Our Very Last Time

I turned my key in the lock for what I figured would be the very last time. Donna's and my house, sold to the McCarthys.

Technically, the sale wouldn't be until Monday, tomorrow, but everything had been agreed. Donna and I would take one last look around, to make sure there wasn't anything we'd forgotten, even though we had sold the furniture with the house. Donna had taken the dishes, a good set of china she'd inherited from her grandmother, and I had already removed my hunting and fishing gear. Really, there couldn't be much stuff left there.

Donna showed up about ten minutes later, walking through the open door. She looked as good as ever, her blonde - helped by Clairol blonde, that is - hair swinging, and her long, tanned legs looking like they'd been shined in her Daisy Duke short-shorts. Still, she wasn't trying to be too sexy, as she was wearing an old grey t-shirt and didn't seem to have on any makeup. Nope, that was just her typical, casual late Summer norm. Though normally she'd be wearing sandals, today she had on tennis shoes, I suppose to make it easier to carry things to her car.

At 27, she still looked like the 18-year-old freshman I met at UK, the freshman I immediately fell in lust with, her long, slender body just begging to be touched. By the end of her first semester she'd ditched the dorm and moved into my apartment, and the following June we got married. Married students were a rarity at UK, but it worked for us: no need to go out looking for love in all the wrong places, everything was already settled, and our apartment life was simple. That we were both on the poor side meant that we settled for nights at home, hardly a bad thing, unless someone else was having a party.

The economy sucked when we were both graduated, but I lucked out and got a job teaching math at Henry Clay High School, while Donna had to take a minimum wage job. A year later, she went back to UK, to get her degree in nursing, something actually useful, while I was working on my masters at night; the school system required teachers to have their masters within five years of being hired.

But that was ancient history. Donna had hooked up with a pharmacist, and it didn't take me too long to notice the signs. I wasn't going to put up with that shit, and filed for divorce as soon as I could.

It was a no fault divorce, and since we hadn't had any kids yet, it was as easy as a divorce could be. We'd bought a house on Fontaine Road just a year earlier, so there wasn't much equity, but by now the economy was decent and housing prices going up. We got our down payment, plus about $7,000 more, back in the sale price, even after the commission and fees.

Donna and I didn't say much to each other; everything we'd needed to say had been said, loudly, already. I had just finished going through the kitchen cabinets when Donna walked in and threw something on the table. "Do you want this?" she asked.

Damn it, it was a picture album. Not a wedding photo album, since we'd simply been married by a judge. Sadly enough, he was the same judge who signed our divorce decree, though he gave no sign that he recognized us. But there were photos from parties, from playing around on the weekends and summer vacations, and from a ski trip to the Poconos one year.

"You can keep it," I said. Like, what was the point, anyway?

"We did have some good times," she said.

"Yeah, we did," I replied, before anger got the better of me. "At least, until you fucked everything up."

Donna just stood there, staring at me. "Do you really hate me that much?" she finally got out.

"You fucked up everything, Donna, everything!" Anger was starting to boil up inside of me.

She moved into her typical defensive mode, hands on her hips, left leg cocked out to one side. "It's not like you were Mr Perfect, you know."

"Maybe I wasn't, but I didn't screw around on you."

"Oh, grow the fuck up, John, it was just a little fun on the side. You didn't have to go all macho and torpedo everything over it."

Yeah, I had gone all macho, and tried to beat the shit out of her boyfriend, but we were in public, and were quickly separated, the fight coming to no resolution. He was bigger than me, so there was at least the possibility that I might not have won that fight anyway.

But, yeah, he won in the end: he had Donna, and I mean really had her: they were shacked up together now.

"Oh, really? And what was I supposed to do, Donna, just forget about everything, forget that it had happened?" I was getting just as pissed off now as I had been before.

"Yes, God damn it, yes! But no, you just had to let your stupid pride get in the way!"

"Well, sorry, you stupid bitch, my pride is all that I had left!"

And then she fucking slapped me. "Don't you ever call me a bitch again!"

My fucking temper erupted at that, and I pushed her back into the corner, hard. My face had to be a livid purple at this.

I never knew how it had happened, how it went from screaming and slapping, but the next second we were on the floor, ripping each other's clothes off. There was no gentleness, no love in this, just unbridled hatred for each other, as though we were both trying to one up the other. My cock was as hard as it has ever been, and Donna was just soaking wet, as I speared into her.

I was pounding her almost savagely, reclaiming her, taking what was mine back as mine again. Donna was clawing my back, marking her man, screaming incoherently. She was pulling against me, kissing my face. At one point she sucked my lover lip into her mouth, biting it. She was calling me an asshole and a miserable prick, and I was yelling that she was a nasty bitch.

But somehow, someway, I never called her a cunt. Donna had always said that was the nastiest word in the English language, and that no man should ever call a woman that, and as angry as I was, I still never used the word.

She came, man, did she ever. It was a muscle-clamping, guttural screaming, hard as nails climax, her thighs clamping around my waist trying to squeeze me to death climax, and I unloaded deep inside of her, like I was reclaiming my property, my entire body stiff as a board, pushing as hard and as deeply as I could inside of her.

I was almost in shock at what had happened, and I think Donna was, too. After our orgasms, it was like we came to our senses again. The tension left my body, and I found myself propped up on my elbows and my knees again, her legs with the tension released, knees up but heels on the floor, her arms still around me.

My anger was gone, my hatred a thousand miles away, as Donna's face softened and finally smiled. Thank God for that, because I had been almost insane, and if she had claimed rape, I don't know that I could have defended myself. But she had pulled my shirt off of me as much as I had ripped hers off of her.

And then she laughed! "Well, I guess that's one Hell of a send off for us!"

I didn't know what to say, as I got up and then pulled Donna to her feet. Her shirt was gone, and her beautiful A-cup breasts were before my appreciative eyes. Her shorts and panties were down around her right ankle, pulled down hurriedly before, her tennis shoes still on. Her big brown eyes were boring into my soul, and her lips wide in the biggest smile I had ever seen from her. "Wanna move to the bedroom for round two?" she grinned at me.

"What, the same bed you fucked what's his name in? No thanks!" I was trying to keep my anger from rising again. "Besides, could we ever top what we just did?"

"No, I guess not. That was fucking fantastic!"

I looked down, saw the wet spot on the carpet. "I hope that'll dry by the time the McCarthys get here tomorrow," I said. Then I walked to the bathroom, to get some TP so Donna could wipe up the cum dripping down her leg. She laughed as she cleaned herself up, saying it was a good thing her boyfriend had the duty at the hospital now. I guess that meant so she could get home and shower and douche herself out before the douchebag pharmacist got home.

Other than the closing the next day, I didn't see Donna again for over five years. Hey, Lexington's a big enough town that people's paths don't cross all that often. But one Sunday morning, my girlfriend Debbie and I went to the Bob Evans restaurant on Richmond Road for a nice breakfast when I spotted them, Donna, the douchebag pharmacist and a blonde-haired little girl in a booth by the front windows. Donna glanced at me briefly, not greeting me at all, not to piss off her husband - she was wearing a wedding ring now - but the kid looked at me with the same curiosity all four-year-olds have. In her face, I saw them, the same cornflower blue eyes my mother and sisters have.

Yeah, I'd finally beaten the douchebag! He was paying for and rearing my daughter!