The Thursday that everything changed started out
as haphazardly and harried as any other. Brian
broke out the back door at a dead run, already late
for work. It took less than an hour to realize that
he'd left his meeting notes on the computer at
home. He briefly considered having Debbi e-mail
them to the office before dismissing the thought
with a smile. Debbi and computers were mortal
enemies. They were more likely to shut down in self
defense than to try and execute her dangerous
commands. And he really didn't want to risk the
possibility of all his notes disappearing into the
ether. No, the best bet would be to run home,
collect the disk, and head back. Maybe he'd even be
able to smooth talk her into a little afternoon
delight. They hadn't gotten nasty since Saturday
night, and he was beginning to feel on edge.
Casa de Levine sat on a full quarter-acre on the
northern edge of tony Woodridge Estates. A
contemporary with cathedral ceilings and an open
floor plan, it was one of the few homes with dual
entrances, front and rear. The front entrance led
to the regular street, which twisted and turned
every which way before emptying onto the main
thoroughfare. In the back, though, a short access
road led directly to the highway. Brian parked his
car here and trotted to the rear of his home,
entering through the patio doors off the family
room. Keeping quiet, but not conspicuously so, he
turned left into his home office, closing the twin
French doors behind him. They'd installed the doors
to shut off the noise from the family room, though
their plan had been only partially successful He
could still see and hear everything that went on,
but the muffled volume made it easier to ignore.
As the computer warmed up, Brian reviewed his
hastily assembled plans. First, e-mail his files to
the office, and download them to a disk as a safety
precaution. Then he'd hide out for a few minutes in
the hopes that Deb would come wandering through.
Pausing to fantasize about this part of the plan,
he pictured himself jumping out to surprise her,
enjoying the startled look on her face. He saw
himself steadying her with his hands on her
shoulders, then drawing her close for a kiss. She'd
resist for a moment and then part her lips for his
tongue, which he'd thrust inside as a preview of
what was to come. Then maybe he'd slip his hand
inside her shirt and palm her breast, or go
straight for the motherlode and squeeze her pussy
through her pants. They'd collapse down on the
couch, she shedding her jeans while he pulled open
her blouse, his mouth finding each nipple and
leaving it wet and erect. She'd undo his belt and
open his pants, pulling his hard dick from inside
his boxers. Unable to control his lust, he'd simply
crush down on top of her, pulling her panties aside
before splitting her cunt lips with his hard rod.
He'd go slow at first, enjoying the feel of her
rapidly warming hole, then speed up his strokes,
her panties adding friction even as her passage
constricted around his cock. When he finally came
it would be deep inside her, though he'd probably
still have to change because the smell of fresh sex
would cling to his clothing.
Movement in the family room startled him out of his
reverie, and he poised himself to spring out the
door. He stopped, though, when he heard the sound
of Deb's voice answered by another voice. A man's
voice. He didn't recognize it, and saw why when the
man followed Deb into the room. Big, black and
muscular, he moved with an athlete's grace that set
him apart from the more corporate and refined black
men that lived in the subdivision. While he didn't
recognize the man, he recognized the look in his
eyes: intense, feral and predatory. Brian again
tensed to spring out, this time in defense of his
wife. But again he stopped before turning the knob,
now even more confused by what he was seeing and
hearing.
"Where you goin', bitch?" the man barked at Deb,
his voice lazy and sharp at the same time. Watching
him closely, Brian noticed that he didn't have the
demeanor of a man who'd forced himself into a home
with the intent to do harm. Rather, he acted
confident and at home. Still, his wife's answer
shocked him.
"I thoughtŠ.I thought we'd go to theŠto the
bedroom," she answered meekly, turning back to him
without meeting his eyes.
"Nah," he answered. "The bed's for your old man. He
can have it. We'll take care of our business right
here."
Brian couldn't believe what he'd just heard. The
bedroom? His wife, his happy wife, had just
suggested that this man should join her in their
bedroom. His wife. Another man. The bedroom. His
brain was having trouble putting the concepts
together. He should burst out and put a stop to it.
He should yell at the man to leave and demand an
explanation from his wife. He should summon up all
his anger and let it out at the two of them. He
shouldŠ Brian blinked and let his hand fall from
the knob. Why didn't he have any anger boiling up
in him? Why was the need to see what would happen
stronger than the impulse to put an end to it? And
why was he so calmly looking for a place where he
could observe his wife and the man without being
seen?