tagLoving WivesDinner at the Perryville Pt. 02

Dinner at the Perryville Pt. 02


Just a little prologue...

I'd discovered Marjory my wife cheating on our marriage with a sociologist from State College. He'd been driving way out of his way to make the hook up, and it had taken him nearly six months before he'd scored. My wife's perfidy aside, I thought the whole thing seemed suspiciously odd. Why would a man drive so far out of his way, and take so long just to get a piece of tail? Was he that cautious? Was he that afraid of being discovered that he'd travel scores of miles in an effort to not get caught? No, there had to be more to it. But what?

Then there was my wife, and... my son. I've always loved my wife, and even after my discovery I still loved her, just not nearly so much. Then there's my son. I've loved him without question since the moment I first set eyes on him, he'd become my life. I believed an uncomfortable, no constrained, family life would be infinitely preferable to a broken home so I decided on an informal separation rather than a full scale divorce would be preferable. Sounds weak to some I know, but marriage and parenting means responsibility. If we'd not had Ryan I'd have been gone in a New York minute. So I decided to wait and if I had to, I'd move out at some future time.

So I stayed. Did I trust my wife? No. Did I believe she was capable of staying faithful after once cheating? I doubted it. Did I care? Yes, I hoped she was strong enough and caring enough to not fail twice. Did it matter? I'm not sure, I didn't think so. I figured, if I didn't like the train of events I'd pull out once I satisfied myself regarding the mystery of the sociologist.

Where we live:

Our house is on a small lot. We have an above-ground pool, a tool shed, and a few flowers in the back. There is a garage, but it's filled with the accumulated debris of a fifteen year marriage.

Inside we share three bedrooms; one for my wife and I, one for our son Ryan, and a third is filled with my wife's extra clothing, mostly shoes and nearly every outfit she'd ever wore since high school. There's also a small, but functional bathroom.

On the first floor there's the usual living room, dining room, kitchen, and pantry. A stairway leads to an unfinished cellar where we do our laundry and stockpile other "needed" though really unnecessary materials.

We've been using this house as an equity builder. She and I have been looking, and we found an old farmhouse a few miles away; it looks pretty rundown and has been on and off the market several times. We had talked and believed with a little luck and a lot of elbow grease we could restore it.

The past couple years Marjory's been wandering up and down the region chasing antiques. I've always had a funny feeling about antiques. I know thieves will study the obituaries to spy out an old house. They'll scope it out, see if it's unoccupied and pull in with a truck long about sundown. They'll break in and spend the whole night emptying the place out. I'd hate the idea of buying somebody else's stolen treasures, even if they aren't worth much. Marjory knows how I feel, and she's been careful. I'd rather buy something that's old and looks like an antique than actually buy something stolen. I guess we do have a few antiques; there's an old wind up Victrola, a high boy, and an expensive secretary I know is an antique because it was my great great grandmother's. Ryan sleeps on an old double bed my granddad said his grand-mom, my great great grand-mom lost her virginity in. We even have the old gal's hairbrush and hand mirror. Nobody uses them though. We have two old spinning wheels too.

Why have I wasted all this time describing where we live? I think that should be obvious; I love the place, and if Marjory and I did permanently split up all the time, effort, and love we'd poured into it would be lost. Only a fool would throw away fifteen years of love and hard work without first trying to think things through, and if I'm nothing else, I'm a thinker and a planner.

So here we are!

My discovery and first reprisal against Marjory occurred in August, but things got complicated after that. No surprise actually, summer had always been a busy time, and by August we'd looked about and realized there was still so much more that had to be done. We'd promised Ryan a trip to Del Grosso's Amusement Park because of the water slide. Marjory's mom and dad owned a small cottage over on Deep Creek Lake in Western Maryland, and we'd promised them a few days of swimming and fishing. Of course there was church, and around Labor Day our church has its Rally Day. Marjory's a Sunday school teacher, and I'm on the finance committee so we'd have to stay a part of that.

I'd like to forewarn anyone listening; the one committee a person should ever volunteer for is finance. There are some good reasons for that. For one no one wants to spend any money so every meeting leads to bickering. What's worse is once on that committee one sees who does and doesn't contribute. It really tears my ass to see people in the congregation get up and shower some wealthy family with praise for what they do when I know they don't give squat. It tears my ass even more when I see the old widows sitting off to the side or in the back; they're the real givers, but quite often the other congregants act like their doing those old ladies a favor by letting them sit in a pew.

Del Grosso, Deep Creek Lake, and Rally Day aside there was still my parents to consider. I grew up in Western Maryland, and my mom and dad are farmers. Pennsylvania doesn't have a state fair, but Maryland does, and it's during the week of Labor Day. My mom always has pies and cakes in contests, and my dad is a clogger so, me being an only child means it's always off to Timonium, Maryland for at least two days. To be honest, I enjoy the State Fair. I enjoy wandering up and down barns filled with animals, and I especially enjoy the competitions and the seafood. Believe it when I say there's nothing in the world like Maryland steamed crabs or Maryland crab cakes. It's like nobody else in the world has ever heard of "Old Bay" seasoning.

How was I going to get out of the dilemma I faced?

I thought I'd figured things out. I'd taken Marjory and Ryan to the Perryville on a Wednesday where she'd get to see her "paramour" out with his wife and kids first hand. Of course the event had exposed and humiliated her. I thought I'd let her sweat it out by following up with a string of days wherein she got to ponder what I planned to do. Then I laid it all out; no outright divorce, but a separation. I was sure my decision would destroy her, and it did, but her reaction was the inverse of what I expected. I was sure she'd be so humiliated and so ashamed she'd want to keep it from her parents. I guess I'd overdone it; she was so crushed that just as soon as I disappeared back to work she was on the phone to her mom and dad and to my mom and dad. No that wasn't correct; she called her parents and then went over. She called mine, and begged to see them too.

Not a week had gone by but I got a call from my dad. "Son," he said, "we got a call from Marjory."

I thought, "Shit!" Then I said, "OK, dad, what'd she tell you?"

He said, "Maybe we should get together and talk."

"Shit," I thought. I just knew it, he was going to be on her side. "All right," I said, "let's get together tomorrow night. I'll come down."

"Don't come here," he said, "your mom's a mess. You know what she's like."

"How about the Wagon Wheel," I suggested. The Wagon Wheel was a restaurant and bar not far from where my parents lived. They had good club sandwiches and they served onion rings. I added, "Say seven?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he said.

So there we were; it was seven-fifteen at the Wagon Wheel. I'd ordered a Turkey club, onion rings, and a Pabst. Dad got a Pabst. While I waited for my food I asked, "All right, what'd she say?"

Dad looked kind of glum, "Everything son. She told us everything."

I kind of figured she'd massaged the story so I asked, "So do tell, what exactly did she say?"

By the look on his face I could tell he didn't like the way I phrased my question but he started anyway, "Some college professor, some sociologist started showing up where she worked. He showed a lot of interest in what she did. They started talking, then having lunches together, the lunches got longer. He started asking questions about the two of you. He talked her into meeting with him at a restaurant in Chambersburg. He got her to go to a motel where they could study his research together, and it was there that he seduced her."

"Not too far off," I said. "Did she tell you how I found out and what I did?"

"No, only that you got a call from an old friend who told you, and you went to Chambersburg and caught her."

"Did she say anything else," I asked?

"No, that's about it."

I was still a little worried so I asked, "Like maybe that I was mean to her?"

"No, she just kept crying. She said you were upset and hurt. That you were disappointed in her, and that you were going to divorce her."

I asked, "She didn't say anything about us going to the restaurant where I caught her?"

"No, only that she knew how hurt you were. She was afraid you'd hit her, but that you never even hollered or yelled. She thought you were really kind of considerate. That you never threatened her or anything, only that you were deeply hurt and would probably leave her. She said she wished you had hit her, or at least yelled. She was really down in the dumps."

I was a little put off. I was sure she would've tried to shift at least some of the blame. I asked the same thing in another way, "Didn't she at least say I was partly to blame. Like I was gone all the time."

"No son, she didn't say anything like that. She did ask me to try to talk you out of not leaving her, and your mom did try to find some ways to make you at least partly at fault. You mom said she thought you took her for granted, and that she might've been lonely, but Marjory wouldn't hear it. She said you were the best, and that it was all her fault."

I was surprised, "That's all mom said?"

"Well no. Your mom did say a couple things."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Like what?"

Dad hesitated, "She said something about vacations."

"What about vacations," I asked?

"Ah you know," dad started, "you and Marjory only went to, well, you know."

"No I don't. Please tell me."

"Come on," said dad, "where do you always go? I mean you go with us to our State Fair. You go to her parent's cabin at Deep Creek Lake."

I interrupted, "So what's wrong with that?"

"Come on son. Where else have you guys gone? Come on for shit's sake; Cooperstown, Canton, and Louisville to get a baseball bat."

That pissed me off, "Jesus dad. Jonathon Ogden got inducted to the Football Hall of Fame," I hesitated for effect. "And did we go this year? No. And who got inducted this year? That's right Ray Lewis."

Dad got testy, "Christ Cullen you've got season tickets to the Ravens. You ever take Marjory?"

"God damn it dad she's a Bills fan, and besides, those tickets are for business. I take lawyers and developers and shit."

Dad said, "Just saying."

I thought, "Dad wasn't being helpful." OK, I still had to get his opinion, "So bull shit aside, what do you think?"

"About what? Leaving her?"

"Well yeah. What would you do?"

I watched my dad as he scratched the top of his head. He still had a full head of hair, and since baldness was hereditary that always made me feel better . He took a gulp of his beer, "Marjory's an only child. Her mom and dad spoiled her something terrible. I know she spoils your boy. Don't get me wrong Cullen. She loves you, but I always got the idea she had to have her own way about almost everything. I mean the everyday things. Your mother's like that, and I kind of block her out. Maybe Marjory felt overlooked? Maybe she was mad at you about something. Maybe you didn't let her have something she wanted. Maybe this was her way of getting even," he shrugged and added, "worst I guess; you know what they say, once a cheater always a cheater, and she is a spoiled brat."

I never thought she was spoiled, but dad was right about the cheater thing. I asked, "So you think I should leave her?"

Dad lurched, "No! Christ no! That would kill your mother! She thinks of Marjory as her own daughter. And there's Ryan. The kid always goes with the mom. If you divorced Marjory your mom might divorce you. I mean she loves you, but Ryan... well, and she talks about Marjory all the time, but you know that. Besides, the girl really does love you. She loves the living shit out of you"

"Yeah," I thought. I asked my dad again, "So you don't think I should divorce her."

"I can't tell you what to do..., but if it was me I'd make her quit her job. I'd make her throw out all that shit she has in that bedroom. Christ she's got more shoes than Imelda Marcos. I'd put her in a damn apron, make her work it off."

"Who's Imelda Marcos," I asked?

My dad looked at me a little strangely; then he said, "She was the wife of an old Filipino dictator. She kept a lot of shoes."

"What about mom? Should I see her," I asked?

Dad answered, "I wish you wouldn't. Give it a while. Let your mom think it over."

I finished my beer and half my sandwich. The rest I got put in a box. I got out my wallet, but dad stopped me, "I'll pay," he smiled, "you'll need every penny if you go for a divorce."

He was right. We shook hands and parted. As we left for our trucks dad said, "I don't envy you son."

I didn't envy me either. I'd gotten a couple texts while in the diner. Sitting in my truck I checked; one was from Ginger, "U OK?"

I texted back, "Good so far." What else could I say? I had to think! The second text was from Marjory's mom, "How about dinner tomorrow night?"

I texted back, "Sure.

After talking with my father I just knew Marjory's parents would be coming right at me, and hard core. Well, so what. I got home. Ryan was in bed and I assumed asleep, Marjory was waiting in the living room. I'd hardly gotten in the door when she started, "I got the report back from our doctor. I'm clear. He said it would only be a couple weeks before we'd find out about the other."

The other I assumed was the H.I.V., but I didn't get a chance to comment before she went on, "I talked to my supervisor and we cut back my hours. I'll only be working three days a week, but I'll have to work till 8:00 p.m. on Thursdays and Fridays. Is that all right with you?"

I said, "Sure, whatever you want."

Then I noticed what she had on. She was wearing one of her pretty white linen button up the front blouses, a pair of loose fitting, high on the thigh silky black shorts, white socks, and her black Mary Janes. We'd bought the Mary Janes to be a part of a costume she'd worn at a Halloween Party a couple years back. I remembered she'd gone as a little girl dressed in a white romper set.

Her smallish breasts sort of swirled about as she leaned forward. She was wearing a necklace I'd bought her; the gold cross spilled out and lay upon her left nipple. She must have just shaved her legs; they had a low sheen, probably from some cream. Her hair was kind of short and curly anyway, but she had it up in pigtails. White ribbons anchored each one at the top.

She didn't have much makeup on; just a little pink on her cheeks, a touch of mascara, and some kind of really pale blue eye liner. The tiny hoops in her ears glistened as she patted the sofa, "You can sit with me, she whispered.

No sir, not me. I plopped down in my lazy boy. "Why'd you change your hours," I asked?

She looked hurt. I guess she figured she could get me over next to her so she could seduce me. I decided that wasn't going to happen.

She smiled, "I got a video on Net Flicks."

I grumbled, or at least I tried to grumble, "Yeah, what?"

"Saving Private Ryan," she said, "and I made your favorite dip, Campbell's cream of shrimp soup with sour cream," she squirmed a little causing me to notice her ass and added, "You could see the movie better from here," she tapped the sofa again.

She was right, but if I moved it wouldn't mean anything. As I got up and crossed to the sofa I mustered up my most authoritative voice and said, "Go get the dip, and bring me a PBR."

She leapt from the sofa, and ran for the kitchen. Her boobs bounced. I saw she wasn't wearing a bra. She exclaimed, "I frosted your favorite a beer mug for you too!"

I curled back in the corner of the sofa as far from where she usually sat as possible. She came back in, saw where I was sitting, pulled the coffee table over, and whispered, "Here put your feet up on the table," she placed the dip, beer, and mug on the table beside my just placed feet.

"Let me get those old shoes off," she said, and without a single complaint about mud or smelly socks she got my feet out of my clodhoppers and socks, threw them off to the side without a hint of notice regarding the splattered dirt, and then she slithered in right beside me and handed me the remote.

"Any time," she said.

I recognized her perfume, something from Chanel. I knew it was Chanel because I'd found it for her one day at the Belk toiletries counter; it was a scent that always turned me on. She had the prettiest hands. Her nails were all buffed and lacquered with clear polish. She was wearing an old gold charm bracelet I'd bought her when we were first dating. I hadn't seen it in years. It looked good on her tiny wrist. I poured some beer in my frosted mug and said, "I hope you don't think..."

She touched my cheek with her hand, "I miss your old pick up."

"What," I replied?

She cuddled closer, I was so close to the left arm of the sofa I couldn't get away. She said, "You remember, your old Silverado, the one with the bench seats."

I remembered.

"Remember when we were dating I used to ride all up close beside you."

I remembered that too. I remembered how she'd lay her head in my lap, wriggle my dick out of my pants, and nibble and suck on me while I drove. Once I remember we ended up parked on a Walmart lot. Another couple in a much bigger Chrysler pick up pulled into the spot beside us. I recall how the woman in the Chrysler watched. Marjory hadn't known until she was finished and looked up; she had my semen all over her cheeks and chin. I remember I thought it was hysterically funny. Marjory did too... later.

So there I sat there on the sofa with Marjory right beside me all snuggled up close while I tried to watch Tom Hanks. Would she try anything? Of course she would. Tom Hanks and his Rangers had barely gotten off the beach and Marjory had me out and in her mouth. What was I supposed to do? I'd always believed in fair play. I reached over and slipped those silky black pants off. They slithered right down her legs. What a view! There wasn't anything underneath; no panties and almost no hair; just her soft pink Mons and her already damp crease. I took my fingers and slowly slathered up and down her slit. I used my thumb and fingers to lightly squeeze her sodden labia. She sighed. I got off first; she swallowed. A minute later she got off, then she burrowed deeper in my lap and a few minutes later was fast asleep.

Had I broken down? Had I given in? Had we had sex? Hard to say, I guessed technically it wasn't really sex, no intro-mission. I knew who I was, what I intended to, and no one, not Marjory, my parents, Marjory's parents, no one was going to separate me from my goals. I had made my plans.


The following morning I was up my usual time, 4:00 a.m.. Customarily I'd get up, get dressed, and try to be off by 4:30 a.m. I liked seeing the sunrise, but this time it wasn't to be. Since my discovery of Marjory's perfidy and our subsequent showdown she'd been sleeping in the spare room. Yeah, she'd cleaned it out. This morning I woke up to the smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee.

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