When Love Comes Back To Haunt You

G'day

Here is another story but be warned the theme of this one is a departure from my most recent efforts. No cute and cuddly Aussies here. I apologize in advance if I got some geographical references wrong.

I have got to give a special thanks to Yoni Noni for her help editing. Her suggestions and changes made a big difference to the finished product.

Warning: Wives have sex with a man other than their husbands. If that is offensive to you then perhaps you should bypass this story.

Otherwise who knows you may enjoy it!

Cheers

CharlieB4

*

I walked into the restaurant and the head waiter rushed over to greet me. "Good evening sir! So nice to have you here again. We have our usual table ready. Please, follow me!"

"That's it boy, grovel." I thought to myself. "Your know what you have to do to get a big tip." I followed him through the busy dining room. People turned and followed our progress, no doubt wondering who this was that had the snotty prick head waiter in such a panic. I waited for him to pull out my chair, then sat down. Holding my hand out, I didn't utter a word.

He placed the menu in my hand, then retreated. "I'll just get your usual, sir," he said, before winding his way back through the other tables.

My position was important. A corner table in a slightly raised area that gave me a view of the entire dining room. There were five other tables in this area, but they didn't interest me. The occupants of these tables had enough money to make my offer inconsequential. Nor did the harbor view; stretching out through the large glass wall behind my back, hold my gaze. My focus was on the other diners in the "cheaper" seats.

This restaurant had always been a fine dining mecca. Three chef's hats in the local food guide and an international reputation, thanks to the chef, who had become a celebrity; writing cookbooks, judging on TV cooking shows and being seen with a bevy of models. He basked in his over-rated reputation. It was a place for the wanna-be's. First dates, anniversaries, corporate tables, and people seduced by the name and the image of its star chef made up for much of the clientele.

It offered fine food and charged a fortune for it. It was perfect for me, because it was a smorgasbord for a man with my particular kink. I liked fucking married women. I liked it a lot. I especially liked it if a reluctant husband watched as his wife was reduced to a wanton slut, willing to do anything to get her desires met.

While I pretended to look at the menu, I scanned the tables, looking for likely marks. Dismissing larger groups, I was scanning the tables for two, dismissing the younger ones. They would probably be first-date or engaged couples. I wanted the ones who had been married for a while, one or two kids, but the wife still had looks. Once I had reduced the field, I cherry-picked further; looking at the clothes they were wearing and trying to deduce their economic status. I was looking for a man in a dodgy suit, or with an expensive shirt that had fresh-out-of-the-box creases. He was a fish out of water in this place.

The wife, or partner, had to fit different parameters. Obviously, as I have said previously, she had to be attractive and have a decent figure. I was a sucker for big tits, so a little extra flesh around the middle and bottom was sometimes the price I had to pay. Her dress had to be sexy, but conservative. There were always some with micro skirts that paused when they picked up there handbag beside the table, to give other diners a flash. Or, low cut tops with acres of flesh exposed to titillate the males eating nearby. I preferred mine to be better covered, with subtle hints to the treasures that lay beneath.

I did make exceptions: if she seemed uncomfortable in her skimpy clothing; if she stood up carefully, holding her skirt down or tugging at the hem in the hope that it would somehow grow longer. She was obviously a modest woman who had made a choice that she now regretted. She might regret it even more eventually, if she accepted my offer.

I also took careful notice of the body language when they were looking at the menu. Seeing the man stiffen as he checked the price column was also a give away that he might be open to my inducements.

I hadn't always done this. I had been married myself for twenty years. I was born into a wealthy family. That is, my mother was from a wealthy family. My father got his money the easy way. He seduced my mother and got her pregnant, then married her. He then set about doing everything he could to spend that wealth. I was raised by nannies and then sent to boarding school. I rarely saw my parents as they tripped around the globe. In those early days there were no fast jet airplanes so they mostly traveled by ocean liner.

There were two times my father took time out to be some sort of a dad. The first was the day after my eighteenth birthday. It was during Summer break from school, and I was at home. My parents were going on another trip to which I wasn't invited. My father had engaged a woman to look after me while they were away. She was different from the others who had done this job in the past. Younger, better looking; and she wore different, skimpier clothes. My mother left the room whenever she entered. The night before they left, my father came to my room. "Son, the next four weeks are going to be crucial in your life." He said earnestly.

"Yes sir," I replied formally.

"We are giving you the best education money can buy, but your next lesson can't be learned in school, or at university. It's a life lesson, and Betsy is the most qualified person to teach you." Betsy was my new nanny. "Son, there are three ways to get a lot of money: inherit it, marry it, or work for it." He counted off on three fingers to emphasis his point.

"I'm sorry son, but this gravy train will be exhausted before you can get your hands on it, so the first option is out. Number three is a possibility, but it is a path that many have trod and few succeed at. Which leaves you with number two; marry it. This path is also not easy, as there is a lot of competition for the best prospects. That's where Betsy comes in. She is a professional lady of pleasure, and if you follow her directions, you should become a master of the art. It will be a tool that many of your contemporaries won't have. So, cherish it and use it well."

He patted me on the head, and then left. They were gone early the next morning, and they were no sooner out the door than Betsy was walking into my room with a dressing gown on. She paused at my bedside, loosening the sash of the gown. She opened it, and smiled as my eyes widened, taking in all the delights of her feminine form. Opening her gown further, and shrugging her shoulders caused the gown to puddle at her feet, letting the early morning sunlight from the window illuminate her body. Grasping the covers on my bed, she pulled them back, exposing the tent that had formed in my pajamas.

"Ohhh, yes." She said, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching with one of her small hands to grasp my still growing erection. "This will do nicely."

So began a pivotal four weeks in my life. I guess the cliche would be, 'a boy became a man'. My regular schooling continued, but Betsy stayed with the family. I'm fairly certain that my father was also a recipient of her charms. Once, as I slipped my dick into her after Christmas dinner, she gasped, "So much bigger than daddy!"

The second time that he took an interest in me was just after I'd graduated from university with a degree in business. He presented me with my graduation present; a bundle of files tied with a red ribbon. "Here's a leg up on marrying well." he said with a smug look on his face, "Three girls from wealthy families, for you to marry."

I untied the ribbon and opened the first folder, and read its contents. The only daughter of a wealthy businessman, it gave a complete rundown on her life: Her likes, her dislikes, interests, hobbies; a list of places she frequented, friends, acquaintances and rivals for her affection. The two remaining files were the same type of exposé for two other girls. I tossed the folders across the room, vowing to make it on my own.

After nine months of hard slog; long, boring hours of doing menial tasks at the bottom of the corporate ladder, I began studying those folders every night. Some quick scanning of the social pages told me that candidate number one was engaged to her university sweetheart. Candidate number two was overseas, working in the slums of South America, so she was out.

That left candidate number three, Jasmine Victor. The only daughter of Alison and Bernard Victor, and heiress to an estimated two hundred million dollar estate. Dad had been an entrepreneur: Started in mining, progressing into telecommunications; jumping just before that peaked, into biotech, and now ran a venture capital business.

Mum was a matron of high society, and was on many fundraising committees for worthy charities. Jasmine was only an average student, and had gotten a bachelor's degree in marine biology. Currently, she was between jobs and was spotted often at university. Speculation was that she was thinking of getting her doctorate, which the university was encouraging, as when she was last there her father donated a big chunk of cash to the medical research center.

She was thirty-two, and the least attractive of my original three candidates: probably best described as bookish, slim and cute in appearance; pleasant face with curly brown hair and glasses. I looked for a common interest; something that I could become involved in to enable an initial meeting. I really couldn't find anything. About the only commonality was that it appeared as if neither of us enjoyed working. She was eight years my senior, so there was a real generation gap to bridge.

I did some more background work on her, and began moving in her circles, getting to know her friends. Eventually, one of them introduced me, and I was admitted into her inner circle. We all hung out together as friends. I went to a couple of parties at her house and met her parents. One night, I got my chance. A guy was hitting on her at a concert and she told him to go away. He was persistent and must have followed her when she went to the toilet. I was coming out of a men's room stall when I saw him trying to drag her into the disabled person's stall. I saved her and beat him up, so I was her hero. We went back to the rest of her friends, and she was gushing about me. She actually proposed to me that night. I refused, thinking she was joking, and she left in a bad mood. I thought I had blown it when the next day I got a visit from her Dad.

"I heard about what happened." he said, flatly.

"I'm sorry, it's just that...." He held up his hand to silence me.

"It appears I've underestimated you." he went on. "I thought you were a gold digger like your father, but it seems you take after your dear mother, instead. I appreciate your refusing Jasmine's impulsive offer, and now I have a question for you. Why did you leave your job in the city?"

"I didn't leave it." I answered. "I took some time off to consider my future. I did four years at university and graduated near the top of my class. I didn't appreciate the corporate structure, where I was a glorified mail boy."

He considered me for a moment, rubbing his chin. "Okay," he said, still mulling over my answer. Then, he seemed to make up his mind. "How would you like a job with my company? We have a different structure based on a team, so everyone gets input into decisions. However, you would still be the junior, so your views won't carry as much weight."

"Where do I sign?" was my reply.

Jasmine calmed down after a couple of days, and she rang me to apologize. I started a new job, and began officially dating Jasmine the next week. Six months later, we were engaged. Twelve months later, we married. Two years later, Jasmine had our first and only child; a bouncing boy named after her paternal grandfather, John. In some ways, that was the beginning of the end. Jasmine fell into a deep funk and was diagnosed with post natal depression.

I was busy at work, having risen to become Bernard's right hand man. I took my eye off the ball, thinking that the pills Jasmine took would fix things. They didn't, and Jasmine got worse and had to be hospitalized. It was then that her mother told me she had been diagnosed as having bi-polar disorder in her teens. It explained the intense highs and lows that were a feature of her personality, and probably the reason for the sudden proposal she had offered at the concert.. She had been on medication before, but once the stress of school and university was past, she stopped taking it.

I did get my Jasmine back, but the rest of our lives together was punctuated with depression episodes. John grew up a strapping young lad; tall, handsome and smart. We don't really know when it started, but in his high school years he started hanging with the wrong crowd. I was running Bernard's company by now, and once again missed the signs. He got into drugs. I guess we indulged him with a large allowance that he didn't have to work for.

I don't know whether it was the drugs or the family history, but he had a mental breakdown and was diagnosed as manic depressive. We kept him home instead of letting him go to college, but we couldn't save him. He died of a heroin overdose at twenty-one. Six months after that, Jasmine took her own life.

I was distraught. I gave up work, sold my half of the business, and locked myself away for two years. I drank heavily and became a physical wreck. I missed my parents' funeral. They died in a plane crash. I called it even, since they missed my wedding when they got snowed in, skiing in the Swiss alps.

An old university friend saved me. He moved in, threw out all the booze and made me go swimming every day. He got me back into the business world when we started our own investment firm.

I hadn't slept with a woman in three years when I was putting the deal together in Chicago. One of the guys who had come to us to back his idea, invited me to his home for dinner. He was in his late twenties, and had a hot wife. She had the "look"; conservative but sultry, and had been flirting with me, calling me daddy. It appeared that her husband had been trying to talk her into swinging, so I put the hard word to her. She was a little tipsy and agreed, and her husband was all for it, at first.

I fucked her on the sofa. She was squealing and grunting and begging me not to stop. I had no intention of stopping. She was moaning about how good it felt when I felt my balls boiling. I tried to pull out, but she pulled me close and wrapped her long legs around me. "Cum with me!" she demanded, and I blasted like a teenager.

Hubby was standing there stroking his pecker, waiting for his chance, but she wasn't letting go. Grabbing my head, she put her tongue down my throat. After she had finished inspecting my tonsils, she pushed me onto the floor. I thought it was her husband's turn, and I was done for the night. So did he, as he walked towards her, still fisting his prick. "Not tonight, baby!" she sneered as she sat up. "I've got a real man, tonight! I'm not wasting my time with you!"

She twisted on the sofa, then dived head first for my dick, taking it into her mouth as she tried to revive it. I was about to tell her that I needed a bit more recovery time, when I looked up at her husband. He was shocked, confused and probably angry, but above all, beaten. My cock started to rise. I grabbed her hair and started jamming my cock into the back of her throat, making her gag, but she didn't stop. In fact, she seemed to be trying harder. Pulling her head off my dick, I turned her head towards me and shouted, "Hey slut! Where's your bedroom? I want to fuck you in your own bed!"

She jumped up, grabbed my hand and began leading me up the stairs. Hubby was following, whining about it not being a good idea. She ignored him. When we got to the room, I turned to him before he made it inside. "Not tonight, junior!" I told him. "You're on the sofa!"

"But, honey!" He pleaded with his wife.

"Real men don't share!" she exclaimed, and slammed the door in his face and locked it.

I fucked her twice more that night. Next day, I told her to go and fix me breakfast. She reached for a night gown, but I grabbed it and told her, 'no, she had to be naked'. She left without protest. Her husband was asleep against the door. She stepped over him as he woke up. I got up, showered and dressed before going to the kitchen. Breakfast smelled good, but she looked better. When her husband came downstairs, I had her bent over the island bench, fucking her up the arse.

He stood in the doorway as he took in the scene: His wife sprawled over the bench, one leg on the floor, the other propped up on the bench, opening up her private areas for my pleasure. Her hands gripped the edge of the breakfast bar, knuckles white. An open tub of butter was beside her, my greasy hand holding her shoulder for leverage as I worked my dick into her bowel.

No moans this time, just little sighs as I let the pressure off and eased out a little. Followed by a squeak as I pushed forward forcing more of my dick inside. I could see her face reflected in the glass of the dormant flat screen TV on the opposite wall; eyes closed, a grimace, then relief, back to a grimace. He sagged against the door frame, his hand gripping the architrave for support.

I pulled out, and her head dropped, landing on the granite top. I dipped into the butter, re-greased my pole, then lined it up for her back door again. Looking her husband in the eye, I winked as I eased forward into his wife. The squeak was replaced with a low groan as I slid in more easily. I was concentrating on the task at hand when there was another moan; this time of anguish from her husband. I looked at him again and saw his utter humiliation as he tried to hide the tent in his pants. His wife was glaring at him with contempt. I got even more aroused and began thrusting savagely, as my balls prepared to unload.

Once I had reached the point of no return, I backed off and hauled the wife off the bench and down onto the floor in front of me. Stroking my cock while holding her hair, I fired my seed onto her face. After I had calmed down, I spread my cum using my cock on her face like an artist uses his brush. I went to the bathroom to clean up, leaving her on the floor and the husband leaning on the doorway with a wet patch on the front of his pants.

Three weeks later, I was back in Chicago to sign up and finalize the deal. I got in Thursday afternoon and signed up, leaving instructions with the lawyers to keep the husband there for as long as possible on Friday. After a good night's sleep, I dressed and was on their doorstep at eight in the morning. I knocked and hubby answered with a look of surprise and shock on his face. Not bothering to wait for an invitation inside, I brushed past him and saw my quarry in the hallway putting the finishing touches to her hair and make up. She was wearing a navy wool skirt that finished just above the knee, a white silk blouse, black stockings and heels.

I moved behind her, placing my hands on her hips and pulling her back against me. Sliding my hands up her sides, I reached around and cupped her breast. Feeling her nipples harden under my touch, I hooked my fingers in between the buttons of her blouse and ripped it open. Buttons flew in all directions. She gasped, but made no attempt to stop me as I continued to maul her bra-covered breasts while grinding my growing erection into her bottom.

Her husband tried. "Darling, um...haven't you got an important presentation today at work?"