Conversations 04

This work is copyright to the author. All characters are over 18 -- and even if they look younger, they are way over 18. Like 25.

I'm writing a series of short stories on the same theme -- that conversation between a man and wife when one of them has been caught cheating. How it turns out kinda depends on my mood at the time of writing. Sometimes they are funny, sometimes sad, sometimes angry and sometimes just silly fun. They aren't meant to be a textbook on how to write a Loving Wives story, or even a guide. No story in this section is ever going to be universally admired. I like the comments and don't mind even the bad ones from good old anonymouse. Even ones where I get called a cuck so often in one comment that it sounds like a chicken run -- which is actually quite funny when you read it out loud to your family. I am a romantic at heart and will often twist things as far as possible to try and get a happy ending.

Sometimes it doesn't get there however and then its btb.

By the way, if you're going to skim, please don't comment about how I forgot about something. I didn't. You just missed it because you were skimming.

Have fun

*****

My name is John Hodges, and I am a nose.

Yes, yes. Laugh it up, imagining that I am some sort of animated character or someone with a huge proboscis.

No. I am a nose -- which in the perfume industry is the name given to an expert perfumier.

And what that means is that my nose is naturally very talented in distinguishing certain scent ingredients and then combining them into the perfect perfume for an individual. I've been fortunate enough to be able to take that natural talent -- which is just a matter of luck in the gene lottery -- and train it further to the point that I can create the very best perfume for anyone.

I know that sounds boastful, but I'm not trying to be. It's just a matter of fact. Sommeliers are born with a unique sense of taste and then hone that to a fine edge to enable them to become the finest wine-tasters. In turn wine-tasters are vital in the wine industry, not only because they can take the pressings from various grapes and combine them into a truly excellent wine, they can also advise people on what is good and what is average. And when a bottle of wine can go for over half a million dollars (the 1945 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Grand Cru auctioned in 2018) that knowledge can mean the difference between riches or penury.

In the same way that a true sommelier is quite rare and is therefore able to demand high prices for his services, so too can a true perfumier.

Perfumes are often made from very expensive ingredients: for instance, oud is made from the resin of an endangered species of tree -- but only after it has been infected by a certain type of mould and only around two percent of these trees are so infected. You can imagine; you have to find a small forest of these rare trees, then you have to get permission to mess with the trees because they are endangered, and then you have to find which -- if any -- have been infected by a specific species of fungus. After that it's easy. You just have to wait around for a long time. The tree protects itself from the mould by creating a certain type of resin, so you just wait for it to ooze out and collect it, making sure to leave enough that the mould doesn't overcome the tree and kill it. That's why it's a lot more expensive by weight than gold.

Ambergris is the stuff that perhaps 1% of sperm whales (yep, only that species of whale) vomit or crap out. It's formed inside the intestines when something sharp, like the beak of a giant squid, gets stuck in the whale's gut and irritates it enough. Unprocessed, it smells like shit that's been floating in the sea for a long time -- which often it is and has. Processed, it is the scent of magic.

So, if you want to make a new perfume that will really sell -- and so many football players seem to want to -- you have to invest a shit-ton of money, and before you do that you want to get the perfume exactly right first -- in the lab.

All of which explanation is just to show why I get really well paid and -- through making a specific perfume for just a single client -- why I sometimes am invited into the company of the rich and the famous and the beautiful.

When I met my wife, I had been commissioned to create a perfume specifically for a singing star -- Arabella -- she of the most wondrous voice while singing and the most awful regional accent while speaking. Still, she has a wonderful sense of humour and is always great fun to be around. And of course, she writes great songs.

I apologise, but to explain the next part, I have to go into the technical again. Perfumery is a technical business.

So, the best scent for any person is based on their own natural scent -- which of course they have been around all their life and therefore can't really smell it. So take a hint, if you think a scent is really good and strong, it's not for you. The best scent is one that you can hardly smell at all. Take that and boost it up. Simple.

Except which of your scents is the best? It changes all the time. Most of you who enjoy blow jobs (having, not giving) know that eating pineapple will make the taste of your cum a lot more pleasant for the girl who is giving her all for your benefit. Your scent will change in the same way. Eat pineapple, your scent swings to the citrus. Drink a lot of rum, your scent becomes sweeter. Be constipated for a week and God, you don't want to know.

So I have to take samples at various times and average them out. Then I create the scent, using my nose to get it exactly right, and boost up the strength of that aroma so that you always smell great and attractive. And thank you, dear client, for that rather large cheque!

Back to Arabella. As she lives for the most part in the south of France, and I really didn't want to commute that far every few days during the collection period, she had invited me to stay at her villa.

Now by this point, most of you will be thinking 'Stuck up ponce, with his fancy frou-frou and la-di-da ways', which would really be unfair. I was born on the wrong side of the tracks, got a barely decent education, almost ended up as a drug mule in a gang, and only then did I discover that my schnozz might be valuable as more than just an air filter.

After literally begging for a place, it took ten years to go through the mill at one of France's best perfumeries during which, at various times; I actually almost starved to death, became allergic to several perfume chemicals from having to sniff them, almost became addicted -- twice, and still had to sweep and clean the factory on my one day off a fortnight. So if you think me a stuck-up ponce, then fuck you, I'll fuckin' kneecap yer, yer bastard! See, my unfortunate roots are still strong.

And to be fair, in order to sell my product -- which is me -- I do have to schmooze with the great and the good, and therefore have to dress up in my best airs and graces before going on the world stage.

Besides being a singer constantly on the album charts, Arabella was a famed hostess to the stars of stage, screen, music, art and the football pitch, and her villa always seemed to be full of the weirdest mixtures of people you can imagine. And yet somehow, the mix was almost always perfect and everyone got on. Except when they didn't, which was usually when somebody called somebody else a stuck-up ponce with his frou-frou and la-di-da. But I always made sure it was dark and nobody saw me when I put the boot in.

Actually, most of the time I enjoyed it. Although celebrities tend to be arseholes with the public, when they're together -- because they're all stars -- they're all fairly equal and don't try and pull the bullshit over each other's eyes too much. And when they insist on doing that, then we're back to the dark and the boot. Eventually Arabella was worried enough to have infra-red security cameras installed in the villa and I had to stop doing that.

It was there that I met Jade Tyger. I know -- I sniggered when I first heard it as well. But, it turns out that it's actually her real name, and her clueless parents had no inkling that they were starting her down a school career of being constantly bullied.

She was quiet until she got a few drinks down her neck, and then she was a party girl. By party, I mean happy and dancing and singing. I never once saw her get roofied or gang banged or forced to pull a train. Different type of party to those in the USA apparently. Yes, she was quiet, except when she wasn't. And she was beautiful, except when she... actually she was beautiful all the time.

Jade was a world famous model, as you might remember. I first saw her when I was exiting the big hot tub that overlooked Arabella's world famous art garden -- the one with pieces and installations by every nutter with a beard that Arabella ever met. I was leaving, bumped into Jade who was on the way in, made an immediate U-turn and did another two hour stint in the tub that left me like a prune over 92% of my body.

Totally worth it though. I hauled out my very best efforts, dusted them off and managed to charm her enough that she agreed to have dinner with me. From there I managed to convert that into a second, third and fourth date, and thence to a weekend in Monaco. From then on we were a couple.

Jade, my little tiger, was tall -- almost six foot, with black hair that fell down in gentle waves to just below her butt cheeks. In fact her hair was so long that it was often lower than some of the skirts she would wear -- which demonstrates how long her hair was, and why my wife always had to wear clean, full and pretty panties when we left the house. Try 'upskirt' on Google -- she'll be there. Besides, models have no personal embarrassment about their bodies. Over two years I attended a few fashion shows that she took pride of place in, and the number of naked and semi-naked bodies in the single change room was stunning. There were dressers, hairdressers, make-up artists, assistants, runners and even set dressers running to and fro, and half of them were men. Only I seemed to be ogling however, which made my wife smile and shake her head, while the other models giggled and played up to me.

In fact the only time it was different was when a presidential hopeful appeared in the audience, and then the change room was barred to all men, including me. I have no idea why that happened.

I didn't mind the skirt length or her flashing her knickers. I was proud that she was on my arm and wearing my ring, and as long as it stayed exactly that way, I was more than happy.

She was twenty three when we met, and her face was that of a sexy little girl. I know that sounds more than perverted, but I can't help that, it wasn't my face to change. She had huge green eyes, the biggest I've ever seen outside of anime movies, a small little nose, and the loveliest lips over a sharp little chin. She was thinner than I would have preferred, but then she was a model, so that was predictable. And the slightly hollow cheeks made her look twelve. An incredibly beautiful twelve with surprisingly nice tits -- two good handfuls. She didn't become a super model because of her dress sense, believe me. Although designers would -- and actually did on two occasions -- fight to have her wear their clothes, jewellery, make-up... anything they wanted women to want. She was that good.

Her body's scent was sublime, with top notes of mandarin and bergamot, a heart of jasmine and vanilla, and a strong base note of woman in heat. God I loved that natural scent of hers.

We didn't sleep together until that weekend in Monaco, which puzzled me, as models tend to have a reputation. No, not for being easy, but rather only being available to men who needed to carry their wallets in a luxury version of the little red wagon. So I was very surprised that she slept with me that weekend. By Monday I was too exhausted to be surprised about anything. On the plus side, her legs still wobbled when she walked down the catwalk on Tuesday, so I felt vindicated. Apparently my cheesy grin in the audience was very visible to the models as they swayed, stomped and sashayed down the runway, and my girlfriend was teased a lot. I don't think she really minded.

Six months and an exhaustive amount of sex later, we were married in a relatively small ceremony, although the number of exquisite beauties in the church was quite stunning. As was the amount of scent from friends on my side of the aisle.

We wandered far and wide around the world together, going where her career and my clients called us. I think those two years were the happiest in my whole life.

Then came that conversation.

"Honey, we need to talk."

I said that. Because we did need to. Really badly.

She seemed a little distracted, partly because I was sitting with a bandage on my head after being taken out by some beginner on the intermediate slopes at St Moritz in Switzerland. Some obnoxious little toe rag collided with me, knocked me down and then tried to ski off without a word of apology. Jade had stood there leaning on her ski poles laughing, and neither of us saw Mother Toe Rag, trying to catch up to her little psychopath, ski hopelessly into me and catch me on the side of the head with her ski. Bitch. Jade had immediately taken on the job of calling for help, as I was sleeping at the time and didn't want to do it. I woke up in hospital.

And here we were, a week later having That conversation.

"Jade, what did you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean! It's unforgiveable!"

Jade suddenly went very pale. "No honey, nothing is unforgiveable."

"Yes, it bloody well is. You knew what I was like. You knew I would never stand for it."

Jade now had tears in her eyes, which I thought was a bit extreme.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"What?"

"I'm so sorry!"

"What did you do, come on. I want to know exactly!"

"It wasn't so bad."

"It must have been bad! I can smell it on you. You know what my nose is like!"

She rushed over and knelt at my feet, clutching me around the knees. She is a strange woman at times, my wife.

"John, I love you and I made a mistake. Please forgive me."

"I can't forgive anything until you confess what you ate."

"I was just a handjob and it didn't mean... what do you mean ate?"

"Never mind ate. What do you mean handjob?"

"You thought I'd eaten something... Oh my god!"

I was getting pissed off now. She was smelling awful and I thought she'd eaten some nasty rancid cheese, or some of that canned rotten fish the Swedes eat that they have to open outside, it smells so bad. Now she tells me about some handjob.

"What did you do, Jade?"

"Nothing."

"Jade, you tell me now or there is no chance of us getting through this shit."

"John, no. Please don't say that. You know I love you."

"Put a past tense on that Jade. I knew you loved me. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Nooo. Don't say that! I love you completely. And you love me."

"Not if you're cheating on me I don't!"

She burst into tears. I had to go and open the window, the reek coming off her so awful. What had happened to that delightful scent I had loved for the past two and a half years?

Unfortunately, she followed me on her knees, and I had to stick my face out the window just to breath. She saw what I was doing and her shoulders slumped.

"It was while you were in hospital, the day you told me to go enjoy the skiing, and that I didn't need to spend every day in a horrible hospital when the snow was crisp and the sun was shining."

"I certainly don't remember telling you to go off and enjoy fucking somebody else. No matter how fucking crisp the snow and sun were."

"I didn't ... I didn't fuck anyone. It was just a hand job."

"Why do you keep saying 'just a hand job'? I mean would it be 'just a blow job'? Or 'just a fuck'? How about 'just a gangbang'?"

She got cross which, strangely enough was better than her weeping and moaning. Although the smell didn't improve.

"I don't do things like that! I never have! You know that!"

"And how do I know that? Is it because you told me? Of course it is. So how does that make me sure of anything you've told me in the light of recent 'just hand jobs'?"

Her hands moved into little claws, and it looked like she wished they were around my neck. I'm good on logic -- her, not so much. She's good on intuition. She hates it when I use logic on her.

"So who was this lucky recipient of 'just a hand job'?" I demanded.

"You don't know him," she muttered.

"I might," I protested with a solid air of maturity . "You're not the only one who knows people."

"Look," she said. "We were in the gondola on the intermediate slope..."

"The one where I got hit in the head. This sounds like another hit in the head for me from that slope. Yay me."

She frowned at me. Somehow I wasn't mortally wounded by it.

"We were in the gondola and the ski-lift came to a complete halt," she continued.

"Yes, they do that regularly, usually for half an hour at most. Everyone expects that."

She looked startled. "Really? He said it could mean we might be stuck for days."

It was my turn to frown. "And you didn't question that? What, you thought you might both die and it would be better to go out with a bang? Or perhaps just a hand job?"

She got to her feet. "Will you please stop saying that!"

"I'm just saying what you said. I don't know how else to put it."

"You're being mean!"

"And you were being a slut! And that's worse in my eyes!"

"I wasn't being a slut," she whimpered. "I was trying to do something kind."

I stared at her. "What the fuck does that mean?"

She looked up at me defiantly. "We got talking. It turns out he's dying of cancer and that was his last days before he went to Dignitas and ended his life in dignity."

Dignity was not part of the equation when I burst out laughing.

"How can you laugh," she yelled. "He was dying and I helped him feel a little better."

"How can I laugh? Because my wife is a dumb cheating bitch who believes the biggest load of crap anyone feeds her. How the fuck did you survive to live this long?"

She was furious. "I did something kind for somebody and you are just being so nasty and bullying me, even though it took nothing from you!"

Remember those years at school where she was bullied? They left scars.

"What was this poor soul's name? No, wait. Let me see if I can guess."

I'd remembered something. A similar incident a year or so before... what was his name? Come on memory, this is important!

"Let me guess, could it be -- and this is a wild guess out of thin air, mind you. Could it be Anthony..."

She went pale again.

"Anthony... Borsel? That's my guess. Anthony Borsel. Am I close?"

Her mouth was working, but no sound was coming out.

"When he told you he had terminal cancer, you simply believed him? I mean you're a beautiful woman, you get hit on regularly by pussy hounds, so you must have some defences. Otherwise we'd have been divorced two days after we got married. Remember that occasion? The one where we promised to be faithful to each other? Remember?"

"Of course I remember, but it was ..."

"Just a hand job. Yeah, I know. Although I kind of think if it had been me with another woman and told you I was just fingerbanging her, I think your reaction might have been a bit more extreme than mine."

The misery on her face told me I'd hit the nail on the head.

"Yes but you wouldn't have done it to help a dying woman," she protested faintly. I thought her logic was a bit weak. I might have done it.

"Okay, the dying bit. You still haven't told me how you knew he wasn't bullshitting you."

"He was wearing one of those woolly hats, and took it off to show me he'd gone bald from the chemotherapy."