Pictures Never Lie: A Love Story Pt. 04

Sorry about the long delay. Once in a while my day job gets in the way of my avocation. This one looks at events from the wife's point of view. The story itself explores the premise that it is not easy being hot, which many hot women have told me is true - mainly because men are not the most honest, or trustworthy creatures (or as one woman put it if you want unconditional love buy a dog)... Please enjoy...

~

I've got news for you if you think that it's easy going through life looking like me. Try getting constant reminders that you're worth nothing more than your beautiful face, and your glorious tits. Then tell me what that does for your self-image?

There was never any recognition that I was kind-hearted, or smart, or even hard working and capable. Instead people just kept staring at my overdeveloped chest and commenting about how "mature" and "developed" I looked.

I grew those things during the sixth and seventh grade. My chest ached for two straight years. I was four foot eleven and they stood out on my tiny frame like the Grand Tetons.

They were absolutely embarrassing. And short of cutting them off, which I seriously contemplated doing, there was no way I could hide them, particularly with the styles back then. As a result, I couldn't walk down the hallway at my junior high school without some loser trying to either grab my boobs, or my ass.

Nonetheless, Throughout my developing sexuality I DID learn three critically important things.

The first was that I had something that every male in the universe wanted. Even my daddy's ancient friends would stare longingly at my boobs and drool. Worse, I had achieved that kind of ego-expanding power without any actual effort on my part; just good genetics.

The intrinsic message that delivered can do serious damage to a girl's soul. I was only a few years out of my childhood for Christ's sake. And there is nothing worse for a girl to get an inflated sense of her own entitlement, just from the size of her tits.

Nevertheless, my pretty face and ripe body also quickly led me to a second much more significant discovery; which was that boys will tell you anything when they are trying to get in your pants.

Their lies never really worked with me. I am smart and even in my formative years I knew exactly what I had to offer. But the result was that very early on in my life I decided to never trust a single member of that very odd sub-species called "men".

All of my accumulated knowledge eventually led to the final most damning discovery, which was that I didn't have to actually give a guy anything in order to get him to do what I wanted. All I had to do was put out the POSSIBILITY and they would make Pavlov's dogs look downright blasé.

So, I practiced my man-handling techniques throughout my teenage years. And since I could get the interest of any guy I wanted, I had a lot of opportunities to work on my game, even with the older ones.

I viewed what I was doing as a learning experience, not developing manipulative behavior. I knew that I would have to learn how to manage those simple minded creatures or surrender all of my free-will to one of them.

And of course nothing seriously sexual ever happened. I was way too full of myself to just randomly give it up to some horny male without a really self-serving reason.

I finally had my techniques down to a point where I felt like I could safely take the ultimate step. It was strictly my decision and nobody else's. And it was definitely not the result of overwhelming passion. I just saw it as the right time to make the passage into adulthood.

So I lost my cherry at my senior prom, three weeks after my 18th birthday. The boy lasted all of 10 seconds. But those were heretofore the most exciting 10 seconds of my life.

I leaned from that experience that I absolutely LOVED sex. The feeling of that thing sliding up into me was so exquisite that I had to have it again as soon as possible.

Needless to say, my boyfriend and I fucked the summer away. And his staying power improved along with my pleasure. By the time we went off to different colleges I could get him off twice a session, with a blowjob in between and I discovered that I was seriously multi-orgasmic.

Of course he was lying about being faithful to me. But that didn't matter because I wasn't planning on being faithful to him.

Growing up I had spent a lot of time in dance training. Dance was good for me. It had turned my butt into a big ball of muscle and my hips, legs and stomach were rock solid. I had finally reached my full height of five foot two inches and my chest had expanded another two cup sizes.

And I had discovered that I could get anything I wanted from any male on campus just by offering them the vague prospect of fucking me. The feelings of power that gave a 19 year old girl were deceptively gratifying.

A lot of my less attractive girlfriends slept with anybody. I needed the same kind of constant fucking. But because of my fear of STDs and pregnancy I was very selective. I wanted a man who would fuck me a lot and who I could trust not to give me a disease or a baby.

So it always had to be with a single trustworthy sex partner. My looks let me carefully pick and choose who I slept with, which might indicate that I was sensible. But, most of my friends just thought I was stuck-up.

Because I looked like I did I was regularly fucking the most high profile guys on campus; in a serially monogamous fashion. We would go together for months and then one, or both of us, would get caught cheating and we'd change partners.

I was by-far the one who was most frequently cheated on. That was mainly because I was serious about the studying part of college and most of my partners were in school to get laid. It never mattered much to me when I moved on, because all I had to do was let the word out that I was available and I could pick through the new set of eager applicants until I found my next stud.

Nonetheless, that lengthy experience also enforced the fundamental belief that attractive men, particularly the Alpha Male types, couldn't be trusted in a relationship.

My first teaching job hammered that conviction home for me. It also marked the first time I experienced the pain of "big-league" cheating.

I met Alex my very first day at work. He was the principal and he wanted to "welcome" me to the school. I remember walking into his office feeling nervous and tentative and him rising gracefully from behind his desk to take me by the hand and lead me to a seat. His charm and wry sense of humor almost immediately put me at ease.

Alex was engaging and impressively knowledgeable. To say the least he was handsome, well over six feet with dark good looks and a devilish smile. He was ten years older than me and he had been divorced for almost five years.

I could immediately sense that he wanted more from me than my ability in the classroom.

At the end of my first school day he dropped down to my class and offered to take me out to get a bite to eat and debrief. It was all professional, principal stuff. The day had been stressful, as all first days are, and I really DID need to talk to somebody.

In fact, I have always turned to strong men when I am feeling vulnerable. Yes, it is probably a "daddy" thing. My daddy was always "there" for me no matter what.

I know what you're thinking and I want to assure you that I'm not THAT naive. Even back then I knew that there are no other daddies in your life except the one you were born with. The rest are just predatory males. Alex conclusively proved that to me.

He was single, and uber-sure of himself. He was also in a league of his own sex-wise. The seduction started with a lot to drink that evening. It then continued up to his apartment. And it concluded with him fucking me three times that night.

I had never had orgasms like I had with him. And by the time the sun came up I was ready to face the onslaught of third graders with renewed vigor. I was so overwhelmed that I would write Mrs. Janet McIntyre on my lesson plans like a 13 year old girl.

And I ached for his touch; so much so that I decided to surprise him at his apartment one sunny Saturday morning. Big mistake!

I was breezing happily up to the door of his apartment, dressed in nothing but a trench coat and thigh high silk stockings, when I heard the sound of a woman being noisily and thoroughly fucked on the other side of it.

I thought to myself, "My God!! Am I that loud?!!" I frankly couldn't decide whether to pound on the door until the cheating sleazeball answered it; or just slink away with my tail between my legs. Being who I am I went with what was behind door number one.

His eyes got as wide as saucers when he saw me. He had the good grace to actually turn a little red. I was already in the process of delivering the roundhouse slap that I had been saving up for him. That was all he saw before I stomped off back to my car crying like a little girl.

I sat there in the parking lot waiting for him and his floozy to come out. It took a couple of hours before they finally emerged from his place. They had a touching good-bye kiss and she drove off.

He must have called me 100 times after that. I deleted all of his voicemails. He had the good sense to avoid me at school. We both liked our jobs and I couldn't guarantee my behavior.

The following Saturday morning I had just come back after an invigorating six mile run. I heard a knock at my door and Alex was standing there. He looked pathetic, like a puppy in a rainstorm. So fool that I am I let him in.

He dangled the usual line about how it was a one-shot thing, and how he only loved ME, and how devastated he was by my leaving him, and how sorry he was that he had hurt me, and how he would spend the rest of his life making it up to me.

I am sure all of the women reading this have heard the same bullshit before. Then he started to cry. I fell for it hook, line and sinker. What can I say? I was only 23 at the time.

We fucked all weekend. I have never had such an extended period of pure lovemaking. The Chinese delivery boy made daily trips to my doorstep and we never left the bed. He proposed and I accepted. I told him that I was his forever.

He was so dominant and masterful in the way he handled our life together that I was beginning to feel lost in him. But I didn't care. He was making me feel so well-taken-care-of that I was in heaven.

Then, two months later I happened to run into his fuck-buddy in a restaurant. She had never actually seen me. She had only witnessed Alex getting the slap of his life. I couldn't pass up the chance to learn some more about the floozy who had nearly ruined my upcoming nuptials. So I slid into the booth next to hers.

She was effusively telling her friend about her lover who was, to quote her, "An orgasm machine". My ears perked up because that was a pretty good description of Alex.

She went on-and-on about how frequently they fucked and the interesting places they did it in and how much he loved her. Then she put the final stake through my heart with, "And Alex has promised to marry me as soon as he ends his foolish engagement to that little teacher person at his school."

To my credit I showed no emotion as I paid my tab and left the place. I cried for two hours in my apartment. Then I dried my eyes, blew my nose, and sent the treacherous son-of-a-bitch an e-mail.

It said, "Never contact me again. If you do I will make certain that you will never be able to use that pathetic little excuse for a penis, AFTER I tell the School Board what you did to me. Give my regards to your OTHER whore and tell her I enjoyed sitting next to her at the Hideout listening to her stories."

He tried the same thing again.

This time it didn't work.

That event scarred my soul. It was humiliating to be lied to and manipulated like that. And Tom gave off the same vibe when I first met him. He was a totally confident and self-possessed alpha-male with the intelligence and wit of a major player with women.

Just like Alex, I loved what he did to me. And just like Alex, when we were in bed I couldn't say "no" to him. I gave him whatever he wanted and to say the least he was creative.

But, unlike Alex he listened to me when we talked. He considered and respected my opinions and he involved me in decisions about his own life. We were companions and friends as much as lovers and he seemed to really care about my happiness. He revealed his personal fears and vulnerabilities and I shared mine. Because we were so totally open with each other I came to believe that he would always be honest with me. And to say I loved him with my entire soul would be an understatement

It didn't take very long for us to build that special little cocoon of tranquility and refuge that some fortunate couples have around them. Tom and I were the only occupants of that space and I put myself and my trust completely in his hands. Over 17 years, the thought that he would ever violate the gift of me and my love simply disappeared from my radar.

That is the reason why Murphy's pictures had such an utterly devastating effect on me.

Some of you might think I am stupid not knowing that pictures could be altered. But I am an elementary school teacher. I have spent my life in a world of children and the kind-hearted people who care for them. And nobody in my world comes close to being as deceitfully selfish, or destructively vile as Murphy.

Likewise, I never had a lot to do with computers. I leave all of that to Tom who is a genius at that sort of thing. All I use my computer for is to update my Facebook page and do on-line Legos for kids. It just never occurred to me to doubt what I saw. And of course I had my evil friend Mr. Murphy to help to "understand" what I was seeing.

So without any warning, or an opportunity to prepare myself, I was cast completely adrift in an unhappy world of total desolation that was both hostile and very lonely.

His attack on me, and make no mistake it WAS an attack, was a perfectly executed example of the successful effect of totally unexpected and overwhelming aggression.

For years there had never been a he and she in my relationship with Tom. There had only been an "us". As a result, removing Tom from my life was like sawing open my head and taking out the rational left side of my brain.

And by destroying the unqualified center of my universe, Murphy had managed to put me into a situation where I would be utterly vulnerable to anybody who could give me anything stable to hang onto and help me recover my balance.

I know that I am over-emotional. It has been a blessing and a curse. It lets me feel things profoundly but it also leads to unstable behavior. And I think it would be safe to conclude, from the fainting, vomiting, wild crying and rolling around in a fetal ball for the 24 hours prior to Murphy showing up, that I was completely out of my mind.

It is not uncommon for a wild Atlantic hurricane to be followed by a beautiful sunny day. That was the way I felt after crying my eyes out on his shoulder when he arrived. Murphy brought security, equilibrium and friendship back into my life. He carried all of the good feelings of the past with him, the happy times that the three of us had had. And in many respects I started mistaking him for Tom.

I realize now that Murphy's behavior was carefully calculated to seduce me. But at the time it almost seemed like he was offering a substitute for Tom. He treated me like I was worthy and valuable to him. He honored the fact that I was a person with feelings, not a fuck-toy and it played directly off all of the old insecurities about myself.

Those insecurities were rooted in every humiliating experience I had ever had with men; from Alex's fucking around on me all the way back to the single girl, one-night stands that you always hate yourself after.

The first thought that I had The instant I saw those pictures was of me standing in the hallway of Alex Macintyre's apartment dressed in nothing but a trench coat, heels and thigh high stockings, listening to him stab me in the back.

It was obvious from the evidence at hand that, for the entire time we had been together Tom had not been close to whoever he claimed to be. And the pain that inflicted on me was magnified seventeen times for every year we were married. He was dead to me for that betrayal.

I have to give Murphy credit. He played me masterfully. He knew how totally lost I would be without Tom. And as a result, he knew that I would feel unattractive lonely and forlorn. Of course he knew all of that because he had carefully engineered those feelings.

He was smart. Instead of putting on a full court press romance-wise, he worked hard to make me feel secure, attractive, loved and more importantly respected. The latter was the key to my downfall and Murphy played on it relentlessly.

My entire life nobody but Tom had ever given me the slightest amount of respect for who I was and what I had achieved. Murphy went right past my beauty and convinced me that he felt how deeply my soul was hurting. More importantly, he did it in a non-threatening asexual way; like he really cared for the fundamental me inside.

In some respects my sailing date and the outfit I wore with Murphy was a character test. If he had tried to romance me that day I would have seen through him all the way down to his hound DNA.

But instead of acting like every other horny male, he was caring, considerate and did all of the things that he needed to do to make me feel respected and worthy again. And I fell for it.

Just like the people in that Stockholm bank I began to empathize very strongly with my victimizer. And by the time he took me dancing I was starting to see him as the only man who could restore the self-confidence and good feeling that Tom had so callously ripped from me.

Love is a term that has a lot of subjective meanings. But if one part of love is the desire to desperately cling to somebody in order to preserve your OWN sense of self, then Murphy had made me fall in love with him. And the inevitable result of that dependency worked itself out on his couch two days later: with me flat on my back and him deep inside me.

I knew it was treachery the moment we finished. And the look of smug satisfaction on his face only made my sense of guilt even worse. So I bolted out of his place like the proverbial scalded cat.

His jolly reassurances about how much I would love it the next time should have tipped me off to what he was up to. But I didn't pick up on any of that. I was too overwhelmed by the feelings of the twin betrayals; both Tom's and at that moment mine.

For a week I had been on an emotional roller coaster. The high points were my "romantic dates" with Murphy. One low point was when I saw the pictures and took the practical step to end my idyllic marriage.

But no dip could compare to the "Oh-my God!" end of the ride, final descent into despair that came when Tom proved that the pictures were fake. It was then that I saw the entire treacherous landscape for the first time. And I knew that the perpetrator of that deception was the person who I had entertained between my thighs the night before.

I had been battered and abused for ten straight days and the sense of horror that came over me when I made that final discovery just overwhelmed me. I was walking dead. I was so shocked I was utterly unaware of my surroundings. And I didn't come out of my fog until I saw him standing there.

Then all I could see was a blinding red haze and I was seriously trying to kill him.

I knew that I had blown it. I had the fleeting thought that I could have covered it up. But I owed Tom the respect of letting him know what I had done.