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Soap On A Rope - The Aftermath


"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

Or so the saying goes. What most people don't realize however is the fact that it refers to your money rather than your reputation.

"Whatever amount of cash you bring to Vegas stays in Vegas."

Oh well. What is cash for, if not for burning while having fun? After all you only live once. Which was exactly what I had told myself a few weeks ago when I picked up my Dodge Charger SRT8 at the dealer. Among the things a man need in order to maintain his testosterone level is a good set of wheels and...


Huh? Somebody dared intruding on my inner monologue by honking.

I glanced to the right, and noticed a group of giddy kids in a Mustang convertible in the next lane. I rolled down the window.

"What's up guys?"

The girl at the wheel sent me a seductive smile. She was hot in a sultry and slightly artificial way.

"My oh my." She cooed. "That's a mighty beefy car you have there daddy. Whatcha been feeding it?"

"Mustangs." I answered with a predatory smile, and stepped on it as the light turned green. The kids disappeared in my rear view mirror like drops of water on a hot surface.

"Yeah, it definitely works," I though to myself.

I could practically feel my balls growing by the minute by the sound of the powerful V8. All I needed now was a hairy chest and a Tom Selleck mustache to go with it and my ascend to ultimate manhood was assured.

But first things first. I had a little psychological issue to deal with and needed to enlist some professional assistance.


Consequently I later found myself in the tastefully furnished office of doctor Laci Horowich; allegedly one of the leading experts in behavioral psychology in the area. I've gotten the name from my secretary who ensured me that she was good.

The doctor turned out to be a fairly well preserved brunette about my age with an annoying habit of never looking directly at the person she was talking to.

"Welcome Mr. Connor," she said to the desk lamp with a bright smile. "Please have a seat."

"Dave," I said. "My friends and my shrink call me Dave."

"Dave it is then. And how can I be of service to you Dave?"

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But you might as well pull your mind out of the gutter right now. I'm into feisty redheads and happened to be married to one, so I had no room for brunettes in my life. My need for doctor Horowich was strictly in her professional capacity. I was still struggling with making sense of my reaction to watching my wife getting ravished in her sleep by a drunken stranger. I needed some sort of scientific explanation before going in sane.

"This is quite embarrassing to talk about doc, so you'd better be serious about that patient-doctor confidentiality."

"Don't worry Dave. It's one of my professions most sacred principles. Unless you reveal a plan to commit murder or an act of terror, everything – and I mean, everything - said in this office is privileged information."

She looked reassuringly at the penholder.

"Ok doc. Well, it all began when I received an invite to a family wedding in Las Vegas..."

And I then proceeded to tell her the entire story that I shared with you a while back under the title "Soap on a Rope." If you have no fucking idea what I'm babbling about, you should go read it now and continue with this story later.

Still here? Ok, well the doc never interrupted me, but was scribbling away on her iPad while I was telling my tale. Or maybe she was playing Angry Birds in Space, who knows? As long as I got my answer she could dance a Scottish Jig while gurgling Gershwin for all I cared.

"So what do you say doc? Am I a sick fuck or do you hear this kinda shit all the time?"

She put down her iPad and nodded thoughtful at my coffee mug.

"That was quite an engaging tale Dave. No, I do not hear something like that every day. You are not an ordinary man."

"And what does that mean? Give it to me straight please. Am I one of them wimpy-ass cuckolds you hear so much about?"

"No, far from it." she said and added, "Not that there is anything wrong with choosing a cuckolding lifestyle Dave. Different folks, different strokes you know."

"Yeah whatever. But then, what the heck am I doc?"

"I could lecture you about Herne's syndrome for hours, but if you want it in clear text: You are a hunter Dave."

I had to laugh at that. Doctor Horowich didn't seem offended and sent the intercom a warm smile.

"No offence doc but I friggin hate hunting. And fishing too btw. Last time I was out with my cousin I fell asleep in the boat and dropped his three hundred dollar fishing rod into the lake. He hasn't spoken to me since, and I even paid him for it."

"You misunderstand Dave," doctor Horowich said. "You are a hunter of women. Not fish or animals. Your story has all the hallmarks of Herne's syndrome: You watched another man lay claim to your wife, you out-maneuvered him, took your wife back and punished the usurper. It was the thrill of competing with another man for your wife that gave you such a high. The thrill of the hunt. Not the humiliation."

I felt a deep sense of relief.

"Not a cuckold, eh?"

"No," she assured her laptop. "A cuckold thrives on humiliation and will typically react with submission when faced with a threat to his relationship. You, on the other hand, would see it as a challenge and fight back."

Doctor Horowich continued.

"Actually your personality is closer to that of a voyeur. Stalking the prey is part of the hunt after all. That's why you got aroused watching your wife being engaged sexually with another man. I suspect you would have enjoyed it almost as much, if it hadn't been her but two complete strangers. Where you differ though is in your desire to be physically involved and not merely watching. Had you been a true voyeur you wouldn't have had the need to have sexual intercourse with your wife after watching her. Masturbation would have been enough for you."


On the way home from the doc I felt pretty good about myself despite being a couple of hundred bucks poorer. So I was a hunter? A ferocious tiger on the prowl. A shark in a fishbowl. King of the jungle. Ruler of the food chain. Yeah, I could live with that.

"Tarzan Kreegah Bundolo!"

Though I did not expect to get the opportunity to 'hunt' anybody ever again. What happened in Vegas was a fluke. A conjunction of multiple unlikely events coalescing into a once in a lifetime experience. And it would be a cold day in hell before Marie knowingly would agree to any kind of swinging or hotwifing . Not that I'd want her to anyway. Even amazing orgasms aren't worth risking the love of your life for.

But maybe I could do the voyeur thing solo sometime. Like stalking the neighborhood and peep in on other people fucking? Naah, better forget it. It would be too damn embarrassing if I got caught.


For a few months life went on in the Connor household with nothing interesting to report. Marie and I lived the suburban life like millions of other families with kids, work, family, friends, hobbies and so on.

Our only recurring point of tension being my, according to Marie, stubborn refusal to drive the SUV. But come on! SUV's aren't cars. They're little boxes on wheels that will eventually turn men into gerbils if they spend too much time inside them. Sure, I would drive the damn thing if the kids needed me to, but otherwise the only mode of automotive transportation for me was my trusty Charger. So what, if it got a lower mileage? Gas is nothing but rotten dinosaurs anyway and if that ain't recycling I don't know what is.

Incidentally it was the very same Charger I was busy washing when Marie came out and told me about the invitation. Not right away of course; she had to bitch a little about my beloved car first. You can't break tradition after all.

"You know Dave, it's funny how I always have a hard time telling whether you're washing that stupid car or masturbating it."

Women just don't get it. I tried to explain anyway.

"A man who doesn't take good care of his car is no real man. And surely you prefer your husband to be a real man, right?"

"But seriously. Why are you wasting several hours each weekend hand-washing that thing Dave? I drive mine through the machine at the gas station. It takes ten minutes and I get free coffee while I wait."

"Yours isn't a car," I reminded her. "It's an SUV. Nobody cares what it looks like. This is a real car and it deserves a real wash. Besides I'm relaxing this way Grasshopper. Washing your car is totally Zen."

She sighed and I knew she had given up for now. Time for her to get down to business; the real reason for her intrusion in my car-time.

"By the way Cora just called. We are invited to a party Friday in two weeks; the week the kids are away visiting my parents. It's costume."

"Hell no! In her dreams! I'm a grown man Marie. There's no fucking way I'm gonna play dress-up at some chick party."

"That's what I told her Dave. There's no fucking way my grown husband would attend a pirate-themed costume party."

"Pirate-themed, you say?"


"So everybody get to dress up like a pirate?"

"Oh yeah. It's even required."

"And you can choose any pirate costume you want?"


She had me already, and she knew it too.

"You know honey," I said casually. "Ben and Cora are really good friends and we have known them for years. We shouldn't let them down. Please call her back and accept."

"If you say so my beloved husband," Marie acknowledged with a sly grin. "You are the head of the house after all."

"And tonight I'm gonna shiver ye timbers. Yarr!" I replied.

It was nice hearing Marie laugh, and I was actually looking forward to that party. What can I say? I totally loved pirates. There are just some things you never outgrow.


Even the best-laid plans can fall victim to circumstance, so naturally I was tied up at work for an extra hour on the day of the party. It was the Levinson account so I had little choice. But I finally made it home.

It was time to say goodbye to David Connor and hello to Dave Sparrow; Scourge of the Seven Seas.

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me."


When I pulled up in front of Ben and Cora's mansion I was in a total freebooter mood, just looking for a village to pillage. I put on the obligatory half-mask and leaned on the doorbell.

And leaned.

And leaned.

SHIT! Nobody came to the door.

Which wasn't too much of a surprise to be honest. I could hear the music as soon as I got out of the car and nobody would be able to hear the doorbell in that ruckus. I would probably have to ram the door for anybody to notice. So I started around the house instead, heading for the pool area, where I assumed the party was. Besides, it was a fitting entrance for me. Full-blooded pirates like Dave Sparrow shouldn't have to be bothered with mundanities like doors.

"Yohoho and a bottle of rum," I hummed to myself while strolling along the well-manicured lawn, doing my best to avoid stepping in the flowerbeds.

Just as I turned the corner at the far side of the house I spotted them – two fellow pirates clearly having a good time in the biblical sense of the word. Immediately instincts took over and I swiftly ducked for cover behind the low hedge next to the wall.


I would feel kinda bad intruding on their fun, but did these two idiots really have to get their rocks off right in the path of my only way to the party area? Yeah, there was still the front door of course, but it had its chance already. Besides, Dave Sparrow NEVER retreats.

Naturally there was the... mmm... third option: I could just wait them out.

Clearly the considerate thing to do.

I mean, nothing is worse than being disturbed in the middle of having sex, right?

Besides with the intensity those two were going at it, they wouldn't be long.

What? Peeping Tom? Who? ME? Not at all! I can assure you that I had the purest of motives. I was simply being polite is all.

Though naturally I might as well keep an eye on the action while waiting. It wasn't like I had much else to do, and it WAS kinda their fault I was stuck here. Only fair that they should repay my fine gesture by providing a bit of entertainment to help pass the time.

I grabbed my one-eye brass telescope and extended it. Oh yes – it wasn't merely a prop, but an actual working telescope. C'mon! Did you honestly believe that Dave Sparrow would be caught dead wearing a cheap piece of plastic?

As fate would have it the telescope certainly came in handy. In fact, it made the difference between watching two non-descript people rubbing together at a distance and actually watching them having sex, almost as if I was standing right next to them.

And they were most definitely having sex. The girl - a slim Hispanic senorita – was sitting on the edge of a wooden table desperately fighting to hold on while her boyfriend was banging away in her like a woodsman cutting down a tree. Not a lot of finesse as far as I could tell, but whatever he might be missing in the skills department he sure made up for in tenacity. I wouldn't have lasted a minute at that speed. Christ! Was he fucking her or trying to set her pussy on fire?

Just then I realized that I had a problem of my own: A huge hard-on!

Oh no. This couldn't be happening again. What the fuck? DOWN BOY! Shit! Shit! Triple-shit! But there was no mistaking it. Little-Dave was totally liking what big-Dave was watching and he wanted to come out and play. Just like Vegas, except this was a helluva lot worse.

Apart from the fact that my telescope and I were crouching behind a hedge in a large public garden in broad daylight – being discovered and outed as a sick perv was a very real risk – I wasn't spying on my wife this time. These were strangers, who would probably scream for the police if they spotted me with cock in hand. Besides, odd as it may sound, masturbating while watching two strangers felt like cheating on Marie.

Nope. Couldn't do it. The cock would have to stay in the pants this time.

Not that I feared that Marie would divorce me over something like this. Hell no; she would never let me off the hook that easy. People who didn't know my wife saw her as just another attractive redheaded forty-something MILF. But if they ever had the misfortune of pissing her off they would discover that she had a will power of steel, a mind like a razor, a temper like a colony of wasps and definitely didn't believe in turning the other cheek. If you hurt her, she would sucker-punch you rather than break down crying.

If you think Marie sounded like a bitch you're right. She certainly was, but I wouldn't have her any other way. Her feistiness and drive was part of the reason why I fell in love with her in the first place. But all love aside, there was no doubt that she would be royally pissed if she busted me masturbating while peeping at people having sex. It would be like telling her that she wasn't enough for me. A statement both insulting and untrue.

So despite the intense live show in front of me I kept my straining cock inside my pants. I couldn't quite help rubbing a bit along the hotdog-shaped bulge of course, but overall I was fairly proud of my will power. Maybe it was a pirate trait.

"Dave Sparrow and The Curse of The Black Bulge."

It hadn't been more than five minutes but the Energizer Bunny seemed to have worn down his girlfriend's defenses. She had been showing increasing restlessness for the last minute and suddenly she grabbed hold of her lover's shoulders and threw her head back as her body convulsed.

From my vantage point it looked like a darned strong orgasm and I rubbed my bulge faster. The girl was digging her fingers into the poor guys shoulders like claws while she rode the waves of pleasure, but that merely seemed to give him renewed energy. He did seemed considerably strained though so I guessed that he was getting close to blowing his wad.

"Thanks god for sticky favors," I thought. "I need to get to the fucking party before Marie calls the FBI to look for me."

The girl was shaking in ecstasy desperately clinging the guy who was pounding her pussy as if his life depended on it. She had pretty white and delicate hands for a Latina.

I adjusted the telescope.

And around her wrist was a custom Tiffany gold bracelet; just like the one I bought for...

I jumped up, ripped my half-mask off and roared:


... and set off in a charging run towards the copulating couple.

The girl shook her head as in confusion at the sound of my voice. Then she ripped off her mask and black wig, causing a mass of curly red hair to drop down and envelope my wife's face.

She looked at the guy fucking her: "Dave?"

Then she turned her head and saw me approaching: "DAVE?"

I saw a mix of shock and fury in her expression as she turned to face her lover.

"Who THE HELL are you?"

"I'm... I'm... I'M CUMMING!" the guy yelled and slammed his cock all the way inside her.

"Get the fuck off me bastard!" Marie screamed, and in a very un-ladylike fashion slammed her forehead into his nose with bone-breaking force and followed with an uppercut to the tip of his jaw. She was a small woman, but she packed one hell of a punch for sure. He grabbed his face in pain and staggered back, blood seeping out between his hands.

Then I arrived and planted my fist in the guys solar plexus using the momentum of my run. He went down like a sack of shit with a sick wheeze.

I turned to Marie, who looked like she was close to hysteria.

"Dave! Dave! Oh my fucking god! No no no no... "

She rolled off the table, pulled up her pants and ran to the nearest flowerbed where she proceeded to let go of everything she had eaten for the last few hours in large splashes.

While Marie was having fun fertilizing the flowers I bent over the bleeding and moaning pirate on the ground and removed the cracked half-mask from his face. I really wanted to find out who this guy was.

"Jarrod?" I exclaimed. "You fucking asshole! My Wife? I'm SO gonna..."

"No! Let me, "I heard Marie say with a voice that could have frozen a penguin.

She walked past me and kicked Jarrod squarely in the balls with the brass tip of her pointy she-pirate boot.

I winched. Not because I felt sorry for the asshole, but because all guys get the shivers when watching a set of balls getting mauled. It's like a big global brotherhood. A secret lodge for guys only. The Knights of The Nutsack.

It didn't have the intended effect though. Instead of passing out in a sea of pain, Jarrod rolled onto his back and started moaning while spurts of white cum shot out of his still hard cock. I stared in total bewilderment.

"Christ! There's just no way of winning with that idiot," Marie sighed. "He would probably consider it sex if you beat him up. Please let's go home Dave. I feel sick."

We left Jarrod to bask in the afterglow and soon we were heading for home. I pushed the Dodge a good deal over the speed limit and enjoyed the way a powerful V8 can help heal a wounded manhood.

"Dave? Honey? Say something," Marie said in a quiet voice.

I figured that Dave Sparrow could do better than that, and broke out in song:

" Sixty men all lost at sea; all of them drunk except for me.

Twas I who had to brave the storm;

with nothing inside to keep me warm.

Yo ho ho ho, over the raging sea we go!

Yo ho ho ho, wherever the four winds blow!"

Marie stared at me with an expression of complete bewilderment for the second time in less than an hour.

"I can't fucking believe this! We're in the middle of a major marriage crisis and you're quoting Garfield?"

She leaned back and stared into the ceiling with an exasperated look.

"What major crisis?" I responded. "I see no big mystery here. You just fucked Jarrod Thorkelson from accounting and looked like you enjoyed the hell out of it."

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