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By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

by Robert Buckley © 2006

It had gotten so bad he dreaded going home.

 As soon as he walked through the door, the interrogations began. She demanded he account for every second of his day. She would tear open the mail and inspect it, especially the credit card bills. A restaurant charge set off a whole new round of questions. Why had he gone there? Who was he with? Why had he never taken her there?

Clothing purchases? Why did he buy this shirt, or that pair of pants? Why was he trying to look so good?

That afternoon he found Angela at the computer. Before he could utter a greeting she started: "Who's Marian? And why is she sending you coded messages?"

"God-dammit! Are you reading my emails?"

"Why? Do you have something to hide?"

"That's Marian Industries, and they're distributor product codes. Christ!"

She stood up sending the seat careening to the opposite wall, its casters whirring. Three quick sniffs and she declared: "Perfume! Whose is it?"

"Oh, for the love of God, the new office manager practically bathes herself in it. I can't help it if it seeps into my clothes."

"Oh, a new office manager, huh? When were you going to tell me about her?"

"Well, gee, Angela, I guess it never occurred to me you'd want me to bring you up to speed on a woman who's barely five feet tall and weighs 175 pounds, and has a face like a bulldog."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you? That's one of the signs." She began to sob.

"Signs? What signs?"

"That you're having an affair!" She stamped her foot and her face turned crimson.

That was it. He couldn't take any more. She'd been acting screwy since the day she turned 40, which also happened to be the day her pain-in-the-ass best-friend-from-school helped her celebrate by crying on her shoulder over her husband leaving her for a younger woman.

Hell, that's what it had been, pure hell ever since. Their sex life evaporated, and he was hornier than the brass section of a philharmonic. But if she didn't push him away outright, she'd stop him in the middle of foreplay and interrogate him. Why did he want to do this, or that, or the other thing. Where did he get such an idea? His dick would shrivel under the assault and so would his libido. Well, to hell with it all.

"Were you with someone today?" she demanded. "Tell me! I have a right to know!"

Oh, the words were roiling in his head, taking lethal shape. He'd tell her exactly what she wanted to hear: Yeah, I was with someone, and she fucked my brains out! And she's not the only one; I've fucked everything that moves in a skirt. There—are you happy now?

But no, he thought. Give her some of her own damned medicine.

"You have a right? Well, what about me? How do you think I feel?"

"You? Your feelings?"

"Yes! How do you think I feel every time we go to a restaurant, or a theater, and every damned guy in the place stops what he's doing to look you up and down?"


"And I have to stand there, watching them lick your body with their eyes."

"What? Lick?"

"What do you think that does to me—a man? Knowing every cock in a room comes to attention at the sight of my wife—and that you know it—that you love it."

"Why ... I never ..."

"God! The torture! Every minute of the day I'm not with you—wondering who you're with, what are you doing with him."

"That—that's just crazy."

"Yeah, that's what it makes me—crazy! God, don't you know I can smell them on you? Don't you know I can tell they've touched you ... fucked you!"

"No ... no one ..."

"Oh, stop the lies, Angela. Please, baby!"

He fell to his knees before her and wrapped his arms around her legs. His face burrowed between her thighs, nose pressed against her crotch, he cried into her soft knit skirt.

"I don't care," he snuffed. "I don't care if you fuck them. Just, please, baby, let me have some when they're done."


"Oh, honey, I know you've been fucking other men. I've tried to accept it; you're so sexy; you give men hard-ons just being in the same room with them. The way they leer at your breasts, how their eyes climb your thighs and linger on your lovely ass. I know it makes you hot too; I won't stand in your way. You deserve a big, long, meaty cock—not just one, as many as you want."

"I—I—I ..."

He exhaled deeply. "Ahh, this pussy. I can't live without it. I'll share if I have to, but please, Angela, don't deny me."

"Martin, please, I don't know what ..."

He stood and clasped his hands on her arms. "I—I know what. I'll prepare you for them."

"For who?"

"Your lovers. How many are there? No, don't tell me. There must be dozens."


"God, it hurts, it hurts ... but, baby, for you ..."

He scooped her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

"Martin! My God, you're going to hurt yourself."

"Hurt? Oh, baby, I hurt every day knowing ... knowing you're giving your charms, your body to lustful studs. I know, you can't help yourself, they can't help themselves. You're so beautiful ... you ooze sex."


He tossed her on the bed. She bounced, legs kicking as her skirt rode up her thighs. He began to undress her."

"Martin! What are you doing? Stop!"

"No—no, baby! I have to do this," he cried as he lifted her blouse off, then tugged her skirt and panties down to her ankles.

Her hands scisorred over her sex. He stared down.

"You shaved your pussy? Well, yes, of course, they must have told you to shave it."

"Martin, I did it weeks ago. I just ..."

"Weeks! All those weeks, all those cocks plumbing your precious baby-smooth pussy. The pussy I was so vain and foolish to believe was mine exclusively. I'm such a fool."

"Martin! You—you can't believe ..."

"I—I'm trying to be brave, Angela," he said as he unfastened her bra and tossed it aside.

"Martin, what are you doing?"

"Hmm, scarves ... yes scarves will do."


He hurried to a dresser drawer and returned with three silk scarves and one cashmere.

"Oh, nooo! Martin ... what are you doing?"

He grasped her wrist and knotted the scarf around it, then tied it to the bed post. Before she could utter a word he repeated the maneuver with the other.

Then he clasped an ankle. She tried to kick, but he knotted a third scarf and had her  leg tied to the bedpost.

"Martin .. please, you're scaring me." She kicked and thrashed her one free leg, but he grabbed it, and second later she was secured, spread-eagle.


He stood and admired his work. "Yes, they'll be pleased."


"Your men, your lovers, your studs."

"Martin, there are no ..."

"Shhh, it's okay, baby, I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"A sexual siren like you can't be satisfied with one man. I accept that. It breaks my heart, but, baby, I love you so much. Well, I have to call them, don't I? You must have their numbers in your book."

"Martin, stop! This is crazy!"

"Crazy ... yes, it drives me crazy knowing they'll be here, enjoying you, devouring you, violating your sweet, sexy body with their manly cocks, filling you with their jism."

"Ohhhh, Martin!"

"I promise, I'll be brave. I'll be good. I'll just sit here, with my heart breaking, watching you get magnificently fucked by your stallions. Just, please, Angela ..."

"Oh, Martin," she groaned, as she strained at her bonds. "Please what?"

"Let me have some when they're done."


"I don't mind sloppy seconds, or thirds, or-fourths-or-fifths-or-sixths."


"It's just ... I think of your pussy constantly, every minute of the day, and your lovely tits, and your creamy soft ass ... and—and ... God! I have to have some right now!"

He shed his clothes like they were tissue paper. And then he was leering at her, on all fours, his cock dripping onto her thigh.



"You dirty, cheating whore ... gawd!"

He plunged his cock into her sopping cunt and she lifted her hips to meet him.

"How many? How many have you fucked!"

Her head thrashed from side to side. "Unnnng! Dozens!"


"Hundreds, thousands, God—I don't know!"

"You sucked their cocks!"

"All of them! They made me ... they came all over me ... ahhhh."

He fucked her furiously, a hip-swiveling corkscrew fucking.

"You cocksucking slut, you beautiful fucking whore!"

"Yes-yes-yes ... slut ... whore ... oh, God! Martin! ... Jesus-Jesus-Jesus .... Please ..."

Her shriek was ear-shattering. His eyes rolled back as his cum rocketed into her cunt.

Trembling, he eased his weight onto her as his cock continued to spasm, pumping him empty.

Beads of perspiration congealed and trickled from her breasts and down her sides. The bed beneath her was soaked.

Then he sealed his lips to hers.

Moments later she sobbed. "Oh, Martin ... you don't really think ..."

"Well. You think I cheat on you?"

"I'm sorry. I was afraid  you didn't think I was ..."

"Sexy ... beautiful?"

"... anymore."

"Oh, Baby, you're so hot."

"Oh, Martin ... I feel so ... so ... slutty."

He kissed her shoulders. "Want me to untie you?"

"Not yet ... talk dirty to me some more ... okay?"

His cock twitched. He smelled the warm, moist aroma of sex waft from her and licked the sweat off her breasts.

Then he began to compose a bedtime story.

© 2006 Robert Buckley.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Robert Buckley? Read his bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

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