My wife wants to be a slut

Part 1

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My wife and I got married too young. WAY too young. She was barely 18, and I was just 19.

 

So 20 years later we are driving down the highway, and I can tell, after all these years together, that she is in deep thought. Usually our married life changes a little after she has these deep, silent ponderances.

 

We were about a mile from the house when she suddenly chirps, “I met a very interesting woman tonight at the party.”

 

In twenty years of marriage, I have learned to wait until she indicates which direction the conversation is going before I open my trap. I have learned that a noncommittal answer is the only one that will not raise her eyebrows at me. “Really?” I replied, keeping my tone as neutral as I possibly could.

 

“Yeah! I like her a lot. She is not afraid to say what she thinks. And I like that. And she is not afraid to do what she thinks is right too.” Her voice has a bit of an edge to it. I could feel my asshole pucker, because it sure sounds like something is up in our household! I for sure was not going to venture any comment until I knew which direction this damned wind was blowing.

 

My wife was still looking straight ahead. Not good.

 

She crossed her arms over her abundant chest and sat there, her lower lip protruding slightly, like she was feeling a bit petty toward me.

 

As we were turning into the street our home is on, she asked a most disturbing question. “You know I love you, right, honey?” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. I now knew that the shit was about to hit the fan in my life. I wondered if anything was ever going to be the same again.

 

On the other hand, what could I say to a, on the surface, seemingly innocuous question like that? “Sure honey.” I waited a bit before I completed my response. Her eyebrow arched in expectation. “You know I love you too.”

 

The corner of her lips curled up ever so slightly. I had just unwittingly stepped into her trap, whatever it was.

 

A few seconds later I had just pushed the garage door button to close it when she put her hand where it had not been for years, on my inner thigh. Her fingers deftly traced the flaccid length in my boxers. I think ‘he’ was scared out of his mind

 

“I have decided I’m going to become a slut" are the exact words she said as she got out of the car, slamming the car door before I could re-gather my wits about me in order to react appropriately.

 

Her ass was not wiggling as she stomped toward the door leading into our house. There was not going to be any sex tonight, I knew that for damn sure. The real shit had now hit the fan, and I knew my shit was going to get blown all over the place.

 

What do you say to a woman that has just announced that she is going to fuck around on you? And reassures you that she still loves you? WTF???????????????

 

She had her high-necked flannel jammies on, the ones that even covered her feet. On top of that, she had her long terrycloth robe, tightly tied around her waist and buttoned up around her neck. On top of that, she had her face pickled and preserved in creams and some sort of icky stuff. Definitely no sex tonight. Maybe not for a year or so.

 

So WTF was her comment about becoming a slut? Doesn’t a real slut like to fuck or something?

 

My wife is now sitting at the computer. She is checking out something.

 

I walk over and look over her frosty shoulder. Oh GOD! She is looking at a porn site. It is my favorite porn site. How in the hell did she find it? Oh shit, she has that look on her face! She has that look that I fear says, ‘You do porn, so I get to fuck around.’

 

What could I say to that?

 

Is that really the same thing?

 

She surfed through something she called my browsing history. Oh shit! I have been a very bad boy! How did she learn to do that shit anyway?

 

Her voice is dripping with sarcasm. “This one looks like fun!”

 

I again dare to look over her shoulder. It is a video of a big busted woman fucking five black men. I came twice watching that the first time I saw it. And every time I watched it. The woman’s boobs were about the same size as my wife’s, for one thing. Same shape too, and their nipples were almost identical.

 

Oh fuck, I have a huge undeniable hard-on just looking at it again.

 

My wife giggles when she notices it.

 

Maybe if I rub it gently on her shoulder she’ll get the hint?

 

Nope, that got me banished to the guest bedroom.

 

* * *

 

It is a month later, and I’m still in the guest bedroom. She insisted that I move the computer in here so I can jerk off while I watch my porn of sexy women going out on their husband.

 

And there’s this woman on my favorite website that keeps sending me pictures of her fucking other men. She loves to show their cocks in her vagina, it seems. She tells me a little story about the sex every time too. Every picture appears to be a different cock. Different size, different color, different shape. No question, same cunt getting stuffed. A little mole in the same damned place in every picture of her well-stuffed cunt. Always lots of sperm running out. Either more than one cock has fucked her before the picture or the man that had just finished her has overdeveloped balls. I don’t know if I believe her stories, though. They just seem too, well, unrealistic. For this to be true, if all of her stories can be believed, this woman fucks several men a DAY! No way!

 

Sure would like to meet her, but she always poo-poos that idea. I keep telling her she needs to experience mine. She sends back ‘lol’s. She does tell me she lives around here, though. God, do I cum hard when I read her little stories about fucking lots of men. She says she is married, but how the hell does a married woman get by with fucking that many men? Wouldn’t her husband catch on and all? I mean holy shit, they all cum in her cunt! No rubbers or anything. Gallons of cum in her cunt. Her well fucked cunt. Her slut-ass cunt. Her glorious, well-fucked cunt that loves sex. Not like my wife. We have not had sex since she banished me to the guest bedroom.

 

* * *

 

My wife still has me in the fucking guest bedroom. Been a year now. Getting tired of looking at pictures of cunts getting fucked. I need the real thing. I have even stopped jerking off. The pictures just don’t do it for me anymore. I’ve been spending more time in my shop, doing little projects. I seem to go for a whole week or two now before the cum in my nuts gets to causing me problems. Then I try to find a story or a video that is sexy enough to cum to. Sometimes I just give up and go to bed.

 

My wife keeps telling me every day that she loves me. I always tell her, “I love you too."

 

I give up.

 

* * *

 

I went through the list of divorce attorneys in the phone book. I had no idea what I was really looking for. I decided to ask one of the guys at work that had gotten a divorce not long ago.

 

He was pretty darned helpful. I felt as if I had some questions I needed to have answered before I went to meet with an attorney and started that infernal pay clock ticking. Spent four days gathering the necessary answers, and by then it was Thursday, and when I called, the attorney I had decided on couldn’t see me till the following Wednesday. Just my luck!

 

Friday afternoon my unsuspecting soon-to-be ex-wife surprised me with a phone call at work, inviting me, of all things, to go on a date with her that night. She said it would be a romantic date. Frankly, I had forgotten what those were.

 

My wife got home from work about nine that evening.

 

She had obviously been having fun already. Her breath smelled like beer and something else. Obviously she did not smell like she had just brushed her teeth. She started to hug me. She wanted to kiss me. She pressed those marvelous cushions against my chest, grinning suggestively. I was harder than a spike. She knew it and started giggling, putting her hand on my bulge, grinning at me, and then breathing seductively into my ear.

 

It had been so long. So frickin long. As I was visualizing what it would be like to finally fuck her again, she dropped her drawers and put my hand on her wet little cunt. It had been so damned long. Damn, she was wet! My finger slid into her without any effort. She used to always be so dry. I remembered having to use what felt like a half tube of lube to get her wet enough to get my dick into her. Not now! Not tonight! She was so wet that it felt like it was running out of her. She unbelted me and pulled my dick out and straddled my lap even while we stood straight up! She jacked her hips forward and back on my dick, running her clit up and down my shaft like a mad woman. She started wailing in orgasm. I looked down, and my cock was coated in loads of white gooey stuff.

 

About the same time I saw the little mole that had been in every picture that woman had been sending to me.

 

My dick fell like a rock.

 

She started laughing at me. She reached in to her pussy and brought out gobs of cum. She smeared it on my face. Then started trying to lick it off.

 

I pushed her away and left the house, hearing her screaming at me, “What’s the matter? Wasn't that like the porn you like so much?” She was laughing her ass off as I closed the car door. She was standing in the doorway without any drawers, white gobs draining from her cunt, running down those thighs of hers. One could only wonder how many men had cum inside her before she got home.

 

Never tell me that women are not vindictive. Never tell me that women are loving and kind and gentle. So what is it that curdles their heart to a shriveled shell of hate? What is it that makes them decide to eviscerate their husband or lover, cut his heart out, and laugh while she does it? What makes her blame everything on her mate and take no liability for her own actions, her own misdeeds, her own shortcomings, or her inability to enjoy intimacy?

 

Does their childhood start this inability to bond in a way that prohibits their inner loving child from surfacing? Is it instigated by a father-relationship thing? Or is it the dynamic of a mother-father schism?

 

What starts a female’s obsession with emasculating their male? What makes them susceptible to advertising that emasculates men, showing men as idiots and stooges and ineffective husbands? Is it the need to be superior? Is that more important to them then a good, heartfelt, and nurturing relationship with a man that wants them to BOTH be happy? Wants it so bad that he sublimates his own libido to her indifference, hoping against hope his wife will open up and discover the joys of true mental bonding?

 

Are our women too broke to fix?

 

Part 2

The two women had met for a coffee break for at least the past four years at exactly 2:45 every afternoon. They had felt a quiet kinship the first time they had laid eyes on each other. They had grown to feel almost as close as sisters, each feeling a protectiveness for the other that only intimate knowledge of the thoughts of the other can bring.

 

Connie looked at her best friend. Something was wrong. “What is eating you up today, girlfriend?” She asked worriedly.

 

Molly looked up at her, not realizing her own inner thought, her anger, was showing in her normally placid face. Molly thought for a second or two, then quickly and furtively looked around the break room. No one else was there. She leaned toward her best friend and whispered, “I am so angry!”

 

“About what?” Replied the other woman.

 

Molly thought for a few quick seconds, trying to put her anger in succinct words. Finally, she just blurted it out. “Stanley’s wife, and all her sexing around on him!”

 

Connie’s face showed her surprise. “Stanley’s wife is sleeping around on him?”

 

“Don’t you breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you swear?”

 

Connie nodded quickly, her eyes riveted to the lips of her best friend, itching to hear the dirt.

 

Molly lowered the strength of her voice to a bare whisper. “His wife is not SLEEPING around on him. She is sexing with five or six men every day! They call it gangbanging! And she does it every day, and not only that, she does it unprotected! She actually lets all the guys do her with no protection! They all expel their sperms right inside her! One right after the other! They all joke about it and make fun of Stanley behind his back! It SO pisses me off!” Her face was livid just thinking about it.

 

Just then five men walked in, effectively shutting off their conversation.

 

“Let’s get a soda at Lucky’s after work tonight?” Urged Connie, “You can fill me in then!”

 

Molly nodded assent.

 

As the two women got up to go back to work, they both heard the guys start talking about the plans they had for Stanley’s wife that evening right after work. Instantly both Molly and Connie’s hackles were up, each wanting to turn back around and give their co-workers the what-to about their favorite boss. They seethed for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Both women left at 5:00 o’clock on the dot and hurried to the little pub a block from their workplace. They rushed to grab the only truly private booth in the place, then immediately started gossiping about the evil woman that was causing their beloved, loyal, good-looking boss so much grief.

 

“He is the nicest man I have ever met! I mean, why would she do this to him?” Connie burst out indignantly.

 

Molly looked at Connie. “Well, you heard those guys talking so awfully about her! You heard them talking about how they were planning on gangbanging her this afternoon! MEN! All they think about is their dick! Makes me disgusted!”

 

“But does Stanley know?” Queried Connie, her face torn between the delight at having such gossipy dirt on some coworkers and the unrepentant horror that was being dumped on her peach-of-a-boss.

 

“Does it matter? It is clearly happening!” Tears sprang unbidden into Molly’s eyes. “We have to do something!” She said heatedly.

 

Connie’s face took on a thoughtful look as she mulled over what they could do about the horrid situation. Then suddenly her eyes lit up. “I KNOW!” She started giggling uncontrollably.

 

“What?” Asked Molly.

 

“Oh gawd! This is so awful, but it is SO just!” Between giggles and guffaws, Connie told Molly her idea.

 

Molly laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair. When she regained control, still laughing, she spat out, “Now THAT would serve the bitch right!”

 

I could hear my wife was sobbing in the bedroom, but of course the door was locked. I knocked, but no answer. Her sobbing did quiet down a bit. I finally gave up and went to my room. The computer was on, and I know I had left it off; in fact, I had not had it turned on for over a week or so. Or maybe it was a month or so long enough that I could not remember how long it had been. Obviously my wife had been in there using it. Not that I cared. I was pretty sure she was checking my browsing history. I certainly had nothing to hide from her any more.

 

I was about ready to shut it off when I decided to check her browsing history. She had been to a site entitled "GangBangers." When I clicked on it, the last video that the previous user (assumed to be my wife) had opened was one of a woman getting the hell fucked out of her, all three openings, what they call "airtight" on the site. The camera shifted around, and there was the face of my wife taking a long, thin cock all the way down her throat while two men with unusual thickness seemed to be inside her vagina at the same time. My wife was obviously cumming hard as they all fucked her. The guy in her mouth left his cock down her throat until my wife passed out from lack of air. As he withdrew his long prick, I could see it jerking, spurting his sperm, first on her slack mouth, then all over her unconscious face and naked tits and cum-matted hair.

 

I shut down the computer, totally disgusted by having seen the video, and by my wife, and by myself for having watched so many of those same sorts of videos for so long. Back then, I had eagerly whacked off to the sight of some woman... someone else’s woman... getting so grossly used. This time, when it was my own wife, such as in this video, it lost its prurient appeal in a damn hurry!

 

My wife didn’t go out that night. Nor did she go out the next night or the next. She just stayed in her room and cried.

 

But she refused to talk to me, or to even admit I existed, apparently.

 

My attorney was busily charging me for drawing up the divorce papers.

 

Finally, on Friday, I met with her and was handed the final set. She showed me where to have my wife sign them. Then she had me sign them. She kept a copy of the half-signed documents.

 

Then she looked at me and asked, “You sure about this? You don’t seem like the divorcing type to me. You strike me as the type of man that works things out with his wife rather than divorce her.”

 

She scrutinized my face for a few seconds. “I see. You feel she is beyond redemption. What is it she is doing that leads you to that conclusion? Should I be so bold as to ask?”

 

Without resorting to tears, I explained the situation to her, trying to keep the language as civil and untainted with four-letter words as I could.

 

My attorney listened intently and nodded, apparently understanding what I had said. “Well, may I suggest that you slide these under the bedroom door if she won’t open it up and talk to you and tell her through the door that, after she reads them, you would like to talk to her before she signs them?"

 

I agreed that was a good idea.

 

I noticed that she did not wear a ring on her left hand.

 

Part 3

I kept my word to my attorney, despite the fact that I was quite certain, based on the past year or two, that my wife would not give a rip if I divorced her.

 

I was therefore surprised when I heard her stop crying, unlock, and then open the door. Her eyes were red, her face a mess, her clothing obviously wrinkled and unkempt. She stood there, her head hung down, still sniffling. “I didn’t think you would want to talk to me after what I have done to you,” she said, seeming contrite!

 

“Can we talk? Want me to make a cup of tea for you?” I asked, not sure how to go about this after so little face-to-face contact in the last year.

 

She nodded her head, still not looking me in the eye.

 

We talked for several hours, interrupted periodically by phone calls that were for her, not for me. Between irate phone calls, she told me that someone, two women, had been going to all of the places she had been frequenting and telling anyone who would listen to them that the woman in the picture, yes, they had a picture of her, had AIDS and herpes and that the woman in the picture had given their own husbands AIDS and herpes and everyone that had been with her should immediately go get tested.

 

I asked her if that were true—that she had contracted AIDS and herpes? She told me she didn’t think so but was waiting for test results.

 

I asked her whom the two women were, but she had no idea. The descriptions she had been getting from the people she had been enjoying were always consistent but were not recognizable to her.

 

All the while we were talking, her head had been hanging down. I could tell that whoever the phone callers were, they were calling and were highly upset with her. I suspected that the calls were from her previous conquests.

 

The last thing she said to me was that she would move out and find a place of her own. She handed the documents back to me after signing them. She did not answer me when I asked her if this was what she wanted.

 

That weekend a policewoman knocked on my door. Her eyes were full of compassion. She informed me that they had found my wife floating in the river the day before and that dental records confirmed that she lived here. I was asked to come down to the coroner’s office and identify her body.

 

The next day they arrested me on suspicion of murder.

 

Though I did not do it, my wife had set me up, leaving behind manufactured evidence of me killing her and dumping her body.

 

Tomorrow is my date of execution.

 

How can one person hate their spouse enough to do something like this?

 

Well, to be honest, I never ever thought I would be writing this. I expected to be stone-cold dead yesterday. But I am not. I was ready to go; I had given up. I certainly had no clue why I was convicted, since I knew I had never done anything wrong, except to try and love my wife as best I could, even waiting patiently for all that time she was out doing her thing. Only when it became obvious to me that she had made an irrevocable decision to continue down that path, I took the steps I did to end the relationship.

 

Didn’t mean I didn’t still love her.

 

Six years have passed since my wife’s death. My life will never be the same. After being in prison for a year and on death row for five years, I am not the same man. In fact, I have not had an orgasm for six years. Death row was like heaven after the horrors of regular maximum-security prison and its psychotic, hardened inmates.

 

And here I stand a free man, fully exonerated; no criminal record, they say. How does this happen? Scheduled to be executed the next day, and low and behold, instead of dying that next day, I am told I am free and all charges have been dropped.

 

Now what the fuck do I do? I have no house because I sold it to pay for my defense, for all the good that did. I have no job. My siblings have written me off in disgust over what the lying prosecutor said I did. Anyone that checks my background, despite being told that I am innocent, still sees that my record shows me as being a murderer. I am told by the DA’s office that it takes awhile to get the record expunged. "Expunged," they call it. That is code for when the prosecutor still thinks I am guilty, so despite the truth, he is going to take his own sweet time to change my criminal record.

 

Did I mention I have some pretty deeply ingrained trust issues now too?

 

McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy’s, Starbucks, Walmart, Fred Meyer, and about a hundred other franchises have turned me down for employment.

 

Good thing some blood banks still pay for blood donations.

 

Tomorrow I will check in at the artificial insemination clinic and see if I can sell my sperm too.

 

The lady at the homeless shelter is a pretty nice person, I have found. She even saved me a bed one night and has found a nice warm sleeping bag I can use for when the shelter is out of beds for the evening. I like her smile. She doesn’t look away when she sees me. I don’t feel invisible to her. Never thought I would ever look at that as a high point in my day.

 

She told me today her name is Mona. A real person actually told me her name. Things are looking up. It's true, sometimes the littlest things really mean a lot.

 

I hitchhiked down to Southern Cal, where it is warmer at night, and I am looking for a job down here, hoping I am less infamous and less hated here. My theory is that they have so many criminals down here that I am just one more.

 

I do miss Mona’s smile, though. I’ve realized that I was looking forward to it all day long.

 

I have found the blood bank and the sperm bank here and am living on the proceeds from them.

 

* * *

 

“Sir, SIR! Over here, SIR! HELLO!” Some woman was waving at me when I walked into the homeless shelter this evening. No idea why.

 

I looked at her, waiting to be told I couldn’t stay there any more. Someone had stolen my sleeping bag, so I will have to find some place that is wind-protected. I was already figuring out how to survive without the shelter’s nightly safety and support when the woman skidded to a stop in front of me. I looked at her, already knowing what she was going to tell me. I turned, ready to leave.

 

“Hey! HEY! Where are you going?” She shouted at me.

 

‘Oh shit, what have I done now to piss her off?’ I wondered. I turned back to her. I tried hard to keep my facial expression as neutral as possible. Better to let her do her job and not piss her off. I already have enough enemies.

 

The woman smiled up at me.

 

“Mr. Williams?” she asked, still smiling.

 

She did not seem angry. She didn’t even seem dismissive. I was confused.

 

“Yes?” I responded tentatively, ever mindful of the old idiom that it is better to keep your mouth shut and seem an idiot than to open it and remove all doubt. I almost told her I was just leaving when she started to jump up and down. This was not the reaction I was expecting.

 

“Oh thank GOD! We have been looking for you for a week now! A lady named Mona up in Portland has a message for you; she has put it on the ‘net. She wants you to contact her absolutely as soon as possible. Here, you can use the phone over here, Sir.”

 

She called me 'Sir.' I was supposed to use the phone to actually call someone? Something was definitely wrong. ‘Mona? Could it possibly be that woman that had smiled at me back up there in Oregon?’ I wondered. The woman was pulling me into her office. She didn’t even seem to be afraid of me.

 

“Here, sir, here is the number. I’ll be outside in case you have any questions after you talk to Mona, OK?”

 

I was being given privacy? In an office?

 

I dialed the number the woman had given me.

 

“This is Mona. How might I help you?”

 

It was her voice.

 

I didn’t know what to say. Someone wanted to talk to me? I felt like crying.

 

“Hello?” She sounded professional, like she was used to people disappointing her. “Hello? Anyone there?” She waited a few more seconds.

 

I was tongue-tied. It felt like there was no oxygen in the room. I was sweating. I didn’t dare let myself feel hope. I was just too close to losing it forever. Her voice sounded so nice to hear again after all these awful days in Southern Cal. And I was homesick unto death.

 

“I can hear someone breathing,” she seemed to say by talking to someone on her end of the phone. “Is this Carl? Carl Williams? Are you there, Carl?”

 

I started crying.

 

“Oh god, thank god, my god, I found you!” She started crying in great gasping sobs.

 

I felt so silly, so unmanly, so worthless as we cried together on the phone.

 

After a bit, when she seemed to have regained control of her emotions, she continued, “Oh my god, Carl, I have the best news for you! The company you used to work for before all this happened wants to hire you back to your old position. I will have them down there give you a ticket back to Portland and put you up at the airport till you leave. I will pick you up at the airport here, Carl. Carl, you can come home now! Oh god! I am so excited!” Mona was crying again, but now it was a happy sound.

 

So was mine.

 

Part 4

I was so damned nervous when I disembarked that plane. I had taken four showers after I checked into the motel to try to get some sleep before the long flight home.

 

As I prepared to get off the plane, I was sure my bowels would cut loose; I was so nervous. I kept telling myself that this was not a dream. This is real; this is really happening. I was nervous about whether I had lost my edge or if I would even remember how to function within a corporation anymore. What if I screwed up and got fired again? What then? Did I still have the stench of the great unwashed, of homelessness, on me? Could people tell I had been homeless for so long?

 

As promised, Mona was there to meet me. So were two other women I did not recognize. Mona introduced them to me as Connie and Mollie. I kept asking myself if I should recognize them. They, all three of them, seemed thick as thieves and overjoyed to see me. I didn’t get that part, about why women I didn’t know were glad to see me. But finally I just stopped thinking about it, worrying about it. I mean, what the hey, I was going to be employed again and could begin to put my life back together. I told myself, ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, for goodness sake!’

 

All three of them piled into a Beamer, giving me the key to drive them. It was a nice car. Similar to the one I had before everything went gunnybags. They directed me to a nice restaurant. I parked the Beamer, and they took my arms, and we sort of sashayed into the eatery.

 

They all looked at me as I looked at the menu. I have vague memories of doing this sort of thing a long, long time ago. Prices had sure gone up! Good GOD! $55 for a freaking steak!

 

I ordered a salad for ten bucks, wondering how I would get along since that was all the money I had in the world. Water was my drink of choice, of course. The women all laughed and told the waitress to bring me the salad but also a 16 oz prime rib and a tall cold one. Mollie looked at me and told me she was buying tonight, but I could catch up next time since I would have an unlimited expense account. “Within reason, of course,” she added.

 

She looked at me with happy eyes. “We have taken the liberty of finding you a furnished apartment, and that Beamer is your company car,” she told me. “You can see if you like the apartment. If you don’t, feel free to find one you prefer. You will also need an apartment in the three other cities you will be managing for me.”

 

It took me a second to grasp that Mollie was my boss. I must have done a double take, because all three of them giggled at the look on my face.

 

I decided I had better come clean before I got caught in an embarrassing mental lapse. But before I could speak, Connie piped up. She put her hand on Mollie’s arm, cleared her throat, then said, “Mollie is now over four states. I now run the company. I can tell that you don’t recognize either of us, but that’s OK. We worked in your department way back when, before you got schnookered by the DA that was, um, well, I’ll just say it, ‘Schnookering your wife, along with every other male in the company.'"

 

Mollie took up the story. “It started out when Connie and I overheard a bunch of the guys bragging about doing your wife, and we got pissed off about it. So we went around to the bars we had heard the guys bragging about finding your wife at every night and spread the rumor that she had diseases. We had no idea it was true, honestly. But we found out, way after the trial was over and you got sentenced to death, that the DA that had you prosecuted was one of her regular, um, johns.”

 

Mollie cut back in. “So, sorry to bring all this up, because it’s probably painful as hell for you to hear, but we started a campaign to get you set free. We had to get the DA prosecuted for misconduct, then get the judge disbarred because we also found video of him doing her too.”

 

My face must have been ten miles long, because my chin was dragging in my lap. “YOU two did all this for me?”

 

Connie chuckled. “Well, it was the least we could do after what happened. The judge that heard your case was a tough cookie. We only got the governor to set your conviction aside because we finally got proof the judge had caught AIDS from your wife the day before the day of your execution. All the guys that did her also have AIDs, so they got their comeuppance already. Sorry it took so long to find you. We hired a PI, and he finally found Mona for us.”

 

Mollie then blushed. She grinned naughtily, then confided, “And we would both take you home and fuck the bejesus out of you tonight except we are now your bosses, so Mona agreed to wear you out for us, the lucky little devil! Sheesh, some people have all the luck!”

 

I married Mona a year later.

 

She is everything my first wife wasn’t, thank goodness!

 

And that’s how this story really ends!