Paul and Paula – Her Story 04

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This story is the property of the writer Kalimaxos. Any unauthorized reproduction or reprint without the author’s express authorization is strictly prohibited.

It is the story of Paula and spans close to twelve years in Paula’s life. 1983 to 2005. And the story is a prequel. Read to the end to see more information where the story continues by the original author.

My characters are often flawed, and like real life, my stories are a shitshow, like life.

One more thing, you are on an erotica site reading smut. The last thing we need to hear is your morals and judgementalism. What are you doing here reading smut then trashing the writers, and characters on moral grounds? How “moral” is that?

I moderate comments. Make any derogatory or violent comments, lie about the story content to influence readers, or give me a lecture on morality, and your comment is gone.

You need to read parts 01, 02, and 03 first. it’s complicated.


Part IV

Unexpected road to something else


It took some days for me to recover from the finality of that night. To be honest, a part of me was shattered. My brother had been right. I had hoped to convert Paul to something he was not and would never want to be. We were so different – from separate universes yet in the same reality. Our life seemed like a sci-fi or fantasy tale.

I still loved Paul and wished him well, but after having lost respect for him, our relationship was no longer the same. And I no longer cared about the connection I had wished we had as a couple. It was not to be. I had deluded myself.

We still had sex from then on. It was boring, predictable sex, but sex nonetheless. But Paul was no longer the center of my world. We coexisted in this make-believe world where I acted as he wanted me around him. When I WAS around him, that is. I often wondered how he could not know in some way that his way and mine were different. I knew Paul was smart enough to figure things out. Didn’t he care?

After a while of being this person he wanted each evening, I started to ask. I do all this for him, playact his idea of wife and life. Why can’t he step up and do something for me? Something that I need. Why can’t he confide in me his fears and wants? Tell me why he quit his reporting job. What had happened to make him change? Was it his old school thinking to keep the little lady separate from his business? Or was there something more sinister?

An investigator I hired to tail him came back after two weeks to tell me that Paul was the most boring subject she had to follow and check upon.

“It’s like ‘Watching paint dry,’ the woman had said. “Mrs. Donnelly, your husband, doesn’t even run stop signs or an occasional yellow light when he drives. And he does the speed limit. As for his past, an altercation when he was a teenager, but the judge expunged it. It must have been minor as judges do that rarely if it was serious. Or maybe the judge was paid off.

“Anyway, I found nothing there. There was a period of months your husband seemed to have disappeared after that. But since then, other than his years in college, there is nothing of note for me to report.

“As for the time right before he changed jobs. Your husband was working on an exposé of a crime syndicate from Southern Florida. He traveled there for a few days, then returned and gave his resignation to the paper. They were as surprised as you were.

“I checked the newspapers for any events of note mentioning him and found nothing – the same with police arrest reports. Nothing from the hotel he stayed at as well. During that week, there were multiple crimes in the area. I cross-referenced it with drug gang-related crime and found ten arrests and the murder of two soldiers of a drug gang. Columbians who were muscling in on a local turf, the cops told me. So that is all I have.”

Not convinced, I hired another investigator and had him do another search on my husband’s past. Some would say it was wasted money. But the report had one difference. The two drug thugs had multiple bones of their bodies broken, as well as their necks. ‘Serve them right,’ I thought as I closed the file and placed it in my office safe.

Drug cartels were flooding the US with their poison. So fuck them. There was nothing to connect Paul with them other than him being in the vicinity and the deaths happening simultaneously. But this was Paul of all people. Had he been involved, it would have been HIS body found all shattered. Paul was not a “conflict” guy. The most Paul would have done would be to interview some people and run home to type it up. Instead, he had come home and resigned.

I paid one more investigator to do some checking, and after finding nothing again, I let it go. Whatever the reason, my husband had to quit his job and become a boring individual hiding from “conflict” only he knew. Maybe Gil did, but I would never find anything from that asshole.

I almanbahis yeni giriş had investigated Gil as well. All he was doing with his spare time and money was chasing after women, primarily married ones, and banging them. I guess he thought if he screwed enough married pussy he could exorcise what Lynn had done to him. Correction, what he had done to his marriage and himself.

Gil had no connection to Paul other than them hanging out in our neighborhood and going to the shooting range to fire the Glock Paul had bought me and kept in the safe. I already had my own gun collection in an office I owned in town and hidden behind a wall vault – the guns, business documents, and half a million in ready cash that Paul would never find.

Everything I had found out about my husband was that he had given up his career

Paul could have been my center. I still loved him in a way. But once home, he would find things to do that oftentimes did not include me. Like watching sports, watching sports with Gil, and hanging out with Gil. In time, I stopped caring and just focused on the kids and work.


I guess it was bound to happen. And I didn’t realize it when it did because it came about in such a roundabout way.

I had made a deal selling a nice-sized three-bedroom home to a banker and his wife. They had no kids, but they liked knowing they had a spare bedroom and another room they could use as an office for her to use.

Josh was a handsome man. Quite the match for Sylvia, who was a blond stunner. Once again, I had been professional when she was around and flirted with him when she was not. It was a routine that worked to get them to agree to the seller’s price – and a more significant commission for me. Let’s not forget, I was doing this for the money. Money that seemed to come more often these days. Money that I needed to invest.

“Paula, thanks for the great home you helped us find,” Josh said as we toasted the deal in their new marble-topped kitchen island they were in love with. “And a nice commission for you, I am sure.”

Josh was quite familiar with loans, home sales, and commissions as a banker.

“Bussiness is good,” I replied. “And I am glad you are happy.”

When Sylvia answered her phone for a business call, Josh came closer. ‘Here it comes,’ I said to myself. The almost predictable offer for Josh and I to meet alone. I was used to it by now in such cases. After all, I had flirted with him shamelessly to get him on my side for the sale. Like most men in his position, Josh wanted to collect.

Until that day, I had always found a way to refuse and remind them that our relationship would be only professional. But Josh surprised me.

“Paula,” he started. “How are you investing your profits?”

“Excuse me?” I said, stunned that he was wasting his moment alone with me to ask about my finances.

“Well, most people, and forgive me for letting my inner banker come out,” he chuckled, “but most people that are good at earning money are not always making that money work for them after they attain it.”

“Oh,” I recovered. “You mean investing it?”


“And, you think you can help me grow my money?”

“No. You will hardly get much of a return from a bank. But we would be glad to take your money and have it make more money for us. It’s how it works in my business. Our motto is we use other peoples’ money to get rich.

We chuckled at that before he continued.

“I was actually going to give you some advice that we bankers never give to anyone but close friends and family we like,” he smiled with a raised eyebrow.

“And that would be?”

“There are people whose job is to make other people’s money grow: money managers. They charge fees, of course. The right one would do a much better job developing your portfolio than a bank or an investment house. Just as in a bank, they will use your money to make money for themselves. True, they will make more return for you than a bank, but what you are interested in is the knowledge of how to do so yourself.”

“OK,” I said, waiting for a punch line. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I have a client who helped me grow our capital,” Josh passed me a card. “Call him and set up a meeting. Mention me, then invest in his service. He will contact me and ask how I know you. I will then let him know that you are interested in learning the ways of money management. From then on, you are on your own.”

“Thank you, Josh,” I replied politely, taking the card. “I appreciate it.”

On the way back to the office, I realized that I would not call the man Josh, the banker, had recommended. I was not naïve in the ways of the world and knew a scam when I saw one. Josh found what he thought was an easy mark, me, and would send me to his buddy, the guy on the card, who would gladly take my money and give Josh a cut as a referral fee. This guy may have taught me a thing or two, but never the true tricks of the business.

In almanbahis giriş a silly way, Josh had thought me so gullible that he had ‘warned’ me about how others would use my money to get wealthy. As if I didn’t know that. That’s business one-oh-one stuff from college. But it was something he had said that made my gifted mind gears turn the right way.

You see, I knew of a money manager. He was a good-looking father of one of my daughter’s soccer team kids. And I knew he attended all the games and often the practices. He would be on his phone half the time, but he watched his girl play with interest. I made a mental note to go to Patricia’s next practice and hit on him. Ha!

Only what I was interested in was between his ears, not his legs. Kind of… Look, any man can be fun for an excitement starved soccer mom like myself. But a good money manager was not easy to find. No. I mean it. That the soccer dad was a hunk was not even remotely on my radar.

You’re not buying it, are you?

I didn’t think so.

So the next day came along, and I drove Patty, excuse me… Patricia, to the soccer field. What pre-pubescent girl wants to be called Patricia instead of Patty? Am I wrong here? Never mind.

So, soccer practice. Having dressed in white shorts and a tank top showing my assets, I strolled toward the bleachers where a few parents sat. A couple of men ogled me. I smiled inwardly as that always made Paula randy. And a couple of soccer moms, not exactly taking care of themselves, gave me snide looks to kill.

But I was only interested in Mr. Hunk, money manager soccer dad. And there he was in all his glory, dressed in cargo shorts, sandals, and a tight t-shirt. When he saw me approach, he smiled, and I swear I got wet.

“Hi. I’m Paula Donnelly. Patty’s mom.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Brandon Grierson. Lydia’s dad.”

When we shook hands, I felt a warmth and sexual energy from him I had not felt in years from a man. Brandon is not overly muscular. But he is fit from all the running, soccer, and swimming I would learn he does. No golfer gut on him. But what I liked the most was his warm voice and his eyes. He seemed to take all of me in with one glance before he looked away.

I found myself standing next to him as we watched our daughters practice and chatted about them, our families, and ‘the beautiful game,’ as the great Brazilian player Pelé described soccer — what the non-American world calls Football.

In the past, I had played in high school and Brandon during college, before he hurt his knee. When he mentioned the injury, I looked at his muscular right leg close to me, and sure enough, surgery scars were running down the outside.

“Was it painful?”

“Kind off, but from what I hear, childbirth is worse.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said with an exaggerated wince.

“How many do you have?” he asked, giving me a side glance.

“Two. Patty… I mean Patricia and Ben. My son is a year younger.”

“Does he play too?”

“Of course. Ben is better at it than Patricia.”

“She is now Patricia?” Brandon asked. “But Ben is not Benjamin?”

“Are you kidding?” I replied. “My son would kill us if we called him… how did he put it? Oh yes, ‘that geek name.’ No. My son thinks Ben makes him sound more manly.

“Your son is right, you know,” Brandon replied. “It’s a man thing. I sure didn’t like what my parent’s called me when I was a kid.”

“What did they call you?” I asked curiously and slightly amused.

“You’ll never know,” he smirked.

Just then, one of the girls had a break around the defenders in the practice game. Brandon and I watched the action as the girl scored a goal, and we cheered. Even though neither of our girls was involved, we appreciated a good show of game skill, having played ourselves.

“Do you still play?” Brandon asked.

“Not for some time,” I replied. “Is there a league around?”

“My gym has a coed indoor league. No heat and no mosquitoes.”

In Florida, that was something to look forward to.

“Interesting,” I replied, giving him a side glance of my own.

Christ! I could smell his scent. The aroma of a freshly showered man, mixed with early sweat after coming out in the Florida heat. My father smelled that way as far back as I could remember. It was a comforting smell that I adored.

“And no alligators either,” he continued as we laughed at the reference to Florida’s most prominent and dangerous pest. “You should come try it out.”

“I just might,” I replied.

“You look very fit. You are kind of young to have a ten-year-old, aren’t you?”

“Patty, I mean Patricia is almost eleven, and I just turned thirty,” I volunteered my age. “I’m not too old for you, am I?”

“Wow! You look younger,” he complimented me. “And you are far from old… for me.”

I dared a glance at him and saw him looking right into my eyes. After a couple of seconds, I nodded to him and turned back at the soccer field. That was all almanbahis güvenilirmi it took, and we both knew.


The next time Brandon and I met was for lunch. I had called him at work from the card he had given me and asked him out. No longer driven by my emotions, I had thought out the reasons why I was meeting a man, not my husband, for lunch and had no regrets.

Having given my husband multiple opportunities, I had made my decision. Paul would have me as his wife when I was home. But what I did on my time would be mine to do as I pleased. We had promised each other to be all each other needed. But the reality was that Paul could never do that for me. And I would not spend what was left of my life as his version of a wife.

Judge me as you wish. But this is my life, not yours. I no longer felt guilty of thinking of other men and flirting with them. And by this point, I knew that I was on the inevitable road to infidelity. I wished that it had been different – that my husband and I could travel this extramarital adventure together. But that was not to be. If my husband wanted his own life within our marriage, so did I.

Brandon and I drove individually to a small restaurant with booths toward the back. Once there, we ordered, and Brandon sat back. I smiled in return, but he seemed to be thinking about something.

“Paula, beautiful women like you, don’t just find a guy and ask him for lunch. Especially someone you know is married with children.”

“I’m married with children as well, Brandon, and you know it.”

“Tell me what you want… I mean what you want to come out of our association.”

“Two things,” I replied, leaning in to speak in a lower tone. “One is professional and the other personal.”

“Professional?” he asked in surprise. “Go on.”

“You are a financial adviser? A money manager, right?”

“I am,” he replied. “But if you want my services, all you had to do was make an appointment at my office.”

“I don’t just want you to manage my portfolio,” I replied.

“You don’t,” he said as a matter of fact, not a question. “What do you want?”

“I want you to teach me how to do it,” I replied.

He stared at me for a few seconds incredulously, then chuckled.

“Paula, why would I do that? I make a living managing people’s money. Not teaching them how.”

“I understand,” I said, prepared for this reply from him. “But I am prepared to pay you for that knowledge.”

“You can find books on the topic or take some financial services evening classes.”

“I have a business degree and have my real estate license,” I replied. “I have books on the topic and even took a class this past year. Brandon, I want to learn things only an experienced professional will teach me. That is what I am interested in.”

By his expression, I knew that he concurred. And that if Brandon agreed, there were methods he could share of his trade that were not in any book. Tricks of the trade that translated to more money.

“Why should I teach you the secrets of my trade?” Brandon asked, gazing at me. “And even if I did, you still need me for some certified investing.”

Inwardly, I got excited, realizing he was considering it.

“True,” I said, “That I will.” ‘At first,’ I thought inwardly as eventually, I planned to get myself certified to make my own investments.

He still seemed on the fence or reluctant.

“And I think you would like the method of compensation for the lessons and the investment help,” I added with a coquettish smile.

“Method of compensation?” he asked. “I charge….”

“You know what kind of compensation I mean,” I cut in.

Brandon’s eyes remained on me as he pointed to me with a questioning look. I think he was finally getting the point.

“That is correct,” I replied, pointing up and down at my alluring body. “You get this in return for lessons.”

Checking to make sure no one could see us, I shifted to his side of the booth and placed my hand on his crotch. His bulge was evident. Nothing huge, but hard as a rock.

“Do we have a deal?” I asked as I stroked him.

“I need to think about it,” Brandon replied, but I knew he was very interested, if not already on board.

“You do that as I do this,” I replied, lowering his zipper.

Brandon stared down at my hand, fishing for the opening of his boxers, and gasped. His cock was not large as I expected. No. Brandon was not porn star material. But he had an average size cock that could cut diamonds. And in my experience, that was nothing to scoff at.

His eyes glazed as I began stroking him deliberately.

“There is more of this for our… association,” I said as I rubbed my right breast on his left arm.

Brandon was reaching between my legs as I got him closer when we heard the waitress approach to take our order. I was impressed that he looked at the menu and ordered without revealing his state to the comely waitress. She smiled at Brandon as I gave her my order, and then she gave me a brief look. The kind, good-looking women, give each other as a challenge. Polite, but bitchy nonetheless. Oh, stop! It’s a woman thing.

‘Get lost, you little twat,’ I said to myself inwardly as she turned and sashayed her nice ass away, working for a good tip.

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