tagLoving WivesGetting Even

Getting Even


Bill Trebelov stood frozen and helpless, watching his beloved wife snuggle warmly into the arms of their next door neighbor, Roger. Emily smiled so brightly, she seemed to illuminate from within. She wore a flimsy yellow sundress that left little to the imagination. Her shapely body fit perfectly in Roger's embrace, as if they were two pieces of a puzzle.

They were laughing, surrounded by friends and neighbors with familiar, yet strangely indistinguishable, faces. Roger whispered something into Emily's ear, and it made her giggle like a little girl. She gave him a playful slap on his shoulder, and then raised herself on the tips of her toes to give him a kiss.

Bill opened his mouth to scream, but no words escaped. He struggled to breathe. It felt as though he were underwater. He began to panic, and could feel his chest tighten and his pulse race. Roger looked right into his eyes and acknowledged his presence with a wicked smile. He winked, and kissed Emily again, right there in front of all their friends and neighbors.

This time, as he kissed her, his tongue protruded grotesquely from his mouth and his hands boldly explored her body. He lifted the hem of Emily's dress, exposing her naked buttocks to the warm summer air, and squeezed her firm cheek with his finely-manicured hands. She responded with a playful coo, and returned his kiss him with gratuitous lust.

Roger broke from their kiss and directed his eyes toward Bill once again. This time, his smile contorted into laughter. He pointed a finger at Bill, and all heads turned to follow the path of his direction. The surrounding audience erupted into raucous laughter. Several laughed so hard, they spilled their drinks. Even Emily failed to hide her laughter behind her dainty hand.

Bill followed the gaze of the crowd and lowered his head. He was naked. Completely naked.

He awoke, wild-eyed and gasping for air. He turned to the table beside his bed, and the alarm sounded at that exact moment. He shut it off and turned to the other side of the bed. Just as it had been every morning for the past three years, it was empty.


At first, Emily thought it was just the flu. She began vomiting, and couldn't keep down any food or liquid. Then, the constipation began, and that led to bloating and unbearable stomach pain. When Bill found her curled up in a fetal position on their bathroom floor one evening, that's when he finally insisted she go to the emergency room and have someone look at her.

When the doctors ordered an ultrasound, the first thought that popped into Bill's mind was that she was pregnant. I don't want another kid, he thought. We finally got the other two out of the house! I'm too old to start over again! In the years to come, he would spend countless lonely nights reflecting on the selfishness of that thought, and berating himself for having it.

"There's no reason to panic," the doctor assured them, but the expression on his face indicated otherwise.

The doctor described a "suspicious" area on Emily's ovaries, and explained that a laparoscopy would be needed to get a better view of the area. Although his insides churned with concern, Bill maintained a calm demeanor and insisted there was no reason to worry.

"We'll get through this," he assured her, gently stroking her hand as she waited to be wheeled away for her procedure. "No matter what ever happens to us, we get through it. Remember when Janie got sick? We thought we'd lose her forever. But we didn't. We got through it together. Remember when we first got married? We lived in that shitty little apartment in that run-down neighborhood?"

Emily gave him a brave smile. "We didn't have two nickels to rub together. And then I made things worse by getting pregnant."

"Yes, well, I suppose I had something to do with that, too," he responded with a smile. "And you worried that we wouldn't have enough money to raise a child. But I told you it would be okay. I told you I was taking classes at night, and I'd make enough money that you wouldn't need to work, and could stay home and raise our baby. Eventually, I'd make enough money that we could move into a nicer place."

"And we did," she said, gripping his hand and looking at him through glistening eyes. "You worked so hard, and provided for our family so well. I couldn't have asked for a better husband and father for our children."

"Well, don't talk as if it's over. There is still a lot more we need to do."

"I'm scared, Bill."

"I...I'm scared, too, Em. But we will get through this, I promise."

While Emily lay in the recovery room after surgery, her doctor marched into the waiting room, wearing that same serious expression Bill had seen before. A growth was found, the doctor explained, and a sample was taken. The results would be known shortly, and there was still hope that it was benign.

"Given her symptoms, however," the doctor added bluntly, "you should prepare yourselves for the worst."

Bill plodded down the hallway toward the recovery room, the floor barely perceptible beneath his feet and the walls growing hazy and colorless. The emotion overwhelmed him so suddenly, he wasn't prepared for it. He quickly made a detour to the nearest restroom, entered the stall furthest from the entrance, locked the door, and collapsed to the floor. He had been taught to believe that real men don't cry. But for the first time in his adult life, he wept like a baby.


Ovarian cancer. Stage Four. It seemed like an impossible diagnosis. A cruel prank. Only days before she was admitted to the hospital, Emily was as happy and healthy as she had ever been. How could she have become so ill in such a short period of time?

Bill refused to accept the diagnosis. He told his wife they would seek a second opinion. If that opinion was the same, then they would seek a third and a fourth. No matter how many doctors it would take, they would find someone with the courage to deliver a more optimistic diagnosis.

"Bill, I love you," Emily said, smiling sweetly. "But honey, you need to face the truth. This is happening, and there is nothing you or I can do to stop it."

"Bullshit," he said. He could feel the anger bubbling toward the surface.

"Honey...I'm so sorry to put you through this."

He looked at her with amazement. Here she was going through this incomprehensible moment, staring into the darkened depths of her own mortality, and her main concern was with him. Over the next several months, he would continue to be amazed at the strength and character of this woman.

Together, they decided that she would undergo chemotherapy treatment in order to prolong her life as much as possible. Bill was never much of a caregiver, and avoided being near sick people as much as possible. With no other choice, however, he quickly learned to become a top-notch nurse. He helped her in and out of bed, took her to the bathroom, and cleaned the vomit from the bucket she kept at her bedside. Toward the end, he learned to clean her drainage tube and switch out her IV bags.

The end came more swiftly than he expected. They were watching television one evening. Emily was lying in her makeshift hospital bed, which Bill had relocated to the livingroom at her request. Suddenly, he sensed that something had changed. He looked at her, and she seemed more calm and peaceful than usual.

He hesitantly moved to her bedside and took her hand in his, taking care not to squeeze too hard. She didn't move a muscle. Fighting back the tears welling in his eyes, he placed a couple of fingers along the main artery on her neck. There was no pulse.


The years passed in a hazy fog. Friends and family visited often at first, but those visits grew less and less frequent over time. The kids both lived out of state, but they called often to check in on him. Bill kept himself busy around the house, repairing all of the items that went neglected while he cared for Emily.

He found that as long as he kept his mind busy, he could avoid thinking of her. It wasn't that he didn't want to think of her, but he found that when he did, it would incapacitate him for hours. As time passed, he learned to control it a little better, and focus on the fond memories instead of the horror of her last remaining weeks.

During the day, it was easy to keep his mind occupied on work or with various projects around the house. At night, he was alone with his thoughts. Most nights, he would simply cry himself to sleep. It got to the point where he dreaded going to bed, and he found himself staying up later and later and getting less and less sleep.

It was during one of those sleepless nights, lying in bed with his eyes wide open, staring at the black ceiling overhead, that his life - or, at least, the perception of his life - changed forever. He was thinking about an e-mail that Emily had written to him years ago. It was sweet and romantic, and it filled his heart with overwhelming joy when he read it. He gained a better understanding of how much he meant to his wife, and how much she loved him with all her heart. He would give anything to read those words again, he thought.

Dispensing with the charade of trying to sleep, he rose from the bed and walked into his office to retrieve his laptop. He scrolled through his e-mail in-box to the very bottom, and confirmed his fear that he had deleted all of his older e-mails. He pounded the desk with his fist and sighed.

Then, a thought came to him, and he switched over to Emily's e-mail account. She was always very meticulous about keeping a tidy e-mail account, and it drove him crazy at times, because she would often delete e-mails that he felt she should keep. But she wasn't computer-savvy enough to know that her deleted e-mails weren't actually deleted until she cleared them from the recycle bin.

Sure enough, as he scrolled through the "Deleted" folder of her account, he found messages from several years in the past. He remembered the e-mail she sent to him was written roughly five years earlier, and he examined the messages from that year, one by one.

He paused when he discovered a message from their next door neighbor, Roger. It was titled, "About Last Night", and it was dated July 5th. He seemed to recall attending a neighborhood Independence Day barbeque that year. In fact, it was the last year he and Emily went to that annual event.

With a curious expression, Bill clicked on the e-mail, and it popped open.

Hi, Emily. I just want to say that I really enjoyed last night. I've been wanting to do that for years. It's a shame we were interrupted. If you ever want to finish what we started, you know where I live.


P.S. - Don't worry about Phil. I had a chat with him, and he's not going to tell anyone.

"What the fuck?" Bill muttered to himself. What was Roger referring to? What was it that he enjoyed doing, which he had "wanted to do for years?" What did he mean by "finish what we started?" And what did Phil have to do with it?

Bill had never considered the remote possibility that Emily had ever been unfaithful during any of their twenty five years together. She was as devoted as anyone he knew. Sure, they went through a bit of a rough patch, as every married couple does, but their relationship was rock-solid.

Then again, he remembered Emily was drinking heavily that night. She wasn't normally a drinker, but on that particular night, some of the neighbors brought a homemade concoction that Emily found irresistible, and she went a little overboard. When she suggested they make other plans for Independence Day in the years that followed, he assumed she was embarrassed about being so drunk in front of the neighbors. But maybe there was another reason.

He briefly searched for a response to that e-mail, or any other e-mails from Roger, but found nothing. He shut down the e-mail program, and the desktop wallpaper portrayed the smiling face of his beautiful wife on her thirtieth birthday. He stared at the photo with a fresh perspective. Was it possible she wasn't the loving and faithful wife he thought she was?

That was the night the recurring nightmare began.


The following morning, Bill stood at his front window, sipping coffee. He peered across the street to the house where Roger and Chelsea lived with their two young children. Their house was the largest in the neighborhood, and the front lawn was immaculate. A black Lexus, sparkling clean as always, was parked in the driveway.

Bill never cared for Roger, from the very first day he moved into the neighborhood. Roger was a trial lawyer in Philadelphia, and apparently a very successful one. He was the kind of guy who pretended to be humble, while at the same time took every opportunity to let you know that he was better than you in every way. He was more handsome, more fit, made more money, took better vacations, owned a nicer house and a nicer car, and married a more beautiful woman.

His wife, Chelsea, was a typical trophy wife. She was several years younger, with long blonde hair, huge fake tits, and a fake tan. Practically everyone in the neighborhood suspected that Roger habitually cheated on her, but she was too stupid to realize it. Their kids were spoiled rotten, and were handed everything they ever wanted.

The plan was to sip his coffee and watch for Roger to leave the house. Bill would confront him with the e-mail, and if the suspicions were true, knock out a few of the asshole's pearly-white teeth. As he sipped his coffee, though, the holes in that plan became evident.

Roger would simply deny any wrongdoing. The e-mail was vague enough that it could be interpreted any number of ways, and he was skilled enough with words to spin it any way he chose. Even if he confessed, and Bill knocked him out, Roger would sue him in a heartbeat, and the prick would own two homes in the neighborhood.

Bill finished the last of his coffee just as Roger emerged from his front door, wearing an expensive-looking suit. He strutted to his Lexus, slid behind the wheel, and backed out of the driveway. Bill followed the path of the car as it sped down the road, and noticed Phil standing in his front yard, watering his plants.

"That's the ticket," Bill muttered under his breath.

Adrenaline surged through his veins as he quickly strode toward Phil's house. Phil turned just as Bill reached his driveway, and he smiled and waved. His smile faded, though, when he noticed the expression on Bill's face.

"Everything alright, Bill?" Phil asked.

"No, not really," Bill responded. "I have a question for you."

"Well, okay," Phil said, hesitantly. "Shoot."

"Why didn't you tell me Roger was fucking my wife?"

All of the blood from Phil's face faded to white, and his jaw dropped open. He took a step backward and nearly stumbled over his hedge. "What...how...uh...shit, Bill. I didn't want to stir up any trouble, is all. When did you find out?"

"Just now," Bill said.

"Oh, shit," Phil said, lowering his head. "I'm sorry, Bill. I—"

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" Bill asked. The rage within him caused his muscles to quake.

"Listen, Bill, it was a long time ago. And Emily...I mean, she's gone now. There's no need to dig up—"

Bill took a step toward Phil. His eyes bore a hole straight through him, and he jabbed his finger toward his face. "Tell me what happened, right now."

"Okay, fine," Phil said, raising his hands in defense, "but I really think you're making a mistake digging this up."

Bill stood motionless and patiently waited while Phil took a deep breath and shifted nervously. He looked as if he were about to puke.

"It was at that Fourth of July party, a few years ago," he began. "You remember that it was at that house at the other end of the block? Well, I didn't want to walk all that way, so I drove there. Later that night, I went out to get something from my car, and that's when I saw some movement in Roger's car."

"What did you see, Phil?"

"I...I wasn't sure at first, but as I got closer, I heard noises, too. I looked through the back window, and that's when I saw them. Roger and...Emily."

"What were they doing, Phil?" Bill asked. The veins in his forehead protruded, and his eyes burned.

"Come on, man. You know what they were doing. I'm not going to spell it out."

"I need to hear the words, Phil."

"There were fucking!" Phil said a little too loudly. He quickly scanned his surroundings, and then spoke more softly. "She was kind of lying on the back seat, and he was on top...you know..."

Bill's hands involuntarily formed into tight fists, and he felt a compulsion to punch the nearest object. Phil must have read his mind.

"Hey, man, you asked for this," Phil said, still raising his hands. "I didn't want to tell you."

"Yeah, some friend you are," Bill spat. "You've been keeping this secret from me for five years."

"I didn't think it would do anyone any good. It's not my business to get involved."

"I know that Roger had a little chat with you afterward. Let me guess: did he offer you free services from his law office in exchange for your silence?"

"Jesus, Bill! What kind of person do you think I am?"

"You know what, Phil?" Bill said, backing away. "I don't know. I don't know what kind of person anyone is anymore."


Emily dropped to her knees and ran her hands along the front of Roger's khaki shorts. She unzipped his fly and reached inside, producing a thick and long cock. She smiled and cooed, and ran her tongue along its length. It throbbed in response, and grew even larger and harder.

"Mmm," she purred, "is this all for me?"

She stretched her mouth wide to accommodate the massive head, and sucked it like a lollipop. She struggled to fit more of it into her mouth, and gagged a little before removing it completely. She gasped for breath, and then swallowed it again, working it deeper and deeper into her throat.

While Emily continued bobbing her head along his stiff and massive pole, Roger raised an imported beer in Bill's direction and nodded. The other neighbors turned to face him, all wearing the same devious grins.

The nightmares always ended the same way, with the neighbors all laughing and pointing at Bill as he stood naked and frozen on the spot. How many of the neighbors were in on this secret? How many of them were laughing at him behind his back, just as they did in the dream?

Everything he thought he knew about his wife and his marriage was a lie. She was nothing but a filthy, cheating whore, and their marriage was a complete sham. That sappy letter she wrote to him, which he cherished all those years, was simply a guilty confession. How could she possibly love him so deeply and value their marriage so greatly if she could spread her legs for a fucking asshat like Roger? How many others did she spread her legs for?

Bill stared at the house across the street with its pristine lawn. Of course, Roger had nothing to do with the state of that lawn. He hired someone to cut it and fertilize it. The man never did a single hard day's labor in his entire life. How righteous would it be to go over there right now and dump a load of rock salt onto that lawn? Maybe spell out the word "CHEATER" in giant letters, so that everyone in the neighborhood would know who that sack of crap really is.

The white-hot rage erupted within him. He picked up the nearest object - aptly enough, a picture frame with a photo of Emily - and hurled it against a wall, shattering it into shards of debris. He looked around the room for something else to throw, and was disgusted to see photos and reminders of Emily everywhere. He stormed down to the basement and emerged with a large container, which he filled with every item he found that reminded him of her.

He shoved the container into the closet and slammed the door shut. Breathing heavily, he sunk into his favorite recliner and cracked open a beer.

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byswingerjoe© 168 comments/ 176478 views/ 90 favorites

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