Broken Bra Strap

She laughed when I finished my tale of woe.

"What's so funny, bitch," I playfully snapped.

"I was wondering when you'd dump that albatross around your neck – especially after I got that strange call about Bill Vanderbeek last weekend" she laughed. "What was with that anyway?"

"Don't go there," I sneered. "So you think that my situation is funny?"

"No – in fact I dreamed up a solution for you long ago and I've just been waiting for the chance to enlighten you with it," she snickered.

That shocked my pubic hairs straight! "Well, then hit me with it?"

"You buying lunch?" she giggled as she sipped her wine.

"Yeah – if your plan is worth it," I shot back.

"Oh, it's worth it – yeah, it's worth it," she snickered.

She was right!

________________________

The predicates that made Jill's plan a real possibility were the following:

--I have a job that is almost like piecework, and 90% of the time I can – if I want to – work alone without any personal contact with clients or co-workers. I write grants for non-profits – and I'm good at it, really good!

--Jill works at a pharmacy and is dating a doctor who is crazy about her, and would probably do anything for her short of committing murder. She's a little commitment-adverse, and is playing hard-to-get besides, which makes her even more enticing to thirty two year old Dr. Phillip Burton.

--It has been clearly demonstrated that Jack is not honest; and his dishonesty is predictable. In fact most of his personality traits are predictable. Jack could not have remained true to me, as I was to him, if our situations had been reversed and I was the one in jail.

--My condo has a large guest bedroom, with its own bathroom and cable hookup, as the only room on the third floor.

--Jill and I have another close friend, Beth, who is a makeup artist.

--My family will do anything to help me dump Jack since they consider him even more of an albatross than Jill does.

Jill's plan was simple in concept, although probably difficult to execute; however, since I was properly motivated I was certain that I could pull it off.

In the first part of my plan I started coughing a lot around Jack. I could tell that it bugged him and he constantly inquired as to whether I had some sort of communicable disease, which put a damper on his love-making overtures. Also, I applied some adhesive bandage-like products that my makeup artist friend Beth made for me to visible parts of my skin, making it look like I was getting lesions.

At the same time I moved most of my money – all except for about $15,000 – into new brokerage accounts and left information– including account numbers and computer passwords – about the $15,000 that remained easily accessible to Jack, while squirrelling away all of the information about my new accounts.

I exercised only when Jack was working one of his menial jobs, except that on Saturday mornings I pretended that I was going to see Jill, or a series of doctors, to find out what was wrong with me, although in reality I was going to jog, or bicycle, with Bill.

After about a month of preliminary implementations I seriously got into Jill's plan. I would give the serious implementation a month, and if it didn't work as designed I'd still divorce Jack anyway, and accept the consequences, and – depending upon how he reacted during plan implementation – might actually be kind and generous when I did so.

On the last Saturday jog with Bill before the start of the serious implementation of the plan, as we hydrated our sweaty bodies after an intense run I got as brazen as I had ever been in my life.

"Tell me, Bill," I said while nonchalantly taking gulps of my bottled water, "if I wasn't married would you have a romantic – or at least sexual – interest in me?" I made intense eye contact as I asked the question, although still seemingly indifferently taking periodic sips or gulps from my bottle even though I was boiling over inside.

Bill stopped short. He didn't break eye contact with me. "Are you and your husband getting divorced?"

"Yes. I won't be meeting you for our now regular jogs or bike rides for at least a month, but the next time that I see you I'll be separated and in the process of getting a divorce," I replied as casually as I could. I then tossed my now-empty bottle of water into the adjacent recycling bin and walked up to within inches of his hard body. As my five foot six frame was next to his six foot four one I looked up and said "Answer the fucking question. Be honest. Don't sugar coat it or be polite. Would you be interested in a romantic or sexual relationship with me if I wasn't married?"

While normally chatty, apparently in a situation like this Bill is a man of few words. He lifted me off the ground, planted a lascivious kiss on my lips while squeezing my sweaty ass with one hand and massaging a sweaty tit with the other. When he put me back on the ground his only words were "Fuck yes!"

"Then let me have your cell phone number," I said, trying to be as composed as possible although my mind was in turmoil and endorphins were running rampant through my body.

Bill walked over to my car, which I had unlocked to get the bottled water out, took my phone, and entered his number into my contacts. Then as he handed me my phone the always polite, respectful, gentlemanly Bill bent over and whispered into my ear "If you call me when you're separated or divorced, the first time that I see you I'm going to fuck your brains out."

Then, without further ado, he turned, got into his car, and drove off, leaving me with a flushed face, trembling legs, and a leaking pussy.

As I drove to Jill's house to shower and change and reapply my "lesions" before returning home, at least a thousand times I repeated to myself "Well that was clear enough, wasn't it?" as I periodically tried to wipe up my leaking pussy juice with my exercise towel.

____________________

When I got home from Jill's house I had a completely hang-dog look on my face and some crocodile tears in my eyes.

"What's wrong?" Jack asked when he saw me.

"I finally found a doctor who diagnosed my problem," I moaned.

"What is it?" Jack expectantly inquired.

"It's a rare disease that the doctor called Wasting Lesion Syndrome. He said that there's no cure, almost no literature about it, no present research, and that in the few patients that have been identified with it their life expectancy after diagnosis is two painful years," I blurted out before doing the best fake crying job of my life.

Of course there is no such thing as "Wasting Lesion Syndrome" although Dr. Burton kindly wrote an article about it that looks just like it came from a scholarly medical journal and that in technical terms identified all of my symptoms and described what was in store for someone with that fake disease.

As I continued to cry I handed Jack the article from Dr. Burton, which had appropriate tear stains on it. I curled up into a fetal position and continued to fake sob as Jack read the article. When he looked to be about halfway through it he collapsed onto the couch and the article fell from his hands. "Holy shit," he murmured at least a dozen times.

I pretended to regain my composure. "Things will be hard on you, Jack, but I hope that you will stick by me in the time that I have left like I did while you were in prison; although there really is some more bad news. Some of the lesions are now on my genitals, and we won't be able to have sex anymore."

With that I pulled up my skirt, moved my panties away, and displayed a small fake lesion that Beth had prepared for me that was partly on one of my labia. Jack got a sick look on his face, excused himself, and then went into the bathroom. I heard barfing sounds. "This may not take even a month," I chuckled to myself.

I was a busy little bee the next week. I moved to the bedroom on the third floor of my condo, told Jack that I had quit my job since I was feeling too ill to work, told everyone at work to communicate with me only by email, while Jack was at home had sugar pills with labels on them that looked like prescription medications delivered to the house by a co-worker of Jill's from the pharmacy that she worked at, and while Jack was home I even had Dr. Burton make a somber house call. I was also quite demanding of Jack's time when he was around, asking him to do menial tasks for me while coughing; and my fake lesions were becoming more numerous and visible on more and more parts of my body.

I never said that I was hungry while Jack was around – mostly because, after making sure that he was away by using the locator app on my and his phones, I went out for a big lunch or had Jill bring in gobs of goodies. I did lose a little weight, but not enough to look "wasted," so I covered up (except for the visible lesions) the best that I could when Jack was around.

I was surprised when Jack was still around after two weeks, although he obviously was highly stressed. I was also surprised that my activities were so much more boring and difficult than I had imagined, and I wasn't sure that I could keep it up much longer especially since Jack's work hours started getting spotty. It was time for the most disgusting thing that I ever did.

Dr. Burton called up the house. Of course Jack answered. He looked in on me as I pretended to be asleep. Phil Burton told Jack "Since this is important, she's authorized me to share her medical information with you, and since she's not available and I'm going out of town for a few days, can you deliver a message to her?"

"Uh, yeah – sure," Jack replied.

I was listening in on the extension in my room with the "mute" button depressed.

"Please tell Denise that her last blood test shows that unfortunately the disease is progressing as I had anticipated and she may be losing control of her bodily functions soon," Phil continued in a solemn voice.

Jack gulped hard. "Does...uh...does that mean that she won't be able to use the...uh...bathroom?"

"Yes, I'm afraid that periodically she won't be able to so you'll need to be prepared to wash her sheets regularly and make sure that she gets cleaned up after, otherwise her lesions could get even worse."

I thought that I heard the phone drop. Apparently Jack picked it up, and ended the call after he mumbled "I'll tell her."

Then came the really, really, repulsive part. About an hour after the call from Phil I intentionally shit and peed my pants. I called down to Jack on the intercom. When he entered the room he could smell what had happened. I was crying. "I don't know what happened, Honey; I've never done this before; I feel so worthless. I'll clean myself up as best that I can and then give you the sheets – and can you put new ones on the bed?"

He had the most sickened and forlorn look on his face. He nodded his head. "I'll go into the bathroom and then call down on the intercom when the sheets and my nightgown and panties are outside the door and I'm in the shower, OK?"

Jack nodded his head and left.

It really was gross cleaning up after myself, but I made sure that shit stains were visible on the sheets and on my panties when I placed them outside the bathroom door. I then summoned Jack on the intercom and went into the shower.

I stayed in the shower until I was sure that Jack was gone. When I exited in a new nightgown the bed was made – it wouldn't pass inspection in the military, but it was fine for my purposes.

It didn't take long after the "shit storm" incident. Two days later when Jack came into my room while I was pretend sleeping he left a piece of paper on the night table, then quietly snuck out. I quickly snapped it up and read it.

"Dear Denise:

I'm so sorry that I've got to do this, but I'm taking off. I took the $14,900 or so that was in your brokerage account but left the spending money from your last paychecks in your bank account. You can sell the condo to pay for your medical bills. Like I said, I'm really sorry, but I can't deal with your illness. Your pain is my pain; I hope that the end comes quickly for you.

Love, Jack"

While I was expecting this – in fact hoping for it – now that it had actually happened it hurt. "That fucking bastard," I screamed to myself, and then threw the bedside clock against the wall, shattering it.

I waited until the next morning before I went downstairs. I made sure that Jack was gone – most of his clothes and anything that was easily portable and of value had apparently left with him in his pickup truck. I didn't waste time.

Within the next three days I had returned to work, swore out a warrant for his arrest for theft – just to make sure that I had real negotiating power if he ever decided to return – and filed for divorce. I cited multiple grounds in the divorce petition including irreconcilable differences, adultery (Beth swore that she saw him enter a motel with an obvious prostitute the week before he left), and abandonment, using his "goodbye" letter as a substitute for the normal one year waiting period before one could file for abandonment.

Once things were essentially back to normal for me, it was time for some fun, distraction, and relaxation. I called Bill's cell about 7 p. m. on a Thursday.

"Is this THE Denise Richards," came the sexy low voice on the other end; obviously my name had been displayed on his caller ID.

"Well, maybe the second best looking one," I giggled.

"Does this call mean that you're separated?"

"Yes – the divorce papers have been filed and my soon to be ex-husband has left for parts unknown. Despite your crude goodbye to me when we last saw each other," I continued, with a giggle, "I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and asking you to go to dinner with me Saturday."

"Hmmm...let me think...Denise...Saturday...dinner. OK, sounds like a plan. However, don't make reservations, we'll just find some place; and since you asked me I assume that you'll pick me up?"

"You could be a gentleman and pick me up," I giggled again. I never giggle. What the hell was wrong with me?

"I'd like to show you my place and have a few drinks ahead of time. Why don't you come by about 4:30?"

"What – do you want to get to a restaurant in time for the senior citizen discount?" This time I laughed instead of giggling.

"No – but I have a big house and lots of drinks."

"OK – since I called I guess I have to accommodate you. What's your address?"

___________________

I was like a little kid before Christmas on Saturday. I got a massage, facial, pedicure, manicure, soaked in a hot bath, and shaved my legs – and pussy. I arrived at Bill's detached suburban house at 4:15, but didn't want to seem too anxious so I planned on just sitting in my car until 4:35. He must have seen me, however, and came out. As he opened my car door with a big smile he said "Are you lost little girl? Want some candy?"

"Hi," I blushed. "The traffic was lighter than I thought and I didn't want to arrive while you were getting dressed," I somehow got out, proud of my quick thinking.

"I thought that it might have been that you were embarrassed at being so excited that you got here early," he chuckled.

"Bastard," I fake snarled. "I should leave right now."

"Please don't; I have a great wine I want you to taste," he smiled.

We lightly chatted as I walked with him to his house. We were inside for no more than thirty seconds when his demeanor changed. "Uh...Denise. I have to be honest. I really, really missed you, and I've thought of nothing else except you ever since we parted, now about a month ago," he said in a completely serious tone.

Then he approached me, took me into his arms and started placing gentle kisses on my lips, neck, cheeks, and chest. I returned his amorous activities the best that I could. Then he lifted up my dress and his hand found my bare twat.

"No panties, huh," he half snarled, half grumbled. "Looks like you're as anxious as I am."

We didn't come up for air for three hours. I'd never been fucked and sucked so completely, in so many positions, with so much passion, and with so much enthusiasm before. The guy was like a fucking Energizer Bunny with a girthy cock. The best of our many copulations was when he was bucking like a bronco while I rode him cowgirl and he was simultaneously sucking and manipulating my tits. My pussy and nipples, and his cock, were red and sore – but I was in heaven and unless he's an award winning actor he was too. At about the three hour, seven minute, mark, at which point I wasn't sure that I still had a backbone and with every nerve ending in my body tingling, as we cuddled he said "We can't live by sex alone. Want to get something to eat?"

"I'm not sure that I can walk – and I'll certainly have a 'just fucked senseless' look on my face if we go out in public," I replied, staring into his intense azure eyes.

"We'll shower and then I'll make us something here," he chuckled.

"As long as you don't let me collapse in a sex-induced stupor," I chuckled back.

_______________________

Things moved fast with Bill and with my divorce. My attorney got a friendly judge, who was incensed that Jack absconded with $15,000 of my money, and the divorce went through quickly and easily. The money he absconded with was all that he would ever get. I didn't have the police vigorously pursue my sworn-out-arrest warrant for Jack because I didn't ever really want to see him again. It was just to keep him out of my life.

As far as Bill is concerned, I'm still shocked that he was available. I never have been able to figure out how a successful, intelligent, kind, generous, handsome, thirty one (my same age) year old, high libido (he has fucked me senseless virtually every day since our first time together), guy like him wasn't in a relationship. I've stopped looking the gift horse in the mouth, however, now that we've been married three years and I'm seven months pregnant – and he's still fucking me every day, although in view of my condition more gently than that first time.

I've kept the bra with the broken strap as my most prized souvenir – best thing that ever happened to me in my life.