Marital Lease

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What do you do after two disastrous divorces?
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In some ways I won the gene lottery; in others I was either at the end of the line or left out entirely.

The ways I won? I'm good looking and fairly athletic. By the time that I was eighteen I was six two, two hundred pounds, with shiny blond hair, deep azure eyes, and a cherubic face, and was an all-conference lacrosse player. As I write this I'm still the same except that I put on ten pounds (mostly muscle) and no longer play lacrosse.

The ways I lost? I am about the worst judge of character possible. I simply can't read people. I am also normally totally unobservant and completely oblivious. I've tried working on these issues, so far without much success.

In between the above attributes, I'm at least reasonably intelligent -- at least intelligent enough to graduate from college though certainly no phi beta kappa. I also have one more idiosyncrasy; even though I earned a black belt in Brazilian jujitsu no one that I know except for my parents and brother knows that because some people think you have some sort of personality disorder if you take martial arts, and I don't want to be perceived that way.

Despite my good looks, I had many relationships with women sour during High School and in college. My parents and siblings always said that it was because the girls I picked to have relationships with -- while beautiful -- had seriously flawed personalities that I never picked up on until they either made my life unbearable, cheated on me, and/or dumped me.

I started out college at a Division I state school playing lacrosse, although just on a partial scholarship. Because my parents had to put two other kids through school, lacrosse was taking up too much of my time, I didn't really like the college I initially enrolled in, and I had been approached to do some modelling, my sophomore year I transferred to a small college in the Los Angeles area. I gave up lacrosse (my school didn't have a team so that was no big deal), worked fairly regularly as a model and with bit parts on T V and in movies, and made enough money to pay for school and support myself. As my only really physical outlet I continued with jujitsu, normally working out three or four times a week.

**************

My senior year in college I met Denise on a modelling shoot. Denise was too petite to be a fashion model, but her looks were perfect for many other types of modelling. She just about defined "cute" with her pixie cut blond hair and extremely symmetrical and pleasing face, and she also was sexy if dressed right (or, as I found out, if she was naked). She has a perfect round ass, thighs to die for, a slim waist, and perky small tits.

Denise and I seemed to hit it off right from the start. It was fortunate that she lived with several roommates only about a mile from my dorm on campus. She had graduated High School but either didn't have the interest or smarts for college. She was one year older than my twenty one when we met. After two days of shooting together, and two dates, I found myself in her bedroom sucking on the cutest little clit that I had ever seen while trying to abuse her G-spot with my middle finger, as she was concurrently trying to swallow my cock. As I fucked her tight pussy doggy style I simultaneously stimulated her tiny but extremely sensitive nipples. We had in-sync titanic orgasms not just the first fuck, but also the second dirty dangle fuck, and the third wheelbarrow fuck. On the last one I rendered her comatose.

After they met Denise three times I was surprised that my parents, siblings, and friends didn't gush about her -- but being as unobservant as I am I never really fixated on it at that time. Only looking back on it does their reaction ring any bells. I was too busy fucking up a storm with Denise -- and WOW, could she fuck; light years better than anyone before her.

Denise and I got married a month after I got a nice apartment and two months after I graduated college and accepted a job in the financial sector. While modelling was a great way to get money for college and expenses, I was interested in mentally challenging work, so except for a few odd jobs that Denise -- who continued to model full time -- got me I gave up modelling when I graduated.

Denise's family and friends seemed more enthusiastic that we were tying the knot than my family and friends were -- again something that I focused on only in retrospect.

For a year things with Denise seemed perfect to me. One thing was for sure -- the sex. Then Denise's Mom unfortunately died in a car accident. I was very supportive of her throughout her grieving process, which lasted for about six months before she seemed to snap out of it. During her grieving period our sex life understandably suffered a little, but not real dramatically. When she did appear to end her grieving period she became even more of a tiger in bed -- if possible -- than the first year that we were married.

The circumstances surrounding me finding Denise cheating are not important to relate except for the fact that Denise should have known that it was possible that I would arrive at our apartment on the Friday afternoon at the time that I did.

At first I couldn't believe it when I saw her in our bed, on her hands and knees, with a big guy that I didn't recognize talking dirty to her as he was doggy-fucking her. I recovered fairly quickly, however, and trying to draw on my martial arts training to keep my cool got the carbon dioxide fire extinguisher out of the kitchen and hit the fuckers with a first short blast -- which immediately caused them to separate -- and then a second short blast.

CO2 fire extinguishers aren't designed to just smother a fire -- they also instantly cool it. The pressurized carbon dioxide REALLY cools when it hits skin. The cold blasts that the fuckers got would be enough to "burn" their skin if I hadn't been careful to make the blasts short.

Both fuckers screamed when I blasted them. Denise screamed even louder when she saw me and instantly covered her naked body with a sheet -- like I hadn't seen her naked before. The guy she had been fucking was not the least bit contrite -- he was, in fact, belligerent.

"You fucking asshole, why did you do that?" he yelled at me. Maybe he thought he could get away with it because he was likely three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than I am.

"Oh, I don't know, retard -- maybe because I don't like other people fucking my wife," I sarcastically shot back as I tossed the fire extinguisher to the side.

"She invited me here -- I can't help it if you can't service her properly," he snarled as he remained naked, perhaps even being delusional enough to think that he was going to get back into bed with her.

"Well only my name is on the lease, so unless you're out of here in thirty seconds I'm evicting you, you moronic trespasser."

At this point Denise was screaming at "Joe" to leave and at "Brian" (me) not to get in a fight. Instead, Joe decided that he would teach me a lesson and approached me and swung his right fist at me. I couldn't believe my good luck!

With a move Joe never saw coming in one motion I blocked his swing and broke his wrist as I flipped him on his back. As he groaned and cried in pain, holding his broken right wrist with his left hand, I gathered up most of his clothes -- his shirt and socks got left behind -- in my left arm, and with my right grabbed his hair, yanked him to his feet, and then bum-rushed him out the door into the hallway, throwing his clothes on top of his prone, whimpering body.

I then marched back into the bedroom and started packing two suitcases. Denise was quietly sobbing. "What are you doing Brian," she stupidly asked.

"I'm putting up wall paper, what does it look like bitch?" I sarcastically shot back. Then I stared her in the eye for the first time during the incident, pointed a finger at her, and said "You have one week to vacate the premises. If you're not out in a week I will throw all of your shit out the window, and you with it you cheating cunt!"

I had never even raised my voice to Denise before, let alone called her names. She was stunned into silence while I finished packing the things that I'd need most for the next couple of days, as well as all of my valuables. Then I left with two suitcases, slamming the front door behind me. That asshole Joe had apparently recovered enough to vacate the premises because he was no longer in the hallway. When I got outside I saw him gingerly opening his car door, in obvious pain, but he had driven away before my suitcases were properly placed in my trunk and I was ready to take off.

I didn't drive away immediately. Again calling on my martial arts training I did deep breathing for about ten minutes before I felt relaxed enough to drive. I checked into a cheap hotel and wrote out all the things that I needed to do in the next few days. Then I fell into a restless sleep.

Denise called my cell Saturday afternoon, but when I saw her name on the caller ID I didn't answer it. "Please call me; I'm so sorry," was all that her message said.

I did everything on my list that I could accomplish on a Saturday, and Saturday night went to a movie with a single friend and then had another troubled night's sleep. Sunday I went to a ballgame with a different single friend and then worked out for three hours until I became so exhausted that I passed out, more than fell asleep, in my bed Sunday night, not even having bothered with dinner. I slept soundly that night and fortunately had set my alarm otherwise I would have been late for work.

At work I was about halfway productive on Monday, but in my personal life was more productive since I accomplished most of the rest of the stuff on my list. That included making an appointment with a divorce attorney for Thursday morning -- the earliest time I could get with the shark who had been recommended to me.

On Tuesday, Denise called me at work, and the receptionist put her through. "Don't hang up, Brian, it's me," she anxiously opened the conversation. "I know that you're justifiably upset but I have a real medical reason for my actions. Please just meet me for thirty minutes and if you're not satisfied I'll sign any divorce papers you put in front of me."

To be honest, that took me a little aback; even though I got flushed, the logical part of my brain told me that I at least had to listen somewhat. "Medical reason?" I questioned, hopefully not too mockingly. "How's that possible?"

"We can't resolve it over the phone. Please, please, please. If you ever loved me, meet me this afternoon, anywhere you say," she pled.

After thinking for a second I realized that I didn't really have anything to lose, and no matter what I could refrain from breaking her neck, so I said "One hour at the park two blocks north of my office -- you know the one, we've had two picnic lunches there in the past."

"I'll be there then; thank you Brian, thank you so much." She actually sounded sincere.

After Denise's call I finished only two quick simple projects since that's all that I was capable of, ate half a sandwich, then got to the park ten minutes early. Denise herself was early by five minutes, highly unusual behavior. She was carrying a 10 x 13 inch manila envelope.

"Thanks again for meeting me," she said as she sat next to me on the bench that I was occupying, fortunately not making any attempt to kiss or hug me. Although obviously sad, she didn't look as bad as I felt -- but then again she always looked good.

"Perhaps I should have discussed it with you at the time, and I apologize for not doing it, but I was so depressed by my Mom's death that I went to a shrink. It was about six months after her death when I decided that I needed professional help. He prescribed aripiprazole," she said handing me a container that looked like a typical prescription bottle. There were no pills in it, but on the outside it had "Denise Marteen," and "aripiprazole."

"What relevance does that have?" I asked in a low key, non-accusatory manner.

"You probably noticed that about three months ago -- when I first got this prescription -- that I snapped out of my malaise, and that our sex life got -- well got even better than its normal fantastic level. What I didn't notice right away, until about the last month, was that I was getting compulsive sex urges."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that thinking about sex was overtaking my brain, and when Joe hit on me -- as you know hundreds have guys have since we've been married and before the last month I quickly and sometimes not too politely shot them down -- I had this irresistible urge. My brain was fried -- I honestly couldn't think straight -- so I gave in."

"How many times did you fuck him?"

"The time you caught us was the third," she said, looking down at the ground.

"So how is this a medical problem, Denise?"

With that she opened up the manila envelope she was carrying and took out three articles, two from medical journals, the third from a less scholarly publication.

"After you caught me I realized that I had a problem. So I went to see a sex therapist yesterday, thinking that my personality had changed. When she found out that I was on aripiprazole she gave me these articles," she said pointing to the three printouts which were now in my hand.

"What's the upshot?" I inquired.

"The upshot is that recently aripiprazole has been determined by the FDA to have serious previously unrecognized side effects including gambling and sexual compulsion. While the side effects are unusual, for a small portion of the population they are completely real -- and I'm in that group. In the articles are several case studies, three of professional people who lost, or almost lost, their life savings by compulsive gambling after starting on aripiprazole, and two women who started compulsive sexual behavior one actually turning into a prostitute for a period of time."

"So you're saying that the 'drug made me do it?'" I asked, basically nicely but with a hint of skepticism in my tone.

"If you see, the bottle of aripiprazole that I gave you is empty. I threw the pills out at the therapist's office. She says that if I can reconcile with you I probably won't need an anti-depressant any more, but if I do still need an anti-depressant that I must get another one besides aripiprazole, one that doesn't have the compulsive behavior side effect."

I was stunned. After a few minutes of silence where things were tumbling in my mind Denise said "Brian, I'm so sorry that I didn't recognize my behavior as compulsive before, or that aripiprazole was having an adverse effect on me. Please, please take me back now that I'm off the aripiprazole. I promise to make it up to you and be the most faithful wife in history."

I could tell that Denise was holding back tears.

After another pause I said "Let me look this stuff over and think about it. I'll get back to you soon."

"Can you please not make me move out until a week after you've decided?" she meekly queried.

"Fine -- let's keep the status quo until I think about it," I replied.

When we stood up she moved with lightning speed to press her little body against mine and mumbled "You'll never regret it if you take me back."

I instinctively hugged her for a few seconds, then pushed her away, tried to evoke a smile, and went back to my office.

That afternoon I canceled my meeting with the divorce attorney for Thursday. I was able to concentrate at work, and that night read the articles that she had provided me. On Wednesday I did an Internet search, located an expert, and got her on the phone by Wednesday afternoon. The expert convinced me that although the compulsive side effect is very, very rare, in those rare cases it is all too real.

"Someone who has an aripiprazole side effect can be, depending upon her or his personality, incapable of avoiding compulsive sexual behavior regardless of how they value fidelity before getting on the drug," was what she said that stuck with me.

Wednesday night I seriously reflected on the situation. Our marriage vows did include "in sickness and in health," and this sure seemed to meet the "sickness" criteria. After sleeping on it, I called Denise Thursday morning. She was already at a shoot but I left her a message: "I'd like another talk that I think might lead to reconciliation," was all that I said.

Denise called me Thursday at lunch. "Thank you so much for your message, Brian. Please, please come home tonight. The aripiprazole hasn't entirely flushed out of my system yet and I'm going crazy -- I need you."

"I'll come by tonight after dinner, but I'm not guaranteeing reconciliation until we talk."

"I'll be waiting," she replied in a sing-song voice.

When I let myself into the apartment, Denise was sitting on the couch in the living room with a glass of wine in her hand. She had on a short skirt and tank top and obviously no underwear. "Want a glass of wine?" she chimed.

"No thanks," I replied, finding it hard to take my eyes off of her bare pussy even though I had seen it hundreds of times before.

She put her wine glass down on the coffee table, got up and put her arms around my neck. I held her arms but didn't push her away. "Brian, please fuck me right now. It will make no difference in reconciliation, it's just that the aftereffects of the aripiprazole have got me so amped up, I think that I'm going to freak." There was a tear in her eye as she said that.

I didn't want to -- I really didn't -- but with strength that I didn't know her little body had her arms broke free of mine, she got on her knees, she opened my fly and in no time at all her lips were engulfing my cock. After she sucked for only a minute, and had somehow already removed her clothes simultaneously with her sucking, she stared into my eyes. She released my cock long enough to moan "Fuck me Brian, claim my pussy."

I lifted her off the floor, dropped my pants to my ankles, grabbed her ass, lifted her entire body so that her pussy was even with my cock, moved her against an interior wall, and penetrated her soaking wet pussy in one thrust.

She continuously cried out "Fuck me Brian; fuck my brains out!" as I reciprocated away and she pulsed her vaginal muscles. Once I started fire-hosing her little cunt she moaned "Oh yes," at least fifty times, and continued to squeeze and release my cock until after what seemed like a half hour I finally went flaccid.

With my pants still around my ankles and my deflating cock still in her pussy I shuffled over to the couch, and when we both plopped down we finally separated.

She buried her head in my chest and moaned "Thank you; I needed that so badly; thank you!"

When we both finally regained awareness she shyly looked into my eyes and said "Tell me what you want me to do in order to reconcile, Brian; I'll do anything."

"OK," I replied, emotionally and physically drained. "First, you break it off with Joe; you never see him again."

She giggled at that. "Are you kidding, after what you did to him he wants nothing to do with me. By the way, how did you do to him what you did? He's a professional football player you know."

"No, I didn't know, but it makes no difference. I was just mad as hell and could have taken on anyone in the world the way that I felt then," I replied avoiding mention of my black belt in Brazilian jujitsu.

She kissed me and smiled. "I swear, not only no more Joe, but no more anyone; what else?" When she said that I sternly replied that it could never happen again because another act of cheating by her -- no matter what the circumstances -- was the end of our relationship. She vigorously nodded her head and said "I know, I know."

I went through a litany of other things that I required, such as placing a locator app for her iPhone on mine. She readily agreed to each requirement, planting a kiss on me with each concurrence. There was one thing that I didn't seek her approval for -- I was going to plant an HD hidden camera in both our master bedroom and guest room. While I was willing to reconcile at this stage in view of the situation with aripiprazole, I was no longer stupidly trusting.