February Sucks for Walter Mitty - Sex Stories

February Sucks for Walter Mitty

... former Navy SEAL with a dark past:

"Do you mind if I cut in?" I asked as I stepped up to the couple.

"Find your own," LaValliere sneered. "This one's taken."

"Yes, she is," I growled. "She's my wife."

"Jim, please," Linda said, her eyes locked on LaValliere's. "Just one song."

"I don't think so," I said. LaValliere barely turned from her as he backhanded me. Ibrahim Moizoos and Dan Smith, the Bills' offensive guard and wide receiver, stepped out of the crowd, but LaValliere held a hand in the air and they stopped.

"I've got this," he said. "Hubby's going to be a good boy and let us finish our dance."

I froze. The band switched to a haunting instrumental. Conversation stopped and the room went silent.

A flock of doves took flight behind me. I wiped my lips. Blood.

Smiling, I stood up straight, dropped my hands to my sides, and raised my eyes to LaValliere's. He was sneering.

"I don't think so," I growled. "I'm not losing to a tight end who chokes on the big ones."

I whipped out my twin Springfield Armory M1911-A1 V-12s. The guns exploded, taking out Moizoos and Smith. I dove behind one of the tables as LaValliere pulled out his own hardware, a Beretta 92FS Inox, and shoved Linda into the crowd. He fired twice. Dee's head blew apart and Jane coughed blood as she took one in the neck. Good riddance. I got up from my hiding place, guns at the ready--

No.

NO!

This wasn't some old John Woo movie, and it wasn't a nightmare. My wife was ...

... actually dancing with that asshat in a crowded club, leaving me holding my dick while she gazed up at him like he hung the moon and stars. I didn't have guns, didn't have a haunting soundtrack, didn't have an offensive line by my side. Yeah, I was in good shape, but I had no illusions about taking on a handful of football players.

And, from the looks of things, my wife.

And that's the kicker, isn't it? Because LaValliere hadn't dragged her up there with him--she'd gone quite willingly. She'd dropped me like a hot potato, without a single glance back. Even now, her eyes were on him--as far as she was concerned, I wasn't even in the room.

Through my confusion and rage, the questions hit me: What kind of woman does that? What kind ofhuman?

I won't pretend I wasn't blindingly furious at LaValliere, but was it really his fault? Sure, he was a scumbucket who got off on dancing with married women and humiliating their husbands, but I could hardly blame him for being attracted to Linda. Besides, it wasn't like he had made me any promises or owed me any loyalty.

But Linda--

She owed me a lot. She owed me better than this.

Watching her on the dance floor, I saw something clearly--so clearly that I wondered why I hadn't seen it before, in all the other arguments and little tiffs that had marked our time together. LaValliere wasn't my opponent. Linda was. She's MADE herself my opponent.

Even if I had the flashy guns, the haunting soundtrack, and the offensive line at ...