Not Guilty
Introduction:
I don?t usually like stories about cheating so I don?t vote on them. But I found this one and it was too good to not post for more people to read. Non erotic story hence no sex seen but truly a worth, while story.
By: Harddaysknight
07/16/09
Literotica.com, loving wives
I don’t usually like stories about cheating so I don’t vote on them. But I found this one and it was too good to not post for more people to read. Non erotic story hence no sex seen but truly a worth, while story.
I was sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a bowl of Raisin Bran when I was surprised by a hard rap on my kitchen door. Musing over who would be knocking at eight AM Sunday morning, I crossed the tile floor and opened the door.
Standing on my stoop was a man in his forties, wearing a cheap, wrinkled suit. Behind him were three uniformed cops. This was definitely not the normal Sunday routine!
“Mr. Young?” asked the suit as he briefly held up a badge. “Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions?”
“I’m afraid I can only converse with one person at a time, Detective…what was your name again?”
“It’s Cook. Detective Richard Cook. I’ll be asking the questions, Mr. Young. These men would like to sort of look around your house, if you don’t mind?” added the detective.
“Do you have a warrant? I’ve seen enough police shows to know you need a warrant to force your way into my home to look around, as you put it,” I asserted.
“No, Sir. We do not have a warrant. I am requesting that these officers be allowed to look through your home. You have the right to deny my request. Then I would have to get a warrant,” agreed the detective.
I really couldn’t think of anything I had to hide, but I didn’t know exactly what they were looking for, either. Was there any illegal porn on my laptop? Not that I could think of quickly. Any bodies in the freezer? It seemed unlikely. We did have some illegally copied DVD’s in the den!
“You aren’t from Interpol, are you?” I quickly asked.
“No, Mr. Young. Believe me, we are not interested in illegally copied movies. Everyone always worries about that,” acknowledged the detective as he slowly shook his head.
“Could you tell me what this is all about then?” I politely asked. “This is quite unusual in this neighborhood. Why do you want to search my house?”
“Sir, there has been a murder and I am investigating it. These officers are assisting me. Is there any reason you would deny my request?” asked Detective Cook.
“Well, yeah! Because I can. Because I don’t want a bunch of strangers wandering around my house. Because the floors are clean and I want to keep them that way or my wife will give me hell when she gets up,” I responded. “How about them reasons?”
“How about I haul your ass down to headquarters and question you for five or six hours while my colleagues obtain a search warrant and go over your clean house with a fucking fine tooth comb?” snarled Cook.
“How about you gentlemen come in and look around while I entertain Detective Cook,” I asked, directing my question in the vicinity of the three uniformed cops.
I wasn’t sure why the cops were anxious to search my home, but I was pretty certain they wouldn’t find anything very damning, with the possible exception those fucking missing tags the kids tore off their mattresses fifteen years ago. If push came to shove, Cook could drive out to Penn State and arrest my two sons. I wasn’t taking the fall after I had repeatedly warned them about removing those damn tags!
I motioned to a chair for Cook as the three men in uniform filed into the kitchen. I watched as they slowed and came to a stop by the island in the center of the room. They turned almost in unison to look my way.
“Just one each!” I groused as the trio dove into my box of fresh doughnuts. I had picked up a dozen jelly filled doughnuts just minutes before their arrival and the aroma had called to their professional instincts. It was that moment that my wife, June, walked warily into the kitchen, clutching her bathrobe tightly to her throat.
“Steve, what’s going on? Why are their policemen walking through the house eating doughnuts? Is something wrong?” she asked worriedly.
“June, this is Detective Cook. I’m hoping he’ll enlighten us about the situation while he asks his questions. I gave permission to ‘look around’ as Cook euphemistically calls it. Detective, this is my wife, June. Can you tell us why you’re here, investigating a murder?”
“Mr. Robert Morgan was shot and killed last night, around midnight. I believe you both knew him?
“Well, yeah!” He was June’s boss. You shouldn’t lack for suspects, Cook. The bastard created cuckolds faster than rabbits can reproduce. You should be looking for a jealous husband, or maybe even an entire platoon of them,” I chuckled, feeling no sadness over the death of my wife’s late employer.
No one else even cracked a smile. June’s face was whiter than I had ever seen it and tears were forming in her eyes. Cook just nodded slightly as he studied my face. Except for some soft sobs from June, the room had become deathly quiet.
“Mrs. Young, how long ago did you enter into an affair with your employer, Robert Morgan?” questioned the detective.
“I didn’t really, I mean it wasn’t really an affair,” sobbed June. “It was more of an occasional meeting. I didn’t love him or anything. It was probably about six months ago that we first got together. I would never shoot anyone, and certainly not Bob!”
“I never suggested you would, Mrs. Young. I am simply trying to get all the facts,” stated Cook matter-of-factly. “How did your husband respond to your liaisons with Mr. Morgan. Was he jealous? Angry? Enraged, when he found out?”
“Steve had no idea that I had been unfaithful until just this moment, Mr. Cook. The subject was certainly never discussed between us. I’m certain that Steve would have been upset, but not enough to kill Bob,” replied June, with less conviction than I would have liked from my wife.
“Really?” grunted the detective. “Mr. Young, how would you answer the same questions.”
“They started fucking August ninth of this year,” I replied calmly. “It was at after a dinner party at Morgan’s. I was called away early because of a problem at work. He offered June a ride home and hammered her in the back seat of his SUV. I am not upset because June and I have an unspoken agreement. Simply stated, we are free to fuck whomever we please, and we do. June decided to fuck Morgan. That was between the two of them.”
June’s mouth had dropped almost to the floor at my revelation. It took a few seconds for her mind to process everything I had just told the detective. I could see the wheels slowly turning.
“How come I never heard of this so-called agreement?” demanded June indignantly.
“Because that is what the word ‘unspoken’ means, Dear,” I quickly responded. “If we had discussed it, I would have said that you and I had a verbal agreement, and if we had it notarized and signed, it would have been a written agreement. Ours was unspoken.”
“Well, it would have been nice if I had known that,” bitched June. “I worked awfully hard to keep you from finding out about Bob. I think all our agreements should be spoken, or even documented from now on. This sneaking around shit is hard on my nerves.”
“This questioning is not producing what I would consider normal responses,” admitted Cook as he reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small recorder. “Both of you need to be aware that I am recording everything you say. Mrs. Young, have you been ‘meeting’ with any other gentlemen, or was Mr. Morgan your only paramour?”
“Of course!” protested June, perhaps a tad too strongly. “I’m a married woman! How can you even ask such a question?”
“Has your husband been taking advantage of this ‘unspoken agreement’, to your knowledge, or has he been completely faithful to you,” quizzed Cook.
“Steve would never break our marriage vows, Detective!” June answered somewhat indignantly. “He’s as faithful as an old hound. You can take that to the bank!”
“Mr. Young, I am asking you the same questions again. Do you agree with your wife’s responses?”
“June has been fucking her coworker, Bill Anderson, since September 15th. Other than the two aforementioned fuckers, she is as faithful as the goddamn geyser carrying that moniker in one of our national parks,” I responded without emotion, even as June made an audible gasp. “She loves the way he eats her pussy.”
“You seem to be a remarkably well informed husband, and even more amazing is your lack of emotion,” observed the detective. “Many men would be angry to the point of murder if they knew their wife was entertaining two lovers. Why are you so calm about all this, Mr. Young?”
“As I said before, we have an unspoken agreement. June was stepping out, but I was more than holding my own, if you get my drift,” I grinned sheepishly.
June was almost apoplectic now. Her eyes had stopped shedding tears were now simply bugging out of her head. Her face was a bright crimson rather than white, and she had crushed a jelly doughnut in her left hand. The jelly had squirted through her fingers and shot all over her robe, though she didn’t appear to notice.
“Are you saying that you had a lover, too?” demanded the amazed detective. “It seems that your wife was unaware of this development. With who was your affair, and when did it begin, Mr. Young?”
“You’re very astute. Small wonder you made detective before you hit fifty,” I sarcastically replied. “I first made love to Janette Morgan on August 11th, two days after her husband fucked June in the back seat of his car. We’ve pretty much managed to go at it every week day since,” I recalled fondly. “That minx loves to fuck.”
In her shock, June brought her hand to her temple. This action caused whatever jelly that had been in her hand to be deposited on her forehead. She appeared not to notice and Cook was too polite to bring it to her attention, especially since he was trying mightily to form a coherent sentence.
“Good God! You were fucking the murder victim’s widow!” he exclaimed. “Every week day you were laying the pipe to Janette Morgan! I interviewed her briefly last night and she never mentioned your name. Is there any chance you are mistaken, or attempting some sort of cruel joke?”
“You want to hear her mention my name, Cook? Stand in the closet next time I top her off and you’ll hear her calling my name. Of course, I am not mistaken. I can remember the names of the women I’m fucking!” I stated emphatically.
“Did you just ‘women’ you are fucking, as in plural, Mr. Young. Do you have more than one extramarital lover?”
“Now that you ask, I have to admit I’ve been doing the horizontal mambo with Lisa Anderson since mid-September. We tango several times every weekend, and occasionally during the week. That woman sucks cock like a freakin’ Shop-Vac!” I revealed.
Jelly was now dripping down the side of June’s face unimpeded, as she slumped forward in her chair in an almost comatose state. Cook was popping some sort of small pill. It looked like it was the same as the nitro pills my uncle Phil used now and then. After taking a minute to compose himself, Cook plunged forward.
“Mr. Young, you must realize that you are having affairs with the wives of the two men that are banging your wife. Can I assume this is not a coincidence? May I also say that I have seen Mrs. Anderson and she is smoking hot!”
“I won’t try to tell you what you may or may not assume, Cook, but I honed in on these two ladies after their husbands tapped June. Revenge is screwing your wife’s lovers’ wives. Sweet revenge is something even better, and I am fortunate enough to experience that incredible high,” I responded with obvious pleasure.
“Are you telling me that you murdered Robert Morgan to get revenge for his affair with your wife? Shit, you were taking his wife carnally every damn weekday! Wasn’t that enough for you?” demanded Cook.
“The answer to both your questions is an emphatic ‘no’. You’ll understand my ultimate revenge in due time,” I promised.
“What the hell were the questions you just answered ‘no’ to,” asked the perplexed detective as he fiddled with his recorder to replay his previous questions.
“So, are you saying that you didn’t murder Robert Morgan? Or are you saying that you didn’t murder him for revenge?” asked Cook after listening to his queries.
“I can answer ‘yes’ to those questions,” I replied.
“Goddamn it!” growled Cook. “I have to remember to ask one question at a time.”
It was at that moment that one of the uniformed cops carried a large handgun into the kitchen and waved it before the disbelieving eyes of Detective Cook.
“I found this in a gun cabinet in the basement,” beamed the officer. “Do you want to mark it as evidence and take it in?”
“Good idea!” exclaimed Cook. “Be sure to have the lab lift fingerprints off it. The owner of said prints is either a cold blooded killer, or the dumbest son-of-a-bitch cop in the world!”
The cop blushed slightly as he went out the door with my .44 Magnum in one hand and another of my fucking doughnuts in the other!
“This is beginning to jell nicely,” chuckled the detective as he watched strawberry filling drip off the end of June’s nose and onto the kitchen table near the box of doughnuts. “No pun intended. Morgan was shot with a .44 Magnum. How is it that you own a .44, Mr. Young?”
“I saw a .44 Magnum at Bill Anderson’s place one night while his wife was sucking my cock. It got me thinking. Jealous husbands can be homicidal bastards, as you well know. I decided I should have a gun at least as big as Bill’s in case he came for me in a jealous rage. Not all men are as understanding as I am, so I went out and bought one.”
“We have motive, and a weapon,” smiled Cook. “Now all we need is opportunity. I suppose you spent a quiet evening at home with your wife?”
“Actually, I was inside Lisa Anderson most of the evening, in her marital bed, to be precise. I left at 11:12 exactly, and came straight home. June was asleep when I got here. I’m not sure Lisa will be able to verify the time, as she was quite drunk when I left,” I added.
“That certainly is convenient. You remember the exact time you left, yet Mrs. Anderson was too wasted to remember anything and your wife was asleep upon your return home. I’m almost afraid to ask, but how is it that you recall the exact time you left the Anderson residence?” quizzed Cook.
“Her husband left a message on the answering machine while I was ripping a piece off his wife. He said that he was just leaving the airport for home. It was 10:12. I knew the best he could do driving home was one hour, so I made certain to leave by 11:12. I met his car coming down their block as I was headed home,” I revealed.
“Even if you left at 11:12, as you claim, it still gives you plenty of time to drive to Morgan’s home and shoot down Morgan when he answered the door. I think we have enough to arrest you for murder, Mr. Young,” stated the very pleased detective.
He was reaching for his cuffs when his cell rang. Cook motioned for one of his damned dough boys to keep an eye on me as he went outside to maintain phone privacy. He was gone almost ten minutes. The look on his face when he returned told me everything.
“You bastard! Detective Burns just got a full confession out of Bill Anderson. He claims he came home from the airport to find his wife dead drunk and covered in sperm. It was leaking out of every orifice and covered her face. He went ballistic when he noticed a wallet on the floor next to his unresponsive wife. It was Robert Morgan’s wallet, so he took his canon over to Morgan’s and blew a hole in him you could toss a cat through. He tried to deny it at first but broke under Burns’ questioning.
“Do you have any idea how Robert Morgan’s wallet wound up on Anderson’s floor?” asked Cook.
“Not even a guess, Cook,” I answered quietly. “He often left it on the nightstand by his bed. I noticed it more than a few times while I was plowing his wife. Why he, or anyone else, would mistakenly drop it at Anderson’s place is a mystery to me.”
“It seems that one of your wife’s lovers is going to jail for a very long time for killing her other lover. All the time, you were banging both men’s wives a lot more often than the two of them were doing yours. Now your wife is sitting there in some sort of trance with her head dropped into a box of fucking jelly doughnuts. Just what do you call a fucked up mess like this?”
“Sweet,” was my only response.
