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Message-ID: <37879asstr$1029449405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: sandia@texas.net
Subject: {ASSM} "Fallen," Chapter Two, M(M)F, Cheat.   By Sandia.
Date: Thu, 15 Aug 2002 18:10:05 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Fallen
Chapter II
Part 1


1.

I got up, leaving her lying there on the bed.  I went over to the closet, 
facing the new outfits she had bought.  I stroked a sequined black evening 
dress, its price tag still attached.  
 
"Honey?" she asked.
 
I twisted the material in my hand.  I wondered how much it cost, but the tag 
dangled, just out of reach.
 
"The condom," I said, "The one that was in your purse."
 
"Yes?"
 
"What was it doing there?"
 
"I told you," she said, "I got it from you."  
 
"But what was it doing in your purse?"
 
I heard her shifting in the bed.  "We were going to use them. . ."
 
"But you're not. . ."
 
"Michael, nobody uses them," she said.  Not for. . . that."

"Not for that?"

"You know what I mean."  I did.  She meant oral sex.
 
"Did he tell you that?"  I turned.  She'd pushed herself up against the 
headboard; she clutched the sheet to her chest.  
 
She looked at me.  "He's safe, Michael. . . You know that.  He's married. . . 
He has three kids."  

The sex flush was fading on her shoulders, but the color was rising in her 
cheeks.  Her naked feet showed from where she'd pulled up the sheet.
 
I wanted to look away.  "The photographs. . ." I said, my voice catching.  I 
realized it'd been a mistake.  
 
"Yes?" she asked.  

It had been a mistake to look at her when she looked like that.
 
"You looked like you enjoyed it."
 
"He asked me to pose like that."
 
"I know, but. . ."
 
She shook her head.  "It was just for the camera," she said.
 
"You were posing by the window."
 
"Oh," she said.  "Yeah, that made me nervous."  She smiled.

Her grin faded quickly.  "Michael," she said, "We're five stories up."
 
"I know that."  I turned and faced the clothes.  There was a set of louvered 
doors leaning against the wall that I'd been meaning to put up.  I nudged them 
with my toe.  That wasn't what I really wanted to ask.
 
"Honey...?" she asked.
 
I interrupted.  "Did you--do you--enjoy it?"
 
She said nothing, and I listened to the sounds of her shifting on the bed.  She 
was sitting up.
 
"Michael," she said.  She approached me and I glanced back.  She'd wrapped the 
sheet around herself.  It trailed onto the floor.  She clutched it at her 
breasts.
 
She touched my upper arm, just below my shoulder.  "Whenever I talk to you 
about this..." She made a motion with her hand.  "You get mad.  But..." She 
searched my face.  "You also. . ." She glanced down.  "Get turned on."
 
I turned.  "It's not because I like it!" I said.  "I don't!  It's just a. . ." 
I paused, searching for the words.  "A reaction - a physical reaction!"
 
I followed her gaze, and found myself wishing I'd put on some clothes.  
 
She touched me gently on my stomach.  "It's the same with me, honey," she 
said.  She lifted her eyes to mine.  "Just a physical reaction."
 
I refused to admit she had a point.  I wanted to back up, but I was already 
practically standing in the closet.  When she shifted, she brushed her sheet 
against me, making my situation worse.
 
I gathered myself and reached out with both hands.  "Maria.  Are you fucking 
him?"

I watched her closely as her eyes went a little round.  "Michael," she 
protested.  But she quickly looked down.  "No," she said.  "You have the right 
to ask. . ."

She gazed back up at me.  "No," she said, "I'm not."

Her sheet was slipping off her breasts; she was starting to unravel.  We gazed 
at each other another moment.  "You know that, don't you."  She pressed her 
hand to her belly, catching the sheet so it would not slip off of her 
waist.  "Don't you?"

I watched her wide, ocean-colored eyes, and sighed, giving up.

She put her arms around me.  "You love me, don't you?" she asked.  She leaned 
herself against my chest.  I could feel her smiling there.  "I can feel it."

I kept my silence, not saying what I felt.

After a moment I felt her hand slip down my back.  She caressed my 
buttock.  "Michael, can we put," she asked, "your erection to good use?"

I laid her out across the bed.  "They say," she said, "this is what teenage 
boys are like."  She grinned.  I couldn't help but smile back.

"You'll never know," I said.  She spread apart her thighs, opening the sheet 
for me.

She closed her eyes and sighed, as I entered her, easily.  

"Only you," she murmured, just before I came.  "You're the only one."

The next day, since my car wouldn't start, and we drove Maria's Celica into 
town and she dropped me off at work.  
 
I called my brother, who'd left a message for me there.  It didn't take him 
long, to get to the point.  He said he'd been talking to our sister, to 
Denise.  "She told me what's been going on," he said, "Between you and Maria."  

I could sense what was coming, and I tried to warn him off, unsuccessfully.  "A 
man who lets his wife cheat on him," he told me, "is not a man at all."  Chase 
was my older brother, and sometimes he forgot we're all grown up now.  

"You're one to talk," I told him.  "What are you, gearing up for number four?"

He already had a little girl and a boy; and could barely pay his child 
support.  The rumor was he was about to divorce his current wife.  

We got into a yelling fight.  "If you had any balls at all," he finally 
said, "you'd throw that bitch out!"  

I told him to go fuck himself, and then I slammed down the phone.  Chase was 
the last man I'd take advice from, especially about women; but still a part of 
me couldn't' help but wonder if he was right. 

Maria called, after that, a little after one.  She said she had some news, but 
told me it was a secret.  "I'm going to take you out to dinner," she 
said, "We're going to celebrate."  She mentioned a notable restaurant in the 
tower of our city's most expensive downtown hotel.  
 
"How are you going to pay?" I asked.  We hadn't been there since I'd lost my 
job at CompSci Inc.  
 
She laughed.  "Meet me in the lobby," she said, "At seven sharp.  Ok?"  
 
I said yes, and she hung up the phone. 
 
 
I walked the dozen blocks or so from my office to the restaurant that she'd 
mentioned.  It was in a hotel that overlooked the river.  
 
She looked stunning, when I saw her.  "You like?" she asked, grinning, and 
spinning for me.  She clutched her purse, her going-out purse, in her hand.  
She came up and kissed my cheek.  "I spent three hours at the salon today," she 
said, "and then I went out and bought this."  She held out her arms for me.
 
"Maria-" I asked, but she put her finger to my lips.

"Don't ask," she said.  "I'll tell you in a minute."

We rode the elevator together.  I couldn't keep my eyes off Maria's form.  Her 
dress sparked in the lights and reflected in the mirrors.  She was glowing.  
She was putting on a little weight.  If I'd ever had a complaint about Maria, 
it was that she was a little skinny.  Now her skin was taut, with a thin extra 
layer of baby fat.  

The elevator made a series of pleasant-sounding chimes as we passed through 
half a dozen floors.  Maria wore a thin, diamond-studded choker; the one she'd 
gotten from her mother, in addition to her golden chain.  The cross she always 
wore was hidden inside her dress.  The outfit was off the shoulders; it would 
be obvious to anyone she did not have on a bra.  

When the doors opened, I made an automatic move to get out, almost stepping on 
a small distinguished looking man.  He wore an old fashioned fedora and held a 
cane.  He brushed aside my apologies, and got on, stepping carefully around 
Maria.  It was obvious he was getting pleasure just looking at her.  Maria 
didn't seem to mind; she hardly seemed to notice him.

As we continued riding up, I found myself wondering what this man would think 
if he knew what our marriage was really like.  I stepped over to Maria and put 
my arm around her waist.  

The restaurant was just as elegant as I remembered, though nearly empty on that 
night.  A sleek, expensive looking hostess, a young Asian woman, took our 
reservations, and led us to our chairs.  She wore a black, crushed velvet mini-
skirt, and a large diamond on a silver chain glittered between her breasts.  

A handsome, suited waiter held out Maria's chair.  He smiled down at her as I 
sat down.  "Anything to drink tonight?" he asked, motioning to the wine list.  

"Champagne," Maria announced, smiling at me.

I nodded, and named a brand.

"No," she said.  She looked up at the waiter, and named another brand.  He 
smiled, pleased at her selection.  

I looked out the floor to ceiling windows.  The sun had gone down.  Its last 
rays illuminated an enormous cloudbank in the west.  From where I sat, I could 
see the lights in Maria's office, a few of them still burning on her floor.  

Maria caught my eye.  "Don't be like that," she smiled.  She caught my 
hand.  "Remember, we're going to celebrate tonight."

My own hand felt cold and clammy.  "Celebrate what?" I asked.  

She squeezed my hand.  "You'll see."  I looked back out the window.  I could 
see people, in some of the towers, their silhouettes made visible by the lights 
inside.

She squeezed my hand again.  "Michael-"

Our waiter was coming back.  He had the expensive looking bottle of Maria's 
choice, and a bucket mounted on a little stand.  It was full of ice.

He looked at the two of us, and then he poured the first glass for me.  I 
nodded my approval, and then we waited for him to leave.

"I have something for you to see," Maria said, reaching into her purse.  I 
stared at the amber colored fluid bubbling in Maria's fluted glass.

"Maria-"

She handed me a folded piece of paper.  I recognized it immediately, as soon as 
I'd unfolded it.  It was a printout of CompSci's employee benefit screen.  I 
used to come across these screens nearly, when I used to work there.  I stared 
at it, questions forming in my mind.  

The first problem was that Maria was listed as a level IV.  She'd been a level 
I, until just recently, and even then, the promotion could not have been to 
level IV.  CompSci never skipped like that for people in Maria's line of work.  
In fact, when I thought about it, I couldn't quite understand how she'd gotten 
to level II.   

Her salary had more than doubled from where it had been.  I suddenly understood 
where the extra money was coming from; why she felt she could spend so freely.  
I thought about my maxed out credit cards. 

"Maria-"

"No," she said, "You haven't seen the best part."

I looked back at the paper, scanning for what she meant.  

"It's backdated," she said, giving me a hint.  I looked - she was right.  In 
fact, it was dated to nearly two and a half years ago, when I'd first gotten 
her her job there.  

"We can pay everything back," she said, while I stared at the printed 
page.  "Everything."  I found myself, almost against my will, doing the math 
inside my head.  She was very nearly right.  

"Maria-" She glanced away from me, over to our right.  

Our waiter was coming back.  I found myself hastily folding up the paper and 
slipping down it into my lap.  "Maria," I hissed, "This is dangerous."

She was smiling broadly, suppressing a grin at my expense.  I felt myself 
growing furious at her.  I watched as she tipped back her glass and took a sip.

"Maria!"  The waiter was standing there.  He wanted to take our orders.  
 
 She asked for the lobster bisque, and then we all waited for me to place my 
order.  I stared across the table at my wife.  She looked a little nervous; she 
began to take another sip.

"Maria!"  She flinched, spilling a little of her drink.  

"Michael," she retorted, crossly, searching for her napkin.  The waiter was 
still standing there.  

"Maria, do you have any idea how dangerous this is?"

She looked across the table at me, her brow furrowing.  "Michael-" she said.

I slammed my hand against the table, clattering the silverware.  "Maria, put 
down that goddamed drink!"  She stared at me.  I felt the waiter begin to slink 
away.

"I was only going to have a sip," she said, quietly, looking down.

I stared at her another moment.  I saw my hands were trembling.  I got up and 
stormed away.  
 
In a moment, I found myself standing in the men's room.  How did she think she 
was going to get away with this? I wondered.  And why had she ordered 
champagne, when she was pregnant with my baby?  I braced my hands against the 
counter at the bathroom sink, and stared down into the basin.  

There was a man at the urinal beside me.  I waited for him to finish; wash his 
hands, and leave.   

When I heard the door swish close behind him, I looked up into the mirror.  My 
eyes were red.  I looked furious, even to myself.  I ran my fingers through my 
hair and turned the water on.  I heard the door behind me opening again.  

Had I done something to deserve this? I wondered.  I thought back to when Maria 
had announced her pregnancy.  I'd reacted badly: "We can't afford it," I'd 
said.  I remembered how she'd fled into the bedroom, and cried and cried, while 
I sat there, wondering how to make things work.  

The enormous man who'd just come in lumbered across the floor behind me.  I 
caught a glimpse of him before he disappeared inside a stall.  

Could she really not know how dangerous what she was doing was?  And what would 
happen if I left her?  Where would I go?  Did I want to be one of those fathers 
who sees his baby on the weekends?
 
I heard the door open again.  Jesus, I thought, was everybody in the restaurant 
coming in here?

Then I heard her heels clicking on the floor.  "Maria-" I spun around.

"Michael," she said, "We can't go on like this."

She had her hands clasped together at her waist.  I saw she'd started crying.  

She raised her face to mine.  "I'm trying so hard," she said, "I wish you'd try 
to."

I swallowed.  I tried to take her arm.  "Come on, Maria, we can't be in here."

She pulled away.  "Shut up!  When are you going to learn," she said, "I'm doing 
this for you!"

I stared at her.  I felt the rage begin to overpower me.

"Michael," she said, looking down, "I know this is hard for you too-"  
 
"You know?" I interrupted.  "YOU KNOW?" I yelled.  I stared down at her, at her 
down turned face.  Her lower lip started quivering.

"You don't know ANYTHING!" I yelled, "You've taken a stupid, stupid risk, 
you're ruining our marriage, and you're ENDANGERING OUR BABY."  

I felt a rush of shameful pleasure as I saw her face crumple up; I was so glad 
I still had this power over her, the power to hurt her so.  Tears spilled over 
her lower eyelids, and ran streaming down her face.  "Michael-" she said, 
reaching out.

"Fuck you!" I yelled.  "I can take care of things.  I don't need my wife to 
turn herself into a fucking whore!"

She ran, sobbing, out of the room.

I stood there for a moment, still trembling in my rage.  I heard the man in the 
stall quietly clear his throat.  

I fled the bathroom too.  

She wasn't anywhere.  


 
Fallen
Chapter II
Part 2

2.

Our table was sitting empty, the champagne still swimming in its bucket.  Maria 
wasn't there.  The waiter eyed me suspiciously.  I glared back.

No one would tell me where she'd gone.  The hostess asked about the bill, if I 
was planning on leaving too.  The lobster bisque was sitting, cooling on the 
table.  I realized I had no way to pay for anything that we'd ordered.  I'd 
spent the last of my cash on getting the Camry home and it was now sitting 
lifeless in our drive.  

"Can I pay you back?" I asked.  She stared at me, a look of distaste for me 
crossing her otherwise pretty face.  

In the end they took pity on me, as well as one of my useless credit cards.  I 
told them I'd call them, when they could run it through.  

If Maria had registered at the hotel, it wasn't under my name, or hers.  

I found her car on the second level of the garage.  I leaned against it staring 
out.  I waited.  An hour passed.  I sat down in the driver's seat, leaned back, 
and turned the on the radio.  There was nothing on.  Rush Limbaugh was 
complaining about people who love their dogs too much.  I switched it off.  

After a while, I turned the key in the ignition.

I hadn't asked the restaurant to validate, and the man at the exit wouldn't let 
me leave without paying for the hours Maria's car had been there.  I gave him 
my last two dollars, and then scrounged around for change.  Finally he let me 
through.  I noticed Maria had left her car nearly out of gas.

At home, I pulled the phone around and set it on a table next to my chair.  I 
turned the TV on.  

At some point I fell asleep, and woke to the ringing of the phone.  When I 
picked it up, I heard the line go dead.  
  
I got up and went to bed.  It was three o'clock.  


I woke up at five, sweating.  I got up, showered, shaved, and dressed, and 
drove Maria's Celica to work.  I started working on the only project I had 
left, despite the lack of go-ahead.  What did I have to lose? I thought.  It 
wasn't like I had other pressing projects that needed to get done.

In the afternoon, I called up both my two overdue accounts.  One said the check 
was in the mail; the other claimed he'd found a problem with my work.  I wound 
up hanging up the phone on the second one; I knew he was lying about the 
problem he said he'd found.  

I called Nina up on the number she'd given me.  But it was the middle of the 
day; of course, she was still at work.  

After a couple hours of not doing much of anything, I got into Maria's car, and 
drove the couple dozen blocks to the building CompSci owned.  While I drove, I 
wondered how long Maria's warning light had been on.

I had an eerie, strange feeling as I parked the car and got out.  I'd parked 
two spaces over from the spot that had once been mine.  In the gloom of 
CompSci's garage, for a second, it was like I was working there again.  I 
wished, for a moment, I could go back and change the past.  

I shook the thought out of my mind.  

I took the elevator to the fifth floor.  I stepped through the glass vestibule 
into the reception room of the suite where Maria worked.  I glanced over a 
Nina's desk; she'd already left.  It was a little after five.  I hurried 
against the chance that Maria was gone too.  

There was a corridor, flanked with office doors, that led from the reception 
room to the cubicle farm where Maria worked.  I noticed the door to John's 
office, the third one on the left, was standing open.  I hurried by.

The corridor took a right and then, after another thirty yards or so, opened 
into the warren of fabric covered plastic walls where the lower level workers 
worked.  The room was huge; it took up nearly half the floor.  

"Oh, hi," I said.  I stopped short.  A trio of women was sitting together, 
huddled at a table in front part of the room, just around the corner from where 
I'd come.  They turned and stared at me.  None of them responded.  

"I, uh," I stammered.  I felt like I'd interrupted something.  I glanced at the 
birthday cake, sitting in the middle of the table:  "Happy 31st."  The blonde, 
I realized, was Maria's best friend at work.  

"She's down there," one of the other women said, an attractive black woman with 
straightened hair.  She nodded with her head.  "In the break room."  I noticed 
there was an empty chair.

"Oh, uh, thanks," I said, wondering how much they knew.  

The break room was toward the back, all the way across the room, directly 
across from where the women were.  I glanced back.  The blonde was standing up, 
to get a better view.  

The door was standing open.  I read a sign that was posted on it:  "Remember," 
it said, "this room is a privilege, not a right."

She almost ran me down; she'd been coming out while I was going in.  She 
carried an enormous ancient carving knife upright in her hand.  

"Oh my God!" she cried, covering her mouth with her other hand.  "You scared 
me!"

I looked from the tarnished heavy blade to the fingers that covered her face.  
They were bare; she'd taken off her wedding band and engagement bands.  

"Sorry."  I put down my hands.  She smiled unconvincingly.  "Can we talk?" I 
asked.  She lowered her hands as well.

She nodded slowly, and then looked down.  "Not here," she said, looking 
around.  All three women were standing, watching us.  She led me back into the 
room.  

It was brightly lit; unpleasantly, with too much fluorescent light.  One of the 
tubes above us was going out; it flickered angrily.  

Maria drew herself up.  "What do you want to talk about?" she asked.  She 
folded her arms against her chest and leaned back against a plastic table.  Her 
expression froze for just a second as the table skittered back an inch or two 
across the vinyl covered floor.  She clutched the knife more tightly against 
her chest.  The handle pressed into her breast; she could barely get her 
fingers wrapped around it.    

I leaned my arm against the Coke machine; I was determined not to give up too 
much.  

I realized she had on an entirely new outfit; a lightweight, ivory-colored, 
open collared summer blouse, with a silk or polyester sheen, and a dark, folded 
skirt with a hemline above the knees, with black stockings and a pair of high-
heeled shoes.  She also wore new earrings, and a new gold chain around her 
neck.  It was wider and sturdier than the one she'd had before.  

Not for the first time, I found myself wondering where she'd spent the night.  
She looked beautiful, as always.  

"Maria," I said, "I'm sorry."  Her expression softened, and I hurried on.  "I'm 
sorry for what I said."

She leaned forward slightly, pushing back against the table.   

"Michael-" she murmured.  I looked at the third button of her blouse, the first 
one she had buttoned.  Her chain disappeared there between her breasts.  Her 
hair fell forward, across the bare skin around her neck.  She was looking down.

"I'm-" She paused and sucked in her breath, pushing out her chest.  Her eyes 
flicked up to mine.  "I can't let you talk to me that way," she said.

"Ok," I said.

"No, I mean," she said, shaking her head, "I can't have you thinking of me like 
that."  She looked up at me, catching my eyes.  "It hurts too much."

"All right," I said.

She lowered her hands to her waist.  She ran her fingers along the tarnished 
blade.

"Michael," she said, "I missed you."

"Me too," I said, "Maria?"

"Yes?"

I was about to ask her to come home with me.  Instead, I found myself asking 
about the rings.  

"Oh," she said.  She reached up and grasped her chain and pulled it up.  "I'm 
still wearing them," she said.  She pulled the chain out of her blouse.  Her 
rings dangled at the end.  

She looked down at her hand.  "I'm afraid my fingers are getting fat," she 
said.  "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get them off again."  She released 
the chain and smiled sadly.  

After a moment her smile faded, but she held my eyes.  "You won't call me that 
again?"

I shook my head.  After a moment she held out her hand to me and let me draw 
her in.  I could feel her rings between our bodies against her chest.  Her hair 
smelled different than it had before; she'd used a strange shampoo.  

She pushed me gently back, and looked up at me.  Her eyes searched out my 
face.  "Michael," she asked, in a sad, but fragile voice, "you don't really 
think of me like that?"  She held still, waiting; waiting for me to say.

I inhaled, and leaned back.  I closed my eyes.  I don't know why I did it; I 
guess I wanted to hurt her, just a little, to get back for what I'd felt.  I 
started to compose an answer, but I don't know what I would have said.    

Instead I felt an impact, on my cheekbone just below my eye.  

I realized, while my vision cleared, she'd swung the knife handle, with all her 
strength, at me, at my face.  She still held it in her hand.  She was staring 
up, angrily, breathing through her mouth, her face going red.   

"Maria!"  It was the blonde woman; she was standing at the door.  I turned to 
face her, and watched as she realized what had really happened.  "Oh," she 
said.  She put her hand up to her mouth.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw 
Maria drop the knife.  The blonde woman stared.  She started to back away from 
us, but I pushed past her, roughly, at the door.  I remembered her name as she 
flattened herself against the doorway to get out of my way.  

I didn't stop until I was alone again, in the hallway around the corner, from 
where the big room was.  Nobody else was there.  I steadied myself and reached 
up and touched my face.  There was a little blood there, where the skin had 
parted, but it was tender and swollen to the touch.  My head was throbbing.  I 
heard her call out my name.  

She rounded the corner, nearly running.  "Oh God," she cried, "Thank God you 
waited."

She grasped my shirt, holding me.  She tried to reach out to touch my face.  I 
brushed her hand away.  "Oh Michael," she said, "I'm so sorry.  I didn't 
realize what I'd done.  I mean," she swallowed, gasping, "I didn't know what I 
was doing."  She paused, looking up.  "I'm sorry."  She tried to touch my face 
again.  

There was a thin red line against the insides of her fingers.  I caught her 
wrist.  "Maria," I asked, "what happened?"  She looked at her hand, 
perplexed.  "I guess I was holding it by the blade," she said.  She looked so 
puzzled and inept; I couldn't help but smile a little, despite the pain.   

She smiled back, uncertainly.  "Come on," I said, "Let's go."  

I started to turn away, pulling at her, but she pulled back.  "Where?" she 
asked, "Are you going to take me home?"

I turned and looked at her.  "Despite what I did?" she asked.  She was looking 
at my face.  

"You've done much worse than that," I said.  She looked down, at her feet.

"But you're going to anyway?"  I nodded, even though she couldn't see. 

"Come on," I said, "let's go."  This time she came with me.  "Besides," I 
smiled to myself, "I have to.  Your car's almost out of gas."

She didn't answer that.  I led her past John's office door, which thankfully 
was closed.  


Once we were in the garage standing outside of Maria's car, she asked me, while 
I found the key, "You know we have to talk?" 

I glanced up at her.  "I know," I said, "we will."  What I really meant was: 
not now.

She looked almost as relieved as me.  

Inside the car, I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror.  My cheekbone, 
below my eye, was red.  A small amount of blood had trickled down.  I shook my 
head as she got in.  "I can't believe you don't know which way to hold a 
knife," I said.
 
"Oh my GOD, don't say that!"  She shook her head.  "I can't believe what I 
might have done."  Her voice trailed off.  "I'm so sorry, Michael.  I don't 
know what came over me."  She tried to reach over, but I brushed her 
off.  "I'll make it up," she said.
 
"How much money have you got?"  I turned the key, praying the car would start.  

"Why?" she asked.  The car turned over.  The gas gauge didn't budge.

"I'm out of cash."  I'd found fifty-six cents in the armrest.  I wondered if 
that'd get us home or not.
 
"Oh, it doesn't matter, Michael.  There's plenty of money in our account."
 
I pulled out.  There was a Texaco around the block.  I shook my head.  "We're 
overdrawn," I said.
 
"No," she said, "The money - the back pay I told you about.  It's already in 
our account."  
 
I used our debit card at the station, and filled it up.  It turned out the 
money had been transferred electronically.  I didn't ask how much.  
 
Fallen
Chapter II
Part 3

3.
 
When we got home, though, despite what she had said, we didn't talk - not about 
it.  She washed her hand with disinfectant and used up half a box of band-aids 
taping up the little cuts on the inside of her fingers.  I let her sponge my 
face.  Afterward she made Spanish omelets and fresh-squeezed lemonade and wild 
rice.  I had a glass of wine and half a dozen Motrin.  Then she laid me out in 
bed and held an icepack to my face.  I fell asleep with her fingers stroking in 
my hair.  
 
I woke to the ringing of the phone.  Maria, in the other room, picked it up, 
and listened.  After a moment, I heard her voice, but I could not make out her 
words.  

She came padding down the hallway, and quietly closed the door.  

My head was throbbing, and I hadn't brushed my teeth, but I hated the idea of 
getting up.  I sat on the edge of the bed a moment, holding my head in my 
hands.  
 
When I'd walked the few feet from the bedroom to the bathroom, I heard her 
voice again.  She was laughing.  "No," I heard her say, "I told you, he doesn't 
know."  I waited.  Then: "In the bedroom.  He's asleep."  I felt my heart begin 
to race.  I stood there in the dark.
 
"Don't worry," she said, "I told you what he's like."  She laughed.  "Well, not 
today... but every other time."  Her voice trailed off.
 
"I know," she said, "It's true.  If I'd known it'd be like this, I'd have done 
it years ago."  
 
Another pause, while she listened to the phone.
 
"I don't know," she said, "Hold on."  I heard her footsteps on the floor, and I 
leaned my head against the doorframe, sweating.  She crossed back to the living 
room, and then I couldn't hear her anymore.  She was talking but I could not 
make out her words.  
 
I swallowed and raised my head.  I guessed she was lying or sitting on the 
couch.  I took a careful step around the doorjamb.  The hallway led into the 
kitchen.  She wouldn't see me if she was in the front part of the house.  
 
Her voice was louder now.  "Yes," she laughed, "Yes, I'm wearing them."  On my 
left was the kitchen table.  "Stop it!" she protested.  Past it were the 
sliding doors that looked out into our garden.  It was dark outside.  "I'm 
going to hang up!" she threatened, and then she laughed again.  The doors 
reflected the light coming out of our house.  I could see her in the reflection.
 
I was wrong about the couch.  She was standing by the door.  It was standing 
open, to let the wind come in, and she was looking out.  "A halter top," she 
said, "and a pair of shorts."  
 
She turned, looking out the back, and for a moment I was sure that she had seen 
me.  I stood absolutely still.  Frozen.  
 
"I don't know," she said.  She seemed to be studying her reflection.  She 
paused, considering.  "Yes.  Alright," she said.  "I'll do it."
 
I breathed out.  She could not possibly have seen me.  
 
She smiled.  "Like I said, he's in the bedroom, fast asleep."  
 
She turned around, facing out into the street.  "You have a very dirty mind."  
She stood still a moment, put down the phone and then reached down and pulled 
her shirt off.  "Alright," she breathed, "I did it."  The wind caught her hair, 
tousling it around her shoulders.  She stood there staring out.  "No," she 
said, quietly, "It's dark."
 
There was a longish pause, and then she laughed.  "No way, John.  There's no 
way I'm doing that."  She crossed her arm against her chest.
 
"Alright, I guess."  She turned again, staring, then suddenly walked right past 
me, our rings bouncing between her breasts, to the sliding doors.  She grasped 
the handle and pulled it open, and then the screen as well.  "Alright," she 
said.  The wind was playing with the lining of her shorts and as well as 
whipping up her hair.  She cradled the phone against her neck
 
"Alright," she said.  She slipped her fingers inside the waistband of her 
shorts.  "Just a little."  I watched as she pulled them down, to just below her 
hips.  "I told you," she said, "I'm not doing that."  She paused.  I could see 
a pink band of underwear running up from underneath her shorts.  "Ok," she 
said, "I can see that."  She listened for a moment, and then she bent and slid 
her shorts all the way down her legs.  The underwear she was wearing was barely 
there.  I hadn't known she owned anything like that.  The strap disappeared 
into the cleft between her legs.  
 
"Yes... All right.  I told you that I would."  She sighed.  
 
She was rubbing herself through the front panel of her panties.  "Ok," she 
said.  "Yes.  I know you're right."
 
"Oh, God, don't do that!"
 
"I know I said I would!"
 
She stood there listening.  "Yes, John, you know I will."  
 
After a moment, her voice dropped to a lower register.  "How deep?" she 
asked.  "How many?" 
 
She stepped out, widening the angle between her thighs.  "Yes," she said, "All 
the way.  What else?"
 
"I admitted it," she said.  "Do you want me to?"
 
Her voice was husky: "All right.  I love it when you talk to me that way."
 
She pulled her fingers out and raised them to her face.  "I'm sucking them," 
she said.  She put them in her mouth.  "No.  I've never tasted it before."
 
She pulled her panties down, bending at the waist.  "Yes," she said, "I'm 
pretending too...  Can I touch myself again?"  The wind blew a stack of bills off 
the counter onto the floor.  Her panties fell to her ankles and she stepped 
out.  "Wait," she said, "I think there's something in the fridge."  The 
headlights of a car briefly lit up the room.  I backed up, back into the 
bathroom, breathing hard, and I sat down.  My head was throbbing.  My cock was 
hard.  My wife was naked in the kitchen.  The kitchen tap began to run.  I 
waited, sitting there, until I heard her go back into the living room.  
 
"I'm lying on the couch," she said.  Her voice carried clearly, and then I 
couldn't hear her anymore.  I waited another moment, and then I got up.
 
The armrest blocked my view of her in the window, except her legs, which she'd 
thrown wide apart.  One of them rested on the backrest, the other on the 
floor.  Her posture made me think of the pictures of her that he'd taken.
 
I heard her voice again.  "My eyes are closed.  I can't see anything."  I stood 
still.  I listened to her breathing.  "Yes, alright," she said, "I'll do it."  
I glanced at the envelopes lying on the floor and then back up at her 
reflection.  She was facing away from me.  Carefully, quietly, I stepped around 
the corner.  
 
She was lying there, naked, except the chain around her neck.  She held the 
phone in one hand; her other hand she held at the juncture between her legs.  I 
could see her breathing, our rings moving between her breasts.  I could not see 
her face.  
 
I took another step.
 
"Yes, all right," she said.  "I'm trying."  She sighed.  "It's really, really 
big."
 
A board creaked beneath my feet.  Her eyelids fluttered; she did not open 
them.  Her pink tongue appeared as she licked her lips.  Her eyes moved beneath 
her lids.  
 
She released the phone, leaving it lying there, and reached down with her other 
hand.  Between her legs she held an enormous looking cucumber, pressed up 
against the entrance to her cunt.  The pace of her breathing increased as she 
tried to drive it in.  
 
I stood there, looking down on my naked wife: her nipples swollen, her 
breathing ragged.  She was panting into the phone.  A sex flush was creeping up 
around her breasts.  Another car drove by, illuminating the room.
 
I fled.
 
 From the hallway, hanging on to the bathroom door, I heard her talking 
dirty.  "Fuck," she moaned, "Yes... Fuck my cunt..."
 
I crept back to the bedroom and lay back down in bed.  I was sweating.  
 
I held out for a little while.  But as her voice got louder, I felt myself 
giving up.  "Yes," she groaned, "Oh yes..." I touched myself, just lightly, just 
trailed my fingertips along the underside of my cock.  "Oh fuck me," she 
moaned, "Fuck me."  Her voice carried through the doorway.  "Oh, I'm coming... 
I'm coming...! Shoot your spunk inside my cunt!"
 
She began to come.  I spasmed, shooting gobs of cum onto myself.  I lay there, 
my spunk cooling on my belly, staring at the ceiling.  I listened to her put 
down the phone.  Then I must have drifted off.  
 
Later on, I felt her climbing into bed.  "Michael?" she whispered softly.  I 
lay silent.  I could feel her eyes on me.  After a little while she leaned down 
and kissed my forehead, and then my cheek.  "I love you."  She settled down 
beside me and laid her hand gently on my chest.  I listened while her breathing 
evened out and then became deeper.
 
I resisted the urge to take her in her sleep.  
 

In the morning, when I stumbled out of bed, I found her in the 
kitchen.  "You're not going to work?" she asked.  I nodded yes, but she shook 
her head.  "People will talk," she said.  I opened my mouth, but forgot what I 
was about to say.  I felt terrible.  My mouth felt rank; I desperately needed a 
shower, and I had a headache.  
 
She smiled.  "Honey," she said, "Take it easy.  Take the day off work."  She 
glanced away.  "You look terrible.  Take a shower, and I'll make you 
breakfast.  You want my scrambled eggs?"  I shook my head, and then nodded 
yes.  Actually I was starving.  She got up, humming to herself, and turned her 
back to me.  "Hurry up," she said, "I have to go to work."
 
I took two aspirin in the bathroom, and brushed my teeth and flossed.  I 
examined myself in the mirror, and found that she was right.  The bruise had 
taken over a big chunk of the left side of my face.  My lower lid had swollen 
up, giving me an ugly squinty look.  I took a scalding shower.  When I was 
done, I felt minimally alive, though tired, and my face still ached.  
 
The eggs were peppered, and lightly salted.  She'd made a batch of fresh-
squeezed carrot-apple juice.  The butter was still melting into the toast, and 
she'd set out a jar of orange marmalade.  
 
She was dressed for work: a shapely navy miniskirt with ivory stockings, and a 
crisp white Oxford blouse.  "You look wonderful," she said.  

I grinned at her.  "Liar."
 
She smiled and turned away from me.  "Honey," she said, "Something happened 
here last night."  She was looking out into our garden.

I studied her shoulder, the side of her face.  "What?"
 
"It's something I haven't told you."  There was bacon popping on the stove.  
The smell of it permeated the room.

"What?" I asked.  

She stood there for a moment, looking through the window.  "It's something you 
should know."

"Oh."

"Remember when I told you I'd tell you anything - anything you wanted to 
know?"  She'd thickened her eyelashes with mascara.  I watched them flutter 
against the light.
 
"Yes."
 
 "You have to promise you won't get mad."  She turned and came around and sat 
down across from me.
 
"Yes?"

"He called here last night," she said, reaching out across the table.  "I 
wanted you to know."

She watched my face a moment.  I swallowed.  "Oh."  She looked down.

"I wanted you to know.  But it won't happen again," she said, "If you don't 
want it to."  I saw her blue eyes looking through her eyelashes.  She was 
blushing, slightly.  

"No. . ."  I looked at her hand.  I noticed she'd taken the band-aids 
off.  "What did you two - talk about?"

She looked up at the clock.  "I can't talk now," she said.  "I have to go to 
work.  But."  She paused.  "I'll tell you anything you want."

I looked at her.  I loved the way the sunlight played off her hair.  She bit 
her lip, rising.  "I told him," she said, "how good you've been to me - lately -
 in bed."

I shook my head.  "No. . ." I said.  "Don't."

"Ok."  She glanced back at me.  "I'm sorry, Mike."  She grabbed her purse.  "I 
really have to go."

"Maria?"

"Yes?"

She paused, halfway in the living room.  "What else?"

She turned, presenting her profile to me.  "We - we had phone sex last night."  
Her cheeks were coloring.  "In the house."  She was looking at the couch.  

"Oh."

"I'm sorry," she said, "I shouldn't have brought it home like that.  Without 
asking you."

"Oh."  I shook my head.  After a moment she turned to go.  

"Oh, honey," she said, stopping at the door.  "There's something else-" She was 
watching me.  "I left my lunch over on the counter.  Could you get it for me?"

I rose and picked up a Ziploc plastic bag.  Inside were a large green cucumber, 
a small cup of yogurt, and little plastic spoon.  

"What's this?" I asked.  

"Oh," she said, pausing at the door.  "I'm trying to eat healthy."  She 
smiled.  "For the baby."  She kissed me and pushed open the screen door.

"Oh Michael," she said, her last words to me.  "The other pictures.  The ones 
you didn't see.  I left them out for you."  She smiled.  "Remember," she 
said.  "You promised.  You won't get mad."  I watched her walk away and 
disappear into her car.



Mail me at
sandia@texas.net.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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