Deirdre’s Downfall Ch. 06

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Cuckold

This is part of a long, ongoing series. If you’ve missed earlier key chapters – like Chapters 4 & 5 – reading this one will be like looking at a guidebook to the planet Mars. All joking aside, as long as you read this as part of a long series, it’s for you. If not, there are about 400 other great new stories posted this weekend that you can read on this site. For those of you who hang in, thanks for your feedback and votes.

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“Suck it, Dee!” growled my husband, Frank, as I knelt on the low, plastic-cushioned bench in front of the cock that stuck through the wall in the large gloryhole booth. I’d removed the parka and sunglasses that I’d worn to the odious place and he was forcing me to put my mouth around a huge, anonymous black prick that stood erect and pulsing before my pale face. Frank had also stripped the halter top from me, leaving my naked breasts to hang free, and was panting as Corky – the blonde slut whom in earlier days I’d assumed was his boss’s girlfriend – throated his cock.

I looked at the video monitor on the wall through my drug-veiled eyes, and saw a frightened woman’s face…my own. It was framed by my newly-dyed dark brown hair, pulled to the back of my head in a twist, which I’d had done just that morning while Frank had been out of town. The face looked quite different from the Dee I’d known for years. My mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping in agony while I whimpered, frightened by my husband and sickened by my plight, as my tongue flicked my pink lips, reluctantly preparing themselves to engulf the second alien male member forced on me in the past 48 hours. Because of my recurring panic attacks during that time, I’d popped Percodan – a painkiller – every few hours to still their physical symptoms.

With my face in line with the hole in the wall, my drugged mind prompted me for a moment to study the object in front of me. The cock was slightly longer and thicker than that of my lover, Jack. Its color was a dark, chocolate brown from the base to the circumcision scar, where the color changed to a mottled purple and pink, as if the infantile operation might have been performed recently. Its head was larger around than a golf ball, of an attractive, violet hue, and appeared carved from dark, blemishless mahogany. It pulsed, indicating the slow heartbeat or voluntary muscle clenchings of the man attached to it. Its deeply set opening was graced by a drop of clear liquid, seeming to anticipate a tongue to lick it off. On top of the shaft was a very thick, quarter-inch wide, blood-filled vein that ran its full length to the spongy head. The entire thing moved up and down rhythmically, as if it were a flagpole on the side of a building being buffeted by a strong wind.

I heard the man on the other side of the wall groan something about “yo’ mouf'” as Frank cursed, “Damnit, Dee, I said suck it!” and reached over Corky’s bobbing head to shove my face onto the ebony shaft ’til it struck my epiglottis. Fighting my gag reflex, I ran my tongue slowly around the head – that’s about all I could manage – as my Percodan-laced mind took refuge in wandering back over the past weekend… .

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

My rape on Saturday night had left me shattered. It seemed as if my past life had little meaning. The few previous heady days when I’d felt so confident in asserting myself to my husband had evaporated with the brutal assault perpetrated by his boss, Bruce, on Saturday night while Frank had been in Phoenix. Worse yet, I feared that the wall of resentment that Frank and I had constructed between ourselves over nearly ten years of marriage would only get stronger…more impenetrable.

I now realized my part in building that wall, thereby defending myself against all men whom, at base, I feared. With Frank, I’d assumed the role of the passive wife, so typical of women of Italian lineage, and had deluded myself into thinking that I was persevering…that I was the binding force that had kept together the family unit. Even though we were “equals” in modern American parlance – financially, educationally, and otherwise – I’d consistently been a failure, in terms of both will and imagination. Unfortunately, we had gone beyond the point of forgiving and moving on. It now seemed too late.

My deep-seated frustration, repressed to a ridiculous extent by my family’s teachings, had been neatly sealed over by years of self-denial in addition to fear. A prime example of this was Frank’s infertility, which in recent years had spurred my biological clock, stimulating it to speed itself up…sending repeated alarms to my body to have a family. Subconsciously, probably, that was the reason I’d begun my torrid love affair with Jack Taylor, the dashing, 40-year-old home designer who now represented the only hope I had to salvage the wreckage of my existence. It was he who had been there for me in the aftermath of the incident – my rape, though I still couldn’t admit it had been real – and had taken charge of the therapeutic details required in its aftermath. Betturkey Now, it was to him that I looked for continuing emotional and physical care…unfortunately, a dim and unrealistic prospect.

Jack had stayed with me after the rape until Monday morning, both to apply a soothing balm to my emotional wounds and to commence the lengthy remodel project on our house that was just beginning. Then he’d left. Frank wouldn’t be home from Phoenix until evening. He was still unaware of Bruce’s assault, and would remain so, I’d guiltily vowed. And, I had doctors to see. I’d also decided to ask my boss, the dentist Dr. Neil McCarthy, for the week off, pleading that I’d be too busy overseeing the remodeling. So, I’d gone to the dental office where I work and gotten permission for the vacation time I needed and, while there, had stolen a handful of Percodan tablets from the pharmaceutical cabinet. The drug, which Jack had given me, had saved me since Saturday night, numbing me to memories of the horror, and had provided a nice, fuzzy sense of comfort, though completely altering my perception as I’d moved through Sunday. While I was at the office, my work mate, Mandy, had cornered me and set up a Wednesday afternoon date for lunch…”and whatever”…since, normally, she has Wednesdays off. I didn’t tell Mandy about my rape.

I did, however, tell my gynecologist, a woman in the same complex as our dental office. She fully understood my not calling the police, but didn’t necessarily approve of it. She examined me and took some samples for lab work, and referred me to a rape crisis counselor in the same building. I went to that woman and we had a long first session, making another appointment for the following week.

Driving home, I felt an overpowering desire to change something about myself. Something fundamental. Something that might help eliminate the frightening, flashing images of Saturday night’s assault as they recurred in my mind. I wanted to rid myself of the old Deirdre. In a strange sense, I despised her. On impulse, I called my beautician, who had a spare two hours open before lunch…to trim and dye my hair. I wanted to go back to my original color. I’d had enough of the expensive frosted blonde and copper highlights and suburban housewife hairdo that had required constant attention. Suddenly, I wanted to look like what I was…an attractive, 32-year-old Italian-American woman who had a lot of life yet to live.

I arrived home after noon with my hair its natural tint: a rich, dark brown, with auburn highlights. This way, when it grew out – I wanted it to be long – the roots wouldn’t show. As I walked into the house I was shocked to see walls torn out and plastic sheeting covering everything, including furniture, some of which had been stored in a room that was not being remodeled. All of the construction crew was in the backyard, eating lunch, and Billy – the strapping, 19-year-old son of our neighbor whom Jack had hired as a helper and my “protector” – was patrolling the site with his Great Dane, Thor. Billy saw me and waved through the kitchen window. I took my second Percodan of the day and opened the back door. “Want some lunch, Billy?” I called.

“Sure, Deirdre, thanks!” he responded enthusiastically, flashing the beguiling grin that seemed perpetually on his face. “Wow! You look super hot!” he exclaimed. “What’d you do to your hair?”

“Oh, just had a dye job,” I said, beginning to fix sandwiches. “Going back to my original color. Got tired of the old style after…what?…seven years.”

“Jeeze, it’s awesome! You look like you’re my age!” he gushed.

I looked at him quickly and blushed, “Ohh, Billy!” though I was secretly pleased that my new look projected a younger image…a pre-raped Dee.

“No, really, Deirdre! God! When you ‘n’ Frank first moved here, when I was…oh, ten…I thought you were the prettiest lady I’d ever seen!” he confessed. “An’ you looked just like you do now!”

I stopped spreading tuna and looked at Billy. Two days ago I’d noticed how tall and muscular he’d become, with his tan male flesh in abundance. Then he was wearing a tank top and cargo shorts. Today he was shirtless, wearing tighter shorts, and his smooth, hairless body showed the definition of well-developed, chiseled pectorals above a taut, six-pack tummy. His unblemished shoulders supported long, supple arms that flared healthily into biceps, triceps, quadriceps…and all the other “ceps” that make a young man of his age look so yummy. I wondered, in a very private part of myself, whether he’d ever held a girl in those arms.

“Did you really? Uhh…think I was so pretty?” I asked, feeling a telltale, trembling feeling in my tummy, as I resumed making sandwiches.

“Oh, yeah! I remember watching your house from my bedroom window, hoping to get a glimpse of you…uhh…when you went out,” he said, suddenly embarrassed.

“Oh, Billy, you big flirt!” I admonished. “I’m almost as old as your mother! Here, eat your sandwiches. Betturkey Giriş Is a Coke okay?” He took his lunch plate to the breakfast nook, carefully trying not to step on one of his shoelaces that had come untied.

“Yes, thanks,” he said, demolishing half a sandwich in three bites. Then, chuckling and chewing until he swallowed, he said, “When I was in high school all the guys teased me about you bein’ my girlfriend!” he offered, innocently. “I just told ’em, ‘You guys are crazy! You should see her tall, dark an’ handsome husband!’ How’s Frank doin’, by the way? Haven’t seen him in, like, forever.”

“Oh, he’s okay,” I said, “And you’re taller than he is now. He’s out of town, but’ll be back tonight.”

“Guess that’s why Mr. Taylor wanted me to watch out for you,” he said. “Great guy, Mr. Taylor. All the workers like him.”

“Yeahhh. He’s a prince,” I said softly, my mind wandering languidly to Jack. Then I realized how hard the Percodan had hit me. I was high!

“Hey, thanks for lunch, Deirdre,” Billy said. “Gots to get back to work, an’ make sure Thor doesn’t poop on your lawn!” He stood and took two steps, only to trip on his loose shoelace and come crashing into me. As he pitched forward, the arm and hand holding his empty plate went straight over my left shoulder. That shoulder ended up in his armpit, with me looking up at him, our faces just inches apart. I felt a choking, smothering sensation, since his left hand had come down, quite innocently, to perfectly cup my right breast. For a micro-second our eyes met as our bodies were pressed together, and he blurted, “Ah, shit! Oh…sorry, Deirdre! Gawd, I’m reeaallly sorry! Jeeze, I’m so clumsy!” he almost whined, blushing bright pink through his tan.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Billy!” I poo-pooed, feeling faint yet trying to ease his embarrassment. “And, stop calling me Deirdre! My friends call me Dee!” I said, calming a wicked impulse that had suddenly streaked through me.

“Okay, Dee,” he said, still embarrassed. “Uhh, this afternoon…if you wanta’ take a nap or something, we’ll stay out of the upstairs. There’s lots to do down here,” he said, exiting through the back door. The male smell he’d left on my shoulder was still rich in my nostrils.

I watched him join the workmen and, in a minute, he was flashing his delightful Billy grin and carrying junk materials to the dumpster out in front. I felt light-headed as if my blood sugar were down. Grabbing a banana, I ate it and watched my reflection in a small wall mirror. This is ridiculous, I told myself, unconvincingly, and mounted the stairs to the bathroom…to masturbate.

Is it possible this drug is making me horny? I wondered, as my fingers slowly rubbed my vulva while sitting on the toilet. Though still sensitive, there was no residual pain from Saturday night, and I grabbed a hairbrush with a nice, curved handle to put in myself. I daydreamed…Jack, Jack, Jack…as I slowly cycled the handle deeply in and out of my vagina. After a while I left it inside while I strummed my clit, which proved stimulating yet unsatisfying. If the drug were making me horny, it was also desensitizing me. Usually very quick to cum…at least with Jack…I merely felt dull throbs that didn’t promise anything close to what I’d recently come to know as an orgasm. Frustrated, I began flicking my clit hard, then pulled out the brush so that it clattered to the tile floor.

I stood up, facing the window that looked down into the backyard, and grasped the towel rack for support as I stroked myself. Through my squinting eyes I saw Billy walk toward the lemon tree at the rear of the property. Looking around to see if anyone was watching – the workers were all out front – he moved around it and unbuttoned his shorts to pee. The numb, tingling feeling soon hit me as I rubbed myself faster, harder…and whimpered quietly as he took his long, fleshy penis out – he wasn’t wearing underwear – and pointed it at the base of the tree. He played a clear, rushing stream of urine at the trunk and pulled on his cock a couple of times, stretching it out and making it slightly harder, and continued to piss. I then felt what I’d come upstairs for – rolling shards of an impending orgasm – and stuck two fingers inside myself, rubbing my clit with the soft inner knuckle of one.

Then Billy did what I secretly wanted. He looked around very carefully and began to stroke the full length of his penis. It took only a half-minute for him to become delightfully hard. I looked at the young Adonis, all tanned and sweaty, fisting his beautiful, long, young cock with practiced movements of his right arm and hand, and perversely hoped that he was picturing me in his mind as he jerked off. Two minutes later his entire body tensed and leg muscles knotted as he leaned back in a long curve and, with head thrust back, arced onto the tree trunk several, long, looping strings of thick, white cum. I responded to the compelling sight by cumming myself. Assuming almost the same posture as Billy, I threw back my head and mewled and grunted through a very long orgasm, made so partially by the fact that I was trying to remain quiet. I whimpered and gasped gritty screams through clenched teeth for what seemed like forever, as I humped my very tired hand. Feeling spent, I looked down into the yard and Billy was gone. I was pleasantly light- headed, from my drug as well as the voyeuristic climax, and felt it was time for a nap.

Before lying down I sat at my dresser, slowly brushing my newly dyed brunette locks and pulling them back into a twist. As I looked in the mirror, my eyes shifted to our bedroom window. Through it I saw the second-story window on the house across the street and down a ways that was owned by Billy’s parents. It was his bedroom window, I knew. My God! I thought. Each night for nine years I’ve sat at this dresser, nude from the waist up, rubbing lotion on my bare shoulders, arms, and breasts before retiring. And I’ve never closed the curtains, preferring instead to let the cool night air play over my body. Billy’s probably been able to watch my naked reflection in the mirror all that time! I realized. Was that what he meant when he said he’d been teased about me being his “girl friend?” I wondered. Normally I would have been upset, having felt violated. Today, however, stoked on painkillers, it hardly mattered as I lay down on the bed to fall asleep.

I awoke with a dull drug hangover. I took another Percodan to get high again, knowing I’d need a buffer when Frank walked in from his three-day trip, and started dinner. I turned on my beloved classical music as I puttered. The workers had all left, and Billy was “guarding” me while playing with his dog, Thor, in the front yard. After a while I heard Frank’s voice on the porch, saying goodbye to Billy, then heard the front door slam after he’d entered. He stopped in the kitchen doorway and gave me the most hateful, contemptuous look I’d ever seen. He walked slowly to the radio and turned off my classical music, as he’d done a thousand times over the years, then wheeled around to face me.

“Have a good weekend?” he asked, not really wanting an answer. “Huh?” he shouted, grabbing my arm in a vice-like grip to spin me around against the refrigerator. He’d touched me before in anger, and it always had made me fearful. “Fuck-ing our arch-i-tect?” he bellowed in a measured fashion. Then he reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a stack of pictures, which he threw at me. I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at the graphic images of Jack and me fucking in the backyard that had scattered on the floor. “Bruce left these in my office yesterday, before he got robbed and mugged!” Frank said.

“Bruce got robbed?…and mugged?” I asked, haltingly, my mind remembering Jack saying to wait 24 hours for my situation to right itself.

“Yeah, poor guy,” he muttered. “But that’s not why I’m pissed off!” he yelled. Then he strode to me and slapped me in the face hard, four times, with the palm and back of his hand. My cheeks stung from the blows. “You slut! An’ after that feminist bullshit you gave me the other night about your new ‘rules’! Well, sweetheart, here’s my new rule! I’m gonna’ have some say about who gets into that snatch of yours!” he growled, “…starting right now!”

“Fra…what…do you…mean?” I asked, quaveringly, fearing the worst.

He raised his hand to strike me again, then changed his mind. “I should beat the shit outta’ you, Dee,” he threatened. “Instead, what we’re gonna’ do is have what used to be called ‘an open marriage’,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll go to your folks with the pictures and blow your whole cover. I just bet your whole family’d be overjoyed to know their little Dee is a whore!” he said, menacingly.

I sank to the floor submissively, weeping softly as I mindlessly sifted through the scattered pictures. The moment of my life’s unraveling had arrived. First, Frank’s boss had raped me, using these snapshots of Jack and me as an excuse, and now Frank was using them to exact revenge and inject into our troubled marriage something that sounded terribly tawdry.

“But Frank,” I said, whining a plea for forgiveness. “Bruce…Bruce raped me!” I whimpered, sobbing as the injustice of it all hit me.

“Yeah?” Frank questioned. Then, with his dark eyes revealing the seething hatred and lack of empathy reminiscent of a Spanish Inquisitorial judge, he said, “Well, you’ve been leadin’ him on for months! If he did, you probably deserved it!”

I couldn’t believe that my husband of almost ten years believed this…speaking to me…the woman who’d looked after him all those years… .

“Get off the floor an’ turn off the stove, slut! I’m not hungry! We’re goin’ out! Get upstairs an’ change,” he ordered. “Put on that schoolgirl miniskirt you’ve got…an’ a halter top! Just wear tennis shoes…an’ no panties!” Then he stopped to look closer at me. “Jeezus, you changed your hair! Did you do that for him?” he asked, cruelly, I thought, since my motive had been not to please Jack but to replace my old image – which I now hated – with a new one. “Leave your hair back,” he cackled. “It makes you look like you’re eighteen! The guy’s’ll love it!”

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