tagLoving WivesLove Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 06

Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 06


The End (Revisited.)

It's May again.

Same May, only the year has gone up a number. The sky is blue around me. The air is balmy. It has the sweet tang of freshly cut grass. The sun tries to reach my eyes, but I close them with the tender skin of my eyelids. My world is a bowl of pink. I hear the sound of balls hitting bats. People yell and applaud.

I don't care.

I just lie in the grass and float.

It'll take more than these few months to mend me. The kind doctor tells me to be patient. I still sleep poorly. The night is a bad place for memories like mine. They feed on fears. They grow and stand like mocking giants in my bedroom. They point at me, nudge each other and laugh.

So I get up and watch TV with bleary eyes. Or I flip on my laptop and start chatting. Whatever to whomever wherever.

After such nights I can't work. That isn't bad. I no longer like my work anyway. Judy is sweet. She makes the place almost human. But there are too many awful nights before exhausting days.

It will get better, the sweet doctor says. She is patient. She says I did well to get closure. I don't quite know what she means.

Why not call it revenge?


Looking back I see this tiny oasis.

A distant green dot shimmers through a haze of scourging heat. I know my love lives there. She lives there with me in the cool freshness of memories. I won't ever find my way back to her, though. I may circle the earth to get nearer to that dot. But I know it would keep the same distance.

Ask a clever physicist to explain, I can't tell you.

Things were great, those first months after I beat up the hooker. We even started making fun of the incident. One night I came home and Betty stood at the edge of the elevator-well. She only wore white thigh-highs, towering red platform shoes, a brilliant platinum wig, a smile and a glass of martini.

I downed the martini. Then I downed her and ate her into heaven. After that we fucked. And only then did we leave the elevator to find our bedroom.

It was about an hour later that I leaned on my elbow, watching her ruined face.

"Now you look exactly like her," I said. "Before I hit her, of course."

"Merci, Monsieur, vous étiez si doux, si merveilleux," she answered with a hoarse voice. It made me shiver. I had to turn away. She grabbed me and apologized.

I said it was nothing. I said I loved her.

About a week later she told me she had to leave for Boston and stay three nights. I knew they had a big client there. Their biggest, actually.I told her I'd miss her. She kissed me and said she'd miss me more. I said "Impossible!" and we went on like that for a bit. It was childish but it broke the tension.

We had spent the last weekend to definitely replenish her wardrobe and the cupboards in the kitchen. New York was glorious, bathing in Indian Summer's sunlight. It was a blessing to just walk around, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder.

The last night before she would fly, Betty showed off the new lingerie we had bought. She had told me to lie on the bed and just watch as she walked the imaginary catwalk from the bathroom along the foot of our bed and back. All I could do was moan and hold my throbbing dick.

The sexiest outfit curiously had the most fabric to it. It was a corset that nipped in her waist and made her titties dance almost free. There were garters attached that encased the creamy skin of her thighs and the shaven triangle of her pussy.

"You shaved," I said. The words almost stuck in my throat. It made her look so vulnerable.

She displayed her mound with a naughty chuckle.

"You like?" she laughed.

I just grabbed her, pulled her beneath me and rammed my aching cock into her wet entrance. She almost sobbed with emotion and came at the first few strokes.

"Oh God, how I love you, Jules. Je t'aime, mon amour. Ne me quite jamais..."

It took me just long enough to allow her a second orgasm before my burning head spewed its sperm into the deepest niches of her being.

We panted and gasped, holding each other tightly.

The metal clasps of her corset bit my belly.


I slept poorly, that night.

Don't ask me why, I can't find a reasonable reason. There was just fear. Irrational anxiety.

I feared not having her around, I guess.

I knew I'd miss her. Her voice, her scent, the touch of her body, the taste of her lips. I knew it was silly. We were grown-ups. It was only a few nights. She had done it countless times before. I would be drowned in work, starting early and only be home late. So would she, I'm sure.

Bullshit, of course. I just feared I could not trust her. And I feared I had gone crazy. For what reason was there to distrust her?

She had been to Boston often. Very often.

The client had been with them since the second year of our marriage. I remember how excited Betty was when they had acquired them. The relation had grown close very fast. At times they almost felt like a department of the Boston company, she said. I had met quite a few of their people at parties. They were nice. They seemed more like friends than business associates. Betty had often told me they were the client she was most proud of working for.

Everything was all right. I knew my worries were silly.

But that didn't make them go away. I rose around 4 in the morning and sat in the living room. I tried to read, but only stared. There weren't real thoughts in my head, just restlessness. It kept me from lying down and closing my eyes.

Her cool hand startled me.

"What is it, Jules?"

Betty had walked up to me on silent feet. She wore her red silk kimono robe and sank into my lap. She wrapped her arms around me. Then she snuggled her face into my chest. I sighed.

"Just ghosts and foolish thoughts," I murmured. I stroked her hair.

"Is it because I leave for Boston? It's only three nights and I'll phone every few hours. Promise!" she said. She pressed her fingers to her lips and then to mine. "Promise."

I looked down into her eyes. I smiled.

We went to bed again. We spooned and wriggled until we lay comfortably. After a few minutes I heard her breathing sink into a slow and regular pace.

I stared into the darkness.


I was a fool and I knew it. I should refuse to give in to mere feelings of unease and suspicions.

But I was also a man haunted. Whenever the night shrouded our bedroom, all the loose little ends got blown out of proportions. Vague rumors became near certainties. Nagging thoughts left their deep grottos to fly out like screaming bats.

There was the ghost of the first warning from Paul. It might have lost a lot of its credibility after the farce with the hooker, but still... And there was the incident of seeing her with Mancini at the Hilton. They had reserved a cozy table for two. I saw her intimate touches, her smiles. They got more intimate as the night grew around me.

Then there was the whore at both hotels, where Mancini had booked rooms and suites at the exact same time. Betty had been at both the Hilton and the Regal. The little card on the bedside had Betty's number on it. In her handwriting.

There was the very strange phone call I interrupted.

I loved Betty.

But at night my silk blindfold seemed to unravel. Staying at the house alone would drive me mad. Lying alone in that dark bedroom might rob me of my sanity. I could not wait, muse, ponder in the dark.

Should I follow her?

I could, of course. But what was the use? I knew the hotel they'd stay at. I had been there at two parties the firm had thrown. I even knew the suite they usually booked. One suite, two separate bedrooms. Nevertheless.

True to her promise Betty phoned me as soon as they had landed on Logan. Only an hour later she called again to tell me they had settled in their hotel. She was a bit giggly and went on enthusiastically about the great autumn colors all around.

I chuckled.

"No need to call me every hour, honey. I'm glad you feel great."

She said she loved me, but had to hurry.

I said I loved her. My voice trembled. She had already disconnected.


The phone call came early the next morning.

I had hardly slept. When it rang it reminded me that Betty had never called again, yesterday evening. I had tried her cell twice last night, but it seemed disconnected.

It wasn't her voice. It wasn't a voice I knew. It sounded distant, as if muffled.

"Paul was right all along," it said.

I shook the hard earned sleep from my head.

"Who is this?" I groaned.

"Doesn't matter," the voice answered. "What matters is Betty. Call the Fairmont. Do it. Ask if she is there."

There was a click. I tried two hellos, but the line was dead.

I rose and sat on the edge of the bed. What the fuck?

Whose was the voice? I wasn't even sure it was male or female. The person knew Paul. He or she knew Betty too.

Why wouldn't she be at the Fairmont? And if so, what was so special about having to change the usual hotel? It might have been booked out. There might be other perfectly reasonable reasons. I tried to remember if Betty had said that she was at the Fairmont.

I looked up the number and got the reception. There was no booking under Mancini. Nor under Betty's name. Not her married, nor her maiden name. No, not the Boston company's either. He was sorry he couldn't help me.

I phoned three other five star hotels in the neighborhood. None of them could help me either.

I went to work.

Around eleven I tried Betty's cell phone. It still was disconnected, but not five minutes later she called me. She sounded high. Her energy gushed into my ear. All was wonderful. Meeting had gone great, client was a darling.

I asked her how the Fairmont was. Was there a hesitation? I couldn't say. The hotel was great as ever. Lovely rooms, sweetest people. But she had to run.

I stared at the dead phone.


"You've got mail."

It was the same muffled voice. A dry click followed.

The air closed in on me. My heart raced. I turned to my laptop and found my mail. There was a message indeed. I moved my mouse to open it. It took quite a while to load up.

The first thing I saw was Betty.

The image quality wasn't great. It had seemingly been shot through a narrow opening. Curtains, maybe? But it was Betty. And the date was yesterday. The time 10.14 p.m.

She wore the new corset she had shown off to me. And not much else. She sat in the lap of a middle-aged man. Salt and pepper hair, impeccable suit. His hand was on one of her tits. It must have popped out of its shallow cup. Her mouth was close to his ear. They laughed. The image faded.

When it came back on, I first didn't see Betty. I only saw the man in the suit, from the back. His jacket had gone. Then I saw red nailed fingers crawl around his sides and grab his ass cheeks. He started to push his hips in a rhythm. The fingers squeezed. Now I saw naked knees at both sides of his shining brogues.

The image once again faded to black.

When the light came back on I saw an exposed ass and legs. I knew them, they were Betty's. She must have draped herself over an arm of a leather club chair. The next moment a naked man obscured the image. I saw his ass cheeks. His hands were on her hips. I guess he shoved his cock up her cunt. Or her ass hole, maybe. I heard her screams, muffled by the window glass no doubt. She wasn't in pain.

The tiny keyhole of hell closed once again.

When it re-opened both Betty and her client were naked. She was on all fours, on the low coffee table in front of the chair. Her naked tits dangled and swung. I saw that the man was sliding his cock in and out of her ass. He was quite big. I saw his fat pole shine when it came out.

Betty's mouth worked in agony. Her screams sounded muffled and far away. The camera had somehow succeeded in getting closer shots. I saw her eyes glaze over when she came.

Her naked frame shook.

I studied the old guy while he came too. I knew him. Last Christmas we had talked amiably. He was the CEO of the firm. Betty's favorite client.

I saw why.


Being frozen is a cliché.

But it is really how you feel when time stops. I know. It happened to me. I sat at my desk and stared at the now black little square where my life had ended a minute ago. I just sat. I felt no tears.

I did not feel anything, actually.

I must have been sitting like that for a while. Maybe I did not hear the phone. I certainly didn't pick it up. I guess that was what made Judy investigate. She must have entered. I did not see her do it.

I did not see anything, period.

I guess she understood that my shock had been induced by the laptop in front of me. She clicked the mouse and the tiny window of horror opened to start the end of my life all over again.

Aren't reruns such a bore?

Judy gasped. It jolted me back to life. The world started spinning again, as if a spell had been broken. I groaned. I felt pinpricks all over my body. She stopped the machine and slapped the lid on it. Then she hugged me. I saw tears on her face.

Now I felt mine flow.

I don't know how long we hugged. I do know that after a while her mouth was on mine. I felt her soft chest against my ribs. I smelled her perfume. Then we parted. Her face looked flushed. Mine felt hot too.

"I...," she said. "I am so very sorry, Jules. Oh God, sweet man..." She once more hugged me.

There was no haze. All was very clear, painfully so.

"What do I do now, Judy?"

My voice was quiet.

"Call her," she said. "Call her now."

I sat down and fumbled with my phone. It took me two tries to get her. But she didn't pick up. I remembered how she had said she had to hurry. I threw the phone away. It landed on the leather chair by the pretty little table where I treated visitors to coffee.

The leather had the same color as in the video, I saw.

I just sat and stared. Judy talked. I don't recollect what she said. It was good to hear her. It told me I was still alive.

Then I screamed. I screamed a lot. I also slammed the top of my desk until flashes of pain shot up my wrists. Then I stopped the slamming. And the screaming.

"She wore the lingerie I bought her last Saturday," I whispered. "He seemed to appreciate it."


Betty called at five p.m.

She sounded bubbly. The words gushed like a tidal wave. The day had been gorgeous so far. They had driven into the New England countryside to admire the autumn colors. They had lunched at this incredibly cute little place. Such a damn pity I could not have been there with her...

I said nothing. She went on. She never stopped. But in the end my silence must have told her that something was unusual.

"Honey?" she said, after a silence. "Are you there?"

"Yes," I answered. "I am here. What's left of me, that is."

There was silence.

"Jules? Please, you scare me."

"Yes," I said again. "I guess I do. Sorry for that."

"What is wrong, honey? Did something happen?"

She sounded worried.

"Yes," I said for the third time. "Something happened. I'm not sure if it's serious, but yes. I just died."

There was a gasp.

"Oh please, Jules. Don't do this. It isn't funny!"

"I guess not, Betty. Well, as a matter of fact, I am quite sure it isn't funny. But it still is great timing that you should phone me right now. You see - I have to tell you something. It just came up and might be of importance to you."

"What is it, honey?"

"When you come back from Boston - or wherever you are, Betty - please don't come back to me. Stay away from me. I assure you it is the best thing you can do. By far the best. I'll pack your things tomorrow, so you can have them picked up. But please, don't come back to me. Ever."

There was a sudden rush of words on the other side of the phone, but I pushed the little red button and they were gone.

The silence buzzed in my ears. I stared at Judy.

"Care for a drink, honey?"


"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said.

Or rather tried to say.

Paul groaned. His blue eyes swam. They hardly focused anymore. I didn't care. He was drunk, so was I.

Judy had left a long time ago. She didn't want to, but I had insisted. She begged me to go home too. I did not see why.

I had called Paul in stead.

Of course I could hardly blame him for the state we were in by now. It was entirely my fault. I had dragged him here and kept the liquid coming. It had also been me who poured the stream of laments into his ears. I beat him with the club of my self-pity until he was mush. I rubbed my torn up ego in his face until he gagged.

And not once did he say: "I told you so."

I should feel sorry for him. But it was his fault too, wasn't it? He should have known better than becoming my best friend. And surely better than telling me what he had seen, that goddamn day. Let the bastard suffer. Why on earth did he have to tell me how my world had shattered and my universe collapsed!

There is a point in drunken conversation where the concrete gives way to the abstract. Where privately suffered pains are transformed into world encompassing tragedy.

After the tenth drink it almost became immaterial that I had seen my wife being fucked by her favorite client. It became moot that I had watched the eager pushing of her sleek hips. Or that I had heard the ecstatic screams from her mouth. It even hardly mattered that I had seen the orgasmic glazing over of her sweet eyes, her loving eyes, the eyes that loved me - it all gradually sank into the quicksand of my general misery.

What was left was a wide gaping hole in my soul.

Surely - watching a slut do a few banal physical exercises could not have caused this pain? It is just a common action performed every minute around the globe by billions of people, isn't it? How could all this pain ever be caused by watching some slimy cum seep out of a well-used little asshole? Or by seeing the shine of her juices on a pumping cock?

No. There must be more to it, much more to cause this bottomless sadness.

"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said.

"Cruelty" is quite a hard word to say when you are drunk. But imagine saying the word "betrayal." As in: "Wha' weally huzz issa bezwayl."


I hope you understand that I am not overly eager to tell you in detail what happened. I don't want to talk about the hows and the whys. The how longs and the with whoms and the how oftens are really quite a bit too painful. I know I might disappoint you by depriving you of that. But you'll have to imagine most of it.

And be assured that what really happened was worse.

After turning down each and every attempt to talk to me – including her visiting me at work - Betty sent me a letter. I tried to tear it up and throw it away. Then I started reading. After a few paragraphs I again tried to get rid of it.

But of course I needed to read all of it.

It started with her telling me how much she loved me. She always had and always would. Anything she did had only been for business and really had no impact on our love.

Ah well, I suppose a letter has to start somewhere.

She also said she had never meant for me to be hurt like this. That is why she had done everything in her power to avoid me discovering it. She apologized for having failed.

She had done everything in her power? How sick can you get? Maybe NOT doing it could at least have been considered part of the trying? She had obviously thought otherwise.

As I knew - she went on - she had met Robert (Mancini) almost two years before we met. He had granted her an interview when she was still in college. She had been flattered no end. Mancini was famous in his profession. He had been wonderful to her. Attentive and encouraging. He had taken her out for dinner and she had been so proud when he decided to hire her. Well, she wrote, I knew the rest.

Report Story

byangiquesophie© 66 comments/ 54322 views/ 16 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

2 Pages:12

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: