Outsource@Home—Pt. 01

Mark and I walked back up to Scenic Road in silence, then headed back to La Playa. Mark spoke first. "Why did you have to get involved, Kat? I was especially surprised when you were so...rude to that fellow."

"Why didn't you try to help?" I didn't try hard enough to keep my voice from sounding like an accusation. "She could have drowned."

"Oh, aren't you being over-dramatic, Kat? She probably would have been okay once she caught her breath, but now you've created a...a situation involving the police in what should have been just an exciting moment." He didn't sound angry, just sort of irritated. Probably would have been okay? Rude? Exciting moment? I bit back my response, and we returned to the hotel without any more conversation as I tried to reconcile this unsympathetic, don't-get-involved attitude with the care and empathy he showed at the Salvation Army.

I didn't realize it until much later, but our honeymoon was the summit of our marriage. When we returned, we moved to a house in Morgan Hill that we bought because Mark had said that's where we could afford to buy. It was all downhill after that, and after a year of ever-declining closeness, I asked to be put back on the regular ops rota.

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AFTER THINKING ABOUT life for an hour or so, I decided it was time to find out what the hell was going on. I got a dark windbreaker and some black cross trainers from my carryon bag, then got out of the car and walked quickly to our house. The lights were still on downstairs, but a glance through the living room window showed that no one was there.

I used my key to get in the front door, then slowly made my way over to the couch, where I could look into the kitchen; it, too, was empty. Dreading what I might find but determined to make sure, I went up the carpeted stairs and down the hall to our bedroom door.

I opened the door as quietly as I could. As soon as I stepped into the bedroom, I was hit with the sounds and smell of sex: a rhythmic slapping of skin on skin punctuated by a woman's soft grunts and a man's heavy breathing, the air heavy with the scents of a woman's arousal and a man's sperm, with overtones of sweat and L'air du temps.

My dread morphed into anger. The only woman I knew who still used that vintage floral from Nina Ricci drove a yellow Mustang. The door was in a shallow vestibule and not visible from the bed. I carefully peered around the corner. Even though I was sure what I would see, I think my heart still skipped a couple of beats.

Mark was kneeling on our bed behind a woman on her hands and knees, pounding into her and panting as if he had just run up a dozen flight of stairs. The woman was bracing herself against the headboard and pushing back to meet each thrust, grunting each time his pelvis hammered into her. Neither spoke, they just grunted and panted, sweat glistening on their bodies.

The cunt on the bed with Mark was Heather Fields, my BFF since the seventh grade. A bottle of Laphroaig and two glasses stood on the nightstand.

The grunting and panting got louder, then Heather stiffened, gave a little shriek, and shuddered through a mild climax. She apparently noticed that Mark didn't share the experience; so she quickly pulled away from him, rolled over, and grabbed his cock. "Let me finish you, baby." She swallowed his cock as if it were an endoscope looking for her duodenum, and started bobbing and gobbling.

I think all my systems shut down briefly, or maybe time just paused for a heartbeat or two. Then reality screamed in. Not again! Dear God, not again! I was never going to let myself be suckered, ever. Will I never learn? But right after that train of thought pulled out of the station, Ego derailed it and bitch-slapped Heart. Face it, you were played by a master. He knew just how to fool you, how to get you to let down your guard. There's no shame in admitting that he played the game better than you, but you're gonna show him that you're a better fighter than he'll ever be.

I stepped back and leaned against the wall. My heart was pounding and adrenalin began hardening my anger into a rage I'd never felt before. I wanted to run in and beat the cowboy shit out of both of them...no, I wanted to kill both of them, very slowly, so each could watch the other die. Then my emotion control kicked in; I visualized my safe place, compartmentalized, started controlling my breathing, and my vitals slowly began returning to normal.

I'd smelled enough, heard enough, seen too much. I left the house and drove to the apartment building we maintained for visiting pooh-bahs and other extraordinary circumstances. This was definitely an extraordinary circumstance. I texted the duty officer for the number and pass code of an unoccupied unit, went in, and crashed. Mark didn't expect me home for at least two days, time I needed to rest and plan.

In the morning I showered and put on the same clothes, then drove to work. My boss was surprised to see me; he knew we finished the operation early, but expected me to go home. I told him I did go home and described what I found. He said a few unkind words about Mark, then asked if I wanted to have some unkind things done to him.

"Nope, I've got other plans, but thanks for the offer." He looked askance at my obviously fake chipper attitude, but was wise enough not to question it.

"Take next week off, Kat, even if you don't need it. And don't do anything stupid. Be strong, be professional." I thanked him and said I'd probably stay away Monday and Tuesday, but didn't need the whole week. I drove to Safeway and bought a half-gallon of Blue Bunny Cherry Chocolate Chunk, some brie and crackers, and a couple of sixes of Coke Zero. No Big Red, no Vernor's hot ginger ale. God, sometimes I miss Texas!

(I really got less than a quart and a half of Cherry Chocolate Chunk, we've been getting less and less ever since the ice cream czars figured out how to raise prices without raising prices. I still called it a half-gallon, though; old habits die hard.)

I had lied to my boss. I didn't have a plan, not yet. But by the time the Blue Bunny and four of the Cokes were gone, I had one. Devious as hell, a bit over the top, and definitely too complicated. Popping open another can of Coke Zero, I smiled at how the proper incentives can kickstart the planning process.

I spent the rest of my time off streaming a lot of movies, eating a lot of takeout, sleeping a lot, and didn't go to our place—the one I used to call home—until Mark expected me. I begged off sex the first night, but after that used Mark as a warm, voice-actuated dildo. I was able to act as if nothing was wrong thanks to emotion-control exercises we did throughout our training, plus refresher exercises twice a year. If compartmentalization were an Olympic sport, I'd be a lock for gold.

I needed intel, and thanks to one of the perks of my job I didn't have to go to Radio Shack, just to the supply closet. I arranged for a tech to tap the phone and install motion-activated cameras in the kitchen, bedroom, and family room while Mark was at work. She was a good tech—I had a hell of a time spotting the cameras myself, and I pretty much knew where to look.

I could monitor them in real time with my phone or laptop, and everything was encrypted and spirited off to our cloud servers. She also gave me an app to clone Mark's phone. Whenever one of the cameras went live or there was activity on Mark's phone, I got an alert on both my phone and laptop.

I'd been taken off operation rotation (OpRot, natch) until I could resolve my "personal situation" (not PerSit, even bureaucracy has its limits), so I spent most of my time sitting in my office working on my reading backlog—mostly intelligence and situation reports (yeah, IntReps and SitReps)—and responding to activity alerts from my bugs. It didn't take long to discover what was going on.

The first two carnal encounters weren't what I expected: They featured not Mark and Heather, but Mark and Lisa Gherardini, then Mark and Zoë Trope, two young (mid-20s), eager, and (at appropriate moments) vocally libidinous NAI Administrative Assistants. I recognized them from the times I'd worked there, but didn't know either one.

Mark's sex with them was almost perfunctory, not even up to free internet porn standards. Lisa's session began with the obligatory blow job, but he didn't reciprocate. He spent a few minutes fondling and kissing her breasts, then a few more minutes stroking and fingering her clit, labia, and vagina. She moaned throughout and finally had a mild orgasm.

When he mounted her missionary style, he lasted a decent amount of time; he didn't bring her to another orgasm, but again she moaned in passion when he grunted his climax. There was no clichéd money shot because he used a condom. How decent of him. He may as well have been masturbating with a life-size inflatable rubber novelty.

The pillow talk was almost embarrassing. Mark peeled off the despoiled condom and lay back with her for less than 15 minutes of chat. After the customary exclamation of how good it was, he leaned on his elbow and spoke in soft, almost conspiratorial tones.

"You know what a risk I'm taking in being with you, but I can't help it, Lisa, I'm fond of you and you're the sexiest creature I've ever known" He flashed that marvelous crooked grin and kissed her tenderly on the tip of her nose.

"I'd love to announce to the world that we've discovered each other, but I'd be fired by the end of the day. That wouldn't do either one of us any good, that's why we have to keep us a secret." He followed that by gently lifting her face with a finger under her chin and kissing her lips tenderly.

He was so convincing I almost believed him; he wasn't quite as convincing, though, when he followed the same script word-for-word with Zoë two nights later. Apparently, his good looks and power of position made up for his marginally adequate sexual performance.

He performed to a higher standard with Heather. As with Lisa and Zoë, their coupling also started with what seemed to be a well-received blow job, but this one was preceded by some more-than-perfunctory foreplay: he kissed her several times, took his time removing her clothing, and spent more than a few minutes fondling, kissing, and suckling her breasts as she moaned her approval. He followed the blow job— she swallowed, of course—with some enthusiastic pussy gobbling and clitoris stroking. He kept it up until she had two pretty good orgasms.

No one-and-done for Heather. He went two rounds and brought her to several orgasms. I couldn't tell if they were all genuine, but Heather had years of practice manipulating men; I was pretty sure she had no clue that this time she was the manipulatee.

Their pillow talk was even more revealing. "When Kat introduced you to me a couple of days before the wedding, I was happy that she found such a good-looking guy, but by the time we danced at the reception I knew I we were gonna fuck. That's what motivated me to find a job out here after my second divorce. You took a helluva chance grinding your hard cock on my ass that night."

Mark chuckled. "Kat laughed about it later that night." He pitched his voice higher and tried to mimic my voice. " 'I see Heather was being super-Heather tonight. I'm surprised she didn't yank down her top and flash her tatas. I hope she didn't embarrass you.' Kat didn't have a clue that I started it, or that I wasn't embarrassed, I was horny." He reached over and tweaked one of Heather's nipples and was rewarded with a squeak and a giggle.

No shit, Sherlock. You were such a Boy Scout all the time we dated, it never occurred to me that you'd fake-fuck my BFF at our wedding reception.

"You were horny? I went back to my hotel room and had to rub it out twice, then once more when I woke up horny a couple of hours later." She dropped her smile and sounded almost serious. "Kat and I have been friends since forever, Mark, but why the hell did you marry her and then start fucking me so soon?"

"Strictly a business decision. All the other group VPs are married, and it's pretty clear that I won't be promoted if I'm single. I want to run the whole Pacific Coast Group, and the NAI powers that be were very impressed with our Ms. Romano. The CEO, in fact, once commented that she and I would make a great team. He was kidding, of course, but I figured that if I married Kat I'd have a damn good chance of getting that job. Sure enough, it worked." His smug smile made me shudder at how I used to get all tingly when he smiled.

"Besides, I figured she'd be a pretty good fuck." He hastened to correct his faux pas. "Not nearly as good as you, of course." She simpered her appreciation of the compliment.

Thanks a lot, hubby. You're pretty adequate yourself.

"But what about you? How come you're here if she's been your friend since forever?" Great question, you sonofabitch. I'm pretty curious myself.

"Friendship doesn't have anything to do with fucking. And besides, we weren't as close friends as she thought. When I first started being nice to her in the third or fourth grade, my plan was to set her up and then embarrass the hell out of her by telling her it was all a joke." She rolled over to face him and propped her face on one elbow.

"She turned out to be pretty funny but didn't trust me worth a damn. I kept after her, and pretty soon I was more comfortable around her than my other friends, because I didn't have to worry about competing; I was obviously prettier, sexier, dressed better, and had a lot more money than her. I didn't ask her to be part of either wedding because she wouldn't have fit in, and was really surprised when she asked me to be her maid of honor."

She giggled after saying that. "Well, I guess I was matron of honor, but who the fuck wants to be a matron?" Who indeed, Heather? If you had as many dicks sticking out of you as got stuck in you, you'd look like a fucking porcupine. You're gonna wish you had given up on me instead of being so damn persistent.

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Part 6

Everybody had a dog in this hunt.

I DIDN'T NEED TO SEE any more, I had the confirmation I needed. Suddenly all my anger drained and I was left with an overpowering sense of betrayal and loss, a greater sadness than I had ever experienced. I must have cried for an hour without stopping, and finally fell asleep curled up on the couch.

I fixed myself a cup of tea after I woke, and realized that the process of getting the evidence of what happened had kept me from dissolving into tears earlier. I needed another project to keep my resolve, but I wanted more information before deciding what to do.

I went to the fount of all non-public information: Json Feliciano, our semi-domesticated hacker who kept track of our computers and electronic toys. He also happily snooped to gather information for our ops, even in places supposedly impervious to snooping (actually, especially in places supposedly impervious to snooping; that really got him off).

Json was scary good. He had done some time in a medium-security government hostel for putting his skill to nefarious purposes, but when our higher-ups called in some markers and sprung him after he had served only 4 months of a 5-year sentence, he apparently accepted their offer and swapped his black hat for a white one—well, more realistically a sorta gray one.

Yeah, he spells his name Json but pronounces it Jason. (No one would give him the satisfaction of asking why, but a field ops guy who was a recovering geek explained it; I guess you had to be another geek to appreciate it.)

I knew Json was gay and he knew I knew, so I often flirted with him without malice or fear. I wasn't sure I could trust him, but I needed his help. Hoping I wasn't making a stupid mistake, I took a deep breath, unbuttoned the top three buttons of my blouse, leaned down until my lips were close to his ear, and tried to channel Marilyn's breathy bedroom voice.

"Json, sweetie, could you do little ol' me a great big favor?" He snorted.

"Shit, Kat, I might be queer as a three-dollar bill, but I noticed your really fine tatas a long time ago. I'm sure I'll regret this, but why don't you button up and tell me what you want?"

I blushed—did he actually say I had really fine tatas?—started buttoning up, and switched my voice to a 5-year old asking her daddy for a new teddy bear. "Could you please get me access to someone's email account?"

He rolled his eyes and gave me The Look that I thought it had been patented at the beginning of time by women and snarky teenagers (I guess his peculiar prurient proclivities granted him free license). "Only on days that end in Y, dear." He sniffed theatrically. "It breaks my heart that you felt you had to ask."

Json spun around in his desk chair and tried to look serious. "Speaking of Y, why? And who? How soon?" When I told him who and why, he stood, coaxed me on my feet, and wrapped his arms around me. It was comforting to know that someone cared; I hugged him back. "Unbefuckinglieveable, Kat. Are you sure?" I nodded, and he shook his head. "What a couple of assholes! Can I cast some shit in their lives?"

I shook my head so violently one of my earrings flew off. "No, please don't Json. Let me handle it." As soon as I told him what I wanted to do, he grinned evilly, spun back to his keyboard, and started typing. I watched for a few minutes, but had no idea what he was doing. I finally found my earring beside a moldy Big Mac box under his printer table, and went back to my office.

I figured out the logistics of my plan. Mark's birthday was the following week, so I started composing emails. Shortly after I finished the drafts of the emails, Json called and asked me to come back to his office. When I got there he was all business.

"I didn't want to put this in an email, might as well post it on Facebook, then run an ad in the newspaper for the olds who still waste time on that shit." He showed me how to send an email so it would look like it came from Mark, then explained that every email sent to Mark's home account would come to me first; I could pass it on, make some changes before passing it on, or hang on to it so he would never see it. Mark wouldn't be able to tell that anything was out of the ordinary.

Sometimes I get scared when I think about Json putting his black hat back on. Then I face the fact that no doubt there are black hats out there as good or better than he is. I repeated my new mantra: I'll think about that tomorrow.

Later that afternoon, using my personal email account, I sent emails to Mark's boss, parents, sister, and brother; Lisa and Zoë's husbands; Heather's boss (like Heather, she was also between husbands); and the two couples who lived on either side of us, inviting them all to a surprise 30th birthday party for Mark next Friday night.

The email specified no presents, urged them not to say anything about it to anyone, and instructed them to park in the elementary school parking lot a couple of blocks away no later than quarter to six. They would be shuttled to our place.

The emails to Lisa and Zoë's husbands and Heather's boss strengthened the admonition not to say anything to anyone, not even spouses or employees; all would be explained at the party.

Then I send emails to Heather, Lisa, and Zoë purportedly from Mark's account. First, Heather:

Friday is my brthday and I guess my dear wife frgot. She is out of town til Sat aft so why dont u cum LOL help me celebrate. Wear just a sexy bra and thong and thi hi's and spike heels and carry a bottle of wine. Covr up ur "party dress" LOL w/a raincoat and park at 6:00 a little bit north of Winter Creek on Shadowbrook. I get home a little after 6. Ill be in the kitchen so as soon as I text u CUM NOW drive 2 my drivway and lose the raincoat and scoot down 2 the kitchen door. Just cum LOL in the kitchen door singing hapy brthday 4 our own very specal prty LOL.