Second Wife Ch. 03

There is a certain anxiety that comes with being an accountant, a sense of excitement – or impending doom, if you suck – that comes with every turn of the calendar page. Our professional lives are filled and regulated by deadlines. April 15th was a big one, of course – my professional equivalent to Christmas – but there is always the end of the next quarter, the end of the fiscal year, the deadline for filing . . . something, somewhere. For some people this kind of constant, unrelenting pressure is too much to bear. They see deadlines like tidal waves lining up to crash down over them, and eventually break under the pressure.

For some of us, though, the prospect of an impending deadline not only provides a vital sense of stability in our lives, it adds a level of excitement as we continuously strive to accomplish the task-at-hand before the clock ticks away. I won't put it on par with the thrill a NASCAR driver gets by bumping bumpers on the last lap of Daytona, but in the bean counters world, deadlines can be exciting things.

No, really.

Compound that with the difficulties of breaking in both a huge new client and a new staff, and you have a level of excitement and anxiety that builds tension like a political campaign. Late hours, bad coffee, morning donuts, network issues, lunch meetings, cubicle hopping, technical issues, paper jams – every little thing in my office was adding to the stress. I was kind of glad I wasn't happily married at the moment – the stress bleeds over, and if things hadn't been so fucked up at home, I would have driven Mary crazy with the late nights and the devotion to the job.

Luckily, she was distracted by a shattered marriage and a deep depression. She was lonely and feeling sorry for herself. She moped about the house incessantly, rarely going out – her forays into public had been exercises in humiliation, so apart from the grocery store she was a pregnant homebody. She'd stay in her room reading or watching TV. She slept a lot. I checked in on her a few times a day over the web – love those hidden web-cams – but I didn't call. Neither did she, after I shut her down when she called 'just to talk'.

Was I being cruel? Perhaps. Needlessly cruel? A matter of opinion. I wasn't just being an asshole for the sake of revenge, despite what you might think. In a lot of ways, this was as hard for me as it was for her – the desire to break down, run to my wife, and beg her to return our marriage to normal was overwhelming, at times, and I'll cop to a fair amount of depression in my own right. Apart from that little sadistic part of me that was enjoying this brutal revenge, my rage had been – mostly – appeased. So why continue the farce? Why not just either cut Mary loose to begin a new life, or go ahead and reconcile and try to rebuild our marriage the way sane people might do?

Good question. I spent many sleepless nights trying to adequately answer it. The conclusions I came up with were difficult to face, but impossible to ignore without lapsing into self-delusion. Everything kept pointing back towards the plan I had formulated, and once I have a plan I stick with it unless there was a compelling reason to alter it.

Now, I know female psychology places a premium on communication – women don't process their emotions until they've had a chance to talk about them at length. While it was a difficult hurdle for me to clear, early in our relationship, I eventually understood it for what it was, and relaxed my natural masculine instinct to recoil from those inane phone calls about someone else's relationship, what she saw on sale at the store, or what some celebrity did to some other celebrity, and why it was scandalous. I learned to do it because I loved my wife and knew that such patient indulgences on my part contributed to her mental health and well being. If I didn't always pay close attention to what she was saying, I'll plead a Y chromosome on that one: men really don't care.

But I didn't have to put up with that any more. When she called that first time – about something ostensibly "important" about groceries – I berated her for the interruption in an icy cold manner that left her cowed for days. I had work to do, I couldn't be bothered with mindless blathering from a woman I didn't need to please any longer. She took the hint, and thereafter she didn't call unless it was, indeed, an emergency. That just made her more depressed. Which made me more depressed – but I couldn't dare show it. That would violate the sanctity of the Plan.

I was content to let her mope in near-silence for a few days until I got a call from her younger sister – my sister-in-law – Susan.

Now if you are just joining us here in Bean Counter world, you should probably know that Susan has it out for Mary, in an understated way, considering that late-blooming, slightly nerdy Susan always played second-fiddle to busty, outgoing Mary growing up. In a lot of ways, Susan was more like me than her sister – she taught High School English, had excellent taste in antiques, was witty and quick with a come-back, and she had a perverted mind that enjoyed the thought of her cheating bitch of a sister suffering – though she harbored enough love not to wish any lasting ill on her.

She had also launched a secret affair with me after I gave her the lion's share of Mary's wardrobe, shoes, and cosmetics. You can't afford that stuff on a teacher's salary, and Mary had taken every opportunity during our marriage to lord our affluence over her single, bookish little sister. Susan expressed her gratitude to me with her tight little schoolmarm pussy, and while Mary wasn't aware of our sexual liaison, she knew Susan and I had gotten closer in the wake of her affair. Later, after I used part of my annual bonus to subsidize her laser corrective eye surgery, she was so pleased with me she gave me access to her ass – and later flew to Canada to spend the New Year's holiday with me.

Susan was largely responsible for my hunt for a second wife. You might wonder why I wanted such a thing, after the debacle with Mary, but the truth is I enjoy being married – when I don't have to worry about fidelity. There's a security and predictability I like about it. As much fun as I was having getting some strange pussy on the side, eventually, when all this was over, I wanted a wife to come home to. That might sound strange, but as sour as I was on marriage with Mary, I was still pretty positive about the institution as a whole.

Mary had no idea I was banging Susan, of course, and we were content to keep it our secret. I love Mary and Susan's parents dearly, and would never want to have them look down on me for "taking advantage" of Susan in my grief over my lost marriage. Or her taking advantage of me. So for the sake of propriety, we were, in effect, having an affair. Of course, that made it all the more exciting.

"What's up, Bill?" her sexy voice asked over the phone. Susan manages to sound alluring even when she's discussing her mother's birthday. "Haven't heard from you in a while, so I thought I'd give you a buzz."

"Well hi there," I grinned into the phone. "I've been ass-deep in alligators at work, or I would've called you."

"I know the feeling – I've got a stack of utterly mediocre essays that I just can't bring myself to read. Spring break can't get here soon enough. How's Sissy?"

"Mary? You'd have to ask her. I haven't been paying attention."

"Liar. Is she still living up to her part of the bargain?"

"So far," I admitted. "We're kind of in a holding pattern. But she hasn't tried to get out of it. If anything she's even more committed. Or so she says."

"I figured as much. Still getting it good and regular?"

"Actually, I've just enjoyed her oral talents. I haven't touched her pussy. I'm wondering how long she can go without dick."

"Well, how long can you go without pussy?"

"My freshman and half of my sophomore year. Accounting major, remember?"

"Well, how about you stop by after work for a refresher course? Besides, I have your first two victims for you. Remember? You wanted me to get you dates?"

"I didn't expect you to move so fast," I chuckled.

"Are you kidding? Most of the women I know are desperately single – or desperately married. I've been sitting on these for two weeks now," she confessed.

"I'll be right over," I breathed. I looked at my desk while I did so. Nothing that couldn't absolutely wait until tomorrow.

"Bring dinner," she ordered. "Chinese. No MSG. Something with nuts."

I made it there by six, which wasn't bad for me. Susan was looking ravishing just by looking like the young schoolmarm she was – she would have been instant boner material, had I been a boy in her class. She's more slender than Mary (even when Mary wasn't getting pudgy from her pregnancy) and has smaller tits, and I noted that she had put some blonde streaks in her hair since the last time I had seen her. I gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek as I brought dinner inside, and she grabbed my ass as I made my way to her tiny apartment's table. Someone was feeling frisky.

"God, I'm STARVING!" she pronounced as she tore into the little white cardboard boxes. "I've been grading papers non-stop for two days, and there's nothing more exhausting than reading teenage angst rendered in mutilated English." She eagerly grabbed a pair of plastic chopsticks and proceeded to tell me far more than I ever wanted to know about the petty politics of a suburban Southern high school. I ate dinner while I listened, making the appropriate noises in all the right places.

While I had no interest in the content of what she was saying, the monologue reminded me of the husbandly duty I once performed for her sister, patiently listening to uninteresting crap that was, nonetheless, vitally important to a woman's psychological health. The differences were interesting, though. Susan attacked the story like a starving dog attacks a bone, while Mary tried to elicit comment every sentence, which could be excruciating. It's a mystery to me why some things just aren't real for a woman until she talks about them, but it was a mystery I was willing to accept, a rule all wise husbands learn early on in their marriage. In fact, it made me more than a little nostalgic for happier times.

After about fifteen minutes, she finally ran down and realized what she had just done, and immediately apologized.

"Bill! Oh, here I am chatting along like you're my best girlfriend – sorry!"

"No, no, it's quite all right," I smiled. "You're very pretty when you're chatty."

Her eyes got just a bit narrower, and the hint of a blush rose to her cheeks. "Well, it wasn't a total waste, then. I don't hear 'pretty' much these days. Besides, now that I've given you the background, I can tell you about the two sluts I've lined up for you."

"Sluts?" I said, intrigued. "Really?"

"At least one," she amended. "And the other is definitely open to the idea. Let's start with Bachelorette A: one of my best buds, Monica Corbett. Mon and me were in school together, she lives just north of here and teaches at the absolute worst elementary school in her county. And her poor little pussy is absolutely going to waste, out there. Nothing but rednecks and old Southern ladies who still say 'tinkle', as far as the eye can see."

"How deplorable!" I said in mock horror.

"Just what I said," she agreed with a grin. "She's cute – my age, of course – and not at all ready to settle down. She called me the other night to check in and complain about her social life, and begged me to get her laid. Two birds, one stone."

"Now, is 'cute' considered innuendo for 'fat with a great personality' or 'obnoxious to the point of vomiting'?" I asked. "Just want to clarify our terms."

"She's 'cute' like 'petite' – she's tiny. Five one, maybe, but she's no girl. B cups, nice ass, just the way you like them."

"In point of fact, I like them pretty much any way," I observed.

"Good! She's got fake blonde-reddish hair, a big nose, and she's looking for someone to seriously clean out the cobwebs – she's been celibate since last summer and it's driving her mad. So I said you'd fuck her. So you'd better fuck her – she's a sure thing."

"I might insist on taking her out on a date while I'm at it."

"She won't mind – she's poorer than me. But she's also a stone-cold freak in the sack. Buy her lobster and she'll probably let you stick it in her ass. But you'd better do a thorough job – I gave you glowing remarks. I have a reputation to protect."

"I'll give it my best shot," I promised. "Set it up. Friday night would be fine, I think."

"Consider it done. Bachelorette number two is an older lady – older than me, that is, but still well within your range – and a local entrepreneur. Cate Leath. Very nicely built – C cups, curves like a mountain road, a very . . . earthy personality. But classy – a real Southern belle."

"Intriguing," I admitted. "What does she do?"

"She's a florist. 'Flowers by Cate', over in the Park. She did the flowers for my girlfriend Adel's wedding. Very sweet lady who definitely gives off the horny vibe. A little lonely, but she's hot. But she's not a sure thing, like Monica."

"Give her my card, tell her to email me," I said, chuckling. "Maybe Saturday night?"

"I'll pass it along," Susan nodded. "But whatever are you going to do for pussy between now and Friday?" she asked coquetteishly. She even batted her eyelashes. I stifled a giggle and tried to act stern.

"I guess I'll just have to fuck whatever else is around," I said with a sigh. I suddenly looked at her. "Your pussy appears to be unoccupied at the moment . . ."

"Not for long," she giggled back. "But why not fuck the one you have at home?"

"Mary? To be honest, I'm feeling a little skittish about it," I confessed. "She's there, and eager to please, I guess, but she keeps trying to get us back in the old patterns. I'm afraid that if I just give in and fuck her, that we'll be on that slippery slope."

"Maybe," Susan conceded. "She would try to do that. She's always been far more manipulative than I. Bitch. And it is driving her crazy that you haven't made any serious overtures towards reconciliation. I keep telling her to stay the course."

"So, should I fuck her, then?" I asked. Hell, I didn't know. I needed a little perspective on this, and Susan was really the only one who knew the whole story. Well, most of it.

"Absolutely," she affirmed. "But you're right, not like she wants it. She'd see that as a victory. Can't have Sissy winning, even in her head. Let me think about it for a minute, while I suck your dick – if you don't mind, that is."

"I'm pretty much done with dinner," I agreed. "Time for the fortune nookie."

I fully deserved the egg roll she threw at my head. But then she led me into her tiny livingroom, deposited me on her couch, and sat submissively at my knees. I paused long enough to kiss her deeply, grabbing her juicy little breasts through her shirt while I was at it. I kept at it until she moaned and broke away, then pushed me back to get at my fly. My dick was already turgid, of course, straining to be touched as it exited my fly. Susan sighed beatifically and began licking it like an ice cream cone.

She gave me ten minutes of rock-solid head, playing with my cock more for her own benefit than mine – not that I cared. I could tell by her breathing how excited she was getting, and just when I started considering blowing in her mouth she got to her feet and frantically stripped off her blue jeans and panties.

"I wanted you to eat me out," she admitted breathlessly, "but honestly I really just need to get fucked!"

"Uh-huh," I said, eloquently, as she slithered her tight little twat down over my pole. Before she was fully seated I was stripping off her shirt, and then buried my face between her bra-encased titties like I was getting a hold of my first pair. Her pussy was hot, like a furnace, and delightfully slick, and the groan she gave as the last three inches forced their way past her pussy's lips was inspirational. She twisted her pelvis around until she was fully impaled, then leaned back to watch me as her hips began a gentle gyration.

"Oh, God, yes, that's what Suzie needed!" she said, enchanted. "God, I needed to get fucked!"

I declined comment, considering the sensitive nature of the issue. But then again I was trying to stuff as much tit in my mouth as possible, too, so I probably didn't have much of substance to communicate. She began a thumpity cowgirl ride, slithering her spine around so that my dick hit all of her hard-to-reach spots, and when she found an angle she particularly liked she returned to it often.

Susan rode me like a lust-crazed nympho for nearly twenty minutes, then I decided to give her a treat. I stood up, holding on to her, and let her ride my cock in mid-air. She's not that big, so I was able to sustain the position for a good eight minutes or so, while my sister-in-law freaked out at the unique sensation. She ended up cumming twice in rapid succession while perched on my prick.

Finally I sat back down, and she twisted off my dick and spun around, re-planting her pussy on me reversed. I flicked open the catch on her bra and helped her shrug it off while she pounded her own twat silly on my pole, then reached around and cupped both of her bouncing boobies as I squirted my load explosively into her slick slit. She didn't notice at first, and kept riding through a final orgasm. Then she collapsed back on me in a heap.

"That . . . was so much better . . . than grading papers . . ."

Who was I to argue?

I got home about ten that night, having enjoyed another and much less frenetic round with Susan in her under-utilized bed. Then she threw me out so she could get her work done, and I stopped by a bar and reveled in the fact that I didn't have to call and let anyone know. I had two beers and a warm fuzzy feeling that comes with a successful booty call.

When I came in I noted that Mary had apparently made my dinner for me – I hadn't told her not to, of course. I started to feel a little bad about that, then I remembered I just fucked the hell out of her little sister, and that she was carrying her lover's bastard child, and then a ruined dinner wasn't so important any more. I whistled to myself as I took off my coat, tie and pants and put them in the dry cleaning bag, then shuffled through my house in my socks, shorts, and shirt.

Mary was up reading in the livingroom, and I could tell by the way her eyes looked that she had been crying not long ago. I nodded hello, and she called my name.

"Bill? Did you . . . have a good time?"

"It was just a client," I shrugged, the lie coming easily to me. "Nothing important."

"Do you . . . do you want a blowjob before bed?" she offered, hesitantly.

I considered. Why not? I still had at least one in the chamber.

"As long as I don't have to do any work," I agreed. I sat down in my recliner, and Mary scooted eagerly – but ungracefully – between my knees.

"You don't have to do a thing," she assured me, almost gushing the words. "You just sit there and let Mary take care of this poor thing." Her hands dug into my shorts and pulled out my cock, which was starting to get hard already – and had started out more than a little sticky. There was no mistaking what that meant. She noted it at once and looked at me, eyes wide. I stared back at her as if nothing was amiss. I mentally dared her to make an issue out of it . . . even mention it . . .

She declined, giving me a fake little smile and then bending her head to take my freshly-fucked cock into her mouth. She almost gagged a bit, at first, but she persevered like a trooper, and soon her face was tracing the length of my cock, from balls to head, in a soothing rhythm. She wasn't happy about it – I could hear the wheels turning in her brain as she tried to figure out who the hell had put their pussy on her cock tonight – but she knew better than to question it. That was progress.