Man finds his deceased wife's diary in a locked hope chest
As a busy executive, I never found time for my family. As a consequence, my first wife divorced me, moved with my children to California, and left my life for good. At first, I tried to maintain a relationship with my children, but they became strangers to me and I to them. There was never enough time to establish a bond. I willingly continue to send alimony and support payments, although the court-ordered time has expired.
When I was 50 years old, my long-time secretary retired necessitating a suitable replacement. Human Resources selected three candidates for me to interview; one of whom had outstanding skills, was personable, and was very attractive. Sylvia had earned her MBA at Indiana University. She was 26 years old and she was single. This was an added plus because I often worked late at night and traveled a great deal. I needed someone who could work long, demanding, hours and who could travel with me.
I breathed a sigh of relief when she accepted the position. She complemented my department well with her pleasant personality and her effective completion of the tasks assigned to her.
Over time we became close. Against my better judgment, we developed a relationship and fell in love. Surprisingly, we were able to separate our work and personal lives. We fell deeply in love and within a year, we were married. She filled a void in my life I’d not consciously known existed.
My supervisors, aware of her talents and their desire to remove her from my department, promoted her to a position similar to mine. This created demands on her time and we saw less and less of one another. We both traveled a great deal, often at varying times. Sex was infrequent, hurried and frantic. I didn’t complain, however, because she was good at her job and she loved the challenge. I was happy for her.
I began to wonder if she found other lovers when she traveled. She certainly had the opportunity to meet many other intelligent, attractive men and women. She loved sex and required frequent attention, which she wasn’t getting from me. In my loneliness, I often fantasized about her with others.
My wife was a gorgeous woman not easily left alone. She had a Demi Moore quality—dark brows, eyelashes and the same shaped nose. Her full lips were my favorite facial feature. I’d frequently masturbate at the thought of her wrapping them around someone else’s cock. She was tall with long, shapely legs that led to an incredible ass, a narrow waist and fairly large breasts. Her long brunette hair cascaded down her back. She had the most gorgeous pussy: a dark patch of pubic hair, trimmed just enough to wear thong panties and large, protruding, labia folds. Moreover, I loved the enriching aroma of her pussy.
When she was away, I’d often scrutinize the hamper for a suitable pair of her used thong panties. I’d masturbate to their musky fragrance; the tangy taste of them; the poignant memory of her naked body; and, the thought of her being totally seduced and satisfied by a handsome, hung, lover. I visualized his cuming copiously deep in her womb and watching as it slowly dripped after he withdrew and lay down beside her. I saw in my mind’s eye his large flaccid penis as he rolled off and held her close to him.
One late night when she was away on a trip, I received a phone call. It was the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. My wife had had a heart attack, and was critically ill, I was told.
My tortured mind tried to comprehend the news. “How can someone so young have a heart attack?”
I hurriedly made arrangements to fly out to LA on the next flight and hurried to her bedside. When I arrived, they took me to her room. She was on life support systems and was in a deep coma.
I held her hand all through the night and talked soothingly to her. I must’ve fallen asleep, because the shrill sound of the monitor’s alarm awakened me. I watched as it flat-lined. I called in panic for the nurse. The Blue Team tried hard to resuscitate her, to no avail.
I later called her parents to inform them and I asked them to assist in making arrangements for a memorial ceremony. The coroner informed me that he was going to do an autopsy, with my permission. She was then cremated. I returned home with her ashes for the service. Afterwards, her urn was buried at the head of her favorite grandparent’s grave.
I took a month’s vacation from work to grieve and sort out our belongings. I decided to move out of our villa into a townhouse in the city. I gave her siblings and her parents an opportunity to look through her belongings. I gave the rest to Goodwill.
I put off looking through one item: her hope chest. Her family told me her grandmother had passed it along to her before going into a nursing home. It had been kept locked during our marriage and I’d always been curious as to why.
I called a locksmith and had him unlock it for me. After he left, I sat and stared at the chest. I decided not to open it just then. I’d examine it the next day, I thought, and then take it and the contents to Goodwill, if appropriate.
The next morning after breakfast I grabbed a chair, a cup of coffee, and sat down by the chest. When I opened it there was an odd musky smell, which quickly dissipated. On top were several diaries, a videotape and a blanket. Below that were her high school and college cheerleading outfits.
I opened the first diary and began to read her opening entry, written at the age of 14:
“Dear diary. When I grow old, I want to read the contents of these pages and recall a life lived to the fullest without regret. I don’t know what these future pages will reveal; but that’s the exciting part—so much of my life is still ahead.”
Her initial entries were typical ones about spats with girlfriends, budding breasts, emerging pubic hair, menstruation, and crushes on boys.
I began to skim the pages. At the age of 15, she began to discuss her sexual awakening and how she and her current boyfriend were into heavy petting. She discussed her loss of virginity and how it hurt, but subsequent experiences were wonderful. “I LOVE SEX!!!” she wrote in one entry.
At the age of 16 she began to write about experiences with several different partners. One night by the lake, a young man brought a blanket to lie on. He later told her he didn’t want his parents to see the pecker tracks on it, so he gave the blanket to her to throw away.
She detailed in her diary the many subsequent lovers who had left pecker tracks on it. I unfolded it and sure enough there were many, many, dried spots that had left the fabric stiff.
“What an odd trophy,” I thought.
I picked up the second diary from her college years at Indiana University. The blanket had followed her to college and acquired many more pecker tracks. In addition to a promiscuous lifestyle, she was now into fraternity gangbangs. Her diary was filled with entries about the many gangbangs and circle jerks she participated in. “I can never get enough cum,” she wrote.
She had two abortions during college. She talked about the emotional toll this had on her. She would have loved to carry them to term and adopt them out, she wrote, but she was on her career path and couldn’t be deterred.
I lowered the diary to my lap and reflected on the revelations of her previous life. I was aroused at the thought of her many sexual encounters; but, to say I was shocked would be an understatement. Yet, the past is the past, I surmised, and she was a good and loving wife to me—and a wonderful sex partner.
I had to pee by this time, so I took care of that business and made myself some lunch. I stared out the window and continued to reflect upon the contents of the diary.
Feeling refreshed after having lunch, I returned to the hope chest to get the videotape and view the contents. I inserted it into the VCR and pressed the play button. The tape showed our bedroom at home--the same room in which I was now watching it. The date showed that it was videotaped about one month before her death during the early afternoon. I recalled that I had been on a business trip during that period. She must’ve taken a long lunch break.
In the tape were my wife and a handsome young couple from work whom we often had over for dinner and socialized with. I didn’t know yet who was operating the camera. It showed my wife on her back with her legs spread and the young wife, Simone, eating her pussy and her husband getting a blowjob. My wife was working her butt up and down. Her hard abdominal muscles glistened with a sheen of sweat. The husband quickly climaxed. Her beautiful lips were white with cum but she continued to milk the sperm into her mouth.
Simone left her pussy to lick off the spilled cum and to give my wife a penetrating French kiss that lasted several heart-stopping minutes. Her husband, meanwhile, walked toward the camera to exchange duties with the cameraman.
Feeling the ultimate sense of betrayal, I saw Leonard, our boss, walk naked toward her waiting pussy. He was one of the few black managers to rise to a position of prominence within the company. Without a word, he squatted to face her pussy, which had an accumulation of her cum. He rimmed the outer regions to capture it with his tongue. He then began to expertly service her pussy. She was moaning, bucking and screaming.
I watched as he put his huge black cock in and pleasured her pussy, alternating depth and rhythm. My wife was drenched with perspiration, her whole body shook and she was squirting cum down the length of his cock. It looked like spilled Elmer’s glue.
Shortly, his body tensed, his strokes became rapid, and he moaned as he finally slammed his cock deep into her pussy. He pulled his thick cock out exiting with a slurp. He pushed her legs back and spread them wide, leaning into her pussy where he began to kiss and lick the cum. He lowered her legs and kissed her with gentle tenderness. He looked into her eyes and said, “Thanks, baby.”
“You’re welcome,” she responded.
She rolled her head and looked into the camera’s lens. It was then that I noticed the glaze in her eyes. She had been heavily drugged.
She stood up and slipped into a pair of black thong panties and hooked up her bra. The couple went to shower while our boss dressed. That’s where the tape ended.
“Did she ever love me? Was I simply a foolish old cuckold?”
Seeking answers to my many questions, I opened the most recent diary.
I traced her feelings about me from the time we met to the night before her last trip. Each entry spoke of her love for me. She spoke often of how she had settled down and loved her new life. She mentioned wanting to have my child. I was so relieved that I hadn’t misjudged her feelings for me.
I also learned that Leonard, our boss, was a friend with an old classmate of my wife’s. This guy had screwed her many times during the gangbangs at Indiana University. When he told Leonard about her past, our boss used the information to coerce her into having sex with him. She didn’t want me to learn about her past and had sought to shield me. To ensure compliance, he began filling her up with heroin. This led to his using her as his “sex slave.”
That evening, I took the hope chest and its contents to the dump where I set it afire. Secure in the knowledge of her love for me, I forgave her for her infidelity.
A week later, the report from the Los Angeles coroner arrived. My wife was the apparent victim of a homicide, it concluded. A venous air embolism from a massive injection of air into her veins caused her death.
At first I was a suspect, but there was no evidence, obviously. The insurance company fought against paying my wife’s million-dollar policy.
I knew who had her killed, of course, and why.
I put our houses on the market and put in for early retirement. I bought a sailboat in Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., where I planned to learn how to sail. I sowed the seeds of revenge.
I quickly learned to sail on the ocean and traded my sailboat for a bigger one. I invited Leonard down for a weeklong cruise through the Caribbean. The son-of-a-bitch couldn’t get there fast enough.
On a moonlit night we grilled steaks on the grill somewhere near Bermuda. After dinner, we drank coffee and smoked Cuban cigars. We talked about his problems at work. I asked him if he’d like an after-dinner drink. I went below deck to fix it and mixed in a tasteless sedative. He went to bed shortly thereafter stating that he must have jet lag.
I finished my cigar and waited. When I finished my smoke, I chained his arms to the bed and injected him full of heroin. I then threw boxes full of raw steak overboard. Soon, sharks were fighting over the pieces. I grabbed Leonard, lifted him, and slid him into the water. There was a flurry of activity as they attacked him. I wish he could have died a more horrifying death, but I didn't want to leave evidence of a struggle behind.
I discarded the sedatives, heroin, and the glass he’d drunk from into the ocean.
Afterwards, I sat staring at the stars, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking another cigar.
“That was for you honey,” I said to the heavens.
A couple days later, far from Bermuda, I finally broadcast an SOS. “Man overboard.”
Based on an “anonymous” tip, the police obtained a search warrant to explore Leonard’s home for evidence in my wife’s murder. Through the videotapes and other evidence, he was implicated in her death and I was cleared.
The insurance company had no choice but to settle the claim. I recently received their million-dollar check. I would gladly exchange it, however, if only I could have my lovely wife back in my arms.