Cliche

I haven't done a scientific study, and my perception may be way off, but to me it seems that stories in the Loving Wives category fall into three basic groups:

–Willing cuck stories; guys, who for reasons I'll never understand, want to see other guys fucking their wives. These stories appear to be about 35% of the category.

–BTB stories; after the wife cheats (often with the husband's best friend) she typically ends up in a Mexican whorehouse or the like, and her lover usually is either castrated or killed – or at least beaten bloody. These stories also appear to be about 35% of the category.

–The remaining 30% of the stories in this category are hard to pigeonhole so I'll just call them "other."

In this story my wife has sex with my best friend without my knowledge or permission and it doesn't excite me in the least; she ends up in a Mexican whorehouse; and he ends up dead; so it must be a typical BTB story – right?

Maybe, maybe not.

*****************

I was never what anyone would mistake for a "nice guy" through my twenty third birthday. I was primarily interested in fighting and fucking. Even though my parents and siblings were normal refined people I was in trouble as far back as I can remember. Some of my "highlights" (actually "lowlights" would be more accurate) were:

–I changed elementary or middle schools three times even though my parents never moved. Getting in fights was the main problem – I had a short fuse and a "don't fuck with me" attitude.

–I got kicked off the High School wrestling team as a sophomore – the only year I was on it – when as a light heavyweight I got disqualified three times in the first six matches for illegal holds, one of which broke my opponent's arm. I won the other three matches, but that made no difference to the conference administrative body, which was the organization that made the decision.

–I got caught fucking one of my teachers when I was a junior. I still maintain that it wasn't really my fault; I mean she was a super-hot P. E. teacher only six years older than I was and she came on to me. Maybe it wasn't the wisest thing to have one of our intense earth-shattering fuck sessions in the faculty lounge (even though it was on a Saturday). Nevertheless I got suspended for two months, and she got fired.

–In view of my suspension as a junior in High School, I was behind academically and wasn't enjoying my fourth year there, especially since 98% of my female classmates were either prissy or demure and I enjoyed women who were strong and audacious (like the aforementioned P. E. teacher). Near the end of the school year I ended up getting in fights over the rare desirable pussy in my school, and finally got charged with assault when I punched out the cop who was trying to stop me from kicking the shit out of two of my male classmates.

After six months in jail (not prison) where at least I got my GED, and a few more fights where fortunately the fellow prisoners that I beat up didn't press charges, the crotchety old judge gave me an ultimatum: "Join the armed forces and keep your nose clean for two years, or go to prison for three."

While I'm a bad ass and not real smart, I was smart enough to get that right, and enlisted in the Army a week after I got out of jail.

At the time that I joined the Army I had only one truly redeeming quality, I guess imprinted on me by my mother and older sister – I was always kind to women. While I wanted to fuck any woman who met my criteria for strong and audacious, I never, ever, ever even verbally abused a woman, let alone physically. I treated all women with respect – which led to some of my fights when other guys didn't.

In the Army I tried to qualify as a Ranger. I was more than physically fit for that elite group even though I was bigger (six foot three inches, 215 pounds whereas the average is five foot nine inches, 174 pounds) than normal and bigger isn't better except in hand-to-hand combat. However, as the base commander so delicately put it when I reported to his office: "Well, well, well; if it isn't trainee Bertil Johansson, the most fucked up soldier I can ever remember evaluating. We never had someone trying to qualify for the Rangers before as physically capable and as mentally unfit as you are. You're not supposed to kick the shit out of your fellow soldiers just because they insult you, and you're supposed to listen to orders not challenge the drill sergeant to a fight. Get your fucking mind together and try again in a couple of years, but for now get the fuck out of my sight before I have you court-martialed!"

Oh well.

I was immediately sent to Afghanistan, where there was real fighting. The first week there I did either something stupid or heroic, depending upon your point of view, and was credited with saving the lives of four guys in my platoon and a dozen Afghan school girls when I killed a half dozen Taliban. I was put in for a Bronze Star while I was in the infirmary recovering from my wounds.

I was not really as injured as my wounds appeared to be. Since there was a nurse there who fit my criteria for desirable pussy, I stayed in the infirmary longer than I needed to. The second time that I fucked Nurse Nancy in a storage closet (and a great fuck she was) we were discovered. Since she was a lieutenant in the Army Reserves that was a No-No; however they really did need nurses and I had already been put in for that Bronze Star, so the commandant simply chastised her and transferred me to South Korea near the DMZ.

I did my best to stop fighting after being sent to a regular army unit in Korea since although I didn't get a formal reprimand somehow my reputation preceded me. I was mostly successful in not fighting my fellow soldiers although I still had trouble with civilians or military personnel in other branches. Twenty months into my tour of duty I was told by my company commander, who was really looking for a reason to get rid of me even though I had actually received the Bronze Star, that if I had one more reprimand for anything (the ones so far were for fighting, but he made clear "anything") I'd be bounced out with a dishonorable discharge. If that happened before two years of my three year enlistment was up I was concerned that Judge Crotchety would find out and park my ass in prison for three years.

Twenty two months into my enlistment, on leave near a bar where armed forces enlistees often congregated, I saw four guys trying to take two women where they obviously didn't want to go. I knew that I was on a short leash but about the only good part of my upbringing just didn't allow me to walk away even though many others didn't appear to want to intervene. Just before the four local dudes got to a waiting van with the sliding side door open I stepped between the door and the yelling women and intense guys.

Since I didn't speak Korean I was at a distinct disadvantage. I held up my hand in a universal stop motion. "Stop – what's going on?" I asked.

"You leave – no wrong," one of the guys said, clearly the only one of the six with even rudimentary English.

The two women, seeing my intervention, started yelling more frantically. The guy closest to me slapped one of them across the face, drawing blood. That was it. I was no longer concerned about going to prison after getting drummed out of the military. Nor did I worry "there are four of them and just one of me" since I was significantly bigger than any one of them, and I hadn't lost a fight regardless of the odds since I was sixteen.

I had already put two of the dudes out of commission (don't ask me exactly how since in an affray like that I just react and normally have no memory of details afterwards), the third and the women ran (in different directions), and I was pummeling the fourth, when four MPs, two in a Jeep and two on foot, arrived on the scene. They stopped me from knocking the fourth guy unconscious and with weapons drawn asked what was going on.

Fortunately for me, the episode had been viewed by an elderly Korean shopkeeper and two U S sailors exiting the bar. Since the shopkeeper spoke pretty good English and understood what the women were yelling about, and since my story meshed with those of the sailors and the shopkeeper, the MPs actually held the three Koreans that I had disabled for the Korean police.

It was only when things had calmed down, I was told that I was in the clear, and the Korean police had taken away the miscreants, that I noticed that one of the MPs – in fact a sergeant – was a woman.

Not just any woman!

She was five feet eleven inches tall, weighed at least 160 pounds, had a look that was both hard and sultry at the same time, and couldn't hide her tits under her unflattering blouse because they were too big.

"According to the shopkeeper and sailors it looks like you're a hero Private Johansson," she said with a smile as she handed my credentials back to me.

"How's that Sargent – Mulroy is it?" I asked being bold enough to handle her name tag near one of her impressive boobs and pretending that I needed to adjust it to see it properly. She smiled more broadly then continued.

"The shopkeeper said that those four guys were kidnapping those two women, and who knows what might have happened to them if those guys got them in the van and took off. Despite your – shall I say 'enthralling' – record," she said with a grin, obviously having used the computer on the Jeep to check me out and having seen my Bronze Star, unexplained transfer, and three formal reprimands, "it looks like you've done a real solid," Mulroy chuckled.

"Enough of a solid for us to get together on your next leave?" I asked flashing her my most endearing smile. Despite the scars on my face from fighting I have an irresistible cherubic faced with dimples, surfer-blond hair, and penetrating steely blue eyes, and normally have no trouble with women. I was hoping that she was a woman first and an MP second.

"Kind of forward there, aren't you Johansson?" she chuckled. "What makes you think that I'd have any interest in you?"

"Well as you've already pointed out I'm a hero and that my career is 'enthralling' – that is the word that you used, isn't it?" I chuckled back.

She smiled more broadly and nodded her head.

"So, why wouldn't you want to get together then?"

"I'm eight years older than you are Johansson," she snickered.

"And you don't look a day over twenty one – plus true beauty – like yours – is ageless," I replied with a diabolical grin.

"You bullshitter," she laughed. "Let me take you to a medic to get your hands looked at – you have cuts on both and your left is swelling up." Since she held my hands and inspected them while she said that I was quite sure that I would be seeing her again.

Since we both wanted to make it happen, a week later – and for three months after that – Kathy Mulroy, MP, and I really enjoyed each other's hard bodies (hers was hard except for her soft pliable, eminently fuckable, monster tits). I do believe that she was the most multi-orgasmic woman that I had ever had sex with, and she could suck chrome off of a trailer hitch and didn't care that my cock had just emptied the contents of my balls in her pussy when she demonstrated her oral abilities, so I believe that I almost always got off three times myself whenever we "interfaced."

Unfortunately my liaisons with Kathy were my undoing. Although she said that she was separated from her stateside husband it wasn't actually a "legal" separation and she was obviously still married. When we were caught fucking up a storm in a base building that we thought was vacant, but apparently wasn't, we were both threatened with discipline under Article 134, Paragraph 62, of the MCM (the Executive Order that includes the UCMJ). Single soldiers can be charged with adultery as well as married ones.

I knew that the base commander was just doing this to get rid of me, and I didn't want there to be any adverse consequences for Kathy since she had a sterling military record and I didn't want her punished just because she was temporarily overcome with lust. Therefore I accepted a dishonorable discharge with the understanding that she would get only a reprimand.

Kathy was very grateful that I fell on my sword for her and our last night together in a Seoul hotel before I flew back to the U S was one for the ages. The memory of our last titty fuck got me through more bad times than I could count.

Fortunately, since I had made it through the military for more than two years before being bounced I had technically fulfilled the terms of Judge Crotchety's order so I wasn't going to prison.

**************

I was working a menial job in the States two months after my return when the day after my twenty third birthday, a Tuesday, after work I received a call out of the blue from someone named Bridget Ketjen – at least that's what it said on my cellphone's caller ID.

"Hello" was my sterling greeting.

"Is this Bertil Johansson, formerly in the U. S. Army?" asked a distinctly female voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes it is – is this Bridget who's surname I can't pronounce but came up on my caller ID?" was my reply, trying to make it as little smart-alecky as possible.

"Yes it is," was the chuckling retort.

"Why would you be calling me Bridget?"

"Do you know Kathy Mulroy?" came the quick response.

I wanted to say "Yeah, she was my best fuck ever in my young life," but I caught myself and merely replied "Yes I do know Kathy, quite well in fact."

"Well Kathy tells me that you're someone that I should talk to about a job in a newly formed organization that I run."

"And what organization is that?" I inquired.

"I'd like to explain it all to you in person. Where are you now?"

"The Chicago area."

"If I sent you a plane ticket to Denver and $300 in cash would you come to talk with me?"

Since I was making barely over minimum wage and hated my job I said "Sure. How will you get the plane ticket and money to me?"

"Just give me an address and I'll express it to you so that you get it tomorrow; instructions will be included. Your flight will leave Friday night."

"Sounds like a plan," I chuckled, intrigued by the mystery surrounding this situation and sure that Kathy Mulroy wouldn't immerse me in a shit storm.

I got the ticket and money just as she said that I would, and boarded a plane leaving O'Hare Airport at 6:45 Friday night. I was picked up at Denver International by a short mustached casually dressed guy who looked to be in his 40s with a sign that said "B. Johansson."

The guy who picked me up was Cory Wilton. While he was friendly enough he refused to answer any questions about what the potential job was, or what the "newly formed organization" did. Our drive terminated at a dormitory at Colorado Mountain College, and I was led to a room inside that had its own bathroom. It was after 1 a. m. Chicago (Central) time so I decided to just turn in for the night. "Breakfast is at 7 a. m. and there's an alarm clock on the bedside table," Cory said as we shook hands goodnight.

Despite the mystery of the situation I slept well until the alarm woke me up at 6:31 a. m. Mountain Time. I showered, shaved, and then followed my instincts to a dining room. As I expected since it was summertime there were no people there that looked like college students, but were about half a dozen guys and two women. One of the women knocked my socks off. It was love at first sight on my part, although no indication of that from her, as Bridget Ketjen (which she pronounced "catch – in") waved me over.

I was obviously giving Bridget the once over as I shook her hand – she didn't seem to mind, probably used to it. She had to be six feet tall, probably 160 pounds with extraordinary thigh and calf muscles popping out of her shorts, arms just on the sexy side of very muscular, a stone-cold-gorgeous face, lustrous hair with many color elements but primarily brown, a slim waist, prominent hips, and apparently conical mammaries from how they were deforming her thin halter top. More than even her physical gifts, however, she had an aura about her that was instantly intoxicating.

I tried to regain my composure as she introduced me to the other woman and the six guys, one being Corey who I already knew. We sat down to a decent breakfast of bacon, French toast, and orange juice as – while eating – Bridget gave assignments to the others. "Bertil, I'll meet with you alone right after breakfast to tell you what we're about and what the job entails."

As Bridget led me to a vacant lobby on the first floor of the dormitory I had a no-nonsense talk with myself. This was the first woman in my experience that I had ever wanted to romance, not just fuck. I knew that I would be accepting the job, no matter what it was, as long as I got to be near her, and I didn't want to appear to be a jerk when she interviewed me, so despite her wiggle of a perfectly formed ass and the impeccable flexing of sculptured hamstring and adductor muscles as I followed her I swore myself to completely rational, non-sexual, thought during the interview.

After some initial pleasantries Bridget got right to the point. "Our organization is called 'Traffic Stop.' It was formed around five months ago by an anonymous multi, multi-millionaire who had tragic personal reasons for doing so. We have funding that will last more than a decade for a dozen field operatives and half a dozen office and computer agents, and if we are successful hopefully for even more operatives and agents for decades to come. Our simple purpose is to stop human trafficking, especially of women and children."

This was not what I expected – not that I really had any specific expectations.

"How do you plan to go about that?" I asked, careful not to ogle her slinky body but instead staring into her dichromatic eyes, one green, one brown.

"With violence," was her terse reply.

"Say what?" I asked after a pause.

"By killing the traffickers and rescuing the victims; simple as that. We're not a charitable organization – we're an action organization."

"What makes you think that I'd be any good for Traffic Stop?"

"Simple. According to Kathy Mulroy – who you say you know well, and by the way she says to say 'Hi' only I don't intend to do so in the manner she suggested," Bridget said with an evil grin, "who is an old and trusted friend of mine, you're perfect for what we want. According to her you are as tough an S.O.B. as there is, you have already rescued two Korean women from what appear to be traffickers, got a Bronze Star including for rescuing a dozen Afghan schoolgirls even though the rest of your service record indicates someone who doesn't like authority and can't stay out of fights, and – well the rest I'll leave alone for now," she continued – then again with that evil grin.

After another pause she concluded with. "So in summary you're no mensch, but a bad ass – and this is a job for a bad ass, but one who cares about what we're doing."

I didn't know what a "mensch" was, but I knew that I was a bad ass so I shrugged my shoulders and inquired "OK – exactly what will I be doing, what is the pay, and where will I live?"

Over the next hour Bridget went into great detail on all aspects of the job. The basic thrust was that I would either be a vicious killer or noble paladin depending upon whether I was viewed by the traffickers or their victims, I'd make more money per year than someone with my educational background could ever expect to, and that a facility was being constructed outside of Tucson, Arizona that would be our base of operations, although we would be travelling all over the world, although primarily in the North, South, and Central Americas.

Bridget concluded her spiel with "So – what do you think Bertil? Interested?"