Second Wife Ch. 02

The moment the door clicked I stared at Mary. She stared back. She looked alone, a little scared, vulnerable in her paper dress. I guess my look drifted towards sympathetic, because she gave me a grateful look.

"Thanks for being here with me," she said in a way that was designed to melt my heart. I was wavering, perhaps more than any time since she broke up with me. I had to do something about this quickly, the revenge-obsessed asshole part of me was screaming: Red Alert!

I nodded, and then locked the door. A look of surprise and alarm crossed her face, followed by horror as she realized what I was about to do.

"Oh, Bill, no, not here," she whispered harshly. "This is my doctor's office for Christ's sake!"

"You heard the lady," I said, evilly. "We've got some time to kill. So I'll give you a choice: you can either tell me once again why and how you cheated on me and lost everything in your life you held dear, and begin your appointment by choking tears, or you can go ahead and do what you promised you would do and suck . . . my . . . cock. Your choice." I was firm. I was proud of myself. I didn't want to be, I wanted to hold her and comfort her.

"This is about the least sexy place I can imagine," she hissed.

"I'm not overly concerned if you enjoy it," I pointed out. She was pissed, I could tell -- and in a way I respected her right to be pissed. If a woman has no peace even in the privacy of her OB-GYN's office, where can she find it? But I was here, and I was being a prick by violating that -- but she had to decide whether to follow her end of the bargain or relate to me once again the sordid details of her affair.

With a nervous sigh, she made her choice by motioning me over towards the table. "You can't fuck me," she reminded me. "Not before an exam."

"Why on earth would I want to fuck you?" I asked, amused. That stung her, hard, but she didn't reply. She tugged down my zipper and freed my dick and popped it in her mouth before beginning a desperate power-suck. She was racing with the clock to make me cum before her doctor arrived. And I could imagine she was regretting blowing me so thoroughly this morning.

There was a perverse thrill in it for me, of course -- how could there not be? This was a feminine holy-of-holies, a gynecological shrine where the penis was a distant memory. We were surrounded by diagrams of pregnant women, cut away to show the progression of pregnancy, and dozens of pamphlets on everything from cervical dysplasia to Venereal Disease to the perils of unwanted pregnancy. This was NOT a penis-friendly place.

Yet I stood on the little step, which brought my dick perfectly to her lips, and Mary was slurping away as determinedly as she could, hands on each of my hips as she face-fucked herself. I put a guiding hand on the back of her head as I encouraged her. I pushed deep, deep into her throat, deciding to enjoy the thrill of this ride as long as I could. After all, she couldn't risk making too much noise in protest, lest she invite attention from the staff.

I was content to saw away between her lips, while her tongue went crazy trying to bring me off. She kept glancing up at me, desperately, her cheeks turning red and her chin slick with spit. That was just too much for me -- I exploded in her mouth, almost making her choke. In fact a little drop of cum fell from her lips and on to her gown, unnoticed. I let my cock sit there relaxing on her tongue while she cleaned away the last traces of sperm, and then almost got it bitten off when there was a loud knock at the door and the rattle of a doorknob.

I pulled free with a plop and quickly zipped up and unlocked the door.

"Sorry," I explained to the doctor, apologetically. "Small wardrobe malfunction."

"Happens all the time, Dr. Simmons said. He was an older doc, balding, with glasses, and he seemed pretty cheerful. He tossed Mary's chart on the counter top and washed his hands. "So, you're Mary and Bill? Nice to meet you. How are you feeling, Mary? Any pain?"

He continued to prepare for the exam by asking her several questions about her condition, which she answered hesitantly but truthfully. He palpitated her bulging tummy, let her listen to the fetal heartbeat (which almost made her cry) and then fired up the ultrasound machine, readying the long, phallic-shaped probe with a copious squirt of institutional KY Jelly.

"Just put your feet in the stirrups and relax," he ordered, in a tone that didn't seem to relax Mary in the slightest. Obediently she complied, until her bare ass was hanging off of the edge of the table, her knees pointed skyward, and her naked pussy (stubble just now taking over her mound again) in the face of the first strange man since Tim. "So, are you excited about the birth?" he asked me, as if she wasn't there.

"Not really," I answered, truthfully. I stopped there, letting him draw it out of me. That would be more painful and humiliating to Mary, I decided.

"Why not? Fatherhood is a scary thing, I know -- three kids of my own -- but you get used to it pretty quickly."

"I'm not the father," I shrugged. He looked confused as he placed the tip of the probe against Mary's vulva. It looked cold. From the way Mary stiffened, I imagined it was.

"You . . . I thought you two were married?"

"We are. But I'm not the father."

"Oh. Fertility specialist?"

"Nope. Adultery." Mary let out a short moan as the truth was revealed to her physician at the same moment he penetrated her vagina with the ultrasound. Dr. Simmons fumbled a bit in shock.

"Hnh?" he grunted, glancing quickly at both of us.

"My . . . wife," I began, calmly but intently, "saw fit to take a lover. The bulge in her belly is his enduring gift to her. The birth will be concrete proof of her infidelity, so you can imagine my mixed emotions as it approaches."

"Oh . . ." Dr. Simmons said, distracted. "And you two are still . . . together?"

"We're still legally married," I agreed. "For now." There was enough venom in my voice to make Mary whimper. She put her arm over her eyes -- no doubt to dull the glare from the fluorescent lights above -- and her knees sagged apart as the doctor navigated the probe through her pussy. Sorry, vagina. In an OB's office, it's a vagina.

"That's an unusual story," he admitted. "Let's take a picture of the little ba—scamp. He looks good and healthy -- ten fingers, ten toes."

Mary endured the rest of the exam in quiet. I didn't mention anything else until she had gotten over both the humiliation of revealing her infidelity and the joy she had at seeing the healthy baby inside her. I allowed her that -- it wasn't my place to interfere with her emotions about motherhood. But after the doc pulled the sticky probe back out of her twat and tossed her a towel to wipe off the residue of lubricant, I felt like I could chime in again.

He went over her diet, her exercise, prescribed a pre-natal vitamin and some nausea medication, and talked about her bowel movements and mood swings. Then he asked if we had any questions. Mary had a few, which she asked in a quiet voice. Then I piped up again.

"So, what about sex?" I asked, loudly. "Can she still screw when she's like this?"

"Well, yes, as long as she's not in distress there's no reason why she can't have regular intercourse."

"How regular?" I asked.

"Well, as regular as she can stand, I suppose," he said, clearly taken aback.

"So she could get it maybe twice a day, and it wouldn't hurt the baby?"

"No, it shouldn't. If it does hurt, Mary, then stop intercourse and call my office. You might have some spotting afterwards -- perfectly normal, considering the increase in vasculature across the surface of the cervix -- but anything that persists, contact us immediately."

"Thank you, doctor, I—" she said, flushed with embarrassment.

"What about anal?" I interrupted, loudly. "Can she still have anal sex?"

"I . . . well, if she had it before the pregnancy, she shouldn't have a problem with it, now. Just be extra careful to keep the area clean -- no need to risk an infection for a transitory thrill," he said, smiling uncomfortably.

"Well, we've only done it a few times," I answered. "But I know she did it a lot with her lover. His penis was, apparently, much smaller than mine, though. I just want to make sure she wouldn't have a problem taking a much larger penis in her rectum."

"Just use plenty of lubricant," the doctor mumbled, very uncomfortably.

"Oh, we will, we will!" I said eagerly. "Hear that, honey? We can do it in your butt! And you thought there would be a problem!" I leaned in conspiratorially and confided to the doctor, "She isn't always thrilled about it, but the little vixen feels obligated to make it up to me, for going out and getting some strange . . . penis. I haven't done it to her in a month, though, until I checked with a doctor."

"It wouldn't be my first choice," he said, his eyes wide as he tried to figure us out. "Even under the best of circumstances, it's not advisable to abuse the ligaments around the rectum. They can stretch over time and lead to . . . anal leakage, hemorrhoids, and other unpleasantness."

"Anal leakage?" I asked, loud enough to be heard through the door. "Well, we'll just have to cut the butt-love down to a few times a week, then, honey!"

"Can we go now?" she asked, desperately.

I ignored her -- this was too much fun. "What about oral, doc? Any problems there?"

"Not as long as she's comfortable with it," he agreed. "That can't hurt the baby at all."

"And swallowing ejaculate? She loves to swallow the ejaculate," I observed. "It's her favorite part!" Her face was fire-engine red.

So was the doctor's. I pitied him. "No, actually, the additional protein might even be considered helpful," he admitted, through gritted teeth.

"Looks like we've got a busy day ahead of us, Honey!" I said, enthusiastically. "Thank you so much for your help, Dr. Simmons!" The man beat a hasty retreat. I couldn't blame him.

Mary, for her part, merely glared hatefully at me as she wiped her crotch and put her panties back on. She didn't even speak until we were back out in the parking lot. I was prepared for her to explode at me in rage, but she resisted. I saw her lips moving, silently -- she was either cussing or praying.

"Was that," she finally said as I unlocked the car, "completely necessary? God, it's not even like you're having sex with me!"

"Just keeping my options open," I said, mildly.

"You just enjoy humiliating me!" she spat.

"Actually . . . yes, I do," I admitted. "It brings me some solace as I contemplate the life you wasted so casually. And if you recall, you consented -- in advance -- to any such humiliations I wanted to bestow."

"Yeah, but I thought you'd want more schoolgirl outfits or maybe some bondage or some shit like that," she said, glaring at me as she got into the car. "I didn't think you'd . . ."

"Your thinking days are over," I snapped. "You were thinking six months ago, and look where it got you? You made a deal, and yes, I'm doing my best to make you break your word on this. That way I can prove to myself what a dishonest bitch you are, ensure that you are utterly beyond redemption, and can get on with my life. I told you I would put you through Hell -- and I plan to. You'll buckle, eventually. I don't know exactly what it will take, but one of these days you are going to snap, terminate our agreement, and I can finally put you far, far behind me."

She stared at me. "You are cruel," she observed.

"You made me that way," I countered, my eyes narrowing. She looked away. She didn't have any ready answer for that.

"I vowed I'd stand by my word," she said, finally.

"Well we know how seriously you take your vows. . ." I said, darkly.

"I mean it," Mary insisted. "I vowed that I would take it. This, the humiliation at the Oswald's, all of it. You want to bend me over and fuck my ass all day long? Go for it. You want to have 'whore' tattooed across my ass, you set it up, I'll get it done. You want to call up everyone in my high school class and tell them how I betrayed you? I'll gladly admit to everything, and beg your forgiveness in front of them, over and over again. You name it, I'll do it. I'm stronger than this. You want to humiliate me, Bill? Do it. Bring it on. Because I love you, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to fight for my husband and my marriage, and I don't care about anything else."

There were tears. My heart was stabbing me. She was sincere -- that much I knew. She might have been lying, but she wasn't insincere. Some things you just know after a few years of marriage.

But while a part of me sang out when I heard those words, another part hardened even more. My trust in her, once complete, was blown, and it would take more than some brave words and a couple of hundred blowjobs to get it back. Had she come to me and confessed her affair, we might have worked through it conventionally, with therapy and counseling. I would have matched her determination to reclaim our marriage with my own.

But she hadn't. She had not only violated the sanctity of our marriage, she had had the temerity to "fall in love" with the human pimple, and leave me for him -- only because she was carrying his child, perhaps, but that's what she did. She left me, told me she wasn't in love with me, insulted me, destroyed my hopes of a future and a family, and humiliated me as much as you can humiliate a man. I had handled my business -- Tim no longer polluted my state -- and I had "won" that round by getting my revenge on him. But whatever fleeting animosity I'd had towards the man who had made me a cuckhold was nothing compared to the resentment I harbored towards my wife. What she had done had struck at me deeply. I was no longer the man she had married -- or even the man she had fallen out of love with. I was a new man, suspicious, paranoid, calculating, and ruthless -- and I resented that she had stripped who I was away from me.

It is painful to re-invent yourself. I am a creature of habit, and routine comforts me. You just don't see too many "spontaneous" accountants. The debt I yet owed to Mary was profound, even if the hurt was, by and large, unintentional. Some wounds go so deep as to change the nature of your soul, and she had inflicted one upon me. That baby in her womb, which I held as an innocent bystander in all of this, was a biological result of the wound. A living, breathing lump of emotional scar tissue. Had she even told me she didn't love me, and loved another, perhaps reconciliation would be simple.

But the day I had looked forward to most since my wedding day, my first prenatal visit with my wife, had been stolen from me because of her thoughtlessness. I recognized that Mary was in the process of reinventing herself as well, but she had chosen to do that within my purview, under my influence. There would be consequences to her actions, now, and who she would become would be partially a product of my pain.

The urge was there. I felt a powerful desire to forget everything, let bygones live in the past, start from scratch, clean slate, all of it. I could have easily fallen into her arms and begged her for our old life back. But the cold, hardened part of me knew that if I did, our relationship would never be the same. It couldn't be, not with the baby. So I had to find another route back to sanity. And whether or not that route included Mary, and however her own reinvention turned out, was completely unknowable.

I knew I wanted to be married -- I'm a creature of habit, remember, and until recently I put a lot of stock into the security of the marital union. I enjoyed being married. It felt good. I just didn't know if I ever wanted to be married to Mary again. As a matter of fact, I had yet to seriously date anyone since she had been back, and I knew it was time to change that. Regardless of what the future held, I knew that as of now I wasn't even remotely ready to let Mary back into my heart. Our relationship wasn't dead, yet, but it was coughing up blood and might not survive the birth of her baby.

Her baby. It should have been our baby.

Which is the thought that inspired what I did next. I reached over, stuck my hand up the skirt she was wearing, and rudely dug down into her panties. She squirmed uncomfortably and almost grabbed my hand, but resisted -- this was well within the scope of our agreement. I slipped a finger passed the leg of her panties and found the entrance to her pussy. I pushed my finger relentlessly within -- causing her to moan a little. Then I pulled it back out and smelled it. I knew she hated that.

"Smells like you didn't entirely hate the humiliation, now did you?" I sneered. "You're soaked!"

"That's the lubricant!" she protested.

"It's not all lubricant," I countered. Then without warning I pushed my finger into her mouth. That startled her, and then disgusted her, but in the end her tongue licked my finger clean.

"Go ahead, Bill," she said, patiently, licking her lips. "Whatever you can throw at me, I can handle. Yes, that made me a little horny, getting . . . degraded like that. But just a little. But if you want me to moan like a slut and beg for more, I'm willing to do it," she said, resolutely. "I'm serious."

"You just think you are," I growled. "Like it or not, we're tied together for now . . . but it would take a miracle to heal the wounds you gave me. A miracle, Mary, and I don't believe in miracles."

"Yeah, Bill?" she said, scowling. "Well, I do. I believe in miracles. So at least I believe in something. What do you believe in, Bill?" Her tone was biting, of course -- we were having an argument -- and I don't think she expected an answer to that 'what do you believe in' question. People of faith (not necessarily religious faith, but all people who are happy throwing caution to the winds as they blunder along with their lives) almost always consider their position unassailable -- how can you argue against faith?

But I had an answer.

"I believe in the record, Mary," I shot back. "Facts. Figures. That's what we Bean Counters do all day. We don't go into work hoping that things will be better, or fearing that they'll be worse, we look at the historical record of events and make a determination based on our experience and knowledge of what has transpired before. And while we know that past performance is not an indicator of future results . . . it's a safe way to bet. And your record, Mary, isn't particularly inspiring. Based on your record, I don't have a lot of hope. You can fight for our marriage if you want -- I'm giving you your shot -- but don't expect me to be particularly easy to win over. Because miracles are not statistically significant, honey. They just don't happen."

"I don't believe you!" she said. "I don't. I know if I can . . . if I can show you how repentant I am . . ."

I shook my head and laughed ruefully. "You go ahead and try, sweetheart. We can keep this going indefinitely. I'm game -- I know you'll fuck it up, eventually. But in the mean time, go ahead and show me. Show me how sorry you are. You know how."

She calmly nodded, and began opening my zipper. By the time I hit the highway, her nimble lips were already suckling the head of my cock. She wasn't resistant, or reluctant, this time. She was resolute. She was sucking my dick with the righteousness of a saint.

I had the little martyr right where I wanted her.