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Love Is A Silk Blindfold

By: angiquesophie



Buzz and Rumors.

"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said. 

Or rather tried to say. 

Paul groaned. His blue eyes swam. They hardly focused anymore. I didn't care. He was drunk, so was I. My name is Jules Branford (Jules yes, I know...don't ask me, ask my parents.) 

Of course I could hardly blame Paul for the state we were in.

It was my fault. I had dragged him here and kept the liquid coming. It had also been me who poured the stream of laments into his ears. I beat him with the club of my self-pity until he was mush. I rubbed my torn up ego in his face until he gagged.

And not once did he say: "I told you so."

I should feel sorry for him. But it was his own fault too, wasn't it? He should have known better before becoming my best friend. And surely before telling me what he had seen, that goddamn day. Let the bastard suffer. Why on earth did he have to tell me how my world had shattered and my universe collapsed!

"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said.

"Cruelty" is a hard word to say when you are drunk. But imagine saying the word "betrayal." As in: "What really hurts is the betrayal." 

**************************

I married Elizabeth Barton when she was twenty-two. 

I was a year older. We married with the self-assured arrogance of young people in love. You see - no one could possibly be as deeply in love as we were then. And of course no one had ever felt so much love before us. It was our own personal invention. So indeed no one would ever be this crazily in love again.

Betty - as her parents and siblings call her – was also the most beautiful creature on earth. (She still is, by the way. Hate can't change everything overnight. Please be patient.) I, on the other hand, preferred to call her Libby. At first she did not like that, until I said it over and over while licking her clit. Try it; you'll see why it would work. And while you're at it, try Bubble too. Or Bibbly-bibbly, though that may make you sound a bit silly.

Our state of bliss started with a bang when we first met on a New Year's Eve's party, now five years ago. Things went fast from there. We were already half naked when the last of the twelve strokes echoed in our ears.

What always amazed me the most about us, even after all this time, was the ease. The natural, easy way we had around each other. The way we made each other float. It was almost a state of grace, whatever that is. Her calm hazel eyes poured confidence into my skull. We never had to prove anything. It was an incredibly rare, yet so very ordinary closeness. There was a relaxed humor. Our eyes always seemed to see the same silly little things.

I never suspected how vulnerable that would make me.

You see, it is just as the drunk sod told Paul, his best friend: "Wha' weally hujts is the bethwayl." 

************************** 

Does it matter how I found out? 

Maybe for you sick, voyeuristic slobs it does. With all the cliché circumstances, all the savory sex-dripping details. So you can shudder with delight about her blatant brazenness, her careless cruelty, her humiliating remarks. Ah, damn, you are just impotent lil gloaters anyway, aren't you? 

Disaster-tourists, the lot of you.

Even worse are these awful so called friends. They can tell you in hindsight how they always suspected it. And how easy I could have known, had I only looked. But they did not want to interfere. 

I would not mind demolishing their nosy noses. For a start. 

And of course there are those who mildly patronize you. They look very smug and nod wisely while you tell them. In their case I could not help wondering if they shouldn't watch their own spouses.

And then there was Paul. 

The only thing he did was telling me that he had seen Betty at the local Hilton, kissing her boss over dinner. Close kissing of the third kind, he said. Then they'd had coffee and hit the elevators, his hand on her ass. 

Paul had left the Hilton two hours later. They had not yet returned by then.

I remember I had this primal urge to cave in Paul's nose. And a few teeth. And his eyes. Maybe his balls too. But he was Paul. We go back a century. He never lied to me. Not even about disliking Betty, which he did. He had all the right in the world to gloat and tell me "I told you so". But he was maybe the only one in the world who'd never do that.

Paul is my friend. And he lived to regret that.

************************** 

Those first years Betty and I were too deeply in love with our perfect lives to want children. She certainly liked her career as much as I did. But of course, looking back from where we are now, she may have had other things on her mind. Anyway, the subject never came up. 

We were the typical selfish yuppie couple, I suppose.

We wined and dined and went to far away islands where the sun always does what the brochures promise. We traveled to Europe's old cities. We lived in a roomy loft on Manhattan Island. We collected beautiful things, exotic experiences. We went to concerts and parties, when we had the time. 

Time was precious, though. Betty worked hard and long hours. I guess I did the same. We were very busy chasing perfection and trying to get there.

Friends liked us and we liked them whenever we could find the time to meet them. Or they to see us. Sometimes our agenda's matched. It didn't take long until we ourselves had to use our pretty palm tops to see each other, Betty and I. Don't laugh or I'll call you an old fashioned laggard and scratch you from my electronic agenda. 

The only one I could never impress with my time management was Paul. You have to know that he is a painter. One of the kind that could become famous after he dies. His children may get very rich if he ever thinks of marrying and having some. Then again, if he would do that, it might spoil his art and his dedication to it.

I am into a different art form; the bland and modern art of money management. I make the rich richer and don't make myself poorer in the process. Betty is into P.R. She is P.R., really; in her life the sun never sets. And to be honest, up to now it never saw a reason to do so.

************************** 

One infamous night Paul called me. 

He was in his favorite bar. Our bar, to be precise. Well, our one-time bar, as I hadn't been there with any regularity this last year. 

He sounded slightly tipsy. It was about eight thirty. He also sounded concerned. Paul is a loud person. Put him in any voice-filled room and you'll have no problem hearing him. But that night he sounded quiet on the phone. Somehow it convinced me at once of the urgency of his call.

The bar was busy. Paul raised his paint-stained hand and waved when I got in. He sat way in the back. By the time I had reached him, there was a scotch and ice for me on the table.

"Drink up," he said.

"What is the matter, Paul? Why call me?"

"Drink first. Talk later."

There were no little lights in his eyes.

I took a sip.

"Drink, I said," he insisted.

I emptied the glass. The stuff burnt down my throat. Miraculously there was a freshly filled glass where I put down the empty one.

"I have to get up early in the morning," I said, pushing the glass away.

He shoved it back.

"This one too. Drink."

I shrugged and swallowed.

"Betty is fucking around on you."

************************** 

I must admit that I did not believe him. 

As anyone blinded by love knows: all people lie when they tell you anything about your lover that isn't the 100% essence of red roses. Paul was my best friend since kindergarten. Paul never ever lied to me. And now there was no way I could believe him.

I got mad.

I told him that I was very disappointed with him. That I felt like beating him up. (He is 6 ft 4 and more than half as wide.) That it was a fucking shame he had sunk so low to let his fucking jealousy take over. That he was a skunk (or some other unsavory animal; I don't exactly remember). That I never would have thought he'd find satisfaction in destroying the happiness of his best friend. 

"This is me, dammit Paul! Me!"

He only waved to the waitress and told me to drink up.

"I understand," he said. His voice sounded sad. "I might have reacted the same way. But it is true. I saw it, Jules." 

One can only rage this long. Words have a tendency to get scarce after, let's say, triple repetition. The only exception is the word fuck, I guess. 

I drank. Then I cried.

"I can't believe you, Paul." There was a sob in my voice.

He shrugged. "I know."

I stared at him. He looked pale. I was so shaken up that I did not see how shaken up he was. I only saw glee.

"Are you happy now?" I asked. 

At any other time I would have bitten off my tongue before being so spiteful. To be precise, at any other time he would have bitten off my head. Not now.

"Jules," he said. "I saw what I saw. Now you must go see what I didn't see. Do it soon."

A buzz started in my head. The whiskies kicked in.

"I don't believe what you saw, Paul."

He lifted two helpless hands.

I rose and struggled my way through the boozing throngs.

************************** 

"Go see what I didn't see..."

The suggestion had clawed its tiny, sharp nails in the back of my skull. I could not shake it off.

When I got home it was ten o'clock. Betty was in her little home office. I took a huge glass of water and settled in front of the TV, seeing nothing.

After a few minutes she joined me. She wrapped her body around mine. Her kiss was sweet and open. As always.

"Bonjour, mon vieux." 

I love it when she talks French. It suits her so very well. And it tells me that she's in the mood.

"How was your day?"

She had left me to get herself a glass of wine. Ever since we started working irregular hours, we pick up food on the way home. Often at the health club, sometimes even together.

"Fine," I said. "Did you eat?"

"I did, did you? You smell of booze."

"I met Paul in Charlie's."

She frowned. She doesn't want to frown when I mention Paul's name, but she can't help it, it seems. She never liked him and it was mutual. 

"Why? What did he want?"

I watched her face. It wasn't friendly, even a bit hard. I never wondered how other people might see Betty. I mean, I never thought it might be different from how I saw her.

Why should I wonder now?

I shrugged.

"He just wanted a drink and talk, I guess. Like the old days."

Her eyes softened. She returned to my lap, hugging me. The warm contact of her body at once excited me. The glow of her round, tight ass. The softness of her tits. 

She breathed into my ear, making me shiver. Then her tongue ran around the inside of the shell and plunged into the opening. I groaned. 

I rose and carried her to the bedroom.

************************** 

Betty hasn't given me a blowjob since more than half a year. 

Maybe longer. She not even licks or kisses my cock anymore. She uses her hands. She says tasting cock suddenly started making her nauseous. She says she can't explain it. She also says she has to gag from having her mouth filled with cock. She apologizes for that, but she can't change it, she says.

She used to give great head. 

Especially the first year we met. Her lips were like a velvet ring, tight and yet so incredibly soft. Her tongue was a miracle. She played me like an instrument with her lips, her tongue and her fingers.

I showed her my frustration when she stopped sucking me. I told her I was disappointed. But I never urged her on. I love her too much for that.

Betty really loves it when I eat her out. She comes hard when I suck her, sometimes it gives her a few orgasms in a row. There are ways to make her come harder and faster. I know them all and love to please her. I am certain it is a big part of the reason she loves me. The attention. The patience. 

And the orgasms, of course.

As I said, I love her madly. I want to please her in every way she needs. So after we undressed that night, I laid her on the silk sheets and started kissing her. She loves to have her whole body kissed and licked. I felt her skin tighten under my lips. She arched her spine when I sucked in her nipples. I love the texture of her excited nubs. They stiffen and swell in the curl of my tongue. Sometimes they are so hard that even the areola start getting puffy.

Once I gave her an orgasm by just sucking her tits. Betty has perfect tits. They are not huge, but round like apples. And they blush like apples too.

This night she came in an intense and stretched out way. She made deep gurgling noises and arched her body high, pushing it against my face. 

I let her come down. Then I rose up along her body. I ran my tongue over her mound and belly. She moaned her disappointment and started pushing me down again. But I did not oblige.

"Please, Jules," she lisped. "Encore une fois...je t'empris. Tu es si magnifique."

Why did it irritate me? I don't know. But I shook my head and took her hands away. I saw her face over her panting chest. She looked annoyed. I don't think I ever saw her annoyed. But maybe I never looked.

"Go see what I didn't see..."

The little voice was in my head. I grabbed Betty's hands and spread her arms to her sides. I straddled her, resting my half aroused cock between the sweet apples on her chest.

"Honey..." she said. "What is it?"

I just stared at her eyes. They were wide open now. The annoyance had left.

"Will you suck my cock, Libby?"

Her lashes fluttered.

"You know I can't do that, Jules. Not anymore," she whispered. "Please, I would love to, honey, I really would. But I can't. It makes me sick. You know that. We talked about it so often. Please don't make me do it."

I know I looked annoyed then.

"I ate you to orgasm, Libby. I always please you. I never refuse."

She blushed.

"Sorry, Jules. I am really sorry, but I can't. I gag, I get sick, remember?"

I rose. I felt enraged. I never felt that before, not with her. I turned away and sulked on the side of the bed.

After a while I felt her tiny hand on my back. A second hand reached around me and found my limp cock. It lay on my thigh, still leaking from my frustrated arousal.

"Ne m'oublige pas, Jules. Je t'empris. Je t'aime."

I jerked myself away from her and got off the bed. I turned around. It felt as if acid hurled from my eyes to hers.

"Goddammit, Elizabeth!" I screamed. She scrambled away from me, eyes wide.

"Fuck the French! TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON!!"

************************** 

Of course nothing was going on. She had no idea what I meant. Could I maybe tell her what was going on with me? Why I was acting this way? Using such language?

I just stood there, watching. She sounded honest. I tried to see, what her body might tell me, her face. But she was just her innocent, open self. Her lovable self. I could tell she was hurt by my behavior. How could I ever treat her so love-less?

Then she crawled to the bedside. She took my dormant cock in her hand. She pulled the hood back and started blowing on its crown. A slow, pointed tongue licked the taut tip, teasing its tiny slit.

A rush of air left my lungs. My swelling flesh slid into her hot little velvet chamber.

I moaned.

She made a gagging noise.

************************** 

We ended with her riding me. 

She loves to ride my cock lately. It makes her orgasm more intense, she says. I can see that it does. I love to watch her face when she gets closer to release. I love how she arches her back and lets her little apples dance. I love the way her hair sweeps. The bliss on her face. I love to feel how her desperate fingers dig into my chest.

I guess I love her.

Betty's hair is a deep glowing brown. She usually wears it up, but when we make love she lets it flow. Her skin is very pale for a brunette. It is the skin of a redhead really. I love its translucent blush. Her eyes are light. They call it hazel, I guess. 

Gold, I'd say.

We took a shower together. She begged me to eat her pussy out under the shower. I did. I didn't mind that my sperm was still there. I made her climax one last time. 

We dried each other and I carried her to bed. I am not sure she was still awake when I told her I was sorry for insisting that she give me head. 

She did not respond.

I did not sleep much. I stared into the soft darkness. Her breathing was calm beside me. I touched her breast, just to feel its velvet warmth. I watched her face. The weak lips were half open. I saw her eyeballs move under their translucent lids. I saw the shadows of her lashes.

I love Betty. I love my Libby. But the little line hangs from its cruel nails at the back of my skull.

"Go see what I didn't see..."

Damn you, Paul!

Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 02



Friends and Foes.

Time has this well-known quality of going on. 

But of course we shouldn't give time credit for that. It isn't time. It is all these modest little things and chores that drag us through our days. Things like getting up, shaving, having coffee. Like getting to work and slaving along. Like phoning, meeting, talking and drinking more coffee. 

At work I spend a lot of time on the phone and behind the computer screen. Hours may pass without me returning to palpable reality. It makes the arrival of lunchtime sometimes feel like rising from the depth of a pool, gasping for air. Judy's face was the first living thing I came back to. She is my secretary. We often have a bite together, down at the tiny street-restaurant.

Judy is in her late forties. No need to flatter her by saying she looks ten years younger. She proudly looks her age and is a stunner nevertheless. Beside that, there isn't a week going by that she doesn't save my ass. She remembers what I forget. She irons out what I wrinkle. She jokes away my darker moods.

"You look like shit," she said, picking up the menu.

"Thank you very much," I answered.

"But it's true," she went on sweetly. "Lack of sleep?"

I nodded.

"Worries?' She nipped from her water.

"Not sure."

She pouted her immaculate lips.

"Not sure?...I'd say those are the worst."

She smiled, but I knew she was serious. It takes a better man than me to fool her.

We ordered. I took a soup, she a salad. I ruined a bun by crumbling it to a sorry little heap of crumbs. I didn't touch my glass of milk.

"Jules," she said softly. "I won't repeat that you can always talk to me about anything. I sometimes worry about your sloppy memory, but I know you haven't forgotten that."

She made me smile. It felt odd. I realized I hadn't smiled for a while.

Judy went on.

"Your reluctance tells me there might be two reasons for your musing, honey. The first one is that you cheated the firm out of a few million...well, I don't think we should take that one serious."

She grinned and laid her hand on my arm. I admired its youth and aggressive nail-job. 

"Which leaves us with Betty."

When she said that, her fingers tightened for just a second.

Our soup and salad came. I made quite a show of unfolding my napkin and spreading it in my lap. Then I took my time to stir the steaming bowl with a tireless spoon. 

I looked up and realized that her eyes had never left me through the whole ceremony. They were very green, today.

"I really can't tell you, Judy. Not that I don't want to, but I just don't know why I should worry about her in the first place. I might as well worry that this soup is poisoned. I have no reason, no evidence, nothing."

I heard myself talk. And I knew I gave it all away. The more words I used to deny my worries, the louder they seemed to confirm them. Poison indeed. Judy usually only needs half a word. I gave her half a dictionary.

She was silent. She looked into her salad.

"Tell me all," she said. "Or tell me it is none of my business." 

* * * * *

I told her. 

Judy doesn't know Paul well. She doesn't know he never lies. That he hasn't lied ever since the early eighties when we first met. But the first thing she asked was when Betty works late.

I stared at her.

"You believe it?" I asked.

"Why would Paul lie?"

"Because he is jealous!" I blurted.

She hesitated.

"I don't know much about your friendships, Jules. You always speak highly of Paul, though. I know you have always been very close. Did he ever before seem...jealous?"

I just sat and thought back over a gulf of time. The time I had known Paul. He had never been jealous. I was better at school, I often helped him. He never seemed envious of my ease at what was difficult for him at times. I must admit that if there ever had been jealousies, they had been mine. Paul was very popular with the girls. He was a great sportsman and a successful flirt.

"No," I said. "I don't think he ever was."

Judy looked thoughtful. She had not touched her salad.

"Yet you call him that."

"He never liked Betty. I introduced them and after seeing her a few times he admitted that he did not like her. I was surprised. I could not imagine that there might be people on this earth not liking Betty. Besides, Paul's taste in people and mine never differed much. I was surprised. And not a bit disappointed."

Judy started poking at her little Japanese salad.

"You think that's the reason why he told you, Jules? To blacken Betty?"

The bluntness of her remark made me feel uneasy. How could I accuse Paul of that? On the other hand, how could I not come to the rescue of Betty's reputation?

"Could you believe Paul would do that?" she said.

Damn, the woman might as well have read my mind. I shrugged.

"I can't let him do that to Betty, can I?" I said. "He can't make me choose between her and him. I...like him. I love Betty!"

My voice had swollen. The last words were loud. Judy laughed. Her hand was on my wrist again.

"Honey," she said. (She often says that, just like "darling". It is just what she says.) "Honey...I think you are overreacting. Please look at what we have here."

She pointed at the centre of the table, as if there was a piece of evidence lying there.

"Paul has seen her with her boss at the restaurant of the Hilton. How often does Betty go to restaurants with clients or colleagues?"

I knew what she meant.

"But he saw them kiss. Intimately," I said.

She nodded. 

"Betty is an easy kisser, Jules. It is how she is. Open, warm. Not a fashionable air-kisser. And maybe Paul exaggerates. Maybe he did not see all of it and made an interpretation. Now what happened next? They left for the elevators. Maybe they had a meeting with a client? Or a presentation to prepare? Did you ask her?"

I felt helpless. And a bit of a fool. Maybe it was indeed all harmless. Was this how much I loved Betty? To suppose the worst after only hearsay? Damn you, Paul! Damn me.

"But Paul said the guy had his hand on her ass."

Now she shrugged. 

"How long does she work with him?"

"Almost seven years now. He already was her boss before we met."

"Well..." she said, drawing out the ll's. "Jules, we have been together for over four years now and you never put your hand on my ass. But then again I could be your mom. Imagine me twenty years younger and consider again. Would you mind? Would my bum mind?"

She laughed her easy laugh. I knew she wasn't fishing for a compliment, but I gave it anyway. I fiercely dismissed her "mom" argument and said that it had taken almost superhuman self-restraint to keep my hands to myself.

"I rest my case, honey," she chuckled.

* * * * *

Our little palm tops had allowed us to meet at the gym. Betty had been working out for an hour. She glowed. I had just arrived from work to have a healthy dinner with her at the gym's restaurant. It was in a glass half circle at the tenth floor. 

Central Park was at our feet.

"You look gorgeous," I said, kissing her. I felt her body press into mine as she prolonged the kiss. It was a weak, wet, open kiss inside a strong and tight embrace. One that made me feel very welcome. 

Slightly out of breath we sat down at the window. The sinking sun haloed her lovely silhouette. I put my hand on hers.

"Libby...what have I done to deserve you?"

A wide grin washed over her face. 

"An eye for an eye, honey," she said. "A tooth for a tooth and all the other parts I wont discuss here."

The ease crept in. The wit. And the wonderful lightness that made us buoyant. We were floating on a blue tropical sea. Could I ever broach the subject? I took her hand and kissed her fingers.

"Ah, mon vieux," she crooned. "Mes petits doigts te remercis."

We ordered and sipped our healthy juices. We discussed our days. We laughed and made our little innuendos. And I still had not asked her. It was hard to find a natural way to put the question. It had been four days by now, since Paul had seen them. 

"How's Robert?" I asked. It sounded rude and sudden to me, but she didn't seem to notice. Robert Mancini is her boss.

"Oh?" she said. "Fine. He's in Europe right now. Why?"

I had feared the why. So I had prepared for it.

"Nothing special," I said, acting relaxed. "Paul might have a question for him. He may need advice for promoting his next exhibition. I don't know. Paul asked me to ask you."

"Well," she said, chewing on her lettuce. "He'll be back next Monday. But why ask us? We know zilch about the art world, honey. You know that. Besides, we are expensive."

I let the stab pass. Its snobbishness irritated me.

"I guess he got the idea when he saw you and Robert at the Hilton, a few days back," I said. "He didn't want to disturb the two of you. You seemed rather, eh, busy." 

I kept my eyes glued to her face. She did not pale, nor blush. She didn't respond at all; her food-filled mouth just mumbled something that sounded affirmative. Then she looked up.

"Honey," she said. "Will you please get the pepper from the other table?" 

I reached out and got it for her. She smiled and crunched some black pepper over her salad.

"C'est delicieux!" she said. "I'm really hungry."

I had no way to go on questioning her without giving myself away. I had not prepared for non-response. I guess I should be happy. There obviously was nothing that bothered her.

So why should I feel worried?

* * * * *

But I did.

The little nagging phrase had retired to an even less scratchable niche of my mind. It stayed there, though; it never left. It was like a hair on the back of my tongue. Like the tiny fragment of a splinter buried too deep to see. But you still feel it at every touch.

I had to see Paul. 

It made me feel like a traitor, but I had to. Betty obviously had done nothing that would make her a suspect, not even in the slightest way. There was only hearsay, gossip. It could be easily explained away. Just as easily as Betty had taken it. It was nothing. It not even provoked the slightest response with her.

Damn Paul. What game are you playing with me? Who are you? Why now? 

I had to see Paul.

He was in his studio. It is a giant white space on the top floor of an old building close to 32nd and Third Avenue. He had rented it from a firm that had used it for storage. It had huge windows on the north side. It was perfect for his giant paintings. I had helped him get the money to rent and restyle it.

I loved to go there. It had a serene atmosphere. There was the smell of fresh paint. Fountains of color bloomed all around. It was a place where my black and white world of numbers seemed far away.

Paul threw me a beer. Even his hair was caked with paint. Yellow, I saw. And red. We sat on the gigantic ancient couch he had found at a garage sale. It groaned under his massive weight.

"I talked to Betty," I said, after gulping the beer.

"I sure hope you do," he chuckled.

"You know what I mean."

"Sorry, yes," he said. "What did she say?"

"Nothing."

He looked up, surprised. I went on.

"I told her you wanted to see her boss for some PR advice. Utter bullshit, but I had to find a way. I hope you don't mind."

He threw up his hands to reassure me.

"Then I said you had seen them at the Hilton, but did not want to disturb, as they were busy."

"Clever," he said. "What did she say?"

"Nothing. Nada. Not a word. No paling, no blushing. No hesitation. She just ate on, then asked me to pass the pepper."

He stared at me, his beer can halfway up.

"And now you think it was nothing," he said.

I rose and walked over to the window. The street was busy, downstairs. The cabs crawled around like yellow beetles. I turned back to him.

"Why do you want me to believe she is cheating on me, Paul? You have no proof. She has a zillion meetings with her boss. They work together for over seven years. Why not believe they had to meet a client there? Why presume the worst and tell me, Paul?"

He stayed calm.

"I saw, Jules. I have good eyes, I am a painter. I see the little things. I know people. I recognize their motions, the language of their bodies. What I saw wasn't business."

"Bullshit!" I said.

"Whatever you call it, Jules. I never had reason to doubt my eyes. Betty is running around on you."

I took a step in his direction. I seethed with anger. He raised his hand, but didn't budge.

"You have no proof, dammit," I hissed.

"No, I don't," he said. "That is why I told you: go see what I did not see. Get proof."

For a minute I could not find words. All kinds of bitter comments rose up like bile in my throat. My wide eyes were locked with his calm, blue ones.

"I...I need no proof. I won't confront her. I...I love her, Paul. She is my life. How can you even ask me to spy on her?"

He shook his head. Then he rose and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Listen, Jules. I am your friend. I have been as long as I remember. I wonder why I have to even say this. Why can't you trust me? I saw what I saw. My heart bled, but I had to tell you. I can't look away when my best friend is being shit on."

His eyes were steady. I suddenly hated them. I hated his calm reasoning. I despised what I saw as patronizing. I pushed him away.

"You are not a friend, Paul," I said. 

Part of me was appalled by what I said. My voice seemed far away. 

"You are a jealous schemer. Ever since I found Betty you wanted her gone. You never gave her a chance. I should have known. You are such a despicable little man, Paul!"

He looked hurt. He reached out for me, but I turned and fled.

"Jules!" he called after me. "Don't..."

I looked back from the huge elevator.

"Drop dead, Paul. Go to hell. You are a scheming, jealous asshole."

I walked into the open elevator and sank out of his view. The last thing I saw was his frozen, incredulous face.

* * * * *

When the elevator reached street level I already knew how deeply I'd regret this day. How wrong it was what I just had done. And yet I knew I had to. There was no way I could choose between Betty and Paul and not lose. But there also was no way I could betray Betty. Yes, I felt it would be betrayal if I'd believe Paul over Betty.

I went into a cafe and just sat there waiting for my coffee to get cold.

"Go see what I didn't see..."

The people in the street hurried by, indifferently. How could they care for this little man with his silly dilemmas? Why would they? They sure had enough of them in their own busy lives.

I felt lonely.

Judy had said that it might all have been harmless. She always knows what is going on. Paul had been adamant about the graveness of what he saw. He surely must feel he is right; he has a sharp painter's eye for people. And Betty? She had acted so natural and carefree. How could I not trust her? Could she love me so obviously and yet cheat on me with such ease?

I felt lost.

Funny. How could I believe that my love was secure and still feel lost? Shouldn't the nagging goddamn suspicion have gone away by now? And most importantly: shouldn't I just ask Betty? Why couldn't I just sit her down and ask if she cheated on me? 

I knew why. 

It would shake up our marriage for sure, either way. If I were wrong, she'd be hurt deeply. If I were right, the hurt would be mine. And the marriage would be over.

Would it? Oh yes.

I left the cold coffee and headed for home.

* * * * *

"Est-ce que c'est, mon amour? What is wrong?"

Her voice was sweet, her lips pouted. Her soft fingers brushed a strand of hair from my brow. We had made love. That is: I had just pulled my spent cock out of her, taking a string of our juices with it. 

It may have been lovemaking. It felt different. 

Of course she had noticed. Her eyes carried question marks. I had made her come twice, once with my mouth, once with my pumping cock. She had helped with busy fingers on her clit. She hadn't offered to suck me. I hadn't asked.

I sighed.

"You are different, lately, Jules," she went on. 

Her finger made lazy circles on my chest. The skin was slippery with my sweat. And with the juices that still clung to her fingertips. I did not know what to say and not lie. I slid up until my back was against the headboard. I pulled her into the hollow of my arm and chest. Her soft hair tickled my armpit. 

"I have a problem, Libby. A serious one."

I felt her stiffen in my embrace.

"Work?" she said.

"No. Not work."

Her head turned up to me in the silence that followed.

"What is wrong, honey?" she said. Her hand went up to my face.

"That's the problem, Libby," I said, shifting uneasily. "You see, I don't know if anything is wrong at all, really. Maybe I should ask you."

"Me?"

"Yes. Would you think there is a problem? With us, I mean?"

By now she sat up and turned to me. Both her hands were cupping my face. Her eyes were very close.

"Jules, my sweet. I don't know what you mean. With us, you say? Oh God, please don't tell me it is something serious..."

I couldn't smile.

"What would be serious? Tell me, Libby. What would you consider serious?"

"Are you leaving me, Jules? Is that what you say? Say it isn't so! Please, please hold me and say it isn't so. I'll die when you leave me."

I looked down on her. Her eyes had the sparkle of imminent tears.

"Why would I leave you, honey? Would I have a reason?"

I trembled from the weight of the question. She started crying. Through her sobs she cried that she loved me. That I should know that. That I should never ever leave her. Never! She leant into me and I felt her heart race. I was stunned. Why would she think that I would leave her? This was crazy. Did she assume I was cheating on her? Me on her?

"Oh no, Libby! Never. Never ever!"

I closed her in my arms and held her tightly. I found her mouth and kissed her. The moment passed. And once more I had found nothing, did I? Should I bother that she hadn't answered my question? Or did I find out yet again that there was nothing to be found?

More to the point: was I a pathetic fool?



Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 03



Burning Blouses. 

I comforted Betty. 

At least I think I did. I assured her that I had no plans whatsoever to leave her. That I loved her more than ever. But that I just felt I wasn't good enough for her anymore. 

That twist had come to me out of the blue. It had been close to my true feelings. So close in fact that I at first didn't even see how it might goad her on. It was a very subtle way to tell her about my fears. 

I held my breath watching her response.

She protested. Then she started kissing my chest and belly before taking my soft cock into her mouth. It took her long to get me hard again. But she never let go, even when I at last came in her mouth.

After that it took me a long time to find sleep. Why had she sucked me, even to the end, and swallowed, too? She hadn't done that for quite some time. A long time.

Damn...I really must be going crazy. Here I lay awake wondering about one of the most perfect blow jobs I'd ever had.

************************* 

What did it prove? Did it prove anything? 

How should I see Betty's behavior last night? Was it guilt? Or was it determination? Was it to cover up her infidelity? She never answered. She only told me she loved me.

Loved me, she said. Why did that sound less like a statement and more like an incantation? It must be me.

A mess it was. A pretty mess. 

I was way past the moment where I could ask straight away if she was cheating on me. She'd had opportunities enough to tell me and she hadn't. On the other hand, if she did not cheat, would she stay after I accused her? How could she live with the idea that I distrust her?

I had to have proof.

"Go see what I didn't see..."

I knew now that the sneaking distrust would as certainly destroy our marriage as the quick proof of her betrayal. It might be a much slower process, but probably even more painful just because of that.

Last night our love had been missing. I may have been the only one feeling that. But I had tasted the horror of it. The loneliness. The bitter coldness it oozed. And I knew I could not go on like that.

But how to get proof? 

Proof of what? 

Finding them in bed together would be proof of her cheating, of course. But would not finding her in bed with him be proof of her innocence? Did I have to watch her 24/7 to be sure? And would that tell me anything about the past?

I did not want proof of her guilt. I wanted proof of her innocence. Call it denial, I call it love. You might even call it stupidity or blindness. 

I'd still call it love.

I considered hiring a detective. It made me shudder with apprehension. It also made me feel ridiculous. Images of shabby, whiskey-gobbling raincoat-wearers came to mind. Ah shit...was this really me thinking? A Private Eye? Wake up, man. This is Betty we are talking about. My Libby, remember? Besides, do they really exist outside these cheap pocketbooks from the fifties? Mickey Spillane? Raymond Chandler? 

Give me a break.

But I had to know. I needed to know what she did, working late. To know if there was business on her business trips. And what kind of business. I had to know how long her lunch breaks were and how much of it was lunch.

So I started digging into her schedules. I found out there wasn't one. There was no system in her late nights. The travels really seemed business-linked, at least in her reasoning and the stories she brought home. She talked about her destinations and the clients and projects involved. As often as not her boss was involved. Sometimes she went alone, sometimes with other colleagues. She only rarely went with him. 

The lunches, well, I'd have to follow her in a random fashion. Paul had seen them at the Hilton. I might start there, but why would they go there more often than elsewhere? Maybe because they liked the place?

Playing detective is easy in stories. But reality has a lot of ways to mess things up. Amateur-PIs can't rely on professional experience, high tech gadgets or even time. They can only rely on chance, accidents, coincidence. Luck.

Paul seeing them had been such an accident. It could happen again, of course. So could lightning strike twice in the same place. Or someone could win the jackpot twice.

But, you know, it happens. I know it does. It happened to me. And I still don't know if I should call it lightning or the jackpot. 

A bit of both, I guess.

************************* 

It was a morning in May.

Someone called me. He had free tickets for a concert in Central Park, the next week. Before accepting them I had to know if Betty would be free that evening, so I phoned her at work. I got her secretary. She wasn't in, she said. I asked if I could reach her somewhere. I knew I could always call her cell phone, but I suddenly wanted to know where she was.

The girl said she was not to be disturbed. 

I laughed and told her I was her husband. To my annoyance she was adamant. She had her instructions, she said. I really got pissed when I heard myself explain that it was important I'd get her. Here I was begging an office girl to get my wife on the phone, dammit.

"Okay," I said. "I'll see her at the office during lunchtime. Tell her to wait for me."

That was when she told me Betty wasn't at the office, but with a client and would spend lunchtime with him too. No, she could not tell me where. I paused, thinking.

"Please give me Robert Mancini," I asked.

"Mr. Mancini isn't in either," she answered.

She did not say that there was a link between their absences. But funny enough, there suddenly was one in my brain. My poor paranoia-ridden brain. 

An hour later it was still there.

I had by then tried Betty's cell phone twice, but she never answered. It seemed shut down, understandably when she was in a conference.

I felt silly.

My thoughts seemed stuck in a swirling slush that took them round and round in a muddy maelstrom. And yes, circles have a tendency to take you exactly where you don't want to go: where you already were.

So I told Judy I didn't feel too great and left. I felt her eyes bore into my back, but she said nothing.

The Hilton was as Hiltons go. 

A huge shining marble lobby, a wood paneled reception, slick and friendly people. Yes, Mr. Mancini had booked a business suite, but of course they would not tell me which one. I said I had a message, could I phone? I could. 

Mancini's voice was businesslike, so was mine. It took us two minutes to settle that I was an oaf who seemed to be calling the wrong Mancini. It gave me a lot of seconds of silence when I acted as if I was searching for my information. In reality I used them to probe the silences for back ground sounds.

I had no luck. Or was I lucky? What did I prefer to hear?

It was right before lunchtime. I went into the restaurant, looking for a secluded spot. There was a trellis, overgrown with almost convincing artificial greenery. I took a New York Times to hide behind and waited.

A minute has sixty seconds. 

But there are all kinds of seconds. The ones my clock used that afternoon were the laziest crawlers in the universe. They dragged their sticky feet. I could almost hear them grunt.

What felt like an hour later, the room had filled up with guests until only two tables were still free. Two small and cozy tables for two people each. One of them had a reservation ticket.

I felt pretty stupid. 

Why would they come in here? If they really used the room for fucking, they might as well have ordered room service. And if they were with a client, they might well have taken them out for lunch. From here I could not see into the lobby.

Then again, Paul had seen them have lunch in here. At least, that was what he said. So I waited a while longer. To no avail. I waved the waiter closer and paid for my strategic coffees. Before leaving the hotel, I went to the men's room and had a pee.

On my return I had to pass through the restaurant to reach the elevators down to the lobby and exit. That's when I saw them. They had not yet reached their table. They lingered at the entrance to learn where their table would be. Betty stood very close to the man whom he knew was Robert Mancini, her boss.

He was about forty-five, looking tanned and healthy. He also was tall and dark in the famous Mediterranean way. I had met him often at functions. I liked him, always had. 

I saw Betty rise to tiptoes and whisper something in his ear. Her hand cupped his chin. They both laughed. It was nothing, really. To me it was everything. 

My heart sank, causing a nauseous dizziness.

I had walked innocently into the restaurant, standing in full sight. The next moment Betty saw me. A huge smile washed over her face. She pointed me out to Robert. Then she ran over and hugged me. We kissed.

"Cheri! What a nice surprise! What brings you here?" she cried, after we separated.

My voice seemed stuck. I mumbled something unintelligible. She went on about coincidence and asked me to have lunch with them. Wouldn't that just be wonderful? Robert right then joined us. I shook hands.

I found my voice. 

We did some small talk before I apologized and said I really had to return to the office. Betty's disappointment seemed genuine. I wished them bon appetit and left. When I was almost outside the restaurant I quickly glanced back. They had sat down at the reserved table. Betty waved to me with a smile.

I went into the lobby and stopped. I could not resist it. 

After a few minutes I sneaked back to the restaurant, carefully keeping out of sight. Betty and her boss were studying the card. They talked and laughed. It all looked innocent enough.

But Robert's hand was on Betty's.

The maitre d' started looking funny in my direction. So I muttered something and walked out. That was when the obvious struck me.

Where was the client?

************************* 

"Oh, they'd left already."

It was after dinner, one of the increasingly scarce dinners we'd had at home together, recently. Betty was all bubbly when I arrived from work. She wore the beautiful silk blouse we had bought a few weeks before. The black linen skirt hugged her trim ass. I complimented her on how she looked. She obviously had changed after coming home. She smelt fresh, her hair was still damp.

She had kissed me in her open, carefree way. It poured a mercurial liquid into my knees. I might have undressed her there and then, but she playfully pushed me away and went in to make us cocktails.

We talked about our days. She once more said what a pity it was that I could not have stayed for lunch. I agreed. Then I kissed her again.

"How is lunch at the Hilton, by the way? I only had coffee."

"Oh well...it beats a quickie at the office."

Her chuckle came from way down her throat.

Damn...could you joke like that and be guilty?

The dinner was special. Betty is not a great cook, but she has a few remarkable culinary tricks. Lamb chops is one of them. Between those juicy marvels, a great red wine and the sweet caress of candlelight we had a gloriously intimate dinner. 

Neither of us wanted to put an end to it. We kissed and fed each other little morsels. We drank wine from each other's mouths. Oh yes, food can be very sensual.

When we at last sipped our espressos, Betty's blouse had not a button closed anymore. And somehow her bra had disappeared in the process. Her soft little hand was on my exposed cock. And soon my lips were around her aching nipples.

I had never taken her on the dinner table. So when I pushed the coffee cups and the candles aside, she looked at me with a puzzled smile. I pulled her up from her chair. I kissed her deeply. Then I let her sink down on the tabletop. I started licking her throat, her chest, her belly. Then I pulled off her skirt.

Her panties were damp. There was a dark spot where it covered her slit. I sank my nose into it, making her gasp. And giggle. I rubbed her cunt through the flimsy material. She spread her legs wider and started to hump back against my face.

She smelled wild. She sounded wild too.

I ate her to a moaning orgasm within minutes. Then I filled her with my raging erection, shoving it in with no resistance at all. Fucking her on the table added an excitement I had not often felt before. There was naughtiness. There also was a sense of urgency. It all added up to a giddy, teenage-like feeling.

We almost came at the same time. 

Betty's arms struck out with her second wild orgasm. She toppled one of the candles and it took a few seconds before we saw what happened, in our dazed, post-orgasmic state. The lovely white damask tablecloth had caught fire. I grabbed the first piece of cloth available and dozed the flames.

It happened to be her priceless blouse. 

We looked at it, still panting with the aftermath of our great fuck. Then she started laughing. I waved the poor blackened thing limply in front of me. Then I joined her.

She pulled me down to the table and to her sweaty body.

"I love you, Jules. I love you so very much."

The feeling was still with me when we returned from the bathroom, both wearing our robes. We snuggled together on the couch, sipping from the marvelous cognac she had given me on my last birthday.

That's when I asked about the client.

*************************

"They did?" I asked.

She was slow in answering.

"There was a client, wasn't there?" I asked, wondering if my question would sound forced.

"Ehm...oui. Mais oui, naturellement," she now said, rather distractedly dipping her finger in the cognac. She offered it for me to suck. "They left right before we went down for lunch. We had finished sooner than we'd expected. They agreed to everything."

"Mmm, great!" I said, my voice half muffled by her finger. "Ideal client. You should have more of those."

I knew she had strayed closer to the edge. Maybe even over it. Why had the reservation card already been on the intimate table-for-two an hour before they knew they would eat without the client? There wasn't a bigger table free anymore, when they arrived. On the other hand, they may have phoned down to give up the bigger table.

Would anyone do that? 

I hated the clarity of my thoughts. Not a week ago I would never have asked one of these questions. And I certainly would not have come to any of my conclusions.

Then again, I would not have been there to see, would I?

I felt the caress of her sigh against my cheek.

"I love you, Jules. We should do this so much more often."

I agreed. We kissed.

************************* 

My brain refused to believe Betty had lied.

I knew I had seen things that her words did not explain. Things she even contradicted. It seemed logical to presume she had been less than truthful with me.

But believing her to be a liar was just too much for me. 

It would mean she betrayed me. Another foundation I relied on would crumble and turn to sand. It also would mean that I had been a trusting fool. A stupid cuckold to be ridiculed by her, by her lover and who knows how many more. 

And it meant that I had cruelly maltreated my best friend. 

How could I believe that? Wasn't it so much easier to believe it was all a misunderstanding? Didn't Judy assure me it must be? Wasn't there a perfectly innocent explanation for most of the things that had happened? 

Most of them, yes. Almost all of them. Almost. 

Tonight I would confront her. I would ask her The Question and see how she'd react. See if she would have the nerve to lie to me directly. It might be stupid. I might hurt her and destroy our marriage if I were wrong. 

But I had no choice.

Around 4.45 p.m. she called that she'd have to work late. I should not stay up, it would be very late and there was even the possibility she'd have to spend the night at the hotel where they would be meeting their client.

And, oh yes, she loved me and was so very sorry. Complètement désolée. Mmmmm...kisses, love...sorry!

I asked her where she'd stay, but she had already cut the connection.

I sagged in my chair. I stared at the phone. 

I knew this was a first. Of course she'd had overnight stays when she was out of town. But I had the strong impression this would be in New York. This morning she hadn't known about it. Or at least hadn't told me. She always knew quite a bit in advance when she'd be traveling and staying the night.

A scream fought its way out of my chest. 

I punched the number of her cell phone and got her voice-mail. I tried her office number and got her secretary. She was the same well-trained watchdog I had talked to before. 

"No, Mr. Branford, I really can't tell you."

"Yes Sir, it was quite sudden, alas."

"I understand that, Mr. Branford."

"No, I can't tell. But if there is something wrong,

you can always reach her on her cell phone, can't you?"

"I assume she has your number, Sir."

"I am sorry you take it like that..."

"We are all just doing our jobs, Sir."

"I am sorry..."

I threw the poor phone into my wastebasket. What the fuck was going on? Was I an idiot? Had I always been one? Did I deserve to be one?

I stood and walked to the window. There was a soft drizzle falling down to gleaming streets. I saw nothing. It was the perfect screen for sweet lips whispering into ears, hands holding hands, close hugs, intimate smiles.

"Is something wrong, Jules?"

The voice was calm, but it had a concerned ring to it. I turned and saw Judy in the door opening. I tried to smile. I was going to say not to worry. Then the idea hit me.

"Judy, you'll have to lie for me."



Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 04



Whores and Moustaches.

The Marriott Marquis at Times Square is a huge hotel. It has a vast lobby, and a mezzanine for conference rooms. The guest rooms and suites are all on much higher floors and can be reached with fast, glass elevators.

The most remarkable item, however, is the big circular rooftop restaurant and lounge. It slowly revolves to give a breath taking view of times Square, Broadway and the skyline of Manhattan.

I had taken the elevator and had settled in the lounge. It gave me a view of the restaurant's entrance. I wore an outfit I would never want to be seen in dead. Which of course was the point. No one would expect me to wear it, least of all Betty. It was ugly, loud and baggy.

Judy had lied for me. She had been a convincing cousin of Betty's who called her office to say there was an emergency. A family matter. She needed to speak to Betty and could not get her on her cell phone. She wasn't at home either, so now she tried her at work. 

The little watchdog had a problem. In the end she gave her a number. We backtracked it to the Marriott Marquis. And yes, a Mr. Mancini had booked a suite there.

I bought my stuff at a second hand store. 

I took care there was at least a tie and a jacket. I might be refused entrance otherwise. I also got a silly golf hat. The glasses were a miracle, so was the pepper and salt moustache. They made me feel a perfect fool. But would it make me an unrecognizable fool? 

Like: would I myself ever believe I wasn't me? 

I had walked away twice, before entering. Now I sat here, trying to keep the entrance under surveillance. Who the hell was producing this cheap B-movie? B? C and lower. And why on earth did I think they would come in here? There were hundreds of bars and restaurants in the direct neighborhood. Better ones too.

But something told me I was right to choose this place. Something else told me I had not many alternatives anyway. But I had convinced myself that there was sound thinking behind my choice. I thought: if they cheat on me, they wouldn't want to increase their risk of being seen by spreading their presence over a lot of places. They would stay in the hotel.

Sound thinking, Jules. So where are they?

Two hours and four very slow beers later I thought my sound thinking needed a revision. It was past ten by then and the place was filling up nicely. Just to be sure I had made a careful round every quarter of an hour to see if I had missed them. I hadn't.

At eleven I decided to call it a day. A night, rather. I rose and walked to the glass elevators. They drop you fast and give you a nice view all the way down. 

I saw them come in when the lift reached the hall.

They were two business-type men and two rather spectacular women. One was a platinum blonde. She seemed a bit tipsy and hung on the arm of the elder of the two men. There was another girl too, a pretty redhead. She was also very happy and clung to the other, younger man.

I left the elevator. 

The group had walked over to the reception, where the men picked up the keys. They then came over to me, no doubt to get to the elevators. For some reason I don't understand, I retired halfway behind a pillar. Maybe it was because I am brought up with rather conservative ideas about being paid for sex. And about showing off your sexuality in public.

The blonde sure did that. 

Her tiny dress was black, very short and very tight. Her high, round tits almost popped out of its decolleté. She swayed a bit on towering stiletto heels, which gave the man a nice opportunity to be chivalrous. 

He held her firmly. 

Both girls giggled. Their faces were made up outrageously. The redhead squealed when the young man slapped her tightly packed ass. She also wore a revealing dress that left her belly bare. She obviously didn't wear a bra, nor needed one.

They passed me, totally oblivious of my presence.

I did a double take on the blonde. I watched the face under the make-up, the body, the posture. Then I lost her. She cried out and laughed a throaty chuckle when they entered the glass elevator. 

"Ah, mais vous êtes tres méchant, monsieur...olala!" 

I heard the voice. I heard the French. My heart sank. 

It felt as if something wet and heavy slapped into my face. A dizziness came over me. I carelessly lugged forward to get another look of her face. Right before the glass booth rose, I saw a big hand disappear inside the top of a black little dress. 

Red lips opened eagerly.

*************************

I sat in the chair. From it I watched the door into our apartment. 

I had called Betty about four times on her cell phone. It stayed dead the whole night. Now it was morning. The first sunlight had thrown its merry rays through the windows an hour ago. 

It did nothing for my mood.

I was deadly tired. I had tried to sleep when I came home, but sleep never came. There were only images of Betty fucking the men. Sounds of her squealing and giggling voice. Of her damned whorish French endearments. And most of all of her laughing, her pointing at me, sticking out her tongue and making obscene gestures about my male incompetence.

That had passed by now. I felt as if I were a stranger living inside my skull, looking out. I had drunk cups of black coffee until my stomach surrendered.

And all the time I had gazed at the door.

Of course I had run to the other elevator when I came to my senses. It took ages to come down. By the time I rode up, the other one was already empty. I got out on the floor where it had stopped and started pulling and pushing at random doors. I even slammed my fist on a few. 

It is a huge hotel.

I got no response, of course. So after a while I took the elevator down again and went to the desk. I asked where Mancini's suite was, but they said they were not at liberty to tell. I gave them money to tell me where the hookers went. I even pulled one of them by his lapels over the desk. I felt the silly moustache slide off my lip. That was when the doorman interfered. He threw me into the street.

I waited for another hour, totally humiliated. I watched the entrance. Then I went home, raging, yelling.

I didn't know what to do when she'd come home. I had no plan. I even had no rage left in me. My insides were filled with cotton. Weak, soft, shapeless balls of cotton. My brain was mush. Apart from that there was nothing left. 

I felt sad. I was in mourning.

I had cried, of course. I had cried a lot. I had raged too. I had smashed half of our precious china. The pieces lay all over the kitchen floor, brilliantly adorned with broken crystal.

I had also emptied her closets and torn up dresses, suits and lingerie. It was childish, I know. I felt entitled to be childish. I felt permitted not to give a damn. 

But now I was spent. I was calm and empty. 

I was ready.

*************************

Her key rattled in the lock. 

It was almost seven o'clock. She looked fresh like a bedewed apple. Her lovely brunette hair was in a neat pile. Her designer suit looked spotless. I'd say it was decent with a sexy twist. She carried the leather briefcase we bought on our trip to Paris.

She looked shocked.

"Honey! What is wrong? What happened?"

She rushed to me and took my weary head into her hands. Her eyes were wide and worried.

I shook myself free and stood. That is when she saw the mess behind me. The broken china. The torn up clothes. She groaned.

"Oh God! What happened here? Did we have a break-in? Were you mugged?"

I turned slowly, watching her kneel and rummage through the sorry rests of her expensive wardrobe. She sobbed. She turned her face to me, holding up a torn-up blouse.

"Yes," I croaked. "Robbed. Raped. Mugged. But don't worry, honey, it was only me."

She looked puzzled. Then she rose and walked back to me.

"Are you all right, Jules? Did they hit you? Let me see."

I avoided her.

"Don't bother, Betty," I said. My voice got stronger. "I only got beaten up, fucked over and killed a bit. It was all in a night's job, really. Don't worry, please. Vous êtes tres méchant, monsieur. O...la...la..."

I stretched the last vowels, my eyes locked on hers.

She never winced. She just wanted to damn hug me.

"Oh God, Jules. What did they do to you? Please lie down. Take an aspirin. Did you call the police?"

I grabbed her wrist, turned her around and marched her to the couch. I pushed her until she sat. She looked scared now. I kept standing, looking down into her upturned face.

"You scare me, Jules." Her voice was tiny.

"No, Betty. You scare me. I thought we were so close. You tell me you love me more than anyone, anything. But it is all a lie, isn't it, Elizabeth? It always has been, hasn't it?"

She gaped.

"Well?"

"I...I don't know what you mean, Jules. Yes. Yes, I love you more than anyone, anything. Yes, Jules. And I would never lie to you."

I almost hit her. My hand stopped less than an inch from her face. She flinched, gasping.

"LIAR!!" I cried. 

She started crying. It got to me, but I clenched my teeth and dismissed the feeling.

"You look tip-top this morning, honey," I said. "Nothing a good long shower can't wash away, I guess. What did you do with the sleazy outfit? The wig, the crazy shoes? Drop them down the chute, no doubt? Or donate them to the Needy Hooker Association?"

I actually chuckled. She stopped crying. She looked dumbfounded.

"Jules. Are you on drugs?"

I just stared.

"I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about," she went on. Her voice got steadier. There was even a hint of anger.

"Dammit, Jules. Here I come back after a late night of hard work and not much sleep and I find this! And you talking gibberish!"

"Late night, hard work," I repeated sarcastically. "Backbreaking work no doubt."

"Hard work, yes!" she cried. "And I had to be at the office early again, but I wanted to see you. Just to see you. I felt sorry to have thrown last night on you at such short notice. Just had to see you and now look! Now look!"

Her hand fluttered like a lame little bird.

"You sure did." I now whispered. I sank into the club chair in front of her. "You sure threw it at me, Betty."

Her anger disappeared. She reached for my hands.

"Honey...Jules. I don't know what is wrong with you. But if it was something I did, please...I am so sorry. I really don't know what you are trying to tell me."

A kernel of doubt started churning its sharp edges inside the weak mush of my mind. I shook my head to silence it.

"How can you be so cold, Betty? I saw you at the Marriott. I goddamn saw you. Don't tell me you weren't there. Stop the goddamn lying."

She sat straight.

"Yes, I was at the Marriott. Robert rented a suite for a client and a conference room annex suite for us to do our presentation. But why did you go there? How did you see me? I never saw you?"

"Honey," I said. "I may be a blind cuckold who begs to be fooled because he can't see past his love for you. But please, don't treat me like a child. I saw you and the other hooker get into the elevator with two guys. I saw you kiss him. I saw his hand slip into your whorish nothing of a dress to grab your tits. I heard your voice and your silly French hooker phrases. GODDAMMIT BETTY! STOP LYING TO ME!!"

Somehow I had fallen to my knees. Somehow tears had come to my eyes. Somehow I did everything I had sworn not to do. Her hands touched my face. She leant into me, her eyes were very close.

"Please listen to me, Jules." She whispered. "I don't know which hooker you mean. But I...Wasn't...Her. Please believe me... It...Wasn't...Me. We wrapped up the presentation around ten. Around eight we'd had some catered food. The client decided to get out for some entertainment. It sure sounds they found some, if they were who you saw. Robert and I worked at our reports and a contract for them to sign today. We stopped around one in the morning. I took a shower and went to sleep."

"Alone," she added.

I sat, feeling her soft hands on my face.

"I saw you," I said.

She sighed. She threw up her hands in desperation.

"I know you, Betty," I went on. "I know you maybe better than you know yourself. I know your eyes, your voice. The way you move, the sound of your...laugh." 

My voice broke.

"IT WASN'T ME!!"

She sounded exasperated. She also sounded hurt and defenseless.

I rose, shaking off her hands.

"Please let me alone, Betty. Go to work or whatever. I need to be alone. I can't be around you. I don't trust myself. Leave."

She rose too. Her hands fumbled in front of her.

"Please, Jules, don't..."

"Do it, Betty. I can't talk anymore. I just can't. When I close my eyes I see you fucking that man. It kills me."

************************* 

I am not a cook, but I can do a mean little chicken tandoori.

I had cleaned out the kitchen and dumped the rags of her destroyed clothes. I had gone on cleaning the entire apartment. I needed to do something while wrecking my brain. Anything.

I had called in sick.

Judy was great. She must have been burning with curiosity. And maybe I owed her for helping me. But I couldn't. I told her I couldn't, yet. I promised I would later. She said she understood. I would have kissed her for that had she been with me.

Betty called me all day.

I ignored her calls. I did not even listen to my voicemail. I wanted to be alone. I am like that. When I am not sure about myself, I am ashamed to be around people. Especially the ones close to me.

I did the chores swearing. 

I cursed and muttered all morning. I was mad, but the focus had shifted. I was mad at myself. For not being able to keep my cool. For not having pinned her down onto her blatant lies. For having been so damn emotional.

But most of all I was mad because I wasn't sure anymore. I poured coffee and sat down, thinking. I tried to relive what had happened around the elevators. Her face behind the whorish make up. The color of her eyes. Rethinking the color of her hair. Even the shape of her exposed tits.

I tried to recapture her voice. 

It had been the voice that convinced me most. The choice of words, the French. The sound of it. It sounded native. Betty's French is amazing. But was it really hers? Everything had been conspiring to make me believe the woman was Betty. The actual hotel, the timing, the men, her voice, her bubbly self. And all the suspicion that had been poured into me, these last weeks. 

Was I wrong?

I tried to sleep. I even succeeded for a few hours. Then I took a long shower and dressed in slacks and a sweater. I looked in Betty's wardrobe as I dressed. I saw there were still some clothes that had escaped my rage. It was a relief.

I could not keep my hands from running through the silk, wool and soft cotton items. I smelled their freshness. It took my breath away. But at the same time my mind wanted to check if I knew them all. If there might be some she never wore for me. 

Sexy ones, whorish ones.

I opened a drawer and saw I had missed quite a bit of her lingerie too. The tiny lace panties. Soft silk stockings. Pretty see-through bra's. I knew them all. Of some I even knew where she'd bought them.

There were no secrets here.

My phone rang again. This time I decided to take the call.

"Oh, Jules, there you are at last, honey. You had me worried."

"No need, Betty. I'm fine. Please come home soon."

There was a small silence.

"Ehm...," she said.

My heart sank. 

Then she suddenly sounded exalted.

"Yes, oh yes, Jules! I'm on my way now! I'm there in minutes!"

************************* 

I was proud of myself.

I had kissed her, when she came in. A real kiss. Then I had allowed her to shower and change. We had drunk a glass of wine, chatting. I had wined and dined and candle-lighted her. The chicken hadn't let me down.

And all the while I acted cool. I avoided all her questions concerning this morning. Or the night before. 

By the time we had coffee, she was at the point of exploding. Funny thing was that I was cooler than I ever had been. I smiled, I touched her. I complimented her on how fresh she looked after such a hard and short night.

I wondered how long it would take her. 

It happened with the second cup.

"Goddammit, Jules! Cut the crap. What is going on?"

I smiled and pushed the lovely china sugar bowl in her direction. It had survived the storm. She slammed the innocent bowl away. I caught it before it might fall and join the fate of its brothers.

"Hell, Jules, what are you doing to me?" she cried. "You destroy our precious china, our glasses, half of my clothes and all for something you think you saw. You don't believe a word I say and send me off to work. You never answer my worried phone calls. And now, goddammit, you small talk me to death!!"

There were tears. There also was deep anger. Good.

"Honey," I said. My voice was very low, awfully calm. I had spent my anger on the furniture, polishing, vacuuming. I had decided what to do. She just had worried all day. Good. Why should I be the only one doing that?

"Honey. I must ask you to do something for me."

She looked surprised.

"What?"

"You must try and see things my way, the next few minutes. Just step out of your point of view and slip into mine. I can't promise you'd like that very much. It has been pretty much hell for me. But please try..."

"I, ehm...well. I don't see what you are getting at, honey," she said. "But, okay. I'll try if it is what you want."

Her fingers played with the coffee spoon.

"Thank you," I said with a smile.

"You see, Betty, these last weeks have indeed been hell for me. The more so since I could not share them with the one I love more than myself."

Her lashes fluttered. She tried to protest, but I shhhhd her.

"It started Tuesday night, three weeks ago, Paul phoned me from a bar. Remember? I had alcohol on my breath that night."

She thought, frowning. Then she nodded.

"Paul told me he had seen you with Robert at the Hilton that afternoon."

She once more tried to break in. I waved her to silence.

"Later, honey. Let me go on and you'll get all the time later. Okay?"

She once more nodded, squirming in her chair.

"I know that you and your boss often meet clients and work in hotels. That you have lunches there and presentations. But Paul believed he saw things he should tell me. Things that happened between you and Robert Mancini. Any idea what he might have meant by that, Betty?"

I sat back, watching her face. She shrugged. 

"I don't know what Paul thinks he saw. We had ended a meeting with the guys from American IT and had lunch. We talked about the meeting and planned our next step. Then we went up again to finish the job. What did Paul say he saw?"

"Paul saw you kiss him and it wasn't a peck on the cheek. He also saw Robert's hand on your ass when you returned to the elevators."

She once more shrugged.

"You know me, Jules. I am a kisser. I goddammit know Robert longer than I know you. We are...easy around each other. You know that! It doesn't mean a thing!"

A whine had crept into her voice.

"Exactly what I told Paul, honey." I smiled reassuringly and laid my hand on hers. She slowly pulled it away.

"You...," she said. "You did not believe all that, did you, Jules? Please, please tell me you didn't!"

She had grabbed my hand and pulled it towards her. Her eyes were wide. I smiled again.

"As I said, I did not believe it. Not the way he saw it. But of course you remember what happened in our bedroom that night. How I made you suck my cock?"

Now she winced.

"Betty. I may not believe the seriousness of what Paul told me. I might even doubt his motives for the first time in our endless friendship. But a seed was sown and I am awake."

"Awake?" she said.

"Yes, Betty. Love is a blindfold, you know. You have always been way above any suspicion I might ever have. More than that. I would have kicked the balls of anyone assuming you were not the holiest, perfume-peeing goddess in the damn universe."




Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 04



She blushed.

"I even told Paul I did not believe him. Which means I told him he is a liar. I broke up with him over it..."

My voice trailed off. There was a gasp from the other side of the table. Her hands were in front of her mouth.

"Yes, Betty. After twenty years. That is how much I believe in you, trust you. But my eyes are open. My innocence is shot by what he told me and what happened in our bedroom afterwards. I see you still with the same loving eyes, honey. But I have grown an extra set. And they see things."

I poured another cup. She refused.

"You know, Betty. I wasn't in the Hilton restaurant by accident. Remember, during that lunchtime? I had been waiting for you. It was a shot in the blind. I had already given up when you arrived with Robert to sit at a small table. You know, it had already been reserved for two since over an hour. You were there with clients, as you had told me. I asked you that night, but I ask you again, Betty. Were there clients at all that day?"

She cried. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. There was a feverish glow in her eyes.

"I love you, Jules. I goddamn love you! But how can I love you and feel loved if you don't believe me? You asked me this. You ask me again. And you asked me about the damn whores. It Wasn't Me, Jules!!"

She stood and turned to disappear into the bedroom. I sat there, alone. My spoon ran its silly rat race inside the tiny cup.

Once more she had not answered my question. 

I screamed.



Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 05



The End and Beyond.

Paul phoned me.

I killed the connection. He phoned me again and before I could cut him off he said; "This is important, Jules. Hear me out!"

It made me stop.

"I apologize, Jules," he went on, in a hurry. I guess he feared to be disconnected. "I am sorry I made you run out on me. Please, let's at least stay friends."

I said nothing.

"Jules?"

"I...I am sorry too, Paul," I said. "But you can't say things like that about Betty and hope we can stay friends."

"I am sorry," he repeated. "But we really must talk. Have you got time to see me at all?"

"Now?"

"Yes. At the bar of the Regal. Close to the UN, you know it?"

"Why there?"

"Ehm...because I'm there, " he said. "And you are not far from it either, are you?"

**************************

While walking the few blocks I recalled last night. Betty had run to the bedroom. I had waited for a while. Then I decided to follow her. Our bedroom can't be locked. There isn't even a door. Why would there?

She was on the bed, sprawled on her belly. She cried into her pillow. I sat next to her. My hand caressed her leg. She stiffened under the touch. But she stopped sobbing.

"Please let's talk," I said. "If we can't talk anymore, what's the point of being together?"

She looked up. Her face was a mess. A lovely mess. I leaned into her and kissed a salty cheek. She suddenly sat up and hugged me like a scared child.

"Don't distrust me, Jules. I can't live with that. It wasn't me. Believe me. Please. Please don't send me away."

I crossed First Avenue and smiled. We had made love. 

Call me a fool. Call me pussy-whipped. Call me any cynic outsider remarks you cherish. But she is Betty. She is my Libby. There are things no lover can lie about and hope to get away with. Oh, all right. Maybe she can. But there are moments other things just matter more. 

We made love. 

I mean love. Slow, tender, desperate love. It took us from sobbing to gasping, from crying to sweet, liberating laughter. I felt like a swimmer rescued from drowning. A castaway thrown onto some far away shore, panting with relief. All I had missed was there again. Her breath, her soul. Her soft, soft body. Her eager weakness and sinuous presence.

The next afternoon I walked the streets of New York and chuckled. Damn, last night must have made me a softie to agree to Paul just like that and go see him after only a little phone call. One simple sorry from him and here I was.

I whistled.

The Regal is a greenish tower of metal and glass. Its sides rise in slanting slopes. It must be an architect's wet dream come true. I hear it is a first class hotel, but I really am a fan of the more conservative variety. 

At least the bar was dark. Paul waved me over. We both sat at the bar proper. It gave us a nice view of the lobby.

We hugged and slapped backs until we coughed.

The first beer was a blessing. I had had a long, full day. On top of that, Judy had asked me tirelessly what brought the damn smile to my face. I informed her in detail during our frugal lunch. She congratulated me and said I shouldn't worry about the torn up wardrobe. What woman wouldn't envy Betty for stirring up such emotions in her man? And besides, did a woman ever complain about an opportunity to go shopping?

The second beer took longer. I intended not to get drunk too soon. Then Paul put down his glass and said: "Follow me."

I looked puzzled. He was already on his feet and begged me to follow him. I slid off the stool and went with him. He walked straight to the elevators.

"Where are we going?" I asked when the car started rising.

"You'll see", he said.

There was an endless corridor with doors at one side, glass at the other. It let you look down into a tree filled atrium. I wondered why he took me here. He stopped at one of the doors and slid his key-card through the slot. The door clicked open. 

He again bid me to follow as he stepped inside. His finger was on his lips.

There was a small hall. There also was soft music. Jazzy. Then Paul opened the next door and my world ended.

**************************

The first thing I saw was a fat, hairy ass humping between two slender legs. The legs were in white stockings and red high-heeled shoes. They were spread wide, then bent at the knees, so the stiletto heels rested on the man's lower back. They spurred him on to pump his invisible cock into a cunt I could not see.

The first thing I heard was the man grunting like a hog. Then there was the woman's voice squealing. When I heard it, I knew. My heart hit the floor and spread like an oil-stain. 

She screamed: "Oooooo...oui, ouiiiii. merde! Baise-moi, alors. Baise-moi, tu monstre..o merde...PLUS FORT!! PLUS FORRRTT!!! MERDE, GROS CON, TOI!!!"

The man rose a bit and crouched like a huge fat cat. Or a bristled swine, rather. I saw a gleaming monster of a cock slide in and out of a stretched cunt. The legs kept pumping, the woman screamed on and on.

The voice was Betty's. 

I froze when I heard her. Then I flew forward and grabbed the fat man by the hair. I pulled him off the slut and tossed him aside with a power I never before possessed. He fell of the bed with a thud. 

There was a sickening plop when his cock left her. It squirted whitish slime.

Then I was all over her. She looked awful. Her face and chest were flushed with sexual excitement. Her whorish make-up was everywhere. There was saliva dripping from her smeared mouth. Her eyes had rolled back into her skull. And the platinum wig hung halfway off her head.

She never saw what happened. 

She wailed. It sounded lost and frustrated. Her hands clawed at her gaping cunt. When my fist hit her face, the wig flew off. I could not stop myself. Only after the third or fourth hit did she seem to see me and realize what happened.

She started screaming. Her hands rose to protect her face and chest. She rolled into a ball. "Arrête, arrête!" she screamed. She begged me to stop in French.

Strong hands grabbed me and pulled me off of her. I saw nothing. There was just a blood red haze. A voice tried to reach me, calm me. I now knew that one of the two screaming voices was mine. Then I toppled off the bed and sagged against it.

Through the haze I saw two large men grapple. It looked like a fight. The sounds seemed to fade away, until there was only a heavy breathing left. 

And the sobbing of a woman.

************************** 

Paul walked on to me through the haze.

He carried two bags of ice. I followed him with my eyes. He bent over the bed and put down the bags. A long groan sounded. I tried to scramble to my feet. 

My head hurt. 

There was a naked woman on the bed. Her white stockings were torn. One of the ice bags was on her eye, another against her cheek. I looked around. It seemed the three of us were the only ones in the room.

"Welcome back, Jules."

The voice was Paul's. The woman groaned.

I looked at her again. I didn't know her.

I looked closer. She winced and tried to hide.

"Leave her alone, Jules," the same voice said.

"Get over here, we need to talk."

He handed me a big glass of whisky.

"Drink."

I drank. It tore through my throat. The haze vanished. I sat down in one of the large club chairs. My entire body hurt.

"Wha...what happened?" My voice was sandpaper.

"It isn't her, Jules. I'm so sorry. My mistake."

I stared at him. 

First I didn't understand. Then I didn't believe him. I stood, swaying on my legs. I walked over to the bed. The woman once more tried to get away. I grabbed her wrists and pulled the ice off her face. The mascara and glaring eye shadow had caked into a dark mess. There was blood on her swollen lip. 

But I saw now. Her hair was short and reddish. She wasn't Betty.

I turned to Paul.

"What the fuck, Paul? What have you done? I beat up a whore. I don't know her. She never did anything to me and I beat her up. Why did you bring me here, dammit? Paul?"

He rose two hands in defense.

"Sorry, Jules. My mistake. They look the same, don't they? I was flabbergasted when I saw it. It's eerie. They are so alike."

"My God, Paul. I beat her senseless for no reason at all. Her face looks awful. She'll sue us blind!"

************************** 

She wouldn't sue us, let alone go to the police. 

She was French Canadian and an illegal alien. Her client wouldn't bother us either, Paul said. He was a sucker for discretion and had left at once. I paid the hooker the almost 300 dollar Paul and I had between us and offered to take her to a hospital. She declined, so we bought her a huge pair of sunglasses and called a cab. 

Before we left the room, Paul looked around. He found a business card on the headboard of the bed. He showed it to me on the way down to the bar. It was Mancini's. In the bar I first scolded him for the damn mess he had gotten me into. He apologized profusely, but also tried to laugh it off. I was mad at him and his damn meddling. He could drop dead as far as I was concerned. But first I had to make sense of it all.

"Why on earth did you think it was Betty, Paul? And how did you get the key?" I asked.

"That's a long story," he said. "But whose is this number?"

He started to read a hand-written cell-phone number at the back of Mancini's card. It was Betty's. I took the card and stared at it. It seemed to be in her handwriting too.

"Goddammit, Paul. That is Betty's. What the fuck is going on?"

He shrugged and ordered a beer.

"You fucked up, Paul. You did it again. Tell me why the fuck we are here."

He told me a story that made me frown with disbelief. But he insisted it was true. He had this model who worked for him occasionally. She also had a job at the Regal to earn a living. One day, a week ago, Paul had picked her up at the hotel to take her to the studio. As he waited in the bar, a woman who looked very much like Betty had walked into the lobby. She had picked up a key and taken the elevator.

"It was Betty, Jules. I am 100% certain it was she. Dark hair piled up, same style, same walk, same expensive leather briefcase...I am a painter, man. I can see."

I shook my head. His painter's eye again. My ass.

"Why would she be here?"

"Why would her number be on the Mancini-card?" Paul shrugged.

Then he told me he had asked his model-friend to find out if and when a room was rented. He would give her the name; she should get him the key. She said she could, but it was highly illegal even to tell him, let alone give him a key. So he doubled her model-money and asked her to look for Mancini.

Today she had called him and handed him the key.

I told him about the hookers I had seen at the Marriott and how I had taken one of them for Betty too. She wore the same platinum wig and talked French. It must have been the same hooker.

"I added one and one, Jules," Paul said. "I saw Betty take a key and go up, the room had been booked by Mancini...et voilá! I seem to have ended up with 3, though." He grinned. "Ah, well...arithmetic was never my thing." 

"And you caused me to beat up a hooker, thank you." I sighed.

"Be glad, man!" Paul cheered. "Could have been your wife!"

I didn't smile. I wondered how I could have gotten that violent that quickly. And why Paul had been so close to the action.

I told him to stay the fuck out of my life. He had done damage enough, accusing Betty. 

"Get your jealous ass out of my life!" I screamed. "Go! Get out! Don't call me, don't ever see me again, you stupid idiot!"

He looked hurt and left the hotel. I was too angry to feel bad about it.

**************************

"You beat her up??"

She looked shocked. We were drinking coffee in the huge foyer of the Met. We waited for the opera to start. Betty had arrived straight from work. She looked great, though, in her black silk suit and patent leather pumps.

I had decided to tell her about our bizarre adventure. She never found it funny and fumed at Paul. She no doubt saw all her reservations confirmed. I could hardly blame her.

"How on earth did he ever find out the hooker would be there? And why did he suppose she was I? A prostitute, no less. And a platinum blonde one to boot. I feel offended!"

That made me smile. It even made her smile.

The signal sounded for us to enter the theatre. We would see Madama Butterfly, one of Betty's favorites. I liked the costumes and scenery. I even liked two or three aria's, but I am not an opera buff, really. The end was touching. The callous betrayal, the suicide.

I felt a tear burn behind my eyes.

During intermission we bumped into friends and decided to have a drink with them afterwards. So it took until we came home before we could pick up again on what had happened that afternoon.

Betty told me she was fed up with Paul and his damn accusations. I could hardly disagree. She also said she was shocked by my violence. 

"He wanted you to think it was me, dammit! And then you hit her because you thought it was me! You hit me!!"

I still felt the faint hurting of my knuckles. And the shame that came with it.

"It is all so preposterous!" she went on indignantly, while taking off her make-up in front of her vanity mirror.

I dropped my second shoe and nodded.

Then I took a shower and was pleasantly surprised that she joined me. Nothing is as sensual as feeling the slick wet skin of a firm woman's breast while the hot water cascades over the both of you. Feeling the nipple swell against your palm. And her tongue flirt with yours.

Her hand closed around my cock. It was swelling, growing big but still soft. Her hand was slippery with soap. It felt so very good. All stress left my body and was washed away.

She whispered in my ear.

"I love you, Jules. You were all wrong. But thank you for the passion of your rage. The jealousy. It really made me shiver when you told me."

"I love you, Betty," I answered. "And I am so proud you love me." I licked the inside of her ear. I felt her tremble against me. Her one hand massaged my cock, the other kneaded my ass cheek. Her tits pressed into my chest. 

"I love you, Betty, and I apologize."

She silenced me with a kiss. Then she licked her way down the waterfall of my chest and belly. I moaned when I felt her tight lips

slide over my hard erection.

I thought I saw a distant glimpse of heaven.

************************** 

All of the next day I felt light as a feather. 

Nothing reminded me of the sad laws of gravity. There were aggravating clients, there was the drag of totally boring phone calls. There even was the annoyance of a mini-crisis. But nothing could touch me. Nothing could pull me down from the cloud with the happy number tagged to it.

We had fucked away half the night. It proved that I could go on forever. So could she. We did it in the shower, in bed, on the floor beside the bed. 

Betty had moaned in frustration when her alarm clock sounded at six. She had to visit a client in Jersey. He was one of those breakfast-meeting fetishists.

I offered her my sympathy and kissed her goodbye.

Judy had the day off, so I decided to get a sandwich and work on through lunchtime. Around three Betty called. I was pleasantly surprised. She hardly ever calls me at work. And I was even more pleased when she urged me to hurry home after work. She would show me one of her rare cooking tricks. And a few more, please, I begged. Her silver laugh crept into my ear. 

It tickled.

After that call my concentration was shot. My office-chair seemed stuffed with hot coal. The little numbers on my computer danced and started forming new combinations. The 6 seemed suddenly to have become very fond of the 9. And vice versa.

I called it a day around 4 p.m..

The subway was crammed, but it took me home quickly. The huge old open goods elevator took me up. It had been saved when they restored the building. And it was a lot slower than my desire would have it. It even stopped for a bit on its last leg to our loft. I slammed the huge button with irritation.

Then I heard Betty's voice. I was surprised she was home already. She seemed on the phone.

"No, damn it. You know I won't! (...) We have an agreement on that, I won't do it (...) I see your problem, darling (...) My problem too? Okay, my problem too, but I won't, you hear? (...) Get someone else (...) Yes (...) Fuck you too."

The elevator clanged into action again.

The phone call had ended when I reached our apartment.

Betty ran into my arms. Her kiss lasted a century and it tightened my pants.



Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 06



The End (Revisited.)

It's May again.

Same May, only the year has gone up a number. The sky is blue around me. The air is balmy. It has the sweet tang of freshly cut grass. The sun tries to reach my eyes, but I close them with the tender skin of my eyelids. My world is a bowl of pink. I hear the sound of balls hitting bats. People yell and applaud.

I don't care. 

I just lie in the grass and float. 

It'll take more than these few months to mend me. The kind doctor tells me to be patient. I still sleep poorly. The night is a bad place for memories like mine. They feed on fears. They grow and stand like mocking giants in my bedroom. They point at me, nudge each other and laugh. 

So I get up and watch TV with bleary eyes. Or I flip on my laptop and start chatting. Whatever to whomever wherever. 

After such nights I can't work. That isn't bad. I no longer like my work anyway. Judy is sweet. She makes the place almost human. But there are too many awful nights before exhausting days.

It will get better, the sweet doctor says. She is patient. She says I did well to get closure. I don't quite know what she means. 

Why not call it revenge?

*********************** 

Looking back I see this tiny oasis.

A distant green dot shimmers through a haze of scourging heat. I know my love lives there. She lives there with me in the cool freshness of memories. I won't ever find my way back to her, though. I may circle the earth to get nearer to that dot. But I know it would keep the same distance. 

Ask a clever physicist to explain, I can't tell you.

Things were great, those first months after I beat up the hooker. We even started making fun of the incident. One night I came home and Betty stood at the edge of the elevator-well. She only wore white thigh-highs, towering red platform shoes, a brilliant platinum wig, a smile and a glass of martini.

I downed the martini. Then I downed her and ate her into heaven. After that we fucked. And only then did we leave the elevator to find our bedroom.

It was about an hour later that I leaned on my elbow, watching her ruined face.

"Now you look exactly like her," I said. "Before I hit her, of course."

"Merci, Monsieur, vous étiez si doux, si merveilleux," she answered with a hoarse voice. It made me shiver. I had to turn away. She grabbed me and apologized. 

I said it was nothing. I said I loved her.

About a week later she told me she had to leave for Boston and stay three nights. I knew they had a big client there. Their biggest, actually.I told her I'd miss her. She kissed me and said she'd miss me more. I said "Impossible!" and we went on like that for a bit. It was childish but it broke the tension.

We had spent the last weekend to definitely replenish her wardrobe and the cupboards in the kitchen. New York was glorious, bathing in Indian Summer's sunlight. It was a blessing to just walk around, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. 

The last night before she would fly, Betty showed off the new lingerie we had bought. She had told me to lie on the bed and just watch as she walked the imaginary catwalk from the bathroom along the foot of our bed and back. All I could do was moan and hold my throbbing dick. 

The sexiest outfit curiously had the most fabric to it. It was a corset that nipped in her waist and made her titties dance almost free. There were garters attached that encased the creamy skin of her thighs and the shaven triangle of her pussy.

"You shaved," I said. The words almost stuck in my throat. It made her look so vulnerable.

She displayed her mound with a naughty chuckle. 

"You like?" she laughed.

I just grabbed her, pulled her beneath me and rammed my aching cock into her wet entrance. She almost sobbed with emotion and came at the first few strokes.

"Oh God, how I love you, Jules. Je t'aime, mon amour. Ne me quite jamais..."

It took me just long enough to allow her a second orgasm before my burning head spewed its sperm into the deepest niches of her being.

We panted and gasped, holding each other tightly.

The metal clasps of her corset bit my belly.

***********************

I slept poorly, that night.

Don't ask me why, I can't find a reasonable reason. There was just fear. Irrational anxiety.

I feared not having her around, I guess. 

I knew I'd miss her. Her voice, her scent, the touch of her body, the taste of her lips. I knew it was silly. We were grown-ups. It was only a few nights. She had done it countless times before. I would be drowned in work, starting early and only be home late. So would she, I'm sure. 

Bullshit, of course. I just feared I could not trust her. And I feared I had gone crazy. For what reason was there to distrust her?

She had been to Boston often. Very often.

The client had been with them since the second year of our marriage. I remember how excited Betty was when they had acquired them. The relation had grown close very fast. At times they almost felt like a department of the Boston company, she said. I had met quite a few of their people at parties. They were nice. They seemed more like friends than business associates. Betty had often told me they were the client she was most proud of working for. 

Everything was all right. I knew my worries were silly. 

But that didn't make them go away. I rose around 4 in the morning and sat in the living room. I tried to read, but only stared. There weren't real thoughts in my head, just restlessness. It kept me from lying down and closing my eyes.

Her cool hand startled me.

"What is it, Jules?"

Betty had walked up to me on silent feet. She wore her red silk kimono robe and sank into my lap. She wrapped her arms around me. Then she snuggled her face into my chest. I sighed.

"Just ghosts and foolish thoughts," I murmured. I stroked her hair.

"Is it because I leave for Boston? It's only three nights and I'll phone every few hours. Promise!" she said. She pressed her fingers to her lips and then to mine. "Promise."

I looked down into her eyes. I smiled.

We went to bed again. We spooned and wriggled until we lay comfortably. After a few minutes I heard her breathing sink into a slow and regular pace.

I stared into the darkness.

*********************** 

I was a fool and I knew it. I should refuse to give in to mere feelings of unease and suspicions.

But I was also a man haunted. Whenever the night shrouded our bedroom, all the loose little ends got blown out of proportions. Vague rumors became near certainties. Nagging thoughts left their deep grottos to fly out like screaming bats.

There was the ghost of the first warning from Paul. It might have lost a lot of its credibility after the farce with the hooker, but still... And there was the incident of seeing her with Mancini at the Hilton. They had reserved a cozy table for two. I saw her intimate touches, her smiles. They got more intimate as the night grew around me.

Then there was the whore at both hotels, where Mancini had booked rooms and suites at the exact same time. Betty had been at both the Hilton and the Regal. The little card on the bedside had Betty's number on it. In her handwriting. 

There was the very strange phone call I interrupted. 

I loved Betty. 

But at night my silk blindfold seemed to unravel. Staying at the house alone would drive me mad. Lying alone in that dark bedroom might rob me of my sanity. I could not wait, muse, ponder in the dark.

Should I follow her? 

I could, of course. But what was the use? I knew the hotel they'd stay at. I had been there at two parties the firm had thrown. I even knew the suite they usually booked. One suite, two separate bedrooms. Nevertheless.

True to her promise Betty phoned me as soon as they had landed on Logan. Only an hour later she called again to tell me they had settled in their hotel. She was a bit giggly and went on enthusiastically about the great autumn colors all around.

I chuckled.

"No need to call me every hour, honey. I'm glad you feel great."

She said she loved me, but had to hurry.

I said I loved her. My voice trembled. She had already disconnected.

***********************

The phone call came early the next morning. 

I had hardly slept. When it rang it reminded me that Betty had never called again, yesterday evening. I had tried her cell twice last night, but it seemed disconnected. 

It wasn't her voice. It wasn't a voice I knew. It sounded distant, as if muffled.

"Paul was right all along," it said.

I shook the hard earned sleep from my head.

"Who is this?" I groaned.

"Doesn't matter," the voice answered. "What matters is Betty. Call the Fairmont. Do it. Ask if she is there."

There was a click. I tried two hellos, but the line was dead.

I rose and sat on the edge of the bed. What the fuck?

Whose was the voice? I wasn't even sure it was male or female. The person knew Paul. He or she knew Betty too.

Why wouldn't she be at the Fairmont? And if so, what was so special about having to change the usual hotel? It might have been booked out. There might be other perfectly reasonable reasons. I tried to remember if Betty had said that she was at the Fairmont.

I looked up the number and got the reception. There was no booking under Mancini. Nor under Betty's name. Not her married, nor her maiden name. No, not the Boston company's either. He was sorry he couldn't help me.

I phoned three other five star hotels in the neighborhood. None of them could help me either.

I went to work.

Around eleven I tried Betty's cell phone. It still was disconnected, but not five minutes later she called me. She sounded high. Her energy gushed into my ear. All was wonderful. Meeting had gone great, client was a darling.

I asked her how the Fairmont was. Was there a hesitation? I couldn't say. The hotel was great as ever. Lovely rooms, sweetest people. But she had to run.

I stared at the dead phone.

***********************

"You've got mail."

It was the same muffled voice. A dry click followed.

The air closed in on me. My heart raced. I turned to my laptop and found my mail. There was a message indeed. I moved my mouse to open it. It took quite a while to load up.

The first thing I saw was Betty.

The image quality wasn't great. It had seemingly been shot through a narrow opening. Curtains, maybe? But it was Betty. And the date was yesterday. The time 10.14 p.m.

She wore the new corset she had shown off to me. And not much else. She sat in the lap of a middle-aged man. Salt and pepper hair, impeccable suit. His hand was on one of her tits. It must have popped out of its shallow cup. Her mouth was close to his ear. They laughed. The image faded.

When it came back on, I first didn't see Betty. I only saw the man in the suit, from the back. His jacket had gone. Then I saw red nailed fingers crawl around his sides and grab his ass cheeks. He started to push his hips in a rhythm. The fingers squeezed. Now I saw naked knees at both sides of his shining brogues. 

The image once again faded to black.

When the light came back on I saw an exposed ass and legs. I knew them, they were Betty's. She must have draped herself over an arm of a leather club chair. The next moment a naked man obscured the image. I saw his ass cheeks. His hands were on her hips. I guess he shoved his cock up her cunt. Or her ass hole, maybe. I heard her screams, muffled by the window glass no doubt. She wasn't in pain.

The tiny keyhole of hell closed once again. 

When it re-opened both Betty and her client were naked. She was on all fours, on the low coffee table in front of the chair. Her naked tits dangled and swung. I saw that the man was sliding his cock in and out of her ass. He was quite big. I saw his fat pole shine when it came out.

Betty's mouth worked in agony. Her screams sounded muffled and far away. The camera had somehow succeeded in getting closer shots. I saw her eyes glaze over when she came. 

Her naked frame shook.

I studied the old guy while he came too. I knew him. Last Christmas we had talked amiably. He was the CEO of the firm. Betty's favorite client.

I saw why.

***********************

Being frozen is a cliché. 

But it is really how you feel when time stops. I know. It happened to me. I sat at my desk and stared at the now black little square where my life had ended a minute ago. I just sat. I felt no tears. 

I did not feel anything, actually.

I must have been sitting like that for a while. Maybe I did not hear the phone. I certainly didn't pick it up. I guess that was what made Judy investigate. She must have entered. I did not see her do it.

I did not see anything, period.

I guess she understood that my shock had been induced by the laptop in front of me. She clicked the mouse and the tiny window of horror opened to start the end of my life all over again. 

Aren't reruns such a bore?

Judy gasped. It jolted me back to life. The world started spinning again, as if a spell had been broken. I groaned. I felt pinpricks all over my body. She stopped the machine and slapped the lid on it. Then she hugged me. I saw tears on her face. 

Now I felt mine flow.

I don't know how long we hugged. I do know that after a while her mouth was on mine. I felt her soft chest against my ribs. I smelled her perfume. Then we parted. Her face looked flushed. Mine felt hot too.

"I...," she said. "I am so very sorry, Jules. Oh God, sweet man..." She once more hugged me.

There was no haze. All was very clear, painfully so.

"What do I do now, Judy?"

My voice was quiet.

"Call her," she said. "Call her now."

I sat down and fumbled with my phone. It took me two tries to get her. But she didn't pick up. I remembered how she had said she had to hurry. I threw the phone away. It landed on the leather chair by the pretty little table where I treated visitors to coffee. 

The leather had the same color as in the video, I saw.

I just sat and stared. Judy talked. I don't recollect what she said. It was good to hear her. It told me I was still alive.

Then I screamed. I screamed a lot. I also slammed the top of my desk until flashes of pain shot up my wrists. Then I stopped the slamming. And the screaming.

"She wore the lingerie I bought her last Saturday," I whispered. "He seemed to appreciate it."

***********************

Betty called at five p.m. 

She sounded bubbly. The words gushed like a tidal wave. The day had been gorgeous so far. They had driven into the New England countryside to admire the autumn colors. They had lunched at this incredibly cute little place. Such a damn pity I could not have been there with her...

I said nothing. She went on. She never stopped. But in the end my silence must have told her that something was unusual.

"Honey?" she said, after a silence. "Are you there?"

"Yes," I answered. "I am here. What's left of me, that is."

There was silence.

"Jules? Please, you scare me."

"Yes," I said again. "I guess I do. Sorry for that."

"What is wrong, honey? Did something happen?"

She sounded worried.

"Yes," I said for the third time. "Something happened. I'm not sure if it's serious, but yes. I just died."

There was a gasp.

"Oh please, Jules. Don't do this. It isn't funny!"

"I guess not, Betty. Well, as a matter of fact, I am quite sure it isn't funny. But it still is great timing that you should phone me right now. You see - I have to tell you something. It just came up and might be of importance to you."

"What is it, honey?"

"When you come back from Boston - or wherever you are, Betty - please don't come back to me. Stay away from me. I assure you it is the best thing you can do. By far the best. I'll pack your things tomorrow, so you can have them picked up. But please, don't come back to me. Ever."

There was a sudden rush of words on the other side of the phone, but I pushed the little red button and they were gone.

The silence buzzed in my ears. I stared at Judy.

"Care for a drink, honey?"

***********************

"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said. 

Or rather tried to say. 

Paul groaned. His blue eyes swam. They hardly focused anymore. I didn't care. He was drunk, so was I.

Judy had left a long time ago. She didn't want to, but I had insisted. She begged me to go home too. I did not see why.

I had called Paul in stead. 

Of course I could hardly blame him for the state we were in by now. It was entirely my fault. I had dragged him here and kept the liquid coming. It had also been me who poured the stream of laments into his ears. I beat him with the club of my self-pity until he was mush. I rubbed my torn up ego in his face until he gagged.

And not once did he say: "I told you so."

I should feel sorry for him. But it was his fault too, wasn't it? He should have known better than becoming my best friend. And surely better than telling me what he had seen, that goddamn day. Let the bastard suffer. Why on earth did he have to tell me how my world had shattered and my universe collapsed!

There is a point in drunken conversation where the concrete gives way to the abstract. Where privately suffered pains are transformed into world encompassing tragedy. 

After the tenth drink it almost became immaterial that I had seen my wife being fucked by her favorite client. It became moot that I had watched the eager pushing of her sleek hips. Or that I had heard the ecstatic screams from her mouth. It even hardly mattered that I had seen the orgasmic glazing over of her sweet eyes, her loving eyes, the eyes that loved me - it all gradually sank into the quicksand of my general misery.

What was left was a wide gaping hole in my soul. 

Surely - watching a slut do a few banal physical exercises could not have caused this pain? It is just a common action performed every minute around the globe by billions of people, isn't it? How could all this pain ever be caused by watching some slimy cum seep out of a well-used little asshole? Or by seeing the shine of her juices on a pumping cock? 

No. There must be more to it, much more to cause this bottomless sadness.

"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said.

"Cruelty" is quite a hard word to say when you are drunk. But imagine saying the word "betrayal." As in: "Wha' weally huzz issa bezwayl."

*********************** 

I hope you understand that I am not overly eager to tell you in detail what happened. I don't want to talk about the hows and the whys. The how longs and the with whoms and the how oftens are really quite a bit too painful. I know I might disappoint you by depriving you of that. But you'll have to imagine most of it. 

And be assured that what really happened was worse.

After turning down each and every attempt to talk to me – including her visiting me at work - Betty sent me a letter. I tried to tear it up and throw it away. Then I started reading. After a few paragraphs I again tried to get rid of it. 

But of course I needed to read all of it.

It started with her telling me how much she loved me. She always had and always would. Anything she did had only been for business and really had no impact on our love. 

Ah well, I suppose a letter has to start somewhere.

She also said she had never meant for me to be hurt like this. That is why she had done everything in her power to avoid me discovering it. She apologized for having failed.

She had done everything in her power? How sick can you get? Maybe NOT doing it could at least have been considered part of the trying? She had obviously thought otherwise. 

As I knew - she went on - she had met Robert (Mancini) almost two years before we met. He had granted her an interview when she was still in college. She had been flattered no end. Mancini was famous in his profession. He had been wonderful to her. Attentive and encouraging. He had taken her out for dinner and she had been so proud when he decided to hire her. Well, she wrote, I knew the rest.




Love Is A Silk Blindfold Ch. 06



I grunted. The rest? Obviously not half of it. A quarter? A tenth?

She wrote that she had quite soon fallen in lust with Mancini. She also thought she owed him for helping her find the ropes. And giving her all his support in climbing the ladder. Yes, she had slept with him and he had been good. He had made her feel less of a girl and more of a woman. He had taught her to love her body. And his. It had been an ecstatic time.

That was when I almost threw the letter away.

I read on an hour later. 

She had come to the point of our meeting and marrying. She told me I had shown her that there is more than lust and sex. She had fallen in love and it had been the best she had ever felt. I was her entire world. 

She wrote that she understood that she should stop seeing Mancini (read: fucking). Even if it was only sex. The "should stop" made me understand that it took her a while to really do it. Which meant that she was still fucking him after we had fallen in what she kept calling love. 

A taste of sickness rose in my throat.

Yes, she admitted. It had been hard to stop "seeing" Robert. He was sweet, she owed him and he was there. But the night before our marriage she had put her foot down, she wrote. The sickness overwhelmed me. I had to throw up before reading on. I wondered why I didn't stop and flush the letter through the toilet together with the rest of the bile.

She was proud, she wrote, that it had been so easy for her to remain loyal to me that first year. It had been the happiest time of her life. 

Then there had been the pitch for the Boston company. I remembered how often she and Mancini had been over there to prepare for that. I also remembered how great our nights had been each time she returned. 

This time I kept control over my stomach.

Yes, in the rush of all the emotions during those exciting times, she had fallen for Robert again. It had been like a dream, like a constant wave of arousal. The high-power energy of the pitching. The thrill of it. The closeness in their luxury hotel. The being away from me. 

She was sorry. But she also reminded me that she had always come back to me and had never denied me anything. 

Not denied me? I thought about her sudden refusal to suck my cock. Her starting to get on top and control me. Her urging me to eat her out. Now I understood. The thrill of the Big World had reduced little me. I was hubby. I was sweet and she loved me. But I now seemed so very...well, how to put it? 

How grateful should I be?

Then things got, eh...complicated, she wrote.

Mancini & Associates had finished as one of the last two pitching agencies for the prestigious Boston account. At least, that was what Mr. Huntington, the CEO, told them. He had invited them to his house in Hyannis Port to discuss the final brief. He had been so very nice and easy. Not at all snobbish. He really made her feel important and clever. He insinuated that if it had been up to him, they would have won the first time he saw her walk in.

He took her out to his impressive yaught alone, she wrote. And she was so sorry, but yes...

***********************

Of course I knew enough by then. Am I a masochist to want to know more? Maybe. Please cast your stones, all you perfect men who are now sneering at me. 

I read on.

I read how she had not only kept fucking her boss, but also had made quite a few boat trips with Mr. Pepper-and-Salt. He stayed easily at the top of her favorite-clients-list. On top too, I presume. I assumed she even fucked him when I was with her to these parties, being pampered in the most expensive hotel suite they could find. 

I really had to understand that this was all business, she wrote. It had been fun, but she had never loved me less because of it. I shouldn't accuse her of betraying our love or even cheating. It had been in the best interest of everyone, me included.

A poorly controlled nausea returned.

Okay. Meanwhile, darling Robert had discovered a little gold mine. The next pitch was in New York and he had told her how much the prospect client appreciated her. Betty is gullible, I guess. And vain. But she is no fool. She wrote me proudly that she had refused to do her next CEO. And she hadn't!

Should I share her pride or what? 

I knew I shouldn't. A few lines onwards it became clear why she refused. It was in the city and she wanted to do "all in her powers" not to hurt me, remember? I might stumble onto what happened. I might find out and yes, it was all just business, of course. But I might not understand. She loved me too much for that to happen. She refused.

Bravo.

I shook my head incredulously. But what came next was even crazier.

Robert had found a hooker who looked so much like Betty that she could have been her twin sister. A new scheme developed. The hooker would pretend to be the Betty Robert promised to the prospect. As a nice detail he added the wig and the make-up to "protect Betty, as she was married and her husband lived in New York." 

The prospects ate it up as greedily as they ate her stand-in. 

They were extra aroused at the thought of fucking an adulterous spouse. The scheme was an instant success and soon a new routine developed. The Canadian whore would be the entertainment in the Big Apple, Betty would see to the pitches outside the five burroughs. She never said as much in the letter, but I hardly needed my imagination to know.

That is when I really tore up the letter.

To be honest, there wasn't much left. I guess just some gibberish about her loving me and wanting me to be protected from hurt. That her love for me really was way too strong to be destroyed by some innocent business-fucking. And that I should please forgive her. We ought to talk like grown-ups. We surely would find a way as long as we loved each other. 

I did not want to find it. I just wanted to call the attorney I had been seeing and tell him to goddamn hurry up with his divorce papers.

And yes, for you suckers of procedures – I glued the letter together again and sent it to him. He already had the porn clip.

***********************

I lay in the grass.

A fly buzzed close to my ear. The ballgame had ended. Maybe the sun was lower too. I didn't look.

It had been hard to find ways to get my revenge on Betty. 

But I knew that in some sick way it hurt her greatly to have lost me. She had fucked around like crazy, but somehow she had seen that as professional strategy. Like a really professional whore. Like something that stood apart from our private lives, our marriage, our precious love. She had lied and lied again, but I guess she would explain that as meaning to protect our love. A noble deed, as it were.

What do I know? I even think she believes it. Am I the mad one?

Maybe she really thought she had never betrayed me. It was just a job well done, wasn't it? Look at their success! Mancini's business had tripled over the last five years. 

Which brought me to a much more satisfying revenge.

I was certain that Betty was duly punished by me never allowing her back into my life. Not even to see me and explain. I heard from mustual friends that she doesn't understand it. She tells people we'll be back together again. I love her as much as she does.

There she is wrong. I love her more. 

Paul, Judy and a lawyer friend helped me setting up Mancini and his big friend from Boston. We sent both of them copies of what we had and the threat to publish them. We also promised to sue both companies for alienation of affection and sexual harassment.

It took them three hours to offer me a million.

I got on the phone and laughed.

They went and doubled their offer. Then they tripled it. I still laughed. I had no intention to take their money. Money meant nothing to them, not in these amounts. It meant even less to me.

So my lawyer went to court and sued both.

The press had a field day. The case is still in court. It looks good, but I don't care if I win or lose. I already won. Mancini has lost three quarters of his business. Huntington has been silently dropped. I guess poor Betty will lose her job soon, as there won't be a Mancini & Associates left to fuck for.

I doubt there will be new openings for her. 

Did I intend that pun? Ask Mr. Freud.

***********************

Am I happy with my revenge? Am I even slightly satisfied? 

"It is good to have closure," my sweet little doctor with the big glasses says. She is a doll. But she is dead wrong. It doesn't help a bit. I still hurt. I still cry at night. I still miss her.

No, not true. I miss the one I loved. 

The last rays of the sun kissed my face. Cool fingers touched my lips. They slowly followed the outline of my mouth. I pouted and kissed them.

"Let's go," a voice whispered.

I stretched my arms and pulled her over me. She kisses wonderfully. She is sweet and tender. She loves me. I may once even love her.

We stood and walked into the setting sun. It drowned the great silhouette of the city in front of us. I pulled her closer. She laughed.

***********************

Ah, yes, of course.

You'd love to know who sent me the porn video. I won't tell you. But he is a good friend. The best. He once told me to go see what he didn't get to see. 

I never did. So he went and did it for me.