Irresistible Desires

However, as it always is, the trade-off is devastating. It's always the same. As the need spurts out of me the void is immediately filled with self-loathing for what I've done. I'm ashamed of and appalled at my actions and the betrayal I've visited upon my family. I'm cheating on my wife and my daughter. I'm engaged in something dirty and sordid, a dark and necessarily secret debauchery I'm powerless to resist.

And I have tried to resist it. I've begged Simon to stop; I've even considered confessing all to Clara, but always balk in the face of her potential reaction and the devastation it would mean.

I'm laid there on the tainted and soiled marital bed when the unthinkable happens.

There's semen sliding from my anus, jizm smeared across my face when Christmas and, indeed, my future, are shattered.

It's impossible.

My brain refuses to believe it.

But I'm gaping in total shock at my wife standing in the doorway.

The cold water dash of it freezes me in place. I can't breathe. Every muscle is tight while a terrible dread balloons inside me.

No-no-no-no-no-no.

There's not enough saliva in me to swallow.

"You absolute bastard," Clara hisses, eyes spitting flame, mouth a bloodless horizontal line.

She's furious. I can see it in the clenched fists and trembling limbs. Clara is wired as tight as I've ever seen her, which is to be expected under the circumstances I suppose. After all, she's just walked in on her husband and son-in-law in flagrante delicto. Clara has caught me with my face liberally spattered with semen, my rectum seeping watery cum. I'm naked on the bed with our daughter's husband.

It cannot be any worse than this.

"You filthy fucking shit," she says, the epithet coming at me like a bullet.

She advances, with me still unmoving, stunned by her appearance at the door.

I see her fingers working, fists clenching and loosening. I fear she's going to rip me to shreds with her fingernails. I imagine myself as a skeleton on the bed, my bony remains decorated by strips of flesh, tattered skin still attached, cartilage gleaming.

For Clara to use the F-word indicates profound feeling. I've only ever heard her use it during extreme sexual arousal, that she's using it now must mean she's volcanic with anger, as furious as a person can be. Murderous perhaps?

I fear her wrath.

Retribution will be terrible to behold.

But, tumbling about with all those thoughts of Clara's ire and what she might do next, in my head there's a vague wonder surfacing from the pool of glue in which I've been deposited -- it's odd, very strange, but it does seem as though Clara doesn't even see me. She appears to be looking at Simon instead. He's the focal point for her anger.

But why would she be looking at Simon? Why is he the focus of my wife's attention?

Time has slowed again. It's like it was that first moment of epiphany with Simon, only this time it's my future I see -- my marriage in ruin; my daughter's disgust, her hurt and disbelief and anger. Divorce looms. Humiliation my diet from now on. My son full of scorn and revulsion when he hears...

Through the confusion and the weirdness of somehow not being part of what's going on, despite the shock and strangeness of it all I finally I manage to summon the power to croak a single word. It's useless, of course, but my wife's name just grinds out of me on a chocked, "Clara..."

However, as she advances I notice she's still concentrating all she has on our son-in-law. He truly is the target of her fury. I might as well not be there.

"You're going to be punished for this," Clara is saying, fists on her hips, expression severely disapproving. "Cassandra's downstairs," my wife mutters, jaw muscles working. "Get dressed and go to her. There are things that need doing for tomorrow. Try not to forget it is Christmas after all. You have the kiddies to think about. You have to make their day special, Simon." Clara points to a large bag in the corner, a plastic bin-liner full of gaily wrapped gifts. "Don't forget to take the presents like Cassandra told you," she hisses in a voice as icy as the night outside.

It's a truly surreal moment. My wife is still thinking about Christmas? How can she?

Then Simon stammers, "Clara, wuh-what are you doing here...?" Although, I suppose, that should really be my line to utter.

"I've suspected you two were up to no good," my wife replies. "The carol service was a ploy."

My mind reels at this, the news that Clara somehow knew about this affair is another blow to my senses. There's also the hint of some other undercurrent, something that's obvious but which I can't get at because I'm still in shock. It's the same as it was with Clara speaking to Simon and not me, it doesn't gel.

The strange sense of something out of kilter deepens when Clara snaps, "I told you to go to your wife, Simon. I'll deal with you later."

And I'm still trying to figure out the weirdness of that phrase, the, "I'll deal with you later, when I see an odd gleam in my son-in-law's eyes.

He's somewhat abashed but not cowed as he smirks and slides off the bed. It seems that Simon is rather underwhelmed about what's just played out, a very puzzling response indeed. He got a fright, that's for certain, but he's just not as stunned and gape-mouthed as he should be. He's not immobile with the horror of discovery like I am. There's no real shock, no babbling of excuses.

He's not scared shitless of the consequences, a sensation I'm completely au fait with -- terrifyingly so.

As Clara stalks to the door and closes it behind Simon I'm puzzling on it all. Even the part about the carol service being a ploy -- could it mean that Cassandra was privy to Clara's suspicions? The thought sickens me. That my daughter might know is a horrifying torment, a dark moment that churns in my stomach.

Then Clara whirls to face me, a grimace of disgust twisting her face.

I'm still on the bed, in the same position as when when Clara appeared. I haven't so much as twitched except to utter her name. The tempest is all in my head and my tangled guts.

There's cum drying on my skin but I'm too scared to make a move to wipe it away.

"You're a dirty, pathetic worm," Clara begins, head shaking as though I'm a naughty boy who's disappointed her. "Just so you know," my wife informs me, "I've been chastising that perverted pig for years. I've caned his arse scarlet. He loves being spanked.

"I've had him sucking my cunt and fucking his big dick into me almost from the first time Cassandra brought him home. I know what a filthy wretch he is. Your dirty little secret isn't all that much of a secret, James. It isn't a surprise to me at all."

I'm boggling at Clara. Her use of the word cunt is unprecedented -- almost as shocking as the revelations she's just made.

I'm still struggling to make sense of it all as she continues with, "You're in for a very big surprise this Christmas. There's so much more you've been missing out on. It's time you were brought fully into the picture."

She takes a few steps towards me, fingers at the waistband of her black skirt, the garment pooling at her feet before she steps out of it. I'm still staring at her when I see she's bare under the skirt, meaty labia dangling, my wife's dense pubic bush a sculpted triangle at the apex of her slit, with the pudenda smooth and hairless.

"You've been so bad, James," my wife purrs, fingers moving between her legs. Then she jabs the knife of shock deeper into my tormented mind by saying, "My cunt's all creamy. You better lick me 'til I come. And then I'm going to spank you for being such a nasty fucking bastard with our son-in-law behind my back.

"Rest assured, James, the two of you are going to pay."

It promised to be a most disturbing Christmas for me, with the prospects for much change in our household in the new year to come.