Delilah's Diary: A Sexy Journey (Erotic Romance)
(c) 2012 Jasinda Wilder
ORLY Press
www.orlypress.com
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.
June 7
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.
I made it an hour and half before the first tear dripped off my nose and onto my yoga pants. The only other passengers were near the front, several rows up, asleep or wearing earbuds. I let a sniffle out, and then another tear.
The storm swept over me, then, and I collapsed across the other seat, the armrest hard and biting into my side. I didn't care. I let the tears rip free from me, sobbing until I was exhausted.
When the storm passed, I levered myself into a sitting position again, and found an older black woman sitting in the seat across from me, eyes wide and brown and kind, gray-shot black hair tied back in a bun.
"Caught your man cheatin' didn'tcha?" Her voice was a gentle rasp.
I nodded, dabbing at my eyes with the hem of my triple-XL Disneyworld T-Shirt.
"It ain't the end of the world, you know. Just the end of what you knew." She sidled across the aisle and sat next to me, took my clammy hand in her dry, papery one.
"What I knew was my world. He was my first, and my only. I saved myself for marriage, till I was twenty-one. I've never even kissed another man." The old woman just nodded and squeezed my hand, so I kept going. "We went to the same high school, the same college. I've known him my whole life. We dated for five years before he proposed, and in that time I never even looked at another man. I've been with Harry for thirteen years. Since I was sixteen. We barely kissed. On our wedding night, he--he got drunk, and so did I. I don't even remember...doing it. I remember it hurting a little, and then he fell asleep."
The old woman laughed. "Well, sweetheart, I hate to say it, but that may have been for the best. First times ain't what they're cracked up to be. My first time was damned awful. Course, he wasn't gentle, none."
"Harry was always gentle with me. Treated me right. Took care of me. But...it was always the same, with him. We'd get in bed, and he'd move up behind me and start touching my boobs. I'd...roll to my back, and he'd put it in, and then he'd finish, and that's it." I sniffled and looked out the window. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I don't even know your name."
"Susan," she said, giving my hand another squeeze. "You go ahead and tell me. You gotta tell someone, don't you? I been where you are."
"My name is Delilah," I said.
"Delilah. A pretty name for a pretty girl." Susan brushed a lock of my waist-length mouse-brown hair out of my eye. It was a grandmother's gesture, and it made me feel better.
"I spilled coffee on myself on the way to work this morning. Just a few hours ago. I went home to change, and I found him in our bed with the pastor's wife. She looked like she was enjoying it more than I ever did." My cell phone rang, and I shut it off.
"I found my husband just the same way. There was an accident at work, everyone got sent home. Came in to find him with my best friend. 'Course, he wasn't just doin' her. He was in her butthole. He tried to do that with me, once, but I wasn't havin' none of that." Susan shook her head. "He was my first, too, my husband. Wasn't my last though, and I came to find out what I'd been missin'. That's what you should do."
I looked at her in surprise. "In her...he was putting it in her butt?" I made a grimace of disgust. "Yuck. What do you mean, you found out what you'd been missing?"
Susan laughed. "Well, it sounds gross, but it's pretty nice, if he does it right." She gave me a serious, searching look. "You've had your world turned upside down, Delilah. You've left your home, and that's a good start. My advice? Just live life. Do things. Have an adventure. Meet a man and don't hold back. It doesn't have to be love, you know. It can just feel good, too."
Her words hit me hard. I wasn't sure if I wanted to believe her or not. What she was telling me went against everything I'd been brought up to believe in, all my life. I was a Bible-reading, church-going Christian. Sex was part of marriage, and an expression of love. Nothing else. Anything else was a sin, and an abomination before God.
Then her first admission filtered through. "Wait, you've done it...back there, with a man?"
Susan laughed uproariously, then lean
ed close. "Delilah, you just ain't got any idea what you're missing. There's a whole world waiting for you out there. Start with the simple stuff. Kiss a man, first. If you've never done anything but with your cheatin' ex-husband, then you gotta start simple. Go somewhere far away and figure out who you are. Just you start there. Find out who you are."
I talked with Susan all the rest of the way to Chicago. The last thing she said to me, before we parted ways on the platform, was life-changing.
"Delilah? Get a makeover. Change how you look. Go wild, girl. Who you used to be is gone. Be someone new."
She kissed my cheek, squeezed my hand, and walked away. I took my braid in my hand, my waist-length braid that had never been cut, and then looked down at my yoga pants and my tattered T-shirt, and realized Susan was right.
It was late afternoon by then, and I was alone in Chicago. I hadn't eaten anything that day, and I was getting shaky from hunger, so I took a taxi to a little restaurant I'd visited when I was here on my business trip, then found a room at the same hotel.
I stood in the bathroom of my hotel room after a shower, naked in front of the mirror, examining myself. My hair was nut-brown, loose, past my waist when unbraided. My eyes were a vivid cerulean, like sun-lit sapphires. Five-foot-seven, one-eighty on a good day. I touched my thirty-eight DD breasts, still perky but definitely heavy, with dark areolas the size of half-dollars, thick nipples. Wide hips, and a round but tight ass, always a little bigger than I'd like, no matter how hard I tried to make it shrink.
I ran my hands through my hair, which had never been truly cut in all my life, only trimmed an inch or two here and there. If I was going to get a makeover, it would start with my hair. Cutting it would be brutally difficult.
My skin was one of my best features, I'd always thought. Creamy and fair and flawless, soft as silk and white as porcelain. I ran my hands over my breasts, feeling a faint twinge of something electric deep in my belly as my palms whisked across my nipples. I'd heard women could pleasure themselves, but I'd never been brave enough to try. I mean, sure, I'd touched myself, learning my body as a little girl. But I knew without having to be outright told that to touch one's self like that was a sin, a dirty, worldly sin as bad as lying or stealing or using cuss words. As a young woman I'd hoped my boyfriend and then husband would provide the pleasure I wanted, and then when that didn't happen, I started to feel like to touch myself sexually would be cheating on my husband, and of course, there was the lingering stigma surrounding masturbation from childhood. I started a few times, when Harry was gone and I was desperate for any kind of pleasure in life, but I could never summon the courage to keep going.
A Sexy Journey Page 1
