"You've got to be kidding me," I said, shocked.
"I'm sorry," she said, not sounding sorry. "I didn't mean to fall out of love with you – or fall in love with Tim. But I did. And it isn't fair to keep us both in an unhappy marriage. So I want a divorce." She was firm, far from the shy and retiring little girl I'd met in college. Far from the girl I married.
"You want . . . a divorce," I repeated. "Because you've found someone else."
"Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be," she said, carefully. "The fact is, we both know this relationship wasn't working out."
That was news to me.
I had met Mary at school, where she was an Art History major and I was a Business major. We dated for two years, and then married after I graduated. I made good money as an accountant, and eventually got my CPA, and she was content to work part-time at a book store and be a homemaker. We had been discussing kids for a while, even. Mary was a nice, demure little Catholic girl, very pretty, and her ovaries were starting to itch.
We had been married for five years, now, and I couldn't deny that things had changed. Our newlywed year had been wonderful, full of sex and experimentation, but a few months after our first anniversary it had started to taper off. Oh, we still did it the usual twice-a-week for a few years, something I was a little frustrated with, but the passion and inventiveness was missing.
The big problem, sexually, had been blowjobs. I love them. Mary used to enjoy them, but as the rest of our sex life started to decline, so did both the frequency and the enthusiasm I had become accustomed to. Worse, she acted like both were still in effect, and would string me along with the promise of a good BJ for weeks. At the last minute she'd chicken out, using a headache, sore throat, or other dodge to avoid it. The first few years it was frustrating, and even led to some arguments. After that it was just kind of a sick joke. My last BJ from her had been last year, on our anniversary, and I nearly had to beg.
"So what was so alluring about . . . Tim? What did he have that I don't?"
"That doesn't matter," she insisted.
"It sure as fuck does to me!" I retorted. "If I'm going to lose my wife, I think I'm entitled to know why!"
"Fine! He's an artist! I met him at the book store! He's exciting and interesting and pays me lots of attention! He goes kayaking and hiking and camping! He inherited a small farm and he wants to have kids! You, on the other hand, are boring, boring, BORING! You're just a bean counter, Bill! If I have to hear one more story about your job I'm going to scream! I deserve better than that, Bill, I do!"
"And what about what I deserve? How about a faithful wife? One that I've cared for and loved and fed and clothed in fairly high style for lo these many years! One who didn't even have the courtesy to voice her unhappiness and try to save our marriage! Didn't I deserve that?"
"Oh, fuck you!" she said, quite uncharacteristically. "All you care about is whether my mouth is around your dick and if the house looks good! Did you ever once ask me about my book?" She had been "writing a book" for years, now. If she had produced more than ten pages, I hadn't seen it.
"Oh, fuck you," I said, tired of it already. She had whined about that book forever. I wasn't going to let her blame me for her failure to produce it. "So he's exciting, is he? And I'm boring. A bean counter." I considered. "OK, we'll discuss this at my attorney's office. Now get out."
Her eyes opened wide. "What?"
"You heard me. If you're leaving me, leave. Get out."
"But Bill! This is my home!"
"Wrong. It was OUR home. Now it is MY house. Your name isn't on any of the papers, remember?"
"This is a community property state," she hissed.
"And I have about fifty lawyers who owe me favors," I shot back. "Now pack up your shit and hit the bricks. I've got some calls to make. If you aren't gone in an hour, then . . ."
"You are such an asshole," she spat. "I was hoping we could be adults about this."
"Marital infidelity is very adult," I agreed. "So is a messy divorce. Now get the fuck out of my house."
My mind was whirling, and while I felt bitter betrayal I also had formulated a plan while she had been talking. Or, at least the beginnings of a plan. I went to my study and got online and took care of some things. Forty-five minutes later I heard the front door slam and her car – the one I bought for her birthday – leave with squealing tires.
She should enjoy it while it lasts. I had had a busy time.
Her cellphone would be disconnected at midnight.
Her car would be repossessed – I arranged to sell it to a good friend and neighbor, Henry Morefield. We had gone to school together, and he lived just a few houses down in our ritzy neighborhood. Henry and Mary had never gotten along. She thought he was an asshole, he thought she was a stuck up bitch. They were both right, but Henry was MY asshole friend, and he delighted in helping me get to her. He was also an attorney – real estate, but he knew a fair amount of divorce law, too. He agreed to represent me in the preliminaries. We set a date for a week away.
I also took her off our car insurance. And changed the beneficiary on all of my life insurance. And had her removed from our health insurance.
I cleaned out our bank accounts, electronically transferring the money to some overseas accounts I had set up a few years back for tax purposes.
I contacted a private investigator and had him get me everything he could on "Tim".
Her credit cards were reported stolen and canceled.
Twenty minutes after she left a locksmith showed up and changed all the locks, and I changed the security codes on the alarm system.
Two hours after she left, she was attached to me in name only. The Bureaucracy Monster that envelops every one of us would barely recognize her. Sure, I could have hired a thug – I actually knew a few – but that lacks refinement. Besides, violence is such a transitory pleasure. I gave it to her my way, instead. I used paperwork.
Hell hath no fury like an accountant scorned.
I got stinkin' drunk that night, crawled into bed, and overslept the next morning. When my office called, I told them that I had some family issues and would be taking the week off. Then I called my travel agent and booked a flight to the Bahamas. I left my cell phone at home.
I spent the next week feeling sorry for myself, getting drunk, crying a lot, and banging the hell out of the local talent. Whores, tourist girls, even a matronly insurance saleswoman from Cleveland that could suck a cock like a pro. When I flew back home, I was like a new man.
And I had a plan.
The first meeting between me, Henry, Mary, and her bargain-basement lawyer didn't go well – for Mary.
"You God-damned sonofabitch!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "You took the fucking car and the fucking money!" She looked a little rough. She had been staying at her lover's house out in the country, and hadn't had access to the top-quality cosmetics that littered my bathroom.
"I paid for the car," I retorted calmly. "And I made the money."
"I can't get into my house to get my things!" she shrieked.
"I'll have them shipped," I assured her.
"I went to the doctor and had no insurance!"
"Yeah, well, must be a computer glitch or something. The public health clinic is easy to get to, you know. Downtown, next to the projects?"
"Oh, FUCK YOU!"
"Look, it wasn't me who started all of this. But if you want to play rough, I'll play rough. Until we get this settled, I thought it best if I put some things out of easy reach. I'm sure we can be reasonable about this."
Henry gave her his best sympathetic-but-still-vicious smile.
"Let's see what we can work out, shall we?" he said, opening his briefcase. "Let's start with your offer."
The young attorney in the cheap suit swallowed nervously and got out a plain manila folder.
"Here are our terms," he said. "I think you'll agree that they are more than fair."
"Let's take a look!" Henry said with false enthusiasm. His face changed visibly as he read. "Hmmm. You want . . . half of the savings, half of the house, the car, yadda yadda, alimony – that's an interesting figure! – and a few other items that I would have to say are completely out of the question. Oh, my, you're funny. Still, it's a place to start. Now here's our offer," he said, his manner turning evil. "You get nothing. Nada. Zero. Squat."
"What?" Mary asked, shocked. "You can't do that!"
"The law gives considerable leeway in matters like this," assured Henry. "While this is, technically, a community property state, it also looks askance at egregious acts of marital infidelity. Which you have committed, Ms. Stater. A lot." He withdrew the thick folder the private investigator had assembled on Mr. Tim Burnnett, artist and eco-hippy. Henry opened it and started reeling off just the most recent activities the two had shared, including the week-long romp at his run-down farmhouse the two had indulged in while I was drowning my sorrows in the Caribbean. It included pictures. And a videotape. I had tipped the private dick lavishly.
"You see, not only is this a community property state, Ms. Stater, but it is also a state that has a quaint law on the books called 'Alienation of Affection'. In short, my client can sue Mr. Burnnett for . . . well, pretty much everything he owns – because he seduced you and stole you away."
"You can't do that!" she shrieked, her eyes tearing up.
"Oh, yes I can," I said, grinning. "I have affidavits from your boss, Marge, and three other girls you work with about how Tim showed up at your store and seduced you. They claim that you were perfectly happily married before you met him. That's about all the proof we need. Hell, even if we don't win, we'll make him go broke with legal fees. Hope he's a good artist," I said, shaking my head.
I knew he wasn't. Or not that good. Sure, he had a show coming up in two weeks – but I had already bribed three art critics to pan him so hard that no gallery would ever give him another show. Artsy types are easy – all idealistic until you wave a fist full of cash under their nose. It cost lest than $500 to ruin his career.
"You are such an asshole!" she cried. "We'll . . . look your offer over and get back to you," the outclassed attorney said, his face pale.
"You do that," Henry said. "I take it you remember the way out?"
A week later we were back in that room, with Mary dressed a little more conservatively and looking a little more business-like. The PI I had hired had continued to tail her and see what she was doing. She was driving an ancient Gremlin, now, and still living in the boonies. "Bill," she said, affecting kindness. "We looked everything over and . . . I suppose we can agree to those terms," she said, conciliatorily. "Providing you drop the lawsuit against Tim."
"Why on Earth would he do that?" asked Henry.
"Because . . . because we had a good marriage for over five years," she said, struggling for a reason.
"That, actually, is an argument in our favor," Henry pointed out. "Oh, your car drives like a dream, by the way," he added with a hint of vitriol.
To her credit Mary didn't rise to the bait. She remained calm. "Then because you are a decent human being, Bill," she said, calmly.
"If I recall correctly, you called me an asshole," I reminded her. "That's the first time in our relationship you resorted to name calling. My feelings are pretty hurt about that. Suing the ass off of your little gigolo boy would be better than therapy."
"Damn it, Bill!" she said. "I want a divorce, and quickly! What's it going to take?" I considered. I had good leverage. I knew why she wanted one.
My PI had done a masterful job finding out things he wasn't supposed to in direct violation of HIPA. He even got me copies of her medical charts. Mary was six weeks pregnant, and there was no way in hell the child was mine. "You just don't want your baby born a bastard," I pointed out.
"How—?" she asked, shocked. "You know?"
"Of course I know, you silly little bitch!" I said sternly. "You're carrying another man's child while you are still my wife. Why the hell should I want to make your life one bit easier?"
"Just drop the suit and give me a divorce!" she pleaded. "Look, Tim has a big show coming up, and if it goes well, then . . . we can start a new life together. Start a family. This is a big chance. If you drop the suit, and agree to a divorce, then . . . well, it would make me happy. You loved me once enough to do that, remember? For the sake of that love, let me go, now, without all of this."
"Fat fucking chance," I replied, evenly. And then I brought out my hole card. "There might be a way . . ."
"What is it?" she asked, eagerly. "I'll do anything!"
"Well, we'll see about that," I said, smugly. "In the last five years of marriage, the subject of fellatio has come up a number of times," I began.
"Oh, good God, Bill! How can you bring that up—?"
"Do you know how many times you've promised me head, Mary?"
"That's completely irrelevant!" she demanded.
She thought. "A couple of dozen," she finally admitted.
"Wrong," I stated. "I'm a boring bean counter, aren't I? Boring, boring boring. Just me and the numbers. Well, I collect a lot of beans, Mary, and keep track of a lot of metrics. I kept track of how many you promised compared to how many you delivered on."
"That's such utter—"
"No, not at all, I have a diary of each promise. I'm anal that way. I emailed it to a special account, so each entry has a date and time stamp, as well as an exact description of the circumstances and your excuse. Guess I'm just a numbers junkie that way," I admitted. "But your actual total was . . . 147 times."
"So? Big fucking deal. It's completely childish – and completely predictable – that you would do something asinine like that!" she accused.
"147 times you promised to blow me. For theater tickets, for shopping, for new furniture – you used sex as a weapon in our relationship, Mary. It's only right that I return the favor. You want the suit dropped? You want to get married before your bastard brat is born? Then you have to knock those marital obligations off before I will consent to a divorce. It seems only fair."
"You are such a complete pig," she began.
"That's enough," Henry snapped. "My client has made a perfectly reasonable –albeit unorthodox – offer. Quite a fair one, too, and one that will cost you nothing. We even drew up the agreement," he said, taking out the paper he had worked on all last night. "Sign this, and execute the agreement in good faith, and we'll agree to a quickie divorce in Vegas when your assignment has been completed. Let's see . . . the contract basically says you will orally pleasure my client – at your convenience, mighty generous of you," he added with a wink.
"No need to cause scheduling issues," I agreed. "Take all the time you need."
"And you will then swallow the ejaculate," Henry continued with relish.
"You . . . made up a blowjob contract?" she asked, disbelieving. "That's . . . God you are a pig!"
"A pig with excellent attorneys," I agreed.
"Upon the completion of the agreement, my client agrees to a no-fault divorce in the state of your choice. You also agree to hold him completely un-liable for any damages incurred, future therapy bills, child support, etc. etc."
The young attorney stared at the page, his face pale. "This is highly unusual."
"No shit, Sherlock. But it's what I want. She either signs, or we'll see you in court. For the next . . . say, six years? That's about how long all of this will take to sort out. Your kid will be in kindergarten – or foster care. But I'm feeling generous today. Tell you what: I'll give you a fortnight to think about it."
"Asshole!" she whispered to me as I left.
I had to smile. It was an offer she couldn't refuse – and I wasn't done with her yet. Not even close.
Two weeks later we were back once again. She was dressed attractively and conservatively. Her lawyer looked completely defeated. So did she.
Tim's show had been a dismal failure. I had made sure of that. My private dick had arranged for a drug bust at the show opening, which was bad enough – galleries don't like that kind of negative publicity. But then the reviews came out, and they were horrible. Tim was asked to take down his paintings at the end of the week, with none having sold. I had a conciliatory gallon of bourbon sent anonymously to him, and he had been going through it pretty fast.
Mary, for her part, had to fight for pre-natal care at the county health clinic. On top of that, a phone call to the Archbishop had started excommunication proceedings from the Church – which had caused her sainted parents to disown her. Of course, she still had her job at the bookstore . . . for now. My PI had had a talk to Marge, and a little cash changed hands to ensure that Mary wouldn't be getting the full-time hours she needed to get health insurance there. She was desperate.
"So, what will it be?" Henry asked, grinning like a shark.
"Will . . . both of you excuse us?" she asked in a wavering voice.
I nodded to Henry, and they attorneys left us alone.
"How's the exciting life of adventure? Been kayaking much?" I asked when the door shut. She ignored the jab.
"You . . . you will stick to your side of the bargain?" she asked, hesitantly. "If I sign it, I mean." "We've been together for eight years, total," I pointed out. "You know I'm an honorable man."
She nodded. "That's right. You don't lie or . . . cheat. Okay, we can . . . I talked it over with Tim. He isn't very happy about it, but if it means we can be together . . ."
"I don't care what you do," I agreed. "As long as I get mine."
"How did it come to this?" she moaned tearfully.
"You got bored and fucked around. On your husband, who you swore a sacred oath before God to forsake all others for."
"You're really going to hold me to this?" "Damn straight," I agreed.
"Then . . . I'll do it. But here are my conditions. I come over when I can, do this, and leave. No chit-chat, no arguing, no . . . nothing. And we get this over with as quickly as possible."
"That's pretty much up to you," I said. "However often you want. You can try to knock out all 147 this week, if you're up to it. But each one ends with my sperm on your tongue. Or you do it over."
"Agreed," she said, reluctantly, making a face. She pulled the agreement out and signed it, handing it to me. I signed it and then stuck my head out the door to call the attorneys in.
"Where and when do you want to get started?" I asked.
She thought about it. "Tim has an art class tonight. I can come over then."
"Good," I agreed. "About eight?"
"Sure," she said, and walked off without another word.
I had her. By God, I had her.
That first one was pretty memorable. I set up a chair in the living room for the purpose, took a shower, and made some other preparations. Then I whacked off twice before she arrived. No need to let her catch the easy one.
She showed up still in the demure outfit she wore earlier. That was fine—she still looked pretty good. She almost cried when she came in, as I had made some changes in the décor she had struggled to build up over the years.
"You . . . dug up my roses?" she noted. "You gave those to me for our anniversary."
"Too painful a reminder of your betrayal," I pointed out. That visibly stung her. "Besides, I'm building an addition to the house." I paused. "Tim's at an art class?"
"He doesn't know I'm here. Let's just get this over with," she said, depressed.
"Suits me," I agreed, taking a seat in my favorite chair. It was one she picked out for my birthday (but I paid for). I opened my robe, and my semi-hard cock flopped out.