Suspicion

I searched the videos for ones that revealed my sordid behavior. I couldn't find them! Then I found, buried in a huge amount of computer clutter, a file labelled Joanie - Private. I opened it. There were some of the pictures he had taken of me topless early in our marriage (boy, I looked good!) and then I found a subfolder labelled Videos. Obviously, I opened it.

There were quite a few videos of us making love. I never had thought George would use his security system to video us! But, he did. I'd have to talk to him about it. I noticed a sub-subfolder, this one labelled Hot. A man of few words, that was my husband. Sure enough, the videos consisted of Frank and especially Joe plundering my body with their fingers, at our most recent party. At least it was not as outrageous as the videos of copulation of Stephanie and Marcia.

So. George not only knew what I had done, he had saved the videos to a special folder. Why? Why wasn't he angry? Why wasn't he jealous? Why did he - apparently - think the videos of the men molesting me were "hot?" Had I just been feeding some sick fantasy of his, while I humiliated myself and gave every appearance of being a party girl? I was his wife, for Pete's sake!

Maybe he felt guilty for fucking the sluts Stephanie and Susan, so he felt that he didn't have enough high moral ground to have it out with me over a little fingering in a dark corner of the party? Then I had a thought of horror. I had heard there were men who liked to watch their wives be molested. It somehow turned them on. Did such men really exist? I had trouble believing such men existed, but then my old Stats Professor came into my head. He would have said, "Joanie, there are so many men in the world, billions in fact, that everything is out there; every perversion you can imagine. It's all out there."

Sure, Prof, I imagined I would reply, but what are the odds it would be my very own loving husband? I knew the answer he'd give: close to zero, but strictly positive. Yep - that's exactly what he would have said. It was so like Stats: lots of information, but none it is useful, and none of it - ever! - definitive.

**

George did it again. This time he fucked Marcia, and this was just too much for poor little me. Not only did he fuck her, but her hubby Brad was downstairs getting drunk on his ass while they rolled around on a bed upstairs. Brad was not a nice guy, like Philip was. It was too much. I felt I had no choice. I faced him and his duplicity.

"What part of the marriage vows did you not understand?" I asked, over coffee, after dinner.

George knew better than to play the innocent. "The part about forsaking all others," he said.

"Does that apply to me, too?" I asked.

"You're thinking the whole gander/goose thing?" he asked.

"Which one is the male? I can never remember," I said.

"Gander," he replied. "What's good for the gander is good for the dame," as the saying goes.

"The dame?" I asked.

"A female goose is called a dame, although sometimes she's just called a goose," he said.

"You never cease to amaze me with the gaggle of useless facts you keep in your head," I said, realizing that we were drifting off point. "Anyway, I don't like you fucking our friends. Our married friends, I might add. You know what's happened to Stephan, right? I want you to stop it," I said, trying - and failing - to sound forceful.

"Is that why you let Frank and Joe embarrass you and undress you at our party, and even finger you?" George asked. His voice sounded nasty. Good! It was affecting him!

"Actually, yes, revenge was my motivation, precisely!" I replied, standing tall, and thrusting out my pathetically small breasts.

"Why didn't you just fuck someone?" he asked.

"George!" I screamed. How could he even say such a thing? He had to know I'd never do that!

"You do know that if you fuck someone, our marriage is over. Finished. Kaput, right?" George said, using his most unpleasant tone of voice.

"By that reckoning, it's already over isn't it, given what you did with Stephanie, Marcia, Susan, and who knows who else!" I said. Smoke was coming out of my ears, so to speak

"There's no symmetry, honey. I cheat, and nobody denigrates you as a cuckold, or cuckoldress," George proclaimed.

"That's just fucked," I said, almost spitting while I spoke.

"Welcome to the real world, my dear," George replied.

**

Two weeks later I was in the laundry room sorting the whites from the colors. I was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts; no bra, since I was home alone, and my boobs don't really need the support. The doorbell rang, and I went to get the door.

"Hello, Brad. Nice to see you," I said, "Is Marcia with you? George is still at work, I'm afraid."

"I'm here to see you, Joanie," Brad said. He was making me nervous. It was his eyes. And, he was alone.

"How nice, and surprising. Well come on in, why don't you. Can I offer you a drink? We have almost everything, still left over from our last party."

"Scotch and soda, please," Brad said.

I excused myself and went to the kitchen, ostensibly to make Brad's drink. My cell phone was there, charging. While there, my fingers flew over my phone, and I sent the following text to George:

Me: Brad's here, and I'm scared

George: I'm leaving the office now. Hang on!

I knew, though, it would take George a good half hour to get home, assuming traffic wasn't a problem. It could take up to an hour or even more with bad traffic. Shit. Brad sat with his drink on the couch, and I sat facing him, in an armchair. We discussed the weather, and then the new policies of the city's parks, and I began to relax. I felt guilty about sending an alarm to Brad, and having him leave work to save me from - apparently - no threat at all.

Brad changed the topic of our conversation to our last party. "I'm afraid I over imbibed. Marcia had to drive us home."

"There was quite a bit of that at the party," I said.

"Marcia disappeared for a good half hour or so. I wasn't too drunk to notice her absence, however, nor to detect the smell of sex on her upon her return," Brad said.

I sat there, and said nothing, but my mind was racing, expressing all kinds of worry and every aspect of uh-oh imaginable.

"Apparently, she used my drunken state to be unfaithful. How do you feel about marital infidelity, Joanie?" Brad asked.

"I'm not a fan. I've never been unfaithful," I said.

"You let Joe undress you and finger you," Brad said. "You looked damn sexy, doing that."

"You saw it?" I asked, wondering if he actually saw it, or hopefully just heard about it.

"Yes, I saw it. I must say, you did not look like the picture of fidelity just then," he added.

"No, I suppose I didn't," I said. "What I meant was, I've never had sex - in the biblical sense - with a man outside our marriage."

"Until now," Brad said.

"What?" I said, inelegantly, as my stomach rose to my throat. I almost peed in my panties.

"Your husband did my wife Marcia at the party. We're going to have sex right here, right now, you and I, to even the score. An eye for an eye, to continue your biblical metaphor," Brad said, as he stood and dropped his pants. "Undress for me," he added, as he approached me, violating my personal space.

"I'm sorry, Brad, but I don't -," I said, but Brad kissed me before I could complete my sentence. I automatically returned the kiss, like the good little submissive that I am. Damn, but it was a good kiss. I could tell I was getting wet down there. I pushed him away.

"No, Brad. NO. No means no these days, and let me repeat: No, we're not having sex," I said, quite emphatically, I might add.

Brad smiled. "Just like a woman. You know you want it, but you pretend that you don't. Luckily for you, I'm not giving you a choice," he said, and seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a huge knife, flicking it open to reveal a glistening, and scary long blade. "Let's see if I can help you to change your mind to yes, shall we?"

Brad and his knife fetish were lore in our community. He had a target in his backyard, and he would toss his knife, pretending he was James Coburn in The Magnificent Seven. (The original from 1960, not the 2016 remake.) He never missed, either. Brad, with his knife, was scary as hell. Physically, he even looked a bit like James Coburn, too.

I was frozen in fear, staring at the knife, when in a rapid movement Brad slashed through my T shirt as if it were butter. His slice cleanly cut my T shirt in half. It promptly fell off me. I covered my boobs with my hands. I backed away, but was then up against the armchair, with nowhere left to go.

"It's harder to slash your shorts and panties. I might cut you, by mistake. I might cut you rather badly," he said, smiling maliciously. "I suggest you remove them yourself. You can do it slowly, presenting a little show for me, if you want. By the way, skip the false modesty: You already showed off your tits to me and the whole party when Joe had his way with you. I suspect you remember that well," Brad elaborated.

Brad held the knife against my ear, so I removed my shorts. "Continue," he said, and I slipped off my panties, becoming naked except for my sneakers. I was trembling in fright. His knife never left my ear; it was between my neck and the back of my right ear. Staying in one piece trumped staying dressed.

"Hmm. I can see why Joe enjoyed fingering you so much. What an inviting little cunt you have there, Joanie," Brad said. He was clearly enjoying terrorizing me.

"You can't have it," I said, and then he brandished his knife in quite a threatening way, with the point of the blade not more than a millimeter from my entrance.

I had a thought. If George were to walk in and discover this, he would undoubtedly rush Brad to beat him to a pulp and Brad could, almost casually, send his knife across the room and into George's chest, as if George himself were the straw target in his backyard. I had to defuse things, somehow. But how?

"Brad, you win. If you will close your knife and put it on the table over there, I'll give you a fuck you'll never forget," I said. I recalled how I had been date raped three times: Once in high school, and twice in college. I had been pressured into having sex, by big, angry men, at the end of the dates. I didn't enjoy the ensuing fucks, but the men sure did. The point is, life went on afterwards, and a simple fuck with Brad was better than getting mutilated, or having Brad kill George! I glanced at the clock; twenty-five minutes had elapsed. I needed to stall at least another five minutes, to have a hope of George saving me.

"Another Scotch whisky, Brad?" I offered. Brad ignored me.

I glanced at Brad's cock. It was around three inches, I'd guess, but boy, was it hard and angry looking! Brad pushed me onto my back, spread my legs, and got on top of me. This was it; I was sunk. Brad was going to be the first man inside me since I married George. Damn it. Damn it all to hell!

He entered me suddenly, and I gasped. Brad was not prone to a long, slow, loving fuck, apparently; or maybe he didn't believe in drawing out a rape? Anyway, he started pulverizing me, using his full body weight to help to power fuck me into submission. Shit, I was already submitting; he had to know that! Then I heard moaning. Where the fuck was the moaning coming from? Oh, yeah: It was me. This was nothing like those horrific date rapes of my youth. No, this was actually an enjoyable rape, by an angry, wronged, erstwhile friend.

Of course, it goes without saying, that just as I was beginning to really enjoy my rape, Brad ejaculated inside me. Seconds later, George burst into the house. He ran to Brad, roughly pulled him off (and out) of me, even as he was still squirting. George turned him face up, and stomped. Next, George pulled Brad up into a standing position and beat him senseless. George had won a whole slew of boxing medals in high school. I saw Brad glace at his knife, and albeit naked and vulnerable, I nevertheless rushed to the table and grabbed the knife before Brad could get it. Brad was defenseless in the face of the outsized rage of my strong, fierce husband.

Once Brad lost consciousness I rushed to George, calling out, "My Hero! You saved me! Thank God you made it." I gave George the knife.

"Brad was fucking you," George said, accusingly.

"Yes, he was raping me. It was a revenge rape, for what you and Marcia did," I said.

"It sure didn't look like you were putting up much of a fight. You looked to be enjoying yourself," George said, again, in an accusatory tone of voice.

I got pissed. "Well, George, as rapes go, it was one of the best," I said.

"You're an expert on rapes, now?" George said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I suppose so. This was the fourth rape of my lifetime, after all," I said. That seemed to shut up my hubby dearest. Seeing his face, I became grateful for all of his spy videos. "I turned on the spy machines when I texted you in the kitchen. Let's watch the video, and you'll see what happened," I said.

**

George actually apologized for his extra-marital fucking, and for having put me at risk, and the fact that ultimately his actions, in some sense, caused my rape. We ended up making tender love that night, and nine months later I gave birth to a baby girl. I don't actually know if it is Brad, or George, who is the father, but that hasn't occurred to George, who assumes of course that the baby is his. Maybe it is. Probably it's his. I hope to God that it's so.

Still, sometimes when I look at little Roseanne, I am reminded of my one and only enjoyable rape. It's a complicated memory, and as far as I know, my suspicious husband no longer cheats. George loves watching Roseanne feed at my small breasts, which seem to produce enough milk both for Roseanne and the Russian army. Good to know.

Marcia had a little boy around the same time as Roseanne was born. Marcia and I get together a lot, and we often discuss the possible parentage of our two children. Do they share a father or not? Who knows? Who cares? Sometimes, when I feel perverse, I think that Brad is the father of my Roseanne, and George is the father of Marcia's David, hee, hee.

Brad got several new teeth from a top-flight dentist in our area. George had knocked out the originals when he caught Brad raping me.

The point is, the two babies, Roseanne and David, are - without question - adorable. Also, I take comfort that Marcia, with her big boobs, doesn't produce enough milk for her hungry little tiger. She has to supplement with formula. Sometimes, when the two babies feed around the same time, and after Roseanne is full, I let Marcia's son David finish draining my prodigious boobs. George absolutely loves watching that. Then George sucks out the little that's left, both from my boobs, and from Marcia's.

I'm not going to say what Brad does with the Marcia and me after we feed our babies. It has to remain top secret. I will say, however, that it's thoroughly enjoyable!