124 comments/ 155999 views/ 48 favorites The Call of Blood By: cloacas The questions swirled around my brain the whole week Amy was away. Should I confront her? Should I change the locks? Should I divorce her? It wouldn't be easy throwing away four years of marriage, but I wasn't going to stand for her cheating, not when we'd worked so hard to patch things up after the first time, not after she'd sworn up and down that it would never happen again. This hurt. Her first affair had thrown off our schedule for starting a family, as we devoted months to building trust. The funny thing was that Amy had come to me and told me she'd cheated. I didn't suspect a thing and probably would never have guessed. That she told me helped us get through, though it hurt like hell at the time. I remember the moment clearly. We were in the car on the way back from her mom's. Amy had been quiet at dinner, more quiet than usual, but her mom was so talkative that no awkward silences or breaks warned me something was up. "Honey, you know I love you, don't you?" "Yeah, I do. You feeling insecure?" "No. I have to tell you something bad." She paused, not for dramatic effect, but to gather herself. In the hard shadows cast by passing headlights, I could see her struggling. "I had an affair. It's over. It didn't last long. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take it back." My first reaction, other than gripping the wheel very hard, was to ask questions: with whom? why? where? I'm glad I did because she was vulnerable at that moment so she let out a flood of information. Her friend Jesse's fiancé had been hitting on her. She agreed to meet him for a drink, only to get evidence to expose him to Jesse - so she said and at least partly believed. She said she discouraged him and tried to convince him that Jesse was all he should want. A couple of week later, when I was traveling on business, she went to a party at Jesse's, got a little lit, and they hooked up for a quickie in Jesse's and his bed. She saw him twice more, both times at their place, before her guilt overtook her. She ended it. She swore she ended it. Two months later, we went to their wedding. A month after that they moved to Chicago and a month after that Amy came clean to me. I can understand how it happened: a handsome guy hits on you, a guy you already know wants you, your husband is working long hours, traveling too much, you drink some alcohol and you're on your back. I had trouble with the repeat performances. I had more trouble with him being Jesse's fiancé. It may be common that people betray their best friends, but to me that indicated a real weakness of character. How could she walk down the aisle in a bridesmaid's dress to celebrate her friend's wedding when she'd been sleeping with the groom? Things got worse between us over the next few days. I didn't want to be home. I didn't want to touch her. When I tried, I found myself thinking about how we'd been having sex while she was fucking her friend's future husband, how she'd kept that secret from me, how I'd been gullible, how I'd been the fool. I cringed at the memory of my congratulating him at the wedding, at the commentary I'd given him about what marriage is really like. After two weeks of barely speaking, Amy asked if I'd go to counseling with her. She told me she was afraid, afraid that I'd leave her, afraid that she'd blown it, afraid that she'd hurt me so badly I could never forgive her. The sessions were painful but after several months I was able to put the mess far enough behind me that our relationship was growing again. A lot came out. She mistrusted our marriage because I traveled. She was insecure about her sex appeal. I was too passive, not in bed but in the relationship. I preferred not to discuss what was happening between us, and my silences contributed to her feelings of inadequacy. It's funny how what someone else does becomes your fault. I interpreted the counseling process as the spreading of blame until it rested evenly on both our shoulders. The balance tipped back and forth for a few months as anger and denial worked themselves out. Then we hit a happy medium and started once again to be happy. The part of therapy that stuck with me was the commitments we made to honesty, to trust and to earning trust, to fidelity and to communication. I tried. I really tried. I scheduled some of my trips so she could meet me late in the week. We started working out together, just to share the extra time. If I had to work long hours, we'd meet for dinner. Now all that was gone. I'd stumbled on her cheating completely by accident. I had to send a file but my mail account was down, one of those frustrating moments that make work life thrilling. It was 3AM and Amy was asleep. I realized I could copy the file to her laptop, connect to her work network and mail the file through her work email. I did that. The preview pane of her email was open. I just happened to glance at it as I was moving the mouse to close the window. The words "You are so unbelievably sexy" jumped out at me as if they were printed in 48 point bold. The sender was one of the other associates in the firm, so my first guess, though my heart was pounding, was a flirtation or a joke or maybe a teasing game. The rest of the email said very little, but it was suggestive of a deeper relationship. "Okay," I said. "This could be friendship. It could be. Don't lose your cool." I searched for the guy's name in her account. Oh no. Oh shit. Oh fuck. She'd saved dozens of emails from this guy and had sent him dozens more. I picked one at random from him. "Yesterday was the absolute most amazing time of my life. You are a goddess." This was not good. I picked another, this time from her. It set up a date and said "Jack will be out of town. I have to be home by 10 for his call." Another from him: "You are a bad girl. And I love it." Oh fuck. Goddamn it all. My blood started to boil. The idea, "I should strangle her right now," came into my mind. I sat at the keyboard wondering if I should read all the emails. "I need some time to think about this," I muttered. My first thought was to forward all his emails to my account, but that would leave tracks. Instead, I laboriously copied each email onto my key drive. I tried to go to sleep but couldn't get in bed with Amy. I tried to lie down on the couch, but that felt worse, like I was being evicted by my loving, unfaithful wife from my rightful bed. I ended up slumped over the kitchen table, flipping the pages of magazines, until dawn. Then I hopped into the shower, roused Amy, told her I'd had a problem with my document which could only be fixed at the office, and left. Sitting at my desk, hours before anyone else arrived, I printed out all the emails between my wife and this guy Rob. They were a novel in letters of a sexual affair, stuffed with the kind of innuendo that stirs adolescent loins. It was obvious the affair had begun three months earlier, that it was not dying out, that she had no intention of letting it go, that it wasn't casual or infrequent but as regular and often as they could make it. The best part was that Rob had a camera. He sent Amy pictures of them, mostly her sucking his cock, but a few of them fucking, some taken in the mirror so you could see their faces. I had trouble looking at them. They bothered me so much, my finger almost hit delete. The next best part was that Rob and Amy were heading to the same conference the next week - this week - gone together Monday through Friday at a hotel in Phoenix. They talked bluntly about sleeping together for a whole night. They'd have to be careful about the time because Amy could never miss her calls with me - or as Rob put it, "your loving husband's check-in ritual." Those calls were part of the commitment we made to be faithful, to be open and honest. I guess commitment is only a ritual to some people. I decided not to say anything to Amy. I wanted that week while she was away to make up my own mind about what I felt and wanted. The last time - which she'd sworn would be the last time ever - she'd sprung it on me. I had no idea where a confrontation now would lead but I knew from experience it would be very difficult to think straight for a long time after. I looked at the calendar on my computer. Wednesday. "All right. I've gone through anger. I've gone through denial. Time to pick a pony. What the hell do you want?" The answer welled up from the deepest recesses of my mind: revenge. I wanted revenge. She'd lied to me. She'd sworn fidelity and then betrayed me. I had trusted her. I had invested two more years of my life in her only because I believed what she had said in counseling. Two years I would never get back. I could divorce her, but what would that do? For all I knew, she was only staying with me out of guilt or a strange sense of loyalty. Maybe she couldn't leave me because she'd committed to stay with me. If we divorced, she'd get half of not very much. She'd still be a lawyer, still be an attractive choice for another man. I wanted to ruin her, to crush her hopes and dreams. I thought about hiring someone to throw acid in her face. I considered a range of violent options, from death to removal of limbs, but each ended with me as a monster facing a minimum of 35 years to life without parole. My nightly check-in call went smoothly. I was becoming a good actor, pretending to be happy but missing her, cooing the right responses to her catalogue of boredom about seminars held in over-cooled lecture halls. "Becoming a good actor. That's the ticket," I thought. "I'll be a great actor. I'll set her up and then destroy her." Now the trick would be to come up with the right plan, something genuinely clever and yet truly destructive. They say that God is in the details. Well then, so is the devil. It's not easy to come up with a convincing plot that won't give you away, that you can carry off. Remember "Dial M For Murder"? Ray Milland hires a man to kill his wife - Grace Kelly of all people - but as she's being strangled, her hand finds her scissors and she stabs her attacker in the back, killing him. Oops. I realized you can only work with what you know. I know computers. The temptation is to do something completely out of your realm in the hope that distance will cast less suspicion on you. Truth be told, unfamiliarity means that you're going to make obvious mistakes. Better to stick with your expertise and hope you pull it off right. Through a roundabout, very hard to trace method, I set up a web account which drew on servers located in Russia. I set up a web site - nothing creative. I surfed some sites, picked a fairly amateurish design that worked and copied it. The site had only a few static pages with a minimum number of hyperlinks. This short description belies the amount of work involved. I didn't whip up this scheme overnight. It took a couple of weeks to get the account and work out the rest. During this time, I worked on my acting skills. I realized, as I got into the part, that being duplicitous is an actor's dream role. "Honey," I sighed. "Your being away made me think about our relationship." Amy was lying next to me in bed. I'd found my double life made me horny so my darling wife had been getting it from me often and with intensity. "Mmmmm," she murmured. "I've been thinking that maybe we should have a baby." Amy perked up. "Not right now, but maybe we should start trying in a few months." Amy's hand caressed my chest. She lifted her head so she could look into my eyes. "That's a great idea." Her hand touched my chin. "I've been wanting to bring up the baby subject but . . . I was worried you . . . that we weren't ready." I smiled a perfect, loving, lying smile. "I think I'm there. You've been everything I could hope for." I ran my hand up and down her arm, cupping her elbow. "You've been open and loving and I really feel that you've been completely committed to me." Amy dipped her head, as if embarrassed at the praise. I continued, "I think we should talk about this some more, see how it feels, make sure it's the right choice. Not long, maybe a month or two." Amy leaned forward and kissed me. Then she pushed her head under the sheet. Her warm mouth engulfed the head of my cock. She sucked and let my cock out of her mouth with a popping sound. I tossed the sheet back and watched the back of her head as it bobbed slowly, purposefully. She licked around the head and ran her tongue down the sides. She pulled up with her hand as her head slid down. I was hard as a rock. Amy turned toward me, swung her leg over me and leaned forward. I grabbed my cock and slipped it into the opening of her pussy. She was dripping wet. Her hips rocked back until I was deep inside her. She straightened up and, as I grabbed her tits, she leaned against my hands and ground her pussy in small circles. I pulled her to my chest. "Fuck me. Fuck me hard," she whispered in my ear. "I'll fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk." I kneaded her ass roughly and then spanked her hard once, twice. She writhed. "Lift up a little," I commanded. She raised her butt an inch or two. "Ready?" I asked. "Give it to me. Give it to me." I stroked my cock into her, smoothly at first then faster and faster and then a hard slam and another and another. Then I slowed down, letting her rock back, then faster again, faster, faster, harder, harder. Then I slowed down again. "You tease," Amy breathed heavily against my cheek. My loving wife. "I love what you do to me." I picked up speed. "Get ready for a big finish," I said and suddenly started to fuck her faster than before. I kept up that pace and then accelerated even faster, my back arching with the effort as I drove my cock into Amy. As the blood began to pound in my ears, I could hear Amy nearly screaming "Oh, oh, oh, uh, oh." I could see the finish line and fucked her harder, as hard and fast as I humanly could manage. I grabbed her ass hard and then spanked it. "I'm coming," I gasped. "Yes, yes, yes," Amy panted. I spent in her. As we recovered, Amy said, "You are my fantastic lover." Like I said, acting is fun when you have a meaty part to play. Our sex life improved the more detached I became from actual emotional intimacy. Seemed the less I cared about Amy as a person, the more I enjoyed fucking her like a hot piece of ass. We talked at random moments about having a baby. I wanted her to make the right decision, which meant understanding the effect it would have on her career, on our relationship, on our ability to take vacations. The more we talked, the more moony-eyed Amy became. She really wanted to have a baby. Once my website was ready, it was decision time, to go through with my plan or not. Bless Amy's heart for making the choice for me. I decided to check her email again to see if she and Rob, whom I had decided to call her hot sexy stud, were still at it or if things had cooled with the baby talk. I waited until Amy was asleep. We'd had a great fuck and then I'd excused myself to work on a document that absolutely needed to be right by morning. I roused her laptop, logged in to her work network and checked her inbox. Nothing unusual. Nothing from hot sexy stud. I ran a search and lo and behold, there my loving wife was, right there in her own words. "Baby - not that I've ever called you that before, but you'll see why - you know who and I are probably going to get pregnant soon. (Get the baby now?) After I go off the pill, we'll have to cool it when I'm ovulating. Don't worry, baby, I'll be using a basal thermometer to tell me when the little egg drops, so we won't suffer too much." Hot sexy stud wrote back, "We can test condoms. Maybe some of those ribbed ones. And think how long I'll last." Jeez, stamina had never been my problem. Amy and I had been banging like we were teenagers grabbing for a quickie before her parents got home but she was still going at it with hot, sexy stud. Ah well. Thanks, honey. You made it easy for me. Operation Destructo went in motion. Amy and I had a romantic Friday night dinner at her favorite restaurant. As we waited for coffee, I held her hand and lovingly said, "I think we should go for it." I nodded meaningfully. Amy's face lit up. She gulped. She reached toward me with her free hand. "I so much want a baby. Thank you. I love you." "I love you too, sweetheart." We agreed that she'd go off the pill when her next cycle came around. She could be fertile within a month. Little did she know that Monday morning she'd be visited by some very bad guys, unscrupulous Russian mobsters - or maybe pimply-faced teenage hackers trying to look hard. I called my site "Black Mailed Wives". Not a bad porn idea, if you think about it. I had surfed the net and pulled off pictures of youngish, but not teenage, pretty but not stunning women, mixed with a few more mature women, all having sex. I chose pictures where the woman's face was almost visible and - this was a nice touch - I chose some shots that showed the faces clearly and then blurred them with a heavy hand. The blurred faces made the images look that much more pornographic. My site, hosted in Irkutsk, had a nice front page showing three different women in what are commonly called compromising positions. These included Amy sucking dick with her face blurred and, of course, Amy getting fucked with her face cropped just below the nose. "Real wives having on Real Sex!" I tried a dozen different typos but that one felt right. It was a voice I could write in. "Real wife having good sex with lover not her own man!" "Bad girl, BAD GIRL. What you gonna do? What you gonna do when they come for you? Bad girl, BAD GIRL. What you gonna do? What you gonna do when they come for you?" "Cheating Wife Must PAY!!!!" My favorite line. The front page contained a few links, one to a standard link page asking you to visit different sites. The big link, the important link was this one: "Make Contribution Here!" A "click here" symbol accompanied the words. If you clicked on that link, you were taken to a page that contained very simple, badly worded instructions. You were asked politely for a credit card number, complete with expiration date and security code. Below was another button, which read "Rules for Cheating Wife." I kid you not. That link took you to another page. "You cheating wife know why you are here. Pictures of you not with husband. Pay or all will know. We have names, email for everyone. Rule is you pay else we show all loved ones what a cheating whore slut you are. Not believe us then check your email again. Better fill in card number or else!! Ha! Ha!" More than a little ridiculous, isn't it? But still, they're Russian. The site is hosted in Irkutsk. They have your pictures. What you gonna do when they come for you? My first concern was getting the message to Amy. It had to get past any spam filter and the subject line had to compel her to read the message. To get past the spam filter, I spoofed an email address from a business contact. To get it in front of Amy's eyes, the subject line read "I know about you and Rob." I sent the message through a server that provides anonymity. The FBI might be able to trace it back to me, but it wouldn't be easy. My message, oops, the Russian mobsters' message, included excerpts from two different emails as well as a picture from a third. Then there was a list of five separate email addresses for business contacts, not in alphabetical order but selected at random from her address book. Definitely enough to let her know her account had been cracked. "We have everything. We know all you do with lover boy. Go to this website and you'll see. Cheating wife pays." There was a link to "Black Mailed Wives" and a little joke - "You should have come to us first. We make you cum over many times, you sexy whore you." The Call of Blood Monday, Monday. On Saturday, I made sure Amy sucked my cock dry, thinking as I came in her mouth what a fine pleasure it was to use her as a sperm receptacle. On Sunday, I used a vibrator on her until she was almost unconsciousness and then fucked her pussy with the vibrator stuck in her ass. As much fun as that was, I have rarely so looked forward to the ending of a weekend. As Monday dragged by, I was glad not to be home. The time waiting helped me prepare for what I hoped would be a terrific performance, with the curtain rising at about 7PM. I felt like the Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" mixed with the wrestling announcer's call "Are you ready to rumble?" My plan was to be second on stage so I could play off her reaction. If she was her loving wife self, then I'd swallow the disappointment and be super husband, the sexual satyr. If she was in tears, begging for forgiveness . . . well, I decided not to play out the alternatives. Better a fresh, real performance than one over-rehearsed and stagey. Her car is in the garage. The lights are on. Let's see which Amy is home. "Hey, honey," I yelled. No answer. Amy was in the kitchen, an open bottle of wine next to her on the kitchen island. I saw it was already half empty. Bingo. "Starting early?" I asked. Amy shook her head. "I had a very bad day." I assumed the supportive husband role. "Ah baby, that's too bad." I put my arms around her. "Turn around and I'll rub your neck." I massaged her shoulders and nuzzled her neck. My intention was to get laid while she was a wreck. "I'm not feeling very sexy," Amy said as she tried to pull away. I wasn't letting her off that easy. "Come on, babe. It'll take your mind off things." I pulled her to me again, slid my hand up and down her side, running it around to cup her breast. I kissed her neck. "Besides, thinking about having a baby with you . . . I'm horny all the time." I had my hand inside her shirt. I put my other down the front of her skirt. "Let's do it right here." Amy looked like she'd been hit with a tranquilizer dart. I took command. I bent her over the island, unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor. I kicked it to the side and pulled her pantyhose down past her knees. Inspiration hit me: the drawer next to me held kitchen scissors. As I massaged her clit and pussy, I pulled out the scissors and cut through the pantyhose so her legs were free. Amy didn't seem aware of what was happening. I took the extra five seconds to remove my shoes and take off my pants. Then I stuffed my cock into her. Amy gasped. "Yeah, baby, let's take your mind off your troubles," I said as I humped her from behind. I rubbed my hands all over her shapely cheeks. "Spread more for me." She did. I pulled her back from the counter so she was at a better angle for serious pumping. "Come on baby. Come on baby. Give me a ride. Give me a ride." I was laying it on thick. "Uh, uh, uh," Amy grunted with each thrust. I wanted to own her. "Here sweetie," I said while slowing down. "Have some more wine." I held the glass to her lips and fucked her as she drank. Some dribbled down her chin and onto the counter. I wiped it up with my hand and then put those fingers in her mouth. "Wiggle that ass for me. Yeah, that's it. Let your loving husband fuck your troubles away." Amy pushed back at me hard. "You want it? You got to ask for it, babe." "I want it. You know I want it." Amy pushed back harder. I guess we know you do want it, don't you, you cheating bitch? It was like watching myself fuck in a movie. Bam, bam, bam. Stop. "Ask me again, Amy. Ask for it." Totally drilling her while making her wiggle and moan for more. I could feel her pussy tighten around my cock as she became more excited. I came in her but didn't pull out. Instead, I walked her forward so her whole torso was resting on the island. I slapped her ass with both hands, hard on each side. She moaned again. "Come on. Let's get in the shower. I want to clean your pussy and then eat you until you can't think of anything but my tongue." Amy was my sex toy. She stood in the shower, water running over her head, naked except for the remnants of her pantyhose - which I then stripped off and rubbed between her legs before tossing them to the floor. She lay on her back as I pulsed the shower head against her mound. Then I got under her, into 69, and leisurely ate her out as I played the shower head over her ass. I licked every part of her body, flicking her nipples with my tongue, biting the soft undersides of her breasts. As my crowning achievement of that night, I fucked her ass. We'd done it before, but this time was special because I was fucking a whore in the butt, which meant I could do it right, without worrying about her feelings. Everything was for my satisfaction. Right there in the tub. I didn't even ask her permission. "Be right back," I hopped out of the tub and darted into the bedroom to retrieve the lube from the night stand drawer. I left soggy footprints on the carpet. Amy lay in the tub on her side, face to the wall, eyes closed. I took her shoulders and eased her gently onto her stomach. She looked sexy, wet ass, tits flattened under her, legs bent at the knee, feet dangling in the air. A lot of lube in that hole of hers, then working it in with my finger, then more on my cock and then I was on her, stiff as a board. "Tighten up as hard as you can, then release," I ordered. As soon as she released, I invaded. Amy gasped. "Do it again. Tighten and then release." Deeper. Two more times and I was nicely in. The best part about ass fucking is the feel of her ass. The angle is different than when you fuck her pussy so her cheeks sit more into the natural curve of your own body. The physical act of being in the butt is not that special. While a tight hole is always good, the ass requires lube and lube never feels like real pussy juice. I took Amy's ass slowly, persistently, keeping my angle steady so my cock wouldn't hurt her. "I'm going to put it all the way in." She was totally under my command. "I want to feel your ass against me." She whimpered as I pushed. I grabbed her wrists firmly. I took the edge of her ear between my teeth and stroked my hard cock in and out of her tight butt. Over and over. The hot water began to run out, but I twisted around to shut it off before we were doused with cold. "I'm fucking your ass, baby. I'm fucking your ass," I said. "Want me to come in your ass?" Amy turned her head, eyes still closed, and nodded faintly, her mouth opening for a kiss. As I pressed my lips to hers, I said, "I'm going to come in your ass." With my tongue deep in her mouth, I had one thought in my mind. Not love, not lust, just that I was unloading my balls in this whore's ass. I lay on top of her, my half-softened cock still tucked in her butt, licking the condensation off her cheek. Amy shuddered. A few minutes later, giving time for the water to get hot, I cleaned my cock and then her ass. Standing together, her legs gently trembling from the sex, I ran my tongue over the edge of her hip. "Hungry?" I asked. Amy buried her face in my shoulder and shook her head no. I dried her off and wrapped a towel around her wet hair. She went to the bed, lifted the edge of the sheets, slipped under them and curled into a ball. Alone in the kitchen, dressed only in a robe, my hand massaging my cock, I polished off Amy's wine. "What a great day," I thought. I'd fucked Amy twice from behind. "Monday must be doggy day." As I ate a cheese sandwich, I thought that, yes, it was possible my message had not been received, that Amy had merely had a bad day at work. The only way to know would be to unleash part two of Operation Destructo. I went to bed, to sleep next to my loving wife. Tuesday's email contained more explicit instructions. We, meaning the bad Russians, needed that credit card information fast or her husband and family would find out. My email and her parents' email were included to show they meant business. "We are not nice. We charge you $500 US CASH now. To show good faith, we take down picture of you from website but only after pay." I don't want you to think I was growing overconfident. I wanted Amy to think she might get off easy. I wanted to twist the knife in her, to drag out her pain. That is the point of revenge, isn't it, to inflict as much hurt as possible. Let her think she could buy her way out of trouble for $500. I checked the website several times during the day and discovered that she paid the $500 at 3:10 in the afternoon. I imagined her tumbling over the possibilities for most of the day, agonizing over what to do, maybe even discussing it with hot, sexy stud. If I'd been on pins and needles wondering what she'd do, how much torture had she suffered? I pictured her heart pounding as she opened the email. A mixture of denial and hope as she read the contents. Then the wavering. Do I tell Jack? Do I pay? If I pay, they'll only want more but if I don't pay . . . maybe, maybe, what should I do? "Amazing, just amazing" I thought. "This is actually working." Perhaps the most gratifying part of executing a plan is seeing what you imagined actually taking shape. While revenge is the goal, planning and execution have lives of their own. A good plan is like a child you send out into the world, full of your hopes and dreams. Tuesday night was not a repeat of Monday. My idea was to be on stage when Amy got home, partly to avoid suspicion by varying the routine, partly because I wanted to see her mood. I greeted her at the door and, for my trouble, received a huge hug and a smoldering kiss. Her happiness was palpable, though a little forced. After all, she'd paid but didn't know if her black-mailers would keep their word. Amy is a wonderful courtesan. She's intelligent, makes good conversation and has interesting opinions. We made dinner together, flirting, taking food from each other, playing like lovers. She teased me that her ass hurt. She thanked me for taking her out of her bad mood - and so vividly. Her hand was on my crotch as I poured us each a glass of wine. She knelt, placed her wine glass on the floor, and unzipped my pants. I handed her a kitchen towel, which she placed under her knees as she started to suck. Ah, this is the life. A blowjob before dinner. As she sucked, I rested my elbow on the counter and sipped my wine, reflecting on the other girls who'd had my dick in their mouths. Amy was in the middle of the pack in suck skills . . . but she was better at straight fucking, with top marks in missionary. I looked down at her bobbing head. She stopped to swirl her tongue around my cockhead so I moaned in appreciation. I played with her hair. Possibly the best on her back fuck I've had . . . and definitely top third in riding cock. Not usually big on doggie - just about average - and not enough marks in anal for a final grade. The last thought ran through my head as I exploded in her mouth. Later, we lay together in bed talking about getting pregnant. Her pill cycle would end in a few days, which meant two to three weeks before she might be fertile. "I can't wait," I told her as we snuggled. "You are the sexiest man . . . I love you with all my heart," Amy said. She curled into my shoulder, her body forming a perfect sculpture of loving faithfulness. You may think, by this point, that I'm a ruthless bastard, that I don't deserve sympathy, that I've been mistreating Amy as badly as she has been treating me. It's true that I'm lying to her but I'm not fucking anyone else. I've always been faithful, always been caring, always pulled my weight at home, as a provider and in the bedroom. Thinking about Amy's betrayal and the context - that we'd been through this before, that we were thinking of having a baby - brought to the surface all the bad feelings I've ever had about myself. My first serious girlfriend cheated on me. I forgave her, thinking at the time that I loved her, but realizing over the next few months that I was only in love with her tits, which were huge, with gorgeous, suckable nipples. Her pussy was tight and she could squeeze my cock with it but she wasn't a very good fuck. That's called growing up, when you can look past the tits to see the girl to whom those attractors are attached. Did I really need revenge? I thought about this on my daily run. Anger. Hurt. Should I turn the other cheek after making her suffer? Wouldn't the more manly choice be to divorce her and walk away? The answer shocked me as it welled out of the depths of my soul. I wanted to inflict pain. I wanted to humiliate her. I had no desire to change her into a genuinely faithful wife and mother. I wanted to wreck her life in a way that would stick with her until her dying day. And I wanted her never to know it was me, so she'd always feel completely that I'd been the innocent victim, that she'd lost me and the family we'd been planning. Revenge. These weren't the easiest thoughts to stomach. I stretched my hamstrings and remembered Hamlet. His murdered father visits him from hell - clearly, the dead king wasn't a good man. His uncle, now also his step-father, makes him his heir, the closest Claudius can come to making up. As I ran along the river, I thought about Claudius praying to heaven though he knows God can't forgive him because he can't repent, can't give up what he killed for, his throne and his queen. Hamlet, driven by the call of blood from beyond the grave, takes his vengeance. Panting at the end of my run, Shakespeare's message was all too clear. Revenge costs Hamlet the woman he loves, Ophelia, who literally drowns in her sorrows. It costs him the life of Polonius, her father, and Laertes, her brother and his best friend. It costs him his mother's life. It costs him his own life. In the end, the entire kingdom is lost as, with the crown vacant, the Poles take over. As I walked back to my car, fishing in my pocket for my key, I knew that Shakespeare was certainly right. Following the call of blood leads only to more blood. I reached into the back seat for my towel. I wiped my face. Fuck you, Will. I sat with my legs hanging out the car door, head down, towel in hand. Will Shakespeare lived 400 years ago. Jesus lived 2000 years ago. What about Jacob and Esau? Didn't Jacob confess his sins to the brother he wronged? Didn't Esau forgive Jacob in turn? Didn't Joseph forgive the brothers who sold him into slavery? How fucking far back in time do we have to go? Wasn't there a flood that drowned iniquity? We're fucking human beings and we never learn. Believe in the progress of civilization. Tell that to the fucking Nazis. Want more recent? Try the Khmer Rouge. Try the dumbfucks in Bosnia or the shitheads in Darfur or the sons of bitches in East Timor. That's the fucking state of humanity, Will. That's what your goddamn lessons are worth. So what am I, I asked myself? I'm a man. I shook myself hard. I'm a man. "All my life," I said aloud. "All my life I've played the wrong fucking game. I've been the nice guy. I've been the one who believes." I'm not a believer anymore. I'm just another guy, the same as millions of others of us unteachable human beings. I want revenge. I want to hurt somebody. I want to get in a fight and leave some bastard moaning in pain. I yanked the car door shut and started the engine. Amy was going down. Wednesday. Thursday. Nothing but hot loving. The Irkutsk gang had done as promised and taken Amy's pictures down. My sweet wife couldn't get enough of me. I basked in her attentions. Like a soldier on leave before battle, I gave myself completely over to pleasures of the flesh, as though nothing existed but our love play and the world outside were the illusion. The guns were rumbling in the distance, the summer offensive gathering steam for the big push. I could feel it in my bones as Thursday wound to a close. The assault troops had taken their positions in the front line trenches, huddled in their bomb-proof shelters, picking desultorily at their rations, praying the shells flying overhead were demolishing the enemy lines. Before I left for work the next morning, I poured myself the traditional ration of rum. I tipped my glass to the brave men who had gone before me, their gray figures disappearing through our wire into the murk of no-man's land. Fix bayonets. It was time to go over the top. I set it up for Friday. A horrible email, a terrible, oh my God, oh no email. We'd have two whole weekend days to enjoy the mess. Ten thousand dollars. Five hundred she could hide. Spread out over time, she could hide a lot. But ten thousand in one fell swoop. Uh uh. Due by noon her time on Monday. Or else. You can see why I needed the drink. I wanted to force Amy to tell me. "Oh Jack, I'm such an ungrateful whore who doesn't deserve you. I've lied and cheated. I'm a worthless slut." True, but I didn't expect quite that conversation. A brave man dies once but a coward dies a thousand deaths. Or so they say. To face Amy, knowing that I was the author of her current misery, was my test for myself. I would stand out in the open as witness to the crime, both hers and mine. Amy called me at 11 in the morning. I knew when her office number flashed on my caller ID. Putting aside the compulsion to let her go into voice mail, I answered, "Hey babe. What's up?" "I need to see you right away." She sounded serious. I was instantly alarmed. "Are you all right? Are you okay?" "Please," she paused. I thought I heard her sob. "Please. Meet me at home as soon as you can." Rather than rush home, I drove around for an extra ten minutes, listening to loud music, pounding on the steering wheel until my adrenalin subsided. She was waiting at the door. She looked bad. I was concerned, supportive. "What's wrong?" I tried to put my arms around her, but she held me off. She was crying. Her hands were shaking. I grew calm. They say one mark of a serial killer is increasing calmness as anger rises. Rather than explode, the serial killer pulls it all inside, perhaps into his sick fantasy world. Here was my wife, my beloved, about to confess to cheating, to having pictures taken of her fucking another man, to being black-mailed, and I was furious but calm. I could see my hands around her neck, screaming "Give me back those two years! Give me back my life, you cheating, cocksucking piece of shit!" Instead, I grabbed her trembling hands and reassured her, "Whatever it is, you know I love you." That nearly killed her. Amy's knees started to buckle. She drew back as if hit by an electric shock and stumbled. Her back hit the closet door and she froze for moment, then ran in the direction of the bedroom. I went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, drained it and then refilled the glass. I took the water to the bedroom. Amy was lying face down on the bed, her back heaving. I sat next to her, rested my hand on her back and offered her the water. She shook her head, so I leaned over and kissed her hair. Amy sat and took a sip from the glass. "I love you," she said between sobs. I had decided to play strong and silent. Let her carry the dialogue. I raised my hand to acknowledge her feelings. "I'm a terrible person." She placed her hand on my arm. I'm strong and silent. I shake my head to indicate no, she's a wonderful person. "I'm a terrible person," Amy repeated. She obviously needed a prompter to get her off that line. "Now why do you say that?" Have you ever seen a person choking on a piece of meat? They can't breathe, can't inhale or exhale, can't speak. You can sense their consciousness moving into their throat, becoming completely enveloped in the moment of the choking. I reached behind Amy, took her hair in my hand and squeezed, both reassuring and forceful. Pull it out of her but make it look like you're being kind. The Call of Blood She began. "There are pictures of me . . . with someone . . . someone not you." "Pictures. You mean?" I let that float in the air. Amy nodded. I didn't move my hand. "You never told me there were pictures." She dropped her head. "That bastard," I stated firmly. The big moment was at hand. We were through the enemy wire, moving toward their trenches. To the left, I could hear the chatter of a machine gun. In front of me waited destiny. "Not him," Amy whispered. I slowly took my hand from head, not wanting to hear. "Oh God," she said. "Not him?" The color had drained from my face. I swallowed hard. I tried to look at Amy, but my eyes hurt with the sight of her so I turned and faced the bathroom door. "I was seeing someone else." Seeing? As in a couple of days ago? I am a good actor. Keep in character. Not so strong but still silent. I shook my head, indicating disbelief. "I'm sorry," Amy said. She wasn't going to get off that easy. I stood and put my back against the bedroom wall where the shadows were strongest, where she could not see my face clearly. "Amy. Amy. Amy," I repeated with the appropriate amount of acid and hurt in my voice. She rolled onto her stomach again, burying her face in the covers. I barked out the questions everyone has at moments like this, "Why? Why? Who was it? Who?" She only cried harder. I dropped my mask of concern and dispassionately watched her. Thou shall reap what thou sows. My wife. My Amy. Head, shoulders, waist, nice ass, good legs, feet. A piece of meat. I left the bedroom. I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a single malt scotch - my second - when Amy came in. She gingerly sat opposite me. I could feel her look at me as I found solace in the amber liquid. "You'll never forgive me," she said. I snorted. "After you promised?" Silence. More silence. "Do you want me to leave?" she asked. I almost exploded. "No. I want you to tell me why. I want you tell me why you lied to me. I want you to tell me what I did wrong." Nice line readings. I was learning the key to acting is focus. As long as I maintained focus on something other than my lines, I could deliver the words naturally. I was locked into my scotch. "You didn't do anything wrong." She paused. "I don't want to tell you." I glanced at her so she could see my look. A challenge. Tell me, bitch. "I'm so ashamed." She put her head in her hands and began to cry again. I stood, as though frustrated by the display, and went to the sink. I ran the water, pressed my arms on the counter and, with my head down, ordered her to talk. She gave me a half-assed, incomplete version of her affair with her hot, sexy stud. Not as often. Not as long in duration. Not really much of an affair at all, more a flirtation that grew out of a friendship that then became sexual. She told me his name only when I asked specifically for it. He's married. He and his wife had a miscarriage. He was depressed and she comforted him as a friend. She so badly wanted a baby - not with him, with me, she was quick to say - and that bonded them. It was wrong. Inappropriate - yes, she actually said it was inappropriate, like using the f word in front of a friend's little kids. I could see Amy clearly in those minutes and the understanding swept through me that I knew her motivation for the affair better than she did. She was an actress. She wanted to act, needed to act. Managing an affair while keeping a happy marriage was, to her, an irresistible acting challenge. She was trying to act out a double life, as sex toy and faithful wife, as a great mistress and great wife. She would one day be the perfect mother and a slut on the side. She was still acting, hoping against hope that she could pull off an Oscar-winning performance that would keep me. Had she never played out in her head the consequences of failure? She kept talking, now praising me and bemoaning how she had hurt me. I ran the tap until the water was cold, then drank a tall glass. The taste of water at its best is refreshing as only water can be. We are made of water. It is life. My mouth felt clean. My teeth and gums tingled. I could see it all. She loved me. She had fallen, like Adam and Eve, into a state of sin. Eve ate the apple but the knowledge contained in the apple ate Eve. I had no doubt that Amy had fallen step-by-step into the affair - from friendship and flirtation shaped by his need to run from grief and her unspoken fears about my willingness to start a family with her, and then to contact and then to more, and then to more. Until Amy was playing the role, acting the part, without ever realizing that the role had eaten her. I smiled wearily, saddened by my understanding of her human frailty. "Yes my dear," I thought. "I am a man. My father's ghost speaks to me." That is the state we are in, man and woman, Amy and me. Let the preachers deny it as they're found in bed with prostitutes. Let the priests hide behind the skirts of the church as they deny their lust for young boys. Look behind the image of almost any saint and you'll find the corruption that affects us all. I saw Amy's frailty and felt a great kinship with her, not as husband and wife, not as lover to lover, but as people trapped in this endless cycle in which we have knowledge but lack wisdom, in which we have urges and the will to resist but not the strength to succeed. Amy had done the best she could to paper over the crime. "Why are you telling me this now," I asked. "The pictures . . . I'm . . . " She couldn't go on. I realized she'd started by mentioning the pictures but hadn't explained them. "What are these pictures?" "Pictures of . . . me . . . doing it." I was visibly angry. Pictures of my woman. That would make any man's blood boil. "Were you out of your mind?" I snapped. "What the fuck were you thinking?" Amy was past cringing. This was the nightmare at the end of her dream rainbow. The role now controlled her. She was the acting puppet being danced around by larger forces. She told me it was his idea. The pictures turned him on. I already knew that from their emails. My target was elsewhere. "Is he threatening you? Is that what this is?" I grew indignant. She was trash but she was still my wife. "Is he threatening you with those pictures?" Amy shook her head. She had no choice but to speak. I prepared for the inevitable, trying not to anticipate so I wouldn't blow my lines. "I . . . I . . . I'm being black-mailed." "By . . . ," I interrupted, the inference referring to him. She shook her head again. "You won't believe this. I barely believe it." She stopped. "I thought it must be a joke." She gulped and steeled herself. "I received an email. It threatened me. Told me to go to a website. I did. It had pictures of me with my face . . . not clear. Pictures of me . . . you know. They told me to pay or else they'd tell everyone. They had addresses from my contacts list." "It must have been him." We looked at each other. "I thought so. At first." She paused. "His face is in the pictures. His wife will see them. Everyone we work with." She looked at me. "He almost had a heart attack when I told him. He kept saying his wife would divorce him, that he'd lose everything." I snorted, indicating both displeasure and disgust. Amy folded her hands. "All I could think of was that he'd emailed the pictures to someone else." "You mean they were digital?" I was incredulous. Amy waved her hand yes. "You stupid . . ." I trailed off. As Amy looked up, I looked away. I bit my lip. I focused on the taste of my lip. Focus. "Don't you know . . . obviously you don't know," I said with special emphasis, "that digital files can be searched?" I clenched my fist so I could focus on that. "Your mail is on your servers. A good hacker who gets into your network can search for image files." Silence. I waited, pondering the problem. "If it wasn't your boyfriend," I spit our that last word, "anyone could have picked up a password or cracked one. Maybe somebody left their laptop on. Or maybe somebody wrote down the password and lost the paper. I have to go to the bathroom." I needed to get out of that room. I sensed I was losing control of my emotions and needed space to recover. And I had to pee. I let the liquid out, then washed my hands. When I returned to the kitchen, Amy was in the same spot, elbow on the table, holding her head with one hand. "Not that it matters," I let those words sit between us. "If it was a hacker, they could have searched for image files and then narrowed in on your account. They didn't threaten him, did they?" "No." "Who knows. He sent the pictures to you, right? So they were also attached to his emails and they could have cracked his account." "What am I going to do?" Amy half-asked, half-pleaded. "You haven't told me what's going on." I kept our relationship out of my voice. "They wanted $500 and said if I paid they'd take my pictures off their website." "$500? You've got to be kidding. What is this website?" "I'm ashamed to tell you." I showed exasperation. "Let me see. Maybe I can figure out what's happening." She told me the site's name and winced. I went to my computer and tried that name. I also Googled it. Nothing. I expected that since the link I'd sent her had a nonsense name. "There's no site by that name," I yelled to her. I could hear her chair scrape back. She came into the den, but stood two feet behind me. Having raised her hopes, I now crushed them. "Did they give you a url or was there a link to click on?" I asked. "A link." "Probably some made up name. Can you get the email?" Amy got her laptop from her briefcase, put it on her desk and logged into her work email account. "Forward that email to me. No, that will probably turn the link into text. Let me see." I leaned over her desk. I opened a new email, addressed it to myself and then copied the threatening email with its link into that email. I sent it and went back to my desk. The email arrived a minute later. I opened it and clicked the link. Amy was behind me. When the words Black Mailed Wives appeared on screen, I threw a glance over my shoulder and Amy moved involuntarily backward. I made a show of reading the text. "Who the fuck are these assholes?" I wondered angrily out loud. A quick check of domain registries followed. "Irkutsk? Isn't that in fucking Siberia?" I turned around and looked directly at Amy. I was almost speechless. "Russians." I paused for dramatic effect. "Russians. These fuckers are probably Russian criminals. Oh hell, they could be anyone." A thought hit me. "Did you pay them yet?" "I paid them $500," Amy replied. Ah yes, that would have been blowjob evening. "How?" "I charged it on Visa. There's a credit card link." I went through the site more thoroughly. "Your picture isn't here." "They said they'd take it down if I paid." I looked at her. Come on, tell me why you're confessing. Tell me. Don't make me force it out of you. "This morning," Amy turned away, "they sent me . . . they threatened me again. If I don't pay them $10,000 by Monday, they'll send the pictures to everyone." "My God. Is that true?" Amy nodded. She suddenly broke down. "I've ruined everything. I can't believe this is happening. No, no, no." She plopped down on the floor, grabbed her knees and began rocking. "This isn't how I wanted my life to turn out." I went to her. She threw her arms around my neck. I was going to fuck her senseless. "I love you so much. What's wrong with me? God, God. No, please, no." She was inconsolable. You reap what you sow, baby. Now you're going to reap some stiff dick. No pussy licking. I'm going to bang your cheating pussy and then jam my cock down your throat. I'm going to grease up your ass and stick my whole prick all the way up your hole with one big stroke. I unwrapped her arms from me and stood up. Amy started rocking again, back and forth, back and forth. I got the lube and her vibrator from the bedroom and a large chef's knife from the kitchen. I wanted her to see the knife. I wanted her to fear me. I took off my shoes, socks and belt and went back into the den. I knelt next to Amy holding the knife so she could see it. Then I pushed her onto her back. She didn't resist. I reached up her skirt and pulled at her pantyhose. I pulled hard so it hurt. Amy just lay on her back, passive. I cut a hole in the pantyhose. Then I quickly pulled off my pants and jumped roughly on top of her. I put my arms under her thighs and pushed her knees hard into her chest. I jammed my cock into her pussy and began to fuck her hard, without any preliminaries. I put all my weight onto her body. I forcibly straightened her legs and pushed them over her head until she was bent double. "Take it, slut. Take it." I slammed my cock into her. I slapped her face and then shook it from side to side. "Tell me you're a slut." Amy whimpered. "I'm a slut," she said quietly. "Louder. I want the neighbors to hear you. Yell it. I'm a slut." "I'm a slut," Amy said, louder this time. "Yell it. I'm a slut. Say it." I was fucking her without any pretense of loving. Amy closed her eyes. Her mouth opened and closed. Then she yelled, "I'm a slut. I'm a slut. I'm a slut." "Now beg me to come in your mouth." "Come in my mouth." I couldn't tell if she was excited or scared. I didn't care. "Louder, slut. Say it like you want it." Amy looked at me. Her eyes were full of emotion. "Come in my mouth," she screamed. "I want you to come in my mouth." I put my nose to hers and glared into her eyes. "Good slut." I pumped her, lifting my whole body until only my hands, which were pressing her legs down, and my toes were on the ground, then I'd throw my whole body against her pussy, grinding hard against her. "You know what I'm going to do?" My nose still against hers. "You know what I'm going to do." "No," Amy whispered. "After I come in your mouth, you're going to suck my dick without stopping," I paused to pound her pussy. "And then I'm going to shove my cock all the way up your ass. And you know what you're going to do?" She tried to shake her head. "Tell me. You know what you're going to do?" "No." "You're going to say fuck my ass, fuck my ass. I'm going to slap your ass and every time you're going to say fuck my ass. No, you're going to yell it out as loud as possible." I pulled out of Amy's pussy and released her legs. As her legs relaxed, I mounted her face, knees on either side of her head. I put my cock in her mouth. I put both hands behind her head, lifted it and started to stroke into her mouth. She gagged but didn't fight. I fucked her mouth. Just before I came, I pulled out and blew my sperm all over her face. I stuck my cock back in her mouth. She began to suck. I reached for the vibrator and covered it in lube. Then I swiveled around, my cock still in Amy's mouth, flicked the vibrator on and stuck it in her asshole. It slid in. I listened to the whir and contemplated my choices. Doggy? Flat on her stomach? No, let's make the bitch work. I picked up the knife and stood up. Amy's face was covered in my come. Her skirt was bunched around her thighs. Her blouse was a mess. "Stand up," I ordered. She struggled to her feet. "Face me. Eyes open." I held the chef's knife high, point down, blade towards me, and slipped it under the top button of her blouse. I pulled down, popping each button. "Face the other way." She turned around. "Open your bra." It was a front fastener. She moved to take off her blouse. "Leave it on." I stepped back and sat in my desk chair. "Lift the back of your skirt." She did. The vibrator was sticking out of her ass. "Now tuck your skirt into the waist band. Now back up toward me. Don't turn around." I put the knife behind me on the desk and rubbed lube onto my cock. I grabbed Amy's waist with both hands. "Now what do you say?" "Fuck my ass," she replied weakly. "What do you say?" "Fuck my ass," she said a little louder. I pulled out the vibrator and turned it off. "Put your ass on my cock." Amy hesitated. "You heard me. Lower your slut ass on to my cock." I yanked down on her waist to make my meaning clear. "Reach behind and aim my cock." I propped her up with a firm grip so she'd be off balance as she lowered herself. When my cockhead entered her ass, I slapped her ass. "What do you say, slut?" "Fuck my ass." "Not loud enough. Say it like a slut." "Fuck my ass." As she yelled the words, I not only moved my hand so she'd fall backward, but actively pulled her down. Amy yelped. But her ass was all the way down on my lap. I had an inspiration. I turned the chair so I could reach my keyboard. With Amy impaled on my cock, I opened my music folder and selected a favorite playlist. As the music started, I said, "Okay, baby. Give me a buttfucking lap dance." I slapped her ass for emphasis. "What do you say when I slap your ass?" "Fuck my ass." "That's right. Now dance for me." She started to wiggle a little. "Not nearly good enough." I stopped the music. I pulled her blouse over her head and then held it over her face. I put my mouth to her ear. "Dance for me like I'm the sultan and you're my concubine." I started the music. Amy began to move. She undulated her hips from side to side. I slapped her ass. "Fuck my ass," she cried. "Move it slut." She rocked forward and back. "Bigger strokes. Fuck my cock while you dance." Amy spread her legs to either side and began to lift and drop her butt. "More," I said. "I want full strokes." She lifted higher with the next few strokes. Then she started to twist and turn. I slapped her ass. "Fuck my ass." She almost yelled it that time. Her hands on her knees for support, Amy worked her ass up and down my cock. She threw her whole body into it. I reached around her and squeezed her tit hard. "Say thank you when I do that." "Thank you." I squeezed again. "Thank you." I slapped her ass. "Fuck my ass." This time she yelled it out. I squeezed her tit. "Thank you." The best part was that I was nowhere near coming. I was rock hard and in full command. The next song started. "Dance, slut, dance." Amy rocked and swayed. She leaned forward and slapped her ass down on my cock. Then she held it halfway in and squeezed as she quickly lowered and raised herself. I squeezed her tit. "Thank you." An orgasm shook her body. I grabbed her other tit and said "Both tits you say I'm a slut." "I'm a slut." I slapped her ass. "Fuck my ass." I grabbed her tit. "Thank you." I grabed both tits. "I'm a slut." I slapped her ass. "Fuck my ass." I'm a slut. Thank you. Fuck my ass. Such eloquent language. After 20 minutes, Amy was worn down. I pulled her butt onto me. "Do you love me?" I asked. "Yes. God, yes." I squeezed her tit. "Thank you." I squeezed both tits. She hesitated, then "I'm a slut." I squeezed both tits again. "I'm a slut. Please forgive me." I lifted her feet in the air and turned the chair toward the desk. I could see us reflected in the monitor. I tilted her forward and rose to standing, my cock still wedged in her ass. I pushed her head down on the desk and held it there. I fucked her, slowly at first and then faster. I slapped her ass. "Fuck my ass," she moaned. "Louder." I slapped her again and again. "Fuck my ass. Fuck my ass. Fuck my ass." Amy was screaming now. "You know what I'm going to do." I hammered into her. Speaking sweetly, I repeated, "You know what I'm going to do." "No," Amy whispered. "I'm going to divorce your slut ass. That's what I'm going to do." Amy started to cry and I pumped her. "I'm going to come in your ass and divorce you." I slapped her ass. Amy cried. "What do you say?" I slapped her ass again. "What do you say?" The Call of Blood Amy gasped out the words, "Fuck my ass." A big smile grew on my face. My balls were on fire. I pulled the head of my cock out and then rammed it all the way home as I came. The funniest thought ran through my head, that I'd have to raise her anal grade. It was time to be the nice guy. I helped Amy up and led her, crying all the way, to the shower. I washed us off and dried us. It's amazing how sexual excitement is keyed to a situation. My wife had admitted she was cheating, I had told her I would divorce her, and my cock wouldn't stay down. "What the hell," I thought. Amy was beyond speech as I lay her on the bed. Top marks for on her back fucking. I put my mouth on her clit and gently sucked, not to get her off but to see if her pussy would get wet. It did, so I mounted her. She lay there, arms limp, legs motionless. So I kissed her. Her mouth was dead. I kissed her again and she responded. Her hands rose to my shoulders as her hips tilted to meet my thrusts. We made love without saying a word. I caressed her, fucking her pussy in time with the probing of my tongue in her mouth. I put my arms all the way around her and rolled to the side until she was on top. I pulled her up so I could suck on her nipples. Top third in cock riding. I like when a woman rides my cock. Next wife will have to be better on top. Amy burrowed into my neck as she came. I came a minute later. My cock was wearing out. Amy breathed in my ear. She quivered. All good things come to an end. "Are you going to pay?" I asked. "I don't know what to do." She lifted her head. "I've lost you." I nodded. She tried to smile, then she kissed my shoulder. "You're in a real mess," I said. "What should I do?" "They asked for how much? $10,000? They'll never stop." She rubbed her nose against me. "I know," she said. "I wouldn't care if I still had you." I rolled onto my side and raised my hands to her tits. I squeezed them. "I'm a slut," Amy whispered. "No, you're not a slut." I rolled her nipples between my thumbs and index fingers. "I can never trust you again. The scars are still raw from last time." I kissed her. She slid up and pressed her breasts against both sides of my face. Friday afternoon slipped into Friday evening. I fell asleep. When I woke, Amy was in the den, staring at her computer. I rubbed her shoulders. "I can't pay," Amy said. "I just can't." I grunted. I expected that. $10,000 is a lot of money to splash out with no guarantee. "Maybe they're bluffing," she continued. "If I tell everyone I know about the pictures, it would be just like they were sent." I kissed the top of her head. She twisted her head to one side and tilted it back. I brushed my hand across her cheek. "I really blew it, didn't I?" she said. "Yeah well," I replied. What could I say? "I'm sorry I was rough with you." I wasn't really but I wanted to be nice. And with the weekend ahead, my cock wanted a place to stay. "You're the only man I've ever loved." Amy kissed my fingers. "You're by far the best lover. I'm glad you . . . I'm glad you did that to me. I couldn't face you if you hadn't." "I wanted to hurt you. I can't believe you did this. We were going to try for a baby. I don't know if I'll ever get over this." I said this gently, not wanting her to break down. We kissed. "Is your ass okay?" "Hurts. Hurts a lot." "Sorry." I was actually pleased. Amy stood and we embraced. She looked into my eyes. "I need you to help me." She touched my mouth. "I have to make it through this weekend. Will you help me?" "Within reason, sure," I answered. Her finger played across my lips. "Use me." She kissed me. "Fuck me until I can't walk. Make me your sex slave." Oh yeah. My dick was already getting hard. "Do anything you want to me." I realized that Amy was going to go out acting. She wouldn't, perhaps couldn't deal with the reality of her situation without playing a role. With our history, she knew our marriage was over so she transformed me, her betrayed husband, into the fantasy she needed. I would be her master, punishing her for her wrongs, taking her mind off what might happen Monday. I knew she would put her all into this new part. "All right, slut. You've had it easy so far." I put my hands on her ass. "Here's what you're going to do now. When I'm finished, you say yes cock master and go do it." Amy held me tight. "Put on your sexiest dress, no underwear, stockings not pantyhose. Put on your make-up like you were going to a fancy party. Put on your best jewelry. Fix your hair. Perfume. I want it all. I'm going to use you. Understand. Hurry up. Run." Amy said, "Yes, cock master," and ran. She looked fantastic. And she was totally turned on. I ordered her to take a long coat out of the hall closet. I told her to go to the garage, but stopped her as she started to walk away. "No. I go first." I walked to the door and waited. "Open it." I walked to the passenger door of her car and waited. "Open it." I got in. I told her to drive to her office, which by now would be empty except for the cleaning staff. I rubbed her tits through her dress as she drove. Once we were in the parking garage, I ordered her to get out and open my door. She held every door for me. When we reached her office, I stood behind her desk and unzipped. "Lie on your belly across the desk and suck your master's cock, slut." She reached for my dick. "No hands. Put your hands on your ass and squeeze your butt." I fucked her mouth. If ever the words "greedy cocksucker" applied, it was then. "Look up at me, slut." She was on her stomach, hands on her ass, mouth wide open, her eyes locked on mine as I probed and prodded my cock in her mouth. "You know what you're wearing slut. You're wearing your master's come rag." I let that sink in. "When I come in your mouth, you don't swallow. Hear me slut." Amy made a noise. Considering the amount of sex I'd already had that day, I mustered a fairly sizable load. "Sit up. Now spit all my come into your hands. Look at me while you do that. Now rub it all over your nice dress, right on the chest where I can see it." Amy complied without hesitation. I ordered her to take off the dress. She was wearing a lacy black bra and stockings. "Rub the dress between your legs. Is your pussy wet?" "Yes cock master. My pussy is wet." "Good slut. Your next task is to make me fuck you before we get home. I'll drive. You have to get me hard and entice me to pump cum into your pussy before we get home or I'll make you get out naked on the freeway." Amy looked wild, her eyes shining with pure sexual abandon. On my instructions, she left her coat open and draped her sperm coated dress over her shoulders as we went to the car. She opened the driver's door for me, closed it, ran around to her side and immediately put her feet on the dashboard and began to masturbate. Nice idea. Halfway home, Amy started biting my chest and whimpering for my cock. She had me. I pulled into a church parking lot - where else? She mounted me. Her pussy was incredibly wet. Good thing we were in her car because I didn't want stains on my seats. She didn't need any prompting to dance on my cock. She undulated. I was turned on and blew my load quickly. "Take off your bra and get out of the car." Amy stood in the church parking lot naked except for her stockings "Tie your bra to the church door. Run." Amy ran, her tits jiggling. She did what I ordered and ran back. I was having a great time. The rest of the weekend was a frenzied sexual blur. On Saturday, I took her to a sex store to buy two large dildoes. I attached one to a table edge and made her fuck it while I pumped her ass. She took my cock in her ass without complaint, though it must have hurt like hell. I tied her to the bed using her favorite blouses and tickled her. I peed on her in the shower. I stuck a feather duster in her ass - this was a riot - and had her prance around like a show pony. I made up elaborate call and response games. If I grabbed her left tit, she'd sing "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition." If I grabbed the right, it might be, "Thank God I'm a country girl." I made her count my strokes out loud and shout, "Yee ha, ride me cowboy!" every 10th pump. She did the YMCA dance, forming the letters with her arms as I humped her standing. I fucked her ass as she did the chicken dance, with her singing "First you do the wings, then you do the beak, then you fuck my ass, do-do do do do." Things that might be impossible to say to a wife can be said to a slave. I made Amy beg my forgiveness for the years of my life I'd wasted on her. I told her of my pain. She spread oil on my body and then massaged me with her hands, breasts and mouth while telling me how wonderful I am. We may imagine vengeance as a single emotion, an anger that drives you forward every step, but the truth is more complex. I had wanted to hurt Amy - and still did - but I also understood that we loved each other. As much as her affair had driven a permanent wedge between us, my revenge had brought us that much closer. She stood naked in front of me and masturbated at my command. She revealed herself to me, psychologically and emotionally as well as physically. I'd never been interested in domination before but now I understood the power of giving yourself. When Monday morning arrived, I kissed Amy goodbye and watched through the front window as she drove away. The final phase of Operation Destructo was ready, an email with all the pictures and a selection of the worst of the sex talk. I didn't hesitate. I sent it to everyone in her contacts list, including all her family, friends and business associates. I didn't even wait until noon. Why bother? It's not like the bad guys would be maintaining a relationship with Amy and it would take time for the email to run through the foreign servers I was using. I packed my things and loaded them into my car. Some people might imagine remaining on the scene to gloat, but watching Amy struggle with the consequences would only make me sad. We could no longer pretend the world outside was the illusion. It was time to make my exit, stage left. Amy's life fell apart. She had to quit her job. She was humiliated professionally and socially. But if our sick society has taught me anything it's that public humiliation is not necessarily fatal. Amy wasn't someone you naturally hate. People laughed at her and some turned their backs, but most were fairly sympathetic. We've become inured to scandal. I have a theory that we don't crack down on drunk drivers because each of us is afraid we'll get stopped coming home from a barbecue or a cocktail party while a little tipsy. We let drunks kill thousands every year for the selfish reason that almost all of us at some point may have a drink or two and drive. Scandals, especially sex scandals, are following the same path. What if it's me? It could be anyone I know. My daughter, God forbid. My sister. Well, she was a little wild in college. My wife. You take a few pictures, store them on your computer and years later they may pop up on the internet. Love is complicated. I loved Amy and she loved me, but she wasn't able to control herself and that meant we couldn't stay married. We stayed in touch. To be honest, we fucked regularly even as the divorce was in process. I worried about her getting pregnant to trap me but we worked that out because neither of us liked using condoms. Amy's anal and doggie grades became so good I actually presented her ass with an embossed certificate of appreciation. I wonder if she still has it. We didn't have much stuff to divvy. We sold the condo and split the money. I bought Amy a new sexy black dress. She wore it to dinner the day the divorce became final, with only stockings and a black lace bra underneath. I fucked her in that dress and then out of it. As we lay together in bed, Amy repeated what she'd said before, "If I had you, I wouldn't care about the rest." She couldn't have me. Her lover had a worse time. His wife couldn't forgive him for humiliating himself professionally or for cheating on her after the emotional trauma of her miscarriage. She took him to the cleaners. I felt no sympathy for the guy. Amy and I started to grow apart when I met the girl I later married. We both had trouble maintaining a relationship with my being happy with another woman. Amy sent me a note when she got married again. She said she still loved me. I haven't talked to her in years. To be honest, I don't care what she's doing. Pilar and I have two kids, ages 3 and 5, and we're having a good time working on making number three. My wife is Cuban, part of an original refugee family from the time of the revolution. They are extremely proud of their heritage and weren't happy about bringing any Anglo into the fold, but especially one whose Spanish consisted of de nada, gracias and chinga tu madre. Not long after the wedding, Pilar's father took me fishing near his home in Miami. He thought I was soft, that his daughter had married a weak Anglo who would cater to her, who would treat her as an exotic flower. Pilar, he said, needs a man strong enough to stand up to her. She has a powerful spirit. "Are you that man?" he asked. I told my father a story. I told him about the call of the blood, about Hamlet and his father's ghost. I told him that I have seen the darkness which lives in the soul, that I am a man. He listened. I told him about revenge, not all the specifics but enough. I told him how it feels, the good and the bad: "Too much and you fill with bitterness. Too little and your thirst remains strong." It's just a story, I said, but he understood. We've been close ever since. I didn't tell my father that his daughter gave me her virgin ass on our second date or that Pilar has my initials tattooed in the curly black hair above her mound. I own her and she owns me. That's the power of giving. She's my number one cock rider of all time, with a round firm ass and small tits with perfect brown nipples, and she loves to suck my cock as much as I love eating her tasty pussy. Pilar knows everything about me. She knows the whole story of what happened with Amy. She knows I'll kill her if she cheats on me and I know she'll do even worse to me if I ever cheat on her. We call it mutually assured destruction, like the arms race with the Soviets. She purrs in my ear, "Keep your finger on my button and we'll both be happy." I love that woman. Maybe Shakespeare was trying to say that you have to keep revenge in perspective. Heed the call of the blood, but don't let your desire for revenge become an obsession, don't let the role you're playing take over your soul. Kill your father's murderer but don't lose the kingdom. Taking revenge on Amy made me a stronger and I think a better person. I have visited the dark well of pain and climbed back up to the daylight. I have felt the raging fury which seethes in my soul. Now when I hold my precious little girls, I know the total encompassing beauty of unconditional love.