Wife and lover push husband beyond the breaking point

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After getting her snapped up she gave a twirl, displaying all her assets, and giving me an instant hard-on. I reached for her, but she adroitly dodged my hands. “No, no, no–no touching; this is for looking only.” Then she wiggled into the LBD she’d laid out earlier. “Zip me up. Then you can get dressed while I finish my hair.”

In my mind I screamed, ‘No you stupid Bitch! I’ve had enough of your shit. That’s my pussy and I’m getting some now.’ That’s what I thought, but what I really said was, “Yes Honey.”

Okay, so you think I’m not just a wimp, but a pussy whipped wimp–news flash, you’re right. I hate confrontation with a capital H. Why? I don’t know, but I always have, I’d always take the path of less resistance–guess I’m like an electron in that respect. Yeah, I’m an electronic nerd–love the crap. It makes more sense to me than a lot of people and the crap thy do–like my wife Pat, for instance.

Why would she act like she does? I make a good salary, in fact a very good salary; I don’t give her a bunch of shit about spending money on her wild whims–things like taking a couple of her girlfriends on a shopping trip to NYC, at my expense.

I don’t know if she’s screwing around on me yet, but if she ain’t, she soon will be. Shit, I don’t know why I said that. She really hasn’t done anything yet–that I know of, but then she’s slick; she wouldn’t blatantly do anything. No, not her, she’d be too slick to get caught, at least that’s how she’d see herself.

Well maybe she wasn’t as slick as she thought. Just this afternoon, while I was working on strengthening my grip, I’d overheard her on the phone with Mr. Jamison, her boss, except this afternoon she’d called him “Harry, honey.” After that she added “You’re such a bad boy,” and the way she giggled really pissed me off. I’d heard that giggle and tone of voice before, usually when she’s horny and needing a good screwing, but like the wimp I am, instead of throwing her on the bed and fucking her until she’s screaming for mercy, (Hey a guy can dream, can’t he?) I’m here now helping her get dressed.

I don’t understand the big deal; what’s he got that I haven’t got? I mean, I looked it up on google; my cock rates well up in the higher percentage on size, and she always cums before I do–well most times–okay maybe seven out of ten times or so, but she always claimed she was satisfied and if I finished first I never failed to use my fingers and tongue until I had her screaming how good it was, before she collapsed like a limp rag–so what the crap was wrong?

I was struggling with my tie and thoughts when Hurricane Pat swept into the room. “Aren’t you dressed yet?” She immediately set about to remedy that problem. Within minutes she had that stupid bow tie fixed like she thought was right, (Damn I hate those things.) my shirt re-tucked to suit ‘Her Majesty,’ my coat adjusted just so, and a fancy triangle of a handkerchief peeping out the breast pocket. (There’s a name for that damn thing, but I don’t know it and don’t give a sh*t.)

With five minutes to spare–her timetable, actually thirty minutes before anyone else, except “Mr. Jamison” would be there–we were backing out our driveway.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Carolina Pines, the hotel where everything was being held, just as Mr. Jamison was getting out of his car. He hurried around to open Pat’s door. I noticed his eyes were not on her face as she twisted her legs around to get out. Knowing how short Pat’s dress was, I’m sure he was getting a good look at an outstanding pair of legs.

I hurried around to escort my wife, but was only partly successful. I got one arm, he claimed the other, and with all the charm of a snake he offered his hand saying, “If I remember correctly, you must be Alfred, of course. Any husband of Pat’s is a friend of mine.” The bastard almost looked sincere.

Naturally I had to release Pat’s arm in order to shake his hand, and as I did he pulled her around so they were face to face as he hugged her tightly and said, “I don’t know how the business could run without this little lady.”

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