TITLE    : Looking
STORYID  : looking-2
SUMMARY  : He finds out about his wife's past.
AUTHOR   : blueboar@lit
DATE     : 2002-03-31
CATEGORY : loving-wives
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |none|


"Can you believe those two?" I asked my wife, as we drove out of the country club's parking lot, the dry scrunch of the gravel underneath the tires sending small shivers through me. 



"What do you mean?" she replied. I could hear her rolling and rubbing her neck slowly. 



I turned to her for a second and I could see she was now unbuttoning the top button of her skirt, her heavy tits swaying with the effort. I heard her sigh. I smiled, and watched the brilliantly lit Colonial mansion getting smaller in the rear-view mirror. 



"What are you grinning about?" she asked. 



"Nothing." 



"Well, I'm four months pregnant," she teased. "I need a little breathing space, don't I?" 



I continued smiling, the mansion disappearing as we turned left onto the small two lane road. 



"Just keep your eyes on the road, mister," she sighed happily, settling into her seat. 



She was being silly, but she was right. We were going through a winding, dark country road. It was unfamiliar. We didn't belong to the club. We would belong in due course. It was just a matter of time. For now, we were satisfied being quite deliberately groomed for the life Arnold called Barbarian. I'd made partner four weeks ago at the only law firm that mattered in the city. My wife was beautiful, a lanky, curvy auburn haired bombshell who could bat her warm brown eyes and smile sweetly with classically closed full red lips at the most inane banter. Myself, I played golf (a terrifically straight long ball). I could laugh knowingly with the best of them. Tall, green eyes. People liked to be around me. Too, there was substance. I was quite capable of spending endless hours without sleep drafting mindless registration statements for people a few years younger than I on the verge of making millions with the latest fraudulent IPO. Of course, to complete it all our first child was safely tucked inside my wife's just now barely bulging stomach. 



"What bothered you about what they said?" she asked, as I turned the car's bright lights on. A light fog was wafting over the dark green countryside. "No," she gently protested. "Turn them off. I like the gloom of the corn fields. And a full moon's out," she sighed, pointing up. "The fog will lift. I want to see the moonlight on the fields." 



I turned off the brights, and slowed down a little to compensate. "Well, what did they say that bothered you?" 



"What?" I asked absently, hoping no deer would jump in front of us in the fog. A senior partner told me earlier in the evening he'd hit one a few days ago in his Rover. "Don't try to stop," he laughed. "Just plow through the fucker, speed up, or your car will get ruined." I was ready. 



"Richard," I heard my wife calling to me, almost annoyed. 



"Hmm?" 



"The Harcourts. What did they say that bothered you?" 



"Oh." I loved to pretend I didn't know what she was talking about. I was happy, glad, but not surprised Rita wanted to engage in a little gossip and tawdry speculation. "About their daughter," I began eagerly. "Don't you remember? They said she's moving to LA with her boyfriend to become an actress." 



"So?" 



I shook my head. Rita was usually a bit sharper than this, but then maybe she wanted to draw it out a little, heighten the fun. "So?" I mocked her. "What do you mean, `so'? God. I mean, that's like some bad opening for some made for TV movie." 



"Richard--" 



"Innocent Midwestern girl goes out with her scummy boyfriend to LA to become an actress, is drugged or something, winds up in pornos, disappears, and the mother follows after her. You know, the mother has several near-death experiences with LA's seedy underworld. Maybe she has to go undercover as an actress, herself. My God. All it needs is Farrah Fawcett in the lead role of the mother. I just didn't think the Harcourts were so flaky." I was on a roll, grinning, knowing Rita would jump on my silly scenario. 



"Nothing will happen to the Harcourt girl," she said flatly. "Don't worry." 



Her response surprised me somewhat. All right. She wants to play devil's advocate.



Fine. "Don't you think it's odd?" I asked. 



"No. I don't." 



"You can't be--" 



"She went to Northwestern, Richard," Rita said, faking a yawn, like she did whenever she was tense or trying to calm down. "She spent time in New York, off Broadway, and she probably has an agent lined up. Weren't you listening? Don't you know who these people are? You never listen. She'll have a nice apartment, a hefty allowance from her parents. You never understand, do you? We'll see her accepting some award on TV in a few years. Don't worry about her." 



"I'm hardly worried about her. I just--" 



"She'll be fine." 



I turned to my wife. She was staring ahead, her mouth firmly set, her arms tightly crossed. I'm, sure she sensed I was watching her, but she didn't turn to me. The road was getting foggier, and I slowed down some more. 



"Wow, this fog's very nasty," I said, after a moment of puzzlement. It wasn't like Rita to cut off a juicy bit of gossip like this. 



"It's foggy." 



I turned to her again, but she was still staring ahead. 



"What's wrong?" I asked. Rita was usually a little more talkative. After my far from spectacular effort at a bit of tawdriness about the Harcourts, at a minimum, she should have been commenting about some of the more gaudy dresses at the new partners' party or laughing about getting hit on by one or the other of the drunk, older partners. She remained silent, her eyes closed. 



"Rita," I tried. 



"Nothing," she said opening her eyes and smiling sadly at me. She reached over and took my hand. "Nothing's wrong. A little tired, I suppose." 



I nodded, as the fog gently enveloped and broke apart and right and left and over us. I could see little, a dull darkness of muted light. I turned to her. She released my hand. I understood. She was pregnant, after all. Just tired. 



"How long does this road last?" she asked. 



"A few more miles. We'll be okay." 



"Umm." 



She was tired. It had been a long day. I knew what would make her happy. I was saving it for Sunday morning, when she and I would be sprawled on the floor naked, our bodies entwined, reading the Times and drinking coffee, but I could see she needed something of a pickup.



"Guess what?" I began. 



She continued to stare ahead. 



"Rita." 



She turned to me, her eyes sad. 



"Guess what?" I tried again. 



"What," she whispered. 



"Guess what Arnold Gordon said after I told him you were pregnant." 



"Umm." 



"He's a trustee at Oakfield. Did you know that?" 



"No." 



"He said he would make sure any application we submitted would be accepted." 



"That's wonderful," she said and I could sense a sadness in her voice that matched her eyes, and I didn't understand. Not at all. She was trying to be happy, but wasn't. She should have been happy, but wasn't. I didn't want to look at her. It was strange, her voice, those eyes. I hadn't heard that voice before, those eyes seemed dead. 



"Just like we talked about, love," I said unsteadily. "Oakfield, and then Choate or Exeter, you know. Maybe even Andover. It will happen. Just like we've planned and talked about." 



"I know," she said softly. "I know." 



I turned to her, and the car almost jerked out of my hands. Rita was gently crying, gently rocking herself. 



"Rita." 



"I'm sorry," she breathed, not looking at me. "I'm sorry." 



"Baby, what's wrong. Is something the matter with the baby? Are you feeling?--" 



"No. No. Richard. No. I'm fine. Really. I'm just tired. Honestly. Just tired." 



"Are you sure?" 



"Yes. Just tired." 



The fog was lifting and I sped up, eager to get out of the dull, unreal light. Pregnancy, I told myself. It was true. It was something men could never understand. It did things to women. Rita, my happy Rita, was acting like I'd never seen her before. She hadn't cried when I asked her to marry me, at our wedding or even at her younger brother's funeral. I don't remember ever seeing her cry. She simply did not cry. 



Rita. So beautiful, so full of life. She was carrying a life. It was draining her. How could it not? Remarkable thing. I drove onto the freeway ramp and found my lane. 



Rita. I turned to her. She seemed to be sleeping, resting her head, eyes closed. My Rita. 



Where I was brought up solidly upper-middle-class (my father worked as a partner at one of the big six or eight or whatever it was back then, and I graduated college and law school without debt), Rita came from a small rural town near Rockford, Illinois. The town's main industry, main employer was a nuclear power plant, of all things. Her parents ran a small restaurant there. The fact we'd met at all always amazed me. I'd been at law school at Stanford and met her at the start of my third, final year. She was five years younger than I, a waitress in Palo Alto attending a community college. 



I'd read somewhere that the UC when it marries down does so almost universally because the opposite is physically attractive. It's true. Mind, personality, whatever. A hard body and pretty face can take a lower class girl far in the world, always been so, always will be. 



Attractive? Rita was, is gorgeous, and we married the summer after we met. It seemed so long ago, but the year before we married was the happiest I have ever been. I had very little to do, a job secured with an appellate judge, an article for the most part completed for law review and an extremely light class load. 



How did I spend my time that year? 



In bed. I loved and fucked Rita, two, three, four times a day, every day, everywhere. If I remember, it started slowly, but after two or three weeks, we were like marathon runners. 



Never apart, we ordered out, cooked, bought all sorts of food, almost everything was the first time for her, and, of course, we listened to music, all sorts of music, hers, mine, everything, but we always wound up fucking. 



We'd spend hours in my bedroom naked, fucking, and when we weren't we were reading to each other or by ourselves, mostly naked, within arms' length. She loved when I read to her. She knew so little when I met her, her naivete so apparent at first that my parents could hardly believe I was serious about her when she came with me home for Christmas. It was simply that the idea of books and reading was foreign to her, and whatever I read, whether it was as ridiculous as Grisham or King or as terrifying as Joyce or Elliot, none of it mattered, so long as she was learning something. In a matter of months her entire vocabulary and diction had changed. We would talk and talk about what we read, about each other, about annoying people, how she lost her virginity to the small town's mayor's son, and she loved to talk. I listened to her for hours every day, watching her true identity and intelligence grow such that my parents could hardly recognize the girl next to me on the altar, six months later. And although her transformation was remarkable, my hunger for never relented. 



Rita fucks like no one I'd known. At times, breathless, my heart racing, feeling like it would burst out of my chest, all I can conclude is that she was made for nothing but fucking. Of course, there's so much more, but it's her long strong body. You die in that body. Some bodies you recoil from after the event or are at best apathetic; not hers. You never want to get off her, those full meaty tits and pink up-turned nipples always seeking attention. Rita is built, nothing scrawny about her, with two marvelous globes of dizzying firm muscle behind her, rippling under their own weight with every deep, luscious thrust. 



I knew we wouldn't be fucking tonight. 



We'd be home soon. I'd watch a little TV or read something silly before turning in. Rita and I had been planning to watch Polanski's "Rosemary's Baby", but we'd do that tomorrow evening. Tomorrow would be good. A quiet Saturday night together with a classic. 



"Richard," I heard. 



The sound of her small voice startled me, and then her window carefully went down bringing with it the wild rush of wind of the freeway. I shuddered as I heard her take a deep breath. 



"Richard," she whispered through the wind, the smell of summer's humid heat mixed with her mild perfume everywhere now. 



"Love," she said. "I have to tell you something." 



"What's wrong?" I asked, and then realized that I was dreading her answer. 



"Everything's wrong," she said, her light brown hair rustling wildly, covering her face. 



"Tell me." 



"I love you." 



"Tell me what's wrong." 



"Tell me you love me, Richard." 



"I love you." 



"Tell me you'll always love me," she cried gently. 



"I'll always love you," I panted, feeling out of breath. 



"Why?" 



"Because I can't live without you." 



"Why else?" 



"You're my wife. You carry my child. We have everything together. We'll always have everything." 



"Am I beautiful?" she moaned. "Do you think I'm beautiful?" 



"So beautiful." 



She said nothing, the sound of passing cars and wind silencing everything. 



"What is it, Rita?" 



"How did we meet, Richard?" 



"You were waiting tables." 



"How did I get there?" 



"You moved out to California with a friend . . . Ellen or something, or something like that, right?" 



"Why?" 



"Why? 



"Why did I move to California?" 



"You wanted to get away from your small town." 



"I've lied to you." 



"How?" 



"I was in Los Angeles, first." 



"And?" 



"And I wanted to be a movie star. Nineteen, so stupid." 



"Why are you stupid?" I asked, my voice cracking. 



"I never became a movie star." 



"What did you do?" 



"It was only once, I swear, just once," she said, her voice choking. 



"What did you do?" 



"I made one of those movies." 



"Rita." 



"A pornographic movie," she whispered tightly. 



I found the next exit and took it. I could see nothing, heard a car honk rudely behind us, but I had to get off the road. 



"You hate me," she sobbed. 



Park the car. Stop. Park the fucking car, my mind screamed at me. 



"You hate me. You hate me! Oh, Richard, please, please, please, God, please, don't hate me!" 



The car stopped with a halt, our seat belts locked against our bodies, and I turned to my screaming wife. 



"Rita," I tried, but I didn't know what to say. My hands were shaking. 



She stared at me, her hair in her face, almost covering her, saw my bewilderment, shook her head crying with terrible glistening streaks on her face, and she tried to open the door. I grabbed her quickly, and held her close, smelling her hair, feeling her tears, my tears against my face. The car ran for empty minutes. 



* * * 



"I need to know everything, Rita," I said to her when we got home. I was furious, shaking, unbelieving, betrayed, and ready to scream at the same time. Did I still love her? Of course, but was it her I loved, or some lie? Who was she? What was she capable of doing? I had to understand her, who this woman was. Woman? God. She was a kid, eighteen, nineteen years old. What the fuck did she know? She'd been drugged, or somehow forced to, or something. She was a kid. She'd been a little kid. 



And then I saw her sitting at the kitchen table, unreal in her paleness, looking so small and childlike. She was watching me, and I knew she knew exactly what I was thinking. And I knew she hated herself, and me at the same time because she knew how my mind was wondering, aimlessly, wildly. Just like a child. She was like a child, awaiting punishment, her eyes red, frightened. I shook my head, feeling awful, realizing that my words were the first exchanged since we left the side of the road. 



"I can't," she whispered. "I don't want to talk about it, please," she said, her voice harsh, barely recognizable from all her sobbing. 



"Why did you tell me, then?" I asked walking and taking a seat next to her. She looked at me and shook her head. She didn't want to talk about it, I knew, but I needed answers. I took her hand. 



"I had to," she said. 



"Had to? Why? I would never have found out." 



"We're having a baby. You deserve to know." 



We were having a baby. My eyes involuntarily glanced down to her abdomen. Her eyes followed mine and they met coming back up. It was my child she was having, my child, but somehow I felt sorry for that child being stored away inside her. Inside her, where God knows what else had been. God, where I'd been so many thousands of times. Had she been thinking about those others all that time with me? I needed answers. I would have to find out, but I knew she was in no condition. Pressing her might destroy everything. I wasn't ready for that. I wasn't ready to destroy my wife. 



"Rita," I started, carefully, trying to reassure her, as my mind furiously tried to formulate an approach that wouldn't be so harsh or unforgiving. "It was so long ago. My God, so long ago. It doesn't matter." 



"It does to me," she whispered. She was trusting me, and it was making me sick knowing so. "And I've been living with this too long now. I had to tell you, and when all the talk about the Harcourt girl, I don't know. I just had to tell you." 



I nodded. Harcourt girl. How different would be her entry into movies than Rita's. How different. How had I got myself involved with this little tramp? The Harcourt girl--that was the type of girl I should have married--not this vulgar stranger. 



"No one else knows except Ellen," she continued softly. That was good. If this got out, I would be finished as a serious person. "And she's probably dead now for all I know. No one else knows." 



"I don't care. Don't worry about it anymore," I tried to sooth her. 



"What are you going to do?" 



"Baby, it was before I met you. I've done stupid things I regret. Everyone has. Let's just forget about it." 



She shook her head after studying me for a moment, and then got up. 



"I'm going to sleep," she said, and left. 



* * * 



Seven weeks later, I was on a flight to Los Angeles. 



I hadn't forgotten. 



I tried, but it all fell apart each time my cock parted my wife's tight cunt, each time I entered her sweet, thick juiciness, each time her moist, hot insides caressed and tried to love me. When she reached up to kiss me, as I lay on top of her, it would be an effort to give her my lips. I would have thoughts of others, those others, and I had to pretend she was someone else, I was someone else to continue in order to end it. It would end sadly, with a soft whimper and gentle rolling off her. 



She knew. Of course, she knew it was different, but she said nothing, becoming more and more quiet, until we rarely exchanged more than a few words with one another, her stomach becoming larger and larger. We never laughed. 



Instead, knowing she was pretending to be asleep, every night I was awake, I was tortured with images of Rita with other men, many men, with other pot-bellied men around watching, filming, pointing and laughing as some scum after scum fucked up tightly into her. Had she enjoyed it? 



I was hardly a porno watcher, but I'd seen enough to know that all of them were miserable, pathetic, and very sad, the women all looking terribly tired and stoned. That was my wife at eighteen, tired and stoned, getting fucked silly in front of a video camera. Had she been wet, welcoming them? Did they have to slap Vaseline inside her so that no rude rashes appeared? She must have been terrified. Probably, she was so stoned she knew nothing about what was happening to her. That idea alone helped me fall asleep. 



The first thing I'd done after Rita's revelation was scour the Internet for pictures. Half dreading, half hoping, obviously, I found nothing. Who knows what name she'd used ten years ago? Then I searched the house to see if any clue might exist among her personal things, but found nothing. So I did the only thing remaining, which was to try to get in touch with Rita's friend, some Ellen person, the girl with whom she'd first gone to LA. I found the basic information about her from Rita's high school year book, and from there a private investigator gave me everything else I needed. 

<hr pg="2" />Ellen, it seemed, was still out in LA, working as a secretary in a law firm, of all places, married to a Wal-Mart store manager. She had three children. 



I knew that a cold call to her might blow everything, so I made an appointment to meet with her attorney on the pretext that I wanted him to act as local real estate counsel for a transaction. He was happy to meet. 



I'd been anticipating an overweight cheap, slightly sick looking woman to greet me in the reception area, but she was thin, pleasant and attractive. Like all lawyers, the guy I was to meet was late, so I followed her into a conference room. 



"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, as I took a seat, her hands gently clasped in front of her long blue dress, her arms perfectly framing her obviously fake tits. 



I shook my head, hesitating, a thousand questions banging about in my head, wanting to scream at her "Why didn't you stop Rita, you stupid cunt?", but her pleasant demeanor disarmed me completely. 



"Your accent," I tried smiling, tried catching my breath. "You're not anative of LA, are you?" 



She shook her head, grinning widely with blazing white teeth. 



"Big surprise, right?" I continued pathetically. "Where are you from?"



"Yeah, I've been here almost ten years, and I still haven't lost my Midwest accent," she giggled, starting to warm to me. I wanted to slap her. 



Instead, I nodded keeping my hands tightly in my lap to make sure she couldn't see me shaking. "Where from the Midwest?" 



"Oh God, you would've never've heard of it," she sighed. "A little town near Rockford, Illinois." 



"Is that right?" I asked, trying to act surprised. 



She nodded. 



"Interesting. I knew a girl at Stanford from a little town near Rockford. I think she told me that it had a nuclear plant there." 



Her grin left her face and she was stunned standing with her fake tits seeming now to sag a bit. I could see her struggling, trying to determine what was going on, composing herself, telling herself it wasn't possible, and then she asked slowly, "Was her name Rita, by any chance? Rita Oliphant?" 



"Yes, it was," I replied quietly. 



"Oh my God!" she yelled. 



"Small world," I tried smiling, trying once more to catch my breath. She was noticing nothing. 



"Oh my God!" she yelled again. 



I nodded. 



"You knew Rita Oliphant? Wow. That's so wild. Wow. Whatever happened--" 



"I still know her." 



"You do?" she asked, and I could see her unconsciously backing away from me, toward the door. 



"Umm." 



"How?" 



"She and I are married." 



"Oh my God! Are you serious?" she gasped. "Wow. Rita married a lawyer and everything. Jesus. Wow." I could tell she was faking her enthusiasm. I could see her studying me, defensive. 



"Ellen, I didn't come here to meet with your attorney, I wanted to see you." 



"Me?" she asked, and I could see that she was now trying to catch her breath. 



"Yes, you." 



"Why?" 



"Because I know what happened to Rita when you two got out here." 



"What happened to her?" she gasped. "What do you mean?" she caught herself. "Nothing happened to her," she replied quickly. 



"I know about the movie. She told me about it." 



She was silent for a second. I could see her becoming upset. I'm certain that if she and I were talking anywhere the prison that was her office, she would have told me to go fuck myself. She tried to sound nonchalant. It was a miserable performance, which made me angrier than I'd been. 



"Christ, that was so long ago," she smiled grossly, all white. "Jesus. We were just kids." 



"You were also in the movie?" 



She was silent. 



"Were you also in the movie, Ellen?" 



"Yeah," she replied. She wasn't embarrassed about it, that was obvious. She was upset I was bothering her, but I sensed no embarrassment from her. She had her own life, and I was a stupid interruption, a reminder of a youthful silliness, but she could have cared less otherwise. I didn't have time for her. She was obviously living with it well enough. "I need to talk about it with you, Ellen." 



"It's ancient history, for Christ's sake," she groaned, and any precision in her diction, any control of her vocabulary was now gone. She was back where she'd started, back in a hick small town in Illinois with her redneck boyfriends, and she was furious I was trying to make her revisit her long forgotten life. 



"It's not a long time to me, Ellen," I said softly. "I heard about it just a few weeks ago." 



"Well, it's not my fault she didn't tell you nothing. Geez. It's not my fault." 



I nodded. This was getting me nowhere. "Does your husband know about it?" I asked glancing down suggestively at her ring. 



She smiled, shook her head and then let me have it. "He was an assistant on the set," she said, smirking, and I couldn't help smiling with her, realizing that she and her husband had more honesty in their marriage than Rita and I. 



"Oh," I managed. 



"Yeah, 'oh'. So don't be trying to threaten me or nothing, you know," she said tightly crossing her arms in front of her. 



"I'm not trying to threaten you," I said looking down. 



"Well, what the fuck do you want from me, then?" 



"I just want to know what happened." 



She laughed, rolling her eyes. "It's pretty easy, buddy. We were two hard-bodies, little farm girls, nineteen, meeting sick people, trying to get jobs, someone offered us some cash and we fucked a couple of guys and licked a couple of pussies. Big deal. Any more questions?" 



I'd had enough. This idiot was of no use in her now defensive posture. I took out my card and handed it to her. "This has my number in town on the back. Please call me. I'll be here for another couple of days if you need." She studied the card for a moment and started walking out the room. "Please call," I said to her as she walked out. She stopped. 



"It was no big deal, buddy," she said shaking her head. "God. You preppies are so uptight, such assholes. Girls you went to college with probably did a whole lot worse. Fuck. They probably fucked ten times as many guys as me and Rita. Christ. Just forget about it." 



* * * 



"There's a package for you, sir," some woman with an Asian accent from the hotel lobby was telling me on the other line as I packed my bags later that night. My mind was thousands of miles away when I'd picked the phone up. Ellen was right. It had meant nothing. A stupid mistake, I'd convinced myself, and I'd got a seat on a red-eye back home, back to my wife. 



"Excuse me," I said, trying to understand what was being said. 



"You have a package, sir." 



"I'll be down." 



I knew what was waiting for me, but I didn't want to admit it. I convinced myself going down in the elevator that Ellen's attorney was dropping off some brochure about his firm to help me make my mind up about retaining him, but as soon as I saw the waiting brown wrapped box I was certain it was what I'd been looking for, why I'd flown out to LA. 



"Is everything all right, sir?" someone was asking me as I massaged the light package, feeling its hard edges and corners. 



I looked up and saw it was the concierge, a gray-haired, serious looking man. "Fine," I said. 



"I beg your pardon, sir?" 



"I'm fine," I said more loudly. 



"Very good," he nodded, looking at me gravely. "Let me know if you needanything, no matter how small." He walked away to attend to another guest. 



I understood. I must have looked unsteady, and the good gentleman, with years of experience to help him understand every subtle and not-so-subtle problem possible, was simply making sure one of his four hundred dollars a night guests was content. 



* * * 



Ellen's enclosed typed note wrapped around the unmarked black videotape annoyed me: 



"Is this it? This is what you were looking for? Here it is, what your looking for. This is the tape you should watch (over and over) if you want to see your wife with other guys. It has five movies. Rita is only in the first one. It's the only one she made (as far as I know) even though she could have been really big if she wanted to be. I'm sure you'll agree after you see her "performance." Maybe you'll even learn some tricks. But that's another story she can tell you about sometime. I'm in that one (but only a small role) and the others. The last one I was the "star." My husband is in the third one. Guess who he is, and maybe you'll understand why I married him? Besides, I thought you might be interested in my other "work". 



Knock yourself out, asshole. Don't ever call me again or . . . 



p.s. Say "Hi" to Rita from me. Not." 



I carefully ripped Ellen's note into narrow strips, and threw it in the garbage. I stared at the tape on my bed, walked the two steps to it, pushed aside my bags, picked up the tape and the remote, put the tape in the VCR and turned off the lights. I went back to the bed and sat up to watch in the dark. 



Immediately I realized there was little, if any, chance that Rita's movie would ever find itself among anyone I knew. The thing had long disappeared to be replaced by thousands of other trash. It was taped, not filmed, cheaply, the quality of the prologue sequence of a Harley-Davidson roaring down a palm tree hugged street and opening piano and brass music was haphazard, of no relevance, I realized later, to anything. It made things worse, and I wanted to shut my eyes and curl up in a ball that my wife had participated in something so blatantly tawdry. How much had my wife received to fuck a stranger? One hundred, two hundred? 



The neon lettering of the actors' names came next, and none of them triggered any association with Rita. I congratulated her, sighing, on her deception. And then an abrupt cut found us in a dismal bedroom. 



I fast forwarded the opening scene, after being exposed to what must have been the main actress and her husband arguing about her flirtations with his boss at a company party. Their big hair, awful make-up, everything suggested very early nineties. The blemishes on their bodies, the unruly pubic hair suggested definite second or maybe even third tier talent. Costs had been kept down for the travesty. 



Soon, after the husband had darted out of the house for no reason, presumably to attend to his job as a brain surgeon, the main actress was sucking off a delivery boy who happened by and who looked a day or two over forty. Dreary sucking and fucking followed and we dissolved with the main actress sprawled on the cheap bed generously rubbing her cunt and tits with his goo. 



As we zoomed into what must have been an unbelievably cheap hotel room (without any establishing shot of any sort), I saw my wife in quick, jerky movements in white. I rewound and pressed play to see her coming out of what must have been the room's bathroom, with a skimpy towel covering her body, and another towel in her hand drying her hair. Stunning. Even in the horrible lighting they'd used. Stunning. What had they been saying to themselves, the camera man and the sound guy, at the sight of this fresh meat? She seemed cheerless, but not nervous. And then I shook my head, telling myself I was an idiot. Fresh meat? No doubt, several of the production team had fucked her earlier in the day, lubed her up, and it must have all seemed second hand to her by the time she stepped in front of them barely clothed. 



The remote dropped with its own weight out of my hand as I tried to calm myself. Everything about her motions, nothing had changed. She'd dried her hair just like that this morning. Her long, marvelously meaty legs had not changed at all. The hair was different from now, much longer, much trashier, exactly like it had been when I first saw her. I could feel my nasal passages tighten and burn, my eyes watering. 



She looked so young. I was seeing on the screen my wife just a few months before I'd met her, the girl with whom I'd fallen in love. I studied her eyes, as she let the towel slip a bit off her glistening tits, revealing her magnificent cleavage, but I could see nothing in those eyes. She was neither sad, nor frightened, nor stoned. Those were the same dead eyes with which she'd first stared at me that night in the fog, when she told me seven weeks ago a little bit about her past. 



Trembling I tried to reach for the remote when the inevitable knock on the door came. I couldn't find it. In the dark room dully dimmed with the light from the TV, nothing else existed. And the knock continued. The door opened of its own accord, my wife gasped, and a bearded man, balding in a stringy ponytail, walked in. He was telling her that she was late with her rent, and Rita's tug more tightly on her towel around her body seemed genuine, motivated by embarrassment, the first I'd seen of any of that emotion from her since she'd stepped out of the bathroom. I could tell from her tight clasp of the towel that she was realizing it was for real, that it was no joke, that some dirtball would soon be fucking her. 



"I'm a little down on my luck," she said to him, and I wanted to scream at the sound of her young, bright, accented voice, with just that slight questioning quiver at the end of each sentence, before I'd given her the confidence to realize how truly bright she was. I was transported back years ago when she and I were sprawled on the bed talking about my parents' reaction to her. 



"They hate me," she was screeching, half serious on my bed, her marvelous tits rolling with her heaving. "I just know they do." 



On the tape, I could see she was trying not to look at him, as she walked backward, feeling her way to the bed. 



"Well, that's not my problem, now, is it, lady?" the balding man grinned stupidly. 



"You can't throw me out, Mr. Tool," she was saying on the screen, her voice shaking. "You just can't. Where am I supposed to go?" 



"Not my problem, little girl. I want my money." 



"I can give you something better than money," she seemed to sigh as she slowly unraveled her towel, and she was revealed to me like she'd done so many, many times, always like that, shyly, innocently, pretending to not know how incredibly beautiful she really was, as if everything was a big surprise. 



Those tits. That cunt. 



"But I love you, baby" I remembered telling her that first night we'd returned to Palo Alto from our visit to my parents. "I love you," I'd whispered rolling over and then on top of her and then easily inside her, "I love you," wet with my release of half an hour ago. "My parents can go fuck themselves." 



But it was hopeless. All of it had been after this, this horror on the TV. 



They were kissing on the screen now, and his large hairy hands were gripping unceremoniously her left tit roughly, bringing it up to his unshaven face. Her tight hard pink nipples, the way they retracted whenever she was frightened, or uneasy were greedily sucked into his large, gaping mouth, and suddenly he dropped it, stepping back and unbuckling his dirty jeans. 



He was not much larger than I, hard already, no doubt, at the prospect of the new kid on the set, and as she gracefully fell to her knees, keeping them tightly closed, he groaned before she even touched him with her long fingers. 



If I'd have been the director, I would have cut and used a shot from her backside to feature her lovely round ass and strong firm muscular back, but it seemed beside the point as he grabbed her long hair in a bunch to take it out of her face to give us, I realized, an unobstructed view of her lips and the kissing and licking of his cock. His moans, I'm sure, were genuine. Rita had always given magnificent head, even when I first met her, and here, perhaps driven by the sheer desire to get things out of the way, she was applying herself vigorously, making him strain for more of her touch. It went on for a minute or two, with close zooms and retractions as she took more and more of him inside her mouth, and at the halfway point she gagged a little, she rarely did that now, and backed away. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. 



You could see that she was unsteady standing and as he unbuttoned his shirt, she seemed to be trying to catch her breath. 



It moved quickly from there, and she let herself be pushed down onto the bed, her thighs opening up lewdly, expertly, it seemed. One of Rita's most incredible features is that she has the plumpest cunt lips I'd ever seen on a woman, with very little pubic hair covering her. More incredible, her cunt-lips remain tightly compressed together regardless of how spread apart her legs are. It all gives the impression of a much younger woman. All you see is the tight pink line between her legs. Her cunt, inside, is like a precious present you have to take some time to open. And that was what I was seeing on the screen now, all of it seemed so horribly familiar. It was so awfully familiar. 



He quickly sprawled onto the bed at her feet as she scurried up to give him room, and soon we were tightly focused on his tongue and lips tugging and licking her, opening her red insides wider. As his spit gathered on her and two fingers were shoved in, a closeup of her face was shown. Her eyes, mouths were closed tightly, as if she were grimacing, and her arms were resting over her head, letting her tits jiggle wildly onto her sides with each of the thrusts of his fingers fucking into her. Someone must have cued her to do something and she opened her eyes and mouth, pretending to moan, and then gently lowered her hand to caress her heavy tits. It went on, his tongue, her blood cunt, her hands, pink nipples. Back and forth. 



A rough cut, and my wife was being fucked by the balding man. 



I flinched. 



I had been waiting for the first penetration shot, and I heard myself gasp at the rude realization of what was happening. From behind his hairy clenching ass, we could see his thick, slickened dick shoving in and out of her grossly opened body. The camera slowly moved to their sides and he picked up one of her strong legs and placed it on his shoulder, letting her other leg fall away. A closeup, and my wife's cunt and another man's thrusting big cock filled the screen. 



It had been so long since I could remember seeing my cock going into my wife. The first years it would give me unimaginable pleasure--I would raise myself off her, on my hands and watch as my cock worked its way in and out of her--and the sight now was doing the same. It had been too long since I'd seen my cock in my wife. When I got back . . . I was hardening I realized, becoming sick at the same time, watching the inner walls and lips of Rita's body being slowly pushed in then roughly tugged out, splayed in a red splendor, but always with his cock at the center, in her, one with her. I wanted this close-up to last as I touched myself, felt the heat and hardness of my cock through my pants. It was not to be. 



Another cut, and Rita was on her hands and knees, and I could feel myself withering as he now more harshly fucked into her from behind. It seemed to go forever, with shots of her heavy waving tits, her rippling ass and his cock disappearing and appearing in and out of her, and then I realized they were looping the scene repeating the thrusts and the swaying. In reality it must have been a mere five minutes, and that somehow comforted me. What were a few minutes of her with another man compared to our years together? Suddenly the balding guy grabbed Rita's hair and she screamed as he roughly jerked back her head. It was really the first sound I'd heard from her since he'd started fucking her, other than a fake moan and whimper here and there, and I knew she was being hurt. It seemed fitting. Of course, she would be hurt. He let her go, as she twisted her head away and then he groaned some incoherent babble, as he wildly pulled out of her. 



The closeup of the feeble, tiny spurts of his thick prick between Rita's sweating shaking ass cheeks was done in slow motion for reasons I couldn't understand, and then the scene was cut rudely as Rita turned around and kissed his retreating cock, which remained tightly fisted in his hand. For a second I wanted to throw up thinking that the ass had come inside her, but I realized he'd more likely jerked off or been jerked off at least once before fucking Rita to keep from ejaculating prematurely. 

<hr pg="3" />I found the remote and fast-forwarded over Ellen's threesome with the husband from the first scene and another flat-chested woman. I continued fast forwarding through another scene with two women together, the main actress and another lady, in a small back yard with a thread bare beach towel on dying brown grass as the backdrop to their gyrations, and stopped at what looked like the big finale, featuring my wife (who it appears was the younger sister of the blond, main actress in the sad, miserable story), the main actress, yet again, and the husband. 



Watching Rita sucking on a woman's cunt while being fucked from behind was a lot less shocking than watching her kissing a woman full on the mouth. It was during the kissing, caressing and foreplay of Rita and the main actress (before the husband character was introduced) that I saw for the first time what appeared to me genuine pleasure from my wife nine years ago. As the two women nibbled and suckled on each others' bodies, as their small tongues delicately danced into each others' mouths, Rita's groans and the movements of her body reflected clearly genuine joy, the same sort of excitement she and I so often shared. 



Unabashedly, I pushed down my pants and grabbed myself. I felt hot, burning and I could hear myself crying, pitying myself, but more my wife that something so awful had happened to her. The main actress was now lapping up between Rita's thighs and I could never remember myself being so hard. My bed was trembling under me as I simply squeezed and choked on my cock, trying to kill it, myself for what had happened. I closed my eyes and wanted to release so badly, wanting to complete the miserable circle I'd thrown myself in when I got on the flight to LA that morning. But no saving image came to my mind. I opened my eyes and commanded myself to do it, but nothing happened. I hated her, what she'd let happen to herself when she was barely a high school graduate. I hated her, and myself for falling in love with her. 



The dull drone of the second movie started and I released my cock to grab the remote. I turned the TV off and pulled my pants up in the dark. 



* * * 



The concierge didn't look surprised when I stopped in front of him five minutes later. 



"Sir," he nodded. 



"I need someone, tonight," I said staring into his eyes but saw nothing warm. I handed him a hundred-dollar bill, and he made it expertly disappear. 



"Any particular preferences, sir?" he asked severely. 



"Make sure I'm her first date, today," I said, turning around and heading back for the elevator. 



* * * 



I lay in bed waiting for my whore, staring at a picture someone had taken of my wife and me at the party seven weeks ago. We were each holding a glass, hers full of wine, mine with whiskey, and we were laughing, talking to someone not in the picture. I studied my wife's chestnut hair and full red lips. Her teeth seemed to sparkle in her smile. My free arm was around her bare shoulder holding her tightly to me. I couldn't remember why we were laughing, with whom we were talking. It didn't matter. 



I held the picture as I went to the door to answer the knock. Standing without was a tall blond, almost as tall as me, her hair perfectly straight and elegantly cut to her shoulders. Her tits in a flimsy navy blue dress were accentuated pushed up, real, and she was holding a small black purse, filled with rubbers, no doubt, in front of her dress, by her cunt. Just the place for them. 



"Come in." 



"I'm Brenda." 



I didn't care. I motioned her in and watched her high narrow ass and thin dress lightly bounce against each other as she headed toward the bed. 



"Credit card." I called after her. 



She nodded. "Give me the number and I'll call it in." 



I pulled out my wallet and handed her the plastic. She took it, went to the phone, and turned to me as she waited for an answer and smiled with lovely straight teeth. "Busy night at the office, I guess." 



I nodded. 



Someone was on the other line, and she called in the number, waited for the number to clear, and then softly hung up. She put the card on the lamp table, and turned to me again. 



"Shall we have a late dinner?" she asked motioning toward the door. 



I shook my head. "Order room service if you're hungry." 



She nodded and stared at the picture in my hand. 



"Who's that?" she asked. 



"My wife." 



"Let me see her." 



I handed her the picture. 



She barely studied it, handed it back and stared at me, slightly peeved. "She's quite beautiful." 



"I know." 



"Why are you doing this, then?" 



"I need to fuck someone tonight." 



She grinned. "Five thousand is a lot for a fuck, especially with a wife that looks like that. You could get a simple fuck out on the street for a lot less." 



I nodded. 



"I've almost finished my master's thesis," she continued. I loved her voice, her classic features. She was perfect. "You're paying for more than just fucking me," she reminded. She started walking toward me. "Maybe you want to tell me what's wrong. We can talk if you like. I love to talk." 



I shook my head. "I don't think so." 



She shrugged, stopping two feet from me. "Whatever you say. Customer's never wrong, right?" 



"Umm" 



She tossed her purse on a chair and slowly took off her shoes. "Shall we begin?" 



"Get naked on the bed." 



She laughed. "You get naked, first." 



She shook her head, grinning at my non-response and turned around, lifting her straight blond hair off her shoulder. "Help me with the back." 



I unclasped the hook and stepped back as she started to rub her ass against my cock. "Unzip me," she cooed, slowly grinding her ass in slow motions. I unzipped her and let her ass tease me for a moment. I closed my eyes, feeling her firmness, my own lengthening and all I could see was Rita on her knees, strange men plunging into her. I grabbed the whore's hips and pulled her to me. She moaned as my hardness split her narrow firm cheeks wide underneath the flimsy soft dress. 



"I'm here for you all night," she whispered, reaching back to touch my face. "Slow down . . . Oh, you're so fucking hard." 



I pressed more tightly into her. "Bend over." 



What little there was of her dress fell away, revealing her strapless lacy white bra and matching silk thong. I pulled down my pants and shorts and grabbed her hips pulling her to me, my stiffness sliding up and between her ass. 



She pulled away and turned around to face me, her tits heaving in the tight bra, as she looked down at my cock. She reached around my neck and kissed me softly on the cheek. 



"You've got to put a condom on," she breathed into my ear. 



"Why?" 



"Why do you think?" 



I backed away once more to see her more completely. So unlike Rita's full body, womanly hips, my whore seemed to have little, if any, hips, and no hint of any hair pouching out of the mound of her silky panties. I could tell staring at the smooth slope of the almost sheer white disappearing in between her golden thighs. She was beautiful, different from Rita, but still beautiful, and I'd had enough. 



"Put your clothes on." 



"What?" 



I reached down to the ground and grabbed my shorts and pulled them up. 



"What are you doing?" 



"Please go." 



"Are you serious?" 



I nodded. 



"I'm not going to ruin my life or die for money. Don't you understand?"



I pulled my pants on. 



She took a seat on the bed, resting her hands on her lap, staring straight ahead. I marveled at the remarkable firm flatness, almost rippling muscles, of her stomach. She was probably twenty-four or five, marvelously fit. Was she really finishing her master's thesis? I doubted it, she might have been, it didn't matter either way. 



"What's on the tape?" she asked turning from me as our eyes met and then pointed to the black tape sticking out of the VCR. 



"Nothing." 



"Come on," she smiled, patting the bed. "It's going to be a long night. Don't be so weird." 



"You should go." 



"Where? I'm supposed to be working." 



"Go home." 



"Too horny. My boyfriend's on a sales trip. I want to be with you." 



"How long have you been getting fucked by strangers?" 



"Ooh, real subtle, aren't we?" 



I continued staring at her. 



"Six months . . . God, don't look at me like that. I'm not some whore on the street. I do this only two, three times a month. That's it. I've been with only six guys in that time. That's all. I get a lot of repeat business," she laughed, but I continued staring. 



"You know nothing about me," she said shaking her head. "I'm serious, I've even got a boyfriend. We're probably going to get married. I'm a normal person, okay?" 



"Does he know?" 



"Of course not. I do this when he's out of town." 



"What would he do if he found out?" 



"He's not going to." 



"What if he did?" 



"I don't know." 



"You do." 



"Well, he'd probably leave me. Wouldn't you?" 



"What if you stopped today, got married, and he found out in ten years?"



"I don't know." 



"Would you tell him?" 



"No way," she said with a laugh, warming to the talk. 



"Why not?" 



"Because it would be none of his business. Because what I do before I'm married is my business. Because I'm doing this for the money. That's all. And it's a lot of fun. The guys are rich. I get to hang out in nice places like this. I mean, some can't even get it up--you rich guys are weird--but it makes me feel good making them happy." 



"Then why would he care, if it's only a job, if it's only for money?" 



"Why are we talking about this?" she asked, running her hand through her blond hair, becoming annoyed. I could see she was moody, one moment open, the next pissed. I was starting to like her. 



"On that tape is a porno," I said. 



"So." 



"My wife is on it." 



"Oh, my God!" she screeched covering her mouth. I'll never forget the look on her face. It was hilarious. A whore, embarrassed about a porn bimbo. The fact that the bimbo was my wife made it all the more ludicrous. "Are you serious?" she asked, recovering. 



"I found out a couple of months ago. It happened ten years ago." 



"How did you find out?" 



"She told me." 



"Why?" 



"She's pregnant." 



"The baby's not yours?" she asked, and I could see her eating it up. She wanted my life in ruins. It would make whatever pleasure she offered me that more worthwhile. The little Florence Nightingale. 



"No, it's mine." 



"I would never have told you if I had done something like that." 



"Yeah, I gathered as much." 



"What are you going to do?" 



"Go on." 



She laughed, motioning to herself in a bra and panties. "I'm what you call going on?" 



"You're a small lapse of judgment." 



She laughed some more, and I liked her laugh. It was full and light at the same time, genuine. She was crawling backward, her tits jiggling, the tight muscles of her stomach drawing out stretching her back to get under the covers. 



"Don't do that. Just go." 



"I'm getting chilled." 



"Get dressed." 



"I don't want to," she smiled tugging the covers tightly around her. "I love the Four Seasons' beds." She turned to her side facing me. "They're so big, so wonderfully wicked. Nothing feels so good on your skin." 



I took a seat in a chair. 



"You know I've had a lot of offers to appear in pornos," she said flatly. "And I came this close," she giggled holding her thumb and finger almost together, "to appearing in Penthouse. This close." 



"Why didn't you?" 



"Because I never wanted to be in the position your poor wife finds herself in, you know. That would be awful. How would I explain something like that to my mother? I don't want anything like that always haunting me." 



Her mother. Maybe she would do. 



"What?" she asked, grinning trying to follow my eyes what I was thinking. 



"I'll put a rubber on, if you let me videotape it." 



"What!" 



"I want to tape me fucking you. I'll put a rubber on." 



"I don't think so," she said shaking her head and turning away from me. 



"Why not?" 



"Haven't you been listening?" 



"It's not the same thing." 



"No way." 



"It'll be something just for me." 



"No." 



"Just for me, okay? No one else will know, ever. What incentive would I have to make something like that public? I'm from Chicago. I'll never see you again." 



She turned to me again and she wasn't smiling. "You don't mean shit to me, buddy, do you understand? You've paid and I'm happy. You've got a nice dick, and if you weren't such a weirdo we could be having a real good time. I'd be fucking your brains out. I'm better than anyone you've ever been with. I'm that good, but that's it. I'm sorry you found out your wife isn't who you thought she was, but it's not my problem. I'll fuck you, put on a condom and I'll fuck you all night if you want, okay? But I'm not going to videotape anything. Is that clear?" 



I nodded. 



"Besides you don't even have a camcorder or anything. So we can't." 



"That's not a problem." 



"No." 



I continued staring at her, and she smiled, after a moment. 



"No one will ever know." I said. 



"It's just so weird." 



I almost smiled. She was imagining it now. The last little hurdle of her modesty was the only in the way. 



"Okay," she grinned. "But on two conditions. Give me your business card. If you try to fuck with me, I can fuck with you, okay? It's a two-way street." 



I took my wallet out and handed her a business card. 



"I knew it, Mr. Richard Day of Best &amp; Trimble," she giggled staring at the card. "You lawyers are all the same." 



"What's the second condition?" 



"Need you ask?" she grinned picking up the phone and my credit card. "I want another five thousand." 



* * * 



"Sure you've never done this before?" I asked her as I placed the tripod the near the bed. She was behind me, still in thong and bra, on her toes and I could feel her breath on my neck, her warm clothed tits on my bare back. 



"No," she protested backing away. "Why do you ask?" 



"Because you seem to be interested in these preparations." 



"Well, I want to make sure the product is a good one. It's my grand debut, as it were," she laughed. "I can't help it if I take pride in my work." 



"Right. Turn on the other lights." 



As she did, I walked to the VCR and took the tape out. 



"Hey! What are you doing?" 



"What does it look like?" 



"You're going to tape over your wife, aren't you? That's what this is all about, isn't it?" 



I didn't answer and put the tape in the recorder. 



"I wanted to watch your wife, Dickie." 



I stared at her. What a joke? `Dickie', some dumb whore was calling me Dickie. I deserved it. I shook my head, and smiled. "I don't think so." 



"Whatever." 



"Put your dress on." 



"Why?" 



"Because I want to tape you clothed first." 



"Okay," she smiled, and it seemed as if she was genuinely shy. She peeled her dress back on and turned to me. 



"Ready?" 



She took a deep breath and exhaled. "Okay." 



"Sure?" 



"Yes." 



"All right." I turned the recorder on. 



"Wait!" she screeched, and jumped for her purse. She ran to the bathroom. The light went on, and I could hear her brushing her teeth. She gargled and I heard her spit, and then there was silence. She walked back out, her face freshly painted and smiled. "All set." 



I nodded and turned the recorder to her on the small tripod. She started doing some stupid poses. 



"Don't do that." 



She frowned. "Why?" 



"Because I'm not joking." 



"What should I do then?" 



"Stand there," I whispered, zooming to her face, encircled by the light from the lamp behind her, framing the blond face, almost translucent, and the unreal pale red lips. I realized she had light blue eyes. Rita's were brown. 



"How do you feel?" 



"A little weird." 



"Why?" 



"I don't know. It's like you're studying me." 



"I am." 



"I don't like to be studied." 



"Why?" 



"Because I'm not some object." 



"You are for the moment." 



"Well, I don't like it." 



"Do you want to hear my verdict?" 



"No." 



"Take your dress off, like you do when you get home from one of these engagements. Don't look at me. Pretend I'm not here." 



"You're being weird." 



"I know." 



She turned to me to see herself in the mirror. The dress came off. Gently, carefully, she folded her uniform on the chair next to her. 



"Now what?" she asked, her hands uneasily clasped at her crotch, and I could see she was chilled, her nipples plainly visible, erect, under the lacy white bra. 



"Just do what you do when you get home alone." 



"I take a bath usually." 



"Take your bath." 



"Now?" she asked uneasily. 



I nodded. 



She reached back and unsnapped her bra, her tits jutting up, suddenly, seeming to sigh from their release, the tips hard. She tossed the bra onto the chair. They were wonderful. She massaged them, trying to get some feeling in them after their tight confinement and then reached for the hip straps of her panties. She pried them off, the red marks on her hips looking almost raw, and started walking. I stopped her. 



"Slowly." 



She glared at me, walking again, now more slowly. The camcorder followed her, first the fine blonde wisps of hair between her thighs, the delicate pink lips of her bare cunt clearly rubbing against each other with each step, and then behind her to her young, tiny, ripe ass, bouncing gently in healthy buoyancy that women have before they get pregnant or become intolerably fat. She was in the bathroom. I turned off the tape, and followed her, arriving just as the gush of hot water was turned on. She turned back over her shoulder, smiling, the lean long muscles of her back rippling, but my eyes were on her ass. 



"Incredible, how fast it's filling. This is wild." 



I nodded, and watched as she turned the steaming water off, and gingerly stepped in one foot at a time. She looked like a child, quivering at the hot contact, and then settling in. I moved the tripod closer to the tub, and she began bathing herself. 



I knew now why Degas had painted so many women bathing. I watched her lather and fill the hot water with bubbles. Nothing compared to the lovely blond girl solemnly running the water over her glistening arms and long legs. She was becoming pink, all pink and soft. I watched as the water dripped and dropped from her thin long neck down to her tits, now relaxed and seeming to fill out with the hot steam. 



She repeated the wonderful strokes and massages of her body slowly, steadily, sadly, not looking at me. 



"It seems like such a shame," she whispered. 



"Why do you say that?" 



"Because I feel so clean now." 



"Don't you like feeling clean?" 



"I love it, but it never seems to last." 



"No, I suppose not." 



* * * 



I slowly lowered myself on top of Brenda, her thighs splayed open wide, ass upturned ready, beneath me. My stiff cock was resting softly, rubbing on the fleshy hot mound of her mons. The camera was at our side, close, its dull whir and our deep breaths the only sound in the room. But I didn't care about the tape any longer. I'd stopped caring. None of this meant anything. It was a simple fuck with a beautiful woman, a once in a lifetime stupidity, and I didn't care any more. 



"This is crazy," she sighed, reaching between us to squeeze my uncovered, raw, straining cock. 



"You reassure me," I tried to smile down to her and I could see the puzzled look on her face. "The more you worry about the rubber, the more I know you're as clean as I am." 



She shook her head, and muttered. "I'm going to hate myself." 



"I'm sorry." 



She was silent for a second and then released her tight grip around my stiffness. Her hands reached up to grab my arms, seeming to brace herself. I heard her take a deep breath. 



"Is this the first time for you?" she asked, and then turned, embarrassed suddenly by my staring eyes. No doubt, most of her other sessions had been in the dark. Few guys (and I could only imagine the old fucks with whom she'd been) enjoy having a woman see then naked. She tried to stare back at me, but I ignored her, lowering my hips, letting my cock gently part her middle, moistening myself at her burning entrance. 

<hr pg="4" />"Cheating on your wife, is this the first time?" she asked, as I gently prodded and then suddenly slipped the head of my cock into her. She inhaled, seeming to hold her breath, and I held myself still, taking pleasure in the juicy hot ring of tight flesh surrounding just my head. I could see she was becoming upset. She tried again. 



"Is this?--" 



"Yes," I hissed suddenly shoving into her warm unbelievably tight body, her cunt collapsing onto itself so that only half my cock got in, her gasp of hot air onto my neck sending shivers through me. 



"Oh, fuck me," she moaned. "Take it easy. Oh." 



I gently pulled out, slickening marvelously, leaving just my head inside once more, feeling her wetness and silky walls gathering quickly around my tip in preparation. 



It was then I wanted to see her, to give this some significance, and so I tried to turn her face to me, nudging her gently with my chin. She resisted for a moment, and then turned. Her face had lost its light, pink translucence. It was now red, and I could see the veins on her neck wildly pulsing with life. Her pale blue eyes met mine and we stared at each other, and I felt embarrassed at the intimacy of the moment. How easy was it, I wondered? A simple phone call or offer of money, and a heart wrenching beautiful woman would spread herself open, give herself to you. 



Rita had done the same thing so long ago. 



Nothing made sense. I shut my eyes tightly, grit my teeth and shovedback inside her everything. Her deep moan of protest and sudden gasp of air I tried to ignore. 



She was right I realized, as my balls trembled, resting on her soft ass, the head of my cock quiverering and lodged tightly against her cervix. She was an incredible fuck. Whether it was simply experience, special exercises, unique excitement, or, more likely, blessed genetic chance, the girl's cunt was almost unbearably hot and full and tight. I could feel it rippling over and over, surrounding and caressing me. 



The strokes, at first, were long, had to be long, slow and studied if I wanted the fuck to last, and her gasps, quivers inside and the desperate roll of her head suggested wonderful pleasure, but I wasn't sharing any of it with her. Tightly joined, one giving the other taking, mating, we were so far apart from one another. 



It went on and on, long slow, steady strokes, two strangers fucking one another and after four, five minutes of this, I could see she was no longer with me, anywhere in the room. Her eyes were shut tight, and she kept whimpering. Nothing was said, we simply gasped and moaned and tried to keep up with each other, and I could feel, could hear, the drips of sweat from my chest and forehead falling off me and onto her pink nipples and neck. 



I wondered how long I could fuck her without coming, whether I could keep her in bed with me for an hour, fucking her for an hour. Could I fuck her for two hours? How about twenty-four? Would she let me fuck her for a week? A month? Forever? It would be nice to do nothing but fuck her, to not have to think about anything. 



That's why I'd married Rita. I knew it was the real reason. She was someone I was confident I would never grow tired of fucking. I knew as I shoved and ground down on top of the whore that my confidence, although shaken, was not lost. Whatever nonsense elsewhere or not, Rita's cunt would always be warm, juicy and open. Always. That would never change. I wanted to find her, be with her. This very second. I knew that, as I quickened my pace, starting to pound down and into the whore. I would find Rita soon, but I needed to come in my whore first. 



"Oh, fuck," she moaned, as I reached underneath her and lifted her lower body tighter into me, reached lower and tilted her small ass up for more leverage. I began thrusting into her more tightly, shorter and she started gasping. "Oh God, oh, fuck. I'm going to come. Oh . . ." and her wet, soaked body tried to jerk away, escape the grinding and my tight clasp. I held her firm, helping her let it pass and started fucking into her in earnest once again. 



As I squeezed and gripped her full ass underneath and pushed into her from above, her breath was lost and in a cadence she was trying to keep from losing everything. Suddenly, once more, "Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh . . . " and she was lifting me off the bed this time, straining with her legs, trying to get me in deeper, trying to hold me still. I could feel her legs, ankles tightly straining, trying grip around my calves. Throughout the shivers, and jolts of her insides around me passed over and over, as I strained and started shoving into her more tightly, harder and faster. 



"I ca . . . can . . . can't take it. Oh, please let me rest. Please." Her mouth, those red lips, everything was chapped, dry. Her tongue kept trying to moisten her mouth. I reached down and covered her open mouth with mine, our first kiss, and I realized at that moment why women are correct that a kiss is much more intimate and hence a greater betrayal than the sheer act of fucking. Until now, she'd been a gloriously tight package of trembling hot flesh, but now as my tongue opened her to me, as she greedily sucked it in a more human connection was made. It hadn't been my plan, but I started licking and sucking her mouth, her bruised, raw lips, neck, nose, cheeks, eyes, I needed to taste her, needed to quench myself on the salty beads of perspiration on her face, and she was doing the same, licking and sucking on my me, my neck, my chin, anything she could touch with her tongue.



I found her mouth again and our teeth clashed violently and she was trying to struggle away to breath freely and just then the pressure inside her seemed to explode around me. My hand was numb underneath her dripping ass, as I tried to lift us both off the bed. She struggled free from my mouth and started groaning, repeating, "Oh! Oh! Oh! Fuck, fuck. Oh! Oh!" and I slammed down hard once more, finally. 



Silence it seemed, simple burning bursts of silence into her, numbing, numbing jets and releases, everything. I could hear myself grunting, groaning deeply, but I wasn't there. It couldn't have been me. Distantly, it seemed, and I'm sure it was so, she was screaming. I understood nothing. My ears rang, but the silent bursts continued and my body trembled as she screamed with a mouth wide and neck straining back into the pillow. I saw nothing but a streaked, stringy, dirty blond head plasterd back in a pillow. 



In a matter of seconds, I realized a young woman, sobbing, heaving and soaked was underneath me. My cock slowly falling, silently breaking was somewhere flooded and burning and fleshy. I heaved to clear my head. 



My right hand, the whole arm was numb, unfeeling under her. 



I tugged it out from under her, and I collapsed on top of her, almost smothered her, the wild race of her heart and her deep sigh the last I remembered of her. 



* * * 



"Did you find what you were looking for?" Rita asked me when I got home twelve hours later. She was picking me up at the airport, the seatbelt widely capturing her round, heavy stomach. 



"I don't know." 



"I spoke to Ellen, you know." 



I was silent, exhausted, unshaven, unshowered. Rita wanted answers. I had none. Maybe I would have something for her in a few days, but not now. I needed to sleep. 



"She told me everything, Richard. She called my mom to try to reach me after you stopped by." 



I nodded. 



"I called her back and told her to give you the tape. Is that what you wanted? Why did you do it? I thought . . ." and then she stopped and continued driving. 



I turned away from her to watch the traffic. 



"Did you watch it?"



I continued watching the traffic.



"Richard, look at me."



I turned to her.



"Did you watch it?" 



"I have it here," I said reaching into the bag at my feet and brought it out. Her face was white, staring at the black tape. 



"Did you watch it?" she asked, and I could hear the first hint of horrible fear in her voice. 



"I erased it," I said, and twisted with the little strength I had left the tape into pieces in my hands. I could hear it cracking and then it snapped, and then I could feel my flesh breaking, tearing on the hard plastic, as it splintered into hard edges. I looked down and saw that I was bleeding, a deep gash, like an open cunt, in my right hand. 



Rita sobbed, and we drove home, as I silently wrapped my hand in my tie. 



I would fuck her tomorrow. Right now, I had to sleep. Her pregnancy excited me. 



I would fuck her tomorrow, and everything would be all right.



<i>Comments welcomed.</i>

