tagLoving WivesTwo's a Crowd Ch. 04

Two's a Crowd Ch. 04


Where I discover that I can't kill the woman I married.


I had been back in New York for two days when the package arrived. It lay at the centre of my desk and was the size of a shoebox. The address was handwritten. I knew the familiar curls, the generous lettering. Maybe I shouldn't open it, I thought, while my fingers were already opening it.

The box was crammed with balled-up white tissues. On top lay the yellow piece of paper I had left on her chest while she was sleeping. It had obviously been crumpled before being smoothed out again; the ink of the writing seemed blotted by moisture. A few words had been added at the bottom, but they were crossed out again. I tried to read them. I thought I saw "love."

I remembered what I had written on the yellow paper. I knew I would regret the opening my words had left her. Why couldn't I have just been satisfied with a simple good-bye -- maybe an added good luck? It must have been that damn four-letter word again. The word that starts with an l, but isn't "lust." Lust hadn't been in my thoughts for all the time she had been in my arms. My cock had stayed as dead as a cold, naked snail.

But alas, yes, another organ had been highly involved -- my heart. Damn foolish heart, stupid blood-pumping muscle. The same one that was rattling at my rib-cage right now.

I cleaned the box from the puffy balls of tissue paper. (It's true, you know -- a woman's tears are her weapons. And Myriam had found a perfect way to cry long-distance.) At the bottom lay a picture. It was a postcard-sized glamour shot of "Estelle." Her heavy-lashed eyes blazed from the paper, as did her smile. The chestnut hair curled down in perfection until it caressed her stunning new cleavage. Her alias was printed in a corner, in a girlish, faux-handwritten way -- a little heart added. The kitschiness of it all made me shudder. All over the shining picture, huge, fat letters had been hurled down with a magic marker: "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" they screamed.

On the back of the photo was the address of the agency. It was the Dallas-based branch of a nationwide network. New York, I saw, and Vegas, Detroit, San Francisco. Even London. There were also some tiny italic lines describing her classy qualities as an escort for visiting businessmen. There was her degree and her business experience. She was "intelligent, witty and well-read." Physical attractiveness or sexual prowess weren't mentioned; I guess the photograph was supposed to speak for itself. The same black magic marker of the front had been used to jot down a cell-phone number on the back -- and the word "please."

I dropped the card on the desk and stared at it.


The agency's business number was amongst the small print. It had been partly obscured by her jotted-down cell number. The Houston Hilton would be close to where I had to be anyway, next week.

It took me half an hour to consider making the call. All the while I had stared at the picture -- the eyes, the computer-polished skin, the smile that made my heart weep. The alien tits. "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" she wrote. I had to agree.

The female voice sounded all-businesslike in a smooth and sympathetic way. Yes, Estelle was available. And yes, my wishes could be easily met as long as I knew there would be extra charges. If I'd please leave my address and all other instructions, they'd take care of everything.

I made one more call later that afternoon and then I threw away the box and its contents. I went to the fitness centre where I allowed the machines to torture me in their cruelest ways.

Later that evening I beat Erica 6 - 2 and 6 - 3. She asked if I was all right. I smiled and told her not to worry.


The room was spacious. It was a suite, really. The afternoon sun tried to pierce the drawn shades. It resulted in a warm, intimate atmosphere. Golden specks danced in the narrow beams of sunlight that spilt around the edges of the shades.

The hands on my watch crawled closer to the appointed hour. I guess there is nothing as efficient in making a man doubt his motives as having time to kill. Why was I here in the first place? Hiding behind a screen to watch my ex-wife destroy the last spark of affection left inside my sorry excuse for a heart. Why -- after two years, for Christ's sake -- did I still have this seething need to get back at her? I should have thrown away the pathetic box and the gruesome picture. Better yet -- I should never have let her into my room in that Dallas hotel.

Through the slits of the tasteful Japanese screen I had a view of the king size bed. I could also see two of the men lounging in the adjacent room. Tall, handsome men -- long legs, tight shirts over muscled chests. Well endowed too, as they had assured me. The third man was in the bathroom, I guessed. I sat up and once more wondered why I was here, doing what I was doing.

It had all been quite easy to organize. Expensive, true -- but I didn't care. Looking back I would have to agree that this impulsiveness wasn't at all like me. Wasn't I supposed to be the deliberate numbers man? Then again -- have I ever been myself since Myriam betrayed me?

Betrayal -- such a big word to use after all this time.

My thoughts went to that utterly strange night in Dallas, again. I had let her in, but I had refused to let her explain. She had tried so hard to do so during the dry spells between her teary outbursts, but I smugly denied her the opportunity to tell me -- to explain herself, as she said. I knew she would lie anyway. Just look what she had done since our divorce. She had turned prostitute -- need I say more?

After a while she had fallen asleep. Exhausted, no doubt, I thought maliciously. No wonder, given the hard work she had done before. Yes, I felt very righteous back then, in Dallas. And hurt. And pissed off all over again. But I held her in my arms 'til morning.

Now, back in the Houston Hilton, I stared through the screen. I knew I didn't just feel depressed. There was anticipation, too. The anticipation of a little boy with big clever plans. Would it work? Would she follow the instructions? Or would she suspect something? In matters of intuition, Myriam had always been the cleverer one of us. She might smell a rat. But why would she? Wasn't this just a job for her? Pubic Relations? I shuddered at the awful word play. Disgusting. I chased the grin off my face.

No doubt revenge was part of my motives. The need for closure, too. But I loved to tell myself that there was a third, nobler, less selfish motive. I had to show her who she really was. I had to kill this silly delusion of love she had -- I had to free her. Maybe just as much as I had to free myself.

Was I being cruel? Maybe. "I'm only human," I had told myself over and over. On the way here and right now -- waiting. But I was ashamed for what I was going to do. Ashamed enough to not even tell Erica about my plans. Anyway, it was too late now. The scene was set, the actors in place. An audience of one was waiting for the star to make her appearance.


The knock on the door sounded shy. It made my heart race. I breathed deeply to make it slow down.

The blonde gigolo went to open the door. I could not see the entrance itself, but I heard a woman's voice -- Myriam's, but higher, excited. And yes, she was naked when she walked into the room. Naked except for whorish black stockings, red garters and plastic platform heels -- just as agreed upon. There was no hair on her mound, I saw. Her exposed, heavy tits bounced from the strutting -- so did her reddish curls.

"Hi guys," she said, one finger between her pouting lips, like a naughty girl. She held her head at a coquettish angle -- her lashes fluttering with exaggerated flirting. She looked from the blonde to the darker haired stud. "Oooooh!" she gasped. "Is this all for lil ol' me?" The tackiness made me shudder. Her voice was like a child's, but it had the throaty undertone I remembered from the Dallas hotel lounge. There was also a giggle at the end. It excited me, while at the same time filling me with the shame she so obviously lacked herself.

The other man rose and joined his buddy. He pulled Myriam towards him and kissed her right away. I heard a guttural moan as she pressed her tits into his chest. She wrapped her body around him, lifting one leg. Her bare cunt rubbed into his Italian slacks. Their kisses were wet and loud.

The blonde guy hugged her from behind and soon she was sandwiched between the two of them. A little squeal sounded when her shoulder got bitten. I saw a hand on her left tit, fingers pinching the nipple. Another hand slapped the naked flesh of her ass cheek.

Then the dark haired man pushed her down until she knelt in front of him. No words were said; none were needed. Myriam's red-nailed fingers rapidly freed the guy's cock from his fly. It was large and hung in a semi erect arc, right in front of her smiling face. "Yummy!" I heard her say. A curled tongue ran up from the shaven balls to the flaring tip, where it vibrated against the sensitive ridge. Then she let her glossed lips sink over the head. Myriam never took me like she took this man's cock into her mouth. Never this hungrily. The pain it caused inside me woke me up from the hypnotic state I had slipped into.

Then I saw the blonde guy take his cock out too. It seemed even longer. He poked Myriam's cheek with it, drawing her attention. She shrieked and grabbed it. "Oooh goodie! One more cock for lil Estelle!" Experienced fingers rubbed the second cock while her lips went down the first. It would have been a highly erotic sight for any man, but I only felt disgust and a burning sensation behind my eyes. A hot haze enveloped me -- it isolated me from the outside world. I felt abandoned and betrayed, but ashamed.

The third guy came in from the bathroom. Myriam had by then sucked both cocks to hardness. He whistled his admiration, drawing Myriam's attention to his already displayed erection. She squealed even shriller at the sight, clapping her hands. She rose and ran over to him. The crazy heels made her ass wobble obscenely. She knelt again and started rubbing the pole with both hands. Maybe the sheer number of cocks excited her. Or maybe it was because this third one was even bigger. And black.

The naked woman I saw kneeling in front of the men was a total stranger to me. She was as anonymous as the first random piece of fuck meat in a pornographic movie. Even the slightest hint that she could be someone I had known, respected and loved, was light years away from my thoughts. Everything she did was alien. Her voice, her words. The cheap way she dressed. The shameless, wanton sluttiness of her actions -- and the obvious way she enjoyed it. Nothing reminded me of the woman I had loved and married, shared my life with, my dreams and my bed with.

Myriam wasn't here. It seemed hard to even remember her now. The cool, witty, totally lovable woman I had shared my life with was gone. Her wonderful sense of humor had vanished. Her intelligence. Her taste and style. The sweet, warm love we made. The unconditional intimacy. All was gone. It had been replaced by this plastic creature. This screaming, rutting bitch with her pumped up tits and appalling language. She had become a wide open mouth -- two splaying legs on cheap, shining platform heels. She had reduced herself to a screeching fuck-toy, inanely giggling her dignity away.

Myriam wasn't here anymore. The thought struck me and sobered me. I saw the woman being carried to the bed. By now her cunt had been penetrated from behind, while her mouth was filled with the black guy's cock. They impaled her while carrying her -- she was a squealing pink piggy on a spit. The fake tits dangled from her rib cage. Wet sounds of sucking and fucking filled the room.

I had feared how I might react. There were these disgusting stories of men getting aroused while watching their loved one being fucked -- jacking off as they looked on or even joining in. I needn't have worried. Ever since I got past my hormone-invested teen years, cheap, explicit porn movies didn't do much for me. I always saw the hard, inhuman cheapness of it -- the emptiness, silliness even. Oh, there were erotic scenes that gave me hard-ons. But they hardly ever included the mechanical flesh pounding I was witnessing now.

Myriam -- or better, Estelle -- was on her hands and knees. Her face was fucked by the blonde guy, while the black cock pumped into her cunt. The dark haired stud lay under her, sucking on her tits and jilling her clit. The woman was a constant source of muffled shrieks and moans. Her ass slapped backwards in response to the relentless fucking. She already seemed to be climaxing in a constant stream of orgasms.

It was hard to believe she was just acting. Could a professional hooker be as convincing as this? It looked and sounded real enough to me. But who was I to judge? She had never been like this with me. She was never this primal or vocal. I never saw this unfettered beast in my bed.

In a distracted way I admired her professionalism -- or whatever it was. Both cocks were thicker and longer than mine -- by inches. But she took them with ease. She never gagged, even when the cock head made her throat bulge. Her cunt seemed to take the fat pole easily. She slammed back into the guy and each moment her mouth was free, she cried out to be fucked harder and deeper. Her breathless voice sounded alien to me. It was the voice of a stranger.


During the next hour Myriam got fucked in her cunt by each of the men. They also came in her mouth. I saw her swallow the semen and heard her obscene comments on the amount, the quality and the taste of it. By that time my feelings had gone -- there was just an all-encompassing sadness. I guess part of my plan had worked. Even the final remnants of my love for this creature had surely died. I guess there would always be memories of Myriam left to haunt my dreams. But I knew now that she was dead -- that maybe she had never even existed. What I had not planned, though, or even realized, was that this brutal surgical operation might take away more from me than just Myriam. As I looked straight into the extreme convulsions that racked her face, a sudden chill crept up my spine.

Would I ever feel again?

A wave of fatalism ran through me. I just stared. All power left my body. I shivered -- I had no tears left, no love, no feelings. The screaming madwoman took them away with each spasm, each uncontrolled explosion of orgasmic bliss. Her red mouth sucked them straight from my soul.


After resting for a while at the center of a heap of naked flesh, the hooker started playing with the black cock again. She ran her red nails over its length and rubbed it slowly. She took the meat in her mouth to suck new life into it. She teased and cheered the stud with that sick baby-voice she seemed to have reserved for this awful afternoon.

Then she rose to her knees and offered him her ass hole. Her offer might have shocked me a while earlier. By now I only registered it as a technicality -- one more off-hand service to punish me. I didn't try to remember how she had always refused me to even touch her there.

I saw now that those prudish times were in a distant past. The guy lubricated her entrance with globs of collected sperm and juices. His fingers made her moan like a bitch in heat -- which by now I knew she was. Then he ran his cock into her open cunt. He pulled it out, gleaming and dripping -- and plunged it into her ass hole. She cried out, but I don't think there was much pain in that scream.

The blonde guy slid under her. He lowered her onto his rejuvenated cock until her stretched cunt lips kissed his pubic bone. Right then the third hard cock hit the deep entrance to her throat. The same woman who only a few days ago insisted she loved me and wasn't like this, let herself be filled in all her orifices. And she screamed with relish.


Her final orgasm echoed through the darkening room. Ragged panting smoothed into soft and regular breathing. At long last silence returned.

I rose. I walked around the screen and on to the bed. It looked like a battlefield. It smelled like a sty. The damp sheets were knurled into fat, twisted sausages. The pillows and mattress were soaked -- there were numerous spots of saliva, sweat and semen. Even specks of blood. The whore lay in the middle -- she seemed exhausted. Her arms and legs were spread out, resting on her naked lovers. Her cunt and ass hole gaped open from use. All kinds of moisture seeped from them. Her pale skin gleamed with sweat and spunk. Her eyes were closed, her mouth hung open in a silly grin.

The men saw me coming and slid off the bed. They collected their clothes and went into the adjoining room to shower and dress. Not a word was said. Maybe the woman had passed out. She never reacted to the movements of her leaving lovers. The bed shook a bit, making her tits wobble slightly. I just stood over her, watching; I'd never seen them wobble like that.

Then I said her name -- "Myriam." The dark lashes flew open in their circles of smeared mascara. I remembered those eyes, but I did not want to. I also knew the sperm-smeared mouth that produced my name with a shrill, scared edge. The woman hunched her body and wrapped herself in a soiled sheet -- it was just a silly reflex of long forgotten modesty. The sudden movement caused obscene sounds to leave her lower body. She perched like a bird. Her eyes were big, her mouth a dark ellipse of shock. "Nooo..." she moaned.

"No, indeed," I said. "I shouldn't call you Myriam, should I? "THIS IS NOT ME!!!" as you wrote me -- remember? You even gave it three exclamation marks."

She just stared and swallowed. Then she repeated my name. "Bruce."

I sat down on the bed's edge. "Today I decided once and for all to kill Myriam," I said. My voice was as empty as I felt. "Tell me, please...did I succeed?"

At the word "kill" she flinched. Then I guess she understood. Tears ran down her ravaged face. She started shaking her head in denial. "P-please don't," she croaked. Her voice seemed thick with liquid. Was it sperm? Tears?

"I shouldn't do what, whore?" I asked, once more making her flinch. The word shook her, as it did me, even after all I saw.

"Listen to me, Bruce. Please listen." A hand crawled out to grab me. I recoiled.

"Listen to you?" My voice grew harder. "I watched you, slut. I watched it all. Who needs listening after that? Who needs explaining?"

She opened and closed her smeared lips like a fish. Then she said: "Please, Bruce, tell me why. Why did you have to set this up and humiliate me like this?"

I thought I was beyond shock. She proved I wasn't. "Humiliate YOU?!" I screamed. The laugh that followed must have sounded quite hysterical.

"I love you, Bruce," she said. Her voice was calm, clear. It was Myriam's voice, clipped and in control. "I love you as much as you love me. You should not have compromised me like this."

My head buzzed. I had trouble breathing. "Myriam," I panted. "You are stark raving mad."

Her eyes never wavered. "Yes, Bruce," she whispered. "Yes, I guess I am."

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by Anonymous

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by Anonymous04/02/18

What kind of a broken person would actually call this powerful?

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by Anonymous03/25/18

Forget the whore Miriam get your head out of your arse and get living your life if you fuck her again you may get something nasty.

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by Anonymous03/14/18

OHG! So Powerful

This has got to be one of the most best, excellent yet twisted stories on Lit. Really powerful and thought provoking. A very intelligent read. I can't to read the rest of the series.

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by Anonymous10/21/17


I had to stop reading this....story! It sucks!

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