Valentine’s Day, 1994. Redondo Beach, California.

When I got home from the dealership, my wife, Suzanne, was not there. Instead, there was a note on the kitchen island, written in her girly, flourished handwriting on a monogrammed note card, the ones she used for the thank-you notes after our wedding three years ago.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, lovey!” it said. “Your gift is outside by the pool.”

She punctuated the note with a saucy lipstick kiss surrounding her name. The card was laying atop a black lace thong. I picked it up and held it to my face, giggling like an excited teenager, expecting to inhale my wife’s unmistakably sexy, girly, pussy aroma.

Instead, a jolt went through me; that’s not Suzanne's perfume … It was Dahlia Divin. I’d never bought that for her and I’d never known her to wear it, but the spicy, racy, hooker-y aroma of Givenchy’s best seller was unmistakable. And it could only mean trouble.

“Babydoll?” I called out nervously from the kitchen. No answer. The panties and the perfume had knocked me off guard completely.

“Suzanne?” Still no reply as I slowly walked up the grand staircase to our bedroom. Nobody home.

OK, let’s just take this at face value, I told myself. So Suzi's outside, she wants me to fuck her in the hot tub or something. I undressed from my work clothes and grabbed my bathrobe off the back of the master bath door — the one with no belt, of course. I descended the staircase, my big dick dangling out from my parted robe, and went to the wet bar for a bourbon on the rocks. Then I walked out the sunroom door and down the marble staircase to our Olympic-sized pool and spa, and prepared to fuck my wife.

Instead, I dropped my rocks glass. It shattered on the marble deck and my mouth hung open in abject terror.

“Hello!” Sophie said from the middle of the pool, waving cheerfully at me.

Sophie is a Hungarian pornstar and the escort I had been boffing weekly on the regular for the past 10 months. Sophie is the one who wears Dahlia Divin. I gave her a bottle during our Christmas fuck-fest while Suzanne was back home in Baton Rouge with her Mom.

“Sophie!” I hissed, trembling. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

“I am Valentine!” Sophie purred, tucking her chin into her shoulder and rubbing her hands along her body the way she would one of the photo sessions at the studio I had quietly opened on Figueroa Street. She was wearing a pink lamé slingshot bikini that only nominally covered her enormous, plastic 34DD tits — the ones I paid for right after she arrived in the U.S. on a camp counselor's visa. Sophie’s mid-neck length bob was completely wet, but she was still fully made-up, smoky eyes, intoxicating lashes, full, ruby, blowjob lips, nothing running or smearing.

Still, the danger was unmistakable. Oh no, my wife didn’t invite Sophie over to fuck me for my Valentine’s present. “Sophie,” I said urgently, throwing off my robe to enter the pool, wearing only my medallions and aviator sunglasses. I took her by the hand urgently. She was actually wearing her goddamn clear plastic stripper heels in the pool, and she wobbled and stumbled as I tried to take her out to safety.

“You need to leave now," I said. "This isn’t safe. Suzanne is my wife, and she might … she might hurt you.”

Sophie’s bright expression dropped. She seemed confused more than frightened. “Hurt? But we spend whole day together!”

“You … you what?” I said.

“We get tan, then we do hairdo, then lunch,” Sophie said. “Then come back and fuck in shower, on bed, in sauna …”

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” I exclaimed, exasperated. Sophie stopped in the middle of the shallow end and resisted my pull.

“We play cowboy and indian, too!” she giggled. She what?! That was our favorite costumed role-play; Sophie would put on a head-to-toe feathered headdress, I’d wear chaps and a Stetson hat, and she would ride me while a tom-tom drummed ritually over the boom box I’d set by the motel bed. It was now clear that Suzanne knew everything. She must have hired a P.I. or something. I realized I probably wasn’t going to be living in this house after today. If I was living at all.

Then Sophie looked over my shoulder and waved. “Hello!” she said brightly. “Hello, Miss Suzanne!”

Oh fuck, I thought.

Slowly, I turned, and saw my wife — my all-American good girl bride, Miss Photogenic at Miss Louisiana USA 1990, LSU homecoming queen, descend the staircase to the pool, her high heels banging out gunfire on the pink travertine. She was wearing a black, flat brimmed stetson and black leather chaps, with an enormous, metallic gold strap-on dildo dangling beneath their belt. She was wearing nipple clamps and had her hair pulled back tight into a fierce bun.

Most threateningly, she was wearing a holster with my .357 — the one I bought after we opened the gentlemen’s club where I met Sophie. Suzanne also carried a bullwhip, coiled up in her left fist. I have to admit; the contrast in how she was dressed and how I had known my beautiful trophy wife up to that point was powerfully erotic.

The fear was also pretty fucking real and powerful, too.

I positioned myself in front of Sophie as Suzanne strode over to the edge of the pool and stuck her hip out in a devastating, ultra-bitchy pose, looking down her chin at us both. She patted the pearled handle of my revolver. Suzanne could do whatever she wanted to me; Sophie deserved none of this. She would have to kill me first to get to Sophie.

“You don’t even know how to shoot that, babydoll,” I said with false bravery. “It weighs more than you.”

“It might,” Suzanne said, “if it were loaded.” She snapped open the cylinder and grasped it by the barrel, showing me there was no ammunition inside. Then she tossed it in the pool with a loud ker-ploosh. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Get out,” Suzanne commanded.

Now Sophie understood. I led her out of the pool by the hand. As I ascended the pool steps, the water parted, revealing my throbbing, dripping erection, whose length and shape was informed by equal parts terror and arousal. I didn’t know what Suzanne was going to do first: fuck me, kill me, or divorce me; probably all three.

“I can’t believe you have a fucking hard-on,” Suzanne sneered. “You fucking dog.” She slapped me hard across the mouth, then grabbed my neck and pulled me in for a nasty, exploitative kiss, sucking out my tongue.

Sophie tried to teeter-totter away while Suzanne began chewing me out. Yet, without even looking at Sophie, Suzanne’s bullwhip flashed and cracked out a sound louder than any gunshot. Sophie stood up ramrod straight, hands in the air, like she was a bystander in a bank robbery.

“I’ve still got you for another two hours, whore,” Suzanne snarled.

Now, at this point, I’ll admit, I could have gotten myself and Sophie out of there with no problems. I sensed that Suzanne’s threat was all ritual, no actual violence. Although the very costly dissolution of our marriage was definitely on the table. But frankly, I really wanted to see what she had in mind, because even if she got everything in the imminent divorce, I could sense we were about to have the most amazing break-up sex ever, and I figured I should get my money’s worth.

Suzanne marched me over to a deck chair and pushed me down into it. “Get that big dick hard,” she said, turning curtly on her booted heels and marching toward Sophie. I started jerking off, using a squirt of coconut-scented Hawaiian Tropic suntan oil as lube. Suzanne grasped Sophie by the back of the neck and turned her around. Sophie’s face was a tortured mask of fear and obedience.

Suzanne smacked Sophie across her ass with the coiled up bullwhip. “Move, whore!” she snapped. Sophie teeter-tottered toward me, tits jiggling out from underneath her pornstar bikini. Suzanne forced Sophie to kneel in front of me and grabbed her by the back of her hair.

“Suck his dick, you whore,” Suzanne commanded, and Sophie took my cock in her mouth. As soon as it slipped beneath her quivering pink lips we seemed to forget our circumstances … it was like being back in a sleazy hotel room out by the Burbank airport with her. Sophie flicked her kitty-cat tongue over the head and licked up the bulging vein on my dick’s ventral side. She pressed her nose into my musky pile of pubic hair and stroked my length, giving soft kisses and licks to the base of my raging erection.

Suzanne forced Sophie’s head down into my crotch, intending to make her gag on my dick. But Sophie, one of the San Fernando Valley’s most accomplished Eastern European pornstars, could easily take my modest six inches.

Suzanne kneeled behind Sophie and lubed up her strap-on. She rubbed its bulbous latex head along Sophie’s engorged pussy lips before gently slipping it inside.

Sophie responded immediately to the penetration, moaning, cooing and writhing in pleasure. She returned her attention to my dick, while Suzanne smacked Sophie’s ass cheeks lightly, fixed my gaze, and continued the tool-assisted fucking.

Suzanne smirked at me. “I’m getting this house.”

Sophie slurped and stroked me as Suzanne thrust into her from behind.

“I’m getting all the cars,” Suzanne said.

My eyes rolled back in my head as Sophie continued sucking and stroking my dick. Lord, could that whore suck cock.

“I’m getting the liquor store, and yes, I’m also getting that photography studio where you take your whores,” Suzanne said. God damn, she really did know everything.

“Yes,” I said, my lungs burning. “You’re getting it all.”

“You contest anything and I will put your ass in L.A. Weekly in the nastiest divorce this town has ever seen,” Suzanne growled. “And this is a town that loves nasty divorces.”

“No contest,” I gasped. I was close to ejaculating. Sophie could tell. She slipped my throbbing member from her mouth and began jacking it off like we were on the set of All-Star Blowjob Queens #29. Suzanne continued pounding Sophie from behind. Finally, I went off like a rocket, launching huge ropes of hot cum over Sophie, landing on the small of her back and spraying my wife right between her own jiggling $10,000 tits. Suzanne kept up her thrusts, and Sophie eventually convulsed in a long, silent, open-mouthed orgasm of her own.

Suzanne removed her strap-on from Sophie’s drooling pussy. Sophie went almost limp, her ass still pointing up, with her arms extended out over her bowed head in a supplicating gesture. Suzanne stood, went over to a patio table, and lit a long filtered cigarette. “Clean yourselves up and get the fuck out of my house,” she said.

That night, Sophie and I went down to the studio on Figueroa, which had a kitschy apartment upstairs. We went out and had a listless dinner at the InterContinental. Sophie picked at her food and inhaled several mixed drinks with a sour, numbed expression. I got us a cab back to the studio and we went upstairs. No matter how much I tried to reassure Sophie, she seemed intent on bearing the weight of my infidelity all by herself. We spent the next two days in an alcoholic haze, just trying to numb out the pain of all the wrong we had done.

Then Sophie asked me to take her to LAX; some guy from the old country was coming into town. She left me in the newsstand while she went to his gate to greet him. I picked over the trashy novels and business-advice hardbacks before spying the front page of the L.A. Daily News.

Suzanne's Miss Louisiana USA portrait was on the front page, next to a screaming tabloid headline. "PAGEANT QUEEN POISONED" it said. Subheadline "Car-dealer kingpin is 'person of interest' cops say."

All of the color vanished from my face.

Then I heard the airport P.A. "Final boarding call for Lufthansa Flight 1178 to Budapest," and I knew that Sophie was gone.