Another Man's Child

How could I really really hurt him? You think to yourself as you stare at the pictures, time and time again you come back to the sight of his cock. The fact that he doesn’t seem to be wearing a condom in any of these pictures really gets to you.

Back in the early days, when he would actually sleep with you, he had been obsessive about wearing a condom. Beyond even that birth control had been one of his biggest worries, he had pretty much you to get a implant. Hell, if you had not finally put your foot down, you would have ended up with tied tubes.

Yet there he was, sliding his cock into any whore who stayed still long enough without a care in the world or a rubber in sight.

You push yourself upright, on shaky legs you walk through to the front of the house and stare out onto the cul-de-sac you live on. You think back on the times you had talked about maybe having children, back when things were good. He had shot those ideas down, making excuses about how we needed a better living standard or to be able to move to a better area, excuses that sounded great at the time. Now you see the real reason he had not wanted kids, the fear that having a kid around might slow down his whoring ways.

As you stare at nothing the front door to the house across the street opens up. Snapping back to the moment somewhat you see Mr. Cartwright walk down his driveway to his mailbox. He doesn’t see you so you are free to watch him.

Mr. Cartwright is a tall man, he is easily 6’4 in shoes and you recall him telling you once that he used to run track. The bright sunshine reflects off of his dark skin as he pulls open the mailbox. As you look at him you recall other things you have learnt about him over the years you have been neighbours. He was a lawyer of some sort, working for one of the larger firms in the city. Never married with no kids and nothing to tie him down, he seemed to spend his time running and working. Making him a favourite of the neighbourhood housewives to watch from their windows.

As you watch him a memory comes back to you, of last year's christmas party. He had been invited mostly because there were enough people on the street who liked to pretend they were not racist. Your husband was not one of them and he spent the first half of the night avoiding him and the second sneaking off with one of the tipsy housewives to fuck in YOUR marital bed.

Since the rest of the people were slightly more polite about their dislike of him and you had always hated the guts of the nearly everyone who lived around you. You had both found yourselves nursing a box of cheap wine outside. Laughing and drinking and telling stories of days gone by.

Then suddenly there had been the kiss. One moment you were leaning over to swat a fly that had landed on his collar and the next you had planted your lips on his. It had only lasted a second, both of you reeling back with embarrassed laughter, blaming the wine and the summer heat.

Yet now, as you watch him walk back inside, you recall that there are been pressure in return in that kiss. Looking back now you are sure you know where that kiss would have lead if you had not pulled back.

Memories of your husband's remarks about Cartwright and his ‘kind’ clanged in your mind as an idea began to form. Back when your husband had sometimes stayed at home to drink, one of his favoured topics had been how the ‘blacks!’ were stealing all the white woman. How he hated the idea of a white woman laying with one of them. Even just the thought had gotten him angry enough to start throwing things around.

You wonder to yourself how angry he would get if he found out his own wife had laid with one of ‘them’. Not only laid with him, but had let him plant his seed inside her.

The image of his rage and humiliation sparks a tiny flame of warmth in your heart.

The only question was, how to approach Mr. Cartwright?