tagLoving WivesDavid and Jennifer Hart

David and Jennifer Hart

byMatt Moreau©

To any outside observer I might have seemed to be mumbling. But I never mumbled. I was reciting, as I had every day since I was six years old, the Code, the code my uncle had taught me, the chivalric code. A good man's duty was as follows: to protect the weak and defenseless; to despise monetary rewards; to avoid unfairness, meanness, and deceit; to speak the truth at all times; to honor one's vows; and to respect the honour of women.

The Code, the Chivalric Code, oh yes, I knew it by heart. I lived it by heart; it was the code, the order of life. I was David Hart. Placing the carnation inside the open coffin of my uncle, my heart was heavy.

"I will never disrespect the Code, my uncle, never!" I said aloud. The funeral over, I headed back into town. I would miss my mentor and surrogate father. My own biological dad had died, and my mother too when so very young, as I saw it. But, Melvin Hart, my father's younger brother, had done me right.

Melvin Hart, had died but two weeks gone, but not of natural causes. He had given his life to save a defenseless and homeless girl in an alley next to the apartment building that the two of us lived in.

The three thugs, all in their early twenties, that had assaulted the helpless fifteen year old runaway, were still in the prison hospital ward; they'd been there since the set-to with my uncle, again but two weeks gone now. They'd all soon be tried for rape, second degree murder, and a host of lesser charges. Uncle Mel would be satisfied I knew.


"Sorry to hear about your uncle Davie. Bad shit," said Carlos. Carlos was my favorite bartender at the Hammer. Mexican, honest, and good at his job: there wasn't anything else. I nodded.

"Yeah, the baddest," I said. "But, yuh know, I think he was glad to go out the way he did. He was an ex-marine you know. I think he knew he won the fight even though he was dying. He was gone when I got there, but those other guys; they didn't look too good. And, they're still in the hospital, and one of them may yet die from the beating he took. If he doesn't he'll be joining his friends in prison for a very long stretch."

"Well, good," said Carlos. "At least there's that."

"Yeah for sure," I said. "Going to a graduation the day after tomorrow at the university. A friend of mine is getting out. Gonna do the walk across the stage," I said. "He's a lot smarter than me; kinda envy him if the truth were to become known."

"You talkin' about Victor?" said Carlos.

"Yeah that's a true thing," I said.

"Yeah, well have fun," he said. "And come visit us tomorrow night, you and him, the drinks will be free." I smiled, threw a twenty down on the bar and went out.


"Congratulations, Vick," I said.

"Thanks bud," said Victor.

"Will you be staying in town again tonight?" I said. We'd gone out partying and dancing the night before at the Hammer. Frankly that he was able to negotiate the stage on more or less steady legs was something of a minor surprise.

"No, I'm already packed and on my way to California. Be well, David. I appreciate you being here today," he said, and then he was gone. Gone to a job in aerospace: Boeing as he'd told me.

Victor Grantham and I had been friends since we were six years old. Lived next door to each other. His parents, like my own were now gone. Father abandoned them when he was two. His mother was gone to cancer but a few months before his walk across the stage. I was his only close friend and the nearest thing to a relative he still had.

I was two hours from home. I decided to eat before rolling out. Pete's Pizza fit the bill. It was crowded, but the line was moving okay. I got my pizza and hot wings and chowed down. The table next to mine was occupied by a family of four: a mom, a dad, a young girl, and young lady who was obviously a graduate. She still wore the grad hat thing.

I watched them leave. She was pretty, the graduate. I had me a beer, finished up, paid, and headed out for home a hundred miles distant.

The rain was coming down in sheets; I reduced speed to a highway crawl. I made the turn around a risky curve: the drop-off was scary. The man was waving desperately. I slowed and pulled over ahead of them. The rain was really pounding down.

"God bless you, sir, for stopping. The car just crapped out on us I Barely made it to the side of the road," he said. He nodded toward the three women inside of the car. I recognized the one immediately; it was the grad from the pizzeria.

I smiled inwardly. Helping ladies in distress was my middle name. Oh yeah, I thought; uncle Mel would be proud.

I had him pop the hood. I saw it almost immediately: the alternator fan belt was just hanging there. Their battery was dead.

"You need a fan belt and a jump," I said. The nearest shop—and one I knew about—was back in town. This was going to be three hour job counting travel back and forth.

"But how can I..." he started.

The rain had slowed. I hadn't noticed that miss college grad had joined us by the open hood.

"If you guys want to pile into my ride, I'll take you back to town. We can get the belt, and I can install it and jump you," I said. "I mean unless you just want to stay here with the car. I can go and come back, but it'll be a couple of hours."

"You'd be willing to do that for us, for strangers?" he said.

"No problems. I ain't got no place to go," I said.

"Dad," she said. "I'll go back with our knight in shining armor. The rest of you can stay with the car for security." Her dad looked at her.

"Okay, I guess," he said. "I mean..." She was already walking over to my car and getting in.

"Okay," I said. "By the way, my name's David Hart."

"Randy Cross," he said. "Your passenger there is Jennifer Cross." She was already fastening her seat belt in the car. That's my wife Judy there and Jennifer's little sister Blanche, she's just ten years old.

"Very nice of you to help us," said Jennifer, as I got situated in my seat. "We all appreciate it very much."

"You're quite welcome," I said. "No problem really."

I did not burn up the road on the way back to town. But, I didn't waste any time either. I went immediately to the parts shop and got the needed belt. We were back on the road in less than ten minutes.

Our conversation was pretty much as one might expect after the initial hussahs and hosannas relating to how wonderful a guy I was for saving them.

I found out she was a just graduated Business major. She was going to be working for some real estate firm. She was twenty-two years old. And, she told me something that made me hope for an opportunity to see her again. She told me she had no boyfriend. No girl says something like that without a reason. I just hoped it was the right reason; well, right as far as I was concerned.

Back at the car, I installed the fan belt and gave them a jump. Told mister Cross to have his battery checked when he got back to town. He tried to pay me, but I just waved him off. No, didn't need the money, and what I really wanted was a chance to see Jennifer again. The good news? There was the fact that they lived in New Town, as did I. Sometimes things did work out the way one hoped.


I'd given mister Cross my card. Well, even though I was only twenty-one, I did have an A.S. degree in auto-mech from Alfred J. Steele CC, and I was a licensed welder and aircon man working for Allied Motors, a used car dealership and importer. I hoped that the next time they needed a car tended to that they'd call me. I just couldn't get Jennifer out of my mind.

That lucky happenstance occurred but two weeks after my debut as a knight in shining armor. I was just finishing up a brake job when I heard the familiar voice.

"How yuh doin' David," said Jennifer Cross.

"Miss Cross, Jennifer. Good. Yourself?" I said. So far I hadn't embarrassed myself.

"Fine. Got a couple of things you might could help me with," she said. I nodded my willingness to be her slave—well, to help her.

She led me over to where she'd parked her canary yellow Corvette. "Wow!" I said. "That your ride?" She smiled.

"Yes, yes it is," she said. "Need an oil change and maybe a tune up. My dad said I needed a tune up too."

"Okay, no problem," I said. "If you can come back at closing, I'll have it ready for you."

"Great. But—uh—David, there is one more thing," she said.

"Yes?" I said.

"I'm not going to be available Friday evening until after 6:00PM. Can you pick me up then?" she said.

"No, no," I said. "I mean I will have the car done tonight, not next Friday." It was Wednesday. Friday was still two days away.

"No, no," she said. "I understood that the car would be ready today. I'm referring to our first date," she said.

"Huh? Uh? I mean?" I was fast losing control of my thought process.

"You do want to date me don't you?' she said. I got control of my conscious mind, took a deep breath, and replied.

"Damn straight," I said.

"Good. So Friday evening then?" she said. She handed me a slip of paper with her particulars on it. And, when I say particulars, I mean her particulars. Address, cell phone, measurements, and a small picture of her face: all of it on a facsimile of a business card. I'd never seen anything like it. Never heard of anything like it. Jesus, this woman was very likely way-way out of my league! Oh, and did I say measurements. Try 34-22-36, 5'8", 130, oh yes and C-cups. Me on the other hand: 5"6" and 150; very well-muscled, my uncle's fault; but only so-so looking. And definitely A-cups—pretty much flat chested actually.


I picked her up in a very upscale neighborhood. The house? Early American on maybe three quarters of an acre: Two-story, wood frame, separate three car garage; it was a very nice place. Friday evening had been slow in coming, but it did finally come.

Dinner at the Foghorn, dancing at Juliana's, and coffee at a purveyor of fine Scottish cuisine—McDonald's.

The night had been a roaring success. She was indeed clearly out of my league, but was at pains not to rub my nose in it. A half dozen other guys asked her to dance at Juliana's she turned them all down.

We were parked out in front of her house; it was a little past 2:00AM.

"I'd ask you in, but my mom might look askance at that," she said. "And, my dad definitely would. And, yes, I know I'm a college graduate and over twenty-one, but I will not disrespect them; they've been the best."

"I can dig it," I said. "But, so, how about next Friday night?"

"Of course. And tomorrow night too?" she said. I nodded, stunned at the fact that she'd even given me a chance to date her at all let alone taken the lead in our—what—relationship if that's what it was, or, was becoming. I had questions, and I would have the answers.


Our first date was very good and very platonic. Our second date, Saturday night, was also very good but not platonic. We parked near a cliff just outside of town overlooking the valley and its lights below. We'd moved to the back seat and had been kissing and doing some light touching; well, I was touching; she was letting me touch—her breasts—through her clothes when she decided to take things to the next level.

"Would you like to see my breasts, David?" she said. Her smirk was a challenge.

"Oh my yes," I said.

"Then unbutton my blouse, unhook my bra and look at them," she said. I didn't quite faint from nervousness and anticipation. I did as she commanded and her breasts fell free. I didn't dare touch without her telling me to do so; then, she did.

"You can feel me up, David. I want you to," she said. "Just be considerate and gentle with them. They're kinda sensitive." I swallowed and almost choked on my own spit. She could see my distress and laughed at me. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but Jennifer Cross—soon to be Jennifer Hart—would be laughing at or feeling sorry for me a lot in the future. Had I considered such possibilities at the time, it is doubtful that I would have cared in any event. But later much later I would care.

On our third date a week later she undressed me. She played with my cock while remaining dressed the whole time. Claimed it was her turn and refused to let me have any say in the matter. She jacked me off and seemed surprised when my cum actually hit the back window of the car; well, I didn't jackoff all that much, and I was loaded with sauce and that because of her.

"My oh my, for such a small cock you sure carry a load, don't you," she said. I swallowed; I seemed to be doing a lot of that when I was with her. Her remark about the size of my penis stung a little, but she more or less just took it in stride: she was commenting on the fact of it but making no judgments.

It was some two months into our dating that I finally got into her pants. I licked and sucked at both her pussy and her anus on her orders. She came and came and came when I was ministering to her pussy. Then, I fucked her. I fucked her three times. I fucked her missionary, doggy, and missionary again. She didn't cum from me fucking her, but did seem to like me doing her regardless.

In our fifth month together I proposed. She accepted and three months after that, in an elaborate ceremony, we were married; and the family Hart was born.


Almost immediately after she'd graduated Jen had been hired by a well-known real estate company, Whitcomb and Hardy real estate brokers. She was on flat commission, but she did well and was pulling down $40k by the end of her first two years on staff. Me?

I had a better deal. I was hourly with certain incentives and perks that came with a job that required the multiple skills and licenses that I possessed. Since I had been essentially home schooled by my uncle after the third grade, I had skills damn few of which anyone anywhere near my age commanded. I had not only been schooled in selected classics, I was an expert welder—and it is a major skill—and I could also work metal and literally create parts for most cars when the occasion warranted such—the company had a fairly well-appointed machine shop. Similarly, I was licensed to fix, install, and service automotive aircon units. And of course I could rebuild virtually any internal combustion engine ever made. The result? I was making almost $80k annual by my age twenty-three. Not unheard of, I was sure, but rare.

By end of year two, we were doing quite well, and thinking about having children when we got the bad news. Jennifer could not bear children; it would be too dangerous for her to do so.


At the end of year two of our marriage, something happened that set us back plenty. Jen's older sister Lana and her husband Joe Martin were killed in an auto accident. The horror of such an evil happening was compounded: The dead parents left two little girls. They were Maribel age 7 and Clarissa age 8. We made a decision. We would adopt the two little girls and raise them as our own. We were pretty much all they had.

Almost from day one I bonded with the babies. Jennifer too although maybe not to the same degree as did I. She, Jennifer, was loving make no mistake, but she was so committed to her job that sometimes the kids could be a nuisance I supposed. My case was a little different. I never brought work home with me: at 5:00PM Monday through Friday I was off and the ultimate homebody, husband, and father. Jen on the other hand almost always brought work home, or so it seemed. This last fact did cause some minor friction between us on occasion. Nothing major, just some spirited discussion about me and the children being neglected. I needed my woman; but, she was the boss—always had been, and I mean from the beginning.

Regardless of the little bumps in our marital road, the future was bright for us. Although Jen daren't conceive, we did have two children who were blood related, well, to her. Additionally, my best friend, after his initial foray into the California job market returned.


"So, you say things are going well for you two," said Emily Rhodes, Jennifer's best friend from their college days.

"Yes, he does what I say, and never questions me. He's pussywhipped, and it works for us," said Jennifer. "He's happy. I'm happy. It's good." Her friend snickered.

"You shoulda gotten yourself a professional. Blue collar and you don't exactly match all that well," said Emily.

"Maybe not, but he's a hard worker, and he makes pretty good bucks. True he's a bit of a cipher at parties, but I can work around that: he's my gofer if you get my drift," said Jennifer.

"And while he's goffering, you're fucking; that about it?" Jennifer all but snarled at her friend, ignoring her remarks.

"Anyway, by gofer you mean slave, right? How's he in bed? Still the same old same old?" said Emily.

"Like I've to you a zillion times before, he's not that bad. I've been able to train him to the point that he gets me off once in a while. Not like Pike does, but he's okay actually," said Jennifer.

"I don't get it, girl. If he's so less than wonderful, why don't you just dump him and pick up with Pike?" said Emily.

"And, like I've also told you a zillion times, because Pike earns half of what my David earns. Culturally and sexually David has issues, but economically he does it for me. I'm not giving that up for a longer dick, not even," said Jennifer. The two of them laughed.


"So, it wasn't all sunshine and roses out there?" I said.

"No. Sunshine yes, but the pace and the pressure were not to my liking, so no roses one might be tempted to declare," said Victor.

"Setting up your own company then?" I said.

"Yes, consulting. I know the game, and I can analyze most any engineering project related to production efficiency, and that without getting the unions all riled up. Well, it is what I do," said Victor Grantham. We talked for a while, waiting on the girls to call us in for dinner.

Just then, Jennifer and her best friend from her college days, Emily Rhodes, came in. Victor and Emily would become fixtures at our place over time, really almost members of the family.


The years passed and we prospered. And, then we didn't. And then I was lost and sick at heart—and—divorced and alone. She'd had me served at work. Kind of cold, cruel I thought.

Fifteen years we'd been married. They'd been good years, or so I'd believed. But, evidently they hadn't been for her. Somewhere along the line she'd decided she wanted something else, and I was no longer part of what she wanted.

Holding the papers the stranger had handed me in my office, at first I couldn't believe it. Why would she do such a thing to me? I'd be talking to her, hopefully, to find out what I'd done to make her want to do this this thing.

Of course I'd tried to call her, but I'd gotten no answer. Well, clearly she didn't want to talk to me, maybe even so much as to let me know the reason she didn't want me anymore. I would have thought that she'd have been a little more considerate. Over the many years we'd been together, I'd done everything I could to make her happy, but, I guess not enough.

The locks on the doors had been changed and three suitcases full of my stuff had been delivered to me at work, so at least I had my clothes. I appreciated that. I knew the locks had been changed because I'd gone home right after work to try and talk to her. There'd been a note attached to the door, in an envelope actually; she'd not been there. The note just informed me that I could only talk to her through her lawyer whose card had also been in the envelope.

I went to an ATM nearby the house and had gotten the max: $500. The savings had been cleaned out but not the checking; I'd gotten that information from the ATM too. At least she was leaving me a few bucks to get started in a new place. Again, and oddly, in spite of it all, I appreciated her thoughtfulness there too. She had destroyed my heart, but apparently she was trying to make the sting a little less problematical for me.

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byMatt Moreau© 116 comments/ 90147 views/ 22 favorites

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