ass at the camera, smiling over my shoulder with my "Perfect Girl Face" on.

But there are no lights and no camera man and nobody else there. 


Except Mark Watkins. Tall, handsome Mark Watkins who grabs me, tears the crotch out of my tights with his teeth, spanks me for being naughty, growls while I suck his fingers submissively, holds me down, calls me names, ravishes me, takes me, punishes me while I giggle and smile and whimper for more.

It was . . . one of the more vivid fantasies I've ever had. When I came to my senses my panties were drenched. I was breathing heavy. I was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

And I was smiling. Dear God I was smiling.

It happened again the next night while I was in bed with Miles. We were having our compulsory "Thursday night sex!" (therapists orders). I was holding myself stiff and trying to tilt my hips at just the right angle to at least use Miles' cock as a half decent dildo. Miles was pumping away with his eyes closed looking terrified I was going to try to give him instructions on how to fuck me again like I did last week (which lead to a fight, of course, because he's so sensitive.)

But then suddenly I'm not with Miles at all. I'm helpless and naked, strapped to a table on a small raised stage.

And surrounded by men.

Familiar men. 
 


Dozens of them. All grinning wolfishly and naked and hard. Pulsing forward to be the first to get at me. To be the first to have their revenge on "Helen fucking Martin" the "bitch" lawyer who "ruined their lives."

And then endless fingers and hands grab and grope and tease and twist and tweak my nipples and lips and ears and every inch of perfectly exposed flesh. Hands wrap in my hair. Mouths kiss and teeth scrape along my flesh. And fierce, rigid cocks push themselves into my mouth and pussy and ass and hands and use me like a worthless thing as I grunt and tremble.

And come.

So hard. So hard I think I'll bite my tongue off or crack my teeth. So hard I scream right in Miles' ear as and squeeze him with my pussy as he bucks against me hard enough to leave bruises on my thighs.

In my fantasy I don't act like a woman at all. I act like an animal. A ravenous rutting bitch porno fantasy reveling in the humiliation and sensation and shame. All while Mark Watkins stands and smiles and watches.

It went on for weeks. Terrible and delicious weeks of incredible, impossible, humiliating sex. I imagine Mark Watkins making me beg to suck his cock on stage at the Lillith Fair. I imagine poor Miles tied up and impotent while Mark ravishes me in my wedding dress. In public. In stores. In court with the judge watching. I've never been into girls, but one afternoon I spent 15 minutes imagining a threesome between myself, Mark and Deanna Troy on the Starship Enterprise.

And when I wasn't overwhelmed by fantasy of Mark Watkins taking me, using me, commanding me, sharing me, getting revenge on me and putting me in my place.

I felt . . . lonely. Sad. I followed his Facebook through my dummy account, trolling through his pictures to find shirtless pictures and informative bulges and fingered myself to gasping orgasm in the office bathroom while wishing he would touch me and torture me.

While wishing he was real.

"Hi, Helen, It's Mark Watkins," he said on the phone and I felt butterflies in my stomach like a lovesick teenaged girl.

"Mr. Watkins," I said in my best imitation of Helen Martin. "If you have a settlement proposal of some kind you should really communicate it through your law . . ."

"No, no, nothing like that, Helen. Um. You guys said I have to give you my tax returns for the last three years and I was thinking I would swing by later and drop them off if that's alright," he said.

"Sure, Mr. Watkins you can just drop them off at the front desk . . .," I said and noticed I was twirling my hair unconsciously.

"I'd rather hand them directly to you, if you don't mind. It's really personal information and I guess I'm a little paranoid. How late are you going to be there?," he asked and I imagined myself alone with Mark Watkins at night in the dark office.

"Uhh . . . I'll be here until at least 8 tonight, Mr. Watkins. Lawyer's hours. Lots to do."

"8. OK, I'll be there before then to give you what you asked for," he said and the line went dead.

He showed up at 7:35 and followed me silently into my office. He closed the door behind him.

A beat. I leaned against my desk and tried to figure out what to do with my legs. I felt static electricity up and down my skin. I remembered and relived every thrust, every kiss, every bite and scream and orgasm.

I bit my lip and saw the growing bulge in his pants.

"Nobody else here?," he said as he walked towards me. He stared daggers at me. He refused to blink.

"You don't get to be the best without putting in the hours, Mr. Watkins," I said as he dropped the tax returns on the desk. He was so close to me now. So close I could smell the familiar musk of him, just like I imagined. Just like in my dreams.

I let out a girlish squeak and fluttered my hands like birds as I tried to keep myself from grabbing him, kissing him, clawing at his pants. We both breathed sharp and heavy.

And then he smiled at me in a way that made me want to curl up in his arms. I watched as his hand reached out and caressed my face and forced myself not to turn my head and kiss and suck his fingers.

"What the hell should I do with you, Helen?," he asked with cruel kindness in his voice. I knew the answer.

My hand shook as I reached out and felt his hard cock through his jeans. My voice trembled as I looked into his eyes and said "Punish me."

And then I felt his strong hand wrap in my hair as he pushed me down on my desk and tore at my clothes and toyed with me and teased me and fucked me and made me beg and treated me like a bitch.

***********

It was almost 11 by the time I finished cleaning up my office. I was able to put

everything back except the shattered wedding picture of myself and Miles. I stripped out of my torn clothes and stared at myself naked in the mirror. I traced the line of the bruises and abrasions and bite marks criss crossing my skin. The hickeys on my neck. The deep soreness in my pussy and throat. I threw my torn blouse in the trash and pulled on my extra set of gym clothes.

And then I looked at my phone.

"The Hubby," it said again and again. "Missed Call From The Hubby," "Text Message From The Hubby." Over 30 calls and messages all starting about 15 minutes after I sent the video. I listened to the voicemails and heard the anger and pain in Miles' voice. I read the texts and trembled at his vicious words.

I imagined Miles watching me suck Mark Watkin's cock again and again. I imagined Miles listening to his wife say "I'm yours, I belong to you," to Mark Watkins over and over. I imagined the deep furrow in his brow and the unbridled, terrible fury in his eyes.

I smiled. I felt a tiny inkling of hope. I grabbed my purse and my keys and went home to my dear, dear Hubby.