She thanked her two daughters for accompanying her, albeit reluctantly, to their dad’s funeral.
Now, she stands at the door, her back to the limo driver and her grown daughters. Her black kid gloved hand turns the key in the brass lock of the solid cherry inlaid American walnut door. She waits for the sound of the limousine tires on fallen gold, brown and red leaves as the limousine rolls down the slave brick driveway.
When there is nothing but the sound of the patinated copper wind chimes hanging between each of the five granite pillars of the portico, she pushes against the key and the door swings open unsheathing the key into her hand. Leaving the door ajar she enters, Christian Lou Boutin stiletto heels clicking across the foyer, she drops the keys onto the black lacquered bamboo stand dominated by a half dead Boston fern. A shower of brown leaves from the fronds float to the grey slate floor. She feels the cool fall air on the back of her bare neck which is exposed by the tight bun she had pulled her hair into. She pivots. The door still stands wide open. Remembering that the staff was off for the funeral, her heels clicks across the foyer and she closes the door herself.
Turning, she pulls the bobby pins from the bun, and her jet black hair tumbles to the waist of her solid black matching wool pencil skirt. She turns and crosses the foyer which is gently lit by the leaded glass windows on both sides of the massive front doors. She opens the French doors into her husband’s walnut shelved library. His desk of ebony and Carpathian elm dominates the room.As she approaches the desk she tosses the black patent leather LV bag so it slides across the desk creating a wide, highly polished stripe as it sends a light plume of dust into the air.
Finally, it comes to rest against a Moroccan leather diary.
On the wall opposite his desk hangs a full length oil portrait of her deceased husband.
“I have cried all my tears over my empty nest, I have mourned the loss of Maureen, our eldest. Yes, I was not present for you emotionally or physically then. I am here now. I want you now. I am in need of your emotional and intimate physical presence. Where are you? Where are you when I need your body pressed against mine? Where are you when I need to be most intimately possessed by you? Look at me!”
With that she leans against the desk, removes one and then the other black pump massaging each foot and dropping each shoe as she does. With both black silk stockinged feet on the floor, she pulls up her skirt and black satin slip exposing the alabaster flesh of her thighs contrasted against her black thong, garter belt and nylons. She finds and then releases the snaps on the garter belt, and slowly rolls off first one and then the other silk stockings leaving each a little black puff beside each shoe.
She opens her jacket, reaches behind her back under her white satin blouse and releases her black lace bra. With precision practiced to allow him access to her breasts while remaining clothed, she reaches through the buttons on the front of her blouse and slides the shoulder straps of the bra first from one shoulder and arm and then the other. With that done she pulls the bra off from under her blouse and lets it drop to the floor.
A small seductive smile crosses her face. “I hope, dearest husband, you were watching and remember.
She slowly crosses the inlaid walnut parquet floor to the French doors opening onto a patio. Through the panes of glass she sees Maureen’s play house next to the barn. The barn remains padlocked after Maureen’s tragic death. As the oldest child, Maureen had become her friend and confidant. It was a death, a mourning her husband refused to recognize. After Maureen’s death she lost interest in life in general and in particular any interest in intimacy with her husband.
He was focused on his career to the point he really hadn’t participated in the raising their other daughters, Jules and Janey. She had defended his absence, but they still resented and disliked him. They didn’t know him well enough to hate him for his absence like she did. She had loved him with great passion once. They had made love with such intensity that her body had become hot and aroused with merely his touch. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
For the first time tears well up in her eyes. How could he expect her to continue her daily life after the children had grown up.
He had been indifferent to her needs. Despite all this, she had been ready to to ignite that fire till their passions burned white hot.
Past her reflection in the leaded glass she notices the shadows of the maple trees had lengthened into a moonless black hole. She draws closed the drapes over the French doors, as well as the ceiling to floor drapes over the window sentries on both sides. Returning to the desk she turns on the gold banker’s light, releasing the glow of its green shades.
She straightens before the desk, feet shoulder’s width apart, tightens her stomach muscles and using her diaphragm draws the air deep into her lungs. She shrugs her shoulders to release the tension.
The red Moroccan diary sits defiantly in the settled dust from her sliding purse. Her body automatically shifts her weight forward on the balls of her feet, and then imperceptibly she rocks from side to side as if anticipating his crashing tennis serve.
She slowly circles the desk lightly and carefully like a ballet dancer.
A cougar stalking prey, she approaches cautiously, lays a hand on the back of the tufted leather desk chair as if waiting for it to bite. She brings her other hand to the back of the chair and waits. Her hands start to perspire. Hesitantly she steps back, pulling her husband’s chair from under the desk. All the time her eyes never leave the diary. She lowers herself into the leather chair.
Her senses, like the hair on the back of her neck and forearms, bristle. Her heart slows to the tick of the walnut grandfather clock that her husband made for her and the girls. She reaches across the desk and places her hands on the diary. Slowly her fingers stroke the glove soft leather, and the feel of his intimacy thrusts into her mind. Startled, she puts the image from her mind. Finally, she pulls the diary to her making another stripe and a “V” in the dust. She picks up the diary, draws her feet under her, pulls her heel tight into her and begins rocking back and forth against her heals as she cradles the diary against her breasts. For the second time the tears well up and this time wash the mascara down her cheeks. She strokes the leather diary, as the memory of his firm tenderness washes over her.
Brushing the tears from her eyes, she finds the black silk ribbon book mark and opens the diary to where the newspaper article rests, folded tightly and placed in the diary. Slowly, carefully she slides a finger down the news article. She reads it again. “LOCAL BUSINESSMAN COMMITS SUICIDE”.
She crumples the article in her fist squeezing it until her long coral nails bite into her flesh and then lets it fall to the floor. Her shoulders slump forward and her head drops slightly as she uses the marker to open that most recent part of her husbands diary and begins again to read.
Driving to work today when a young woman, long blond hair flying in the wind driving a candy apple red Pontiac Firebird convertible smiled and waved at me. I was too shocked to wave back.
Tried to catch up with her, but she turned off. Noted time 7:15. Place Herb’s Deli.
Thought about the candy apple red Pontiac TransAm all yesterday. Actually, it was the girl I recalled.
At Herb’s Deli 7:15 sharp. No TransAm.
I put together her appearance in my mind. Long ashblond hair, sunglasses on an oval face.
Make up understated maybe in late 20’s.
Smiled. Well dressed.
Will leave earlier tomorrow.
”That son of a bitch!”
The anger of her own voice startles her.
The sun has slowly slipped below the giant Maples. In the darkened room, she places the satin book mark on the diary and pulls the chain on the second desk light. casting light on the diary.
“That god damn son of a bitch.” she screams her head thrown back in rage.
Still I don’t see her. Maybe she drives this way only one day a week. Will drive by the same time for a week. No, I drove this way every day for 10 years and have never seen her before. Maybe she has seen me. I look forward to my commute everyday. Why this infatuation? Is it an escape from a marriage that’s mired under the cloud of a child’s death? Is it empty nest syndrome? I love my wife, but I’m not sure she loves me or desires me.
I think I may need a hair cut. Call Linda for haircut appt. How old is this suit? Couldn’t be more than …. five years? Will stop by Joseph’s Clothing tomorrow on way home.
Thought about her all weekend. I think it’s that she noticed me. Not just someone, but someone of the opposite sex. I don’t – didn’t think of myself as a sexual man any more. After the kids left and then with the death of our child, my wife has had no interest in me. Grandfather? Father? Co-worker? Husband? I am all those things, but someone saw something else and smiled and waved.
Maybe she would like to know what I think about when the early morning hours are lonely, and I sit and work on manuscripts that no one ever inquires about. Maybe I look interesting. Am I? Am I still humorous? Maybe she saw me when I smiled to myself about some little humor that occurred to me and liked my smile or wanted to know what amused me.
Jack, my boss commented on my new hairstyle and clothes. My secretary, Marlene even stopped taking dictation to admire my new silk tie. She’s much older than I remembered. I brought her a thank you note and a plant for her desk. She looked at me strangely but seemed pleased. Been leaving an hour earlier and parking at Herb’s to watch the traffic for the girl in the TransAm.
So far no sign. I notice the people in cars now. So old, so slump shouldered, so pale. I check the rear view mirror for comparison. Each day my eyes look brighter but.
Then, as I am making a left turn she honks and speeds by passing me on the right her blond hair blowing in the wind.
Been watching traffic for a whole month and have not spotted her. But in my mind still I see her as clear as a picture. I wonder if she thinks about me. I wonder if she saw me before I waived; I hope not. I’m embarrassed about what I had become. All those years. A Zombie. An automaton. The living dead. And now a stalker?
You know what amazes me? No one, and I mean no one who is supposed to be close to me, no one who is supposed to love me, no one who says that they love me has even noticed a change. Not the hair, not the wardrobe, not the reading, not the change in hours, not the music. But those others, like my secretary Marlene they have noticed, and I have changed them too.
She presses the diary against her breasts and leans back in the chair. “‘You stupid bastard.” If you had waited, you would have found out how much I cared and wanted; no, needed you. If you had given me a chance to get over the death of my child, Maureen. You’re so stupid.”
She places the diary back on the desk and continues reading.
What if I do find her? The internal debate still rages. Suppose she is happily married? Suppose she is unhappily married? Should I try to find her through her license number?
Lunch time. A note on the seat of my car. “Want to play instead of stalking me? If you do, put your sun visor down tomorrow.” My mind is racing. Can’t focus on work. Can I really follow through?
This must be her. What should I do?
It’s Friday. I sit in my parking space at work my hand on the sun visor. A couple of co-workers stop to ask if I’m alright. Finally I decide. I slam the visor down and get out of the car.
I check at lunch and the visor is still down. End of the day, I return to my car after work and the visor is up. That’s it? No note. Nothing? I pound the steering wheel in frustration. It’s Friday! I will be thinking about this all weekend and wondering.
I drive slowly home, up the brick driveway and park next to the columns under the portico. I sit and listen to the music of the copper wind chimes. Finally, I take a deep breath, walk to the cherry inlaid walnut doors, stop, release my breath, open them and walk in. The house is silent as I walk to my office. Inside I slump in my chair and begin the long weekend wondering about about the TransAm.
I arrive at work exhausted, not only because of the anticipation of what the girl in the TransAm wants, but my wife’s sensing and questioning my anxiety. I park my car. At lunch my visor is down and a pink envelope scented with Cinnabar perfume lies on the car seat.
“We can meet if you agree to my rules unconditionally. If you agree, put the windshield visor down tomorrow when you get to work and make arrangements that you’ll be out of the office Friday afternoon.”
I arrive at work and pull the visor down. At this point I will agree to anything in order to meet her.
At lunch I return to my car. The visor is back up. A pink envelope lies in the bucket seat. I open it and get the scent of “White Linen” perfume. Delicious, I unfold the note inside.
On Friday you will find another note at lunch.
The note will give you the name and address of a luxury hotel and a room number.
Go to the nearest pharmacy and purchase a sleeping mask.
At the hotel, do not use the valet parking; find and park next to my car.
Go directly to the room; do not stop at the front desk.
Outside the room, knock and put on the sleeping mask. If you remove the mask at anytime, I will leave permanently.
I will bring you into the room and help you to the sofa. Be seated and silent unless you are asked to speak.
When we’re done, you are to leave the room and premises immediately.
Wait for further instruction.
The object of your desires
I sit stunned. I sniff the perfume and reread the note.
Purchase clothes appropriate for? For what? I decide on casual: a pair of Allen Edmond slip ons, new underwear, a light blue YSL polo and a winter white cashmere sweater. DIARY
Friday morning crawls by. New clothes and aftershave, “Obsession”, causes unwanted attention and increases my nervousness to a ten. I cannot focus on work. My mind wonders from fantasy to fantasy. From innocent infatuation to S&M. Why all the secrecy?
Why the mask? Why an avoidance of the front desk. Why the particular parking spot?
Finally it’s noon, and I go to my car. As promised there is a pink envelope on the seat. I sniff the envelope “Cinnabar”? I wonder if the change of perfume means anything. Inside as promised is the hotel and room number: Ritz Carleton, room 386. I return the card to the envelope and head for the nearest pharmacy. As I head with my sleeping mask to checkout it dawns on me that I don’t have protection. Off I go to the condom section. Oh, my God! Too many choices. Ribbed, lubricated, colored, sensitized? I grab a brand I recognize and head for the checkout. As I plop my purchases on the counter the teenage clerk grins at me. For the first time in decades I blush as I start to insert my credit card. With a sudden realization I remove the card and pay in cash. Definitely don’t want to explain these purchases. The gravity of this undertaking is sinking in.
Up the driveway to the Ritz Carleton and pass the valet parking looking for the candy apple red TransAm. There along the side of the hotel sits the candy apple red TransAm convertible. Pretty hard to miss. I park next to the car as directed. I grab my bag of purchases and head across the lot and into the hotel, across the lobby and quickly into an elevator where I hit the “3” button. As the elevator proceeds up, I open the packaging and remove the mask, slip the Trojans into my pocket, tear up the receipt. Outside the elevator I discard the trash and bag in the nearest receptacle. I see the sign directing me towards the suite of rooms which would include #386.
At the room I stand before the door, take a deep breath, hold it, release, put on the sleep mask and knock on the door. I hear movement inside. The door opens and a soft warm hand takes mine and leads me inside. Across the room she turns me and helps me be seated on a sofa. Using my hands I slide back on the brocaded sofa. I wait in silence as my senses heighten. The scent of Cinnabar becomes stronger. She must be approaching. I say nothing as directed and await permission to speak. I feel the warmth of her body in front of me. She takes first my left and then my right hands by the wrist. She brings them to her naked shoulders and holds them there. Slowly she slides them to her naked breasts. She uses my hands to massage her breasts as her breathing rate increases. She slides my fingers back and forth across her nipples till they grow turgid under my hands. Suddenly she is gone.
Moments later she returns and presses a chilled flute of what tastes like Fluer de Champaign against my lips. I go to take a another sip, and she grips my wrist and stops me. She pulls my hand and glass toward her while with her other hand she pulls my head towards her. I feel pressure on the glass and then something wet and cool against my lips. She slides her champagne drenched nipple across my lips. When I try to suck it between my lips she pulls it away, dips it in the Champaign and brings her wet nipple to my lips again. When I try to suck her nipple she pulls away again and moves the flute to my lips. I sip, and she releases my hands. She takes the flute from my hand and disappears.
I sit and listen with apprehension. I move my hands to the mask, and she immediately forcefully pulls them away places them on my knees.
Suddenly there is music in the background. I focus and recognize it as Ravel’s “Bolero”. As the beat begins its slow crescendo, I feel her presence no, her heat, before me. She takes my hands from my knees and places them on her naked hips undulating to the music. She moves her hips erotically to the music circling slowly and ever faster, thrusting to accentuate the beat. She places her hands on mine keeping my left on her hip while she slowly slides my right hand from her hip across and down to cup my hand on the mound of her shaven womanhood. Holding my hand, her fingers intertwined with mine against her labia, she begins slowly to undulate and rub our hands against her pussy. When I feel her spend, she suddenly thrusts my middle finger into her and rubs ever deeper and rapidly until her thighs lock on my fingers, she shudders and forces my fingers deeper into her. Immediately she pulls my hand from her pussy and places a warm damp towel in my hands. She and “Bolero” have climaxed together, and silence fills the room.
She takes the towel from my hands and pulls me to my feet, moves to me, throws her arms around me and hugs me. Then taking me to the door, she opens it, and gently urges me through it, and closes it behind me. I quickly remove the mask. I look down to see that I am still erect and decide I would be smart to take the stairs.
Back in my car, I sit dumbfounded. What just happened? I catch the scent of Cinnabar, but it’s mixed with something else. It’s not coming from the pink envelope; it’s her scent. It permeates me. I look around to make sure no one has seen me. What was next?
I drive home, park and go immediately to my study. I sit behind my desk making this entry in my diary, when I catch the scent of Cinnabar mixed with the scent of her spending. Shit, it’s coming from me! I need to lock the diary back in my desk drawer and take a shower.
Spouse noticed that I was home early and had showered. Need to be more careful. I hope she’s not suspicious. I tried to process Friday afternoon. What had I gotten myself into? Had I enjoyed it? Why.
Friday is a continuous loop in my mind. And with that loop comes physical excitement and arousal.
Hurry to car at lunch. Nothing!
Nothing at the car.
Noon. Visor down. Pink envelope on seat. “You interested in more fun? Leave your visor down tomorrow.”
Pulled into office parking lot. I sit still, mentally debating whether to continue. A line has been crossed; I have cheated on my wife. Or have I. What if she finds out. What if my boss finds out? Adult family? Is my wife already suspicious?
I lower the visor, go to work, and let it be known I’d be out of office Friday afternoon.
More casual today. Short sleeve light peach shit with button down collar, khaki slacks, Docksider boat shoes sans socks. Another pink envelope. Same instructions, different resort, different room number. I head to pharmacy for another sleep mask. Fortunately, I get a different clerk. I head to the resort and find the TransAm. I take the stairs to the room, put on the mask and knock.
Opening the door she takes me by the hand and again takes me to the sofa, but turns me around in front of it. She places my hands on her naked hips and places hers on my shoulders and pulls our bodies together. She strokes my face and runs her fingers through my hair before unbuttoning and removing my shirt. With her hands she explores the hair on my chest running her fingers through it and alternately gently pulling on it. Her hands slide to my hips, and I feel her warm breath on my chest as she begins to lick and then suck first my left and then right nipple. Next I feel her breasts pressed tight against my chest. Then she releases the pressure and starts lightly stroking my chest with her breasts sliding her body against mine. Then she’s gone and I stand alone naked to the waist.
I hear the Champaign cork pop and soon a chilled flute is in my hand. She takes my hand and lifts the glass to my mouth. I take a sip and she removes the flute from my lips. She places a full flute in my other hand. If I try to raise either hand to take a sip she stops me. She again runs her hands over my chest only this time she strokes lower, and I feel my belt being unbuckled then my waistband unbuttoned. She slides her hand slowly across my belly then around my waist lifting the waistband until my trousers drop to my ankles. She caresses my buttocks through my boxers and works her way to the front where she slides her hand through the opening to gently cup my balls in her right hand. She releases my balls and raises my glass for me to take another sip of champaign. I hear her leave and momentarily return to refill my glass. I hear the bottle slide into an ice bucket evidently on the end table. I sense her taking a seat on the sofa in front of me. She deftly removes my boxers and my cock springs from it’s confines. Holding my cock aside, she snuggles, kisses and pulls on my pubic hairs with her lips.
Suddenly a droplet of Champaign from my quivering glass splashes onto her back, and she stops. When I have calmed myself she returns her attention to playing with my pubic hair ignoring my now rigid member. As she plays, her cheeks brush against my ridged cock. My cock twitches, my hands shake and more champaign spills from both flutes. She disengages from her play. I can feel her excited breath on my belly as she waits for the swelling of my cock to recede. At last all returns to calm. She grasps me by the buttocks as she begins long slow licks up both inner thighs until my cock stands out of the way enabling her to lick, suck and pull ever so gently on my balls. With my teeth clenched and my lips pursed, I try desperately to not spill any more champaign. After what seems like hours she stops and stands. She takes one glass from my hand and brings the other to my lips signaling I should take a sip. I hear her take a sip from the glass she took from my hand. Quietly she clinks her glass to mine. A toast? After my breathing has returned to normal, and my cock lies softly against my thighs she has me lie back on the couch, places the wine glasses back in my hands and refills them from the bottle in the ice bucket.
With agility she mounts me and I feel her hands between my thighs searching for my cock. She finds it and begins rubbing it against her pussy lips. My cock immediately hardens and as it does, she places it against my pelvis and wraps her pussy lips about it. Slowly she slides up and down the length of my cock again and again. My cock trembles, my hand trembles, the champaign splashes on her back. She stops rocking on my cock, takes the Champaign, sips and then let’s it trickle down my chest, across my abdomen till it pools in the recess where my cock joins my pelvis. Now she slides and grinds in earnest. Straddling me she me licks up the Champaign starting at my neck and ending with my balls. Repositioning herself so my cock lies between her pussy lips, she begins sliding, riding and grinding in earnest. I can’t help it, more champaign splashes and soaks both of us. She hops off my lap and drops on her knees between my thighs and starts licking the shaft of my cock up one side and down the other carefully avoiding the head. When my cock starts to twitch she gives my balls a quick squeeze. When it’s stopped twitching she begins the long licking strokes of her tongue. Two more times she brings him to the verge and then backs down. The third time instead of squeezing my balls she grabs the shaft with one hand and with the other she pulls the foreskin down the shaft from the head and holds it tightly there. With her tongue she lightly licks fully around the ridge. She flicks the back of the head and with the tip of her tongue and alternately licks, sucks and swirls her tongue around the head of my cock until I explode into her mouth. She swallows and pulls her hand down the shaft tightening the skin as she engulfs the head in her mouth and begins alternately licking and sucking. All of a sudden she pulls the skin even tighter and rakes the head lightly with her teeth. Again I come as she sucks the head and shaft inch by inch into her mouth and my cock slowly loses its erection. I stand trembling as she licks me clean, pulls up my boxers and slacks and then helps me on with my shirt. When she has me dressed she leads me to the door and opens it for me to leave. The door closes behind me and I remove the sleeping mask.
I take the stairs and go to the lounge and order a Chevas neat while I figure out what has been happening. Why the secrecy? Why the sleeping mask, why her dominance, and why my submissiveness, and where is this going?
As I cross the parking lot to my car, I hear my name called. I turn; it’s my wife.
“Fancy seeing you here.” she shouts as she quickens her approach.
“Yeah, you too.” as I stop to face her. “I was just leaving from a business meeting. What about you?”.
”Me too.” “See you at home.”
In the car I slump back in the seat. That was close. I take a deep breath, and my cell phone chimes. It’s my secretary.
“Yes, what is it?
“The boss has been looking for you.”
“He saw your car in the parking lot of the hotel.”
“He thought you said you had a doctors appointment.”
“Tell him I was there for lunch before the appointment and will see him Monday.”
“And your wife called earlier, and I told her you were out for the day on business.”
“Thanks, see you Monday.”
Just finishing dinner when wife asks about my lunch. I hesitate for a second before I remember I supposedly had lunch out Friday. I then offer an elaborate description of the lunch and the business associates I had eaten with. She asked what credit card I had put it on. Again I hesitated and then told her the clients had covered it. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing.
Again the subject of lunch comes up as she wants to know how the food was and whether I would recommend it for she and her friends or business associates. I gave it glowing reviews. Again the raised eyebrow as she left the table.
At work, and I walk in the door to my secretary announces that the boss wanted to see me.
“What did he want?”
“Something about Friday.”
“That’s all he said.”
“Tell him I’m on my way up.”
I step out of the elevator door into his office. He looks up from his desk.
“You said you went to the doctor Friday.”
“Oh, yes, just a checkup.”
“Funny, I could swear I saw your car in the resort parking lot.”
“Oh, yeah, I stopped to pick up a brochure about a weekend couples special.”
“Well, I’m glad the visit to the doctor went well.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later then.”
At lunch my window visor is down, and there is another pink envelop on the seat. I open the door and the scent of Cinnabar wafts out. I get in the car and open the envelope. Another resort, another room number, same instructions, same warnings. For the first time I hesitate and consider the dangers to my marriage, and my career. People are beginning to notice: my wife, my secretary, my boss. As I think, I tap the envelope absentmindedly against my chin and the scent of Cinnabar makes the decision. I place the note in the envelope and raise the window visor to indicate I accept the invitation. On the way back to the office I stop and place the envelope and note in a wastebasket.
Once again outside a different door at a different resort, I slip on the sleeping mask and knock. The door opens and she takes me by the hand and leads me in. Once inside the room she kisses me lightly on the cheek and begins undressing me. Tie and shirt removed, she throws her arms around me and I can feel her naked breasts against my chest. When I try to respond, she quickly pushes my hands down to my sides.
Releasing me from her hug, she unbuckles my belt, loosens and unzipped my slacks and lets them fall to my ankles. Once again she hugs me this time pressing not only her naked breasts against me but her pussy which she grinds into my groin. As my cock starts to stir, she releases the hug and slides her body down mine until I can feel her hair against my cock as she pulls off my shorts, shoes and socks. She raises her head and licks my member placing a kiss on its head as she gets back up. She guides me, now naked to a bed instead of the usual sofa.
She sits me down and turns me moving me to the top of the bed. I feel her kneeling over me. She positions herself so her pussy is so close that I can catch her scent. She takes my hands One at a time and ties them to the bedpost with what feel like silk stockings. Quickly she reverses her position, spreads my legs and ties them to the foot of the bed. She disappears.
There I lay, blindfolded, tied spreadeagled on the bed. I can hear her moving about. I hear the ice maker. I hear wine being poured. She returns and mounts me once again so that now my cock is resting under her wet pussy. She squirms around and my cock responds. She places my cock at the entrance to her pussy. My cock twitches, and she pulls away and rubs an ice cube against my cock which shrivels. Again she brings my cock against her wet pussy until my cock is just inside her pussy lips. My cock responds and she slowly pushes the head in and out. My cock twitches; she applies the ice. Next time she takes the whole head into her pussy and uses its ridge to massage her clit. My cock twitches and more ice. By now I am bucking to get into her. After several more times she has managed to fully engulf my cock till it twitches. Again the ice. Again she brings him to erection. I’m deeply inside her, waiting for the next tease. I lay their soaking in her juices. Then I hear it. She has a vibrator. She places it above my cock and against her clit. She starts with the vibrations very slowly as she begins to fuck on my cock. She takes her fingers and separates her lips fully exposing her clit to my cock and her vibrator. As she increases the speed of the vibrator, she increase the rapidity of her thrusts taking each thrust to the hilt. I come, but she thrusts him back to life again. Finally when she can orgasm no more, she collapses on top of me, and even then her cunt continues to clip my cock. Next she unties my hands and leaves the room. Since she doesn’t return, I finish dressing myself and leave removing my sleep mask as I go through the door.
When I get to my car to leave work, the sun visor is down and there’s a package on the seat. In it there is a homemade DVD with my name on it. I instantly recognize the handwriting as being the same as that on the notes on the pink stationary of the girl in the red TransAm, License #DLK00. Once home I go into my office, pull out my portable DVD player, Insert the disk and there I see all our sexual encounters in living color, in order by date. I look inside the envelope for a note or explanation. Nothing! I walk over to the wet bar and pour myself three fingers of Chevas. I’M BEING BLACKMAILED! No sleep!
I watch the DVD from my wife’s point of view. This pretty much guarantees a divorce not only by what I did, but the lies. Watching from my bosses point of view, my job or my career are over.
I watch the DVD again; there’s no way to spin this! I can’t take my eyes off it. The camera angle is such that I am the only one that can be recognized. The camera, including zoom, must have been operated by remote. That would explain the blindfold and her departures to get wine must have been to change camera angles. I don’t know for sure it’s blackmail. Maybe it’s just more sex play. I can only wait to see what happens.
After work, again the visor is down, and there’s another pink envelope. The scent of White Linen fills the car. I open the envelope, and pull the neatly folded note free. As I open the note, a second sheet floats to the floor. It is definitely her handwriting. I pick it up . It lists my income, my assets and my wife’s assets. I unfold the note “How much is it worth to get the complete unedited tapes?” I must provide an answer by Wednesday and be prepared to make the purchase Friday. I sat stunned in my car the envelope and note on my lap.
My boss sees me sitting in the parking lot and asked if I’m OK. I told him I was fine and would see him tomorrow.
At home, in my library I cannot see a way foreword. I unlock the top right desk drawer and remove my Smith and Wesson 357 magnum loaded with copper jacketed, hollow points. There will be no suicide note; what could I say? This diary will be on top of the desk. I drive to a nearby lake where they will find the body one bullet in the brain.
She gently closes the diary, puts it in the desk drawer and locks it. Tears stream down her face as she sobs
“Why did he do it?”
“Why did I do it?”
Leaning foreword she uses the arms of the chair to stand. A shudder goes through her body, and she shakes her skirt into place and straightens her blouse. She stoops and picks up her silk stockings and bra and drops them on the desk chair. Standing on one foot and then the other she slips the pumps back onto her feet.
Turning, she walks to the French doors, parts the drapes and opens the doors. There, in the light of the moon, she sees the shadow of the barn. She folds her bare arms across her chest, starts to take a step and stops. Mustering her will power, she steps, haltingly towards the barn door. From the pocket of her skirt she removes the key, walks the brick path to the barn, unlocks the padlock and removes it from the wrought iron hasp. She pulls the door open and flicks on the spot light.
Brightly illuminated in the center of the barn, under a silver coated ripstop nylon cover sits the shape of a car.. She walks slowly to the car and pulls a corner of the cover. With a slight swish the cover slips to the floor revealing a candy apple red Pontiac TransAm convertible bearing the license plate DLK100.
In the passenger side bucket seat is her blond wig, pink stationary with matching envelopes and bottles of White Linen and Cinnabar perfume.
She opens the car door, turns her back to bucket seat, hikes her skirt up mid- thigh, lowers herself into the bucket seat and swings her legs in. She starts the car
The engine purrs through the tuned mufflers. Maureen is gone, her children are grown and have families of their own. Now, because of her actions, and her “DKL00 game73” her husband is gone.
What is left reminds her of all that she has lost. There can be no future.
She attaches two hoses to the exhaust, runs them through the drivers window, climbs into the passenger side and closes the car door.
The Pontiac TransAm bearing license plate DKL00 hums along till the engine, deprived of gas follows her example, chokes, shudders and dies.