Five-Time Loser Pt. 01

Figured I'd finally post something other than comments, and see how big a splash I can make with my debut.

This little number has been on the back burner for some time. Before I made a profile, in fact. Started out as something vague and silly, but I kept adding to it until I had this; a two-part tale that's not nearly as vague, but still a little silly.

I think I should warn some people that this is NOT a "feel good" story. No warm fuzzies to be found here. I love me a good revenge tale, so of course that's what my first piece is going to be. I've also got a couple Romance stories and an Erotic Horror yarn kicking around somewhere on my computer, so those might be coming later if I feel like it. But today it's all about good old fashioned vengeance!

Some may be offended by the content of this story, but there's no need for that. Don't take things so seriously, bruh; it's just fiction.

~~~

She did it. The bitch really did it, and if my suspicions are correct, she's going to do it again. I'm inclined to believe those suspicions, considering the video I'm watching confirmed the ones that have brought me down this path to begin with.

"And just like that, I'm a five-time loser," I say bitterly as I rip my headphones off and all but throw them down on my solid red oak desk.

My desk. I still remember when I bought it twenty-six years ago, a year into my first marriage. Gwen said it was way too big. To be fair, it was, since we were living in a pretty modest apartment where space was at a premium. But I made it fit, and it's been with me ever since. Besides, what the fuck did Gwen know? There was a time when she said my dick, at a respectable seven inches long and two in diameter, was too big, but she got used to it. And then there was that black guy. Ten inches long and thicker than Gwen's wrist, but dammit if she didn't make it fit.

Gwen was my first wife, by the way. We married young, but thought we knew it all, like most twenty-one year olds. Thought we had all the answers between us. But three years in, she changed the questions. But I suppose I can blame myself for that.

I may have called him "that black guy", but I knew him. Knew him quite well, in fact; we were thick as thieves once upon a time. Magnus O'Neil was his name. His REAL name. Sounds like a fucking superhero, doesn't it? But he had another name that followed him from high school into college, one that was arguably cooler, considering how he got it. "The Ten Man", that's what they called him, and I had been one of "them" back in the day. When my wife heard it, she thought it was a Wizard of Oz reference. Like a dumbass, I explained to her that it wasn't "The Tin Man", but "The Ten Man", as in the number ten. As in the ten inches of tube steak he had swinging between his legs.

Should've left that out and said it was his number on the football team.

Once that question was answered, a whole new set cropped up in her head. Ones that she never bothered to share, and instead decided to find answers to herself. Like "Can he really go all night?"

For those interested, the answer was an emphatic "yes", as confirmed by no less than five hours worth of video shot while I was out of town earning some brownie points with my boss...Which ended up being edited down to two hours, copied and sold out the back door of the local video store. I found out about it when our neighbor bought it and immediately recognized the white woman being fucked into a stupor.

I thought Gwen had been raped. You can't imagine how embarrassing, and infuriating, it was when my neighbor calmed me down and got me to watch the tape before I went off an made a fool of myself. Cheesy as it sounds, the only thing that got raped was my soul; I saw her fully consent to being filmed, so long as Magnus "brought the goods", in the first five minutes.

That tape is still out there, making the rounds. You can probably find it on the internet. I know videos of white women fucking black men are a dime a dozen, especially these days, but that one does have something that sets it apart. When they switch to the cowgirl position, the locket around the woman's neck keeps flopping around and hitting the black guy in the face. He eventually gets annoyed enough to snatch it off and throw it across the room.

That locket set me back two-hundred dollars when I bought it for our second anniversary, and the last time I ever saw it was in that video. I think the camera guy took it. Yes, there was a camera guy. No, Gwen didn't fuck him, at least not on film, but he did get a blow job. Though she was so out of it from the pounding she was taking from The Ten Man that the camera guy had to do all the work...

Back to the desk. After the divorce, I got rid of most of the stuff me and Gwen had accumulated together. And I don't mean that I was forced to give most of it to her by order of the court. Once she found out about the video, she let me go without much of a fuss. Sometimes I wish she had fussed. Why didn't she fuss?

Anyway, the desk stayed. I had paid far too much for it, and the fact that Gwen had been against it from day one made me feel like I was getting back at her in some small way. Stupid, I know, but it's all I had to cling to back then. And in the nearly three decades I've had it, I've been doing a lot of clinging. An unreasonable and, at the risk of sounding childish, downright unfair amount of clinging.

This desk has seen it all. It's seen four wives and countless girlfriends and fuckbuddies cum and go. No, I mean it; I've fucked all of my wives on this desk, and every woman I deemed worth keeping around has rubbed their ass and tits all over its surface. You'd think the desk would look like crap after twenty-six years of sweat and other...fluids, but I take care of it. And it takes care of me.

Before my current soon-to-be-ex, Gwen was the only one of my wives who had never been bent over the desk by anyone but me. She didn't even like looking at it, so she sure wasn't going to touch it. The one time I got her over it, she gave me the evil eye and the cold shoulder for the rest of the week. Plus, she had the decency not to fuck around in our home. Another reason my first marriage is the only one I wish I had handled differently.

The three wives after her? Stephanie, Mary, Natasha, they all brought their men into our home and made a b-line for the desk. It wasn't even a "marking your territory" thing with the guys; my wives literally dragged them over to the desk and fucked them all over it. The fuck did the desk do to them? But I'm kind of glad they did, because that's how I caught them.

This is going to sound crazy, but after they did the deed, I got "vibes" from the desk. As soon as I entered the room, it was like the desk itself was angry and had been waiting to rat them out. No matter how much they covered their tracks, I always knew. Even before I set up a camera to watch my den after wife number three, Mary.

Fortunately, the desk has been spared by wife number five, Loretta. But it's not because she's faithful. Trust me, I just got done watching and listening to an hour of her being very unfaithful.

How did I find out this time? Loretta's not a very good actress. I'm sure things started out innocent enough, at least on her end. Just chatting with a coworker who happened to be a man. But eventually things took a turn and she developed feelings for him. Thus began the guilt, and she couldn't hide it for shit, though she clearly thought she had me fooled. I knew something was going on, and I took action.

Did I hire a private investigator? No, nothing so cliché. I mean, I've got the money for it, but I prefer to use my own means. And those means include ready access to inconspicuous cars, ultra compact digital cameras, almost unbelievably tiny voice recorders, and a friend in the movie business who does some of the best makeup work you'll ever see. Give him an hour or two and he can make you look like Ryan Reynolds' twin brother. Even if you're a woman. Combine all that and it was laughably easy to get all the evidence I needed.

I was there, sitting no more than five feet away when Loretta and her boytoy, Jeremiah Reed, decided they were going to take things to the next level and started making plans. By the time they walked out of the café and went their separate ways for the day, I was already at the Motel 6 they had picked out, putting every employee there on my payroll. And when the day came and they showed up, the "only" room available had more bugs than an office at the Pentagon.

I got everything, unfortunately. Considering the situation, you would think that there's absolutely nothing, as a husband, you'd WANT to see or hear on the recordings. But let me tell you, there are different levels of bad when it comes to shit like this. Seeing another man plowing your wife is bad enough. But it gets worse when it's not just fucking. There's touching, rubbing, kissing, pet names, foreplay. Everything that's been missing from your own bedroom is right there, and you're the outsider looking in. This wasn't crazy, wild, "fuck me into a heart attack" sex; it was lovemaking. But then there's more. Your wife is clearly enjoying it, but she's not particularly vocal. Not like she is with you, where she acts like she's auditioning to be a porn star.

And that's when it hits you. The reason she acts like that with you is because that's what she's doing, acting. Faking. Telling you what you want to hear. Do you know what that's like? To know that your wife can spout off full fucking sentences while you're giving her all you've got, but another man can fuck her so good that all she can manage is ragged gasps and whimpers of "more"? I just sat through an hour of that. But wait, there's more! I even got a little cherry on top of my shit sundae, in the form of my darling wife cuddling with her lover. Even now, out of the corner of my eye, I can see her arm moving up and down as she rubs loverboy's obviously-waxed chest...No, wait, she's stroking his cock. I guess that whole hour was just round one.

I can't remember ever feeling lower.

What the fuck is it with these women?! Did Gwen write "sucker" on my forehead with some kind of ink that only conniving bitches can see? Do I give off a pheromone that attracts cunts looking for easy prey? Am I just that fucking stupid?

Yeah, I think that last one makes the most sense. I mean, it's true, isn't it? I give these women everything and let them take it without asking for very much in return. I try to be the perfect husband, but I end up being the guy left holding the bag. I keep falling for it, over and over, and expect things to turn out different. I think Einstein had something to say about people like me.

But I've had just about enough of being the clown in this circus.

"Paul, you in here?" my wife's voice range out from the front of the house, startling the hell out of me. Shit, I didn't even hear her come in.

"In the den, honey!" I shout back. It takes me a few seconds to clear away all evidence of my actual activities and replace it with cued up gun review videos on YouTube. I'm a gun guy, don't judge.

I hear her before I see her; it's impossible to be anything but loud when you're walking on a hardwood floor in four-inch heels.

"Do you know where the menu for that Italian place on 7^th is? I really don't feel like cooking anything," Loretta says when she pokes her head through the door. I wonder if she knows I can tell she was doing her best not to look at me?

"In the kitchen, next to the blender, Lo," I very nearly add, "Where all the other menus have been for the past four years, you dumb bitch", but I didn't. In fact, there's a lot I want to say, but I'm biting my tongue like a motherfucker.

In our four years together, I have made at least ninety percent of the home-cooked meals we've eaten. Goes with the "perfect husband" thing. SHE doesn't feel like cooking? I'M the damn chef around here! Is this her inadvertently telling me something? Has she been pretending to like my cooking, too?

I think that's the worst thing about a cheating spouse. It doesn't just put the present and the future in turmoil, but it can fuck up the past, too. You start second-guessing everything. Looking back on shit that didn't mean much to you then, but now has some disturbing implications. Bitches can't even let you have your memories.

"Thanks," Loretta replies, though I barely hear her as she's already walking back down the hall as she says it.

So many things were wrong with what just happened. I'm just "Paul" now. Not "honey", not "sweetie", not even "Paulie"; just "Paul". Like I'm some minor acquaintance. And apparently it doesn't matter if I don't want Italian, or if I want to make dinner myself. In fact, it looks like I don't matter at all anymore. She couldn't even be bothered to ask how my day went, or stick around for me to ask her.

"Fuck you, too," I mutter under my breath. I take a moment to calm myself before leaving the den. I may be fed up with playing the fool, but I still have to do it for a little while longer. Until her next rendezvous with lover-boy.

I stalk my way to the kitchen, and I do mean "stalk". It's easy to be quiet on a hardwood floor with socks. For a minute I stand there by the entryway, out in the open enough to not be accused of hiding or otherwise being creepy. She's a petite little thing, all of 5'1" tall and weighing no more than 115lbs. Even in her heels, she doesn't come up to my shoulders. Combined with her small-ish breasts, somewhat rounded face, large brown eyes, baby-smooth skin and button-like nose, you have a thirty-eight year old woman who could almost pass for a high school student. And considering the looks I used to get sometimes when we went out together, people probably believed I was robbing the cradle.

Of course most of those looks were from other men, no doubt jealous of a guy my age being able to pull in such a pretty young thing. And I saw more than a few women throwing Loretta dirty looks as well, probably less for snagging an obvious catch like myself, and more for being able to somehow be adorable and sexy at the same time.

She still gets those looks, but I don't. The last time we went to the mall, two weeks ago, she treated me like a mere friend. Shit, people probably thought I was her damn father! She had stopped reciprocating public displays of affection some time before that, but our last outing was the first time she had stopped accepting them. When I tried to put my arm around her, she darted away under the guise of finding something interesting. When I tried to kiss her, she looked down and started rummaging through her purse, leaving me to get a face full of lavender-scented hair. And when I tried to pick her up and carry her around in my arms, something that used to make her squeal and giggle in delight, she screamed like I was a molester and lit into me for "embarrassing" her right there in front of hundreds of people.

The mall security eventually came to break it up, and she very nearly had them kick me out. Yeah, she told them I was her husband and I was just being stupid, but she hesitated and I saw it in her eyes; she really wanted sell me down the river. She was genuinely offended by what I had done, and that hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut.

Uh-oh, I hope she hasn't seen the angry scowl on my face...No, she still hasn't noticed me at all. She's on her phone, putting in "our" order. Funny, we've only been there twice since it opened six months ago; how could she possibly know what I want?

Actually, judging from her hesitation with the second order, she doesn't. But she sees no reason to involve me in the decision of what I'll be eating tonight. Maybe I can telepathically beam "chicken alfredo" into her head from here?...Huh, I think it actually worked, halfway at least. Chicken parmesan. Goodie. As if I needed more evidence that we weren't on the same wavelength as husband and wife.

As she ends the call I see her about to turn around and walk into the kitchen as if I hadn't been standing there like a creep. She looks mildly startled, but recovers quickly enough.

"You already ordered?" I ask, using my best "kinda confused" voice.

"Yep," She chirps, like she really doesn't see anything wrong with what she just did. Why am I surprised? Of course she doesn't. "It'll be ready in thirty minutes." She says as she walks right by me like I'm a piece of furniture. She doesn't even tell me what she ordered.

"Where are you going?" I ask when I see her climbing the stairs.

"To take a shower," she replies, giving me a "Duh" look. Like this is normal behavior for her and I'm supposed to be used to it? The last time she went for the shower right after getting home was when she had spilled Sprite all over herself on the way home from work last year. Even then she took the time to explain what happened, and dumped the rest of the Sprite on me when I laughed.

Shower sex soon followed. Good times. Haven't had many of those in a while. Might not have many ever again. Certainly never with this whore.

But I still can't say what I want to say, so..."Oh, okay. How long will you be? It takes twenty minutes just for us to get up there."

"Oooh, can't you go?" Loretta whines. I used to find it endearing when she pouted like that, but my rose-colored glasses got broken recently. "It's been a long day."

I've never had to work harder to muster up a smile in my life. Even when I was manning a cash register at a burger joint as a teen.

"Alright, alright, I'll go all by my lonesome," I quip. I didn't put any of the malice I felt behind my words, but I saw her expression change like I had just insulted her.

"Really? You're going to guilt trip me because I'm tired?! Go to hell! Not all of us can be the Golden Boy at our jobs and get away with whatever the fuck we want! Some of us actually have to earn a paycheck!" Loretta rails against me. I've officially lost my cool, but just as I'm about to go off, she goes off some more. "How long have you been home, sitting at that fucking desk and doing nothing?"

She...actually has a point there. I've always been a driven fellow, but after the third wife, Mary, got herself a sugar daddy on the side, I kicked it into another gear. It wouldn't be unfair to say I was obsessed with being successful. With the wife gone and no kids, thank God, I didn't have much else to devote myself to. I'm not exactly proud of some of the things I did to get ahead, specifically to the people whom I used as stepping stones without a second thought, but it worked. I've got more money than I know what to do with, and I'm so far up the ladder at my company that it may very well end up being MY company in the not-too-distant future. When Old Man Winters retires, there really isn't anyone else who has a chance of being his successor but me. Even his own sons aren't in the running, though that's mostly their own fault.

So Loretta's right, I am the "Golden Boy", and I do get away with a LOT. Like taking off at two in the afternoon on a whim, which is what my dear wife is referring to. Or, like today, calling off for the sake of a "personal project", and not needing to elaborate. Ah, the joys of upper management, where you get paid stupid amounts of money to do virtually nothing. Which means my presence is almost never truly "required"; half the time no one even knows I've left until the end of the day...

Shit! I think I'm in dangerous territory here. I desperately want to challenge her, to take any form of confrontation I can get, since I can't have the big one. But I can't defend myself here, because Loretta is the type who will call the office to verify how long I was there, and there are plenty of people who would rat me out in a heartbeat out of pure spite.