Error Correction Ch. 01

ONE

I have substantially changed names, places, and dates, but the events described are as true as I can recall.

My name is Michael. I am a middle-aged white male. I am a successful businessman. I am -- well, I was -- happily married. My life was pretty tame up until about two years ago. Now here I am in a luxury suite at the Boston Park Plaza, naked, with a throbbing erection, staring at an unfamiliar face in the bathroom mirror. My heart is racing, pounding against the inside of my breastbone like a kick drum.

I am about to either rescue my soul or make the biggest mistake I have ever made.

How did I come to this point?

Here's where the voiceover guy says, "Previously in Michael's life...."

I was born on Cape Cod. My father owned a large insurance agency and played a lot of golf. My mother hosted parties and played a lot of golf. I grew up happy and went off to Harvard, there to study whatever the hell I felt like studying, as it was a given that I would go into the business after graduation. I studied business -- for which I had a natural aptitude -- and minored in psychology -- in which I had a lifelong interest.

College was years of books, exams, pleasure and partying. I played squash and went to museums, got drunk, went to clubs and concerts, dated several beautiful women. I lived off campus in a house with four other guys. My existence was sweet until that fateful afternoon in the spring of my senior year when Emma dropped by. She was the current amusement of Ben, one of my housemates. The sun was hot outside and we had all the windows wide to let the breeze in. I was watching a Red Sox game when Emma darted in and blurted out, "This is Mike. Mike, Rebecca." and sprinted up the stairs, leaving behind her a shocked and young-looking girl.

This Rebecca was medium tall, thin but fit, with a mane of curly auburn hair. Pert nose in an oval face, full mouth, freckles, and the deepest widest brown eyes I had ever seen. She had -- when she later did smile -- a kind of naïve goofy just slightly imperfect grin that for some reason struck right to my heart. We stared at each other for a long moment until I patted the sofa next to me. She immediately came and sat, an oddly obedient response, which I thought nothing of at the time (but -- I might as well foreshadow -- this aspect of her personality would much later destroy me). I could tell she was tense, so I turned down the volume and began to talk to her. She slowly calmed, her body relaxing, as she told me that she and Emma had just been at the Fogg to view a new exhibition of Japanese prints in preparation for writing an essay in their art history class.

Once she got over the shock of being thrust into strange company, I found her to be a warm, empathetic, observant woman. As she described the prints, her face was animated with a joy of discovery that made me want to rush over and view them myself.

Being a healthy young man, I tried to make out the figure under her clothes, but she was overdressed in a bulky blouse with a high neck and a strangely unfashionable long skirt that reached down to her ankles. The whole time we were talking -- well, I was doing the vast majority of the talking -- she kept her eyes mostly cast down. I managed to steer the conversation back to her and found out that her friends called her Becky and that she was from rural Ohio.

I offered her a beer, but she refused in alarm. She was convinced to accept some ice water, and I fetched a glass. As I was about to hand it to her, we heard a loud groan from upstairs, followed by rapid squeaks from Ben's platform bed. Becky turned crimson and shrank in on herself. In normal circumstances I would have muted the game and enjoyed the obscene symphony. Instead, I clicked the TV off and invited her to come out to the porch.

There, with the doors drawn, the muted sounds of passion were washed away by the distant Cambridge street noise, horns and sirens. Becky calmed again, though an occasional shout from Emma pierced the veil and made her jump. I shifted my conversation muscles into overdrive. Here was a challenge I immediately knew was worthy. I am comfortable talking to strangers. I am not shy. For some reason this girl -- no, this young woman -- made me want to stare silently at her, but I forced out words to get her to look up and favor me with those captivating eyes. Every time I could get Becky to lift her head and meet my eyes, however briefly, I received a shock. Hormones, psychic energy, brain bleeding, whatever are those chemical responses that get classified as... well, as love. I didn't make that connection at the time. I just wanted to look into those lovely brown eyes. I also desired to get her bulky clothes off. I shifted my weight and realized I had was hard. Very hard. I held my beer in front of my crotch and we spoke for quite a while longer until Emma ran out the door, grabbed Becky by the hand, and fled without a good-bye.

I sat there, unable to find a motivation to move, realizing that I could not recall a single thing from our long conversation. Except her name. If we never met again, I would remember her name forever.

By the time I came back in, the game was long over. A sweaty Ben was sitting in the kitchen nook replenishing his vital energy with a pizza and Bud Lite Lime. He nodded at the box and I sat down, though I had no appetite. That I did not fall upon a pizza was a clue I missed.

"Who was that girl?" I asked.

"What girl? Emma?"

"No. No. Rebecca. The one who came with her."

Ben shrugged. "I dunno. She lives in Mather House, same as Emma. Why?" He paused his slice in midair. "No. Don't do it."

"Do what?"

"Waste energy on her. Emma says she is a professional virgin. Majoring in virginity. Raised in the nineteenth century. Her father has a carriage, her mother uses a wood stove that they gather around on Saturday nights to read the Bible. You will never get a taste of that."

"Well hell," I said and cracked open a beer.

But I could not forget those eyes. I thought about them every ten seconds or so for the next week, the way that mental images of tits or ass ordinarily and regularly punctuate a healthy young man's internal dialog. The next weekend I stalked Mather House until I saw Becky come out carrying two books and a clipboard. I fell into step beside her. She glanced up at me and actually smiled, that goofy adorable smile. My pulse rocketed. I slipped the books from her grasp. "Allow me, ma'am," I said.

That was all it took. I carried her books to the library and stayed with her while she read and took notes. I sat in the next cubicle and read a textbook on my phone. I caught her contemplating me every once in a while with wide questioning eyes. I said nothing. When she was done, I took her to dinner. The next day I called for her at Mather and we walked along the river, talking. I took her to a French movie at the Brattle. We attended an Indian music festival at the Hatch Shell. Over the next month I made sure to be with her every day to do something, no matter how briefly.

Some days I had only a few minutes to spend with her, because graduation was upcoming and last-minute business and sweeping up the odds and ends rushed down upon me like an avalanche.

Before I knew it, we were standing in Harvard Yard in our gowns. By now, she looked me straight in the eye most of the time. But this afternoon she stood silent, gaze locked on the ground. Behind her, her mother and father were talking and looking around the Yard. Behind me, my mother and father were laughing at a joke.

"Goodbye, Michael," Becky said. She held out a hand for me to shake. "We are leaving tonight."

"T- Tonight?" I stammered. For some reason the idea that the end of college meant the end of our relationship, such as it was, had not sunk in. I had not even kissed her properly. Just a peck on the cheek when dropping her off. A protective arm around her shoulders when a bicycle approached along the narrow river path.

Our eyes met. The sadness twisting her face made me want to cry right there in front of the crowd of graduating seniors. I wanted to scream. I could not live without those eyes. I wanted that look to be the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I saw at night. She was leaving.

The sun went out over Harvard Square. I shivered.

I could have had any of a few dozen women. I was not ugly, could charm any female you pointed me at. I had money and prospects. I had learned and honed moves in the bedroom and could get references praising my performance from at least ten previous girlfriends.

I stepped over to her father and spoke to him for a few minutes, then I went to my parents and told them I had just gotten permission to marry Becky. I don't think I even ever properly proposed to my intended. I just assumed she would go along with my desires. Michael, romantic fool.

When I resumed my spot back in front of Becky and told her rather matter-of-factly that our parents had agreed to our engagement, her mouth opened in a wide surprised circle and she actually hopped up and down. She never even said yes.

Fast forward. Long story short. American Dream. Fancy wedding. Long honeymoon. Job with Dad. Nice big house in Orleans. Kids--

Wait. Rewind. Back to the honeymoon.

The night we were engaged, after the two family units had dined out at Number 9 Park and gone back to their hotels, Becky and I took a farewell to the Charles River stroll. On a bench in a dark park, I kissed her for the first time. She was not enthusiastic, but neither did she pull away. But then I put a hand on her breast, outside her shirt, and she stiffened, grabbed my wrist, and stood up. I apologized.

"We will be wed soon enough," she said. In the dark I heard her panting, but it did not sound to me like excited panting. More like fear. I did not argue. I knew she was inexperienced, but she was right. That would change soon enough.

Our wedding day was a bustle and a blur, and I was pleasantly inebriated for most of it. Night came, and we were finally alone in our suite. She went there before me, and when I came in, the room was completely dark. Even the heavy drapes were drawn. I could barely make out the bed, so I switched on a lamp. She was under the covers and cried out. "Please. Turn it off!"

I halted in mid-step. My mind raced. Was she deformed? Did she bear horrible scars from an agricultural accident? With rising trepidation, I undressed, lifted the covers, and slipped in beside my new bride.

She was wearing a long flannel nightgown which encased her up to her neck. I stroked the flannel gently, feeling her thighs, her belly, her arms. She was panting. My hand found a breast and she gave a little cry. Not of passion. More like alarm.

I paused. "Are you okay?" I whispered.

"Yes," she whimpered. "Just very scared."

I did not have to go through the usual accounting of past lovers one does with a serious new partner. No male had ever touched her. I continued with my caresses, ignoring her noises, until I had manually surveyed the entirety of her body. When I touched her mound, she stopped breathing and only started again when I removed my hand.

I found no lesions, no missing limbs. On the contrary -- my hands and fingers told me that my bride had a firm, muscular little body with just the right amount of curve in the right places. I wanted to turn on the lights and rip that nightgown off to see her properly, but I sensed that would traumatize her. So I spent the next hour stroking her and coaxing the nightgown up. She did not resist but lay submissively. Neither did she participate in her undressing, and she did not return my touches. Finally I was able to lift the nightgown over her head and she lay against me, naked and shivering -- though the room was comfortably warm and we were under sheet and blanket.

I kissed all over her face, then moved my mouth down her body, licking as she made little gulps. I took the first nipple I encountered and gave it a gentle suck. Becky's body started like she had touched a live wire, but she did not try to stop my campaign. I kissed all the way down to each foot and back, up each thigh, crossing over just brushing her bush as she squirmed and emitted dry sobs that sounded like intense uncertainty.

Finally I was flat on my stomach between her legs and I reached out my tongue and made contact with her pussy. I was surprised to find that it was not soaking wet, and I drew back for a moment. My ministrations would have gotten an intense sexual reaction in any other woman I had ever bedded, but she was dry.

I moistened my tongue liberally and pressed it against her hair.

She said "Ohhhhh..." and went rigid.

I loaded up my tongue again and carefully licked up to split her bush. I felt and tasted her labia. I slid my lips down them, then moved my tongue back up her slit. I increased the speed of this cycle gradually until she was quivering and I think she came -- with a quiet escape of breath which was not a proper moan.

I let her rest for a second, then pressed my tongue through her lips. I gave her clitoris a swirl and pressed beyond and--

Got stopped by a membrane. Like a thin sheet of rubber. Like she had stretched something across her cunt a half inch deep. I pulled my head back and hesitantly pressed in my index finger.

Becky gasped but did not protest, never told me to stop as I explored this obstacle. It was a flexible membrane that sealed off her vagina. My fingertip found a tiny hole, too small for my finger to penetrate.

I had found an authentic hymen. Becky had a cherry. I should not have been surprised. I knew she had not had any sexual encounters. But I was stymied. In all my experiences, I had never encountered such a specimen as this, and I did not know how to proceed. I knew from high school lore that a cherry existed to be popped. Ripped open by the vigorous application of a hard cock. I always foolishly imagined that if I ever encountered one I would just destroy it with my erection.

But this was my Becky it was inside. And I had realized as I stood with her at the altar and she folded back her veil that I was deeply in love with her. I should have known that long before I arranged to marry her, but life isn't always linear. I had not understood until her bright brown eyes, brimming with tears of happiness, met mine just before our first kiss as man and wife -- hell it was our first kiss of any serious kind at all -- just how deeply my passion for her had become.

I could not hurt her. I licked my finger and examined the oddity, pressing my finger against the hole until Becky squirmed and protested and the tip slid inside. I pulled my hand back as she began to cry, this time for real. I held her and caressed her until she calmed down. We kissed and nuzzled. I felt my cock poking into her thigh like it had a mind of its own. I humped against her, my balls desperate with the anticipation followed by delay, then mounted her. She began to cry again, tearless this time, as my cock found her slit. It took all my willpower to stop my hips from thrusting. I held myself so the head of my cock was just inside her, nestling against her hymen, and I started to ejaculate with spastic contractions. I grunted in pleasure. I felt my semen forced back out around my cock. I had never come so hard or so long.

I fell down beside her and told her I would love her forever and we both drifted into sleep.

Run the calendar until Becky and I are both in our late 40s. We raised two healthy intelligent beautiful daughters and saw them both happily married off. My mother and father retired to Florida to play golf all day every day. I expanded the business until we had offices across the South Shore. Becky often worked with me running the offices. We had plenty of money and were socially active. Becky volunteered and organized. I worked and golfed.

The only aspect of our life that was less than stellar was the sex. I did eventually and carefully stretch out her hymen until I could penetrate her fully. I was convinced, at the time, that Becky eventually came to enjoy it -- though she was a quiet lover. She moved with me, never leading, and would reliably reach orgasm either by my tongue or my cock. She claimed her orgasms were wonderful and fulfilling, but they felt... tame. Dragging her sexual feelings from her was as futile as interrogating a CIA operative. She gave up no information. After our first year of marriage, I quit trying to open up communication around our bedroom life. We arrived at a state of equilibrium where I found pleasure, and I took her word that she did as well.

I accepted that she did not like to have sex with the lights on. Most of the time we were also under the covers. She had the habit of putting her nightgown back on after sex, so I rarely had the opportunity to fall asleep holding her wonderful naked body. She closed the bathroom door when she peed.

I ate her sweet cunt regularly and with pleasure, but she did not return the act. She was even hesitant to touch my bare cock.

It did not help that I had to wear a condom. She had allergies to something in the pill; an IUD had given her debilitating cramps. Her cervix was an odd shape and diaphragms would not stay put. So in addition to the vanilla flavor of our sex life, I had to desensitize my tool in a latex wrap. It was only some comfort that Becky was nearing the end of her fertility. The average age of menopause is 51, and at that point I would finally be able to take her bare.

Did I mention that in spite of the physical barriers I loved her desperately? I would do anything for my sweet Rebecca, my lover, my wife.

That was our normal. Until the video.

My insurance company regularly engaged the services of a private investigator. We pay out a lot of money on claims. Sometimes we suspect that our customers are being scammed or are themselves trying to scam us. Either way, the discrete collection of photos, sound recordings, and videos is a way to ensure things are above board.

Allan, our PI, operates out of a strip mall in Hyannis. He is not the slovenly-looking, rumpled, hard-drinking, divorced PI of movies and television. He has a large family and an attractive, doting wife and looks more like an insurance agent than I do. Becky and I socialize with them often.

One day I dropped off some papers. He motioned me into his office and closed the door.

"You have got to watch this," he said with a guilty smile.

I sat down as he turned his laptop around so I could see the screen.

"A woman hired me to find out if her suspicions were true. Thought her husband was bringing girlfriends over for playdates while she was out of town. I had access to her house, so I went in and set up the usual gear... and I just downloaded this." He leaned over and clicked return. A video started to play. A high definition, full color video with clear sound. The technology available to the modern PI is amazing.

In the video, a nude couple was standing at the foot of a bed, kissing with a fierce energy. The woman flung herself back onto the bed, dragging the man by his hands onto her spread legs. In the brief flash of his exposure, I saw that he sported a rather large erection. He jammed it into her without delay, grunting. The woman started to squeal and cry out in pleasure. Her lover pounded into her with long strokes as she slammed her hips up to meet his thrusts. He began to snarl out some alien language, an unrecognizable guttural. She spoke recognizable words but made no sentences. She shouted out, the air driven from her lungs each time their bodies slammed together.

I felt sweat beading on my forehead. The couple pushed to the finish. The man slowed his thrusts and his butt muscles clenched as he howled. The woman started to convulse. I thought she might be having a medical issue except for her shrieks of pleasure. Then they stopped moving, clutching each other like drowning victims. Their mouths were locked together, tongues exploring.