Donovan's Rewarding Revenge Ch. 01

Brandon Tolman sat on the well-used toilet within the confines of the dingy, yellowed bathroom. With sickened thought, he wondered how many prostitutes and how many illegal drugs had passed through the small motel room, located off the six-lane main highway running through Salt Lake City, Utah.

As he sat, trying to empty himself of the many liters of alcohol he had consumed over the past three days, he watched a cockroach scurry alongside the worn, dirt-engrained shower stall. Feeling all the more queasy, he quickly steered his head into the old washbasin, but could only dry-heave with disgust.

Outright disgust. Not necessarily of the conditions of the room, but of his situation, his life, and how everything changed in such a short instant.

'But, was it really in such a short instant?' He thought, as he peered through the open doorway of the bathroom to again realize that this was no wicked, tormented dream. No, the situation he was in was no figment of imagination, for it was a matter of fact - very real, and a very harsh reality.

"What have I done?" He whispered, with sickness. "What the fuck have I done?"

Though the past few days felt like one long, tumultuous, never-ending day, it had been a grueling four days since it happened. And, other than the first day, Brandon had been on a drinking binge ever since; desirous to rid his mind of the hurt, fear, and humiliation that he had felt.

The pit of his stomach felt empty, yet was soured by the caustic alcohol poisoning that remained in his system. His hands trembled with anxiety, proving to Brandon that he was distressed and needed some help of some kind, or something. He didn't know, though his mind raced in several patterns of thought, trying to get a grasp on it all. "What the flying fuck have I done?" He again asked, with a heightened tone.

Brandon finished his duties on the toilet, all that he could muster for the moment, and staggered queasily into the one-room rental. His eyes gazed around the room, attempting to make some sense of the confusion of his now-present circumstance.

In one corner, next to the disheveled bed, was a faux cherry nightstand, probably made of the highest quality particle board. It's veneer top had several burn marks, some of which were intentional, others by burning cigarettes, joints, or whatever former occupants had smoked. It's drawer front was missing, and Brandon could see an old, barely worn Bible laying amongst complimentary writing pads. To the other side of the bed, an old 1970's table that Brandon had found to be extremely unstable, barely capable of holding the pizza box that contained one last hard piece of nutrition. Brandon thought that he might have ordered the pizza about two days ago, but wasn't confident of his assumption. Next to the wall, facing the end of the bed stood a dresser, all its drawers unoccupied except for Brandon's few change of clothes. It didn't match any of the other few pieces of furniture that occupied the room, it's wood color being a completely different hue of brown. Yet, Brandon supposed that it sufficed for the moment. On the dresser, a TV that had been locked to the wall, with a thick braided cable. Brandon mused that the piece of shit wasn't worth stealing, knowing by experience that it had only two volumes of sound: mute, or loud. It's volume buttons were missing and the remote could perform only one function: turning the TV on, or off. Complimenting, or looking odd next to the TV, stood a small refrigerator, with a warming plate on top of it. Brandon hadn't actually used the warming plate, but did try it to see if it worked. Surprisingly, he was tickled to know that at least one of the burners worked.

It was a far cry from what Brandon had gotten used to and the lifestyle that he had lived over the past five years of his marriage. In fact, just four days ago, he had it all and then some. He couldn't have wanted, or needed anything more - in a materialistic sense. And, taking a second glance of his current living condition reinforced the blatant ignorance of his own actions. 'How could've I been so fucking stupid?' Brandon thought, shaking his head in mesmerized disbelief.

Just four days ago, he was living in a lifestyle of prominence, security, career opportunity and marital, material wealth. Though he was only twenty-four years old, "he" owned a beautiful rambler situated in a new construction development. The home was only two years old, and custom built for he and his wife, Paula. Every facet, and every architectural aesthetic was determined prior to construction and built to exact specification. After all, his wife's father owned a residential architectural firm, and his wife's mother was a very prominent interior designer. By the genes that must have been given to her through the conception process, Paula's skills honed in a natural manner. She was artistic - able to naturally sketch and draw, color coordinate, and provide harmony throughout each room and area of living space. She was also business oriented - capable to realize priorities of tasks, management of assets and day-to-day operations.

Due to a tragic event within the first two years of Brandon and Paula's marriage, Paula became a non-voting officer of the board of operations of her father's firm. At that time, her mother and father were involved in a fatal accident, causing a Trust to be actualized, and the operations of the business to be transferred to Paula's control on the grounds that she graduate, Bachelor level, with at least two majors: Architectural or Interior Design, and Business. Whether or not she chose to satisfy the Trust's requirements, Paula had been Willed to receive 100% of her parent's personal assets, minus Probate costs and the associated costs of death.

Considering that a Will and Trust had been re-created after Brandon and Paula's marital vows, Brandon had been included within the contents of the legal documentation, but had to suffice a minimum marriage of at least 84 months of marriage to Paula. If, and only if he were to retain the marriage between he and Paula, Brandon would have received, or been Willed ½ of Paula's parent's personal assets, and ½ of Paula's share of the business ownership of her father's firm. Of course, the biggest and most meaningful word of all considerations of the Will was the two-letter word, "if." As of late, and currently, "if" was the word that Brandon could only repeat to himself time and time again. It wasn't just the material aspects of the situation either. It was more than that, for he knew that he lost every aspect of what he knew and had accepted to be a part of his life. For all intents and purposes, he knew that he lost his wife, his job and the home that he had "owned" with his darling wife, Paula.

"God damn it!" Brandon furiously screamed, throwing the worthless remote control at the wall. "That fucking asshole stole it all from me!"

Whether he could psychologically accept the facts or not, Brandon was consciously aware that he made a poor choice of actions, beginning a little less than one year ago. And, even though he tried to sell himself on the idea that everything "happened" four days ago, he could not deny that he was responsible for setting himself up, several months prior. And, though he wanted to blame his wife, and the black man who took her from him, he could not erase the knowledge of his own crowning. For, after all, Brandon presented his lovely wife, home and lifestyle on a silver pewter platter for the black man to partake, and the black man did hungrily devour the offering, and took the pewter plate, too.

'What is she doing with him, right now?' Brandon wondered, while caressing his own flaccidity, wanting it to become hard and controlling of his irresolute patterns of thought and indecisiveness. After all, though he could not control what had already occurred to him, he felt in control while he masturbated to the thought of his beautiful wife spreading her incorrupt legs for the black man's tool of superiority. And for the moment of his trial, he so desperately wanted to have some control, and wanted to stroke himself, as he had done so many times in the past. Reminiscent of the audible, sexually charged sounds of his wife and the black man together, Brandon could only sum enough courage to at least try to give his wife a telephone call. His now hardened dick gave him some want, or desire to face the truth and be in control.

Though his dick was hard at first, he dialed the number of his own home, and realized that his phallus gradually softened with fear, hoping that no one would answer - though he wanted someone to answer, though he hoped no one would answer. His thoughts and ideas were strained, wishy-washy for something. What was it? What was he going to say? How would he repent to his wife? Why was he calling her?

'Oh shit! I better hang up the phone!' Brandon thought, just as the other end picked up.

"Hello?" A man answered, most likely the black man.

"Um," Brandon quivered, "is Paula there?"

"Yes." The man replied. "Who is this?"

"I'm Brandon. I'm Paula's husband."

"Oh yes. How the fuck are ya?"

"I'm alright. But, is she there and can she talk?"

"Nah man. Sorry. I just got done fucking your wife and she's taking a shower. Of course, I know that you don't mind, because you approved it long before she even knew."

Brandon tightened up at the thought, knowing that it was true. "Can she give me a call when she gets out of the shower?"

"Sorry. No can do. I'm taking her out on a nice date - something that it sounds like you never bothered to do."

Brandon could only cringe and remain silent. His dick was beginning to harden once again, wanting to be stroked.

"But, hey - I gotta tell ya… your wife's pussy is so tight. Damn man, I can't believe you were literally giving her away." The black man laughed. "Too bad you weren't there to see your wife suck my black dick, and watch me fuck her like she's never been fucked before."

Brandon tried to regain his composure, "But, I was there, kinda."

"Yeah, you were. You were in the other room, tied to a chair and could only hear it. The funny thing is - you never was able to watch, and that was what you had wanted, wasn't it?"

Brandon remained speechless.

"Your pretty little wife loves my black dick" the black man stated. "And come to think of it, I'm beginning to love your wife."

Brandon could only stutter, "Will you have her give me a call?"

The black man laughed, "Yeah. Whatever dude. If I remember to tell her." With no further comment, the man hung up the phone.

Brandon could only sit in his motel room, listening to the silence of the other end of the telephone line. His now-hardened dick throbbed with pain, thinking of his wife and the black stud that was with her.

He unzipped his pants slowly and started to masturbate. Soon, he would climax as he had done in many times past. Soon, he would re-gain control, but for now, he just needed to think about his wife, and her black lover.