tagLoving WivesLove Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 05

Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 05


The End and Beyond.

Paul phoned me.

I killed the connection. He phoned me again and before I could cut him off he said; "This is important, Jules. Hear me out!"

It made me stop.

"I apologize, Jules," he went on, in a hurry. I guess he feared to be disconnected. "I am sorry I made you run out on me. Please, let's at least stay friends."

I said nothing.


"I...I am sorry too, Paul," I said. "But you can't say things like that about Betty and hope we can stay friends."

"I am sorry," he repeated. "But we really must talk. Have you got time to see me at all?"


"Yes. At the bar of the Regal. Close to the UN, you know it?"

"Why there?"

"Ehm...because I'm there, " he said. "And you are not far from it either, are you?"


While walking the few blocks I recalled last night. Betty had run to the bedroom. I had waited for a while. Then I decided to follow her. Our bedroom can't be locked. There isn't even a door. Why would there?

She was on the bed, sprawled on her belly. She cried into her pillow. I sat next to her. My hand caressed her leg. She stiffened under the touch. But she stopped sobbing.

"Please let's talk," I said. "If we can't talk anymore, what's the point of being together?"

She looked up. Her face was a mess. A lovely mess. I leaned into her and kissed a salty cheek. She suddenly sat up and hugged me like a scared child.

"Don't distrust me, Jules. I can't live with that. It wasn't me. Believe me. Please. Please don't send me away."

I crossed First Avenue and smiled. We had made love.

Call me a fool. Call me pussy-whipped. Call me any cynic outsider remarks you cherish. But she is Betty. She is my Libby. There are things no lover can lie about and hope to get away with. Oh, all right. Maybe she can. But there are moments other things just matter more.

We made love.

I mean love. Slow, tender, desperate love. It took us from sobbing to gasping, from crying to sweet, liberating laughter. I felt like a swimmer rescued from drowning. A castaway thrown onto some far away shore, panting with relief. All I had missed was there again. Her breath, her soul. Her soft, soft body. Her eager weakness and sinuous presence.

The next afternoon I walked the streets of New York and chuckled. Damn, last night must have made me a softie to agree to Paul just like that and go see him after only a little phone call. One simple sorry from him and here I was.

I whistled.

The Regal is a greenish tower of metal and glass. Its sides rise in slanting slopes. It must be an architect's wet dream come true. I hear it is a first class hotel, but I really am a fan of the more conservative variety.

At least the bar was dark. Paul waved me over. We both sat at the bar proper. It gave us a nice view of the lobby.

We hugged and slapped backs until we coughed.

The first beer was a blessing. I had had a long, full day. On top of that, Judy had asked me tirelessly what brought the damn smile to my face. I informed her in detail during our frugal lunch. She congratulated me and said I shouldn't worry about the torn up wardrobe. What woman wouldn't envy Betty for stirring up such emotions in her man? And besides, did a woman ever complain about an opportunity to go shopping?

The second beer took longer. I intended not to get drunk too soon. Then Paul put down his glass and said: "Follow me."

I looked puzzled. He was already on his feet and begged me to follow him. I slid off the stool and went with him. He walked straight to the elevators.

"Where are we going?" I asked when the car started rising.

"You'll see", he said.

There was an endless corridor with doors at one side, glass at the other. It let you look down into a tree filled atrium. I wondered why he took me here. He stopped at one of the doors and slid his key-card through the slot. The door clicked open.

He again bid me to follow as he stepped inside. His finger was on his lips.

There was a small hall. There also was soft music. Jazzy. Then Paul opened the next door and my world ended.


The first thing I saw was a fat, hairy ass humping between two slender legs. The legs were in white stockings and red high-heeled shoes. They were spread wide, then bent at the knees, so the stiletto heels rested on the man's lower back. They spurred him on to pump his invisible cock into a cunt I could not see.

The first thing I heard was the man grunting like a hog. Then there was the woman's voice squealing. When I heard it, I knew. My heart hit the floor and spread like an oil-stain.

She screamed: "Oooooo...oui, ouiiiii. merde! Baise-moi, alors. Baise-moi, tu monstre..o merde...PLUS FORT!! PLUS FORRRTT!!! MERDE, GROS CON, TOI!!!"

The man rose a bit and crouched like a huge fat cat. Or a bristled swine, rather. I saw a gleaming monster of a cock slide in and out of a stretched cunt. The legs kept pumping, the woman screamed on and on.

The voice was Betty's.

I froze when I heard her. Then I flew forward and grabbed the fat man by the hair. I pulled him off the slut and tossed him aside with a power I never before possessed. He fell of the bed with a thud.

There was a sickening plop when his cock left her. It squirted whitish slime.

Then I was all over her. She looked awful. Her face and chest were flushed with sexual excitement. Her whorish make-up was everywhere. There was saliva dripping from her smeared mouth. Her eyes had rolled back into her skull. And the platinum wig hung halfway off her head.

She never saw what happened.

She wailed. It sounded lost and frustrated. Her hands clawed at her gaping cunt. When my fist hit her face, the wig flew off. I could not stop myself. Only after the third or fourth hit did she seem to see me and realize what happened.

She started screaming. Her hands rose to protect her face and chest. She rolled into a ball. "Arrête, arrête!" she screamed. She begged me to stop in French.

Strong hands grabbed me and pulled me off of her. I saw nothing. There was just a blood red haze. A voice tried to reach me, calm me. I now knew that one of the two screaming voices was mine. Then I toppled off the bed and sagged against it.

Through the haze I saw two large men grapple. It looked like a fight. The sounds seemed to fade away, until there was only a heavy breathing left.

And the sobbing of a woman.


Paul walked on to me through the haze.

He carried two bags of ice. I followed him with my eyes. He bent over the bed and put down the bags. A long groan sounded. I tried to scramble to my feet.

My head hurt.

There was a naked woman on the bed. Her white stockings were torn. One of the ice bags was on her eye, another against her cheek. I looked around. It seemed the three of us were the only ones in the room.

"Welcome back, Jules."

The voice was Paul's. The woman groaned.

I looked at her again. I didn't know her.

I looked closer. She winced and tried to hide.

"Leave her alone, Jules," the same voice said.

"Get over here, we need to talk."

He handed me a big glass of whisky.


I drank. It tore through my throat. The haze vanished. I sat down in one of the large club chairs. My entire body hurt.

"Wha...what happened?" My voice was sandpaper.

"It isn't her, Jules. I'm so sorry. My mistake."

I stared at him.

First I didn't understand. Then I didn't believe him. I stood, swaying on my legs. I walked over to the bed. The woman once more tried to get away. I grabbed her wrists and pulled the ice off her face. The mascara and glaring eye shadow had caked into a dark mess. There was blood on her swollen lip.

But I saw now. Her hair was short and reddish. She wasn't Betty.

I turned to Paul.

"What the fuck, Paul? What have you done? I beat up a whore. I don't know her. She never did anything to me and I beat her up. Why did you bring me here, dammit? Paul?"

He rose two hands in defense.

"Sorry, Jules. My mistake. They look the same, don't they? I was flabbergasted when I saw it. It's eerie. They are so alike."

"My God, Paul. I beat her senseless for no reason at all. Her face looks awful. She'll sue us blind!"


She wouldn't sue us, let alone go to the police.

She was French Canadian and an illegal alien. Her client wouldn't bother us either, Paul said. He was a sucker for discretion and had left at once. I paid the hooker the almost 300 dollar Paul and I had between us and offered to take her to a hospital. She declined, so we bought her a huge pair of sunglasses and called a cab.

Before we left the room, Paul looked around. He found a business card on the headboard of the bed. He showed it to me on the way down to the bar. It was Mancini's. In the bar I first scolded him for the damn mess he had gotten me into. He apologized profusely, but also tried to laugh it off. I was mad at him and his damn meddling. He could drop dead as far as I was concerned. But first I had to make sense of it all.

"Why on earth did you think it was Betty, Paul? And how did you get the key?" I asked.

"That's a long story," he said. "But whose is this number?"

He started to read a hand-written cell-phone number at the back of Mancini's card. It was Betty's. I took the card and stared at it. It seemed to be in her handwriting too.

"Goddammit, Paul. That is Betty's. What the fuck is going on?"

He shrugged and ordered a beer.

"You fucked up, Paul. You did it again. Tell me why the fuck we are here."

He told me a story that made me frown with disbelief. But he insisted it was true. He had this model who worked for him occasionally. She also had a job at the Regal to earn a living. One day, a week ago, Paul had picked her up at the hotel to take her to the studio. As he waited in the bar, a woman who looked very much like Betty had walked into the lobby. She had picked up a key and taken the elevator.

"It was Betty, Jules. I am 100% certain it was she. Dark hair piled up, same style, same walk, same expensive leather briefcase...I am a painter, man. I can see."

I shook my head. His painter's eye again. My ass.

"Why would she be here?"

"Why would her number be on the Mancini-card?" Paul shrugged.

Then he told me he had asked his model-friend to find out if and when a room was rented. He would give her the name; she should get him the key. She said she could, but it was highly illegal even to tell him, let alone give him a key. So he doubled her model-money and asked her to look for Mancini.

Today she had called him and handed him the key.

I told him about the hookers I had seen at the Marriott and how I had taken one of them for Betty too. She wore the same platinum wig and talked French. It must have been the same hooker.

"I added one and one, Jules," Paul said. "I saw Betty take a key and go up, the room had been booked by Mancini...et voilá! I seem to have ended up with 3, though." He grinned. "Ah, well...arithmetic was never my thing."

"And you caused me to beat up a hooker, thank you." I sighed.

"Be glad, man!" Paul cheered. "Could have been your wife!"

I didn't smile. I wondered how I could have gotten that violent that quickly. And why Paul had been so close to the action.

I told him to stay the fuck out of my life. He had done damage enough, accusing Betty.

"Get your jealous ass out of my life!" I screamed. "Go! Get out! Don't call me, don't ever see me again, you stupid idiot!"

He looked hurt and left the hotel. I was too angry to feel bad about it.


"You beat her up??"

She looked shocked. We were drinking coffee in the huge foyer of the Met. We waited for the opera to start. Betty had arrived straight from work. She looked great, though, in her black silk suit and patent leather pumps.

I had decided to tell her about our bizarre adventure. She never found it funny and fumed at Paul. She no doubt saw all her reservations confirmed. I could hardly blame her.

"How on earth did he ever find out the hooker would be there? And why did he suppose she was I? A prostitute, no less. And a platinum blonde one to boot. I feel offended!"

That made me smile. It even made her smile.

The signal sounded for us to enter the theatre. We would see Madama Butterfly, one of Betty's favorites. I liked the costumes and scenery. I even liked two or three aria's, but I am not an opera buff, really. The end was touching. The callous betrayal, the suicide.

I felt a tear burn behind my eyes.

During intermission we bumped into friends and decided to have a drink with them afterwards. So it took until we came home before we could pick up again on what had happened that afternoon.

Betty told me she was fed up with Paul and his damn accusations. I could hardly disagree. She also said she was shocked by my violence.

"He wanted you to think it was me, dammit! And then you hit her because you thought it was me! You hit me!!"

I still felt the faint hurting of my knuckles. And the shame that came with it.

"It is all so preposterous!" she went on indignantly, while taking off her make-up in front of her vanity mirror.

I dropped my second shoe and nodded.

Then I took a shower and was pleasantly surprised that she joined me. Nothing is as sensual as feeling the slick wet skin of a firm woman's breast while the hot water cascades over the both of you. Feeling the nipple swell against your palm. And her tongue flirt with yours.

Her hand closed around my cock. It was swelling, growing big but still soft. Her hand was slippery with soap. It felt so very good. All stress left my body and was washed away.

She whispered in my ear.

"I love you, Jules. You were all wrong. But thank you for the passion of your rage. The jealousy. It really made me shiver when you told me."

"I love you, Betty," I answered. "And I am so proud you love me." I licked the inside of her ear. I felt her tremble against me. Her one hand massaged my cock, the other kneaded my ass cheek. Her tits pressed into my chest.

"I love you, Betty, and I apologize."

She silenced me with a kiss. Then she licked her way down the waterfall of my chest and belly. I moaned when I felt her tight lips

slide over my hard erection.

I thought I saw a distant glimpse of heaven.


All of the next day I felt light as a feather.

Nothing reminded me of the sad laws of gravity. There were aggravating clients, there was the drag of totally boring phone calls. There even was the annoyance of a mini-crisis. But nothing could touch me. Nothing could pull me down from the cloud with the happy number tagged to it.

We had fucked away half the night. It proved that I could go on forever. So could she. We did it in the shower, in bed, on the floor beside the bed.

Betty had moaned in frustration when her alarm clock sounded at six. She had to visit a client in Jersey. He was one of those breakfast-meeting fetishists.

I offered her my sympathy and kissed her goodbye.

Judy had the day off, so I decided to get a sandwich and work on through lunchtime. Around three Betty called. I was pleasantly surprised. She hardly ever calls me at work. And I was even more pleased when she urged me to hurry home after work. She would show me one of her rare cooking tricks. And a few more, please, I begged. Her silver laugh crept into my ear.

It tickled.

After that call my concentration was shot. My office-chair seemed stuffed with hot coal. The little numbers on my computer danced and started forming new combinations. The 6 seemed suddenly to have become very fond of the 9. And vice versa.

I called it a day around 4 p.m..

The subway was crammed, but it took me home quickly. The huge old open goods elevator took me up. It had been saved when they restored the building. And it was a lot slower than my desire would have it. It even stopped for a bit on its last leg to our loft. I slammed the huge button with irritation.

Then I heard Betty's voice. I was surprised she was home already. She seemed on the phone.

"No, damn it. You know I won't! (...) We have an agreement on that, I won't do it (...) I see your problem, darling (...) My problem too? Okay, my problem too, but I won't, you hear? (...) Get someone else (...) Yes (...) Fuck you too."

The elevator clanged into action again.

The phone call had ended when I reached our apartment.

Betty ran into my arms. Her kiss lasted a century and it tightened my pants.

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