Delilah's Diary #1: A Sexy Journey

This story you're ogling on your hot little digital device is about 22,100 words, or 88 book pages long. 

WARNING:
This story contains explicit sex and erotic scenes, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

I found Harry
in
flagrante
delicto
this morning. By which I mean, balls-deep in the church secretary, in our bed, in our house. Bitch had her varicose-vein legs all up around his waist and she was screaming, "Yes, yes, Harry, fuck me harder."

Just to clarify, Harry is my husband. And the church secretary is the pastor's wife.

I froze in the doorway of our bedroom, halted in the act of pulling my coffee-soaked sweater over my head. My tatas were sticking out of my too-small bra—too small because Harry was too much of a cheap-ass tightwad to buy me a new bra that actually fits—and my skirt was still soaking wet from the coffee I'd spilled on myself on the way to work, prompting my unexpected return home. My skin prickled into goosebumps, and I felt something hard and hot forming in the pit of my stomach.

I've always been a level-headed type of girl, not given to hysterics or outbursts. I've always done the
right
thing, the
smart
thing, the
good
thing. I saved myself for marriage, like a good girl. I only ever dated Harry, and we only ever kissed, on my parent's front porch, with my parents discreetly not watching from the living room.

Well, in that moment, with Harry staring at me with wide, frightened eyes over his sweaty shoulder…I lost it.

I mean, I went completely batshit crazy. I took off my stiletto heel and threw it at Harry, hitting Helen in the side as Harry tried to roll off her. She shrieked and toppled to the side and right off the bed, her floppy little titties bouncing as she fell. I took off my other heel and chucked it at my cheating-bastard husband as hard as I could. I nailed him right in the head. Cut open his forehead, loosing a ribbon of blood all across his naked, sweating belly and the clean white sheets,
my
sheets, my Michael Kors sheets I saved for a month to afford.

The shoe throwing wasn't the batshit part. That, I offer up, is a perfectly natural reaction to finding your pig of a husband porking a cheating whore of a homewrecker in
your
bed, on
your
Michael Kors sheets.

No, the batshit part came later. Right then, after I'd hurled both shoes, I stormed past Harry into our walk-in closet and threw handfuls of clothes into the biggest suitcase I could find. I ripped dresses and skirts and blouses off the hangers, yanked piles of jeans and shorts off the shelves, and stuffed it all willy-nilly into the suitcase. I was still half-naked, wet and sweaty now, but I didn't care. Helen and Harry were watching me, silent, disbelieving, unspeaking, Harry pressing a hand to his gushing forehead.

I stripped my wet clothes off, only to realize I'd already shut the suitcase with all my other clothes in it, forcing me to dig, completely naked now, through the suitcase to find panties, a clean bra, and something to wear.

No one had said a word.

I hauled my heavy suitcase past the shell-shocked cheaters, not looking at them, not speaking to them. I grabbed my purse off the kitchen counter where I'd left it, stuffed my phone charger in my purse, and walked out.

Harry hadn't apologized, or tried to explain, and neither had Helen Warner. Suited me fine. What was there to say?

I got in my car, still unable to process thoughts through my raging, whirling, stunned head. I drove to the bank. My sister is the manager of the bank, and she's always hated Harry, for reasons I'd never understood. I stomped into the bank, into her office, interrupting a phone call.

"Betty, I'll have to call you back," Leah said into the phone, and hung up. "Delilah? What's wrong? What happened?"

I slammed the door behind me and collapsed into the chair in front of her desk. I didn't cry. I just sat there, staring blankly at the carpet between my feet.

"Dee? Talk to me. What's going on, honey?" Leah was beside me, kneeling with a hand on my knee, looking up at me with sincerity oozing from her pretty blue eyes.

I realized then that she knew.
She knew
about Harry and Helen Warner.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I said, the words a whisper.

"Tell you what?" She feigned confusion, but I could see worry lines forming between her perfectly-plucked eyebrows.

"About Harry and Helen." I dug my fingers into my trembling thighs. "I found them together. In
my
bed.
Fucking
."

I never swore. I'd always considered cursing to be the sign of a weak mind, since that's what my parents always told me, but right then, a good strong curse word was all I could come up with.

"They were
fucking
in my bed, Leah.
Our
bed. My husband and the pastor's wife. In our bed." I leveled a glare at my sister, and it was vehement enough to send her stumbling backward, smoothing her silk skirt around her slim, perfect hips.

Her slim hips. Helen had
slim hips
. Like my sister Leah, Helen had small breasts, small buttocks, small feet and hands, small waist...

"You knew, didn't you?" I said. "You knew about Harry cheating on me."

Leah crossed around to sit at her desk. She straightened the legal pad and the pens, centering them, her eyes not meeting mine.

And then something else clicked into place. Looks exchanged during family dinners between my sister Leah and my husband Harry. A business trip I took to Chicago last fall, coincidentally occurring at the same time as Leah's husband was on a business trip as well. Now I was suspicious of Leah as well.

"Yes," she said, clicking a pen. "I knew. They've been sleeping together for months. Everyone knows."

Small town Illinois. Of course everyone would know, except me. Stupid, naive me.

Leah still wasn't looking at me, and that was when I knew for certain. She was guilty, and not just of forgetting to tell me about Helen. Leah's shoulders were slumped, her fingers trembling and tense.

I shouldered my purse, not to leave, but because it gave me something to do while I summoned the words to accuse my sister.

"You too, right?" It wasn't what I wanted to say, but it was a start. "You and him, on that business trip. You fucked him, didn't you?"

That word was coming easier, now. I liked it. It was a hard, dirty, sinful word. It made me feel less like a good little Christian girl, which I suddenly didn't want to be anymore.

A single tear dripped from Leah's nose to the calendar on her desk. She nodded. "When you and Mike both went on a business trip...Harry and I met in Peoria. Spent the week together. After you and Mike came back...there was just once more. After church one Sunday. You went home sick, and Mike got called into work."

"Does Mike know?"

I liked Mike. He was a genial, generous, kind-hearted man. He and Leah had two kids together, Lucy and Raymond. Good kids.

Leah shook her head. "No. It would kill him. His heart, you know. It's not so good these days." She looked at me for the first time in several minutes. Her mascara was running. "Please don't tell him," she whispered, hoarse, pleading.

"Who else—" My voice broke and tried again. "Who else has he fucked?"

Leah scrubbed her face, pulled a Kleenex from a box on her desk and dabbed at her eyes. "Cynthia Roberts. Tonya Hammond. That's all I know of for sure."

My head spun. "We've been married for eight years, Leah.
Eight years.
He's cheated on me with
four
different women? One of them my own
sister
?" I was close to yelling now.

"There's probably more. He's a dog, Dee. He always has been. Everyone saw it but you. Everyone knows Harry sleeps around on you."

He wasn't
that
good looking, I didn't think. But then, ours was a small town, with a negligible supply of virile, halfway handsome men. Harry was tall, a little overweight now, but still carrying the natural bulk of powerful man. He was bigger than me, which was part of the reason I married him, honestly. He didn't make me feel big. I felt like a normal-sized woman with him. Helen had seemed tiny, in comparison. Like a doll underneath him. Leah, tiny little Leah...she must have been lost underneath him. The image slammed into my mind, and wouldn't leave: Harry, pale, hairy buttocks flashing and pumping, Leah, skinny, porcelain legs around his waist, tiny voice encouraging him...

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to banish the image.

The hot, hard lump in my belly was moving upwards, now, lodged in my chest.

The same instinct that had driven me to pack up and leave was driving me now. I didn't second guess myself.

"Cash out my bank account, Leah."

Leah was startled by the sudden command, the steel in my voice. I've always been a meek person, despite my size. Leah was always the fierce, dominating one.

"But—but, Delilah...that's yours and Mike's...together. It's in his name too. I can't just—"

"
Now,
Leah. Or I'll tell everyone."

Everyone in town knowing a secret without it being said is one thing. Having it aired in public is another. Leah knew me well enough to know I had the means, as the editor-in-chief of the town newspaper, to spread the word if I wanted to.

Leah nodded. She tapped at her keyboard, and then scurried out of the office, summoning her calm-and-in-command face. I sat, seething on the inside and still on the outside. Leah returned with three fat envelopes. Twenty thousand dollars.

Harry and I had been saving for a down payment on a bigger house.

I took the envelopes and put them at the bottom of my purse, underneath the erotica novel I was secretly reading and my cell phone and my wallet.

"Good-bye, Leah."

I turned and walked out without a backward glance, leaving my sister, my only family, sitting stunned, and for once, speechless.

The bank was only a few blocks from the bus station, so I left my car with the keys on the seat, took my suitcase from the trunk and rolled it behind me. I felt eyes on me. People stopped in the act of eating their lunches at Loreen's Diner, in the act of getting in their cars, in the act of playing checkers in the park. They all watched me pull my overstuffed suitcase behind me, purse on my shoulder, eyes burning, to the bus station.

I couldn't take it. I stopped, turned to face the town.

"Harry Flores is a cheating
whore
!" I screamed, as loud as my lungs would go. "He's fucked half the town!"

I saw Cynthia and Tonya standing side by side on the sidewalk. Best friends, those two.

"Including you two, Cynthia Roberts and Tonya Hammond!" My voice was about to give out. "Including Helen Warner! And
my sister
!"

I turned back around, feeling the stunned, embarrassed silence close in around me. I refused to acknowledge anyone. I found the ticket counter, with hatchet-faced Marge Conyers behind it looking hard-pressed to meet my eyes.

"One-way ticket to Chicago, please."

Marge just nodded, punched the keyboard, handed me a ticket.

I turned away, then stopped. "You too, Marge? Did you fuck my husband?"

Marge turned eight shades of red. "Before you were married, just after he proposed." She wouldn't meet my eyes. "He's got a small penis, and he wasn't that good."

She looked surprised at that last, as if she hadn't meant to say it.

"I wouldn't know," I said, my voice cold and arch. "He's all I've ever had."

I found my bus, idling and about to leave. It was empty, but for a few stop-over passengers. I found a seat near the back and sat with my purse on my lap, fighting the burning in my eyes. The hot, hard lump was in my throat, now.

The bus rumbled to life and groaned away from the tiny town where I'd lived my entire life. I found the weight on my shoulders, which I hadn't noticed until that moment, lift away, leaving me better able to breathe. The more miles the Greyhound bus put between me and TinyTown, Illinois, the less weight I felt.