Her Roommate Returns! - FTDS

© 2022 by Legio_Patria_Nostra - Uploaded to Literotica.com; This story is the property of the listed author, who reserves all rights under copyright law. Any unauthorized reproduction, use or reprint without the author's expressed authorization is strictly prohibited. This is a work of fiction, and all participants are aged 18 or older. You must be at least 18 to read this.

My apologies! The original upload of this was the final Draft version and didn't reflect a number of edits made to this, the Final version. Prior to uploading this version, I made one additional edit based on an anonymous comment concerning my confusing ELINT with COMINT. Thanks for that, whoever you are.

This is the second attempt to edit this story, and was "Pending" ten days! So, delete and reload!

This work represents one person's views and is presented solely for entertainment purposes. It's fiction, and while I strive for authenticity, I occasionally take a trip into the world of the improbable, where some things maybe are incomprehensible or unexplainable.

I'd like to warmly thank SaddleTramp1956 for reading this through, making some corrections and offering feedback. I'm also grateful to a special lady in Kent, whose feedback, encouragement and inspiration always fills my sails with a fair wind.

Feedback through this site is not only welcomed but encouraged, and each comment will be thoughtfully considered, except for obvious trolling. I do moderate comments. Finally, I try to respond to all direct feedback promptly.

Finally, thanks to Odiouser, whose story, 'Her Roommate Returns!' concluded in such a way as to appear like a hanging curveball right out over the plate. So, at his invitation, I decided to take a swing at the conclusion.

In summation, 'Her Roommate Returns!' features a trusting, easy-going husband, Dave, married a little over two years to a sexy harridan named Angie. They enjoyed a robust sex life, but apparently, Angie wants more. So, unexpectedly, she brings home her old college roommate, who before now was totally unknown to her husband. She and old roomie, Clark, had an equally robust sex life before they moved on. Now, after supposedly 'running into each other downtown', they adjourn to Angie's and Dave's home for dinner, wine, and more, right in front of Dave. The old lovers flaunt their highly sexual past in her husband's face with things becoming physically intimate. Angie's teasing of Dave has cruel, disrespectful overtones to it. Things rapidly get worse, and poor Dave is off balance, stunned. His lack of a firm response only emboldens Angie and Clark to finally head upstairs to have sex. Angie is a bitch on wheels as the story closes with an endless array of possible outcomes sitting on the launcher.

One looks at Dave and wonders why he didn't stop it. How can a man act like this, unless he's either a mentally ill cuckold wannabe or, could there be things behind the scene we didn't know about? Well, read on, and you'll see that Dave.... well, he knew some things going into this evening!

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Her Roommate Returns -- An FTDS Conclusion

The end of Odiouser's story:

My wife took Clark by the belt and led him into the nearest doorway. "I was going to take you to the master bedroom so my husband could watch us play catch-up, but I realize that we are going to be at it for hours after his bedtime, so I think the politest thing to do would be fuck around on him elsewhere. Do you agree Davie boy?"

"Of course, my dear...."

The Conclusion Begins

As she dragged away her fuck-toy, I objected louder, "..., but if you DO fuck him, we're done as a married couple! Stop what you're doing and sober the hell up, Angie. If you were making some kind of a statement, you've made it. Don't cross this line!"

My wife laughed derisively and said, "I'm giving my pussy back to Clark, who was the original owner of it, Davie. So, just calm the fuck down and relax. Go play with your little stamps or something."

He smirked back at me and shrugged. I firmly shook my head in displeasure, and ol' Clark acted like he was some helpless animal being hauled away to slaughter.

I swallowed my seething anger and consciously took a deep, calming breath. 'Easy. Don't screw this up and make him call it off. Look angry, but don't let him know how bad you wanna curb stomp 'is sorry ass!' I warned myself. Upstairs, the third bedroom door slammed, instantly muting the sound of my wife's giggling.

A smile flowed onto my face. I chuckled, and the thrill of the moment sent a tingle up my spine. No, not a sexual thrill that my formerly loving wife was going to cheat on me. This tingle was due to the sheer joy of seeing my hastily created plan falling slowly and certainly into place.

My now-cheating wife and her hapless Lothario were unwitting, clueless dolts strolling obliviously into the kill zone of an impromptu legal ambush. I just hoped that neither of them got cold feet at the last moment.

Confused? Maybe I need to step back and explain.

Before That Night

I'm David Terhune Pace, a scion of an old Texas family with roots in cotton, oil, rice, timber, real estate and shipping. Really, you name it, and we've mostly done it. Our original progenitor, Argus Pace, showed up just before the Battle of San Jacinto as part of the flood of outraged individuals coming to help the American colonists in Mexican Texas. They flocked in to avenge the outrages of the Alamo and Goliad as well as the depredations of the Runaway Scrape. Being an experienced army officer with skills honed fighting in various Indian wars of the young American Republic, Argus Pace gladly followed General Sam Houston as he rode east at the head of the ragtag Texian army. He knew a leader when he saw one.

After the quick and violent massacre of the Mexican Army on that sunny April afternoon in 1836, Argus knew his destiny and personal El Dorado lay west of the Sabine. That he was quickly well-known to both Mirabeau Lamar and General Sam himself, didn't hurt his prospects. Argus soon made his mark on the fledgling Republic, and he even served as a legislator when the Congress was sitting in Houston.

Over the succeeding generations, the Texas branch of the Pace family flourished in lands north and west of Houston, much of it rich, river bottom agricultural ground. And like all growing families, the Pace fortunes ebbed and flowed with the times and troubles. As we grew, the family money spread thinner and thinner, which led us to branch out still further and further. Soon, the Paces were involved in almost every endeavor in Texas.

As for me, my parents died in a private plane crash when I was barely six. I was raised by my paternal grandparents, Bryce and Olivia Pace, who are now in their 80s. My parents left me a small fortune held in trust, and my grandparents will also leave me and their other grandchildren substantial holdings. In short, I don't lack for money. Never will. That's why I run my own little stamp shop in downtown Wescott. Philately is a very, very niche hobby and business and something of an anachronism in today's world.

Unlike many of my cousins, I'm content to take life a bit easier. My degree is in business, and there's always a seat for me around the larger Pace Family table. I do sit on the board of two family-owned companies, and as I age, a larger share of both responsibility and opportunity will come my way. For now, however, I'm content to live a simple life. I'm still very much a work in progress and am comfortable with that.

Part of growing up being raised by grandparents is that you grow up quite differently. My grandmother, Olivia, was a passionate stamp collector and filled me with a similar passion and much expert knowledge. With many of the collectibles being investment-grade covers, sheets, coils and individual stamps, my collection is worth in the mid-six figures. Or, so I thought at the time.

Another part of growing up like I did is that I was always looking for a woman like my mother. Her death particularly traumatized me; one day she's there, the center of my little-boy world, and then she was gone. Having her torn away as an impressionable child idealized her in my mind. She was a mix of foggy childhood memories and the physical bits of her life that survived her death at 29. She became a strong, bold feminine ideal, wholly without flaw. Grandmamma was a substitute for her but not a replacement.

As I got older, I was attracted to women of a certain type. Angie was all the good things my imperfect memory recalled of my mother, but even more-so. Additionally, Angie is a wild and temperamental spirit, which is not like my mother, but she touched something in me. Having been raised by a generation older than my parents made me quite susceptible to Angie's larger-than-life persona, here-and-now persona. While she didn't take my virginity, she helped make it a distant memory.

When a man does this to a woman, it's called "he swept her off her feet". The other way around, I guess I'd describe it as, "she rocked my world". That she did. Like a magnitude 9.0 earthquake, she rocked me.

Ours was a whirlwind romance, which obviously concerned my grandparents. Grandpop even hired a private investigator to thoroughly check out Angie and her family. Though it angered me, I realized that they did it for my benefit. Angie's childhood was quite uneventful but somewhat unconventional. Her parents are not the manufactured, faux-weird, yuppies of today's Austin. Instead, they are unregenerate, second-generation hippies of the 80s, and all that goes with it.

The report showed Angie as impulsive, flighty and quite unskilled for the art degree she was pursuing at Texas University. Mediocre artist and generally unimaginative. Smoked a lot of pot. Drank more. Then, there was her long, often tumultuous, romance with Clark Deering.

Yes, I actually knew about Clark Deering. I'll never admit it to anyone, and nobody knows I know, except my grandparents and the P.I. The inescapable conclusion is that Clark has ability, yet no motivation. Charm without charisma. He changed majors every year or so, and with an astounding 154 credit hours, he was still far from actually finishing a degree program. Clearly, he couldn't commit to or finish anything.

Texas penalizes "professional students" by charging them higher tuition as they go beyond normal graduation hours without meeting graduation requirements. Thus, he had run out of funds and resources to remain at T.U. Deering seemed to be stuck with little direction, less motivation and no money. At this time, Clark and Angie went their separate ways when she finally realized that he was a sinking ship, and she didn't want to miss last lifeboat.

These revelations made me aware more than 'opening my eyes' or changing my mind. My grandparents intended this to wake me up and persuade me not to marry Angie. When that failed, they advised me that if we did marry, I needed to protect my money. Family money. The ultimate trickle-down legacy, some of which I was now caretaker.

Grandpop's lawyer created an ironclad prenuptial agreement my later attorney described as "robust". The thinking was that Angie or her parents would have their attorney review it and suggest changes. Nope. Like their daughter, they remained free spirits, persons of the world. She signed it after only scanning it for a couple of minutes. "I'm marrying you, not your money!" she said with a warm smile. He parents made a joke of it.

As a couple, we weren't out to conquer the world. Angie works at what's essentially an overpriced, all-natural, cosmetics store. I own an anachronistic, low volume philatelic shop, and we live in a nicely restored home in the trendy Hill-Country town of Wescott. I bought the home outright before we married and am the sole owner. My investments and trust fund create an income flow, part of which I tap into every month to maintain a certain quality of life for us. Neither of us are overtly materialistic, so we lived a quality over quantity lifestyle.

It was a good life, until it wasn't.

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As I heard the muffled sounds of my drunk wife fucking her longtime college roommate, I opened my laptop sitting on the desk in my office. The room had been the original laundry room and sat at the back of the house right under the bedrooms. After a few key-strokes, I confirmed that the single camera in bedroom three was recording her indiscretion in HD on an off-site server. The lacey, gossamer curtains and nearby streetlight provided enough light for the high-quality camera.

Had it been the master bedroom, my odds-on choice of where she was going to fuck him, I'd have it recording in better light and from two angles. I locked the screen and opened my phone. Since the number still wasn't in my contacts, I connected from the call log.

"Hello?" the uncertainty in her voice told me my number wasn't in her contacts, either.

"Hey, Jennifer, it's me!"

"Dave! I'm so glad you called. Is this about... about what I think it is?" she asked tentatively.

"It is. You were right on the money!" Relief and anger swirled around me, each fighting for supremacy. I took another deep, cleansing breath. "Just like you informed me Tuesday, Angie told me she 'ran into him downtown' today. The whole evening went down hill from there."

"Oh, Dave, I am so sorry. In a way I feel like, you know, sort of guilty," she explained, the sadness evident in her words.

"Why?" I asked "Her intent was clear, wasn't it? All you did was warn me. Hell, in that respect, you saved the day. Saved my ass, too!"

Lowly, she said, "I guess so. But still, Dave. It's just awful what they're doing," Jennifer sniffled loudly.

I heard her sniffle again. "Are you crying?" I asked surprised.

"Uh-huh. You're such a good guy, and this damned mess is so sad." A comfortable, knowing silence hung between us.

I knew what she was feeling. Hell, when I stepped away from my anger and hurt, I got a face full of sad. But I compartmentalize my emotions well. It's a life-long survival instinct that I began acquiring when my parents died.

"Don't cry Jennifer. This means we can explore our friendship. We can see if there's anything ahead for us. And hey," I said trying to sound upbeat, "I look forward to that."

"Oh, Dave. Me too. I just can't believe she'd..." he voice trailed off.

I cleared my throat, which felt dry and tight. "You know, I've suspected since soon after the honeymoon that marrying Angie was a mistake." My grandparents' warnings came flooding back to me. "It's hard to face that you made a mistake, especially after recently tying the knot. But maybe this is an overdue wake-up call."

Without explaining that I knew about Angie's and Clark's relationship from before we married, I added cryptically, "I won't speculate why she married me, but something apart from our great physical chemistry, has always been missing." I knew what it was and confessed, "Sex without love is like food that's empty calories. Eventually, it kills your heart."

Jennifer silently wept. Only her sniffles betrayed that fact she was crying.

"It's okay, Jennifer." I pondered my options for the evening, and a loud, orgasmic moan from Angie forced a decision. "Listen hon, I'm leaving this passion pit for the evening. Can I pick you up for a quick bite over at Long's?" That was the truck stop on I-35, about 10-miles away.

"Sure. I ate earlier, but I'll have an iced tea while you eat. Where are you going after that?" she asked.

"I'll drop you off at your apartment and then sleep in the office above my store. On the Godzilla couch." There was an old, battered, green leather sofa, a relic abandoned by the previous tenants, which was plenty comfortable. Even though things were platonic between us, her place was not an option for obvious reasons.

Sweet Jennifer surprised me when she said, "No. Stay at the Sands Motel. That way, Angie can't say that you snuck off with some ho' while she was cheating."

"Jennifer! Don't say that!"

She laughed. "No, Dave. Not me. She doesn't know me as anything but the barista at the Cuppa Joe." That is the coffee across from where Angie works where she always takes her breaks.

"You're right, Jennifer. The Sands it is."

I packed my laptop, went upstairs and put and a few things in my backpack. While I packed, the sounds of my cheating wife came through the common bedroom wall. She took him to the small third bedroom and not the larger second bedroom, which was at the other end of the second floor. This act told me her actions were meant to further demean and humiliate me. The noise flowed right down the stairwell to the main living area.

As my anger flared up and threatened to send me off on a tirade, I thought about Jennifer Boxleitner, the Junoesque blonde who'd fallen to earth from a Wagnerian pantheon. She was the exact opposite, in every way, of Angie, my cheating, controlling wife. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, curvaceous and zaftig.

Driving over to her apartment, I recalled the afternoon that the quiet, reserved girl from Cuppa Joe dropped into my philatelic shop. It took me about a minute of stamp-related chit-chat to realize she knew nothing of philatelics. Our talk evolved into a friendly, chatty conversation, but I felt like she was holding back something. There had to be a reason she was in my shop.

The look on her face reflected an inner conflict, and after a few awkward moments of silence, the tall blonde spoke. "First, I'm Jennifer Boxleitner. I work at Cuppa Joe Coffeeshop at the other end of Main Street. And You're Dave Pace, right?"

I nodded.

Nervously, almost whispering, she said, "You're married to Angie, that redheaded lady that works at The Painted Lady, right?"

I nodded. "Right again." She looked away as if conflicted. If she'd run away in fear, it wouldn't have surprised me. Her demeanor puzzled me, and a barely audible alarm bell was going off inside me.

Instead of fleeing, she declared in a shaky voice, "Your wife is... she's... she's g-going behind your back. With an old boyfriend. A guy named Clark, I think."

She looked at me apprehensively, as if she expected me to lose my temper and shoot the messenger. Truthfully, her words shocked me, but I wasn't surprised, recalling Angie's long relationship with Clark Deering. "He's been coming into the coffee shop with her for some weeks... and I didn't really know..." her voice trailed off.

Jennifer took a deep breath. "They spend a lot of time in the coffee shop and always sit at that table around towards the back. But that's right there by my work station." I recalled the layout. The preparation and service area was in one corner, leaving a larger front area for customer seating. The way to the restrooms created a wide aisle alongside one side of the service area, which was enclosed by a lattice-topped half wall. Four, two-person tables lined that half wall.

"When I'm not busy, I sit on the other side of the lattice wall, where I read and study. And your wife's voice, well..." She paused as if searching for the word.

"It carries," I finished her sentence. She nodded knowingly. With that out of the way, Jennifer visibly relaxed. She explained, "I didn't start out to spy on them, but hearing what they're saying... it's... you know, hard to ignore. I mean... I know she's married." Jennifer bit her bottom lip. "When, I'm not serving a customer, I listen in on them when I can."

Embarrassed, she added, "I didn't start listening until I overheard your wife and him talking about resuming their sex life. I thought they had to be joking around but he got really graphic a few times. Your wife seemed to lap it up." Jennifer was blushing brightly. "It might seem wrong, but I hate what those two are doing, and I sort of made it my business to let you know."