ED

I added, "Uh, I think all the restaurants and fast food places are closed. All I can offer you is my emergency food."

Still manually attached to my organ, she said, "Yum."

We dined on two packages of Ramen Noodles each, made in the room's coffee maker. Plus some beef jerky, two cups of tea and a couple of chocolate bars from the vending machine, down the hall.

While we were eating, Shayla looked up and asked, "Wife?" That's all, but she spoke volumes. So I told her, not getting mad but not leaving anything out, either. I showed her the hole in my calf.

Then, calmly and deliberately, I told her of my new plans to divorce my wife, on the grounds of proven multiple adultery. To show up at work, accompanied by two armed privately-hired security people, to get my back pay and resign. To pack up and leave.

Shayla quirked up an eyebrow, saying, "Coming back here?"

"Yes."

"Good," she said, snuggling into my arm, still gloriously naked, "You'll come live with me. That's settled."

After some more cuddling, I said, "Can you call in late to work? I really want to get you a new outfit tomorrow ... I mean, today."

She looked up, from under my arm, pretty dark breasts swaying a little while she breathed, and asked, "You mean, to reward me for those three wonderful orgasms you had and the so-many-I-can't-count orgasms I had?"

I looked down, and grinned, and replied, "no, little innocent purveyor of steamy jungle-juice, I want to get you another outfit, so you can show up at work dressed differently from when you left. Otherwise, tongues would wag. The sex, with all the orgasms, was free. It's always gonna be free, between us. Right?"

She looked up, grinning again, and answered, "Humph! Jungle-juice, indeed. Oh, the sex is always gonna be free with us, is it? OK, right!"

Then she changed the grin to something a little more impish. "I think I'll let you take me back to my place. I share it with two other roommates. I wanna show you off."

I quirked an eyebrow.

She went on, "you'll like them, they're cool. Sexy as hell, too."

She finished, "by the way, I'm a mortgage broker, and I work on commission. I can take time off, if I want. It just means I don't earn money that day, and I'm one of their better agents."

Snuggling in delicious comfort, we fall back asleep. No dreams, this time.

In the mid-morning, we chatted for a few minutes. Then I spotted my cellphone. I asked if I could call back into my job, to let them know I'd be late coming back.

I got a surprise when, calling work, I raised Emily, the receptionist. She was flustered, which she never is, at least over the phone. My orders were usually patched straight through to my boss-cuckolder, Mr. Symulski.

Emily was nearly in a panic. It turned out the bank had sent auditors to the business. They'd been there, since a few hours after I'd left. They were turning up really bad financial and fraud-related stuff, including a set of thoroughly "cooked" books.

Emily said that Symulski, his two salesman sons, the company lawyer and accountant were missing, and they didn't know where to look.

I sighed, loudly, and told Emily to tell the bank people the truth about where my boss and his people very likely were. "If they don't answer the door, then just go in my house. The spare key to the side door of the house is in the ceramic cat sitting on the low planter, out front. The code to the security system is 1-1-9-9."

I added, "and, Emily, go ahead and tell them why my boss, his two sons plus the lawyer and accountant would likely be at my house while I'm away. I know you know about Sylvia, and so does everybody else. Don't play games with these people."

I concluded, "I'm on my cellphone now. You have the number. Let me know when you find them."

During breakfast, Shayla phoned in to work and took a day off. She took me to her place, and I visited a largish house, built just after turn-of-the-century, about 1923 or so. She and each of her roommates had a medium-sized private bedroom on the 2nd floor, and they shared a kitchen and dining room plus a living room, on the main floor. There was a fully-paneled, dusty basement that was mostly unused, and a 3rd floor, also pretty much unused, which could have been a small apartment.

I raised an eyebrow at Shayla, as she showed me the two-room space plus bathroom, on the 3rd floor.

"I'd have to pay at least twice as much as you, to justify all this space."

"All that and jism, too."

She said they all had gone in together and bought the place, before mortgages and home loans started their astronomical climb, in recent years.

"You seem to be awfully sure that your two partners will agree to let me stay. And, if they're so sexy, how can you be sure I won't get caught with my pants down, so to speak."

She grinned up at me, leading my hand down to her suddenly uncovered right breast, and said, "because I'll be there, watching you have lovely thrusting, penetrating sex with each one, and then me, again and again. Remember, you glorious stud, when you're up, you're up for hours. Waste not, want not."

Taking me back to the 2nd floor, she showed me her room. I gave her a lewd grin, pushed her back on her own bed, pushed up her skirt and sweater, and settled down to play with her tits and lick her into orgasm. For about a quarter hour, there wasn't any sound except my slurping and her loud, shrill squeals of multiple orgasm.

No, I wasn't hard. No, I couldn't thrust into her. The bi-mix was back at the motel, with her panties and bra. But it was a pure pleasure to hear this lovely woman's voice and speech descend to the gutter, as she verbally directed me around, into and over her clit and lips, through a dozen orgasms, squirting twice, while screaming and thrashing on her bed.

The incoming-call ring-tone of my cell interrupted the proceedings. Then things began to get strange.

Pulling my head out from the vice-like grip of Shayla's thighs, and drenched in female cum, I answered.

It wasn't Emily, from work. It was from Mansfield, Ohio. The caller was a city homicide detective.

You remember the early TV drama, Dragnet, where the principal character kept asking, "the facts, just the facts." That's what I got asked. And that was what I was told. Just the facts.

These were strange enough.

The questions started immediately. Where was I? Why had I left? How long had I been away? Could I prove where I was? Could I prove how long I'd been there? How soon could I get back?

Then I demanded to know what had happened, and I was told, 'just the facts.'

Sheila was dead. So was my boss, his sons, and all the company management. They were apparently all dead together. Naked. In a pile, with Sheila on the bottom. On and around the pool table. In my house, with the security system on, and the doors locked from the inside. Nine cars were parked in the driveway and on the street. They'd been dead for a couple of days.

Over the phone, I agreed to get the first flight back to Mansfield, tomorrow, and to call the police number before I left, and again when I arrived.

I disconnected, and then, in a few terse sentences, told my lover what was going on.

I was a newly-made widower.

Making another call, I phoned the airline, and confirmed my flight out, tomorrow morning.

Looking down at my black lover, whose skirt was still bunched around her waist, and whose legs were still invitingly spread wide, I said, "I have to go back. I don't want to. But I have to."

Shayla smiled up at me, slowly and deliberately straightening her legs and pulling down her sweater and skirt.

She said, in sort of a purr-whisper, "but not until tomorrow morning. You could have flown out today, stud, but you didn't. So, let's go buy a few disposable cameras, and then go back to the hotel room. We can use up some film, letting me pose for you. I've got some really slutty things here, and I want you to see me in them. Then you can lick me some more, and play with my clit."

"Can I take you out to dinner, too?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, absolutely, just as long as I can wear that little black dress you bought—no panties and no bra—with my 'fuck-me' strappy heels. I'll flirt outrageously. I'll do 'nip-slips.' Then we go back to the room, you give yourself another injection, you'll get hard, and then you get to bang my brains out until it wears off."

"Uh, Shayla, that could be four to six hours."

"I sure hope so. I've got lots of nasty, slutty things to tell you while you suck me and feel me out and fuck me and ... you get the idea."

She started to rummage in her closet and dresser, selecting some barely-there and why-bother see-through things. Turning, she added, "And you'd better be prepared to do me standing up, in front of the open window, tonight. You know I'm a voyeur. I've got a big exhibitionistic streak in me, too. I go absolutely crazy when I think somebody is watching me have sex. I want you inside me, when I do."

"I'll drive you to the airport in the morning. I won't wear anything under my dress and I'll pull it 'way up around my waist. I'll let my tits hang out most of the way. I'll still be full of your cum. I'll let you see it leaking out, the last thing before you go into the ticket desk."

She finished, "When you've got clear of all the legal and police stuff, and you come back here to live, I'll be waiting. You better inject yourself when you're about 20 minutes away, 'cause I'll meet you at the door, strip down, and want you to FUCK ME, right there in the foyer, with your huge cock in my black cunt, your hands all over my black skin and tits, and my leg over your shoulder. I'll want everything, every one of your strokes, to show."

"I sure hope my roomies are watching."

My God, I thought.

----------

The police detectives questioned me when I got back from the East Coast, and they took a detailed, witnessed statement from me, but that was about all. All my receipts—from the flights, motel, physician's visits, etc.—checked out within hours. I was at the men's sex clinic, Cherry Hill, New Jersey, being personally examined and having blood drawn, by an MD, the technician and the staff nurse, at the approximate time of my wife's death.

Of course, it was complicated that all ten of the house inhabitants had died at about the same time. Sperm samples taken from my wife's skin and various other cavities revealed sperm for all nine men, in quantity, but none of mine.

Reconstructing events, Sheila had started things the night before, with a 'party,' and then gone to sleep with three of them. The next day, the guys had all struggled in, despite the storm, and she'd 'partied,' some more, in true slut-wife tradition. The power went out for the whole section of the suburbs in the morning, so she'd lit candles. As the house got cold, she or one of the guys had lit the stove.

Sheila took showers or baths between groups of guys, and, returning for more teasing and fucking, she always hung her damp terrycloth bathrobe on the stove damper handle. It was supposed to be safe, she said, as there was a little 'detent' groove in the handle to keep the damper in the open position. I told her not to, that it wasn't safe, which is why, I think, she kept doing it.

It was guessed that, sometime in the next few hours, the handle slipped from the open to the closed position, and was held there by the weight of the bathrobe. The muted 'clunk' sound must have been missed by all the guys, as they were intent on fucking her, or just having fucked her.

The carbon monoxide would have built up quickly, and there weren't any detectors. Apparently, all the smoke detectors in the house had been disabled, too.

Sheila and the guys had been filming the orgy with a couple of video cameras, and the camcorders ran on battery power when the plug power was lost, recording all the sex and cuming, but also the falling asleep and apparent dying of the men and woman. One of the cameras picked up the dull 'klunk' of the damper falling into the closed position, but Sheila was receiving a double-penetration cum right then, as the camcorders revealed and no one paid attention.

An hour later, the house was filled with poison gas, and everyone was dead.

It got even worse, I was told, because the power came on the next day, and the house re-heated to the mid 70's, which accelerated beginning decomposition of the bodies.

The case was closed fairly rapidly, as 'death by carbon monoxide suffocation,' and I wasn't involved or charged.

Somehow, though the camcorder disks had leaked to the media, and my wife's nine-guy orgies spread at lightening speed, all over the internet. I knew that I'd never be able to live this down if I stayed, even if I'd wanted to.

However, the house literally smelled like death, and, under police supervision, I went inside to get some thing to wear, before checking into a residence motel nearby. Sheila and her lovers had been there before me. My clothes and possessions were befouled with piss, shit, girl-squirt and ejaculated semen.

I gathered up the papers in the safe and file cabinet, and got out of there, gagging.

Shock piled on shock.

Going through the papers in the safe, I came across a life insurance policy on the both of us, for over two million dollars. I never knew that Sheila had covered me for so much, or how she'd paid for it. I found out why, when I read her secret diary, where she went into horrible detail about what the Symulski people were going to do to me, soon. I turned this material over to the police when I read it, and told them about the life insurance policy.

After the usual hassle, I collected the money, and had it deposited to a good bank in Vorhees, NJ, along with my own savings. Without telling her of the total amount, I called Shayla and my smart and my intelligent lover gave me her opinions as to how she'd invested all her monies. So, I mixed my opinions and research with hers, and immediately invested 95% of it, through a discount brokerage house in Philadelphia, in equities, municipal bonds and growth stocks, keeping the last 5% out for cash.

I had to do that, because my job was evaporated. The cryogenics company, headed by the Symulski's, was bankrupt and closed. The owners, with the collective assistance of the company lawyer and accountant, had milked the company of all that it owned, and had mortgaged everything to the hilt. Then they'd borrowed against this year's future earnings. And then they'd borrowed against their borrowings. They'd taken all the money and converted it to cash.

They'd taken the cash, bought 'precious metals,' and apparently hidden them away somewhere. I told the auditors about a self-rental unit over in Millersburg, which was mentioned in Sheila's diary. When that was forced open, though, there was only a couple of gold Canadian Maple Leaf gold coins, apparently forgotten, kicked into one corner, and lying in the dust. The company money had vanished utterly, as precious metals aren't really traceable, when sold in small amounts, over time.

Then they'd died, after covering my murderous cum-slut conspirator with jism, all together.

None of us at work even got a severance package.

I never stayed at the house more than a quarter-hour at a time, and for as few times as possible, living at the residence motel. I got the police sign-off on the house, as potential evidence, and with their clearance, I had all the furniture thrown out and a professional cleaning crew come in to clean, sanitize & re-paint the house, inside and out.

After getting an OK from the police and insurers, I had the damn stove ripped out and sold for scrap. I suppose I'm crazy, but I also had a priest and a Fang Shui 'shaman' come in and spiritually 'cleanse' the house, too. Since the housing bubble was still soaring, I advertised the cleaned and re-painted house at a fair, not-inflated price, and the realtor had it sold in 72 hours to an out-of-town couple, for a cool half-million.

I put that money in my investment pool, too. With the insurance money, my savings and investments and the sale of the house, I had just over two and a half million, after taxes.

I called Shayla three times a week, and we had the most explicit phone sex possible, but I didn't date, and kept my jerking off to a minimum. It did—and didn't—help that she sent me big prints of all the pictures I took of her, in the hotel across from the sex clinic.

Thanks to large and mostly unused cellar in her house, she was able to store several boxes of materials that I had given her, left over from my materials analyst job.

It took just over ninety days, but I closed out my life in Mansfield, Ohio entirely. Having sold my car, I spent the last night at my residence hotel.

- - - - - - -

It's the same dream, as always, just changed in little details. I come in the side door by the garage. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. She's on the pool table, and all nine guys are around her, standing on the floor. She's slowly and sexily dancing, wearing a open-bust bra, open-crotch G-string. She struts and grinds, as they shout obscene taunts at her. One guy jumps on the table, and jams his big, slippery cock into her ass, pounding into her from behind; a second jumps up and fucks her swollen pussy and two are standing on the table, sucking on her breasts and swollen nipples. She's screaming in continuous orgasm, "yes, yes, YES, fuck ME, like HE can't, FUCK ME." Despite the grunting and groaning, and having her mouth full of cock, I hear her obscene comments, laughing and talking with the other naked men surrounding the table. Somehow, nobody sees me. I look at the guys gang-banging my beautiful slut-wife. She has jism on her face and on her boobs. There is a pool of jism under her pussy, now. The guys scream and thrust and cum. I can see it drip down, as the guy in her unloads a huge load. The men have cum on her and in her, before I arrived. The guys standing around, waiting their turn, begin to yawn and slump down. Sylvia lays down and falls asleep. Then the men on the table start to fall asleep, drooping over her now comatose body. A new guy in her mouth jerks once, shoots his load on her face, and falls across her body. The guy in her pussy droops over, and falls to one side, his cock spurting a fountain of white goo in the air. Now nobody is moving. There's no more groaning. She isn't cuming, any more. Everyone is dead. I walk around the side of the pool table, stepping over the naked dead bodies, and look at the softly glowing wood stove. The vent is closed. Her bathrobe is hanging from the handle of the outside vent. The candles are guttering and their flames turn blue. Some go out. I hear a noise off to my left, and slowly turn. Somehow, my formerly beautiful wife has managed to face me. I can see the ropes of adulterous sperm on her face and in her hair, and her mouth drools with yet more spent liquid manhood. She's managed to prop herself up on a couple of the men, one leg cocked aside, letting me see the stuff oozing from her ravaged pussy. Jutting and thrusting her ravaged, cum-encrusted pussy in the air, thighs open, she gurgles softly, "I just had nine guys and 30 cums, but somehow you killed me anyway."

Then I snapped awake, in the morning.

- - - - - - -

I arrived at the Philadelphia airport, and rented a car there, until I could get one of my own. The sum-total of my married life was packed into a briefcase, and everything else stuffed into a medium-sized suitcase, with room to spare. I'd let the police and bank regulators know where I was going, and the name of the hotel I hoped I wouldn't be staying at, and gave them my cell-phone number.

After I crossed the Delaware river, in New Jersey, I stopped in the Pub's parking lot, at the Airport Circle, and called my lover on the phone, after injecting my bi-mix potion.