Error Correction Ch. 05

"I was living in terror of that moment," I said to the Doctors Lewis. "But it seemed natural to hold her. I never did tell Cynthia that I suspected her of sandbagging me."

Dr. Ms. Lewis wrote something on her pad. "Meeting the affair child can be a major roadblock to a relationship recovering from infidelity."

"With all due respect," I replied. "I have never and will never define that beautiful baby as an affair child. And our relationship is not recovering. I told you -- Becky and Cynthia are a couple. They want to get married. And it wasn't infidelity. I was totally responsible for her actions."

They both looked at me trying to be impassive, but I knew by now when they were skeptical.

"Michael, do you intend to go forward with the divorce?"

I nodded like I had been found out.

"Have you filed?"

I shook my head.

"Let me ask you that hackneyed question from unimaginative job interviews. Pretend for us you have never heard it before and try to answer truthfully. Where do you see yourself in five years? Imagine traveling into the future and looking back at the past five years. What has happened to you in that time?"

I started to laugh, then stopped. Dead cold.

On the drive back to the Cape I hit heavy traffic. Inching along, I was thinking. Thinking so hard and so fruitfully that the radio annoyed me. I turned it off.

I started telling myself a story. A story about myself five years from now. I spoke it out loud so the thoughts that were building the story would fall together and fit properly. I had to backtrack and tear out parts of the story when they conflicted with later additions and reshape words and images so they clicked into empty spaces in my growing story.

By the time I pulled into my driveway. I had it. It had come together.

I am admittedly a fool. The facts supporting that hypothesis are enclosed. You may also call me foolish for supposing that the relatively tiny bit of education I had absorbed so far in my psychology studies allowed me to diagnose my problem, let alone propose a workable solution. I admit to that, but you forget to factor in that I have twenty plus years of data and observations on my beautiful brown-eyed subject.

Fast forward to the holidays. I will spare you for now the details of my story, of my plan. Suffice it to say that I organized a holiday family reunion in Boston, hired a personal trainer, worked my dragging ass into exhaustion, lost some flab, gained some muscle, let my hair grow out. Got a nice tan. And I grew a beard. Not a flowing mountain man, just a trim statement beard with a mustache. I looked pretty fierce when it was all done, I must say. I think I sold more and larger policies that fall than I had ever done. Was it my confidence? Was it my determination fueled by what Christmas promised? Was it the beard?

The week before Christmas, my two daughters, their husbands, and their total of three children were checked into the Park Plaza. I had a room on the next floor up. Only the suite I had booked for Cynthia, Becky, and Amelia remained empty. I was worried that Becky would have second thoughts. Even though I dearly loved and wanted to see my kids and their families, I was also unrepentantly using them as bait to make sure my wife showed up.

Cynthia texted that they were on the highway. They arrived in the early evening. I was pacing my room. Becky was in the same building! I could run down the stairs and see her. How long had it been? Days. Months. Years! My god -- I tried the math in my head, but the numbers slipped from my greasy brain cells. I put the do not disturb sign on my door and forced myself to sleep.

Early the next morning, I checked and rechecked the schedule. Zoe and Leah and families were going to see the Nutcracker in the afternoon, taking Amelia along to give Becky and Cynthia a break. I had arranged for Cynthia to be singled out for a complimentary spa visit. Becky did not particularly like spas. Would she go along to watch and keep her girlfriend company? Would she pay for a spa herself anyway? Or would she take advantage of the break from childcare to just relax in her room? I would know in a while.

Thus, we have returned to the beginning.

Naked and the fittest I have ever been in my life; I was contemplating my bearded face in the mirror. My erection was astounding. 100 milligrams of Viagra was probably not even needed, but boy was it a comfort. I dressed in loose slacks and a short-sleeved T shirt and picked up the house phone.

Turning point. I asked for Becky's room.

She answered. I wanted to shout YES! But throttled it back. Tone of voice was critical. I did not greet her or wish her a good day. That would have been the daddy figure, Father Michael. The man who spoke to her was instead Lover Mike. Dangerous Button Pushing Mike. Assertive I Will Not Ask Mike.

"Come to my room" that Mike said. And hung up.

Turning point. I stood by the door trying to calm myself. Would she come up or would she dial my room to ask me what the hell I thought I was doing? There was a timid single knock on the door. I didn't have to look through the peephole.

I opened the door and there she was. At last. How long had it been? I never did finish my calculation, the sum of time too large. She looked incredible. My heart tried to shove its way out of my chest. She had cut her hair, the long curly flowing hair that had been her pride for years, into a pixie. It looked fantastic on her. Her enchanting eyes the ones I fell in love with long ago. Her face was more worn than I recall, and she looked tired. But all I saw was my Becky, 20 years old and smiling her goofy smile up at me on the altar.

I wanted to take her into my arms and say how sorry I was and promise her everything would be all right. But I could not make the past all right. I could only influence the future.

She gasped when she saw me. The beard, the eyes I had trained to be hard, the newly defined arms. None of that matched her memories of Father Michael. I tried to read her eyes. I tossed the information into a pie chart. 90% confusion, 9% happiness, and 1% of something I couldn't pin down.

"Come in," I commanded and stepped back to let her past without taking my eyes, hard and knowing, from hers. I escorted her through the sitting area and near to the bed where she turned and faced me.

She was wearing a red blouse and a long white skirt. Her eyes were shifting over my face, the confusion still dominant. 80% confusion. 18% alarm, 2% that same indefinable.

I loomed over her. She instinctively inched backward until her legs were against the bed.

"I have made a decision," I said forcefully. "I am going to make a baby with you. Take off your blouse."

Turning point. Major fucking turning point. Her eyes were a running stream of emotions. Here is where she should slap me, scream for help, tell me I am a bastard, tell me we are through now and forever.

But none of those things happened. Instead, her eyes slowly became 10% confusion, 10% fear, 10% acceptance, and now a full 70% of that mix which I now could resolve and characterize. It was lust and admiration and -- most of all -- trust.

She gulped. Her hands moved to the top button. Her eyes never left mine. My eyes never left hers. I had to clench my fists to stop my arms from going around her and protecting her from this man I had become.

She unfastened the top button. Then the next and the next until her blouse was open and showing her frilly white bra. The blouse dropped to the floor. She unhooked her bra without my direction and that fell away. I couldn't help sneaking a peek at those wonderful breasts. Bigger, softer than I remember. Breastfeeding tits. Wonderful on her muscled chest. I strained to keep my hands from them.

"Take off the skirt."

She obeyed, faster, pushed her skirt down and stepped out of it.

"On the bed," Dangerous Lover Mike ordered. She sat.

"Lose the panties."

Not too long before, Becky would have laughed if Father Michael had spoken to her like that. But she just obeyed Dangerous Button Pushing Mike. Lifted up her hips and slid down the panties. They fell on the floor.

"Hold your knees up."

Turning point of turning points. No going back point. Becky had never in her life spread her legs like I was directing her to do. Yet she grabbed high up behind each thigh and pulled until her knees were near her cheeks.

"Higher!"

She pulled back harder and her little pink butthole came into view. I shifted my gaze to her pussy. It pulsated and twitched, and one of my fondest hopes for this experiment was confirmed. Her cunt was gushing. She started to whimper. I recognized that whimper. I had last heard it on our wedding night.

Clear juices trickled down her ass crack and began to form a dark wet spot on the comforter. If she had been dry, as dry as she was on our wedding night, one of my basic hypotheses would have been disproved. If she had gone this far and been dry, I would have told her to get dressed. Played it off as a rotten joke. And that would most certainly have been, finally, the end of us.

But she was not dry. Plus, I realized that the mounds on either side of her slit stood well out, swollen, reddening. Maybe I had never seen her from this angle. Maybe she was always aroused like this in the dark. No. I knew if I petted her this vagina would feel nothing like the Becky I used to know. This Becky was shaking with excitement, anticipating her fucking.

I inhaled. The air was thick with her scent, a mix of sugary sweat and pheromones that shot right down from my nose to my cock and pumped it up even more. I had a flash of sadness. I could have had this overpoweringly exciting odor for twenty plus years if I had only known how to uncork it.

I stuffed regret back into its hole. This moment was about the future.

I regained her eyes and stripped off. Casually, as though this didn't really matter to me. I was Dangerous. I was Menace. I was not overly excited because I did this shit all the time. Excited? Hell, my drug-assisted cock seemed bigger, thicker, harder than ever before. And it was pointed right at her slit. She could not help but glance down at it, wide-eyed, before my demanding eyes drew her gaze back up.

And when she looked back up, she was at 100%. At last I was allowed to see that primal desire and heat and longing and lust and admiration and need and want. But I saw something new mixed in, binding all those emotions together. It was the essence of twenty plus years of love and trust and companionship. Watching our children play, holding hands at the movies, a random tender touch on the hip.

She thrust her cunt at me, riding the air, impatient for the end game. I had not yet touched her. I had not touched her in months and months. I finally did the math. Wow -- it had been a long time. I touched her at long last. The swollen tip of my cock found her pussy and nudged her lips apart.

Becky came. My cock was only in her up to where I had found her hymen so many years ago, and she was already deep into an orgasm. Her heels hammered at my back. Her head shook back and forth, her pixie cut flying out. She made sucking drowning noises and twisted her hips so her pussy was rotating on my glans. I could not take it and slid into her in one slow smooth penetration.

She felt new, but she felt familiar at the same time. She felt like home. After all her hole had been put through lately, my prick still recognized it as home.

She turned the orgasm to 11. I gripped her shoulders and began to thrust into her while she hissed and yelped like an angry cat.

I gave up even trying to control it and let myself spew into her wet hot cunt. It felt like some of my insides liquefied and projected out of my cock. It felt like the most volume that had ever been ejected out of my penis. And it felt terrific.

We clung together as aftershock pleasures contracted through and between us for a while, then I gently rolled us over so we embraced side by side, breathing in harmony. She was asleep. She had not said a word.

I woke sometime later. The bed was empty, and I was confused. It took a while to remember where I was and what had happened. The large sopping area on the bed helped remind me. Where was Becky? Had she woken with regret and stormed off?

She came out of the bathroom as I heard the toilet flushing. She tiptoed over to the bed and looked down at my cock. She didn't even look at my face. I was on my back and my prick was again as hard as if it thought I were still in college, bouncing off of my belly up at a 45-degree angle. I made a note to buy stock in whatever pharma had come up with this shit. She ran her fingers along its length. Her other hand rubbed her cunt. I had never seen her touch herself in all our years of intimacy. Here she was, the room lights on, stroking her twat like it was a purring cat. She lifted a leg and threw herself in a sexual Olympics gold medal gymnastics move up and over me. I winched with anticipation of pain, but she landed perfectly and softly on top of my cock, pressing it into my belly. She looked at my face, into my eyes, reached down, and inserted me.

I wondered then if it was my penis in particular she needed, or after months with Cynthia, any penis would do. I decided not to ask. It might ruin her mood, which was a determination to rip my dick off of my body using her snatch. She began to ride me. One more item checked off the long list of things that never happened with Father Michael.

Thinking of that conservative old guy, I dragged my index finger along the slickness of her juices on my shaft and reached around her hips. I found her little starfish and slid my finger into her ass up to the second knuckle. She gasped. She gave me the most flirtatious smile I had ever seen on her face and rode me faster.

She moved her hips with ferocious and steady energy, looking straight into my eyes with that demanding new look I could become addicted to and growling the cutest girlie growl deep in her throat until she began to shiver. It wasn't violent or hard, just a persistent shiver that made her skin raise with goosebumps all over. She stopped dead, closed her eyes, bit her lips, then opened her mouth wide, and started to contract. Her abdomen contracted so hard I could see the striations of muscle. Her cunt muscles gripped me so hard it was painful, and the pain made me burst up into her.

Afterwards we lay in each other's arms, just kissing softly. We made hmming noises like we were tasting some delicious dish. We still hadn't said one word.

"We need to talk to Cynthia," I whispered. She just held me even tighter.

We dressed silently. She bunched tissues and wiped up the cascade of my semen that ran down the inside of her thighs. She did not mind that I was watching her post-sex cleaning. That, almost as much as the unrestrained fucking, made me realize that something in her had evolved.

I called the spa and left a message for Cynthia to please come to my room when she was done, then made some tea and sat with Becky chatting.

"How is Amelia?" I asked. I considered not bringing it up at all. This was very close to Father Michael sensitive nonthreatening turf.

She looked at me. I could see that she did not want to talk about her daughter, that it might be the pin that popped this bubble we were in, that it might hurt me.

"That day Cynthia brought her to see me, I recognized her immediately as your baby. She's a tiny perfect version of you."

Becky watched my face with a little worry.

"I am sure she recognized me. We had never met, but she grabbed my finger and laughed at me. Looked right into my eyes and we connected. I realized that she had spent nine months floating inside you, listening to your words, maybe hearing your thoughts and absorbing your memories. So I wasn't a stranger. You know me intimately and she was as intimate with you as it's possible to get. Do you think it is possible for love to spread just by contact?"

My wife reached out and took both my hands. A whole lot was forgiven in that touch, but there was a mountain of debris still in our way.

Cynthia knocked and I opened the door. She saw past me to where Becky was sitting. Becky had primped and straightened herself, but to a lover's eyes she must have looked disheveled. Cynthia gave me a questioning look and pushed past to take Becky in her arms.

"Are you all right?" she asked, holding Becky out to look at her more closely. Then she turned her head to me. "Mike, is she all right? She stared at my beard and took in my newer trim figure.

I nodded. "We need to talk." Cynthia glanced at us suspiciously but sat down with Becky on the sofa. I dragged a chair over and sat facing them. It was like my visits to the therapists reversed.

"Cynthia, if you are going to marry Becky, then you need to know a few things."

Becky turned fully to Cynthia. It came to me then in a flash. "You haven't asked her?"

Cynthia flushed. "I-- I-- Well, no. I thought she understood--"

Great. I just proposed marriage to my wife by proxy on behalf of her girlfriend. This was weird. My penis was sore and my wife was leaking out two of my loads while sitting next to her girlfriend. Now fiancée.

"We will sort that out later," I said. "Becky, have you told Cynthia about us? All the details?"

Cynthia answered instead. "No. She hasn't." Becky glared at her -- as much as it was possible for my sweetheart to glare. "I know she hasn't. That's just the way she is." Then she hugged Becky. "I love her the way she is. She does not need to tell me about her history."

I ignored that and began to tell her about that history. From the afternoon we met, listening to Ben and Emma fucking. Yes, I did not mince words. I knew Cynthia liked frank talk, and Becky had after all been present for it. I told her about our courtship and she got that tender goo goo face women get when romance is the subject. When I described how I had methodically stretched out Becky's hymen, Cynthia winced.

"Jesus, I had mine popped in the back seat of an old Ford," she said. "Hurt like hell. You were lucky to have Mike, dear."

Becky glanced at me. Hard to acknowledge that luck in front of her lover. Now fiancée.

I started the same long account I had delivered to the Doctors Lewis in my first sit down with them. The long and happy marriage, our sex life. Becky watched her lover's face anxiously during this part of the accounting. Quantity does count for something. I knew she was afraid that Cynthia realizing just how many years we had been regularly fucking would trigger some jealous response. But she accepted it, probably since she had also been married.

But regular does not mean good. I described my frustrations with our sex, how my wife would shut down experimentation, was modest so much it was no longer a virtue. Becky chewed on her lips. Was she regretting those years or wishing she could return to them? I had no idea. I told them about the video I had seen of the old married couple having joyous loud intercourse and how that filled me with a terrible sadness.

"I just wanted Becky to have that. I didn't want her to go through life never having had that much pleasure."

Becky looked at me with grateful appreciation and touched my hand. Then I moved on to how I had recruited Ben to play on Becky's sympathies. Becky's gaze turned hard. She whipped her hand away like she had been stung by a wasp. I had never told her this.

"I turned out to be correct, unfortunately. It was me. I was the obstacle to her physical happiness. When Ben was fucking her, she came loudly. She was out of her mind with delight."

Becky stared at me. Now with horror, slowly raising one hand to her mouth.

"I heard it all," I said. "I saw it all. You forgot about the security system."

Her eyes started to brim with tears as it dawned on her that this meant I had seen her fucking Andre -- an act she had never really admitted to. Except by turning up pregnant, of course.