The Meek Shall Pt. 01

The Meek Shall...Part 1: Frankly speaking

Frank

From the perspective of this hotel room in Toronto, my situation seems unspectacular. There are mostly three ordinary people in the story; me, I'm Frank Connor, my cheating slut of a wife, Carol and a hypocritical bible thumping pastor with much of his congregation as minor players. Perhaps the Father, Son and Holy Ghost play their part. I might even think of it as the immaculate deception.

I stop writing and stare at my lame joke. Now, my life seems like a lame joke. I hate laptop keyboards and sip some Molson Canadian. I seldom drink beer, and for the past ten years in El Paso, it would usually be a Lone Star. The can has warmed a bit because I sat here trying to organize my thoughts. The reason for even writing my sad story down escapes me. Perhaps it is just to get rid of my anger. God knows, thanks again God, I am angry, fucking angry and humiliated, ashamed and vengeful. Thankfully, I chose cut and run instead of vengeance and being executed in a Texas prison. Actually, no one did anything that deserves death.

I don't want to mislead anyone. My sad story involves a single religious congregation. Although I am not a believer, I know many upstanding, moral and charitable believers of many faiths. They and millions like them receive support, hope and genuine love, not carnal exploitation from their leaders, congregations and communities. Hell, some are so good and charitable they almost convince me and I sure love them as friends. If my Carol had found one of these loving churches, our story would not be so pathetic.

Sadly, there are others, like the one who seduced my wife, that are rabbit holes of bigotry and exploitation.

Before I go on, the reader might want to know who this whiner is and who the five rat-bags mentioned above might be. Actually, look up the last three. You will find lots of resources and perhaps my opponents dragged them in against their will.

I repeat, everyone here is ordinary, no knockout looking wife with big tits and an unrelenting libido, although she was a good fuck before she thought it was a sin. I'm no rich husband, too busy to fuck his wife enough. I was always available and eager as a randy boy scout, and no big cocked lover stole her from our marriage. Well, maybe the bible thumping, wife thumper has a gigantic cock. I did not ask Carol. I knew him enough at the church before I discovered he fucked Carol to know he was a big prick. His cock size might come up later.

I'm an average guy in his late 30s, not fit but not over weight either, more of a slim guy pushing six feet and a cropped beard just beginning to grey from dark brown and I do not work out and take long runs. In the Texas heat, are you kidding? Our rented house had a nice pool and so slow laps and fucking in the water were it for this non-athlete. For the curious, my cock is slightly above average, six to seven inches and not too thin. Some women will joke that size maters and others say they don't give a shit about it. Maybe in Toronto, I'll do a survey.

What I am is a smart guy named Frank Connor who does computer and general security consulting and I provided a good lifestyle for my wife. To be fair, she has a good job and makes as much as I do. Fortunately, we decided not to have children, partly because of that good-paying career of Carol's. She's an interior decorator and good at it, with a stable of high-paying clients. It developed that the stable housed a stallion, although I like to think he's just a snuffy. Perhaps, remembering what I heard in that hotel hallway and saw later on security video, I was the snuffy, just a dupe to arouse Carol to the service of the Lord.

Speaking of Carol, my wife, yes, the marriage is still official, although she may be sitting in El Paso tonight wanting to kill me. Carol is an average good looking woman nearing middle age. Her light brown hair used to be long and flowing until the Holy Spirit told her to keep it in a bun. Her face is cute and pouty and her tits are 34s or whatever. Nice, and as my virgin dorm mates used to say, anything more than a cubic mouthful is superfluous. College kids talked like that with big words and shallow thoughts. I was the same, and considering the last two years, I might have remained an educated idiot.

Anyway, Carol is also smart and a hard worker and I thought as much in love with me as I once was with her. I also thought we fucked well together, but I'm an idiot. Keep reading. I'll give an example later. Apparently, what was good for the gander was not so for the goose.

The bible thumper's description doesn't matter. From what I saw, and learned from his wife, he is as ordinary as me. But perhaps he could fuck like three men, the trinity if you will. You will understand why I think that when we get to stand in a corridor outside a hotel room.

Damn, this beer tastes good. Speaking of hotel rooms, this is nice, but the view out over Lake Ontario with the sun setting over the water is fantastic.

Our life in El Paso seemed ideal. Carol came from there; we met on the internet. That's not surprising for a computer nerd from Canada. In El Paso, I worked from home and had an office crammed with the latest tech. Internet security consulting only required a powerful terminal and servers that could be anywhere in the world these days. Occasionally I would meet with clients. Those meetings usually involved me going to their office or perhaps a hotel meeting room if they were out of town. A few travelled to me, but mostly I went to them somewhere in North America. I visited Toronto many times, and I grew up in Hicksville, not too far from here. Fortunately, I only needed to travel to set up a new client or to wrap up a project. Contractors installed building security systems for me and that work was always local. I always limited travel so that I would be home with Carol. She was the joy of my life.

Carol needed a different joy. I can't recall for sure when she got religion, but I think it happened when she did a decorating job for a local pastor. Calling him a pastor and his lucrative business a religion might be a stretch. He had a seven-figure income and a mansion. Carol gushed at the profitable contract to redecorate the overdone barn of a place he called the manse. I thought a manse was a run-down house beside the church back home. I was happy for her.

Actually, I know how much he skimmed from the believers because, as an offshoot of Carol's job, he asked me to improve the security of his network and his mansion. Unfortunately, a condition of her landing the job required her to attend the Sunday services. They tried to pull that shit on me, but I ducked out of it after the first ordeal. Carol could not, and somewhere in there she became a believer. Who am I kidding? She became a zealot. I only discovered later that her mother had raised her as a strict fundamentalist, but Carol had rebelled. That explained her adventurous fucking. People tell me about revenge fucking. I guess Carol had her version.

On the long drive from El Paso to Toronto with too much time to think, my amateur psychology made me think she fucked hard to get back at her prude mother. It seemed, though, that she could not escape the brainwashing of her childhood and the velvet sermons and rah-rah frenzy of this church sucked her in once more, although as a decorator, the luxurious trappings in that mansion likely helped. I should have seen that coming in our wedding ordeal in her parent's church. It was smaller, probably much more honest and moral than her new church. I didn't appreciate the half-hour sermon at our wedding.

Two things happened after Carol found God. Her looks changed to the mentioned hair bun, little cosmetics, and she wore modest skirts and blouses. No more power-dressing to impress clients for my Carol or her dressing as a slut for husband Frank. The other power outage happened in bed. It wasn't exactly a switch flip but more like the flickering of a short circuit in a bed lamp. Sex became on again, off again and dim. Previously, the short with her had been more like a massive arc, with plenty of flash, heat and spark. She sure fucked like she hated her mother.

An example from just the month before she got religion:

Carol rolled her neat, white SUV into the driveway of our rented house after a successful big profit sale. She flipped on the sprinkler that kept the grass green in the Texas heat. A big money client had turned on her heat. Her pussy boiled and soaked her panties. She warned me in the morning that she was about to land a big client and I should prepare. On these days I always had a wine ready for her, and I was always ready for her. Our best fucking began with the slam of the front door. She unzipped her dress as she stalked me.

"Come here, lover. Fuck me. Fuck the best looking, smartest, richest curtain hanger in Texas."

I grabbed her tits as she struggle with the dress. Her hard nipples poked through as my hands cupped her bra-covered tits. Maybe her headlights sticking out sealed some deals, whether the client was a man or woman. The dress hit the floor. Our mouths locked and her tongue shot deep into mine. Tongues duelled as she yanked my shorts to the floor. I had been working in casual boxers and a polo shirt. It amazed me that my top came off in one piece. Her hand found my hard cock as my fingers dipped into her wet cunt.

"Oh, I love a hard cock. Fuck my cunt, baby. Finger me hard."

Her hand stroked my cock, squeezing it and spreading my pre-cum along the hilt. Her hand dragged my cock with me along for the ride into the living room. She lay back on the coffee table, raised her legs high and wide.

"Fuck me, you bastard. Fuck your fucking whore. Fuck me."

My cock slammed into her sopping cunt hole. When she was like this, there was no fooling around, no fore play, no gentleness, no cock sucking or pussy licking. That would come later, maybe in an hour of cuddling and fucking more gently, but when Carol needed a good celebratory fucking, nothing less would do.

My balls slapped her ass, and I slammed in and out.

"Fuck you, you bitch."

"Oh yes, baby, fuck your slut, bitch wife. Fuck me hard."

One thing she liked about me, I thought, was that I did not cum fast. Her juices flowed; she wrapped her legs around me and dug her high heels into my back as her first screaming orgasm hit. She was a gusher and my cock and the table and floor became soaked. I knew enough not to stop and slammed harder. She came again, screaming louder. I always made sure I had closed the windows.

My finger found her asshole.

"Oh, yes baby, fuck momma's cunt ass. Fuck meeeee..."

I slammed her hard as the table slid towards the dining room.

"Cum for your bitch," she cried as a third orgasm ripped through her. Her eyes rolled back and she let out one long wail. My cock erupted deep into her cunt.

"oh yes...oh yessss...oh..."

We collapsed onto the table, exhausted and done. Most days like this we would recover, have a bite to eat and finally drink the wine. Then it began again, but slower, sensuous, satisfying until we both slept. Sometimes we made it as far as the bed. Other times, we curled up on the couch or the carpet.

That was typically once a month, depending on new clients. The other four times a week we fucked was quieter, but deeply satisfying, at least to me. But that was before she found Jesus' love. Frank's love would then not do. Frank's love was sinning in the face of the Almighty. At least, that's what I think, she thought.

It took me a year of trying to turn her on after her conversion before I clued in that the fun part of Mr. and Mrs. Connor Inc. was gone for good. In that futile year, I even tried to go to church with her and look for what she had found. Maybe then, I reasoned, I might accept it and be happy. Of course, I really thought that if she thought I was a believer, she might think I'm pure enough to fuck my brains out like before. I said I'm an idiot; I think.

It was during this year I got to know and despise the pistol packing pastor. He wasn't the head honcho with the big house and bank account. The guy was an underling, someone they called an assistant pastor. Sitting here in Toronto, I wonder what would have happened if he had been the youth pastor. That came later. I felt screwed by this guy, although it was Carol who got screwed and loved it, but you know.

Anyway, the relevant agent of the Lord in my story did not have the money to fly off with a bimbo or a personal harem like the headman did. I'll get to the reason I know that. That's why he had to limit it to hotels in El Paso.

Being a somewhat detached, if less than an objective observer of the church operation during that hell year, perhaps the only commandment they followed was the one about killing, but maybe not even that one. Life downstairs in the mansion of the Lord had more than enough fun, frolic and deceit. That judgement comes from being hit on by several women in the place, single, married and married to pastors and elders. One elder thought I was a switch hitter. The wife of the pastor in question tried several times. You will discover I finally lost my halo.

Don't get me wrong. Most of that congregation seems to be honest, moral believers and wonderful people. If belonging and believing help the addicted, the depressed, the suicidal and hopeless, then more power to them. I think there is always a good side to most things. The others tempted me, but I loved Carol. I just wanted the old Carol back from this cult.

In hindsight, the warning signs grew, at least warnings that our relationship had floundered. Other than the Sunday ordeal, I tried wooing her as if we were young lovers. She would arrive home and I would have a meal and wine waiting. Instead of any affection in the door, only a quick kiss, she ate the meal and refused the wine.

"It's the devil's drink," she said.

She didn't appreciate me reminding her that her hero had changed the water into wine. In the past year, because of that, I probably changed too much of her left over wine into piss. She would climb into bed in modest pyjamas. Pretending to be asleep before I got there became routine. She never wore her sexy stuff again, and when I tried to feel her up, she would push me away. Once a month, perhaps because the pastors preached wifely duty, she would allow me to penetrate her. Calling it making love would be a stretch. It was the missionary position only; I know...ironic, right and I always felt she resented it and did it from duty, not desire for her attractive, horn dog husband. I call it mental castration. It certainly felt humiliating. Women worry about being undesirable. It's a whole industry, but men can feel the same and our egos hope all women lust after us. We only talk about it when drunk. We act it out by buying a flashy car and acting like jerks.

I dragged her; I think that's the right term for my forcing her to join me on a camping trip into New Mexico, even though she used to love it. It's a beautiful place and I think romantic, but she barely tolerated it this last time and complained for the week that she had lost business. The fuck session I hope for under the starry sky did not happen. No fucking happened.

It had been a tradition for us to come to Canada twice a year to visit my family here. In the first year since she found religion, we made those visits. She used to enjoy them; however, my family of sceptics did not suit her, and she refused to visit the next year. My Dad suggested he saw bad news coming. I should have listened and saved myself the extra months of anguish. Idiots keep hope well beyond its best before date.

There's the bottom of the can of Molson's. Maybe I need another, but I should stay sober until I finish this draft. Whom I am writing this for is a puzzle. Maybe my laptop is my therapist replacing a bartender or an unfortunate woman friend. I glance at the TV where the Blue Jays offer another fan tease. Damn, I miss the Astros. The sun has set and I turn the lights on. I'm gloomy enough without Hollywood mood lighting.

I need to get on with the story. All this introspection and regret isn't helping. There is nothing like a cheap Arkansas motel room to set it off, and it followed me for two more depressing nights to this bit of luxury.

After the New Mexico fiasco, I gave up. From then on, I went through the motions. One of Carol's air head pastors preached that if you wanted to be happy, lower your expectations. I think he stole it from some Turkey Soup for the Soul self-help book. Anyway, I reduced my expectations, but it didn't make me happy. It removed my nightly episodes of rejection when I stopped trying.

I began to just float along, pouring myself into my work and making sure she actually slept before I hit the sack. As luck would have it, if we consider having your heart torn out to be luck, I found out about Carol's infidelity by accident. Truthfully, I figured she found sex so sinful that she wasn't interested. It turned out that sex is great if you are the holy vessel of the Lord to be used by God's messenger. A wild slut like Carol doesn't lose the lust.

Sometimes a client comes to El Paso for a meeting, usually to hire my services. Most of the time, they want to pass through quickly. I find El Paso to be a nice place, especially with its Spanish flavour, but that is not a popular opinion for many. I had set up a client consultation in a meeting room at the Airport Hilton. It was handy to the airport for those wanting an El Paso "touch and go". I knew I already had the job, so it was simply going over the specifications and signing the contract. The retainer cheque covered my life for several weeks. I had an excellent reputation in North America.

After the client left to catch their flight to Dallas, I went to the coffee shop for lunch. Being your own boss helps make a nice lifestyle. Again, by accident, I sat at a table that let me look through the door into the reception area. I had just got my coffee when the first brick fell from my last wall of illusion. Carol walked up to the desk with a man.

Maybe she has a client meeting, I thought, or hoped. I said that I'm an idiot.

Then I noticed they were holding hands. Worse, it was the jerk Pastor Pete dressed in his full pastoral rig of black heavy jacket, tight collar and baggy pants. I actually called him Peckeros Pete since we are on the Rio Grande River and I have a lame sense of humour. They were discrete, beyond the hand holding, but he took a key card and they turned to the elevators.

"I'll be right back." I said to the server as I hurried after them. The elevator door closed before I reached it, but I had no intention of getting on with them. I didn't want a fight, and besides, this might be an innocent get together for church business. As I said...oh well. The elevator reached the fifth floor and stopped. I grabbed the next one and went to five. I did not know why. What would I do? I didn't even know what room.

Hotel corridors are long and narrow, and every door looks the same. I once saw in a detective movie that a PI in this spot assumed that at midday, lovers might hang the "Do not disturb" sign out, but almost everyone else will be up and gone. Good thinking, Sherlock. I didn't get too far before I found a tagged door, but I looked over the entire floor to make sure it was the only one. That gave Carol and Peckeros plenty of time to get wound up if that was the intention. I disturbed nothing as I put my ear to the fateful door. What I heard disturbed me. They should have hung the tag inside. Why is it that people assume hotel rooms are sound proof?

At first, I only heard scuffling and sighing. Maybe they had prayer time before doing the dirty. In the good old days, Carol would have me balls deep by this time.