Who knew? One minute you are in a loving and hot sexual relationship with a man you are committed to for life as his husband, the next it all turns to ash. Even your closest friend who was almost your twin in looks and stature helped.
You walk in after a business trip that ended a day early, you texted from the airport hoping he was in but there was no response, not even read, you understand, after all, it is a Saturday and he could be out playing golf with his buds. But not this.
You enter your stunning townhouse, which you put together with this stud of a man, a highly reputable investment broker. A stale smell permeates the place, you remove your coat and enter. The lounge and dining area were a mess, with clothes and cushions scattered and uncleared dishes, not the norm for this highly ordered man. The kitchen with half-drunk beer bottles as though sustenance was needed quickly, no time to waste.
I went up a floor, first to our bedroom, where the sheets and bedding were stained and on the floor, the odour even stronger, and the towels were on the floor. I opened a window.
I saw shoes, not his nor mine. They were familiar.
I went up to the eaves, I walked into our guest bedroom, where there was a smell of sex in the air, went straight past them and opened a window.
The look of panic from the man on his back whose legs rose stiffly on muscled shoulders quivering with each hard thrust from a bull who drowned and dominated his body, lost in his feverish rhythm, his face buried in his lover’s neck as he fucked and fucked. The lover pushed him, screamed for him to stop. Then he did. He rose, saw me standing and simply said, “Oh shit!”
With his cock still buried deep, he looked at me and said, “Just go down Andreas, I need to finish this, we need to talk.” And with that, he kissed his lover passionately and thrust hard, they screamed and moaned in unison, well-practised unison. His body heaved mercilessly, his glutes pumping his cock harder and deeper into his helpless victim, fused in bodily fluids as one sexual being.
All fired up. They had fucked all night, all evening, it was not the first time, but it would be the last.
I locked the bedroom door behind me. I locked the entrance to the eaves. I grabbed a few things of value and threw off my wedding ring.
Stepped into the kitchen, turned on the propane on the cooker. It hissed like an angry snake. The basement had gasoline. I bathed the lounge. I lit a candle and placed it under a curtain. I left.
Carefully disabling all cameras and traces of my early arrival, I stepped across the street as my whole life went up in flames and with it my husband and my best friend. It was one way to get rid of that smell of sex, sweat and betrayal. One way to erase years of memories that meant nothing.
There was a commotion, firefighters tackling gas explosions and balls of flames, every beautiful decor, the photos a semblance of our lives together gone in minutes.
Two naked bodies were seen on the emergency exit trying to escape. One fell several floors.
I saw them in the hospital later when I ‘officially’ flew back.. The best friend had severe injuries from the fall, he would never speak or walk again, treachery trapped in his brain. I saw his pleading eyes for forgiveness but I stared back coldly leaving him to suffer in anguish.
The house was in ruins, completely gutted but they found a gold ring in the ash and gave it to him. A keepsake for a treacherous husband.
My husband was in recovery, mostly from burns. I acted the concerned emotional part for his family, but once we were alone, I told him that I had filed for divorce, and asked just one question.
“Did you ever finish, did you ever cum Bruce?”
Then I left for the city of love, my home in Paris, and straight into the waiting arms of my ex, Guillem and his amazing pounding Eiffel Tower.
All fired up.
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