Message-ID: <42378asstr$1052485803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Vulgar Argot" <VulgarArgotREMOVEALL@CAPSinsidejoke.tv>
Subject: {ASSM} Everything You Ever Wanted
Date: Fri,  9 May 2003 09:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Everything You Ever Wanted
by Vulgar Argot
(Tags moved to bottom to avoid spoilerage)

<authors-note>
I'm really torn about tagging this one. There's some fairly shocking
behavior in this one that, while necessary, is definitely not my kink. I
would hate for people to pass this story up because it's not their kink,
either. It's all a matter of context.

On the other hand, I don't want to post this and have my regular readers
assume this is going to be another cutesy, sesquipedalian D/s romance. It's
a lot darker than what I usually write. I have never been as deeply inside
the head of a character I liked less than Corbin as I was when I wrote this.

So, my advice is this: If you have some strong squicks and traditionally
trust me not to step on them, you might want to check the codes at the end
before reading this story. If you have some squicks, but can enjoy a story
where they are tread on, I beg your forebearance in this matter.
</authors-note>

As embarassing as it is to be caught with porn, it's more embarassing when
the porn you get caught with isn't even yours.

When Leon Meyer stuck his head in my office, I knew immediately that
something was up. My wife who, for all of her faults, is not a violent
person, once said that he had a smile that made her want to punch him in the
face every time she saw it. He was wearing it now.

"Corbin, m'man," he said, "you might want to check your presentation notes
for this afternoon. You've got a typo."

This is from the man who once deliberately let me stand in front of two
thousand people with a PowerPoint presentation with the title, "Data
Security Using Pubic-Key Encryption," on the bottom right-hand corner of
every single page, so I knew it was going to be bad.

"What page?" I asked.

"Right after page eight," he said.

"So, page nine?" I asked.

"No," he said, "between page eight and page nine."

There are few things that put fear in a presenter's heart as much as the
idea that something inappropriate has slipped into one of their
presentations. Even a blank page can be a cause for conversation for a day
or two. I flipped open my presentation, thinking I was steeling myself for
the worst.

In between page eight and page nine was a six-page story called, "My Slut
Wife." My heart sank into my feet. If Leon had the notes, that meant that
every person scheduled to be at the two p.m. status meeting had them. I
looked at the clock. It was already twenty-five minutes past one. I tore the
extra pages out of the notes and proceeded to try to try to bolt down to the
printing office while making sure there were no other surprises. I managed
to twist my ankle on the stairs, knock over an intern, and get laughed at
when I asked if they could do a fresh run in twenty minutes.

So, back up the stairs I went, favoring my now-twisted ankle, to use the
good photocopier. There were only eighteen people coming to the meeting, so
it wasn't really like I needed the fucking printing office anyway. I could
have done the original batch on the good copier, but that's not The Way
Things Are Done Here.

I thought for sure that the photocopier wouldn't be working or some stupid
bitch from HR would be making ten thousand copies of a birth announcement.
The fucking women at our firm pinch off a flesh loaf so often that sometimes
the copiers can't keep up. I'm always afraid to walk into strange rooms at
work in case there's some woman squatting there, popping out another one on
her cigarette break.

But, either the gods had decided to take mercy on me at that point or they
were all laughing so hard that no one got around to smiting the copier.
Twenty-five copies, collated and stapled later, I limped into the meeting,
ten minutes late.

As soon as people had taken their seats and quieted down, I said, "I've got
some revised presentation notes. Pass back the ones you got via interoffice,
please, and I'll hand out the new ones. There were a few knowing chuckles
and I only got back nine copies.

Surprisingly, I got through the presentation without any wise-ass comments.
It took about ten minutes for me to catch my stride and twenty to start
thinking that I might get out of today alive and employed. After I wrapped
up my forty minute presentation, I'd put the unfortunate events of the
morning behind me.

"Any questions?" I asked.

Paula raised her hand. I pointed to her, "Corbin," she asked, "do you really
get off on watching other men fuck your wife?"

Good old Paula. The only woman on the information security team, she usually
pushed the envelope to prove that she was "just one of the guys." She got a
good laugh and I let it die down before I spoke.

Once I had everyone's attention again, I said, "Actually, no. I don't even
get off watching me fuck her."

I got a bigger laugh. If Paula was miffed at being made my straight man, she
didn't show it. I know the comment was a little harsh, but here's what you
have to understand: The story wasn't mine. I'd printed the presentation out
at home, to save time. There are only three people living in my house and,
while my boy will certainly show an interest in porn if he has any of my
genetics, he's not quite four years old.

The porn was my wife's.

I think I'm a pretty open-minded guy. I understand that a woman has a need
for an active fantasy life. I have to admit, I even found that particular
fantasy to be kind of a turn-on, at least in the abstract. Unfortunately, by
that point, sex had become a bit of a sore subject between my wife and me,
being that we hadn't had any in almost two years. And, it hadn't been
exactly red hot before then, either. We'd had sex twice after my son was
born and maybe six times the year before. After eight years of marriage,
we'd just sort of given up.

It's not that I didn't try. Due to an unfortunate habit of having screaming
nightmares that went back to her childhood and often caused her to flail
uncontrollably, I had fled her bed to take up a base camp in my home office
about three years previously. But, I still made plenty of overtures, some
romantic, some pleading, some insistent. Our last successful coupling had
bordered pretty close to rape, which had seemed to get her off better than
anything I'd tried before. But, when I tried again, she gave me a split lip
for my trouble.

In case my deductive reasoning didn't extend to process of elimination, I'd
also had to fix a printing problem for my wife the previous night. She'd
accidentally set her printout to go to the network printer, the one in my
office. I fixed it and didn't bother to explain what had gone wrong. We'd
had a fight a few years back about my "lording over" her with my computer
knowledge when I tried to explain things. So, I'd stopped explaining.

When I got home, I went through the print basket in my office for anything
else my wife might have accidentally printed to my printer and came up with
another copy of the story with some changes made. That's when I had my
second revelation of the day.

My wife wasn't reading porn. She was writing it--under the byline "The
Watchful Cuckold." Up until that point, I'd always respected her privacy.
But, something broke inside me that night and I installed a packet sniffer
on our home firewall. Soon, I started to get the whole picture. She was
writing not just as "the Watchful Cuckold," but also as "the Willful Wife."
She had a whole online community believing that her two personae were a
married couple that actually occasionally hosted small, exclusive parties
where men would be invited to fuck the Willful Wife while the Watchful
Cuckold watched and enjoyed. Both personae got a ton of e-mail via addresses
she'd set up on AOL, the Willful Wife outdrawing her "husband" by about
three to one. A few of her fans had become bold enough to suggest liaisons.

Once it became obvious that she used the same password for everything, it
was to wait until she was at the market, log in to her system, and set it up
so that I had access to her file system, not just her incoming and outgoing
traffic. It soon became evident that she had been writing for over two years
and received dozens of propositions.

Whatever understanding I'd had up until that point when I started to find
that she had accepted at least a dozen of these liaisons. By my figuring,
she was carrying on at least one affair and maybe a second. She'd had
another and ended it. Three had been one-night stands. Most disturbingly,
she had chosen a half dozen men with whom she arranged to be in some
secluded place at night where they could "happen upon" her and have their
way with her, ostensibly with her cuckolded husband watching from a hidden
place.

Some of the information I found maddeningly incomplete. At some point, she
would take each relationship to the phone and I would lose track of it. For
months, I watched and considered, my anger growing. I started to
deliberately prod my wife.

"Brenda," I said over breakfast one morning, "We should get rid of America
Online. With the DSL, we don't really need it."

She scowled at me, "All of my e-mail goes there."

"I know," I said, "and it looks unprofessional. I have a mail server here. I
could set you up with an e-mail address there."

I could see the gears working for a few seconds before she said, "Corbin,
you know I hate when you lord your vast technical knowledge over me."

"I know, dear," I said meekly, "but, I also know how you hate to waste money
and it's costing us more than two hundred fifty dollars a year."

Trapped, she said, "I need those e-mail addresses."

"More than one?" I asked.

Now, she sounded angry, "Corbin, mind your own business."

"Considering that I make all the money," I said, feigning a rising anger
much less than what I actually felt, "I would think the budget would be my
business."

That started a real rip roarer of a fight. Every time she started to get the
upper hand, I brought it back to the AOL account. Unable to explain that she
couldn't get rid of it because she would then have to ask me to set up her
identitities on the new server, she was soon reduced to incoherent
screaming. Our son came running out of his room to see what was happening. I
made sure that I looked scared then, like his mother was trying to hurt me,
and refused to fight back.

For the first time that night, my son told my wife that he hated her and she
burst into tears. I felt like the biggest, most self-satisfied bastard on
the planet. I'd used our son to get back at her, but considering how many
times she had used him as an anchor, asking me to stay home and watch him
while she went out to fuck someone else, I couldn't feel too badly about it.

Besides, I'd started paying a lot more attention to Lance, my son, since I'd
realized that my wife must be doing something with him during the day in
order to have her liaisons. Brenda had always yelled at me not to
interrogate the boy if I asked him too many questions about his day. Now, I
knew why.

Over the months, I became the model father. I've always loved my son. But,
every time I'd tried to get close to him, I had to deal with Brenda's wrath.
In the past, I'd tried to find an equitable balance, to understand her rage.
Now, I understood it. It was fueled by fear of discovery. She'd been sloppy
and let Lance see too much of what she was doing. He didn't understand, of
course, but he was remarkably observant. Soon, two or three times a week, he
would come and find me in my office before he went to bed and say, "Mommy
told me not to tell, but..."

Brenda had really outsmarted herself. At five years old, Lance had figured
out that anything Mommy told him not to repeat was exactly what daddy would
want to know. Already, he'd joined the conspiracy of men and it made him
seem wise beyond his years.

If you've never been divorced or, if you're divorced and stupid, you may
judge me harshly for using my son like that. But, I'd made a decision. I was
getting rid of Brenda and I was keeping Lance. I knew better than to think
that she would stop short of doing what I did if she came to the same
decision.

After a few months of this sort of treatment, Brenda was starting to look
haggared. She clearly wasn't sleeping well. She didn't know what to do with
me now that I'd grown a spine. She screamed and cried a lot. At first, I had
to scream back. Soon, I was able to be calm and reasonable when she railed.

One Saturday in late July, I was just bringing Lance back from a softball
game. I don't particularly like softball, but it was an excuse to get out of
the gloomy environs of the house on a nice day. Brenda sat on the couch,
eyes rimmed red with tears, hair a mess, no make-up.

"Hey, tiger," I said, "why don't you go out back and play?" Lance nodded and
took off, a bundle of reckless energy.

I sat down in the chair facing her. At that moment, I realized that I still
loved her. As much of a mess as she was, I wanted to hold her and comfort
her. If my ardor for her had been stilled by frustration, it wasn't really
dead. I was still going to have to get rid of her, on account of her being a
psychotic tramp, but I would always love her.

"The nightmares have been getting worse," she said. It was the first time
she'd reached out to me since Lance started sleeping through the night. I
imagine that I would have felt more sympathy if it wasn't less than twelve
hours since she'd finalized plans to be "happened upon" by another one of
her fans.

"What did Dr. Kilmartin have to say?" I asked.

"He wants to up my dosage," said Brenda, "I won't, though. I already feel
like a zombie for an hour every time I take it now."

"Maybe you need a change of scenery," I said. I knew which fight that was
provoking, so I raised my hands defensively, "I know. It's a disorder or a
disease or something medical. But, moping around the house all day, every
day can't be doing it any good."

"Actually," she said, "I'm going out with Vera Friday night. Can you be home
to watch Lance?"

She was going out Friday night to play out her little rape fantasy. So, I
said, "No can do. We're rolling out a new framework on Thursday and Friday.
I'll be at the office late both nights..."

"Corbin," she whined, "can't you get out of it? You have responsibilities as
a father."

"Or," I said, "you could try not going out with your slut friend and letting
me get some work done."

She was shocked for so many reasons. Her face went pale and she couldn't
speak for a long time. She'd never heard me use that word. I hadn't used it
since I was about fourteen. But, her writing was littered with it and far
more misogynistic epithets. But, what really worried her was that I never
should have had a hint that Vera was a slut. If I hadn't been reading my
wife's e-mail, I never would have guessed at her one circumspect little
relationship with a boring, balding man she worked with.

I knew what she was thinking. If I could spot Vera's infidelity, how much
more obvious must her own be?

After a few agonizing seconds, I let her off the hook a little, "Or, you
could just get a sitter."

"He's not old enough for a sitter," said Brenda automatically.

"He's five now," I said, "That's old enough."

"Corbin," she looked sad, "Why do we have to fight about everything?"

I wasn't ready to tell her yet. Soon, she would know why I'd stopped being
so pliable. Instead, I said, "Get a sitter or don't go. Those are your
choices, Brenda."

Her eyes widened, "O-okay. I'll get a sitter."

I raised an eyebrow. Her voice was quiet and deferential. It was not a tone
I could remember hearing from her since she was a waitress and I was a
customer, before we'd started going out.

I decided to try an experiment, so I added, "And clean yourself up. You look
like hell."

"You bastard," she screamed and hurled a vase of fresh-cut flowers at me. If
I were a hero (for lack of a better word,) in one of her stories, I would
drag her, kicking and screaming, into the bathroom, scrub her down, and fuck
her with my eight-inch cock. I didn't have the energy or the equipment, so I
beat a hasty retreat.

That night, after Lance was in bed, Brenda came up to my office. I had to
hastily close a copy of her latest story, in which a husband orders his wife
to fuck a backwoods auto mechanic so he'll take a check, rather than leaving
them stranded. If nothing else, she was getting to be a better writer.

She didn't say anything, just sat on the futon behind my chair, waiting for
me to turn and face her. I took my time, pretending to be engrossed in my
work. When I finally turned, I was surprised to find her freshly scrubbed
and dressed for bed, not in the voluminous, dowdy housecoat she was so fond
of whenever I saw her, but in a silk pajama shirt that left her legs bare.
The sight almost stilled my heart. She looked at least ten years younger
than she did during the day, putting her at roughly her actual twenty-eight
years. But, what took my breath away was something I had managed to forget.
My wife is really quite beautiful. Before Lance, she had a lovely, girlish
figure. She hadn't gotten it back, but the voluptuousness that replaced it
was actually more flattering. With her long, black hair and soulful brown
eyes, she had become quite the looker.

Of course, when I say that I'd forgotten how beautiful she was, I should
mention that I'd never seen this particular incarnation of her beauty. The
last I had seen of her figure, she still had most of the baby weight on, two
years after Lance was born. She hadn't done this for me. She'd done it for
her legions of adoring fans.

"Is something wrong with your computer?" I asked.

"No," she said, "I was just getting ready to go to bed."

I knew what she was asking, knew that I could have her that night if I
wanted to. Strangely, I'd figured out what I would have to do to keep her
and make her happy, at least for a time. But, it wouldn't last. She fucked
around because she didn't respect me. I couldn't respect her because she
fucked around. Based on that, as much as I still loved her and as beautiful
as she was, I found that I didn't want her.

"I've got a lot of work to do here." I said, turning my back on her, "Have a
good night."

That night, for the first time ever, I thought of her when I masturbated. I
no longer had the respect that had kept me from casting her in my dark
desires. In my mind's eye, I raped her, beat her, took her anally while
other men fucked her and treated roughly. Then, I tied her to a crossbeam in
an old abandoned barn and beat her with a leather strap. By that time, I was
fading between waking and sleep. I dreamed that I beat her once too often
with the strap and killed her. Then, I woke, coming into my own hand.

I should have taken notes. It wouldn't have made a bad story.

               -=-

By the middle of August, I had decided to serve her with divorce papers.
Actually, I had decided that by June. What took another six weeks to decide
was whether or not to go through with my mad plan before I did.

Leon was sitting in my office, shooting the breeze. The nature of IT
security creates a lot of hurry up and wait time. I knew if any friend of
mine would help me with this, he would.

"Hey, Leon," I asked, "do you remember that story that accidentally got
stuck in my presentation a few months back?"

"Do I?" asked Leon emphatically, "I particularly liked the bit where the
husband makes his wife take it up the ass from his boss." He thought he
would embarass me.

I laughed, "Did you know that story wasn't mine?"

He leaned forward, figuring he was about to get some good office gossip,
"So, whose was it?"

"Brenda's," I said.

"Your wife?" he looked doubtful, "She doesn't really seem the type to read
that sort of thing."

"I wouldn't have thought so, either." I said, "But, I did some checking. Not
only does she read it, she writes it--tons of it. She's up over two hundred
stories now. And they're all the same. Wife gets fucked while husband
watches."

I could already see Leon calculating behind his eyes, "Really?"

I changed the subject, "Do you still take care of the old Vandevoort house
up on Cortlandt Street?"

"Sort of," he said, "I get a check every month, then pay kids to do all the
actual work."

"Brenda's birthday is next Saturday," I said, "I want to throw her a party
there, one I think she'll really enjoy."

"Really?" Leon asked, "Do you think she'll go for it?"

"She'll go for it," I said confidently. I had no intention of giving her a
choice, but Leon didn't need to know that.

Suddenly, Leon looked suspicious, "Am I invited?"

I laughed, "You sure are. I need you to organize a few things."

I really had his attention now, "Like what?"

"I want it to be a nice party," I said, "A sformal affair. This is not just
some back-alley gangbang. White tablecloth, fancy dress. Any guy who can't
clean up and wear a tux or at least a suit isn't welcome. Also, I need you
to find me a couple of beefy-looking black guys. They're in more than half
her stories. I want them to be guys you know and trust enough to play by the
rules. Also, invite a couple of other guys. Make sure they all know the
rules. Nobody hits her. Nobody calls her names. Nobody gets in her pussy
without a condom, so they'd better bring them. Anybody can't follow the
rules, they're out. I'll cover all of the expenses, food, champagne,
etcetera."

"You're really serious, aren't you?" Leon asked.

"I really love my wife," I said, "I just figure it's about time she finds
out what that means."

                            -=-

The change to my personality that week was not at all subtle. Brenda's
fiction was full of arrogant men who demanded what they wanted from women
and got it. But, there was no primer on how to get from point A to point B.
If this was going to play out, I was going to have to learn my role. To my
own ears, my dialogue sounded trite and contrived. But, it seemed to have
the desired effect. At first, Brenda resisted. But, after a few days of my
speaking to her only in commands and blanket statements, she began to
respond. She became obedient to a fault, began dressing better, and started
openly flirting with me. If she hadn't betrayed me, I'm sure I would have
been quite aroused.

My plan was brilliant. For two weeks, I would treat my wife the way the men
in her stories treated theirs. I had never treated a woman like that. I
always believed that women were meant to be cherished and honored. But, I
learned quickly. I subtly treated my wife like a whore, worthy of only scorn
and command. The only thing I couldn't bring myself to do was fuck her. She
might as well have been dead for all of the lust she raised in me.

In hindsight, the fact that my wife responded so well to that treatment
should have been the tipoff that my plans were not as foolproof as I
thought.

With a week to go, I came into her bedroom just as she was laying in to bed
for the night. Under my arm, I had a package wrapped in silver paper. She
looked up inquisitively.

"Get up," I said, "I have a present for you."

A month ago, the tone of my voice would have prompted a screaming match.
Now, she sat up obediently.

"This is for you to wear on your birthday," I said.

"Where are we going for my birthday?" she asked, ripping into the paper like
a child.

"To a party," I said.

"Where?" she asked.

"Too many questions," I answered, "It's a surprise."

She frowned, "You know I hate surprises."

"You'll like this one," I informed her, "Open the box."

She did. As she pulled the dress out, her eyes widened.

"I couldn't possibly..." she said.

"You can and you will," I insisted, "If you need to, get it altered by
then."

She stared at the dress, then at me. I kept my face unyielding before
turning to go.

"Would you like me to try it on?" she asked.

Strangely, I hadn't thought of that. The idea pleased me, though. I may not
want to fuck her, but it had been a long time since I had seen my wife
naked. I can't explain why I would want one and not the other. But, I did.

I leaned against the doorframe, my posture arrogant, "Yes. Try it on."

She stripped, slowly and deliberately, unbuttoning her green silk pajama
shirt, although I knew she could just slip it over her head. It was all she
wore. Now, she stood naked before me.

"You've become very beautiful since I saw you like this last."

She looked startled by the comment. She even blushed. My whore wife blushed.

"I still don't have my figure back," she said.

"I like you better this way," I told her, "You were too skinny before."

Everything I told her was the truth. It may have been bent to a specific
purpose, but it was all true.

She slid the dress over her head. The dress was black with spaghetti straps
and no back at all. It even showed a hint of ass cleavage. She blushed
again.

"I couldn't possibly wear this," she protested, "It's indecent."

"You will wear it," I said.

She looked up at me, "Corbin, what's gotten into you? It's like you're a
totally different person lately."

I laughed, "I could say the same of you."

She examined herself closely in the mirror, twisting this way and that.

"Make sure it's ready for Saturday," I said. For the second time, I turned
to go.

"Corbin," she said. I turned to face her. When she spoke again, it was only
a whisper, "You could stay if you wanted."

"Patience, Brenda," I said, "On your birthday, you'll get what's coming to
you."

                                  -=-

I would have thought that line was so over the top that I'd given away the
whole game. But, Brenda seems oblivious to it. By that point, we were both
in thrall to the fantasies we'd written for ourselves. I still didn't
entirely understand Brenda's fantasy, even as I helped her play it out. It
was still an act, one I could never have maintained as a loving husband. But
most of the time, it was so alien to me that I might as well have been
speaking Mandarin phonetically.

Tuesday afternoon, Leon knocked on my office door, waiting deferentially on
the other side of the doorway as if the door were actually closed.

"Come on in, Leon," I said.

He came in, standing uncertainly in the center of the room. This is a very
unusual pose for Leon. He has a natural arrogance that makes women want him
and men want to be him. But, I had him rattled. Whatever wildness he had in
his past, I had trumped him so badly that even his role as my lieutenant
raised his stature in his own eyes.

"Have a seat," I offer.

He sits, "What did you say to John Taylor?"

I dismissed the question, "John Taylor is a fool." I knew it wasn't what
Leon came to talk about.

Still, he persisted, "That fool is in his office crying."

I shrugged, "What did you come in here to talk to me about? Is there a
problem with the planning?"

"No," he said, "everything's ready. But, I have a question?" I didn't say
anything. He seemed to be bracing himself. I gave him his time. Eventually,
the silence became so awkward, he had to speak, "Are you sure Brenda will go
for this. Because, I don't want to..."

I cut him off, "It doesn't matter what she wants."

His eyes widened, "What?"

I didn't repeat myself, "Brenda will do as she's told."

"You're sure?" he asked. He looked like he was losing his nerve.

It didn't matter. If everything was ready, he was in much too deep to pull
back. Still, I gave him a small reassurance, "I'm sure." I wasn't, entirely.
If she put up too much of a fuss too soon in the process, it might still be
ruined. But, that's not really the question he's asking.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" he asked.

Looking at Leon, I felt a momentary contempt for him. I'd chosen him because
he was the edgiest guy I knew. The idea had stripped away his braggadocio.
Asking if he could ask a question was the sort of behavior I liked him for
never doing.

"Leon," I said patiently, "you're organizing a gangbang for my wife. I'm
pretty sure that, if anyone can ask me a personal question without getting
permission first, it would be you."

He chuckled nervously, then said seriously, "Why are you doing this?"

I considered the question. I could dissemble and reassure him some more, but
there's no need. He was already committed to seeing it through by both
action and self-image. So, I answered him truthfully, "After this is over,
I'm divorcing her. But, just letting her go would be a gift. She's...she's
done too much to be let off so easy."

Leon was so focused on what I was saying next that nothing could have broken
his gaze. I relished the attention for just a moment before going on, "For
years, I've just consigned myself to our marriage. Brenda used this fantasy
of hers to escape without telling me and without granting me the same
priviledge. So, I want to give her the fantasy, down to the last detail, as
much as is really possible. I want to strip away that fantasy and let her
see what the reality is behind it. Then, I can let her go."

Leon looked like he wanted to say something more, but then changed his mind.
Instead, he asked, "What if she decides it's rape?"

I shrugged as if I had not spent weeks hammering out that little detail,
"She may. She won't go to the police if she does. She has too many secrets
and I know all of them. If there were a trial, it would be all over the news
and I would tell all her secrets." I wished I were as confident about this
part as I sounded.

"So, then," he persisted, "why all the rules? Why not just have a gangbang
and get it over with?"

"I want it to be perfect," I answered, "I don't want her to be able to say
that it was bad because anything went wrong. I want to destroy the fantasy
completely."

Leon seemed mollified, "This is going to be something." I just smiled. It
would certainly be that.

                             -=-

Unbelievably, at the same time she was trying to seduce me, Brenda had
arranged another liaison for that Wednesday night. When she claimed to have
a church council meeting that night and I told her we would need a sitter,
she didn't even ask for an explanation.

Her plan was to be in Orchard Square at ten p.m. It was a good one. Orchard
Square is surrounded on four sides by office buildings. During the day, it's
a bustle of activity. At night, it's basically deserted. Unbelievably,
Brenda had so little fear of me finding her out that she didn't seem to care
that I can see all of Orchard Square from my office window. Maybe she just
thought I couldn't make out faces from sixteen stories up. And, she
certainly didn't know that I'd bought a pair of military-grade binoculars
with which to watch her.

She'd obviously considered her route carefully. She wandered into the
square, then out to one of the secluded nooks and crannies where she could
be safely assaulted. I wondered if she had considered the possibility that
she might actually be raped by some random man who noticed her behavior. I
wondered if she cared.

She kept checking her watch. Apparently, her designated rapist had stood her
up. Poor Brenda was already learning that fantasy and reality didn't always
match up.

After wandering around for a half hour or so, Brenda sat down on one of the
benches almost directly under my building. Unable to resist the urge, I
picked up my office phone and dialed her cell. Surprisingly, she had it with
her and answered.

"Brenda," I said, "I'm still at the office. How did everything go with the
church meeting?"

She sighed, "The usual. Vera and I went out for drinks afterwards."

I did my best to sound alarmed, "You're not home, yet? Brenda, who's
babysitting?"

"Jessica Klein," she said.

"Doesn't she have school tomorrow?" I asked.

"She's probably sound asleep," said Brenda, "I'm on my way home now."

"All right," I said, "I'll see you there."

It took me another hour to leave. As I watched her, I wrote up a story about
a man who watches his wife from a high window with binoculars, knowing she
is waiting for her lover. When it becomes obvious that she's been stood up,
he goes down to street level and stalks her, throwing a bag over her head
and raping her over the hood of the car he bought her. I thought it was
pretty hot and posted it to the same forum where Brenda put her writing,
signing it "The Vengeful Cuckhold."

Thursday, I took my list of Brenda's lovers and intended lovers and began
dialing each in turn, formally inviting them to the party, telling them the
rules, and threatening them with banishment if they ruined the surprise.
When I called, I introduced myself as the Watchful Cuckold. A few seemed
surprised to realize that I even existed.

Friday, as I was cleaning out my many throwaway e-mail accounts, I got to
the one I used to post my story. There are a half dozen comments on my
story, all of them positive. The most glowing one is from Brenda, who said
she wished more people would write on the subject as well as I did.

Before I went home Friday night, I deliberately broke the lock on the
passenger-side door of my car.

Most of the day Saturday, I spent in my office, considering the enormity of
what I was doing. I was determined to go through with it. We had a little
ceremony for Brenda's birth with cake and presents. I gave her a
delicate-looking golden waist chain and put it on her myself.

After I had tucked Lance in and Brenda had picked up the babysitter, we
dressed for the party. After she had showered and dried her hair, she turned
to the wardrobe to get the dress. Standing behind her, already dressed in
the new suit I had bought myself for the event, I leaned down and kissed the
back of her neck, something I had not done in years. A shiver ran through
her whole body and she leaned back against me. It was, of course, a Judas
kiss, but she didn't know that.

I opened the car door for her. "What a gentleman," she said.

"Actually," I said as I got in on my side, "The lock's broken on that side.
I need to get it fixed."

She laughed, "You're not planning on getting fresh with the babysitter, are
you?"

I shrugged, pulling out into the street, "A man's got to get it where he
can."

She stared at me, the shock and hurt evident in her face. In spite of
everything, I was sorely tempted to apologize. Eventually, Brenda changed
the subject, "So," she said, "you still haven't told me anything about this
party."

"Leon will be there," I said simply.

She made a face, "I don't like him very much."

"Really?" I asked, "I would have thought you would be quite attracted to
him."

She looked shocked and a little angry, "What on Earth would make you say
something like that?"

I shrugged, "He seems like one of the heroes in your stories, the ones who
fuck the wife while the husband watches."

She blanched. It took her a long time to find her voice, "You know about
those?"

I nodded, "All two hundred eight of them."

She was starting to sweat a little, watching me warily, like a caged animal.

"What do you think of them?" she asked quietly.

"I think they're disgusting," I answered. "I think you're disgusting for
writing them."

"Oh," she looked crestfallen. What had she expected me to say?

"They're just fantasies," she said weakly.

"Not after tonight," I said, grinning cruelly.

She paled further, "Corbin, no...You can't...I won't." There was no strength
behind her words, "What makes you think I would go along with something like
that?"

"Because you're a whore," I said simply, "They're not just fantasies, are
they, Brenda? How many men did you fuck before I caught on? I know of less
than a dozen."

Her shoulders slumped and she bowed her head. What little fire she'd have
left eked out of her, "That's about right."

"Hey," I said, savoring the moment, "don't look so glum. I'm giving you
everything you ever wanted. If you behave yourself, there will be a lovely
dinner first."

She was crying, "And then you're going to give me to Leon Meyer?"

"Among others."

Her head shot up, "How many others?"

I shrugged, "If everyone shows up, a baker's dozen. I doubt they all will,
though. Some of them sounded a lot less confident on the phone than they did
in your e-mail."

Now, she was mad, "You've been reading my e-mail?"

"I've been reading everything," I said. "I used to respect your privacy,
until I realized how badly you were abusing my trust. I know all of your
secrets, Brenda."

She started crying more freely now. I let her.

"Who else did you invite?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"Beyond the men you chose for yourself, I let Leon choose the guest list."

She was bawling now.

"Stop it," I said sharply, "Stop crying. Clean your face. Reapply your
makeup. I want you to look good tonight."

She nodded glumly and did as she was told.

"And, don't be petulent," I said, "This party is in your honor. I expect you
to be gracious."

"Please," she begged, "don't make me."

"Brenda," I lectured, "you will do nothing to embarass me tonight. If you
do, I will take you home and take my belt to you until long after you stop
enjoying it." I was guessing. She hadn't mentioned any sort of beatings in
her stories and I had never laid a hand on her.

There was a weird glow behind her eyes that I couldn't read. It looked like
religious zealotry.

"All right, Corbin," she said meekly, "I'll behave."

                                   -=-

When God needs a loan, he asks the Vandevoorts. Their summer house, the one
Leon is the nominal caretaker for is not the biggest on the lake, but it's
close enough not to matter. They use it maybe one or two weeks out of the
year, when they want to go boating or just see how the other 99% live. In
addition to taking care of the mowing and dusting and such, Leon also
provides the security when the owners are not home. That means two high
school kids at the front gate, even though I'm sure the Vandevoorts are
paying for more. They checked our names off on a clipboard and told us to
drive through.

Leon was waiting on the portico as we pulled up. When he saw Brenda, he gave
her that smile that she hates so much. Tonight, she smiled back.

"Brenda," he said, "so glad you could make it."

"Thank him," I whispered fiercely in her ear. Then, I realized it was
unnecessary. She'd already been about to, automatically.

"Thank you, Leon," she said softly, "is everyone here?"

"With the two of you, we are ten tonight," he said, offering Brenda his arm.
I held out a hand, indicating that I would lead her inside.

"Tell Beavis and Butthead down at the gate that no one else is to be
admitted tonight," I said. "Anyone who can't be on time is not welcome.

The dining room in the Vandevoort house is entered via a long, sweeping
staircase. It is designed to facilitate the making of a grand entrance. With
Brenda on my arm, we could have snuck in through the servants' quarters and
made the same effect.

 From their pictures on her hard drive, I recognize one of Brenda's current
lovers and one of her former. Two of the men she's had one-night stands
with. One is the erstwhile rapist who stood her up earlier in the week. I
don't recognize the other white guy, except that he's a dimly-remembered
friend of Leon's who may have met Brenda once or twice. The last two guest
were black and huge, well over six feet tall. The first is Gregory Swinton,
who I had thought was gay because he is so soft-spoken and gentle. The other
one is some local sports celebrity, barely out of high school. Every one of
them was staring up at us as we descended, eying Brenda hungrily. Her legs
started to tremble and I worried that she would bolt.

"Don't you dare bolt," I growled.

"I won't," she said, "Just keep me from falling, please."

I led her to the head of the table. Every eye in the room tracked her as we
walked. She pulled at me to go faster. I slowed down, forcing her to a more
liesurely gait.

As I presented her at the head of the table, Brenda whispered, "Corbin, who
are these men? I don't recognize all of them."

I shrugged, "That's Greg Swinton, sitting by Tom Cole. The boy across from
him is a local kid who plays tailback at UCLA. The man on Leon's left is an
old friend of his, from college I think. I don't recognize the man on his
right."

Her eyes showed a new fear, "You don't recognize him?"

"I've never seen him before," I said, "I told Leon to get the appropriate
types."

Her breathing quickened, "Corbin, I can't do this."

I knew better, "Greet your guests. Tell them to enjoy dinner." I stepped
away, not giving her time to protest.

Standing in front of her chair at the head of the table, Brenda said softly,
"Thank you all for coming. Please enjoy your dinner." It was not
particularly memorable oratory, but the men around the table applauded.

Dinner was shrimp cocktail, tossed salad, and a smoked salmon dish.
Waitresses dressed in formal black and white whisked in and out with each
course, not speaking. I nodded to Leon to indicate my approval of this
touch. The presence of caterers who knew nothing about what was happening
next kept everyone in line. After about ten awkwardly quiet minutes,
conversation started and eventually became quite animated. The topics of
conversation seemed to touch on everything but fucking my wife, which suited
me just fine.

Brenda tried to only pick at her food until I instructed her to eat. After
the food was gone, we sat and drank coffee for about a half an hour. I took
the opportunity to talk to everyone at least once. Tom Cole, Brenda's former
lover, tried to breach the subject of the night's entertainment, but I
raised a warning finger and inclined my head towards the kitchen.

Once coffee had been cleared away, I whispered to Brenda, "If you have to
freshen up, this is your last chance." Brenda nodded and started to rise. I
stood up first, pushing her down gently by the shoulder. She looked up
questioningly. I didn't answer, instead walking over to the waitress who was
preparing the champagne.

"I need a favor," I said, "There's a hundred in it for you."

She looked me up and down and said, "All right."

Taking just a moment to wonder what she would do for a hundred dollars, I
said, "Escort my wife to the bathroom. Escort her back. If she tries to run
away from you, come back and get me."

Her eyes were full of curiosity, "Why...?"

I held up a folded one hundred dollar bill and tore it down the middle
before handing her one half, "No questions. When you come back, you get the
other half of this."

I turned to another waitress who was obviously eavesdropping, "Pour the
champagne. Clear the last of the dishes, change the tablecloth," I said,
"Then, clear out of here. There's a bonus for all of you if you can get out
within five minutes of my wife coming back."

A dignified flurry of activity followed. Most of the caterers were out
before Brenda got back, escorted by the waitress.

"Any problems with her?" I asked, handing her the other half of the bill.

"No, sir," the waitress said, "By the way, my name's Sandy. If you need
anything else, you can call the caterer and ask for me."

I looked down at Brenda, who was flashing bolts of pure hatred out of her
eyes at Sandy. In her position, I would have done the same.

"Thank you, Sandy," I said, "I'll keep that in mind. Now, you'd better get
out of here before you cost everyone the bonus I promised them."

After Sandy had beat a hasty retreat, Brenda whispered to me, "I can't
believe you were flirting with her."

"Brenda, dear," I said, smiling, "You're about ten minutes away from being
gang banged by a roomful of men you barely know. Try to keep some
perspective."

She sagged against me a little, holding on to my arm for support. Looking up
at me, she asked, "Are you really going to go through with it?"

It wasn't a question worthy of an answer. Instead, I reached down to the
table, picking up two glasses of champagne and indicated to the others to do
the same.

Raising my glass in a toast, I said, "To my wife on her thirtieth birthday.
May she get everything she ever wanted." As we drank, I reached over with my
free hand and undid the knot at the back of her neck, causing her dress to
fall away and leaving her completely naked except for the waist chain, her
necklace, and her high-heeled shoes.

As I stepped back, the men started to form a loose circle around her. Brenda
suddenly got a scared look on her face as she realized the enormity of what
was about to happen. She looked at me pleadingly. I smiled, not
unsympathetic, but clearly not about to step in.

Finally, she tried to bolt. But, it was much too late. Washington, the
football player, caught her around the waist, lifted her over his head, and
carried her back to the dining room table where he slammed her down on her
back harder than was strictly necessary, knocking the wind out of her and
making the table shake. When she raised her hands in protest, he made as if
to slap her. Stepping in quickly, I caught his wrist.

"Hey," I said sharply, "that's my wife you're slapping." I could tell by the
look in his eyes that he didn't fully understand, but it didn't matter. I
indicated with my head, "Back of the line with you." The other men jeered
and laughed at him as he stalked away.

As I did this, Brenda clutched at me. I looked down at her, saw the pleading
in her eyes. But, she wasn't looking around, trying to escape. She was
looking straight at me. I took her hand in mine and guided her back down so
that she was lying on her back.

Leon approached next. He was still fully dressed and looked at me, asking
permission. I nodded. He crouched over Brenda, hands on her breasts, lips on
her belly. She gasped and closed her eyes.

Now sitting in the chair next to her head, I growled, "Open your eyes and
don't make me tell you again."

Brenda nodded, opening her eyes. Surprising myself, I leaned forward and
kissed her on the forehead.

To my surprise, Leon let his mouth drift down between Brenda's legs. With
his hands gripping her buttocks, he began to lick her vigorously. Brenda
started shuddering almost immediately. Apparently, all of the excitement had
left her in a high state of readiness. Leon continued licking, eliciting
moans and gasps the likes of which I had not heard in a long time.

"Oh, Corbin," she moaned, "I'm coming."

I laughed, feeling an oddly triumphant rush that she had felt the need to
tell me rather than the man actually pleasuring her. Of course, the way her
legs were wrapped around his ears, he probably wouldn't have heard it
anyway.

The other men were apparently mollified by Washington's punishment, didn't
rush Leon, who seemed content to take his time. Instead, they stood in a
loose semicircle around the end of the table. As Leon continued to lick her,
Brenda came and came now, far more intensely than I had ever seen.

A feeling of uneasiness began to creep over me, but I pushed it down because
I'd gotten the germ of an idea. Leon finally stood in front of her, between
her legs. As he undid his pants, I saw him look to Brenda for permission.
Brenda nodded to him. Soon, he was inside of her, pumping away in a steady
rhythm. Brenda leaned up to put her hands on his ass, driving him deeper
into her.

At first, I assumed that Brenda was just a whore, getting off on being
treated like one, but as I watched Leon touch and kiss her, I realized that
he knew just where to touch, just how to stroke. It was information I could
easily recall, even though it had long laid dormant. It was not generic
woman information either. It was Brenda information. Leon had obviously
fucked Brenda before, enough times that remembering how came to him without
thought.

When Leon came inside of her, it was like electricity. Brenda arched her
back, lifting herself off of the table, into his arms, kissing him on the
mouth as he lowered her down. She came even after he pulled out of her.

Before he could step away, I said, "I hope you all got a good look at that,
because I have a new rule. If you fuck my wife and she doesn't come, you're
done." Reaching down to pet back a bit of her sweat-soaked hair, I said,
"Considering what a good job Leon has done of priming the pump, you should
have no problems for a while." I couldn't help but notice that she blushed
at this.

Anyone who tries to recount to you the details of a gangbang after the fact
is either doing some creative embellishment or has a much better memory than
I do. I know that the next man to take her was the would-be rapist from
earlier in the week, but I've forgotten his name. By the fourth man, Tom
Cole, I believe it was, Brenda was crying silently, but still coming loudly.
When Washington finally got his chance to fuck her, he was naked and muscled
like a Greek god. He was also merciless, pounding into her like he blamed
her for his banishment.

As long as he didn't break any of my rules, I let him continue. Brenda was
certainly coming hard enough for him. I began to wonder at what point in the
evening she would have come more in that one night than in our entire
relationship.

Up until a point, he had been making unintelligible noises while he fucked
her, interspersed with an occasional, "Yeah!" But, on a particularly violent
orgasm, he said, "Yeah, bitch. You like that, don't you?"

I stood up, putting my hand on his shoulder. The other men crowded around
him, looking angry, like he was ruining their fun.

"I warned you, man," I said, "No name calling. You're done."

He looked at me, eyes glazed with lust. Already, other men were reaching for
him, to pull him off of Brenda. But, Brenda pulled on my pants leg. I
crouched down next to her.

"Please," she begged in a whisper, "don't send him away. I liked it. I want
him to call me worse."

I stood up so that Brenda couldn't see how angry I was at that moment. The
men saw, though. With the exception of Washington, who looked like he might
make trouble, they all backed off a step or more.

By the time I spoke, I had regained my composure, "My wife," I said evenly,
"has asked me to give you leniency. So, I'm going to. But, the next time
someone even comes near breaking a rule, it's over for all of you."

Washington nodded and started fucking her again. Again, I put my hand on his
shoulder.

When he looked up, I said, "I think that table must be pretty uncomfortable
by now. Why don't you bring her over to the couches." The dining room was so
big that there was a sitting area to one end, with three couches gathered
around a currently-unlit fireplace.

Washington nodded. As he was letting Brenda up, I reached over for one of
the salad dressing dispensers, pulling out the oil bottle, and handing it to
Washington.

"She's got more than one way she likes being fucked," I said, "but you'll
need this."

Brenda looked at me alarmed. She had, to my knoweldge, never had anal sex.
But, she wrote about it so much that I had a feeling that was a deficiency
in my knowledge, not her experience. She still shrieked like a banshee for a
while when he first penetrated her. Despite the fact that he was only here
by her good graces, Washington showed no sign of lessening his punishment of
my wife, throwing her over the back of the couch that faces away from the
dining room table and directly towards the fireplace.

I didn't particularly like Washington. I'd chosen him to take Brenda's ass
first because I hoped he would want to hurt her for a while and he had the
biggest cock I had ever seen that wasn't attached to livestock. I had chosen
him to anally rape my wife by proxy. I couldn't tell if she tried to stop
him, but it didn't matter. Now that she was more accessible, there were
hands and heads all over her. I could barely see Brenda among the crowd.

While she was squealing like a stuck pig and I imagined that it was me
instead of Washington pounding her ass, I was so hard and ready, I thought I
might come in my pants. But, as he protests faded and were replaced by the
more conventional sounds of pleasure I'd heard earlier, I started to lose
prurient interest, sitting and sipping my champagne as the night wore on.

After he finished ass-fucking Brenda, Leon came over and sat down next to
me, grabbing a glass for himself.

"She's quite a lady," he said.

I thought it was an odd word to use at this point, but didn't see any point
in contradicting him. Instead, I asked, "So, when was the first time you
fucked her?"

He looked surprised, but tried to make a go at it, "About two hours ago. You
were watching."

I laughed, rich and throaty, "Don't you think we've moved past the point
where you have to bullshit me?"

"About two years before you got married, more or less," he answered finally.

I almost broke the stem of my champagne glass, I was gripping it so hard.

"And, is it still going on?" I asked as calmly as I could.

"Nah," he said, "It ended when she got pregnant."

So, my wife had only fucked my best friend for six years. At least it hadn't
meant anything.

I didn't keep track, but it seemed like everyone stayed long enough to fuck
Brenda in the ass before they left. Most didn't need the rule I'd made on
the fly. After two or three of their own orgasms, they were spent. They then
collected up their things, took their leave of me, and went home. Several
told me what a good party I'd thrown. Washington told me to call him the
next time I needed a big, black dick. I wanted to punch him in the mouth.

Finally, it was only Leon and me sitting at the table and Brenda lying on a
couch, dozing slightly. Someone had found a blanket and covered her.

Neither of us had said anything for a while when I turned to Leon.

"Give me the keys," I said, "I'll lock up."

Leon nodded, gave me the keys, and left. For a long time, I just sat and
watched her sleep. Finally, I got up, walked over to where she was sleeping,
and stood over her. She opened her eyes.

"So," I asked, "was it everything you ever wanted?"

She groaned a little, then said, "I'm sore in places I didn't even know I
had. I will have many, many bruises after this. But, it was wonderful."

I stared at her like she had crawled out of the pit of hell itself. She sat
up a little, "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Wonderful?" I shouted, "Wonderful? I just watched eight men treat you like
a piece of meat, fucking you for the sake of their own lust, competing over
you, treating you like the biggest whore I've ever seen. And you say it's
wonderful?"

She sat up completely now. This part of the room was unlit and, in the
moonlight, she glistened in all sorts of places where she normally shouldn.t

"Corbin," she said, "listen to yourself. If it were you and eight women,
wouldn't you think it was pretty wonderful?"

Before I could think too hard on it, I shouted, "That's not the point. How
would you feel watching me and eight women?"

"I don't know," she said, wincing as she tried to shrug, "We'd have to give
it a try and see."

I leapt up. I'd completely lost my composure now. I turned to flee, back up
past the table where we'd had a lovely dinner followed by a relatively
orderly gangbang.

"Corbin," she called out. The anguish was so clear in her voice that I froze
and turned to face her.

She rose from the couch, naked except for the waist chain now, and began to
walk towards me. She walked more or less evenly, which seemed wrong somehow.
She should have at least tottered.

"Please don't leave me," she begged.

I fought myself until regained my composure, "You're a whore."

She reached me, hugged me around the neck, "Yes," she said, "I am." She
didn't even sound apologetic.

I detatched her arms from my neck, pushing her to her knees by the
shoulders. She looked up at me expectantly.

"Tell me," I said, "is Lance mine or Leon's?"

She started to cry, head lowered, sobs rocking her shoulders.

"Answer the question," I said, my voice ringing hollow.

She looked up, her face a mask of tears, melted makeup, and less
identifiable substances, "Leon's, I think. The timing wasn't right for it to
be you. But, I told Leon he was almost certainly yours."

Her eyes were pleading, but I didn't know for what. I looked down at her, my
voice full of scorn, "You're a whore, a filthy, worthless whore."

She nodded, "Yes, I am."

"Why, Brenda," I asked, "Why did you have to fuck around on me like you did,
all those years?"

She spoke quietly, "Because I wanted to be treated like a whore and you
wouldn't do it."

Slowly, gravely, I reached up and lowered my zipper. Brenda stared at my
semi-erect cock like it offered absolution.

"Open your mouth," I ordered. She did.

For a moment, I didn't think I could do it. Then, I thought about everything
she had done, behind my back, for so long, and it was easy. I pissed on my
wife's face, in her mouth, down her chest. She didn't try to avoid it, only
closed her eyes, like she had expected.

When I'd finally finished, I looked down at Brenda, waiting for her to open
her eyes.

I said, "You're a whore, Brenda, and you disgust me. Go clean yourself up so
we can go home."

While Brenda showered, I went and found a mop to clean up the puddle I'd
made on the floor. There was no reason anyone else needed to see it.

We drove home in complete silence, facilitated by the fact that Brenda slept
most of the way.

                                    -=-

The babysitter was asleep on the couch when we got home. I woke her to drive
her home. She fell asleep too, which was just as well, since I was in no
mood to talk. I did notice that she was wearing a short, clingy skirt that
rode up her thighs, even causing her underwear to peek out at me when she
shifted one time too many. Naturally, I didn't touch her. I'm not a monster.

When I got home, Brenda was in bed. I woke her.

"This is my bed," I said. "Get out."

She sat up, "Where should I sleep?"

"The floor, the couch," I said, "I don't care."

"Can I sleep at your feet?" she asked.

"Fine," I said, "but if you start flailing in your sleep, I'm kicking you on
the floor."

                                -=-

I didn't go to work Monday so that I could serve Brenda with the divorce
papers while Lance was at school. I had found that I didn't love my son any
less now that I knew he probably wasn't mine.

Brenda looked at the papers blankly, "What are these?"

"Divorce papers," I said, "What were you expecting?"

She started to cry, "Why, Corbin? I thought things were finally starting to
get good."

I will never understand my wife. I stared down at her honest, open face. She
was serious.

"How can you say that?" I asked.

"You...were just starting to get comfortable with treating me like a whore,"
she said.

I considered what she was saying. I hadn't gotten comfortable with it at
all, but it was possible to imagine a day when I would. With no makeup on,
her hair down, and a look of supplication on her face, she looked very young
and vulnerable.

I thought about Lance. Considering my lack of actual paternity, pissing on
his mother, and the whole gangbang thing, some more conservative judges
might not see me as a fit parent. I closed my eyes, thinking back to a
simpler time, before we were married, when I had been full of love and lust
for his mother. Dimly, I started to feel a fresh stirring I had not felt in
a long time.

"Stand up," I said hoarsely, "Take your clothes off."

Brenda nodded, rose, and let her robe slide off of her. She really was a
beautiful woman.

I moved to the far side of the room, stripping out of my clothes as I went,
"Come here." I ordered her.

She came over, kneeling in front of me when she arrived. I forced her to
stand back up, kissing her gently on the mouth.

"You're a whore," I growled. She nodded. I pushed my fingers indelicately
between her legs. She gasped, but did not try to pull away. I let my fingers
run roughshod inside of her, sliding one out and up her ass. She started to
breath shallowly.

"Worthless whore," I added. She nodded more emphatically. My other hand
squeezed and pinched her breasts. She cried out a few times, but was
obviously getting off on it, too.

I spun her around, pinning her against the couch, pressing myself against
her back, my fingers sliding into her again.

"No more men I don't make you fuck," I said.

"No," she said, "No more. I promise."

"I take over the Watchful Cuckhold e-mail address," I said.

Her eyes widened, "You would want that?"

I nodded, "You do what I say, when I say."

She surged towards orgasm, "Oh, God. Yes."

"I don't promise I'll make other men fuck you," I warned.

"That's okay," she said, "as long as you treat me like a whore."

"You are a whore," I said emphatically.

"I know," she whispered. Then, she looked mischievous, "What are you going
to do about it?"

I bent her over the couch, ass in the air. Then, I fucked her just enough to
get my cock wet before sliding out and ramming it into her ass. I may not be
as big as Washington, but her soreness and the general lack of lubrication
helped me produce the same squeals of pain and protest, eventually fading to
pleasure.

"You're a whore," I shouted now.

"Oh God, yes!" Brenda shouted back.

"A filthy whore," I informed her.

"Worse than that," she taunting.

"Cunt," I shouted, "foul, rancorous cunt."

"Oh God, yes!" she shouted, coming as she did.

I kept pounding her, hurling obscenities and insults as I went. The harder I
fucked, the worse the insults became and the harder she came. Focusing on my
own pleasure, I was relentless. Eventually, I came, big, white gobs filling
and covering her ass, squirting up her back and dripping down her legs.

"I hate you," I muttered in her ear.

She laughed, "I hate you too. Isn't it nicer than not caring?"

"I will never understand you," I said, still inside of her.

"Can you live with that?" she asked.

I nodded against the back of her head, "I can, provided you do what you're
told."

She didn't answer, but I had a good feeling that she would.

Everything You Ever Wanted
by Vulgar Argot
(F/M+, reluc, humil, D/s, piss)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+