Author's Note:
When I wrote Chapter One of this sordid tale I left my narrator hanging, caught in her and her lover's lies without an outcome. Readers seemed to like the story but there was a strong desire for an additional chapter--were my characters going to get away with their philandering or sink deeper into trouble? This took me awhile to dream up. Sometimes authors just write themselves into a corner. Read on to see how Karen and Charlie try to justify their conduct while sinking deeper into depravity. In most of this Chapter Karen remains the narrator except for material in italics where her husband Charlie is acting as the narrator.
When I answered a knock at the door there was a woman I didn't know standing there. Quite attractive and well dressed, she was about my height and seemed to be about my age. I didn't know her but something told me that maybe I should.
While she was immaculately dressed all I was wearing was a terry cloth robe that barely reached to mid-thigh. I had just finished toweling down after a workout and a shower when I heard her first knock on the door. I had thrown the first garment handy on my naked body and run to the door. My hair was a mass of damp curls that I had simply pushed away from my face.
Peeking through the open crack I decided the well-dressed woman on the step didn't look dangerous so I opened the door wide.
"Are you Karen Collins?"
"Yes."
"Good. I've decided we should meet. My name is Linda Breckenridge. I think you know my husband Rod." She did not look pleased to meet me.
"Oh yes. I've met him at our church." I felt a huge lump form in the pit of my stomach.
"Yes, he's told me that he met you in church... and that you know him a good deal better than just someone who merely sat next to him on the last pew in the chapel."
She was absolutely right of course. I did know Rod a great deal better than just as someone I had met briefly in church one day. On the day we met Rod had seduced me (or I him) and we had been carrying out an affair for several months now. Rod had told me that his wife had no idea we were having an affair. I had told him the same about my husband Charlie.
That was a lie on my part. I had felt so guilty about cheating on Charlie that I finally broke down and told him. To my great surprise, even shock, he had not gotten mad or even objected. The reason he told me was that he had been screwing a married woman he knew from his workplace for even longer than my affair with Rod. We had killed most of a bottle of Scotch as we sat at the kitchen table that afternoon debating our options and the morality of our conduct. Neither of us wanted a divorce, but neither of us wanted to give up our affairs simply because the sex was too good and we were both enjoying the secrecy of sneaking around and keeping our illicit conduct secret from our spouses, our lover's spouses, and all the other busybodies of the world who would find our conduct immoral. The next day, after recovering from vicious hangovers, we decided to continue our affairs, somehow concluding that our disclosure to each other resolved any moral or ethical issues with our situations.
Now as I stood looking at my lover's spouse standing on my doorstep I realized that the rationalization of our illicit conduct Charlie and I had reached was deeply flawed. Other useless thoughts were running through my head. What do you say when confronted by your lover's dishonored spouse: I'm sorry; No, it isn't true; I never met him; We're just friends that meet for coffee; Have you got a gun; Are you going to scratch my eyes out; It was Rod's fault; He seduced me; He told me you wouldn't find out?
Nothing useful there so I settled for the classic, "Oh," followed by a long painful silence and eventually, "Won't you come in." I decided she most likely wasn't carrying a gun and her nails looked well-trimmed.
We walked to the living room where we sat on opposing ends of a couch. She didn't seem inclined to lead the conversation so after more silence I asked, "How did you find out? Rod said you didn't know," rather clearly giving up any hope of denial.
"Rod is very sloppy with his cell phone. He left it at home one day and his access code is 1-2-3-4-5-6. You two seemed to have exchanged some very steamy messages in arranging the timing and place of your trysts, very graphic in fact. The phone didn't tell me who you were and I didn't want to have this conversation by phone so I hired a detective to follow Rod. He provided me with the information I wanted and pictures."
"Of us? Of Rod and me . . . "
"Don't worry," she interrupted. "They weren't explicit. Just pictures of you and Rod going in and out of some rather seedy motels."
"He told me you didn't know," I repeated, as if that somehow made a difference.
"He lied. He lied to you and he lied to me, but then lying is kind of intrinsic to this kind of relationship isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Does your husband know?" she asked me.
"Yes. I lied to him for a while but then I told him because I was feeling guilty for cheating on him and then he confessed that he was also having an affair."
"Wow," she said shaking her head. To my surprise she continued, "Do you have anything to drink here? This has been a tough week--reading your and Rod's lewd messages on his phone; the conversation with the detective and seeing his pictures; then the conversation with Rod; and now with you."
"Uhh, of course. Is Scotch okay?" How could I refuse to buy the lady a drink. She was having a bad day. Besides. I needed a drink myself. I hadn't started out my day planning on having this confrontation.
"Perfect. Make it a tall one. Straight up."
I poured two tumblers of scotch and returned carrying both along with the half full bottle. I set the bottle on the coffee table, handed Linda her glass and then returned to my end of the couch.
When I returned she had peeled off her jacket, kicked off her stylish pumps, and pulled her feet up and tucked them under her on the couch so she was facing me and mostly leaning against the arm of the couch. She took a long pull on the drink as we sat in silence each looking clearly and studiously at the other.
For the first time since she had arrived I took a good look at her. Her reddish-blonde hair was thick and lustrous, falling in smooth, well groomed, curls to her shoulders. Her classic facial features with high cheek bones, a shapely nose and lips, and sparkling blue eyes could attract and hold anyone's attention. Her breasts, previously disguised by the suit jacket, were now obviously quite large beneath the not quite sheer white blouse she wore. I could just make out the detail of the lacy bra that constrained them. Her legs, which I had briefly noticed before she had introduced herself were long, trim, and muscular at least up to midthigh where her skirt now stopped. In short she was beautiful. Why would Rod cheat on a wife as gorgeous as her? I knew the answer of course. For the same reason that I cheated on Charlie, and he cheated on me. For the excitement of the process. As I studied her I took a long drink from my tumbler of Scotch.
"Where were we?" I asked.
"You were telling me about how you and your husband have handled your . . . can I say, 'ethical problems'.
"Oh yes. Well we started by killing most of a bottle of this as we talked," I said as I raised my glass. She took another long pull on her glass nearly emptying it.
"Did that help?" she asked. She leaned forward and refilled her glass and I did the same. I noticed that the top two buttons of her blouse were open now exposing the tops of her large breasts bulging out of her bra as she leaned forward. Why should I be surprised, I thought. Rod had told me that she had great tits. They were very attractive, which was not a surprise to me. Ever since I had married Charlie I had tried, without complete success, to suppress my attraction to beautiful women. My rule was look, but don't touch.
I laughed in response to her question. "Well it encouraged both of us to be very honest about our cheating and what we were getting out of it. Neither of us wanted a divorce and both of us admitted that we were enjoying the affair and didn't want to quit. As we got drunker our descriptions of our illicit relationships became rather explicit. We wound up describing our initial encounters in graphic detail."
