Stick It Out No Matter What

With that I slipped the ring on her finger and we spent several hours of gentle love making, including caressing and inspecting erogenous zones in every square centimeter of each of our bodies.

Our wedding was small but classy, our honeymoon in Barbados erotic, and we got off to a wonderful start in married life. The problem that she warned me about didn't come up until we'd been married about a year.

Denise and I had agreed to meet at a local restaurant that also had a bar, and after dinner would explore the possibility of going to a play or movie. I unfortunately got there a little late because my computer consulting business was starting to build and I got an emergency call from a client. When I got to the restaurant Denise was at the bar and a good-looking guy about our age was being extremely friendly. In fact, he had a hand on her ass, and she was smiling and not doing anything -- as far as I could tell -- to discourage him.

I approached them from the side and I don't think either one had yet seen me when I heard him say to her "Come on Denise; how about one quick roll in the hay for old times' sake?"

Her response of "Well, uh, I'm not sure, Jim," was less than encouraging to me.

Since I had gotten back from Iraq I was someone who always took the bull by the horns. Therefore, I dealt with the situation directly. I got right next to them and when they both saw me I looked at Jim and told him "Well I am sure that her answer is 'No' Jim. Get your hand off her ass and get away from her."

Jim was about three inches, and thirty pounds, bigger than I am and apparently was also an asshole. He had a very confrontational response. "Who the fuck are you and why should I take orders from a twerp?"

My response was simple and unyielding. "I am her husband, asshole, and unless you get away from her immediately you will find out that I am as far from a twerp as you've ever seen in your life."

He pushed me back and then made the mistake of taking a swing. There were plenty of witnesses that he started the fight so I didn't have any concern about that; my main concern was remembering what Tom, Jack, and Rock had taught me in Iraq, but stopping short of killing the son of a bitch.

I moved back away from his punch just far enough so that it would still hit me, but only a glancing blow, then I spun sideways, kicked him in the side of his knee, and when he grabbed for it in pain hit him in the back of the head with my right elbow, knocking him to the ground.

By then there was a crowd around him. I calmly walked over to the bartender, asked him to call the police and an ambulance, and then calmly walked over to Denise, gave her a big kiss and smile, and asked "Is this the first instance of the caveat you and I talked about the night that we got engaged?"

"Yes," she said first with a frown. Once she saw that I didn't appear to be angry she gave me a kiss and said "Thank you."

Apparently a friend of Jim's who came to the bar with him helped him up and onto a chair. After talking to Jim the friend said to me "We don't need to involve the cops do we?"

I very coldly responded "I don't want the police to later get a different report than what really happened; therefore I intend to wait here and talk to them. What they decide to do is up to them. I will tell you this, though, your asshole buddy is going to need to go to the hospital. His knee is seriously injured whether he knows it or not."

When the single police officer arrived he took statements from everyone involved, advised us that he was going to report this as a "mutual affray" and that there was very little probability that any action would be taken. Jim was smart enough to go in the ambulance to the hospital and get his leg in a cast.

Denise didn't want to eat at that restaurant after those activities, so instead we just grabbed something quick at a fast food place and went to a movie. We didn't really talk about the incident until we got back home.

When we got back home as I was leisurely undressing Denise I asked "Would you really have fucked Jim if I hadn't gotten there when I did?"

Denise put her head down, a little tear formed in her eye, and she replied "I very well might have, and then I would've regretted it; but I would've told you about it. I'm so sorry, Austen, I'm really a weak person."

While our lovemaking was always excellent that night it was sensational. It was virtually a repeat of the night after I asked Denise to marry me, including her milking me to my second orgasm solely by undulating her PC muscles.

I never mentioned anything about the incident with Jim again. One change that I did notice, however, was that many people in the urban area of our county, where Jim lived, seemed to either be more friendly, or wary, when they saw me. Maybe word had gotten around about why Jim had been in a cast for two months.

Within a year after the Jim incident Denise got pregnant. We immediately went out and bought a house in a neighborhood filled with children. I think that Denise was a little surprised that we could buy it without a mortgage but since she never handled the finances I guess that she just assumed that my business was going well. In fact, it was going well although I limited my working hours to about thirty a week in view of my large nest egg, which Denise knew nothing about.

We were both thrilled that we were going to have a child. Her pregnancy progressed well but by the start of the third trimester I talked her into quitting her job -- she still worked in retail sales at a clothing store. I told her that we didn't need the money and that her health was the most important thing.

One thing that was significant to me was that Denise's libido never dropped during her pregnancy. In fact as far as I could tell it increased slightly. We had sex at least four times a week, often more, and it was always great. While we had to change some tactics and positions because of her pregnancy and moderate our passion a little, in actuality the total experience was even better than before because we took more time and our mutual love came through even more clearly.

Denise was about seven months pregnant, and busy fixing up the house, including preparing a nursery just the way that she wanted it, when I came home a little early one day because it was so nice outside and I didn't have any frantic clients. About 2 p. m. on a Wednesday as I pulled up toward the house I saw a well-dressed guy get in a car parked on the street in front of our house and drive away. I was suspicious and wrote down the license plate number. When I pulled into the garage I sat for a while, thinking "Was this a sexual encounter and would Denise tell me about it?" I waited about fifteen minutes before going into the house trying to act completely normal.

When I saw Denise I could tell that something was wrong. I greeted her in an upbeat manner but she didn't say anything but just slumped onto my chest. After holding her a few seconds I asked "Denise, what's the matter?"

After an uncomfortable delay, with her head still buried in my chest, she said "Austen -- I've failed. Even pregnant with your child I couldn't resist an old High School flame of mine. I just finished having sex with another man." Then she started sobbing uncontrollably.

I kept my composure for many reasons. Primary was the fact that she was seven months pregnant and likely had rivers of strange hormones flowing through her and I didn't see any way that getting angry at her could be anything but destructive to her well-being. Also, it was something that she had warned me about even before we got married, and she had readily admitted it. I calmly sat with her until she stopped sobbing "I'm so sorry" for about the thirtieth time.

"Denise, you need to tell me about it so that we can take steps to be sure that it doesn't happen again," I said, surprising myself with how calm that I was.

"This guy named Jerry, who was the star basketball player in High School, and I used to date. He sells insurance now and according to him -- I don't know if it's true -- he was just making cold calls on our block when I answered the door. I was just being polite when I asked him in for a cup of coffee."

She stopped to blow her nose, wipe away a few tears, and re-position herself on the couch.

"Well he was so complimentary, and I was feeling so horny even though we had great sex Monday night -- my hormones cause wild swings in my libido nowadays. Anyway he started making the moves on me, I resisted for a long while -- I really did," she sobbed before stopping and covering her face with her hands.

I gently stroked her head, moved her hands from her face, and assured her that I loved her, then said "Go on."

"Well, I simply wasn't strong enough when he started stroking my legs and then gave me some gentle kisses... Uh --- he fucked me right here in our living room. I'm so sorry Austen, but I enjoyed it while it was happening but as soon as it was over it was horrible. I started crying uncontrollably. He simply pulled up his pants, smiled, said 'Thanks, that was really great,' and then left."

I had noticed a diabolical smile on his face when he got into his car.

"Did he use a condom?" I asked.

"Noooo," Denise sobbed.

I walked Denise upstairs and helped her disrobe, had her douche while I ran a warm bubble bath for her, and sat with her while she was in the tub. I talked to her in a calm voice the entire time that she was soaking, including when I was scrubbing her back. I kept on telling her that everything would be OK, and once she was relaxed I coaxed Jerry's full name (Gerald Quest) out of her.

After her bath I had her lay on one side, then the other, and gave her a massage as specifically instructed by a massage therapist friend of hers. After the massage I gently told her that the next day we were going to have her tested for STDs, and that we had to figure out how to not let this happen again. I didn't want to let on about the intense inner rage and hurt that I felt, but some of it must have come through.

Once we had our talk I got Chinese takeout and we watched a comedy on Netflix when we snuggled. The next day I took her to the clinic for testing. When we got home she insisted on giving me a blowjob, something she rarely did. She really got into it, swallowed the enormous load I shot into her mouth, and told me about a hundred times that she loved me before I left for work.

After handling one emergency at work I set about my plan for dealing with Mr. Gerald Quest. At this stage of my life, now twenty eight, I was not only an explosives expert but enough of a computer expert that I could do some serious shit if I chose to. I CHOSE to!

I had learned so much in my almost three years of intense training in explosives and two plus years in Iraq that I didn't need C4 or other military grade explosives to do what I wanted to do. I could easily improvise.

I hacked Jerry's work computer and planted email correspondence with some mysterious address. The emails suggested that he intended to commit insurance fraud by torching his financially underwater house (where he lived alone), and bragged about his perfectly executed plan to seduce a vulnerable Denise, and to set "Denise's husband up" as the fall guy.

While I was in a public place with people who knew me I initiated the explosion that completely destroyed Gerald Quest's house (no one was inside). While I was still in the public place an email was sent to dear Jerry that had an address that included my name that said "That will teach you not to fuck another man's wife." The email account had been set up on Jerry's hacked computer.

Over the next week the shit hit the fan. While the police questioned me I was able to prove that the email about "not fucking another man's wife" was not from any of my computers and gave them enough information so that their computer technicians, with the help of the Insurance company's computer experts, were able to unravel attempted insurance fraud by good ole Jerry by inspecting his work computer. Despite his pleas of innocence he was indicted on attempted fraud. He was able to work out a deal for no jail time but a fine, community service, and five years of probation. Of course he lost his state license to sell insurance.

After the incident with Jerry -- with Denise's knowledge -- I had surveillance cameras installed which covered the front, back, and garage doors of our house, and the living room.

Jerry apparently wasn't the brightest guy in the world. Two days after he found out that his license to sell insurance was lifted he got inebriated. In a drunken rage he stormed up to our front door in the middle of the night and banged on it with a tire iron -- all caught on camera. Once Denise dialed 911 I opened the door and calmly said "What do you want, Jerry?"

"You fucking asshole, you ruined my life. Me fucking that slut wife of yours didn't justify you ruining me," he screamed.

I replied, with a face that indicated fear to play to the camera, "Yes it did, Jerry; and I can assure you that if you ever come within fifty feet of Denise again I'll blow you up, not just your abode; got that you slimy piece of shit."

Jerry tried to swing the tire iron at me. In his drunken condition I knew that I could handle him without using the .32 magnum revolver in my pocket so I blocked his arm, kicked him in the nuts, and then wrestled with him on the ground. Even though it appeared that he was giving as good as he was getting, I was in complete control and by "accident" buried the hubcap removing end of the tire iron in his testicles. Then I got up and told Denise to make another 911 call for an ambulance, went inside to put away my revolver, and waited on the outside stoop for the cops to get there while Jerry rolled around on the ground in excruciating pain.

With a copy of the DVD from my front door camera, and the testimony of a neighbor who came outside after hearing the pounding on the door and witnessed his attack on me, I didn't get charged with anything. Jerry, however, returned to jail after one of his testicles was surgically removed, and ultimately had his probation for the attempted insurance fraud revoked and was also sentenced to State prison for assault and trespassing.

I think that Denise always wondered whether I had been the instrument of Jerry's undoing but she never directly asked about it. I'm glad because I never wanted to lie to Denise but I would have had to.

After the birth of our first child, a little boy that we named Jackson (after Jack from my SCA days -- although I obviously didn't tell Denise that), I talked Denise into seeing a psychiatrist, Dr. Emily Green, for her problem. She and I went together for the first session. At its conclusion the shrink suggested that Denise have an MRI of her brain. We thought that a little strange, but went along.

After the MRI and two sessions of Denise alone with Dr. Green, the doctor asked us both to come in and meet with her and with a PhD and M.D. researcher from Atlanta named Phillips.

"Mr. and Mrs. Browne, I hope that you don't mind that I asked Dr. Phillips -- at his own expense -- to come to meet with us, but Mrs. Browne has a unique situation," Dr. Green said after initial pleasantries.

"Yes, that's true. I've studied thousands of individuals and have never seen this condition before," Dr. Phillips chimed in.

"Well, what is it?" Denise asked, a little frightened, "Am I going to die or something?"

"No, no," Dr. Green assured her. "You'll probably live to be a hundred, and have a great life. This relates to the problem that you came to see me about."

"You see," Dr. Phillips said, "from your unique MRI and from Dr. Green's sessions with you it is clear that you have a distinctive lack of impulse control when it comes to amorous situations. For example, Mr. Browne has Mrs. Browne ever turned down a sexual advance from you if you were amorous or even just polite?"

That question shocked me a little. I thought about it and replied "No, come to think of it, never."

"That alone is very unusual and combined with the circumstances Mrs. Browne described to Dr. Green and the MRI leads us to a challenging diagnosis," Phillips continued.

"What?" Denise frantically asked.

"Mrs. Browne, congenitally you have a lack of impulse control in amorous situations. Even though your consciousness tells you that you must refrain from all extramarital sex in the wrong situation it is impossible for you to control yourself," Dr. Green stated.

"Does that mean I'm a nympho?" Denise asked, on the edge of hysteria.

While I calmed her down Dr. Green answered. "Absolutely not. Contrary to popular belief Nymphomania is a severe mental disease characterized by self-loathing and failure to enjoy sexual experiences even though they are impossible to avoid. From our sessions I know that you have no self-loathing and you enjoy sex -- you just have a lack of impulse control in one specific area."

Both Dr. Green and Dr. Phillips went on to explain in detailed medical and scientific terms what Denise's situation was; something to do with unusual "wiring" of two different parts of her brain. Even though I consider myself an intelligent guy, I couldn't follow it exactly. The ultimate conclusion was easy to understand however -- it was essentially "brain chemistry and physics" that was the sole source of Denise's problem, not some personality or moral problem.

Both Denise and I were relieved to find a medical reason for her "situation," but not with the possible treatment. We were told that since Denise was the only person known to have this "medical condition," as they called it, it was anybody's guess as to whether or not it could be treated. They wanted her to go to Atlanta to have further detailed studies of her brain done, and once she stopped nursing to experiment with different drugs. We adamantly refused.

Denise was despondent for a few days after the diagnosis, but she, I, and little Jackson took a trip together. That, my entirely accepting attitude, and her need to be Jackson's everything, caused her to snap out of it.

Denise and I came up with our own way of dealing with her condition. We had a panic button set up on her phone that would automatically ring me, including with her GPS coordinates, if she ever got into a sticky situation. I would then immediately call her and she could talk to me on her cellphone as I -- or a surrogate -- hurried to her.

Considering her condition, married life wet along smoothly after that. I knew for sure that she totally loved me, and I loved her with all my heart. There were a couple of other times of weakness for Denise, but one way or the other she was able to dodge them. The panic button worked in probably six or seven situations by the time that our second child -- a girl named Cheryl (I wonder where I got that name?) -- turned three.

Denise enjoyed being a stay-at-home mom and I made enough money in my computer consulting business to easily support us without touching our nest egg, which was still on the order of $3.2 million. When Cheryl turned three, however, I encouraged her to do something two days a week that didn't involve the kids. She got involved in fund raising, including event planning, for a charity that had always been dear to her heart. One thing that she did was to go door-to-door most Wednesdays when the weather was nice, while Jackson was in school and Cheryl in daycare or with Denise's mother, to either solicit donations or advise people of upcoming events. Her sparkling personality made her successful.

One Wednesday I got a panic button call from Denise. I immediately called her phone but unlike every other time this time she didn't answer. I was extraordinarily concerned. On my way to her phone's GPS coordinates I was never able to reach her. I was so concerned that I called 911 when I was about a mile away and asked the police to meet me at her phone's GPS coordinates.