The Case of the Vindictive Cuckold

Since the dame was still knocked out, I decided to check her purse. In addition to a somewhat extravagant amount of cash in her wallet, she had a bankroll. I counted another thousand in the bankroll. The high class dame had been holding out on me. I didn't mind because she had been paying security deposits, you understand.

Rummaging around in her purse, I found a round plastic case. Opening the case revealed a round piece of thin rubber with a thicker rim. It was one of those diaphragm thingies that respectable married women often use when they want to make their husbands happy but don't want to have another baby just yet. It wasn't as handy as a rubber, but a lot more fun. Her priest would no doubt require her to say a few dozen Hail Maries if he knew about this. What was a high class dame doing dropping her kids off at the church then going to a seedy neighborhood with her diaphragm in her purse? Her husband's suspicions might not be so crazy.

There are a lot of ways to wake up a woman. Smelling salts are usually considered best. A pitcher of cold water to the face works well too. I woke her up by massaging her breasts. It worked like a charm, as always. Even better, she woke up already in the mood. It wasn't long before she was unzipping my trousers and reaching into my briefs for my Johnson. She began paying a security deposit again, in earnest. The thought that I still hadn't even rinsed myself since taking a ride in Rosie's semen filled, bleeding chute should have provoked guilt, but it didn't.

I pulled my Johnson out of the high class dame's mouth then positioned myself between her eagerly spread thighs. My Johnson didn't slip into her chute as easily as it had slipped into Rosie's chute, but I sure as Hell wasn't complaining. The high class dame was an even better ride than Rosie. It was obvious that she wasn't on the rag and I was probably the first guy in her chute today. The high class dame came just as quickly and easily as Rosie had. She kept cumming again and again. I'd be a liar if I claimed that I didn't think about the diaphragm that I had discovered in her purse. However; I didn't allow that to dissuade me from filling her chute with my spunk.

I laid back next to the high class dame and lit two cigarettes. She eagerly accepted the lit cigarette that I offered her. Neither of us said anything as we smoked our cigarettes. When the high class dame was finished with her cigarette, she suddenly reached for her purse. I didn't understand why until she opened the round plastic case.

The realization that her diaphragm was still in its case caused the high class dame to burst into tears. I noticed her counting on her fingers. I guessed that she was counting the days. She counted to ten. The Catholic church teaches young women how to play Vatican Roulette so that they will not be to fruitful and multiply to abundantly, at least until they are safely married. I tried to comfort her as best I could by massaging her breasts then slipping her slip off of her. The high class dame responded by rubbing her blonde kitty against my swelling, stiffening Johnson until she worked it into her chute. While she was distraught, she was pragmatic. She glanced at her diaphragm only once before beginning to ride me without it. Although I was feasting on her bountiful breasts, I lasted much longer this time. I can honestly say that I warned her when I was about to blow my nuts. Fortunately; she was a devout Catholic who wasn't going to commit the sin of Onan. She impaled herself on me as I filled her chute with a second load of my spunk.

With our lusts satiated, at least temporarily, the high class dame finally remembered her children. She slipped on her slip, but realized that it was inadequate to safeguard her modesty. I gallantly offered her my overcoat. We walked out to my car. I needed to drive her home so she could get another dress. As she was laying two dresses out on the bed to chose which she should wear, the lace hem of her slip rode up high enough to expose her butt. Seargent Johnson immediately came to attention. The high class dame thoughtfully pulled the bedcovers down as a lifted her up onto the bed. She slipped her slip back off while I stripped off my own clothes in record time.

Fucking married women is exciting enough, but fucking a married woman in the same marital bed that she shares with her husband is always a special thrill. She assumed the position on her hands and knees. I got behind her and sank my Johnson into her for the third time in as many hours. The high class dame and her husband must be a little kinky because they had a mirror in the headboard. I was able to watch her thirty-eights wobble to and fro as I pounded her. Although she glanced at her purse as I was finally about to blow my nuts once again, she didn't ask me to pull out. I gleefully filled her chute with a third load of my spunk.

The high class dame collapsed on her bed. She laid there for a while as my spunk seeped out of her chute to soak the sheets. After glancing at the clock, the high class dame quickly put on her slip and one of her dresses. I gallantly drove her to where she had parked her Caddy. My shooting the guy's gun hand must have made an impression on everyone in the neighborhood because her Caddy was still where she had parked it, unmolested.

I dutifully followed the high class dame to the train station where she picked up her husband. Curiosity rather than duty compelled me to follow them. Rather than drive directly to the church to pick up her children, the husband drove to a secluded spot near a stream. It was the local lovers lane.

I watched through binoculars as the husband made love to his wayward wife. I had pumped three loads of spunk into her, but he didn't seem to notice the aroma and flavor. Maybe he was accustomed to his wife serving him sloppy seconds? When he was ready to take a ride, she interrupted him to get her diaphragm out of her purse. He dutifully inserted it where it belonged. The husband didn't last long, but she had told me that he had been out of town all week long. She didn't orgasm again, but after the tongue lashing that he had given her, she had no right to complain.

I was putting my binoculars back into the glove compartment when I felt something being looped around my neck. All I could see was black and white as I was dragged out of my car. It was a bunch of nuns! It wasn't goons dressed in drag to masquerade as nuns, it was really a bunch of nuns.

I'm the type of private dick that can really handle himself, you understand, but I was outnumbered at least four-to-one, I was being strangled by one of the nuns, and the nuns were tough bitches. It was like being attacked by a pack of rabid penguins. Two of the nuns pulled my suit coat down off of my shoulders to restrain my arms. They slapped me, hit me, bit me and kicked me. They pummeled me with Bibles and stabbed me with Crucifixes. Real professionals would have kicked me in the balls first thing. The nuns might not have been professionals, but they were gifted amateurs. They finally pulled my trousers down to take better aim as they took turns kicking me in the balls.

The beating became even more serious when one of the nuns grabbed my gun out of my shoulder holster. Fortunately; the church doesn't teach nuns much about guns in the convent. Her first efforts to shoot me were futile. She fumbled with the Fabrique Nationale Model nineteen-ten, almost accidentally then intentionally rotating the safety lever back and forth from the safe position to the fire position. I was certain that I was going to die when the nun kept pulling the trigger, but she wasn't holding it properly to disengage the grip safety. As she continued fumbling with the gun, I was relieved to see the magazine slip free of the mag well in the grip. She had accidentally pressed the magazine release button. The nuns either didn't notice or didn't understand that without a magazine inserted, the gun was just a paperweight.

Frustrated by their inability to shoot me, the nuns resumed beating me. Obviously; the nuns disapproved of me leading a leading lamb of their flock astray. I was once again pummeled with fist and feet, Bibles and crucifixes. They once again took turns kicking me in the balls and stomping on my Johnson. Then I felt something being inserted where the sun don't shine.

I thought I was going to die until the cord of the Rosary that was wrapped around my neck broke. I was finally able to break free of the rabid nuns. I grabbed my pistol then slipped an extra magazine out of its pouch of my shoulder rig and inserted it in the magazine well. The gun was once again more than just a paperweight. Perhaps it was God who commanded the nuns to bravely run away.

I tried to pursue the Satanic Sisters, but I was hobbled by my pants as well as my coat. I was also woozy from the beating and being strangled with Rosary beads. I staggered around until I passed out.

It was dark when I finally came to. I was laying face down in the creek. I was lucky that I hadn't drowned while I was out cold. I felt a sharp pain in my backside. I reached down to grab ahold of something, then pulled. The nuns had shoved a Crucifix up my ass. Those nuns really were vicious bitches!

After pulling my pants up and buckling my belt, I wadded out of the creek. After a bit of searching, I found my pistol where I had dropped it then the magazine where the nuns had dropped it. I thumbed the safety on and slid it back into its holster. I was going to need a gun if I got attacked by those nuns again.

The weight of the thirty-eight that I had liberated from the street thug in my coat pocket reminded me of the need of a backup gun. My Chevy coupe was still where I had parked it when the nuns attacked me. I rummaged around under the rumble seat until I found some ammunition for it. Revolvers are great until you have to reload.

The door of my thirty-eight Chevy had been left open. The glow from the dome light made me worry that the battery might be dead. When I turned the key on, pulled out the choke and pressed down on the starter pedal, the straight six cylinder groaned and struggled before firing up. I struggled to ignore the pain in my privates and my ass as I shifted from low gear, to second gear, then when I got onto the highway I shifted into to high gear.

Fearing for the safety of the high class dame, I drove to her house. I was just in time. I was surprised to see that she wasn't being accosted by the nuns who had almost killed me. A half dozen guys, all dressed in plaid suits, were pulling the struggling dame out of her house while her cuckolded husband encouraged them to rough her up more than just a little. They stripped her naked except for her silk stockings, spanked her and slapped her breasts around as her husband questioned her. He wanted to know who her boyfriend was and where they could find him. She finally told her jilted spouse where my office is when they started spanking her kitty and yanking on her blonde carpet.

The goons wearing plaid loaded the high class dame in her Caddy. Her husband drove his Cady while the goons wearing plaid drove the high class dame in her Caddy. The goons kicked in the door to the building then busted into my office. They did a good job of trashing the place. I didn't take kindly to the goons trashing my office, but I backed off when the goons in plaid opened their violin cases and pulled out their Thompson submachineguns, seated fifty round drum magazines, racked their slides then emptied a drum of forty-five caliber slugs into my bed.

I didn't try to be a hero. A Thompson with a drum magazine is almost as intimidating as a Browning Automatic Rifle although no match for a Ma Deuce. The goons were also still holding the high class dame.

Everyone went back out to the street. The goons loaded the high class dame in her Caddy again while her enraged cuckold got back in his Caddy. I followed them out of the city and into the desert at a discrete distance. Eventually; they came to a secluded spot in the desert where they thoughtfully had a hole already dug. If you are going to whack someone then bury them in the desert, you should always have the hole dug already. If you whack them first then dig the hole, someone might come along while you are digging the hole. You would then have to whack them too then dig another hole. You could end up staying up all fucking night digging holes!

While the cuckolded husband and his goons wearing plaid were obviously going to kill the high class dame they wanted to have some fun first. The goons allowed her to get down on her knees to plead for her life. The high class dame did her best to persuade the goons. She really dechromed their balls for them and gamely swallowed their spunk. The bulge in her husband's trousers made it obvious that he was enjoying the show.

I was reluctant to interfere. There were half a dozen of the plaid clad goons. All of the goons were packing Thompsons. Even with the thirty-eight revolver as backup, they had me seriously outgunned. I found myself wishing that I had my Ma Deuce or at least my Browning Automatic Rifle. I was also certain that if there was a gun fight, the high class dame would end up catching a stray bullet.

They high class dame must have swallowed a gallon of spunk before the half dozen plaid clad goons were finally drained. She remained on her knees to make a final appeal to her enraged cuckold. He was appreciative, but not persuaded.

The plaid clad goons picked the dame up and threw her into the hole. Three of the goons set their Thompsons aside and picked up shovels. The goons started shoveling dirt into the hole. The high class dame tried to climb out of the hole, but they had dug it deep. She was going to end up eight feet under rather than six feet under. The high class dame gave up on trying to climb out if the hole when one of the goons threated to whack her with a shovel. The goons continued shoveling dirt into the hole. The cuckolded husband really was going to have the high class dame buried alive!

I struggled to decide what to do. The high class dame had hired me to find out who the private dicks that her husband had hired were, not to get into an epic gun battle. I'd already had to shoot a guy's gun hand to save her from being gang raped. The three rides in her chute had made that worth while. However; three of the goons wearing plaid were still holding their forty-five caliber Thompsons loaded with fifty round drums, and the other three goons had their Thompsons leaned up against the Caddy. All I was carrying was my three-eighty Fabrique Nationale Model nineteen-ten with only one round in the pipe, six rounds in the loaded magazine, and two more six round magazines for back up. Nineteen rounds of three-eighty from a semiautomatic pistol was no match for three hundred rounds of forty-five from full auto Thompsons. The thirty-eight revolver in my pocket was only token comfort.

My mind was made up for me when the high class dame once again tried to climb out of the hole and one of the goons swung on her with his shovel again. He missed her head only because she blocked it with her arm. Her arm was obviously broken. As she collapsed in the hole, I realized that she was probably safe from any stray bullets and maybe intentional bullets. Only three of the plaid clad goons where holding their Thompsons while the other three kept shoveling. The three with shovels might as well have been playing with their Johnsons.

I focused my attention on the three goons with Thompsons as I drew my pistol while stepping out from behind a rock so I would have a clear field of fire. It was like a classic target drill. I double tapped each of the three goons that were holding their Thompsons in the chest, then put a third round into the one who was still standing. The third goon was still falling to the ground as I was ejecting the expended magazine and reloading. I got the fresh magazine seated and hit the slide release just as the other three goons who had dropped their shovels got to their Thompsons. It was the same drill all over again, a triple double tap against three targets. Unfortunately; I either missed or scored only marginal hits on one of the goons.

I might be crazy but I'm not stupid. I dove behind the high class dame's Caddy. A car body will not stop a forty-five caliber slug from a Thompson, but an engine block or transmission will. I struggled to stay down as I reloaded my pistol with my last magazine while the Caddy was riddled with forty-five caliber slugs. When the gun fire paused, I came up above the hood shooting. I emptied my little pistol in the last of the plaid clad goons as he was loading a fresh drum into his Thompson. Who says that dead men don't wear plaid?

I was still celebrating my victory as the cuckolded husband was picking up one of the loaded Thompsons. My celebration was premature. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been premature. Ever! Fortunately; the cuckold didn't know how to handle a Thompson any better than he knew how to handle his Johnson. His continuous fusillade of heavy, forty-five caliber slugs went high and to my left as the recoil from the submachinegun pulled the Tommygun off target.

I struggled to decide between fight or flight. If the Thompson was empty, I would just kick the shit out of the vengeful cuckold. However; if he still had a few bullets in the fifty round drum, he would probably kill me. I was about to run when the weight in the pocket of my suit jacket reminded me that I had the little thirty-eight caliber as backup.

As I was drawing the revolver from my pocket while still running, I noticed the vengeful cuckold pulling back the charging handle on the Thompson. I was reminded that the Thompson fires from an open bolt! When loaded with a twenty or thirty round stick magazine, the bolt is locked back in the open position when the magazine is empty. When a Thompson is loaded with a drum magazine, the bolt remains closed when the magazine was empty. The bolt had been closed! The Thompson was now just a club!

I left the thirty-eight in my pocket as I moved in to fight the cuckold man to man. Unfortunately; while the empty Thompson was now just a club, it was a damn good club. He jabbed the muzzle into my guts then as I doubled over, he swung around to hit me in the jaw with the buttstock.

Fortunately; I was able to get ahold of the Thompson and wrestle it away from the vengeful cuckold. It was my turn to swing the buttstock into his jaw. I then gave him a few backstrokes with the buttstock into his guts. I then gave him three more backstrokes to his groin, one for his Johnson then one for each of his boys. As the vengeful cuckold went down, I pushed him into the grave that his plaid clad goons had dug for his wife and me.

The high class dame beckoned to me, obviously eager to express her gratitude in spite of her broken arm. I helped her climb out if the grave. As I was taking her in my arms, I felt a shovel hitting me in the back of the head. Fortunately; it was the flat of the shovel, not the edge. I was down but not out. I looked up to see Sam Spade the Spade standing over me!

It finally dawned on me that I had been right to suspect that the high class dam was trouble. She had played me for a patsy. Her husband had been right about her. She had been two timing him, but with a black cock that was even bigger than mine. She had hired me and seduced me so I would be a diversion. She had wanted her cuckolded husband's plaid clad goons to report that I was the other man. The nuns that had almost beaten me to death would back up that story. Her husband would then have his goons kill me, then she would implicate her husband in my murder. If I somehow prevailed in the gun battle that would have resulted in an attempt to kill me, she would implicate me as a murderer. Whichever way the dice rolled, either her husband or I would be dead and the other would fry in the electric chair. The high class dame would have everything her husband owned as well as her real boyfriend, Sam Spade the Spade.