You Have Been Served

You Have Been Served

Hi All,

It's been a while since I posted, life has just gotten in the way. I know I have a couple of other stories that could use a final chapter, but alas, the brain is a bit stuck on those while I'm also stuck on an epic story as well. So, what is this all about? Just a story line that jumped into my brain nearly complete. So much so that I thought "can I do this in 24 hours?" It has its flaws. So sue me (you will get this later).

Best to you all from the knuckle-dragging troglodyte.

Permission to repost is not granted.

====

"Let me get this straight. You want the process servers to do what?"

"Mother-fucker, that is fucking brilliant!"

====

I'd known about the affair for three months, 83 days to be exact.

An old cliché. Dianne's boss seduced her, or she cozied up to him, exchanging her body for favors or possibly an easier path to partnership at their boutique law firm. Either way, they had been less than perfect at keeping it a secret. A staff member, the younger sister of a teammate on our amateur baseball team, had seen them being just a bit too close, a bit too touchy-feely at work. Nothing initially incriminating, but since she worked in Accounting (expense reporting to be precise), her inquisitive mind did the rest. She researched, she documented, built a file, and to my benefit, she waited.

The end of the season BBQ is the second favorite event of the year, each game being the favorite. Twice weekly our rag-tag group of ex-collegiate players drags our injuries out on the field and plays as best we can, now well beyond our prime years. While each game usually includes hitting a local spot for a bite to eat and beer, wine or other beverage, the end of the season event is special. A Saturday double header, and the rest of the day an open invite to as many friends and family as we can gather to eat, drink, and tell stories of past glory between the lines. We fill a large section of the park that Saturday.

I'd talked with Claire a number of times, Carlos' sister. Played third base in college and knew the game well, possibly better than Carlos himself, who was more of a see-ball, hit-ball member of our outfield. He could see and hit the ball well, but the rest of his game kept him playing D2 for good reason. At the BBQ, Claire seemed to be making it a point to be in my line of sight. Nothing overt, just always here and there, but always close. As one of the player-hosts (well, let's be real, I pretty much hosted the event, being by far the most financially set member of the team), it was part of the duty to be sure we left the park better than we found it. Thus it was just me, Carlos, Claire and a couple of other players and their spouses at the end.

The boys (my teammates) were just starting to load the trailer with the heavy items when I mentioned I had to head to the park office to sign out. Claire took that opportunity to casually mention that she'd "tag along." That was the moment my life was tossed a better curveball than I had ever thrown.

"John, you know I work at the same firm as your wife, right?"

"Yeah, you're not an attorney, more ops or something like that. You don't report to Dianne, more like you support the entire firm. Correct?"

"I watched you a lot today. Not trying to be a creep, but for a guy whose wife says he swings a hammer for a living, you are more of a leader and smarter than she portrays you."

Hands in her pockets. Eyes down. Dragging her feet a bit. Obvious discomfort.

"Claire, I feel this isn't the reason you are here, walking with me. Set it up on the tee. What's up?"

A deep breath, let go in a sigh.

"Your wife and a partner, her boss, are having an affair. I saw them being a bit too familiar, and I caught a few discrepancies in their expense reports."

"But you haven't reported this up the proper channels yet?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Two reasons."

Another deep sigh.

"Lawyers are for the most part good people, but sometimes the scum rises to the top, and I can't let that happen. He's on track for senior partner, son of a founder, and all that bullshit. He'll kill the firm. Take it in a different direction, stop being on the right side of history. That will harm a lot of our clients and hurt a lot of us in staff roles."

"Rather noble. So what is the other reason?"

A much longer pause this time.

"Unless you had an advantage, you'd eventually get destroyed, hung up like a deer and bled dry... You need to lawyer up and hit them before they know you know anything."

"This sounds like you are somewhat familiar with these kinds of things."

I got that out without my voice cracking. Barely.

"John, I know this absolutely sucks. But where is she today? The biggest day of the season, all of us who support this team, you the players. Where is she?"

She let that sit.

"Yes, I've seen this. My last firm. I was the person rewriting history, part of a cover-up attempt. The partners kept their profits in mind over the people who mattered. I decided I'd never step aside again. So, yeah, I have something for you."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a couple of thumb drives.

"There isn't a single document here. The blue one is just references to what you need to be sure is in discovery. Law firms are good at delaying, sometimes at losing things. That's tough to do if you have specifics in your demands."

She held up the black one.

"This one is not safe for work. Use a secure VPN. The content will be part of discovery, but you need to see it first. Two stupid people put the wrong type of charges on the wrong cards, and before they could attempt to cover it up, I had already put one and one together."

She pressed both into my palm.

"John, I'm sorry, but you really need to know. Please manage this like you do on the mound and as the team manager. Study the opponent, know the players' strengths and weaknesses. Pitch to their egos and mow them down. You can do this."

She turned to go, then stopped.

"Oh, we are switching accounting systems at the end of the quarter. It isn't uncommon for unneeded files to get lost in that process. In 90 days we flip a switch. Lights out."

She patted my dirty uniform and walked back to the picnic area, leaving me to walk the rest of the way to the park office and take care of business. By the time I was back, she was gone.

====

On Sunday, I headed out to "walk the job sites before the week." A tradition I'd kept for the past seven years since founding my company. Just an hour, never more than two, to check for any problems we might run into, keep my boots dirty, and stay close to the quality of the work we advertised. I hadn't swung a hammer since about six months after I hung my first shingle. I had hundreds of guys (and gals) doing that, reporting to Site Supers, Project Managers, and a Chief Operating Officer. Me swinging a hammer? Nah, my tools had long gone into my garage, many of them almost new, as my business had exploded in size quickly.

I sat at the project desk with a freshly rebooted laptop, a VPN connection, a thermos of coffee and silence.

The black drive had but a single file, pure text, with a series of URLs from a single website, the later ones followed by what appeared to be dates. At the bottom sat eight digits. My wife's birthday.

Clicking the first URL brought up a simple black background with a red box asking for an entry code. I entered her eight digits. Curveball number two.

The site was obviously a swingers site, and I had just landed in her personal portal. I have to admit, the site was a clean design. Very professional, something someone had spent a lot of money on.

I spent the next 90 minutes on the site. There was a lot of content. A few pictures, but mostly a lot of video. Surprisingly, most of it was good quality. From a cinematic perspective, someone knew what they were doing and had spent a bit on cameras, lights, and even props. Each video told a story, acted out by members of the club. Most were short, maybe five to eight minutes, others were longer. A few very long ones seemed to be compilations from large parties. Where they all matched up was that there was sex, lots of sex, people joining and leaving "partners." This was the chronicle of dozens, maybe a hundred or more people who got together, played out scenarios and fucked like they might not ever fuck again.

There in the middle of many of these videos was my wife of three years. The woman I had been faithful to for the entirety of our relationship, three years of marriage and the two years of dating prior. She took on everyone. Men of all shapes and sizes as well as a few women, both taking and giving with a smile on her face. I watched, my stomach tumbling, as she deep throated cocks, fucked others (sometimes at the same time), and occasionally took a couple of fingers and smallish dicks in her behind. Something she had refused me so many times, I gave up even thinking about anal years ago.

Having an eye for details, I saw him. Her boss, the a-hole she worked for. Their relationship was visible in the videos. They tended to be near each other, even holding hands while still engaged with other partners. A few videos also "featured" them as the center of their stories. Yes, definitely a "couple" among dozens of other swingers. A few of the videos also showed him taking part in a bit of backdoor action. Women massaging his prostate during oral, and an occasional small dildo or vibrator.

Realizing I had burned most of my time, I did a quick check for the earliest video. Two years. Two fucking years the bitch had been fucking and sucking behind my back. Yeah, about the same amount of time she'd been working with that partner. I finally gave in and emptied my stomach, right in the middle of the job site. I went home to a silent house. A short note on the kitchen island: "Doing pre-trial prep, be home around 10" and a heart. A fucking heart.

Flipping the paper over, I wrote that I was headed to my dad's for a few days to help them out with a few things on the ranch. I included that Princess (her cat) was fed and the plants watered. I didn't include any terms of endearment or pictures.

====

While just a hundred miles from my house, Dad's place seems like a million miles away. Where I live in the burbs on the east side of the city, his place is far to the west and up, well above the snow line. I live in the swanky burbs, he lives in nature. Among bobcats, bears, and any number of animals who could, but usually don't, mess with humans. This place is home, where I ground myself, where I can think straight. This is where I spent hundreds of hours throwing baseballs at old tires. As I got older and bigger, the tires went from tractors, to cars, and eventually to a wheelbarrow. Grandpa had tied up that last one and said if I could put it through that, I'd pitch in college one day. He was right, and I even got a few summers playing out in the Connecticut League. Yes, this place is all good.

Over dinner with my dad and Mary, his second wife, I explained the entire series of events. He'd married only recently, well over ten years after we lost my mother. She's a great person, and while not my mom, I love her for the joy she brings into my dad's life.

We sat outside by the fire pit, sipping our whiskey and discussing how I was going to deal with this situation. I spent it half in conversation with them, the other half with my brain putting all the pieces together, formulating a game plan.

Late in the evening, before heading to bed, I looked at both of them and asked, "You two know some attorneys. I'll need one with no business ties to their firm. Better yet, I'd like one who would be elated to fuck them over. I need an apex predator shark. No, better yet, I need a killer whale. An orca with an attitude. Can you get three lined up for me to vet out?"

Dad didn't even blink.

"Sure can, son. I know exactly who to call. You won't need to talk with three."

====

Monday afternoon I was already in Jean Pierre, Attorney at Law's "home office." Not far from the ranch, but two, maybe three tax brackets up. Where Dad had about a hundred acres, I was told this was just under 3,500. It had a fucking helicopter pad out front, and what I thought might have been an airstrip peeking through some trees as I drove in. Yeah, this was not what I had thought I asked for. Thanks, Dad.

Jean Pierre was the spitting image of Samuel L. Jackson just out of Pulp Fiction. Every other word was mother-fucker this, mother-fucker that. 110 minutes of me laying out the scene, 110 minutes of his swearing, interspersed with some of the most insightful questions I'd ever been asked. By the end of that initial session, I'd signed a representation agreement, provided downloads of years of our financial records, my soon-to-be ex-wife's supposed calendar (forward and back a number of years) and, of course, a copy of the drives. "For research purposes," I was told.

I was also told an hourly rate that sent my construction mind spiraling into the red. As I was about to go into full panic mode, he said he was going to be sure that attorney fees were paid by the losing parties. "Parties, not party. And I don't lose." He emphasized it with a smile that absolutely made it to his eyes.

On my way out, I also heard, "Say hi to Pops, and let him know this one is on me. This is THE opportunity I've been wanting to get those mother-fuckers! Hate that it is you, son, but thank you. You made my year. Oh, I still owe him and his lady a couple of weeks in Monaco. Tell them to get off their asses and get to it."

Monaco? Yeah, different tax brackets indeed. I had to have a man-to-man with Dad. I'd known he was successful, but a guy like that owing him? That made no sense at all.

On my way back I loaded up my truck with lumber and supplies to rebuild the raised beds in the garden, repair the deck and fix a number of other items. The place looked just a bit tired, and I needed a couple of days in the outdoors.

Yeah, I needed some zero thinking time. Just physical labor. Mind numbing physical labor.

====

I was headed back "home" by mid-week with Jean Pierre's strict warning to play it cool. Do as I always do, and don't change my routine. Working at the ranch was good medicine. The deck was good as new, the garden looked perfect, and all the other minor fixes were knocked off my punch list. Dad's place, someday my place, was now almost "magazine shoot ready," so certainly good to go for winter.

Tired, a bit sunburnt and deeply satisfied that my skills across many trades were still just as solid as my confidence, I started the drive back.

About an hour away, my phone buzzed with a text from my wife saying she was being called out of town for the rest of the week, possibly Saturday, on an emergency. Big client, and all that stuff. She also said that Princess was at her parents' due to bugs in the pantry, and to please have someone come in ASAP. I replied by talk-to-text that I got it, and that the cat and plants were in good hands. A minute or so later her response came back: a cat, a plant and a heart.

A half hour later, Jean Pierre's call surprised me.

"Hey John, got just five minutes?"

"Hi Jean Pierre. Any amount of time you need from me, no need to ask. You are my top priority."

"Good to hear, we can discuss your baseball career later. To the point. Dianne has probably already said she's heading out of town, right?"

"Yeah. WAIT! How did you know that?"

"Eyes, my boy. LOTS and lots of them."

"Let me pull over. I think I need to concentrate."

And so I did.

We spoke for about ten minutes. Dianne was on her way to a three-day fuck-fest, apparently a regular monthly event at the club. Daily mixers, spa days and nightly debauchery, all under the umbrella of a work emergency. That nasty feeling in my gut was rising fast, and I was happy I wasn't on the interstate in case it got any worse.

"Jean Pierre, I have to ask. Should I get tested? Oh, no. Wrong question. How do I get tested and be sure it doesn't get noted in my insurance?"

"Now you are thinking right, my boy. That is the better question."

We discussed the medical details and ended the call with well wishes.

Instead of heading directly home, I stopped by each job site, making sure each Super was on top of everything and that the project accounting was still in the black. Satisfied, and with the sun dipping below the horizon, I grabbed some Thai to go and headed to a quiet house.

The place was clean. Like REALLY clean. She'd had someone come in, because it didn't smell like my house. Yes, that slight feline smell was in the background, but otherwise, things had been scrubbed. Turnkey on a ten-million-dollar building clean? No. This was crime scene clean.

While staring at the ceiling that night, on clean sheets and apparently brand new pillows, I was both horrified and morbidly curious, thinking about just what might have happened in that very bed over the last three days.

====

Thursday mid-morning, my worries were proven to be well founded. This time over a video meeting, Jean Pierre shared a video. My bedroom, my wife, her boss and two others. Same decent production value, similar story format, but in this case it was the cheating wife, cuck husband genre. A woman who wanted more, and was willing to get it on her own.

"Jean Pierre, where did you get this?"

"The site. It was a live stream. Pay-per-view. And it will be online in another day for subscribers on the site."

My stomach went full knuckleball.

"What is our move? I'm about to go buy a gun and do something very, very stupid."

"Oh, no need for that, my boy. But let me give you some ammo for the weapon of justice."

He leaned into the camera.

"Dianne, oh so prim and proper Dianne, is a wimp. She likes being submissive, and get this, so does her boss. He's an absolute zero of a man. They both get off on this shit. Acting big and powerful at work, but to their cores they're doormats and empty holes for the other club members. They get off on being spanked and humiliated. In front of an audience."

He let that sink in.

"Think about that, John. Think deep, think hard. How might you want this to end? I have a few ideas, but I think you just might be creative enough for this one. Just remember: think big. Think very big."

====

For the next several weeks, I ate dirt and played dumb. Hardest job I've ever had.

Claire's clock was ticking, and Jean Pierre wanted to hit them seven days before the switch. Early enough to freeze their rollout. Late enough that nobody could scrub a thing without it looking exactly like what it was.

So I kept my routine. Walked the sites, bid new work, kept my boots dirty. At home I played the tired contractor husband. I sat across the kitchen island, ate whatever was put in front of me, and listened to Dianne go on about her brutal litigation calendar and the grind of the partner track. I'd nod, kiss her cheek, and tell her to hang in there.

When the house got too toxic, I drove up to the ranch. Dad and Mary had finally taken Jean Pierre up on Monaco, so the place was mine to look after. Fastballs into that old tire until my shoulder quit. Every weekend I spent up there was another green light for Dianne. More retreats, more corporate cards, more footage for Jean Pierre's eyes.

Around Day 40, the lightbulb finally went off.

Dianne was away at another "out of town deposition." I was standing in my garage with a glass of whiskey, looking at the layout. On one side, towers of her old case files. On the other, my whole baseball life. Bats, pine tar, worn cleats, oiled gloves.

Baseball and lawyers... Bats and cheating lawyers. Yes! Baseball bats and cheating lawyers! That's it!

I laughed for the first time since the BBQ. A whole-body laugh that lasted five minutes and left me with the worst hiccups.

Once I had myself under control, I called Jean Pierre and laid the whole pitch right over the plate.

"Let me get this straight. You want the process servers to do what?"

"OK, I'll walk you through this in detail. I know it sounds nuts. They have the club, and as I see it, it's themed. Each skit acted out, decent production, people there and watching online. So, here is what I am thinking..."

I dove in with the excitement of a Little Leaguer describing his first home run.

Five minutes later, all Jean Pierre said was, "Mother-fucker, that is fucking brilliant!"

That left him six weeks to set the board, and he took his sweet time. He greased the club organizers, bought an anonymous top-tier sponsorship for their quarter-end gala, had a few custom props made, and found two six-foot-plus bonded process servers who wouldn't flinch at a room full of naked swingers.

All I had to do was keep pitching to contact and wait for Day 83.

When the weekend came, Dianne packed her bags for her usual "emergency client retreat." I told her to have a good trip, watered the plants, and drove up to the ranch.

====

I was sitting on my dad's back deck, deep into my second whiskey, when the two women, accompanied by the videographer, approached the Victorian mansion's massive oak doors. Inside awaited the rest of the cast, crew and audience. Online sat thousands of other viewers, as the event sponsor had spared no expense on promotion across this and related swinging sites.

They each stood well over six feet tall, brunette hair slicked back in tight buns, sharply dressed in white tops and black straight skirts. The look showed off their best angles and Amazonian stature. Across each sat a wide leather strap separating their large breasts under their tight silk blouses, the straps attached to dark leather messenger bags.

Once inside, they were escorted to the main parlor, where a man and a woman were shackled, naked and face down on well-padded bondage horses.

As the main attraction of the event, the pair had been there for well over an hour already. Members had spent their time edging the two, but not satisfying them. The members, though, had enjoyed the pair immensely. Dianne's pussy had been fucked more than a dozen times, and her mouth used over and over. Each time, the club members deposited their loads on Dianne's boss, making sure he thanked each and every one of them after. Between each session, the pair endured endless spankings, slaps, digits forced in every hole, and humiliating verbal abuse about being attorneys. Each freely admitted to it, over and over.

Nearing the end of the scene, and as if thinking as one person, the two women walked behind the couple and placed their bags flat across the bound pair. Ceremonially, they opened the bags, pulled out manila folders, and placed those upon the bags.

Satisfied that the envelopes were on their targets, they slid their skirts around so the slits faced forward, no longer favoring their left sides. With a matching smirk, they reached into their skirts and brought out nine-inch, baseball bat-shaped dildos attached to the harnesses each wore underneath.

The audience went silent. This was certainly an unexpected twist.

Slowly rubbing the bat from Dianne's pussy to her brown star, the first woman spoke loudly. "Dianne Russo." A single hard thrust, plowing the bat, large end first, into Dianne's ass. She pulled back as Dianne took a long, deep breath, enough time for the other server to do the exact same to the man in front of her. Naming him loudly, and plowing the large bat deep into his bowels.

His reaction was far less dignified. He pissed himself, and the floor below.

In unison, they thrust.

"YOU"

Withdrew, then thrust again.

"HAVE"

Withdrew, then thrust again.

"BEEN"

Withdrew, then a final thrust, stronger than the first.

"SERVED"

The women held themselves against the pair, embedding the bats to the base. They then reached under their skirts and detached the harnesses. Stepping back, they turned and walked away, the bats still in the pair's asses, held in by the knobs, the harnesses hanging like tails.

====

A half dozen process servers fanned out the next morning. The managing partner (Dickhead's dad) and four senior partners received theirs at the break of dawn as they were warming up for their weekly golf game. Other partners had their sleep and morning routines interrupted by loud knocking or insistent doorbells.

Each partner received the same courtesy notice. The firm would be brought into discovery for researching the dissipation of marital assets and alienation of affection. The letters stated that the firm would be asked to produce related expense reports (with dates), internal messaging starting just prior to Dianne's move to that team, and billing hours for the past three years for the parties involved. Jean Pierre also included that the switch to their new accounting system was halted until all needed documents were produced. That put a giant pause on the firm, costing them tens of thousands of dollars per day for as long as it was delayed.

All in all, a devastating amount of specific information that told them Jean Pierre knew exactly what we were looking for. There are brushback pitches, and then there are those thrown with intent to hit. This was the latter. No dare to crowd the plate. Step anywhere in the box, and you will get hurt. This wasn't a game anymore.

My phone lay silent, and I mostly took things easy all day. With Dad and Mary out of the country, I spent my time reviewing requests for quotes, pre-bids, and active projects. Highly productive hours, in my opinion.

Not until late afternoon did Jean Pierre send me a baseball meme. A cartoon version of the prior evening's events, complete with the cartoon guy's eyes nearly popping out of his head, and yes, even peeing on the floor.

"John, they feel like you shoved bats up each and every partner's ass, and they know you've got an even more vindictive mother-fucker in your corner. What are the terms of surrender?"

"Dianne vanishes from my life. She walks with her clothes and her jewelry. She can keep the fucking engagement and wedding rings, and anything I put out on the driveway next weekend. House, savings, all of my 401(k), any inkling of a stake in my business are off the table. Absolute surrender."

I wasn't done.

"Fuck-turd sends you a settlement check for $5 million. The firm sends the same."

"And I know you said this one was on you. Not a chance. In the end, since settlements are tax free, I net eight, you get two minus your expenses. I have to imagine that research, those eyes on the street, sponsoring the evening and all those process servers cost you a bit. I run a good ship, and 20% seems a fair price in my head."

"Oh, and I probably should move my businesses to your firm. My prior representation seems to have struck out."