The Secret Ball

George and Marge had planned to attend the Williams’ masquerade ball this year. The Williams were extremely generous and courteous neighbors, as well as filthy rich. Their house was actually referred to as the Williams Mansion. Marge and George attended the event last year and had a lot of fun.

Today, however, Marge had not been feeling well following lunch with her friend Jenny. Jenny was adding a few final touches to her friend's costume as well as hiding it for her. Marge wanted it to be a surprise for George. She would be a rather buxom Marie Antoinette this year.

At home, later that evening, Marge still didn’t feel well. The sounds coming from the bathroom confirmed she was not going to be attending the big event. Marge, however, insisted George go without her. He protested of course, but finally gave in at her persistence. It was a big deal in the neighborhood and Marge knew George had been looking forward to it for months.

He was very excited about his Musketeer costume; he planned to go as D'Artagnan, with a sword, hat, and mustache. She watched as he assembled his costume and wished him a good night.

“Have fun, dear. If I feel better, I’ll try to show up later,” she added.

“It just won’t be the same without you there,” he replied, with a pout.

Last year they both took a change of clothing at the recommendation of the Johnson’s, in case they decided to go out after the party. George had packed a bag earlier and placed it by the door. A kiss on the cheek and off he went for an evening of fun. Marge, on the other hand, bolted for the bathroom door, almost making it in time.

She had taken everything she could think of from the medicine cabinet and went back to bed. An hour or so later she actually felt pretty good. Whatever it was had passed, literally. She called her friend up and told her she would be over for her costume after all.

Jenny had everything ready and waiting.

“You look incredible,” Jen said. “George is never going to recognize you.”

"Yes, that's true. He doesn't know what costume I’m wearing,” said Marge with a sinister smile.

“Why don’t you surprise him?” suggested Jen. “Just go up to him and see what happens.”

Marge thought about it for a moment and smiled. “That could be interesting, some strange women flirting with him. But he will recognize my voice.”

“So, don’t talk. You’re a woman. In that dress he will follow you anywhere.”

The two laughed at the idea and Marge was stuffed into her minivan. Getting all of that costume in the driver’s side was not easy but do ‘able. She had not planned to be driving when she picked it out, but what’s a girl to do? She was going to the party.

Arriving late, Marge had to park a little farther out on the William’s estate and walk to the entrance. In the night with the landscape lights on it was easy for her to imagine a real castle filled with lords and ladies. She looked forward to finding George and having a memorable evening.

A doorman, also dressed for the part, greeted Marge complimenting her attire and loudly announced, “Lady Antoinette!”

Everyone turned to look at the latecomer and applauded her costume. From the elevated foyer Marge spotted her Musketeer, not too far away. Her mask covered the majority of her face and heavy makeup concealed the rest.

She walked directly to him as a sea of costumed patrons parted. His attention never leaving her, he introduced himself as the swashbuckling hero D’Artagnon. Then added, “And, the best looking of the three musketeers.”

With a thick, horrid French accent he started to make conversation. Marjorie put her finger to his lips to discourage any further talking for fear of an expected response.

She motioned him over to dance as the harpsichord played a renaissance waltz, D'Artagnan bowed deeply and followed. The pretense of a waltz was attempted by all. Some more melodramatic than others, some merely intoxicated. Lady Antoinette’s gloved hand was held high in D'Artagnan’s grasp.

When close, Marie Antoinette’s other hand found itself under D'Artagnan’s cape and firmly attached to his artificial leather-covered derriere. Then, to remove any doubt as to her intentions she found another area of interest to both of them, his cape offering some pretense of discrimination. Lady Antoinette again took D'Artagnan’s hand and lead him to the back lawn exit and out into the night. He started to say something again, and again Marge’s fingers stifled the attempt.

He did not know who she was and she intended to keep it that way. She was going to find out just how far her husband would go with this Lady Antoinette floozy before he stopped her.

Marge remembered the gazebo by the pond was very secluded, especially at night. This was her destination. Once they arrived, she knelt down to unlace his black artificial leather pants. He was not stopping her; she continued.

Her large dress spread as gracefully as possible over the wooden floor of the gazebo. It was dark and her mask made it difficult to see what she was doing but the S.O.B let her go on and she did.

Her D'Artagnan was unaware of the rage brewing beneath the mask so busy below his belt line. Her lipstick now smeared, Lady Antoinette then laid back pulling her dress up and D'Artagnan down on top of her. The Musketeer wasted no time with his part.

Lady Antoinette's rage came close to exposing her plan only she found the moment not so unpleasant in a selfish sort of way. Maybe it was the costumes or the backdrop, but as sex goes, she found the experience to be above average.

A brief recovery period and Marge was once again on her feet. Now came the moment of truth: does she remove her mask or not? He could always say he knew it was her and play the wrongly accused spouse but she had a better plan. She kissed him on the lips from under her mask and his thick fake mustache then motioned for him to stay while she quickly made her exit.

Back in the minivan, she fumed over how good the sex was when he thought he was with a stranger. He did not hesitate for one moment. “How many other times had he been so caviler with whomever?” she thought. The what-if's went on and on the short drive back.

Once at home, she quickly removed her costume and put her ratty tee shirt back on; the aroma of her nauseous day still lingering upon it would add some authenticity to the moment.

As soon as she got back into bed and resumed cursing George, she heard him coming in the front door. Upon entering the bedroom, she noticed he had taken his costume off already. “He was acting so nonchalant like nothing at all had happened,” she thought.

“So, how was your evening? Anything out of the ordinary happen?” she asked in a controlled voice.

“Well, actually, yes,” he started

“Oh my God, he's going to confess. I don't believe it,” she thought.

George continued, “I ran into Mike and Phyllis. They had second thoughts about going to the party and I explained you couldn’t go because you were sick so we decided to all go to Murph’s for dinner and drinks.”

Marge’s chest got tight. Her face froze with that deer-in-the-headlights look.

“You never went to the party?”

“No. I went out with Mike and Phyllis. I wasn’t in the mood to go without you.”

“But, it’s so late,” stuttered Marge

“Oh! When we got to Murph’s we met Allen and Tracy, so the evening got a little drawn out with conversation. Everyone missed you and wished you well.”

The evening flashed before Marge’s eyes over and over. She tried to imagine what the D'Artagnan she had molested that night must have been thinking. “Oh my God, the story he would have to tell,” she thought.

It was going to take a while to rationalize what had happened, but one thing was certain, she was taking this secret with her to the grave. Despite the guilt, however, her Musketeer returned that night in her dreams.

Breakfast was quiet. George asked what was the matter but Marge gave him an oh-nothing answer. She was visibly upset yet didn’t know what to do about it. She just sipped on her coffee staring at the plate of bacon as if it might come to life and offer a solution.

George broke the silence, “I think I know what’s wrong,” he said.

Marge felt a pang of paranoia reach in a squeeze the middle of her chest, then George finished the sentence with, “…my Lady.”

Marge looked at him oddly, as the meaning was coming but had not gotten all the way up her spine to her brain, yet. “What did you say?”

George stood, paused briefly with a Cheshire cat smile, put one foot forward and bowed majestically.

“May I have another dance Lady Antoinette?”

“You S.O.B!”

Multiple body gestures assisted Marge’s next few comments.

“You let me go all night thinking…” she paused. The flutter in her chest was taking her breath away but the relief in knowing returned it.

“How did you know?” she finally asked.

“Honestly? How could I not know you?” he answered, sincerely.

She ran to George, wrapped her arms around him ever so tightly and kissed him.

“You know,” she said with a smile looking into his eyes and raising one brow, “you’re going to have to keep the costume.”

The End