Clara's Cuckold

I pulled her to me. "Keep fucking him, darling. It turns us both on." I felt her nod in my arms. I added, "Of course, love, we won't be able to get him into our bedroom all the time . . . there aren't enough excuses at hand . . . so I'll have to teach you how to set up the camera for the Ramada, or wherever else he meets you. OK?" I felt her nod, but also twitch. I guessed she wasn't too keen on having my eyes always on them, and ever present. Might take some of the exhilaration out of cheating. I felt like a buzz-kill, but I didn't really give a rat's ass.

Then the film Clara must have looked at the bedside clock, for she was hustling him to get dressed and go home, before Arthur came back. They both left the bedroom, but, from seemingly far away, I could swear I heard him tell her he loved her again and, this time, she told it back to him. It was too faint for me to be absolutely positive, but it made sense to me. And damn if it didn't make my dick even harder!

I then fucked Clara, trying to imitate wild man Nick, but I felt I needed lots of practice. There was no two ways about it, Nick had fucked my woman in a way I would never even have dreamed of up until now . . .

* * * * * *

THE NEXT EVENING, with both of us home from work, we had an argument. A real fucking doozy of an argument. And it was my fault it had escalated from a mild disagreement to an all out battle royal.

It all started, soon after dinner had been over with, when Clara told me she had destroyed the Nick tape. I shouldn't have gotten as pissed as I did, but I had wanted to watch it again. It was not only exciting to watch, it was a weird sort of educational film for me. Nick was teaching me new tricks. And giving me new erections.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" I threw at her, suddenly boiling inside my skull, as if saying the words had ignited my mind.

"I thought it over and decided I didn't think it was a good idea to keep it around. What if Nick's wife got her hands on it? Huh? You know how she's always snooping through our closets and drawers. While she wouldn't see my face on the film, she would surely recognize our bedroom!"

The stupidity of her actions, and her having decided for both of us, made me absolutely livid, and weirdly crazy. Foaming at the mouth crazy. We didn't just argue over it, we got to the throwing and breaking things real fast. The more we said, the worse it got. We were on a fast track to splitsville, and for the life of me, I couldn't stop it. Or help myself. I now just wanted to hurt her.

Then my hate for Nick roared out and showed itself. Vehemently. Followed quickly by my hatred of her for cheating with Nick behind my back in the first place. I yelled at her that I knew all about her lying, cheating affair with my so-called friend. I knew she knew I already knew, but I threw it at her anyway, but making her affair seem as cheap and gawdy as I could. With as many curse words tossed in as I come up with.

I yelled at her how I had heard her at the Ramada, ho ho, telling Nick she would only suck him off because yadda, yadda. This little tidbit she didn't know, and it hit her hard. Possibly because I had revealed my clever, snooping, playing detective side to her. I called her a lying, cheating whore cunt, and much, much worse. I was hurt, and angry, and pissed. And totally out of control.

The capper came when I picked up one of her favorite Hummel figurines- -a precious possession her late mother had bought for her--and crashed it through our glass-topped coffee table. I looked down at the array of different type glass, almost chortling away at my cleverness, and when I looked back up to find the target of my uncontrollable rage, I saw her in the bedroom, packing a suitcase.

This took the wind out of my sails--but not fully--and I slumped down on the couch, both wanting to rush to her and ask her forgiveness, but still angry with her. My mind was totally fucked up. I sat there, undecided on any a course of action. Then I watched her, silently, mutely, as she headed toward the front door, a suitcase in each hand. I wanted to call to her, but I was afraid to speak. Afraid of what would pour out of me. My overall anger had subsided greatly, but it was still there, hanging over me like a horrible black cloud . . .

* * * * * *

CLARA WAS GONE, and I just sat there, staring foolishly at the closed door. I couldn't seem to move, and my head was full of thoughts of what would be happening to her within mere hours. I knew she would call Nick, in spite of her feelings for his wife. And Nick would easily, could easily, concoct a story to get out of the house, with his very trusting wife none the wiser.

They would go to a hotel, a motel, a friend's house. Wherever. And be together. The two cheaters in my life. I felt left out, and totally alone. Abandoned by them both. But I still had smoldering embers of anger within me. I looked down at the broken glass, and maniacally screamed out, "Hah! Who needs ya? Ya big dummies!" I would have been happy as a clam to know they had heard me.

I had seen Nick in action, so I knew what he would soon be doing with her, to her, and even for her. The vivid images of them coupling, so feverishly, so wildly, were burned into my brain, as if etched there by some godlike Davinci.

The pictures in my mind could easily be regarded as some strange space alien's unprocessed, and X-rated, DVD film, with my mind acting as the catalyst that brought it to life. In living color, and with motion, and I even had a pause button. I could stop them, Clara and nick, in mid-fuck as it were, and examine even the blond hairs on her nipples, the twisting and curling, wiry dark hairs of his pubic area. In my mind's eye, I could see it all with crystal clarity.

But for now, all I could do was stare at a closed wooden door . . .

* * * * * *

WEEKS PASSED, then months. I went to work and performed like a zombie. I hadn't seen either Nick, or Clara, in this interval. I came home and lived like a zombie, dead inside, but having to exist. And with the images of them continually playing in my head, over and over . . .

I was becoming obsessed with the images, and driven to distraction. I couldn't go ten minutes without the two of them popping into my head, fucking and sucking each other with total, animalistic abandonment. My work was beginning to suffer. And bore me. I couldn't even force myself to concentrate on it. It seemed only a necessity, a necessity needed by me to eat and pay rent.

Another week went by.

People, too, were starting to annoy me. Greatly. Everything they said seemed to be knee-deep in nonsense and meaningless concepts.

"How are you?" Who the fuck really cared?

"I bought a brand new riding mower over the weekend!" Fuck you, you status-seeking, keep-up-with-the-neighbors moron!

"I saw a great film last night." Yeah, as if you would know a great film from Genoa salami, you freakin' idiot!

And even worse, I knew it. Knew I was obsessed, nay, bewitched, by it all. And I also knew, even as I sat there watching the closed door again, that I could do nothing at all to change it. I was too hooked on it, these images from hell.

It was all too delicious. Too intoxicating. Too exciting. I hadn't been this sexually aroused in all my life, not even in my halcyon days, the salad days of my youth.

But it was wearing on me, too. The images would flood in and, within seconds, I would be harder than at any time in my history. With my erection needing immediate relief--if I were to vanquish the head pictures--which I fulfilled by masturbating. I was masturbating so often, during any given day, my prick was now chronically sore. And twice, it had bled, with the blood intermingling with my sperm. Many small red flecks among the white.

And another week bit the dust.

To aid me, and to give me some escape, I was now foolishly drinking to excess. But, amazingly, even when I was blotto, the images remained, seemingly even more vivid to my booze-soaked brain. How many times now had I jerked off in a drunken stupor? Sometimes falling asleep right on the edge of the bed, awakening to find my hand still on my dick, telling me the mission had failed. I promptly took the problem in hand and finished the task.

If I was to retain any of the sanity I hoped I still had left, and stop the dick soreness, I knew I had to do something. And quickly, before I drank myself into oblivion, and the death I knew was sure to follow.

But for now, I needed a little drink.

I went into the kitchen and got chipped ice from the icemaker. Then hurried back into the living room, carrying the frozen ice in cupped hands.

I went over to the liquor cabinet, sloppily dumped the ice into a glass, and fixed myself a stiff Scotch and water. I took a sip and looked over at the closed front door, as if it might offer up an answer to my plight. I stared at, willing it to speak to me, to tell me what I must do, how to go about saving myself, but the dumb door kept acting as if it was nothing more than a door . . . damn it all to hell!

I should have felt foolish doing this foolishness, but I didn't. I was glad for this stupid game-playing distraction. For the moment, anyway, my mind seemed free of Nick and Clara. No images of them arose. Yet. But I knew they were on the way. They were just waiting in the wings for the door to tire of me, its boredom brought about by the frustration of its trying to communicate with an animate object, and then Nick and Clara would take their turn at center stage. In their tight-fitting costumes of naked flesh.

I chug-a-lugged the drink, and burned my throat in the doing, which forced me to cough several times. Which, in turn, made me need something liquid. So I made myself another drink. Even stiffer this time, if that was even possible.

I finished the drink quickly and had two more. Both downed with great dispatch. The effect of the liquor was now doing its job of keeping the images at bay, but I knew it wouldn't be effective for too long. It never was. Tonight was no exception.

Shit! I needed a drink.

Then suddenly, there she was, Clara, in all her glory, and naked, her breasts quivering and jiggling, her naked skin glistening as she took her place upon the acting boards. Then she just stood there, waiting. Waiting for her naked Nick, who never missed a cue, or an enter stage left demand. I closed my eyes, and waited for him, too.

He now walked, no, he now strutted onto the platform, his magnificent nine-inch cock leading the way. It was thrust upward into the air at a forty-five degree angle, with its large cock head wobbling from side to side, cobra-like. My brain now applauded the image of him, as did Clara. He bowed from the waist as if thanking his audience then stood up and pointed down at his burgeoning prick. A cue to the lovely, naked Clara. She smiled at him, with a smile that hurt me deeply.

Then, heeding his cock cue, Clara quickly went to him and knelt down before his nakedness. Her small, dainty hand reached out for his massively thick and hairy cock base. I took another sip, a long sip. The evening's show had begun and I had front row seats. I glanced at the door. "Ha ha, I see that," I said out loud, "my seat is better than your seat! Neener, neener, neener!" I was happy.

I watched as Clara sucked Nick's cock with a fervor and passion I felt she had kept well hidden from me. Her head bobbed and weaved; even twisting itself here and there, as she laved his humongous member with a mouth I personally knew was the hottest on earth. Her eyes were wide open and staring right into his pubic area. And she looked as if she loved seeing what she was looking at.

From time to time, all of his thick, nine-inches would disappear completely into her face, her spittle dripping into his groin hairs, and her tongue showing itself and lapping wetly at the bottom of his large, hairy scrotum.

And her moaning! She sounded as if she tasted the sweetest candy made by God. And couldn't get enough of it. I would give an arm just to hear her moan that way, even one time, with me. Fuck it; throw in a leg, too. Who needs 'em?

Then, an amazing thing happened! The images of them disappeared. Kaput! As if, all of a sudden, the movie player had broken down. I giddily, tipsily, and quite idiotically, thought of searching for the remote, but quickly realized, dumbly, that there wasn't a remote for images that only existed in my mind.

Then I heard, quite clearly, "I have the answer, Arthur, to your Clara and Nick dilemma!" I opened my eyes and looked toward the door, feeling insanity dancing inside my brain. Or was it merely that I was that drunk? I stared at the door, as if waiting for it to speak again. And, a moment later, it did just that . . .

"Sorry it took me so long, pal, but we doors are notorious for our procrastination. Comes from having nothing to do all day long but swing on hinges. Capish?"

I nodded, numbly, and was, to say the least, totally flabbergasted. Doors don't speak. Not in the real world, anyway. Any fool knows that simple, undeniable fact. But I knew why I could hear the door. Simple. I had gone bonkers, round the old bend, a candidate for the funny farm, or the loony bin. But, oddly, I still felt sane. But, I reminded myself, isn't that how all insane people feel? They're sane; it's the rest of the world that's crazy.

However, if I was now insane, fuck it was my attitude. I could be as delightfully insane as the best of them! I headed for the liquor cabinet; weaving a bit during the short trip, and said to the wood door, "Need a refill. Don't go away! I'll be right back." I laughed. Because where the fuck would the door go to anyhow? To my neighbor? Ha ha! I now picture my door knocking on a door! With its knob! How else? Doors suck in the hands department. I was silly and girlishly giddy. And as drunk as a sailor on payday.

"Whee!" I said out loud as I tried to find the bottle of Scotch that was now playing hide-and-seek with me. "Where are you, Scotchie Wotchy? Oh, there you are, you rat-bashtard! Trying to fuck my bottle of Vermouth, were you? Well, pal, I'll let you in on a little shecret . . . secret . . . she'sh shpoken for . . . you dumb shit . . . by that gentlemanly bottle of cor, cor, corvosheeay, who, at thish very moment, looks as if he wants to wring your long, glassy neck. Sho, buddy, behave yourself, you shilly sit!" There! That told him.

I laughed some more, feeling good by doing so. "Ha ha ha ha!" My laugh sounded maniacal, and identical to a crazy person's laugh, as if I had ever even heard a truly insane person laugh.

The door said, quite nicely and politely I thought, "Take your time, chum, I got all night!" This made me laugh heartily, too, and caused me to spill the Scotch bottle I was aiming wobbily at the rim of the now too small glass. This spilling action made me laugh anew.

"Waste not, want not!" I mumbled. Then, bending from my waist, I lapped up the spilled Scotch from off the cabinet's white Formica-clad extended shelf. The Scotch tasted raw and pungent, its sharp tang being undiminished by the shaved ice. It burned my throat and caused me to cough, which sent my spittle flying into the ice bucket. I said, out loud, "Shorry!" Then I heard the door say, "Tsk, tsk, tsk and tut, tut, tut!" I was being properly chastised by an entrance necessity.

"Tell me door," I said, looking over at it. "Do you have a name other than door?" I giggled, and then took a sip. I was ready for anything now. Talking doors included.

"Yeah, chummy . . . my friends call me Portal." I laughed again, so hard and strong, I spilled my drink, and then fell to my knees, clutching at my stomach with my free hand, and using it to hold my gut, which had started to ache.

I then fairly yelled out, "Portal! Of course! How fucking obvious. I should have guessed! And your brother's name is Access!" I roared with laughter now, my stomach hurting something awful. "And, and, and your sister is called, naturally enough, Ingress! Ha ha Ha ha Ha ha Ha ha Ha ha! Or is it Stoa? Ha ha Ha ha Ha ha!" I was delirious. And stopping my laughter was beyond my abilities.

I rolled around on the floor now, as giddy as an insane idiot; the Scotch spilled onto the carpet, and the chipped ice making little diamonds in the nap, with the empty glass clutched tightly in my hand. I was gone. Ga ga. Out of it.

I looked down at the carpet and thought of becoming a diamond merchant. Hell, I was sitting on a fortune! No wonder they called it ice! Diamonds were ice! And I had a refrigerator full of the shit! And it had an automatic diamond maker, too! Just hit the button, Jack, and voila! And you're as rich as Croessus. I threw my head back and laughed as loud as I could.

To ease the stomach pains, and because I couldn't stop laughing, I started pounding on the carpet with both fists. Alternately my fists while hammering at it, as if trying to make it behave and lie even flatter. Dumb rug! This thought, too, struck me as very funny, and made me laugh even harder.

My juiced-up mind now wanted the rug to speak to me. Door like. To at least protest the vicious beating I was giving it. But the fucking rug wouldn't talk! Not a word. Doors, I reasoned, as if discovering something unknown to mankind, are much smarter than rugs. Just as pigs are much smarter than dogs. Everyone knows that truism, everyone except the pig. And the dumb old dog.

"Cat got your tongue?" I screamed at the carpet. I waited a decent interval, giving it a fair chance to say something. But it was either deaf, or dog-dumb, and had chosen to give me the silent treatment by clamming up on me, its angry interrogator. I beat it with my fists a few times, yelling, "Talk, talk, talk!" But it was made of stern stuff, and wouldn't utter a word.

So I hit it even harder, and said, my voice rising, "Take that, you deaf dog-mute!" I followed this up with more hard whacks and yelled, this time at the top of my lungs, "This'll teach you to play dog-dumb with me, you nappy pile of crap!" Gotta show them rugs and carpets just who the boss is around here, don'tcha now?

I finally tired of my rug beating and looked weakly, and bleary-eyed, toward my door, toward Portal. It, now a he to me, just stood there, not saying a word about what he had just witnessed. I was glad, for the last thing I wanted now was to be chastised by a wooden door named Portal.

Still sitting on the carpet, and supporting myself on one hand, I stared at the door, waiting for something to happen. An odd thought flashed through my mind. The door's lower hinge squeaked in the summertime, and I had put off oiling it. It always squeaked with each opening and closing, faithfully. I knew now the door had tried to communicate with me, through the language of the Doors, the squeaky language humans frequently choose to ignore.

I was suddenly impressed by Portal's ability to withstand the shameful ordeal I had so callously let exist, and by his saying nothing more to me than a mild squeak as I used him, uncaringly, for entry, and another equally feeble squeak on my way out. I felt contrite.

I wanted to apologize to the door. To Portal. To say it's not my fault, old door. I don't comprehend Doorsian too well, so how could I have known your pain, your shame? Let me make it up to you with a good, drenching of 3-in-1 oil. OK? Friends again? Let's shake on it, shall we, Portal? Here's my hand, give me your knob.

But I was silent, not saying a word to Portal. I felt he wouldn't understand me. How could he? I no longer understood myself . . .

* * * * * *

I WOKE UP, but I couldn't remember going to sleep. I had slept in my clothes, that much was evident, and now felt that well-known icky feeling all over me, especially in my feet, which seemed to be way to big now for the shoes I hadn't removed. With my eyes refusing to open for fear light might enter and immediately blind me for life, I pondered my caged feet, and this icky phenomena.