The White Box - Sex Stories

The White Box

... bodily out the door a minute later. “I’m sorry to spoil your day. As you can see I am neither ill nor at death’s door. My wife has been having an affair and decided she wanted everything instead of half which should have been enough to last most people three or four lifetimes. Rather than having a stroke or being ill I’ve been tortured terribly. I’m not exaggerating when I state that I will never be the same. Now, please leave. I have business to conduct before I collect my lying bitch whore wife.” I turned out the door and walked up the wide carpeted stairs to the next floor where my executive offices were located. My secretaries eagerly awaited my arrival. “Mr. Bellamy! We couldn’t believe it when Roger called. We’re so glad to see you. I hate to say this, but dealing with Mrs. Bellamy has been hell.” “You don’t know the half of it, Rita.” I explained how I had been tortured by Dana and her lover, omitting his name because I had plans for him, too. “I’ll omit the details of the torture because I’m afraid you’ll throw up if I tell you. It was so bad it wiped my ability for conscious thought from my brain, leaving me a mindless slave.” I could see them cringe at my words. I explained that I was still recovering and would return to work a week from Monday—twelve days from today. That was really more of an explanation than I needed to give. I owned the company totally. I was accountable only to myself and the investors. Elkins was waiting when I opened the elevator door in the ...

... basement/garage. “I’ve already heard the scuttlebutt, sir. Did she really torture you? I could kill that bitch.” “Yes, she did and no, I don’t want you to. I plan to let her go on Sunday—after I’ve had the chance to get even a bit.” He smiled; Elkins was a big man—6’6” tall and a muscular 250 pounds. He was perfect for the job as a security guard. He owed me big time, having been unemployed for more than a year when I had hired him. He claimed that I had saved his life and his marriage. The man was totally loyal. He carried Dana easily to my car, dumping her ingloriously into the trunk. The handcuff keys were placed into my hand a second later. It was reassuring to sit in my Beemer again. The keys had been in a pocket of Dana’s purse; in seconds we were en route home. Once in the garage I removed Dana from the trunk, carrying her down the stairs to the root cellar. I threw her onto the floor, locking the door while I ran a few errands. It was tempting to use the same implements that they had used on me. The only problem with that was that their DNA would be on the chains instead of mine. I had given some thought to phoning the police after I’d disposed of them. If I did that I’d want the evidence to be intact. Instead I’d use a strong braided nylon rope to secure her hands. Moving the handcuffs to the front of her body I tied the rope to the short chain connecting the cuffs using a special knot that was tied above where her hands could reach. I pulled the rope tight, forcing ...