This is my fourth story in the LW category. For those who have followed my previous work, I suggest skipping to the tags first. If you've liked my other stuff, you may not like this one. Then again, you may. Introduction out of the way, I hope both new readers and my tens of fans all find something to enjoy in this short piece.

The restaurant business is like a roller coaster. The rush hours are adrenaline fueled. The time in between is recovering and preparing for the next onslaught. It's worse when you own the place. That was the case at "Dominic's Bistro," and if you're wondering, I am Dominic.

I'm a bit of a stereotype, an Italian in St. Louis who opened an Italian restaurant on "The Hill." The ups and downs of that life seemed normal to me, since I was raised in a similar home environment. I'm one of those Americans of Italian descent that can't quite get angry at Hollywood for their portrayals of Italians. In fact, I've enjoyed films and sitcoms that resonated with my own upbringing.

I contrast that with the marriage to my wife Tricia. It wasn't a series of highs and lows, it was a steady commitment that grew stronger with each passing year. She provided me the stability I needed in my life. While my business was unpredictable on almost a daily basis, my marriage was my safe harbor. That was the place that gave me the strength to go out to slay the dragons every morning. It was also what kept me from losing my cool on a number of occasions. Any time I felt my emotions were about to override logic in my business decisions, the thought that a rash act would also affect the love of my life stayed my hand.

Tricia is five years my junior. I'm 32, she is 27. She's short, cute, and looks so young she still gets carded when buying alcohol. When we go out, people who don't know us definitely stare. I suspect some of them have considered calling hotlines to see if a runaway is missing. The fact that I have a receding hairline, a clearly broken nose and acne scars, no doubt adds to their apprehension.

The hairline came from genetics. The acne scars came from having acne. The broken nose came because someone fucked with my younger brother. He was bullied, and as the older sibling I had to step up. Bullying my younger brother was my job, dammit.

As I've hinted at, my family is demonstrative. We may argue with each other to the point where things are thrown, but anyone outside the family fucks with us? It's on. Family is the most important thing. And in case you're wondering, no one messed with my bro again.

The bistro had been doing well after the first few years, so well that I began negotiating to open a second location. I was also ready to have a child. Son or daughter, I really had no preference. Tricia and I had several discussions about what our child would look like and act like. We were both thrilled. So we agreed on two things.

First, she'd go off the pill when we found a house in a neighborhood with good schools and a place we wanted to raise kids in. That would be the first and hopefully last house we purchased while the kids were at home.

Second, she'd also quit her job and prepare for us to be parents while I became the sole earner in the family. Tricia is the better long-term planner in our relationship. Things like checking out good baby doctors and finding and making a home baby-friendly were definitely more her forte. I tend to be more of an "in the moment" kind of guy.

We did exactly that about a year ago. My second restaurant was going to happen. We found a house that we loved. Good school district, good neighbors, close to her preferred hospital. The house had a room for several kids, as well as a backyard for pets. Tricia quit her job the moment we moved. We could afford to do it. "The Plan" was being implemented without a hitch.

After we made our move, the only thing we discussed was having that first baby. She didn't go off the pill immediately, we did need to discover the nuances of the neighborhood. That was Tricia's job. My wife is actually the smarter of the two of us. She's a meticulous researcher, and every date on her day planner has a notation. She has to pencil me in for things outside of our daily routine.

Hypothetically, if I ever got the idea to leave the restaurant and surprise her at home with flowers and amorous intentions, I'd be as likely as not to find an empty home. If I didn't, she'd be doing something where I'd be an interruption. She'd gush over the flowers, give me a quick kiss on the lips, then tactfully send me on my way back to work. I do say "hypothetically," because after several years I know better.

So while I built the business, Tricia met all the neighbors. She was always looking ahead and every potential neighbor was a potential resource/friend/babysitter. My gal made friends easily. She worked that neighborhood, and within a year you would never know we hadn't been there since forever.

Now that everything seemed on track, we set a date for her to go off the pill. It would be after her 10-year high school reunion. That was a bit symbolic. Tricia explained it like this, "That's where I spend one final night enjoying the past, before I close that chapter in my life. The next chapter is us and the kids. That is my next decade of memories, and every decade after that."

Which brings us to the afternoon I had to explain to the staff why I needed to leave. It was Gloria's birthday. Gloria had been with me almost since the beginning, starting as a waitress. She was now in charge of the wait staff, and everybody adored her. Even some of the ones she'd fired. So her birthday was a big deal. The gift I'd bought I'd left at home. I called Tricia. The call went to voicemail, so I left a message. "Honey, I forgot Gloria's gift. I'll see you when I get home."

A successful restaurant is about the people who work there. I have a good bunch. I've been told I pay them more than I have to. That makes up for the time than I paid them less than they deserved. I promised those who stuck with me better wages if we succeeded, and to those that did I kept my promise.

Traffic was a bit heavier than usual, it took me 15 minutes longer to get home than it should have. I pulled into the driveway with a bit of road rage. I hate traffic. It's one of my anger issues I've successfully struggled with and conquered. Mostly. It does simmer, but it doesn't boil over.

After a short walk from the driveway to the front door, I calmly inserted my key, twisted the knob and let myself in. Immediately I heard sounds of passion, followed by very loud dialogue. This was while my nostrils inhaled a very strong whiff of sex.

"Oh Daddy, you fuck me so good."

That was followed by an audible smack.

"Daddy's gonna punish your teasing little twat."

"Spank me Daddy, spank my naughty ass good, but don't stop fucking me."

Beside the entrance to our front door, my golf bag was in a corner where I left it. I decided the 9 iron was the appropriate choice. I did contemplate the symmetry of using a wood, but I was more interested in justice than poetry. I also decided against the driver for similar reasons. Implement of said justice in hand, I slowly walked down the hallway as I approached the left turn that would take me to the living room.

"Does my little girl want Daddy's cock?"

"Oh Daddy, I need it. Fill my naughty pussy."

This was followed by two more smacks. I spun the 9 iron around a few times, making sure nerves wouldn't betray me. Nope. Mjolnir was just as much attuned to my wishes as he ever had been. It was Hammer Time. I realized I was mixing pop culture references, but I was out of my last fuck to give at that moment. My resolve satisfied, I continued my march toward the confrontation.

"I'm gonna cum in that slutty snatch!"

"Yes Daddy, cum in your little girl's hungry pussy. Fill me, fill me!"

This was followed be a shriek, a noise I knew good and well. I turned into the living room to see Tricia completely naked except for socks and sneakers. She was on all fours on the floor getting rammed by someone at least 10 years older than her. That someone was recent transplant to the neighborhood Corbin Wilson. I'd only ever seen him in passing before today. He definitely looked better at his age than I did at mine. Ah well, that was likely to change.

In a heap next to them, was clothing I assumed was his, and her old high school cheerleading outfit. For those interested, the colors are black, white and red. A bit more red than her bare ass was at that moment. A bit. He was definitely hammering her pretty good. His head was snapped back, his hands gripping her hips hard.

"Daddy's cumming, Daddy's cumming in his little girl's dirty cunt!"

I have to admit, I was proud of how I felt as I observed him clearly shooting his swimmers into my wife's cove. No hesitation, no rage-induced shakes. It was just time to take care of business. I crossed the distance easily and Mjolnir hit his right temple hard enough to dislodge his cock from Tricia's vagina. I noted with surprise she had apparently shaved her bush since last night. Huh. I was curious about that, but there's a time and a place for those sort of questions.

Tricia must have been close, and somehow got there even after Corbin's cock had been extricated. I know that arched back and those curled toes, and damned if she wasn't having an intense orgasm. It was pretty clear to me what had just transpired here. I pulled out my cell phone and tossed it next to Tricia, while I hovered over a groaning Corbin.

"Baby, call 911 and report the rape."

Tricia grabbed the phone, but seemed confused. "Wait ... huh? What?"

Typical. Her orgasm turns off her brain for a while, so I picked up the cell phone and called 911 myself. She was clearly in no condition to make that call after her experience. It took eight rings before someone picked up. Thank God no one was being murdered. When my call was finally taken I said, "My wife was just raped."

I gave my address, and stayed on the line. Corbin was not unconscious, and the word "rape" seemed to distract him from clutching his head.

"No! I've been assaulted! She wanted it!"

Tricia came out of the ripples of her orgasm, stood up and tentatively kicked Corbin in the leg with her bare foot. I don't think it hurt him, but I think it hurt my loving wife. Tricia's toes are really sensitive. I've sucked on them and she's had an orgasm. She said toward the phone, "Yes! I was raped. I was raped so bad. I didn't want the rape. Help me!"

The cops showed up about ten minutes later. We had definitely chosen this neighborhood well. Corbin Wilson was cuffed and dumped naked in the back of a patrol car. He protested on his way out the door, "This is really fucked up! She came on to ME! She met me weeks after I moved here, ask her. ASK her!"

I assume another car arrived to transport him to his new accommodations. Tricia had been permitted to put on some clothing, but told not to take a shower. Next there were the usual excruciating questions from the two very tall uniforms that had first arrived. We both had to describe what happened. I gave my description. She gave hers. I did feel for her.

"Mrs. Romano, can you tell me how the perpetrator got in?"

"I leave the door unlocked. He just showed up."

Did you tell him to leave?"

"I did that. I said you need to leave mister. You will not be raping me today."

"And what did he say?"

"He said I am going to rape you. I am here to rape your pussy, even though you are faithful to your husband. You will like it."

"So what did you do?"

"I told him, 'You will never take me mister.'"

"And then?"

"He grabbed me. He started taking off my panties, and he said I wanted it because he could see my nipples were hard. Then he put his finger in my stuff and said I wanted it because I was so wet."

"Did you hit him, or try to run? Or scream for help?"

"No. He had me trapped. I've been told that fighting is dangerous. So I went along with it, terrified and hoping to survive. He made me do and say terrible things. He made me call him 'Daddy.' I didn't want to do it, my Daddy would not behave like that man was. My father is a good man and raised me to be a good girl, I mean woman, but I was scared so I did what he asked. I mean told me to do."

The cop asking the questions gave me an odd look. I immediately told him what I heard. "I can verify that officer, she was definitely yelling 'Daddy' when I arrived.

The odd look on his face got even odder, like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if he should. I helped him out by filling in the silence. "I know, it's hard to believe a sicko like that could be living in a nice community like this."

He coughed. Then resumed asking Tricia questions.

"You seemed to be wearing a cheerleading outfit. Is that normal attire on a Thursday afternoon?"

Tricia seemed unable to speak. Well, not in a way that constructed sentences.

"Oh, well I was ... here's why I wore this, I mean was wearing. Not for titillation, no,no,no, I put it on, and so unlike me normally-"

I had had enough. "We have a high school reunion in a month. We've been making plans and my wife was a cheerleader. She was wearing it to see if it still fit, or needed adjustments. Is preparing for a reunion a crime now?" My anger was still in check. Never blow up in front of law enforcement, especially if you're Italian in St. Louis. It's not as bad as being black, but it's definitely viewed with suspicion.

Tricia smiled and said, "Yes! I was wearing my outfit for the reunion. I've gained some weight, so I had to see how it fit so I could make alterations. I sure wasn't expecting someone to walk and in and see me bursting out of this. It is much too tight right now and that would be inappropriate for anyone but my husband to see me in."

I realize I've said Tricia was smart. I also realize that interview doesn't exactly support my contention. She had just had to endure a humiliating moment at the hands of a sexual predator though, so she wasn't at her best. I interjected again.

"Can we please stop interrogating the victim?! How about focusing on the degenerate that was in our home?"

The attitude changed. The fact I also gave discounts to first responders and family at my restaurant may have played a part. Tricia was taken to a hospital. While Tricia was enduring the humiliation of a rape kit and a full body evaluation, I had to deal with some questions from the Boys in Blue of my own.

With not an unfriendly tone, one of the two asked, "So what high school did she attend?"

I gave my answers while his partner just wrote things down. "Fox. Go Warriors."

"I went to Ritenour," he replied.

"Wolves, right?"

"Huskies."

That's not an unusual exchange in St. Louis. Asking where someone went to high school is one of our things here. It wasn't necessarily a question meant to check to see if Tricia really did have a reunion in a month. Not necessarily.

He continued, "Do you feel like you used unnecessary force?"

"I think the force I used was definitely necessary."

His partner writing things down chuckled at that one. He did keep writing though.

The one asking the questions looked like he was a bit hesitant to ask the next question. He appeared to be looking at me with something like sympathy. "Why were you at home at lunch today? Did you, um, have any reason to, you know, feel a need to ... check up on things?"

I pointed to Gloria's wrapped gift on a coffee table in the living room we were in.

"Today is a birthday party for one of my employees. I had left without it, and came back to get it. I called Tricia and left her a message about it, since she didn't answer her cell phone. Do you need me to open the gift box to verify there's a gift in there? I'd like to get to the hospital."

He looked apologetic. "No, we're done here Mr. Romano. I'm sorry to delay you, but it's procedure. We're done here. Please wish Gloria a happy birthday."

He turned to leave and his partner closed his notebook and moved to leave as well. "Me too."

I left shortly after they did. I made a quick detour to the bistro with Gloria's gift. I offered apologies to the staff and said something had come up, but the party should go ahead as planned without me. Then I headed for the hospital where Tricia had been taken.

The due diligence at the hospital revealed exactly what she said. There was semen inside her vagina from Corbin. There was not much bruising, but it was clear other parts of her body had marks. Slaps on the ass, pinched nipples, fingernails digging into her hips, semen in her stomach.

After some time in the waiting room, I was finally able to see Tricia. I was eager to get to her room. I arrived just as a female detective was exiting. She had a stern demeanor. After introductions, she cut to the chase.

"Your wife's story is a bit unusual. She doesn't behave like a typical rape victim. She seems emotionally unlike any rape victim I've ever encountered."

I waited. It seemed like she wasn't wanting a conversation, just wanting me to listen. Or perhaps respond. I chose listening.

"However, we found out that Mr. Wilson has a history."

Now she looked at me as though she was definitely expecting a response. I gave her one. "History of raping?!"

"In a both technical sense and a statutory sense. Allegedly."

"What does that mean?"

"It seems Mr. Wilson had a bit of a past. 'Coach Corby' was a high school girls volleyball coach in Rhode Island and was fired because of allegations. Those allegations included coercion, alcohol and drugs, and promises to make sure certain players got recommendations for scholarships."

"Why are you surprised? A creep like that clearly has been doing it for a while."

"Well Mr. Romano, he is someone who does have a reputation as far as law enforcement is concerned. However he never got convicted of anything, so he's officially innocent. In fact, he got a considerable amount of maintenance after his rich wife divorced him. Nothing stuck to him. He was able to relocate to Missouri with a clean record."

"Sounds horrible."

"We also discovered that you did indeed call your wife about coming home to get a gift for a party. Mrs. Romano let us hear your voicemail."

"Well, I am an open book. I could be offended if you somehow thought my actions were suspicious because I'm Italian and all. But I realize you were just doing your job."

I think she was holding back a nasty retort. I also think she was holding back a laugh.


"Let's just say no one in my department gives a shit about looking into you or your wife's story any further. This case is closed."

She left and I was finally able to have some time alone with Tricia.

I took her hand and said, "Sorry, I was held up."

"It was horrible darling. Questions and questions and questions. I even had a stranger just hand me a card. Look at it."

She gave me a business card that read, "Ingram and Associates" with a phone number.

I looked at it with contempt, then tore it in half and dropped it in a nearby waste basket. "Bloodsucking lawyers, obviously hoping to get paid in a civil suit."

Tricia was released late that night and came home. Without prying eyes, we finally were able to discuss the event.

"I have to say Trish, it's good you didn't choose a career in acting. You are terrible."

"I know! Telling the police the story we had worked out was hard for me. Did I ruin everything?"

I took her hand, then kissed it. "No, it will be fine. You had some good moments. Shaving your bush was a nice touch."

"Thanks, honey. I thought of it this morning after you left. It's what all the kids are doing these days. I thought it would make him more excited. Make my pussy all teenagery."
"Good call."

"You ran late. I wasn't sure what was keeping you so I had to suck him and get him to fuck me again."

"How was it?"

"Surprisingly hot. I really liked the role-playing and he just got more and more into it, which made me get more and more into it."

"Thank God you enjoyed it. I know you sacrificed a lot, to put a pedophile away."

"Well, he is technically an ephebophile. Maybe with a bit of hebephilia overlapping."

Regardless of what the technical term was, I was good with "scum bag." I would have to look up those other words later. I'd probably need her help to even spell them. She was the better researcher. It was her thoroughness that had led her to discover Coach Corby's past after his recent move to our neighborhood. Once that was discovered, this neighborhood was no longer big enough for all of us, much less raising any children we planned on having. And we weren't moving!

"Still, it had to be at least a little frightening."

"It was scary until I was doing it. Then I felt like a secret agent. I came so hard when you smacked him."

"That orgasm wasn't because of him?"

"Hell no! He warmed me up, and the first time was good. The second time was out of this world. When you hit him with that golf club, my kitty spasmed. I can't explain it. It's like she took control of me. I couldn't do anything until the party in my pussy ended."

"Well then, perhaps I should just surprise you in a ski mask. You can pretend to be the helpless victim."

"You have until I get pregnant. After that, we are going to behave appropriately in front of the kids."

Like I said, she does have a good sense of planning. I'll get the ski mask tomorrow.

As always, thanks to my editor Lue. I appreciate comments, either public or private, and will do my best to respond to them. A joy of submitting here is getting feedback from readers. If you hated it, tell me why. If you liked it, tell me why. If you don't feel like commenting, rate the story what you feel it deserves.