Valentine, Be Mine, Ch. 01 free porn video

Valentine, Be Mine, Ch. 01 By Cherysse St. Claire © This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters herein described and persons living or dead is purely coincidental. *** "That's it," Joanna gasped. "Right there. Keep doing that. Yeahhhhh, oh yeah. Fuck me, Baby. Fuck me harder!" I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life than the flushed face of my wife in the throes of sexual ecstasy. 'Glow' just doesn't do her aura justice. Her sparkling emerald eyes are glazed, out-of-focus, yet glimmer with the intensity of her excitation. Moans and shrieks of undisguised lust emit from her plush, parted lips. Her chest heaves, thrusting her firm, full, jiggling breasts up and down. Her pussy seems to inhale the huge cock, then expel it, only to suck it in once more. Bliss. That is the only word that comes close to describing her expression; pure bliss. *** I have seen that look of bliss on Joanna's face as long as we have been together. My bride and I couldn't get enough of each other. "Words cannot express what you mean to me, Bobby Valentine," she gushed on our wedding day. "I never needed anyone else to make my life complete. You changed that forever the day you came into it." "You came into my life, remember?" I chided. "I still remember watching you work your way across that crowded club floor to ask me to dance." "Don't pick nits," she teasingly scolded. "I know a good thing when I see one. You are a very good thing. I don't ever want to live without your love again. Damn you, you are so pretty! You make me feel... inadequate by comparison." It wasn't the first time a woman had expressed that to me; usually when she left me. A couple of them - the more honest ones - had said they couldn't compete with me. Huh? What was that supposed to mean? Joanna hadn't left, had never felt threatened by my male-model good looks and slender runner's physique. When other women came on to me (and they did; sometimes right in front of her), she had certainly been territorial enough, and wasn't afraid to let her rival know. Still, she had handled it differently than any other woman I had ever dated. I sensed she was... proud others were attracted to me, as if I was her trophy. Look, but don't touch, Girls. He's all mine. Besides; if there was any single word to describe my Joanna, it would not be 'inadequate'. We didn't just talk about our fantasies; we acted them out. You know the christen-every-room-and-horizontal-surface-in-the-house thing? Child's play; we knocked that off in the first two days. Dressing up and role- playing? Beneath that cool, educated, oh-so-professional exterior beats the heart of the most uninhibited woman I have ever met. Betcha never thought an accomplished, respected M.D. would enjoy portraying a slut in a crowded nightclub. The contrast was hysterical and endearing. After a couple of drinks, Joanna really got into it; flirting, teasing, dirty dancing with me and other guys. She wasn't okay with me checking out her 'competition'; she did it with me, comparing their attributes to her own tight, curvaceous body and luminous beauty. I swear, she was as bad as any of my male friends. "Look at the rack on that bimbo!" she would boldly proclaim. "See how she flaunts those puppies? You just know she's trolling for more than compliments. That is so hot! Dance with her, Bobby. I wanna watch!" That was the way it was with us. We each felt an electric thrill watching the other bump and grind on the dance floor. As good as it was together, it's different when watched from a distance. We could each get a better view of the other's nuances of body movement, the way she or I interacted with the other dancer. It was visual seduction at its most erotic - and in no way intended for the benefit of our partners-of-the-moment. When it was time to go, Joanna and I had eyes only for each other. Sex in public places? You bet. Doing it up against a brick wall in an alley outside the aforementioned bar? Blowing me in the car - with the top down? Her driving, while I ate her to multiple orgasms? Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. We have also had sex over each other's desk in our respective offices (she has a couch, but that would have been too... pedestrian). My friends had been less than enthusiastic about my then-fianc?. First, they gave me grief because she was a few years older than me. "So, what?" I had retorted. "If she's not jailbait, then she's past some arbitrary 'freshness date' and we have to take her off the shelves? Grow up, Guys. She is in her prime, just as I am in mine. I would be proud to be married to a woman that smart, that talented, that beautiful, that sexy, that good if she was a hundred - and Joanna isn't even a third of that!" Then they pointed out she had a successful professional career and was making tons more money than me. What did she need me for? She would probably keep me around for a year or two, then dump me with the trash when she got bored. With a future like that in store, why bother getting married at all? Sigh.... "Look, Fellas," I had explained patiently, as if addressing a class of kindergarteners, "if we had gone to med school, then did an internship, followed by a residency, followed by a specialty residency, instead of spending our formative years as professional eye candy, then we might be hauling in those big bucks, too. Life is a crap shoot. Marriages fail left and right, sometimes for the dumbest of reasons. Does that mean we should just give up? How can we achieve anything if we don't even try? Maybe you're right; maybe it won't work. Maybe I'll wake up some morning with my ass in the dumpster, next to cold coffee grounds wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. Then again, maybe I won't. Joanna is just too damn good not to take a chance on." "Don't do it, Bobby," they had implored. "Don't marry a psychiatrist. Don't get hitched to a woman who gets inside people's heads for a living. She is a hypnotherapist, too? Uh-uh. She's gonna turn you upside-down, inside-out, then wash, rinse, spin, and hang your brain out to dry." I was incensed. For every conceivable reason, this woman was a 'keeper'. She had made it crystal-clear she felt exactly the same way about me. I would defend her to the end of Time itself. "It isn't like that," I had protested. "She loves me - and I love her. The woman just happens to be a real person, too. She would never abuse my trust that way." They had simply rolled their eyes in disbelief. I never found out who had subsequently hung the shrunken head from my rear-view mirror. I passed it off as a good-natured gag - perhaps tinged with a bit of jealousy over my relationship with my gorgeous red-headed fianc? - and let it go at that. It was a few months into our marriage when the headaches returned. They had been my on-again, off-again companion as long as I could remember. The periodic dull, throbbing pain had been the death of more than one relationship in my past. Do you think a girl really wants to hear her guy say: "Not tonight; I have a splitting headache"? My 'friend' hadn't surfaced at all while Joanna and I were dating. I really thought - had hoped - I had finally put that trauma behind me. Not so. Joanna was horrified to discover I had a chronic condition I had never done anything about. "Robert Everett Valentine," she lectured sternly, "you are so busted! First, you have been suffering in silence all these years with something that may be serious, even life-threatening. Don't you care about yourself, you lunk? I care about you! That brings up my second point. You have a loving wife - a medical professional - at your beck and call twenty- four/seven, and you kept this from me? Me, the one who loves you unconditionally, forsaking all others, the first one you should turn to for any problem? Honestly, I sometimes don't know why I put up with you!" I don't think there is any test in the Internal Medicine playbook her colleagues didn't subject me to. Personally, I thought the MRI was the worst. Granted, it was the least physically invasive, but just try to hear yourself think with that staccato clanging ringing in your ears. It's like being inside a metal garbage can while a tag team of maniacs is banging away at the sides with baseball bats. All I can say is, I didn't have a headache going in.... Net result: zip, zero, goose, zilch, butkus, nada. I was completely, ridiculously, absurdly healthy. My blood pressure was steady as a rock at one-ten over seventy. My active pulse (after the stair-step warm-up) 'raced' at eighty beats per minute. Cholesterol? Hah! No migraines, tumors, arterial plaque, chemical or hormonal imbalances, aneurisms, infections, diseases, kidney, pancreatic or gall stones, not so much as a hang nail. Rather than being relieved, my loving wife became more and more concerned with each new negative result. "There has to be something," Joanna insisted, as we reviewed the findings while seated on our living room sofa. "I know the man I married is not a hypochondriac. Yet, all the tests indicate there is nothing physically wrong with you." Call me a rocket scientist (I'm not, but my mama didn't raise no dummy, either). I could see the direction this conversation was taking. What are the five dreaded words no man wants to hear in the course of a relationship? No, I don't mean "let's just ask for directions." Joanna took my hands in hers and gazed into my eyes. "Sweetheart," she intoned, "we need to talk." Oh, no; no, no, no, no nyet. My friends' words came back to haunt me. "Maybe we should get a second opinion," I suggested helpfully. "Is Greg House available? Besides, isn't there some professional ethics thing about you shrinking your husband's head?" "Sweetie!" she exclaimed with false wounded pride. "Who better to find out what is bothering you than me? You know I have nothing but your best interests at heart. You do trust me, don't you?" Don't you just hate it when they ask that? Whenever they use the "T" word, it involves something you just know you will regret later. It's a lose- lose situation. Say "yes" and you might as well bend over and spread your cheeks; you are fucked. Say "no" and it's the coming of the next Ice Age - and you are fucked. What would you reply? Anyway, my recurring headaches made up my mind for me. I was ready to try anything to stop the pain. To avoid any semblance of impropriety, I met with my 'therapist' at her office on an appointment basis. Under any outsider's scrutiny, "Robert Valentine" would appear to be just another patient. Legally and socially, my wife was "Joanna Tompkins-Valentine", but professionally, she had retained "Joanna Mae Tompkins, M.D." I had not been so vain or insecure to demand otherwise. Joyce, her pretty, vivacious blonde secretary/receptionist, knew me, of course. Still, she was all business as she dutifully took my billing information, assuring me I would be invoiced monthly, like any other recurring patient (Recurring? I had made a long- term commitment to Joanna's person, not her practice). Yes, I would be expected to pay my bill - and not from a joint account - to establish a paper trail. "If the A.P.A. ethics committee ever comes snooping," she explained with a twinkle in her eye, "they won't suspect a thing. Don't worry; I'm sure Joanna will make it up to you on the back end." Our first few sessions went as I imagined they did between any therapist and patient. She asked questions and I answered as best I could. She probed my life, from early childhood recollections on. She tested me on word associations. She outlined hypothetical situations and I filled in the details as I saw myself in them. No, she never answered my questions directly. Instead, she answered a question with a question, leaving me confused, empty, frustrated, and more than a little pissed off with this one-way conversation. This is 'therapeutic'? No wonder the Scientologists are on a rant about the practice! I revealed things about my past I hadn't thought worth mentioning before. For the most part, I had had a comfortable childhood. You know the drill; a loving, doting, stay-at-home former-beauty-queen mother (I got my delicate good looks from her) and my distant, vaguely-disapproving, workaholic corporate-executive father. Mama had been a 'trophy' and was damn proud to have hooked a winner like my dad; a former high school football hero (a wrecked knee, courtesy of a very large defensive tackle, had kept him out of college ball), Phi Beta Kappa and current corporate 'stud'. These days, someone like Dad would be diagnosed "bipolar". Then again, such stigma is never attached to movers and shakers like my father. Despite his managerial standing, he was everybody's buddy - except when his moodiness and mercurial temper got the best of him. That was usually only at home or when he drank to escape the pressures of corporate life. At those times, it was best to avoid him. I could count on one hand the number of times my dad and I did guy things together, just the two of us. I was always trying to live up to his expectations of me, although I was never quite sure what those expectations were. I had a very different relationship with my mother and sister. We were a close-knit family unit, occasionally augmented by the presence of my father. I was the youngest and labeled "adorable" by everyone who met me. The chicken or the egg; did my mania for being the center of attention derive from those early perceptions of my physical beauty, or did I just 'act cute' to garner favor? Whatever, I basked in the glow of attention I extracted - demanded - from whoever was nearby at the time. When we were adolescents, my sister Janie began making friends with some of the girls at school. I was miffed. I craved my sister's undivided attention, just as I did everyone else's. I had to compete with her friends for it? Grrrrr. Janie had had one particular girlfriend whom she adored. They did everything together. Mom had gushed over Janie's girlfriend, too. Traitor! Well, the girl had been a cutie; at least, I remember thinking so at the time. To be honest, I was jealous of her - and attracted to her at the same time, in a na?ve, little-boy way. I guess I spied on them a lot while they played with their dolls or staged their imaginary tea parties. I don't remember much about her now - except that one afternoon. Dad came home from work unexpectedly early. I could smell the alcohol on his breath from six feet away. It was the first time he had met Janie's friend - and the last. He went ballistic for reasons I never understood, as was so often the case. He threw the poor girl out of our house, then forbid Janie from ever seeing her again. Then he berated my mother for allowing the two to play together. My sister cried for three days. Mama wouldn't speak to Dad for about as long. I was just numb; I couldn't process my father's sudden, vicious outbursts. By unspoken agreement, we never mentioned the incident, nor Janie's friend again, for fear of setting my father off. It had been so long, I couldn't remember her face, much less her name. Mama goaded me into modeling while I was still in junior high school. She claimed I had "the look", whatever that is. Modeling lessons. Dance lessons to learn poise and grace in movement. Yeesh. At least she didn't make me go to charm school. So, I became a teenage male mannequin; hero of the four-color Sunday paper insert. Don't laugh; it paid my way through college, which was probably the only reason my father tolerated it. I continued to model part-time after earning my business degree, but found a corporate job and started a career as a hedge against the day when my face no longer sold rags. I mean, how many male supermodels, commanding ten- thousand-dollar-a-day fees, can you name? To be honest, I was growing weary of the shallow existence and superficial people. Still, it was exhilarating to do photo shoots or walk a runway and have all those people fawn over me. Girls flocked to me; I never had any problem getting dates. Early in my career, my agent had forbidden me from participating in contact sports or dangerous hobbies like skateboarding. She was afraid I would damage my face, which was my - and her - meal ticket. Mama had agreed wholeheartedly, but my father seethed. He had wanted me to be a 'chip off the old block' and go out for football. Yeah, Dad; I would love to have some two-hundred-pound, steroid-crazed high school goon turn my knee inside-out, just like you. Throughout high school, the closest I got to a football was holding one for fall clothing ads. That was yet one more point of contention in my relationship with my father - for which he seemed to blame me. Despite my degree, I hadn't gone to work for him after graduation because I really couldn't see anything good coming from it. I don't want to call those early sessions with Joanna a complete waste of time, but there were no major revelations; at least, none I could see. On occasion, the questions or scenarios were of a deeply personal or embarrassing nature. In more than one instance, I found myself responding... tactfully - in the way I wouldn't mind my wife hearing. Isn't that one reason why doctors aren't supposed to treat family members? She called me on it, too, in an equally tactful way. "Bobby," she opened at the beginning of a subsequent session. "I'm a little concerned some of your answers are not as... forthright as they could be. Perhaps you are too inhibited by our personal relationship to be completely candid with me. As your doctor, I can't help you if you can't be completely open and honest with me." "Are you referring me to one of your colleagues?" I inquired, feeling vaguely relieved. "No, not at all," she replied in a rush. "I - I want to handle this case personally. What I meant to say is... Bobby, I want your consent to use hypnotherapy. I might be able to make more progress if I can bypass the roadblocks your conscious mind throws up. At the same time, your subconscious mind might contain a wealth of information your conscious mind is not even aware of - or is making an effort to repress." My whole body tensed up. This was, in my mind, the ultimate act of surrender; laying bare one's soul in the most deeply personal, unguarded, uncontrollable way. It was even more chilling to think of laying bare my soul that way to my wife. Couples always claim "we have no secrets from each other" - which is a blatant lie. Everyone has something they would prefer their significant other didn't know about them. In addition, I was acutely aware of the whole 'repressed memories' issue. There was a raging controversy as to whether a 'memory' is truly repressed, or suggested by the therapist - not that my own wife would ever do such a thing. I am certain Joanna had encountered this reaction many times before and was able to read the signs like an open book. She took my hand in hers and smiled, momentarily breaking from her professional demeanor. "Baby," she murmured, "I can only tell you what I have said before. I have nothing but your best interests in mind. You are my patient and the love of my life. I would never do anything to harm either. Trust me. Believe in me. I won't let you down." Step into my parlor.... Hypnosis is different than normal sleep. True, I knew I was going to be hypnotized, just as I know when I am going to sleep. I awakened, knowing time had passed, just as I did every morning after a night's repose. Unlike sleep, I was acutely aware something happened, yet I remembered nothing; not even a dream. It was the ultimate inside joke - and I was on the outside, looking in. Joanna gazed at me, a benign smile on her lips. "Did you... learn anything?" I asked hesitantly. Her smile widened a notch; otherwise, her face was neutral. "It was... fruitful," she replied cryptically, revealing no further details. The sessions continued; more blacked-out hours in my life. Joanna confirmed my headaches were psychosomatic and she was, at last, making progress towards understanding and curing my affliction. She was evasive when I asked for more information about my condition. "It's too soon for that, Bobby," she demurred. "It would be like throwing you into the deep end before teaching you how to swim. To be honest, I have to be sure, too." Sure of what, dammit? I warily suggested we should bring our sessions to an end; that I was really growing uncomfortable with her manner of 'stealth healthcare'. When the time is right - when I think you are ready - I will review everything with you. That is a promise." Remember what I said about couples keeping secrets from each other? I felt more than a little uneasy about this one. Still, I convinced myself this was a professional issue, not a personal one. Joanna was speaking as my doctor, not my wife. I had to reconcile the difference between the two - and didn't like it a bit. If anything, our sex life was better, more creative than before. Joanna's passion took a quantum leap in intensity, as though she couldn't get enough. My mate got heavily into oral and anal play - giving and receiving - and was driving me out of my mind with pleasure. Of course, I was more than happy to return the favor. The headaches diminished in frequency and intensity, then vanished altogether. I didn't know what my wife was doing for me, but I made the extra effort to let her know her efforts were greatly appreciated. She got the message; her screams of ecstasy echoed in my ears as she shuddered through climax after climax. Our supercharged sex life was reflected in her changing wardrobe. I bought her a set of La Perla lingerie for her birthday and her curvaceous body looked sensational in it. Of course, we had to go out and buy more. She took an extra measure of pleasure having me help dress her in her naughty, sexy underthings, stockings and heels. Over time, she had almost completely eliminated pantsuits from her wardrobe in favor of increasingly short, tight skirt suits with filmy, revealing blouses for work. Her footwear changed accordingly. The heels were higher, spikier, more provocative. By the time we were ready to go out the door, it was all I could do to refrain from diving under her skirt and giving her the tongue- lashing of her life. Sometimes I didn't refrain. My oh-so-professional spouse stumbled out the door with soaked, squishy panties, flush face and dreamy Cheshire smile on her lips. I was much the same. After hours, her wardrobe was even more daring. When we went out shopping or dining together, there was no end to the admiring glances she received. She, in turn, openly flirted with her eyes, smile, and body. What would she have done, had I not been by her side? For that matter, what did she do when we were apart? Jealousy? Well, maybe, but I didn't have anything to point to and say I had something to be jealous of. There was no denying she was sensational in her provocative new 'look'. There was no question she was enjoying the attention every bit as much as her admirers. Didn't that reflect well on me, that this amazing, educated, talented, sexy woman was my wife? Hadn't she been proud when other women hit on me? I guess so, but.... The erotic appeal of our morning dressing ritual more than made up for any silly suspicions I might have. I helped her into her pretty underthings, then she helped me into mine. My lingerie drawer was filled to the brim with La Perla, as well as some Victoria's Secret, Frederick's of Hollywood, Christian Dior, Givinchy, and the like. The only difference in our foundations was my additional need for a tightly-laced, heavily-boned corset to 'train' my figure to be as svelte as hers. The light of love in her eyes as she beheld me in my lingerie made my heart skip a beat. I had to admit, my long, slender, hairless legs looked divine in their nylon hosiery, just as hers did. We both adored the smooth front presented by my pantied snatch, with my 'clitty' tucked away, safe and sound, between my thighs. "Sweetie," she would murmur appreciatively, "you are such a turn-on. My panties are going to be soaked all day from me fantasizing about you. Hurry home tonight, okay? Don't keep me waiting." I, myself, would be in a dream state all day. It was amazing I got any work done at all. I thought back to the morning and my sweet spouse's words. Then I thought ahead to what the night would bring. Once home, I doffed my suit, shirt and tie, hung everything up, then slipped into one or another lacey negligee and spike-heeled pumps or platform slides I wore for Joanna's pleasure. I adored the way the sexy attire showed off my perky breasts and the swell of my hips and tush. Damn, if I didn't seem to be filling out more every day! I hurried into the bathroom, did my eyes the way she likes, applied a thick, creamy coat of lipstick, then fluffed up my hair. With each passing day, I noted with satisfaction how long it was getting. Would I look good as a blonde? I thought so - and thought Joanna would think so, too. A spritz or two of Shalimar and I was good to go. When I heard the front door open, then close, I would hurry to greet my mate. There, again, was that look of delight and desire in Joanna's eyes; worth every second of the fuss to make myself pretty for her. She would attack my mouth with her own. There were times I thought she would suck all my internal organs out with the intensity of that kiss. I broke our lip lock long enough to take her hand, lead her into our bedroom, then throw her down on the bed. Most times, I didn't even bother to undress her; at least, not right away. I simply scrunched her skirt up around her hips, slipped off her lacey thong, and feasted on her hot, throbbing pussy. Joanna was always as good as her word that morning. She wasn't just soaked; she was gushing. After six or eight good orgasms, my magnificent mate was finally sated. She buckled into her strap-on harness and fucked me into oblivion. On one such occasion, somewhere between the third and fourth orgasm, I happened to remember Joyce's words: I'm sure she will find a way to make it up to you on the back end. She certainly had. The days, weeks, and seasons came and went. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's; each holiday was more special than the last. Things had not been going well for me at work of late. For weeks, my co-workers - people I had once had a close working and social relationship with - had been creeping me out, for reasons I couldn't begin to understand. It's not like I was unattractive as a blonde; far from it, if I do say so myself. I received oral, then written reprimands for "inappropriate manner of dress." I should have sued them for harassment! It wasn't like I was the only one to wear skirts to the office. Just because mine were a little shorter and tighter, and my heels a little higher, than most of the two-faced, sanctimonious cows I worked with.... The thing that infuriated me most was having to sign the written reprimand for the records; that, or risk adding 'insubordination' to the list of character assassinations. I seethed as I applied "Bobbi Valentine" to the signature line, dotting the "I's" with little hearts as I always did. It all came to a head when I returned from my holiday vacation, sporting the boob job that had been Joanna's Christmas present to me. So what if I wore my fitted satin blouse with a couple or three buttons unbuttoned to show off my pretty new titties? Some people like the 'done' look; others don't. I guessed my former 'friends' were in the latter camp. Oh, well... Joanna had contacts all over town. She made a couple of calls and landed me a new job in the office of one of the larger, better-known video production companies in The Valley - yes, one of those companies. It was less money, but the work was enjoyable, they were much less anal in their dress code - and more appreciative of my 'assets'. In fact, Management lobbied me heavily to work in front of the cameras. I couldn't do that - could I? Anyway, I didn't miss my old job at all. Besides, Joanna made more than enough to support us in style. I was enjoying my life again - and hadn't had a hint of a headache in months. My co-workers and the 'talent' that came and went for the video shoots were all super-friendly. The guys especially all wanted to get close to me. That was new to me. I had had a few close male friends before; usually current or former models like me. Most of the 'rank-and-file' had kept their distance, occasionally casting a smirk in my direction. That was no longer the case; at least, not here. I was eating up all the new attention. I stayed to socialize with them after hours, sometimes going out to one or another of our favorite watering holes. One hunk in particular, a stud named Matt Michaels who was in the office for video shoots several times a week, had set his sights on me. Me! Oh, how he tried to get me to go out with him! There was something about that concept that troubled me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Anyway, he was a little too arrogant, too pushy, too self-confident for my tastes. It wasn't enough he knew he could have any woman he wanted; he acted as though my eventual acquiescence was a done deal. Besides, I wasn't going to cheat on my wife, whom I loved with all my heart. I knew she felt the same. Our romance was setting new records every day. Every night when I came home to her, she was wetter and more ready for me than she had ever been before, even when we began dating. Honestly, she was dripping down her thighs with anticipation. It was Valentine's Day - a beautiful, sunny Friday and my birthday (save the jokes; I have heard them all before). I suspected Joanna would be taking me out to dinner, so I had opted to wear something a little naughty for the occasion. My body was adorned in a tight, rose satin spandex skirt suit with wide lapels that formed a neckline plunging almost to my navel. Underneath, I wore a long-sleeve sheer black chiffon fitted blouse with plunging ruffled lace neckline and matching ruffled cuffs. My DD-cuppers were round and firm, so I had not worn a bra. The ruffles strategically covered my nipples. The rest was a feast for the eyes and jiggled sweetly as I moved. The welts of my jet-black seamed stockings played peek-a-boo with the short hem of my skirt. My feet were shod in matching rose patent ankle-strap platform sandals with six inch stiletto heels. My lips, fingernails and toenails were all in Softsilver Rose with silver nail art. My hair was newly permed and fluffed out. With the extensions, it cascaded past my shoulder blades. Throwing caution and manual dexterity to the wind, I had had my nails done in an ultra-glamour length and square-cut with beveled corners. I was doing my eyes and cheekbones more boldly than I used to, owing to the influence of the girls I see every day at the office and on the set. Our staff makeup artist couldn't have been nicer about working with me, showing me how to achieve the right 'look' for any given occasion. On this occasion, the look was pure seduction, right down to the thick, lacey false eyelashes and broad swaths of eyeliner extending beyond the corners of my eyes; perfectly suited for the outfit I now wore. I wasn't wearing Shalimar; I exuded it, seemingly from every pore. The unmistakable scent preceded me into every room I entered. Joanna hadn't seen this outfit yet, much less the rest of my new 'glam' look. I had purchased it for the occasion, surreptitiously packed it in the trunk of my car the night before and changed into it in the bathroom at work before going to my desk. Compliments? Oh, yeah! The guys were all over me - and I loved every second. Most of the office was going to The Blue Zebra for drinks after work. Of course; doesn't every office staff party after hours at a gentleman's club? Well, maybe not every day, but it's no big deal in our business. Matt wouldn't take no for an answer, getting right up in my face like he owned me - or wanted to. "I've got a new video I want to preview with you before we go," he offered. "I think you will like it. This late on a Friday afternoon, we will have the screening room all to ourselves." Hmmm; watch porn with a notorious skirt-chaser, just the two of us, before we go out for drinks - just to get in the mood. Sure, that's my idea of a good time... NOT! I wished he hadn't been so ham-handed about it. I was flattered by his show of attention - maybe even a little tempted. Yet, I wasn't going to betray Joanna - especially not on that day. I was certain my honey had planned something special for us, even if she hadn't said a word about it. Besides; who would I really rather spend such a special occasion with? In the end, I excused myself from Matt to go to the bathroom to "just touch up my lipstick before the show" - and snuck out the back door. Joanna did, indeed, have a surprise waiting for me upon my arrival. She was already in bed. The room was bathed in candlelight. There were two crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne in an iced bucket on the bedside table. Soft music played on the stereo. There was nothing soft about the ten-inch dick that was, at that moment, plowing in and out of her drenched love nest; nor the muscular, shaven-headed Black man attached to it. Well, this is awkward. Apparently, not for Joanna. She didn't even realize I was there. At that moment, her eyes were closed, her entire existence narrowly focused on the steel bar of a cock thrusting in and out of her pussy. I stood in the doorway, out of their field of vision, and watched. From the gist of her conversation - if you could call a stream-of-consciousness spate of shrieks, moans and guttural entreaties that - I learned the man's name was "Jake". He continued to 'plow the field', equally unaware of my presence. I had an eerie, d?j? vu feeling about the whole scene. I knew him, or thought I did, but from where? *** "That's it," Joanna gasped. "Right there. Keep doing that. Yeahhhhh, oh yeah. Fuck me, Baby. Fuck me harder!" My heart sank, watching my wife and her lover. I am closely attuned to her emotions. Just in the time I had been there, I could tell she had already experienced four massive orgasms in rapid succession, with more to come. Jake hadn't missed a stroke, much less shown any indication of slowing down. Joanna radiated the glow, the expression of pure bliss I adored seeing on her face. She looked so angelic lying there, as that huge piece of meat filled her beyond full. A soft sheen of perspiration clung to her face and body. I only wish I had been the one to put that look of bliss on her face. At last, she opened her eyes. Through the haze of sexual abandonment, she must have sensed a third presence in the room. Her eyes turned to mine. It was difficult for her face to register shock in the greater context of extreme sexual arousal, but she managed. "You aren't supposed to be here yet," she gasped between thrusts, "Matt was supposed to... Oh, God. Sweetheart, this isn't what you think. I arranged... you were supposed to... I had a special birthday present for you. I did it for you, for us." I thought I was going to throw up. I just turned and walked out the door. I needed fresh air, fast! "Baby, wait," Joanna cried out. "Stop. Come back. Please wait, Evie!" She was still plugged into Jake's joystick and had been on the edge of yet another massive orgasm. Even if she was able to invoke coitus interruptus, I had a head start - and intended to use it. I'm not sure why I grabbed her purse and keys from the hall table as I hurried towards the door; instinct, perhaps. Maybe I just wanted to give myself a little extra edge on the getaway by slowing her down that much more. Lord knew I didn't have much else going for me - or to my name, for that matter. My mind was in turmoil as I drove away. She did it for me, for us? How could she say that? It stands to reason she would tell me "it isn't what it looks like." Don't cheaters always claim that when they get caught red- handed? What, exactly, is it then, Sweetheart? How can she cuckold me right before my eyes, then profess her undying love and devotion to me? I became even more angry at her mention of Matt Michaels' name in her rushed explanation. So, his confident, heavy-handed come-on had been a set-up, arranged by my wife to deflect blame away from her own infidelity. Yeah, right; like a gay tryst with a male porn star, which I neither solicited, nor encouraged, is gonna make me feel guilty enough to forgive my spouse for fucking another man in our own bed. That bitch! For that matter, why couldn't I do anything about it while I was standing there? There was a time I would have thought nothing of picking up the lamp from the bedside table and beating the cheaters to death with it. Instead, I just stood there, soft, serene, watching my wife knowingly, enthusiastically betray me. I glanced down, past my prodigious new bustline, to where my short skirt barely covered the cleft between my thighs. 'Soft' was exactly the right word; soft, flaccid, harmless, the complete antithesis of the one I had just witnessed. I didn't mean just then; I hadn't been able to get hard for... I couldn't even remember how long it had been. As good as the sex had been lately between Joanna and me, I hadn't thought a thing about it - until I had seen Jake's enormous, rock-hard cock ramming into my wife's pussy. My cell phone rang. I checked the Caller ID display. Guess who? Now it starts. I let the call go to voicemail, then turned the phone off. At that moment, I didn't want to speak to anyone. That couldn't last. I felt we had just stepped over the line from loving to adversarial relationship. Joanna could muster some pretty big guns to her side. I would have to do the same, to the best of my limited ability. That meant I would have to be available to them when they called. I would have to start the process as soon as I landed somewhere - wherever that may be. That was for later. My mind wandered back to the trauma at hand. Evie. She had called me Evie. That name... long, so long ago.... Evie had been the name of my sister Janie's close childhood friend. I remembered the glow in Janie's eyes when Evie came to play with her. We had done everything together, Janie and I... we? There was no burning bush, no celestial host, no voice thundering down from the heavens. The memory just came back; quietly, certainly, with finality. It had been a family joke. When I was just learning to talk, Mama and Dad had tried to teach me to speak my own name. I guess I did all right with "Robert", but the closest I could come to pronouncing "Everett" was something like "Evelyn". From that point, the whole family had teasingly called me "Evie". One day, a few years later, Janie had taken the tease one step further; dressing me up in one of her dresses and painting my lips with lipstick. She made me be her 'girlfriend' all afternoon. I was a little embarrassed by it all, but I really liked my big sister and, as always, glowed at being the center of attention. If I remembered correctly, we had a good time. Mama had a good time with it, too. I think she thought I was cute as a girl. The whole thing had evolved over time. Janie and 'Evie' became inseparable girlfriends. Then Dad discovered us that awful afternoon and blew a gasket. When I had said he threw 'Evie' out of his house, it had been literal as well as figurative. It hurt when I landed in a heap on the yard outside the kitchen door. At least he hadn't killed Janie and Mama on the spot. I ran and hid; afraid he would come after me instead. Even after the whole thing died down, he never looked at me in the same light again. I think he believed I should have done something to resist it, like any 'real man'. That was the beginning of the invisible barrier that arose between us. I guess to protect myself from the trauma of that memory, my conscious mind erected a wall around it. I hadn't remembered it at all until Joanna called me that name. Apparently, she knew. What else did she know? I glanced in the rear view mirror. A heavily made up pair of feminine eyes returned my gaze. My hair was more teased and tousled than usual, but that had been the "look" I was going for tonight. A second glance downward confirmed the impression of a busty, sexy, provocatively-clad, sweet young thing. Nothing appeared to be amiss; although the new outfit was sexier, more provocative than usual, I had been 'pushing the edge' lately, so this really wasn't any radical departure. There was something tugging at the edge of my mind, something whispering everything was not as it should be. Try as I might, I couldn't make the thought come. I knew there was an answer, and had a pretty good idea where to find it. Suddenly, grabbing her purse and keys was looking like a stroke of genius. I used my wife's keycard to enter the parking structure, then the professional building itself. I glanced at my wristwatch and smiled. Timing was everything. The second shift security guard was a creature of habit. He would have had his regular-as-clockwork lunch of a liverwurst and onion hoagie about an hour and a half before. At that moment, Marty would be in the Men's room taking a much-needed dump - and probably passing some industrial-strength gas. There would be no one in front of the monitors to see my image, captured by the security cameras, slipping in through the parking lot entrance. No one would review the video tapes unless a break-in was detected. I intended to make certain that didn't happen. I made my way up the back stairs to the third floor of the five-story structure, then used Joanna's keys to enter her office. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. For future reference - and to protect herself from later litigation - my wife recorded every client session on digital video disk. The camera and microphones were cleverly concealed; I had never spotted them while in her office. Yet, I knew they were there. Joanna often brought her work home with her. As fascinated as I was with all things pertaining to this woman I loved, I had surreptitiously observed her from time to time, reviewing one case or another in our study. She would invariably be viewing such a disk on her notebook computer, then typing notes into the word-processing program. I had given the notebook to her the previous Christmas, even customizing it myself with some specialty software, including the DVD player/recorder program. I don't think she realized I knew about her recordings. That would work in my favor; hopefully, at least until she returned to work Monday. I found the disk library locked in the closet. I grabbed all the disks labeled "R. Valentine." Each was further notated with the session date. By luck, her notebook computer was there also. I guessed she had planned on a different kind of 'homework' this weekend. Bad luck for her, good for me; I snatched up the notebook as well. I would need it to view the disks. I was just about to leave when I noticed a stack of five disks apart from the rest. Handwritten labels on each jewel box identified them as "Jake". Each had a numeric sequencer, one through five. My blood turned to ice. I suppose it was possible, but I didn't think it likely he was a patient. It was hateful enough the bitch had had her stud in our marital bed. She had also had the nerve to record their trysts for her later viewing pleasure? Now I had an unwieldy stack in my arms, with the notebook computer on the bottom. I turned frantically, left and right, searching for something to put it all in. She had a leather carrying case for the notebook; where was it? At that moment, the forces of gravity, inertia, and lateral momentum intersected - and Mr. Murphy's infamous law came into play. I watched in almost detached fascination as the stack of DVD jewel boxes tumbled through the air and clattered to the carpet. Thank God I had managed to hang on to the notebook! I shuddered as I envisioned that television commercial, where the notebook computer crashes to the ground and shatters into a hundred pieces. I thanked the Fates for small miracles, placed the computer on the desk, and stooped down to gather up the spilled disks. In doing so, I spied the carrying case; sitting upright on the floor behind Joanna's desk, tucked neatly between the wastebasket and credenza. Surely, Goodness and Mercy would be with me all the days of my life. I retrieved the case, inserted the notebook, then crammed the disks wherever they would fit; either on top or in the side pocket. After leaving Joanna's office, my first stop was the nearest ATM machine. Our joint account had been set up to allow us individual access to funds; my cash withdrawal would not count against her daily limit, and vice versa. Since I had grabbed her purse, I had two cards, hers and mine, and withdrew the limit on each. Sure, I knew her PIN. After all, we were happily married; we didn't keep secrets from one another, did we? I rented a room in one of those nondescript Valley motels not far from work. Neither Triple-A nor Michelin would have given it a first glance, much less a second. The 'house rules' were clearly posted on the wall inside the door; no pets, weapons, drugs, or prostitution. I considered those prohibitions in the context of the black kitten that had been crouched in front of the room next door, feeding from its bowl. How stringently did they enforce their other bans? That was probably a function of how long you stayed - and paid your bill on time. I could have picked someplace ritzier, but I didn't want to piss away my money on extravagances just yet. I might need every penny later. This place had weekly rates, took cash up front and didn't ask questions. It was unlikely Joanna would be able to track me here any time soon, should she even have a mind to. With 'Jake' in the picture, that was unlikely as well. She could find me at work easily enough. I would have to find some way to deal with that the following week. Sometimes technology can be frightening; at other times, a Godsend. I didn't know Joanna's laptop password and didn't need to. I had set the Administrator's password myself, so I signed on to that account. Using her cellular modem, I connected to the Internet and did a little electronic 'banking'. I could have cleaned out our joint checking and savings accounts completely and God Himself would have called it just. Even after what I had witnessed, I wasn't ready to be that spiteful towards the woman I had loved so deeply. Thank God I had had to set up that separate account to establish the 'paper trail' so necessary to protect my spouse's professional standing. I was thankful once again I had, as an extra layer of disconnect, opened the account in a different bank. Both banks' Internet portals used cutting- edge software, allowing transactions with Interbank, as well as account numbers. I transferred the bulk of our two shared accounts into my solo account, leaving her enough for immediate expenses. Legal? Yes. Ethical? Moral? All I had to do was remember Jake's massive meat plowing in and out of her pussy and the look of bliss on Joanna's face. With her six-figure income, sizable investment portfolio and A-plus credit rating, no one would have to hold a bake sale for my wayward wife any time soon. As for myself, I had no specific plan yet. I was still too numb to think cogently. Everything I had done since walking out of our bedroom had been a product of instinct and adrenaline. For the first time since meeting my wife, I had to force myself to think in terms of protecting myself. Absent a loving, caring relationship, what would she do? Perhaps she would do nothing at all. She had her career, money, and lover. As my friends had pointed out so long ago, what did she need me for? Apparently, amusement. She had toyed with me, made me believe she loved me, for whatever reason. Now she was making it clear she could do quite nicely without me. Then again, she may not have had her fill of tormenting me yet. A woman that prominent, that influential, could do almost anything. I had the disks. Surely the 'Jake' disks would contain the evidence I needed of her infidelity? As for the others, I hoped they contained answers, too; answers to nagging questions I knew were there, but couldn't formulate in my head. If Joanna wanted to be nasty, she might have me arrested for breaking into her office. If she did that, she would have to identify what was missing, wouldn't she? I'm sure she would realize that, too - and that the contents of the disks would invariably come out, even if she tried to invoke doctor-client privilege. I didn't think she would risk it, but if it came down to covering her cheating ass in a divorce proceeding.... One way or another, I would need an attorney. I couldn't see a way this wouldn't wind up in court, be it civil or criminal. Joanna had the clout to retain the very best. I would have to do the same - again, to the best of my limited ability. My recent cash infusion would help; I could at least front a 'retainer fee'. Then, if my attorney would take my case on a contingency basis.... The issue of selecting an attorney is actually simple. Of those you know, or at least know of, who would you least want to face in court? Hire him first, before the other side does. When put in those terms, the choice was easy. In this case, he was a she - and I had met her before I met Joanna. I put in the call. Not surprisingly, the office was closed for the weekend. I left a message, hoping they would contact me Monday. I also hoped that wouldn't be too late.