Stained Sheets

CHAPTER ONE Carlton “I don’t know what to tell you, Carlton,” he said, as he laid the photographs on the table between us. His voice was low and he glanced furtively around the open air café before continuing, “She’s a damn fine piece of ass—but she’s getting laid by a whole lot of men—that are not you.” I knew this was true, but still it hurt to see the evidence before my eyes. Black and white images, poses too numerous to mention, men of varying sizes and shapes. The backdoor ones were the most startling. The way the pictures were haphazardly scattered across the table reflected the clutter of thoughts inside my brain; and my headache only grew worse. Meantime, I fought back the temptation to sweep them back into the envelope, or at the very least, light them on fire lest those sitting nearby by would see the graphic display and be as appalled as I was. “Amazing camera work,” I managed to say as I stared at Marni’s round behind, her cheeks parted and her asshole entered by some hulking, bare-assed black man. Framed by the hotel window where they f****d, the image couldn’t have been more damning, more heartbreaking, or arousing. My c**k tensed, growing larger by the minute; I wanted to shove myself in that ‘other’ love hole, but I’d thought it was something to wait for. Now I know; Marni obviously wasn’t waiting for me. “You’d be surprised what these new digitals can do, especially with the long distance lenses,” Charlie said in his most professional voice. “Yeah, the proof’s right here.” “She should be more discreet,” he added. “She shouldn’t be doing it at all,” I shot back tersely. He didn’t reply, so I could more easily work on the solution to the dilemma of my wife, my bride. Oh, I had my plans laid out long before this meeting, conceived about the time I hired Charlie on that hot Tuesday in August, six weeks to the day before this meeting. But it wasn’t enough to employ my detective friend Charlie Nash to do my dirty work—hunt her down and record the facts—I had more in mind for him than just his following her as she rendezvoused with a bevy of horny men. He had other talents. It had been my hope that he would see Marni the way I did: lusty and provocative to the point of making men ravenous, even if she was a difficult woman to manage. Managing her s****l obsessions had turned out to be more than I could handle; why not let Charlie have a try? I had nothing to lose. “So…” he sighed. “You annul the marriage; that shouldn’t be too tough.” I shook my head, my mind deep in the midst of the pressing fantasy. “All I can think about is punishing her.” “Then punish her, goddammit; she’s earned her stripes.” “I’m afraid I won’t stop.” “No. You can’t do it angry,” he conceded. “I can’t do it at all…but I do know what she needs.” “And that is?” “Few women need a sadist,” I looked up at him, “Marni does.” “So, you come to me,” he grinned slyly. “You’re the only sadist I trust.” As if I knew a phonebook full of sadists. Now he laughed, just before he turned solemn as a preacher and leaned in over the table, saying in all sincerity. “What do you hope to gain, Carlton?” I shook my head. “Love?” His eyebrows lifted with the question. “I have her love,” I said. I think for a while, then decide that there is only one real answer to his question. “I want to own her.” The word came out with a malicious ring. “I want all that raw desire of hers focused on me and me alone.” Charlie leaned back in the wrought-iron chair and gazed toward the sky, breathing deeply, then he looked back at me. Fresh and dashing as ever, sipping Russian vodka, casual as you please on a warm September afternoon, turning the heads of every woman who passed by the table; this was Charlie. I don’t even recall knowing any man more handsome, or more of a sadist in his relationships with consenting masochistic females. A heady combination. If I were to lose Marni to any man, it would be Charlie Nash. But I didn’t plan on losing my wife and Charlie was just part of my scheme to win her fidelity. *** Her apartment is simple, painted yellow, the curtains white. The trees outside cast dappled images of leaves against the walls at all hours of the day—except in the dead of night. Although when there’s a full moon, the leafy branches leave their shadows against the walls with the pale glow entering through the window. These subtle images were why Marni decorated with so few pictures; nature makes her own, she says. She owns a small Picasso sketch, not a very good one, but it has the artist’s signature and she’s proud to own it. Next to it over her bed hangs a tiny oil painting of a village in Spain—green, ocher, crimson, violent hues, but just a miniature, embellished by its large frame. Otherwise the walls of Marni’s apartment are bare of decoration. Her laughter lifted like a sail, buoyant and sensuous, while she sat on the young man’s groin, filled with the essence of that young male. He was deep in her velvety love nest, with his meat, all that makes him a man, nestled in contentedly. His chest expanded upward as he breathed, body shaking and about to come. Meanwhile, her slender body moved with him: skin smooth, breasts rounded and touchable, n*****s bursting from the centers, taut and shining with perspiration. His hands moved from the soft flesh of her ass, along her hips, then upward. She felt his touch and trembled, while her well-rubbed clit grazed against the base of his erection, gathering more sensation that made her laughter become a cry of pure desire. I felt my c**k begin to swell, as if it were my c**k, not Julius’ ravaging her p***y. As she bounced gloriously in her freedom, her mouth opened. “Ah, ah, ah… yes…” in short panting breaths; her face began to contort in a beautiful s*x-filled scowl. Her climax was brief, punctuated with waves of pleasure rippling through her torso, her belly, her limbs, leaving an imprint of feral satisfaction on her face. Her eyes darkened, infused with a wicked but oddly playful glow—like that of some demonic elf. She sunk down into Julius’ chest to rest. But he grabbed for her breasts, pulling her up enough so he could devour them with his open mouth. Then suddenly, he arched his back, his hips thrust hard and his body tensed, as he ejaculated into my wife. Watching silently, I winced, my agony a private one. It was all I could do not to stop her from where I stood peeking into the room through the small crack where the door meets the frame. I thought at first that they would have heard my footsteps on the outside stairs, or when I bungled with the lock, or when moving into her walk-up, I dropped my keys on the floor. But as their s*x sounds began to die, I quieted my own movements; believing myself to be the intruder on a scene where I could not be wanted. She sat back drifting and pleasantly thoughtless, so I moved silent as a cat into another room, afraid to disturb her. Maybe if we gave up her apartment, these trysts would end, but even I am not so foolish to believe that would happen. Normally she doesn’t screw her dates in her own space; she leaves her obsessions at the door and maintains this little inner sanctum as our personal love nest. So much for another romantic idea destroyed. Even after seeing this, it’s still my plan to own her. My official arrival is not marked until Julius is gone and Marni’s stepping from the shower. “Hey there, cowboy!” she says with a sunny, erotically-sated grin. It’s things like her calling me ‘cowboy’, and that whole thing she does with her body when she smiles that keeps me coming back. Even now with her brunette hair plastered to her head, and rivulets of water dripping from her breasts, she’s the loveliest sight I know. Her long thin neckline is as graceful as a dancer’s; I can see her in my dreams doing pirouettes, with languid expressions and elegant arms, her fingers positioned daintily in the air. That is not to say that Marni is some lightweight poster child for anorexia, or that she has the heart of a sugarplum faerie. On the contrary, while she may be buoyant in her exuberant spirit, it is the molten earthy quality of her physical form and her psychic aura that have me most enamored. I love her in soft skirts and blue jeans, in sexy teddies, as well as flannel and work boots. She’s exhilarating to watch with mud on her face as she digs in the garden, toiling over a bed of pansies, then wipes her cheek with the dirty back of her arm. She cleans up better than pretty. She’s not afraid to screw hard, c*m long, to show off the roundness of her breasts, the lusty glint in her eyes, and her crotch when she bends over in a tiny denim skirt. I had to marry her fast before someone else robbed me of the pleasure. I suppose I’ve paid the price for that; in my social circle, big weddings are in. To have eloped is romantic some told me, while others have used it as a reason to disparage the whole premise of our marriage—as if it’s not as good as the church vows and the sit-down dinner kind. This got us off to a rocky start with the snooty wives of my best friends, who were not quick to accept a woman they judged their inferior. And yet, Marni’s natural charm has intrigued them: her fresh face, easy smile and genuine warmth. She still cringes every time we’re in their company but she puts on a damn good show of it. “You’re getting ready for the party?” I ask her as she’s toweling off. She then lifts her leg to the toilet seat, wets her razor and trims away a bit of pubic hair she missed in the shower. I see her pink ass from behind and her smooth wet pubes peeking from below. All this makes my p***s start to throb. “Oh,” she pouts, gazing over her shoulder. “I forgot. I was really thinking we could stay in?” She puts her leg down, turns around and c***s her head. “I’m not sure I’m up for another of those stuffy parties.” She even scowls in her effort to manipulate me. “Oh, but you are going,” I say. I feel an unexpected force behind my words, the hint of indignation that she would deny me this, after what I just witnessed in her bed. Of course, she has no idea that I watched. I think further back to the sheaf of pictures Charlie presented me, letting my resolve renew. I think of the club, the pending party, my secret society and wonder if I’ve already taken the wrong turn with regard to Marni’s infidelity. There are solutions readily available to me, but I’ve wanted to avoid those extreme measures until I understood more about my bride. She does have certain issues and it’s for me to be understanding and not judge too soon. Besides, I’ve decided to let Charlie decide how to proceed from here; he has more experience in this situation than I’ll ever have. Marni casts me a dour glance—still trying to get me to change my mind—but I don’t relent. “Of course, I’ll go,” she says. I’m still in my mood, moving to the closet and rifling through her dresses; she has many more at my house, but certainly something here will do. I finally pull out a green dress, short, tight; I’m not sure she’s worn it to my “stuffy old club” but the guys will be after her with their eyes all night. “Isn’t that a bit risqué for your friends?” she says, surprised by my choice. “No. I think it’s perfect. If you have the body to wear something this sexy, you should.” There is something a little fiendish in my choice. I suppose at the moment, I’m seeing her as a slut not a wife. “Okay,” she says, as she snatches the dress from my hand and begins to dress. Meanwhile, I do a little freshening up at the bathroom mirror. Our activity reminds me how we started in this apartment, escaping into our love nest like randy teenagers. f*****g. Making noise. Stirring up the neighbors. Fists banging. Bedsprings creaking. It’s been a wild ride—up to the point where I think I’ve been taken for a chump.