Sam

"Call me a whore," she said, lustfully. "Call me a fucking whore!"

The painful sting of those words echoed in Bill Dean's mind. It was a recurring dream and a shitty one; one that never failed to wake him on the wrong side of rested. This morning he returned to conscious life, slobbering on the soft leather of his sofa. His eyes were puffy from tears shed pondering a depressed life, and his back ached from the protrusion of the support bar running beneath the cushions. He couldn't shake the thought that he was a bad person, that he had somehow deeply angered the gods. But specifics eluded him, and the weight of his blurred past bore down on his weary shoulders.

On the coffee table before him was a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, a squat heavy glass, a remote control, and a stack of pornographic magazines. A greasy bottle of baby oil lay on its side, dripping slowly into a pool onto the surface of the table.

He looked around and saw no signs of his wife, Samantha, so he called out to her, “Sam, are you there?" He could hear only the slight whirring noise of the air conditioning system.

"I miss you, baby," he said calmly, and waited for a response. Nothing.

Bill knew he wouldn’t turn the television back on to watch another episode of Teacher/Student Relations #6---something he’d watched all the previous night, and many prior---and she had called his bluff. He sat up on the edge of the couch and hung his head, wondering how his life had gotten to such a point. What had he done to his own wife that would force her to lock herself away in their bedroom alone? Was she afraid or resentful, or both?

The tedium of days passing into the next had forced him to realize that he wasn’t the monster in this scenario, but the victim. He was the one who was being cheated out of a fulfilling life with Sam. He was the one who had been hurt and was only trying to come to grips with her deadening silence. He was the one who had come home to find her in the arms of another man. Yet he was still here, patiently waiting for her to get over the gravity of her sins and rejoin his life.

Bill made his way into the kitchen and threw some breakfast together. He divvied the contents onto a couple of plates, sitting one down next to the oven and the other he took into the dining room and began eating.

His meal was ample but ultimately deficient of any real satisfaction. He missed his wife. They had only been married a year and a half when he caught her with the FedEx man. The bastard who’d stolen his soulmate. Even then he let the man leave in peace, with assurance from both of them that it would never happen again. It seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. The human thing to do. After all, even FedEx guys get horny. And maybe his wife wasn’t putting out. If he even had a wife... Either way, he must have left so fast that he didn’t even take his truck, an odd thing in Bill’s eyes, since it was a company truck. But after a few days, Bill decided to drive it a dozen miles out of town and left it at a truck stop so that someone could find it.

He licked his plate clean, something his mom had always encouraged him to do, and dropped it into the sink. He grabbed the Sam’s plate in one hand and the orange juice in the other, and walked down the hallway to the bedroom.

“Honey, I made you eggs. Just the way you like them. And bacon, too. Extra crispy. A tall glass of OJ to wash it all down…” Again he waited for her to respond. “If we could just talk. Jesus, I would give anything to talk.” Soon he realized this morning would be no different, and he sat the food down before the door and left for his job in an office cubicle downtown.

At work, Bill felt he was in his element. He was able to put all those years of training into actual practice. He stepped into the elevator with several others and punched in the eighteenth floor. As they ascended, the group was whittled down to Bill and a coworker of his, Janine. A great-looking twenty-something, Janine was renowned for her office romances, most of them lasting all of a single night. And it was no wonder. He couldn't keep his eyes off her ass and how her skirt clung to its phenomenal shape. Short, petite, perfectly proportioned, and energetic.

"How you doin', Bill?" she asked while reading a novel, her eyes never leaving the page. She was standing a couple feet in front of him.

"Can't complain."

"I mean your health. You look like shit."

Bill was taken aback by her brutal honesty. "Gee, thanks."

"I'm serious," she said sliding the book into her purse. She turned to face him and examined his eyes. "Are you getting any sleep? You need sleep, Bill."

"To be honest, things have never really returned to normal at home. So I guess it's impacting my sleep, sure. Who wouldn't it bother?"

"No, believe me. I get that. But you need to look out for yourself. If she wants to stay couped up in her room, let her. You need to focus on you for a change. You know what I mean?"

"I guess. It's just hard to move on."

"Do you two..." she said and raised her eyebrows.

"Not since that day."

"No shit?" she said, stepping closer to him.

"No shit."

"But you take care of yourself, right?" Janine grabbed hold of the outline of his manhood, bulging against the fabric of his slacks. "You're not going without?"

"I do what I can," he said, squirming to accommodate her grip.

She shook her head, and reached out with her free hand and massaged his upper arm. "Wow. You poor guy."

"Janine, I don't think we should be doing this," he said, his voice cracking under the strain of his massive hard-on.

"Doing what?" asked Janine, who was suddenly standing several feet from him, her nose deep within the crease of her novel.

Bill's expression was one of confusion. He squinted as he looked at her, not believing--or even knowing--what had just happened. He felt dizzy.

Janine turned around to face him, and asked, "Doing what, Bill?"

"Uh..."

"You okay? You look pale," she said, in a tone that lacked much concern

"Fuck off!" said Bill, before he realized it was the wrong thing to say. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Good morning to you, too, Bill. Geez," she said, shaking her head and turning away from him again.

"Janine, I'm sorry. I... I'm not feeling well today. Forgive me."

She nodded, widened her eyes in a look that said 'whatever', and went back to reading her book.

When the doors spread open, she exited quickly without a word. Bill hung his head and marched to his desk. What a shitty start to my day, he thought. When arrived at his cubicle, he saw a note laying on his keyboard. He sat down and tore it open. The letter inside was typed on the company letterhead, but pink with fat black lettering that was fuzzy and out of focus at first. He squinted to read, "Bill, I need you. Please be with me tonight. Janine."

It confirmed his suspicions that the two of them were definitely becoming involved on more than a working level. His thoughts went back to Sam and how they had drifted apart. Every fiber of him wanted their marriage to succeed. But it wasn't. In fact the very opposite was happening. And now, with Janine pursuing a relationship that could only be categorized as romantic, his steadfastness was beginning to wane. Since the day he caught Sam with that man, his deep physical needs had failed to be met. He needed sexual contact. He needed a woman.

He decided he would take Janine up on her offer, so he stood up and made his way through the maze of tiny cubicles until he was standing at the entrance of her space. She was typing something furiously on the keyboard, her little elbows flaring out. The white wires of her earbud headphones ran to an iPod on her desk, and he could see that she was dancing to its beat. She was so beautiful, so intriguing. She could have any man, he thought, so why me?

Mustering up the boldness to approach her, he stepped forward and tapped her shoulder. She jumped and turned to see it was him. Angrily she jerked the headphones from her ears and said, "God, you scared the shit out of me! What do you want?!?"

It wasn't the reaction he had hoped for, but she was even prettier when she was upset. "I'm sorry. Today my timing's been off a bit. Please accept my apology."

"You don't have to apologize. You just scared me, that's all. What do you need? I'm busy."

He held out the letter, smiling, and said, "Care to explain this?"

She seemed lost, but took the letter from him and read it. Then she looked back up at him, and said in a regretful tone, "I'm sorry, Bill."

"Don't be sorry," he said and knelt down in front of her. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know. But I think we should celebrate. Tonight."

"Celebrate?"

"Sure. We can make it official. Today we shall merely be Bill and Janine. Tomorrow, we'll be the item."

"The item? What the hell are you talking about, Bill?"

"Your offer. I accept."

"What offer?" she asked, confusion painting her expression.

"This," he said, grabbing the paper from her hand. "And you're right. Why fight this?"

"Bill, I'm going to ask you again. Are you okay?"

"Janine, how much clearer can it be?" he asked, staring down at the paper. "You say here..." His voice trailed off. He could not believe what he was seeing. The room began to spin and that sensation of lightheadedness returned to him. He was reading a termination notice. His termination notice.

"Maybe you should sit down," she said and left.

Bill stood there staring at the letter, but his eyes couldn't focus. He squinted and shook his head to clear it up. "This just isn't possible. There must be some mistake. Someone else maybe."

"Bill, I'm so sorry," a voice came from behind. It was Neena, an elderly secretary who had been with the company for decades. Beside her stood Janine with a worried look on her face. "Can I get you a drink of water?" she asked.

"No, I'll be fine," he said, and left them. Confusion and dizziness quickly turned to anger as he entered the nearest elevator and took it down to the lobby. There were people all around but none were distinct. No faces. They seemed blurry with a dim grayish glow hugging their silhouettes. He made his way to the parking garage and managed to get to his car before he vomited across its rear quarter panel. Chunks of breakfast in a slimy green-yellow syrup coated the blue paint and streamed down to pool around the tire.

He wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve and got into the car. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, causing the spinning feeling to come back with greater ferocity. Again he spewed, this time all over the dash and windshield. After the surge abated, and the heaves that followed, he cranked the engine and drove off. The drive home was dismal. Alternating images of Sam and Janine raced through his mind, as he struggled to see the road through the smeared remnants of breakfast on the glass before him. It sickened him even more as he contemplated the thought of being unfaithful to his wife. Marriage was sacred, he thought. Nothing can change that, not all the shapely ass in the world. Two wrongs never make a right, he told himself repeatedly.

Pulling into the driveway, Bill cringed at the thought of what he had to do next. He walked in and shut the door and called out to his wife; knowing she wouldn't answer, but thinking it was worth a try. He checked the messages on the answering machine and listened as Sam's sister begged her to pick up, her mother pleading with her to get back in touch, a detective who demanded to speak with him, and a sales call from The Home Depot. For weeks he went through the process of calling these people back, but then stopped as it was always the same. Nothing changed. The only thing he knew to tell them was that she didn't want to see anyone just yet, not even her own husband.

What made this day even more depressing was that it was the one-month anniversary of her infidelity. He grabbed the unmolested plate of breakfast and threw it away, cleaned up with a shower, and sat in his easy chair in the corner of the living room naked, recalling the details of that fateful day. He had a bottle of wine this time, red and bitter. No glass.

His memory of Sam was still quite vivid even though it had been such a long time since he had laid eyes on her. She was a beautiful woman. Young and innocent and full of life. At first, as he recalled, when he peeked through the barely opened door, he thought that the FedEx man was raping her. She was moaning and bent over the edge of their bed. The man was tall and thickly built and quite well-endowed. He had one hand on the side of her bare hip, the other gripping a wad of her hair, slamming into her violently from behind.

Then Bill saw something that turned his world upside down and broke his heart. Samantha was enjoying it, reaching around to grip her lover's thigh and telling him repeatedly to call her a whore and a slut and bad girl. Bill gulped air as he watched the large man bring his hand down onto the soft skin of his wife's ass, shouting out obscenities, all of which she found somewhat exciting. Then he reached forward and cupped her swaying breasts, kneading them with his powerful paws. Samantha tilted her head back, her hair dancing in step to their motion, her back arched, her ass high in the air. And the man continued exploiting her openness.

"You'd better hurry before Bill gets home," she said. "I don't think he's going to like you." She giggled.

"Fuck him!" said the man, who renewed his vigor and sped up the pace.

"God, yes! Oh..." Samantha was moaning to the same tune she had always moaned. "Fuck me! Harder! I need that cock! More! Harder!"

Bill's fists clenched tightly as he watched, his teeth grinding together, his eyes glazing over. Rage saturated his every fiber, witnessing something no husband should ever have to witness.

Then those fateful words that kept him at nights and were there when he woke. "Call me a whore. Call me a fucking whore!"

Bill kicked the door open and stood there, watching them as they scurried for cover. The man instantly lost his erection and hid it with one hand, the other reaching out to Bill for forgiveness. He was crying. She was crying. The scene had a surreal sense to it, like an act in a stage play coming to a conclusion, a climax.

Bill remembered telling the man to leave and to never come back. Then he turned to his wife and before slamming the door shut, he warned her to never betray him again. The next day, Bill woke from the couch and made her breakfast and delivered it to her door. But it was locked, and she wouldn’t let him in. She never spoke after that day. He never saw her after that day.

Bill poured another helping of wine down his gullet, and pondered several things that never added up about that day. Why didn’t the FedEx man take his truck? Surely his boss at work would’ve wondered where it had gone. Why would his wife stay pent up in a bedroom for a month? Bill admitted to himself it was quite embarrassing what had happened, but a full month?

The more he drank, the more he desired to have his wife, the way the FedEx man was having her that day he caught them. He wanted her sexually, even more than he had desired to have Janine. He wanted to ravage her with a violent lust, like the whore she was. He thought back to their honeymoon and how new and exciting everything was back then. They seemed to be alive only to explore the other's body, each day bringing with it fresh ideas for where and how to touch the other, to please the other.

He remembered the library of home movies they had amassed of the two of them performing the marital due--their own little video version of the Kama Sutra--and he decided to flip through the collection. After much deliberation, he chose the one they had made only a month into their marriage. An appropriate date considering the circumstances. He pressed play. Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched. Sam was on the sofa with her legs slightly spread, her fingers burrowing between her folds. She was moaning. With the other hand she was massaging her breasts. A closeup of her treasure followed, with her fingers dipping inside, then coming out glistening wet. A faint queefing noise was audible. Bill heard his voice on the tape, "My God, you're beautiful when you're playing with yourself." "You like that?" she replied, to which Bill said, "I do, I do." Next, he was holding the camera during intercourse, the view alternating between their intercourse and the smile plastered across her face. "Come on," she said. "Give it to me. Give me all you've got." She spoke softly, lustfully.

But the effect of watching them engage in such a pure expression of love had a strange slant. Bill began to sob uncontrollably, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible. He soon phased the movie out to the horrific vision of Sam fucking that man, and he switched the television off. Now, quite aroused, he began stroking himself. His rigidity was in full pulse, bounding as if to split the tender, vascular skin of his cock. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was tired of living this kind of life. He was ashamed that he had come so close to cheating on Sam with Janine.

He gripped himself very tightly, so that his palm wasn't gliding across his skin, but was tugging the skin itself. Higher and higher he pulled, forcing the skin to half-envelop the glans, though he was circumcised. The quality of the pain was beyond unbearable. It was enjoyable, and he continued as he noticed the glint of precum seeping through the widening slit. His body tightened, and he felt the pre-climatic rush come over him, his balls lifting with an incredible tension, his body tightening and losing voluntary control. Then he stopped. This wasn't the way it would be tonight.

He hopped up and tossed the bottle of wine to the floor. Every fiber of his existence cried out for him to share his emission with Samantha. He refused to waste another lustful release on himself. God intended him to share that part of his life with his mate, and tonight he had made up his mind he was going to do it.

He got up and retrieved the 10mm pistol he kept locked away in the hallway closet. After checking the clip, he marched to the door of their bedroom and banged the butt of the pistol against the wood.

Nothing.

Then the thought of a solution occurred to him. What if Sam's shame could be nullified by an act of infidelity on his part? Maybe she just needed an even score. Maybe if he was willing to give up his marital chastity, she would take him back. And things could go back the way they were.

"Baby," he spoke through the door. "I've figured it out. I'm going to have an affair of my own. Then we'll be even, and we can get on with things. How does that sound?"

Bill walked away from the door and laid the pistol on the kitchen counter. He picked up the phone and flipped through the yellow pages for the number of an escort service. The company name "Wife's Away" caught his attention and he dialed it and arranged for someone to stop by.

A surge of joy overcame him as he pondered how the next hour or so would play out.

The four hundred dollars he agreed to pay over the phone went to work quickly as a wrap on the front door came in less than thirty minutes. He opened it to find a cute, youthful girl, probably early twenties, short with shoulder-length wavy brown hair. She was dressed in a business suit and spoke in a very proper Northeastern accent. Her name was Veronica. At least that's what she said it was.

Before greeting her, Bill shoved a piece of paper in her hand and told her to read it. She wore the look of surprise at his manner, read the note, and grinned. "It'll cost another hundred," she said, to which he agreed and let her in.

She brought her hand up to cover her nose, and said, "What's that smell?"

Bill sniffed the air. "Bacon from breakfast probably."

"Bacon, my ass. Smells like a dead animal. Do you have rats? I'll bet one of them died in the attic. God it's strong!"

"I can't smell a thing."

"Look, I know you paid good money. But I just can't work with that smell hanging around. Can we do this somewhere else?"

"Where would you suggest?"

"I have a room in the Westin downtown. It's a great room. Another couple hundred should do it."

Bill looked at the woman before him. She wasn't half the woman Sam was. She was young and naive and selfish. And most of all, she was a whore. A cheap, dimestore hooker who took money from men in exchange for sex. She sold her body and her dignity every day to men who had no life. 'But I'm different than those losers', he thought. 'I'm using her the same as she's using me. I'm playing her like fiddle. No, like a violin. That's how I'm playing her. I need her to even the score and she needs me to pay the rent. I need to be in the arms of another woman so that Sam will take me back.'

"So what do you think?" asked the woman, eyes wide and a bit anxious.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll put something on that's more presentable."

After he left, she plopped down on the couch and noticed the stack of magazines. She rolled her eyes and retrieved her Sidekick instant-messaging device and feverishly began thumb-typing away. A couple of minutes passed and she sighed, wondering what was taking him so long. He wasn't a bad looking guy, she told herself, but he was a little strange. Maybe just lonely. Lonely men had paid her way through college, so why was she complaining.

The silence was broken by three hard bangs on the door. Veronica waited for him to answer it, but when the knocks returned and there was no sign of Bill responding, she stood up and poked her head into the hallway. "Someone's at the door. Should I answer it?"

"Go ahead," he said.

Veronica opened the door to find a woman who's jaw dropped the moment she saw her. "Can I help you?" asked Veronica.

"You can start by telling me who you are," said the woman. Her eyes were red and puffy and her cheeks were flushed.

"A friend," said Veronica.

"Of whom, Bill or my sister?"

The question hit Veronica like a maul across her face. She immediately realized the situation she was in, textbook domestic shit. And it wasn't part of the deal. Her job was to provide a fantasy for the client, not to mend problems with the wife. And it definitely didn't include getting in the middle of fuming in-laws itching for a fight. "Both," she finally decided might be the safest answer to the woman’s question.

"I doubt that. Where's Sam?"

"She's not here."

"Bill, then."

"He's... tied up at the moment," said Veronica, smiling.

"You listen to me," she said, pointing a stiff finger in Veronica's direction. "I know you don't realize it, or even care for that matter. But you're destroying what was once a beautiful marriage. You're a cheap piece of ass and Sam is a great woman. Remember that."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Veronica. "Anything else?"

The woman sighed, shot her a look of disgust, and left.

Another ten minutes passed before Bill returned. He was dressed in a business suit and cleaned up nice.

"You're sister-in-law says that we can't be friends," said Veronica.

"Julie's a good girl. She just doesn't see that this is none of her business. You ready?"

They left the house and got into Veronica's Mercedes and sped toward the downtown hotel. On the way, Bill felt himself growing more and more aroused. The adulterous air to their adventure was turning him on. He put his hand on her bare thigh and enjoyed the way it felt. He wondered what it felt like for Sam, having another man touch her in places only a husband ought.

"So," said Veronica, "I'm supposed to be Janine in this little game of yours. A co-worker?"

"I thought about that. Why don't we change it up a bit. You'll be Julie."

"The angry sister-in-law," said Veronica, grinning. "I like it."

"We meet in the hotel to discuss the shit Sam and I are going through. You come up with the idea that a little romp might do me some good. I fight it, but you seduce me in the end."

"A classic. You'd be surprised at how many men have the exact same fantasy."

"Then you know how to pull it off?"

"Like a song, baby. Like a goddamn song."

"Good," said Bill. "Then starting now, you're Julie taking me to the hotel. Go."

"You just have to give her time, that's all. And space. She needs her space."

"But I want us to be a family again," said Bill, playing his role. "I want things to be like they used to be."

"They will, honey. Be patient. I have a room waiting for you downtown where you can really focus on what a great thing you guys have together. Where you can remember all the good times you've shared and how great it will be when the two of you are back together. Sound good?"

"It does," he said, then realized he had his hand on her leg and removed it. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be," she said, returning his hand to the soft skin of her toned thigh. "You just need companionship, that's all. And that's where I come in. Family always sticks together to work out its issues. Right?"

"Right," he said, squeezing her thigh.

She put her hand on his and positioned it further toward the inner part of her thigh and spread her legs a bit. "There, now. You'll see. By tomorrow everything will be much clearer."

When they finally arrived at the room, Veronica slid the key card through the slit and the door unlocked with an audible clack. She hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door and told Bill to get more comfortable. She told him she needed a shower and that he needed to relax.

Ten minutes had passed when she emerged wearing a robe to find Bill sitting on the edge of the bed. He was staring at her, but it wasn't the stare she was used to. There was something behind it, something that worried her. But her professionalism took over and shelved her concern, and she said, "That felt wonderful." She sat beside him, put her arm around him, and said, "She'll come around, you'll see. Now why don't you get yourself cleaned up and I'll be waiting right here ready to talk when you get out."

"I showered at the house," he said.

There was a nervous edge to his voice that Veronica picked up on. "Oh, okay. Then why don't we get you out of these clothes and into something more comfortable." She began by taking on his sport jacket. Then placing her fingers expertly around the front of his shirt collar, she unbuttoned the top button of eight. She slid down to the next, then another until his shirt was spread open.

She met his gaze and saw that look again. It was a cold, empty glare. What was going through his head?

Bill said, "You don't have to be here. I can handle things on my own."

"I wouldn't dream of leaving you in such a state," she said. "Besides, what kind of sister-in-law would I be, leaving you here sulled up like a possum?"

"Thanks," he said, removing his shirt. "I'm going to go change. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, and watched him enter the bathroom. When he emerged wearing the other robe, she said, "Is that better?"

"It is," he answered her, and sat next to her on the bed.

"So, tell me all about Sam's little fling."

"It was awful. I walked in on them. He was a delivery guy. He had her bent over our bed, and he was... he was having his way with her." When Bill spoke, his eyes were straight ahead. They began to tear up, as he continued. "And I heard her say... 'Call me a whore'... She said that. Isn't that awful?"

Veronica put her arms around him, and said, "Sam's always been full of life. But what she did was awful. There's no excuse for it."

"No, there isn't. But I miss her. I want her back."

"Then why don't we even the scales," said Veronica, massaging his earlobe.

Bill turned to look at her. "What do you mean?"

Veronica placed one hand on his lap and could feel his arousal. "Think about it. Your wife has been with another man, you said so yourself. Yet you’ve only been with her." She pressed against his erection.

"I don't know. You two have always been so close."

"Then it would be our little secret," she said, sliding her hand between the crease of the robe and gripping his cock. "I won't tell a soul."

The sensation of her hand on his bulging mass was electrifying. He gulped a mouthful of saliva, and put his hand on hers. "I don't think I can do this."

"You don't have to do a thing," she said, sliding down to her knees before him. "I'll do all the work."

She spread his robe apart, and glared lustfully at his member. But just as she pulled herself in and before her lips made contact, he blocked her advance with his hands. "I can't. I thought I could do it, but I can't."

"Sam didn't have a problem with it," she said.

"Shut up!" he snapped at her. "Don't talk about Sam that way! Don't ever say her name again!" His voice was loud and forceful.

"I just thought we could..." She was speaking when he cut her off.

"This is over, Veronica." His eyes had returned to that same cold glare.

"You mean Julie," said Veronica, growing more concerned with his mental state.

"No, I mean Veronica, the fucking whore!" he shouted at her.

She stood up. "You're a fucking pscho! Anyone ever told you that?" she said, and gathered her things. She disappeared into the bathroom.

Bill sat there with tears running down his cheeks. He was ashamed of himself for going as far as he had in this little game. Any way you painted it, he told himself, this was adultery and adultery was hated by God. Adultery was what Sam had committed. And by doing it, she had taken something from him that he now knew could never be replaced. She had taken his soul.

Veronica came out, dressed again in her sexy outfit, and grabbed the door handle. Before leaving, she turned and said, "The room's yours for night. You paid for it. Oh, and lose my number. I don't ever want to hear from you again."

The door closed behind her. Bill didn't move an inch.

It was 9:12pm.

A sound woke him. He checked the clock. 2:45am. He was in the same position, sitting on the edge of the bed with his robe spread open. He felt the urge to urinate, but not the urge to get up and take care of it. So he relieved himself right there, the warmth spreading across the inside of his thigh and down to the bed and floor beneath him. The associated pungent smell followed, but it didn't bother him. It was a natural process, he told himself.

The bitch, he thought. That worthless piece-of-shit whore of a bitch. What was she thinking, acting like Julie to get--no, take--his fidelity from him? Julie was a better person than that. She was pure, a religious fanatic who spent more time praying in any one week than he had in his whole life. But she judged people. She judged him. And judging belonged to God.

The nerve of that that goddamn whore, he tortured himself. And to think where her crotch had been, the nasty little slit from hell. The things it had seen and experienced, the men who had eagerly used their faces for its seat, who had plowed into it with all the vigor and enthusiasm they should have been sharing with their wives at home. The thought of their collective betrayal disgusted him.

The next time he looked at the clock it was 4:02am and he still hadn't moved. He didn't want to. Nothing about moving or leaving was anywhere in his thoughts. He was angry. At Sam his wife. At Veronica the whore. At Julie the bigot. At the detective who wouldn't let it go. At The Home Depot for calling and leaving messages all the goddamn time. At himself mainly. Twice in one day he had come within inches of throwing away their marriage. And for what, to have his cock teased by two women who on their best day couldn't match Sam on her worst?

That did it. Forget the schemes and the fantasies of sex free of the bonds of marriage. It was time for Sam to come out. This was the day. He got up, showered, left a hundred dollar bill on the nightstand to compensate for his mess, and left.

On the way back home, he noticed a shop. Allen’s Armory. Without giving it much thought, he pulled into the parking lot and entered to find a lone man behind the counter. Allen, he assumed.

“Hey, pardner,” said the man.

Bill nodded and began to study the guns on the walls. Rows and rows of every kind of gun imaginable. A shiny shotgun caught his eye.

“That one there,” said Bill, gesturing. “What’s the story?”

“You’ve got a good eye, my friend. A good goddamn eye,” said the man, as he walked over and retrieved it. He clutched it before him and offered it to Bill to hold. “Ten gauge, side-by-side, with a custom stock and etched silver plating.”

Bill took it and enjoyed the weight of it in his hands. “She’s a beaut.”

“That she is. Set you back four large, but you’ll never find another like her.”

“Do you sell the ammunition for it? It seems exotic.”

“Five bucks a slug, or two bucks for buckshot. You want exotic, you gotta go through some paperwork. But I’ve got a six gauge at the house’ll set ya plum back on your ass.”

“No shit?”

“No, sir. It’ll kill anything that walks on face of the earth in one shot. It’ll do a number on your shoulder, too, if you ain’t padded right.”

Bill looked down at the masterpiece in his hands. “I’ll take it.”

The time was 5:23 in the morning as Bill drove away from Allen’s Armory. He purchased the shotgun and fifty slugs, then loaded it and sat it beside him. He wanted to face Sam, but needed the words to come out right. He needed to frame his argument in a way that would bring her across to his way of thinking. And that would take time.

He turned left on MLK Boulevard, which is a direction he’d never gone before. The tone of the neighborhood was a bit darker than he was and, though he never had anything against the coloreds, he also didn’t have any affinity for them either. For the first time in his life he wasn’t afraid; not of the police, not of the busybody detective, not even of being in the wrong neighborhood while it was dark out. He feared nothing.

The headlights shown before him like illuminated swords slashing through the darkness. Not even the street lights were lit, all of them in various states of disrepair. He pulled over in front of a park and grabbed the shotgun and exited the car.

As he entered the gates, the din of conversation ahead grew louder. He could make out four men and a woman, all speaking in ghetto slang and leaning against a stone wall.

“Evening,” said Bill.

“What the fuck you want, cracka?” asked one of them.

“Ease up, nigga. He’s got a gun,” said another.

“You betta have the muthafucka loaded, comin’ up in here like you own the shit!” shouted the third.

“Just going for a walk,” said Bill as he walked up to within ten feet of them. “Don’t want any trouble.”

“You a lyin’ muthafucka!” said the woman. “If ya didn’t want no trouble, yo honkey ass wouldn’t be up in here wavin’ no goddamn gun.”

One of the men stepped toward Bill, and said, “Cracka-ass bitch with a scattagun. What, you think I’m scared? You think my black ass is shakin’ cuz your weak ass done went and found a gun? Ain’t never in my life been scared of no white-colla, honkey-ass cracka. Bes git the fuck outta here fo you get hurt.”

The words had barely left his lips when Bill fired the first of two shots into his chest. The group scattered and Bill walked up to the man writhing on the ground, his chest tore open. He cracked the barrel and reloaded. He looked down at the man and said, “You should’ve learned some respect. Cracker is a racist term. Shame on you.”

Bill looked around him and realized the others were long gone. He stretched his shoulder out and winced at the pain of the recoil. It felt like someone had just hit him with a bat. He walked back to his car and drove home.

When he arrived, he stripped naked, grabbed the pistol, and stood before the bedroom door.

"Baby, I'm coming in. You and I have to talk. We have to get this thing behind us, and we have to do it right," he said, raring back and throwing himself into the door, causing its locking mechanism to cave under the strain of the impact, the door swinging violently open.

He entered the room, but immediately he put the back of his hand to his nose. There was an awful smell in the room that was suffocating, causing him to choke and gag.

Instantly he saw her laying on the bed, under the covers, her head propped up by a couple of pillows, staring straight ahead. She hadn't changed a lick since the last time he laid eyes on her. Still beautiful, and still wearing that lacy black bra, her soft hair tumbling across her shoulders.

Bill rounded the bed, his eyes fixed on his wife. But she wouldn't look at him. She refused to look at him.

"Baby, what happened in here?" His voice was full of compassion. "The smell is awful. You haven't been cleaning it, have you? And you used to be such a good house cleaner," he told her. But she remained focused on the far wall and refused to acknowledge his presence. "I need you back in my life, Sam. Look what you've done," he said, gesturing toward his erection. "You've gone and got me all worked up... Just like you used to. Remember?"

He pulled the covers down from her body, exposing her nudity below. Her pubic region was still shaved exactly the way he loved it, a small strip of short curly hair about two inches long and an inch wide, originating just below the crest of her nub and extending up from there. He put a hand on the region and began stroking it, but she didn't even flinch. Her flesh was cold to the touch. With his other hand, he ripped the bra from her breasts and began sucking them as if it were their first time together. Her nipples were so stiff and delicious, he thought. Finally, a real woman.

And then the image of this being their initial sexual experience aroused him even more, so that he mounted her and they became one. He stuffed the pistol between the folds of the covers, making sure the safety was on, and began thrusting into her.

She was still so soft, but not as lubricated or warm as he remembered. He passed it off to his dependence on baby oil and lotions over the past month. So he plowed ahead, pummeling her with a virgin's fascination. He looked down at her gorgeous labia as he buried himself in her folds. Hers had always been larger than any other woman he had seen. Not in a bad way; just erotically massive, especially her inner lips when swollen. It was as if they were the tender petals of a flower blossoming in Spring, taking in his cock with a personal pride and caressing it to its rock-hard stiffness.

"Even now you won't get into it," he said, realizing her lack of interest. "You just lay there then. I'll do all the work." He was breathing rapidly now and his head felt light, the room beginning to spin. But he continued his heaving.

A quick mental image of Janine spread out naked before him flashed in his thoughts. He closed his eyes and molded the fantasy, with Janine's legs spread as far apart as humanly possible and her large tits heaving with his advances. "Fuck me, big boy!" she would scream. "Fill me with your cum!" But he couldn't, his conscience wouldn't let him engage in this. It was mental adultery.

He opened his eyes and saw Sam and her smaller breasts, and was glad she was there. "Just say something, baby. Anything. Please!" Now he was crying again, his tears falling on her flat stomach, his voice sobbing more than talking.

He felt the surge of explosion build until he knew it was nearly over. A bittersweet moment, he thought, one best to be savored than scarfed down. Finally, after a month of waiting, he was actually having sexual intercourse with his wife. But her inexplicable lack of participance still bothered him. Then it happened. His buildup peaked into euphoric ecstasy, followed by a series of powerful volleys that left him drained. In a matter of seconds his insides were emptied into hers. Their souls intermingled, he thought.

When it was over, he looked down at her and gazed at her beauty. His mood was somber. "I can't take this anymore, Sam. You need to snap out of it." His voice cracked.

Then, seeing there was no change in her attitude, he reached under the covers and retrieved the pistol. He held it and rested it on his thigh. Then he laughed nervously. "Here I am with a gun, Sam. We just made love and I'm holding a goddamn gun. Isn't that hilarious?"

He began to lose control. "It's a goddamn gun, Sam!" He screamed. "And I'm ready to use it! I'm not fucking around anymore! Either you rejoin me in the life we deserve..." He hesitated, then continued, "...or you die."

He gripped the gun in both hands and aimed it at her forehead. "You don't think I mean it? You don't think I'll do it? Why not, you've been dead to me for a month now. Why not end it right here, right now?" He was screaming at her at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his mouth.

He leaned forward a bit and pressed the cold barrel of the gun against the soft flesh of her cheek. "You're a fucking bitch, you know that? A fucking goddamn bitch!!" His face turned red, his eyes wide with rage. He was shaking.

She made no moves, still staring somewhere beyond him, the blueness of her eyes sparkling with the reflected glint of the gun.

Then as suddenly as his anger had blazed, it subsided, leaving him dejected and low. "You're right. I can't do it. I can't kill the woman I love, the woman of my dreams. And you're it. You're the woman I'd give the world to, and you know it. But you wouldn't take it, would you?"

Slowly he pulled the gun away from Sam and placed it under his chin. "I love you, Sam. I always have." And then he squeezed the trigger, the dense lead of the bullet blowing the top of his head off, the initial spatter of blood and flesh spraying across the ceiling. He fell like a rock onto her breasts, muscles twitching, while the rest of his blood gushed out in spurts through his nose and the massive hole in his chin.

The room was silent.

An hour later, the police showed up after being notified of a noise that sounded like a gunshot. The shotgun and ammunition in the car matched the pattern reported at the homicide in the park. After calling backup, the team entered to find the walls of the bedroom covered in blood, most of it black and caked from age. In the closet was a box freezer that held in it the remnants of two people. A hand saw lay on top, with dried shards of flesh still in its teeth.

When searching the delivery driver's duffel bag, they found a change of clothes, two airline tickets to Tahiti, and a video camera. The tape was full. A playback showed Samantha taking her clothes off in the bedroom.

"Put that away, silly. We'll have plenty of time to get kinky on the beach," she said, tossing her bra at the camera.

Then the camera was set up on top of the bag so that its lens was aimed at the bed. Thankfully, it was a wide-angle type and caught the entire room. Samantha leaned over the edge of the bed and teased the man by swaying her ass left and right. Soon he had joined her and they began having sex. After eight minutes had passed, according to the tape counter, Bill burst into the room and the two lovers split apart. The man was kneeling on the ground, begging for his life. Samantha had covered herself with a sheet and was crying. Bill was holding a large kitchen knife.

Without a word being spoken, Bill surged forward with a fast downward slashing motion, cutting the man's throat. He stepped back and watched the man's frantic attempts to cover the gaping wound with his hands. Samantha screamed as her lover began flopping around on the floor, his face full of fear at the enormous amount of blood spurting through his fingers. In a matter of seconds he had bled out. His feet stopped kicking. And Samantha backed up against the headboard.

Bill pulled his attention away from his victim, and stared at his wife. Then he dropped to his knees and brought the point of the knife down into the lifeless corpse. Again and again he stabbed him, blood splashing up with every descent. After forty-two jabs (the police had to study the tape for hours to get that count) Bill stood up and approached Samantha, his face and clothes drenched in blood.

He grabbed her by one of her wrists and pulled her to him. She seemed to be in shock because she didn't offer any resistance. Then he told her, "You've done a bad thing, Sam." She didn't speak, so he grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her head back, yelling, "I said, 'You've done a fucked-up thing, Sam!'" He then took the knife and slit her throat, holding her until she too had bled out.

Twenty-six minutes later, he stood up and reviewed the room. Then he left and came back scooting a box freezer before him. When he had placed it in the corner, he left and returned with a handsaw. He first hacked up the man, starting with his head at the neck. Next was his wife. He put the cleaved segments in the freezer and broke down crying, leaning against it.

Four minutes passed and he opened the closet door. He then pulled out a very life-like sex doll that looked amazingly like Samantha and arranged it on top of the blood-soaked sheets. An investigation found the couple had it custom made to act as an exact replica of Samantha.

The police found Bill naked with a hole in his head, his skin now pale and waxy, crumpled on top of the doll.

He called her Sam.