I Fucked Your Wife

Dear Charlie,

I fucked your wife.

It happened yesterday. This letter containing this news will only be sent to you in the event of my death. That will hopefully not be too soon. I know I lead a reckless life, but if I’m lucky I should still be around for a long time. I’m fairly certain that if I sent this to you before my passing, it would only hasten my demise, a prospect I don’t particularly relish. And, I wouldn’t want you to go to prison for killing me. After all, I am your best friend. So, though I do have the greatest desire for you to learn one day that I fucked your beautiful, sweet wife, I am taking the cowards way out and leaving this letter with my attorney with the instructions to mail it only after I die.

You were working late yesterday, as usual, and Becky came across the hall and knocked on my door. She said the toilet in your master bedroom wouldn’t stop running and asked me to come over and fix it. I grabbed my tool kit and followed her into your apartment. Your daughter was at the dining table doing her homework—or whatever fifth grade project. (I love how she calls me “Uncle Bob”.) Becky had just come back from her tennis lesson, and as I followed her down the hall to the master bedroom, I couldn’t help noticing how hot she looked from the rear in her little white mini-skirted tennis dress. She was laughing about something as she walked before me in that bubbly attitude she always seems to have.

Fixing the john didn’t take long, but I did advise her to have you replace the internal workings before long. (I wonder if she remembered to do that?) And damn her, you know how she’s always flirting? I’ve been around the two of you for three years now, and she’s always playing with me, teasing me. Always dropping double entendres in that laughing little way of hers. As I was finishing the job with the toilet, she was wondering out loud if I was such a serviceable handyman in all areas. “Let’s find out,” I said, locking the door of the master bedroom to the hallway. “Why are you doing that,” she asked, her voice quizzical. “So your daughter won’t catch us,” I said. “Catch us what?” Becky asked, her voice still with that flirtatious lilt, but there was doubt in her face. “This,” I said, and took her in my arms.

I figured that she had been cock teasing me for three years and, by damn, I was going to call her fucking bluff. If she had really resisted, I would have backed off, apologized, and slunk out. And she did resist at first. I had pressed her body against mine and my mouth against hers before she fully knew what was happening and could react, and by the time she did react, I had not only had a full taste of the deliciousness of her lips, but was already duck walking her toward your marital bed. “Bobby, no!” she gasped when she was able to pull her mouth away from mine. “What are you doing!?”

We were at the bed then, and I kept her pinned against me. My mouth again sought hers, but she jerked her head away, her long, silky hair cascading against my face as she did this. “Bobby, no!” she cried. Ignoring her, my hands grasped her firm buttocks through the tennis panties that she wore underneath the mid-thigh length tennis skirt. My mouth went to her neck. Her aroma was intoxicating. If I had had any second thoughts about my gambit, they were thoroughly washed away by the fragrance that radiated from her, a mixture of perfume and the perspiration from her tennis lesson that had dried on the smooth, soft texture of her skin.

As I intensified both the hold I had on her ass and the kisses I planted on her neck, she stuck at me repeatedly in the shoulders with the sides of her fists.