("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2009. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Angela's Diary - 6 by Gregg X (senorsmut@gmail.com) *** In which Angela, our suburban housewife heroine, sees her world crumble around her and finally hits bottom. (MF) *** Chapter 8 I have to confess that what happened over the next few hours, and even the next few days, is kind of a blur. I'll do my best to give you an honest recollection of that occurred and how, but I can't promise that it's the God's honest truth. All I can tell you is that I'll tell it as I remember it, even when my memories don't make all that much sense. One thing I do recall with perfect clarity is that when David turned off the DVD I sat next to him on the sofa for about thirty seconds. Neither one of us moved and neither one of us spoke. My mind was such a whirl of thoughts and emotions that it would be completely pointless even to try to explain it. In fact, it took me half a minute even to summon the ability to move – And then I spun in my seat and slapped David across the face as hard as I could. I hit him so hard I felt it in my shoulder, and my palm stung from the force of the blow. I left a bright, angry red mark on his cheek – I remember him looking at me with wide, astonished eyes, his left cheek as red as a cherry – and then I leaped up and began screaming at the top of my lungs. "YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOU GOD DAMNED LYING PIECE OF SHIT!" He was looking at me like I'd lost my mind (which I had), but it's to his credit that he reacted with a simple, "Wh-huh?" rather than hitting back. "You liar! God damn you David! Tears were flowing down my cheeks, but I didn't realize I was crying. I didn't even realize my vision was blurry. "How could you DO that?" "How could I do what?" he asked, completely bewildered. "You made it up!" I cried, stamping my foot in rage. "You made all of it up!" "What are you talking about?" "You! You made all of that up, that whole damned thing to try to get me into bed, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?" "Mom...you saw the films—" "And you REALLY think I believe it? Do you REALLY think I don't know that you faked the whole thing?" "What are you talking about?" "You faked those movies!" Even as I said it, I knew I wasn't making sense – my son was a teenage delinquent, not George Lucas – and I didn't really believe that he'd fabricated what he'd shown me. But at the same instant I believed it absolutely and completely, without a doubt – because I had to believe it. The alternative was worse. And so I believed two mutually contradictory things at the same moment. Get used to it, you'll be hearing it a lot from me in the near future. "Mom, that's..." "ADMIT IT!" He stood up, hands open and palms forward, trying to calm me down. "OK, listen I know this is hard for you..." I shoved him with both hands on his chest and he went sprawling over backward onto the sofa again. Yes, I knew he was stronger than me and yes I knew he'd handled me easily before, but with the rage I was feeling now, I almost welcomed a rematch. I'd have clawed his eyes right out of their sockets with half an excuse. "Stop lying to me! Christ David, can't you be honest for one fucking second of your miserable life?" I don't know what reaction he had expected from me when he showed me his DVD, but I seriously doubt he expected this. He looked positively helpless, like he was witness to a hurricane or a tornado and all he could do was hope to keep his head and survive it. "Mom, please, I didn't make any of that up. I wouldn't even know how!" "So you just expect me to BELIEVE it? You expect me to believe that my HUSBAND is molesting my DAUGHTER and fucking some...some FLOOZY?" "Well you saw it as well as I did." "Your father hates sex, David! If you were going to make up a lie, at least you could have made up a believable one!" He sighed heavily, looking miserably sad. "Mom... it's not that he doesn't want sex. He just doesn't want it with you. He's been cheating on you for years." "Oh you are so full of shit, David! You are just–" "Mom, will you listen to me?" he asked forcefully, rising from the sofa again. "Please!" "How do you know, huh? How did you find this out? Did he come up to you and say, 'Oh by the way I'm cheating on your mom with a girl who looks like Laurel, so don't tell her.' Huh?" "You want to know? Fine, I'll tell you exactly how I found out, if you'll listen! Will you listen to me?" I glared at him for a hard moment, then spread my hands and made a disgusted, "get on with it" noise. "OK, look, this last winter I was at a party," he began. "Over at Denny Trigg's house." Denny Trigg was a little vandal that David ran with who had gotten arrested a month or so back for dealing marijuana. "There was this girl there who I thought looked familiar but I couldn't place her. "She came with this older guy, about 30 or something, and she was about eleven and a half sheets to the wind when she got to the party. Seriously, you could have sold her blood in a liquor store at that point. She could barely even stand and this asshole dumps her off on the couch where I was sitting while he went to get her some more wine coolers. So I'm looking at her wondering where I know her from, and she looks at me and starts laughing and asks me the same question." "I don't see where this is going, David," I snapped impatiently. "Just listen, please! She thought she knew me and I thought I knew her and so we got to talking, trying to figure out where we knew each other from. And then all at once it hit me: she looks like Laurel." "Uh huh," I said dubiously. "And it was right about then that she asked me what my name was. I told her, and she started laughing and asked me if I knew Tim Reeves. I was like, yeah, he's my dad. And then she just starts roaring with laughter and she says, 'Dude, I'm fucking your dad!'" I could feel my anger at David evaporating like dew on a hot summer morning. He was a better liar than this. If he were going to make up a story, he'd have made up a more probable one. He was telling the truth. "And I was like, what, you know?" he pressed on. "And she just lays out the whole thing, how she ran into him in a T.J. Maxx and he bought her a couple of blouses, took her out to his car and fucked her right there in the parking lot." I felt my stomach begin to twist inside of me, as though it had come alive and wanted out. I so very desperately wanted to believe my son was lying, but I knew he wasn't. This whole thing just explained too much about Tim for it not to be true. "How...how old was she?" "Fifteen then. This was last fall so she's probably 16 now. Since then they've been meeting at least once a weekend at that motel, usually twice. Sometimes during the week, too." I sat back down on the sofa. It was either that or fall on my butt because my legs decided not to support me anymore. "And she told you all this?" My voice sounded like a lost little girl's. "Like I said, she was drunk as hell. She didn't know what she was saying. I doubt she remembered a word of it the next day." "But you did." He nodded. "I followed them once to see where they went. That motel in the video? He's been going there for years – all his little 'work lunches.' I slipped the desk guy a hundred and he told me all about it. Before this girl there was another, a brunette, around the same age. She lasted for a couple of years. Before that there was another, and another before that. I think he'd been doing it since I was little." His words were hitting me like fists and all I could do was sit there and take them. There were tears rolling down my cheeks, but whether it was sorrow or betrayal or shame or rage that was making them, I couldn't say. I guess it was all of them and more. The weirdest thing about it is the physical sensations that went with it. Sometimes emotions cause physical feelings, sure, but this... look, you know the big mixing machines they have in paint stores? You put a whole can of paint in there and it shakes the hell out of it? That's what it felt like inside me at that moment. I felt like my arms and legs were going to fly off and go their separate ways, like I was just going to explode all over the place. I felt a million emotions, but they were vibrating so fast inside me, swirling and running into each other, disintegrating from the impact and making new emotions, and faster than I could put a name to them they would collide with others and disappear and turns into something else. And all of that was ha ppening while I sat nailed to the sofa, motionless as a Buddha. And then suddenly I wasn't motionless anymore. I was up off the sofa and charging for the phone, sprinting, grabbing it off the cradle. David was a step behind me, and he put his hand over it before I could punch more than one button. "Who are you calling?" "The police!" I spat. For the moment, the emotion had crystallized into a deep, terrible betrayal. Tim hadn't fucked me during our whole marriage because he was screwing a procession of teenage girls. I wasn't good enough for him! Well I'd show him what fucking little girls got a man. "I'm going to have that son of a bitch arrested. Today! Now!" David frowned and tried to take the phone away from me. I struggled a bit, but he was serious about it and had it out of my hand in a flash. "Mom, listen to me, you can't do that." "The hell I can't! Just watch me! Give me that phone!" "No, mom, listen! You can't do that because if you call the cops and tell them your husband is a pedophile, what's going to happen?" "They'll arrest him and throw him in jail where he belongs!" "And what are they going to use for evidence, mom?" My mind wasn't at a point where I could follow this argument. "I don't care! I want that fucker put away! I want him in prison forever!" "Mom! If you call the cops and tell them, they'll want to know how you found out." "I'll tell them! I'll show them that goddamned DVD!" "And then they'll search my computer for more evidence!" he said, his voice rising. "And what else is on there, mom? You and Charlie! You and ME!" He couldn't have rocked me more if he'd have punched me in the chest. I took a step back, feeling like the world was dropping away beneath me and I was falling with it. If I put Tim in jail, I'd be right behind him. I was trapped, trapped by my own wickedness, my own weakness. I had put myself in a box and now I couldn't get out of it even to hurt the man who, at that moment, I hated more than I'd ever hated anyone. I tried to talk; I don't know what I tried to say, but all that came out was a formless scream of absolute rage and humiliation and helplessness. I clutched the side of my head like the Munch painting and just howled. David tried to put his arms around me but I shoved him back and took a few steps away before I collapsed against the wall, sobbing. "Mom?" David asked, worry in his voice as he stepped closer. "Are you OK?" I couldn't answer; my whole body was wracked with sobs and my chest was heaving like I'd just run a marathon. My son put his arms around me, gently, firmly, lovingly, and pulled me to my feet. He took me to his chest, enfolding me in his strength and warmth and solidity, and for a moment I let him, let myself fall into that embrace – And then I pushed him away with everything I had, sending him staggering back three feet and me thudding into the wall again. "Don't TOUCH me!" I howled. "Don't put your hands on me! I'm not some girl you can pick up and fuck, I'm your MOTHER! YOUR MOTHER!" "Mom..." He might have said something else too, but I didn't hear it because at that moment I spotted the vase I'd bought at the Mall of America on Sunday when I'd been shopping with Laurel, that pretty little green vase, all inoffensive and quiet on the nearby end table. And at that moment I hated that vase so badly I would rather have died than let it be. I bounded to it and snatched it up, thinking of how Laurel had displayed me like a whore, how she had watched me expose myself and all the while she knew what she had done with my husband, MY HUSBAND, and how utterly she must despise me, how she must laugh at me when my back is turned, how she must laugh at me to Tim. I hurled the vase, sending it smashing into the wall where it shattered into shards of porcelain, scattering across the floor. Outside, Charlie began to back. No doubt he had heard the crash, just like he'd heard me shouting before, and he was worried. David grabbed my arms before I could wreck anything else. "Mom! Mom, listen to me! You have to calm down!" "I told you not to touch me!" I shoved him back. "Give me the phone! Give it to me! If I can't call the cops I am damned well calling your father! That disgusting bastard! Give me the phone!" He put the phone behind his back. The expression on his face was one of intense worry; I don't think he had any idea what I was going to say or do next and it scared him. "You can't call him, mom," he said, his voice deliberately calm. "The hell I can't! Don't you tell me what I can and can't do!" "Mom!" "DON'T! DON'T YOU TALK DOWN TO ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE! I AM YOUR MOTHER!" He bit back something harsh, then said, "Mom, I'm not talking down to you, I'm not. OK? I promise. But please listen to me when I say that if you call dad, it will only make things worse." Once again, the anger was keeping me from following him. "How? What are you talking about?" "He's going to ask how you know, and what are you going to say?" "I'll tell him to fuck himself and get the hell out of my house!" "And he'll ask why." "And I'll TELL HIM! I'll tell him I saw videos of him and Laurel, videos of him and that little teenage tramp he's whoring around with–" "And he'll ask who showed you, and you'll say me. Mom, what's he going to do then? If you tell him you know he's having sex with a minor and that he's messing around with Laurel, you're going to put his back to the wall. Do you really think he won't start asking questions of his own? Do you really think he won't find out about you and me? Then you'll be in the same position he is and–" I screamed. I grabbed my head and screamed like Fay Wray when she saw King Kong for the first time, I screamed like every bimbo who was about to get knifed in a slasher movie. I screamed a single long, keening wail that tore my throat like sandpaper and that only ended when I lacked enough breath to keep it going. I'm pretty sure I sounded like a damned soul on the floor of Hell. David stepped in again, trying to put his arms around me again – And suddenly my stomach did a brutal flip-flop. I slapped my hand over my mouth as the vomit rose in my gorge, pushed past my son, and sprinted for the bathroom. I struggled hugely to hold it in until I reached the toilet because I had this inexplicable thought about how it wouldn't be ladylike to barf all over the floor – that's the kind of thing you think when you lose your mind. I slammed the door to the downstairs bathroom open with my shoulder, and there was so much puke coming up that I could feel it flowing out my nose. I know, too much information, but that just smells so nasty. I made it to the toilet and completely lost it, vomiting hard enough to make my stomach muscles ache and then staying there for minutes afterward, dry-heaving and retching and spitting and crying. "Mom?" came David's voice, along with a soft rap at the door. I didn't remember closing it but I must have. "Are you OK?" "Leave me alone!" I gasped, feeling utterly wrung out in the way you do after you vomit really brutally. "I'm coming in," he said, opening the door. I didn't look at him. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't do anything but think how Tim had thrown me over since right after our marriage for a procession of teenybopper sluts, and how our daughter was the latest in the line, and how his behavior had driven me into the arms of my own son and how that fact trapped me inside the situation. My mind was racing faster than it ever had and suddenly I felt like the walls were closing in, the ceiling was coming down, like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. I was sobbing and suddenly I couldn't catch my breath. I was gasping air, sucking for it, but the harder I breathed the more out of breath I felt. David tried to hold me once more – I know he was saying something about calming down but his words weren't making any sense at the time – but I squirmed away. I felt like I needed to run, I felt like I needed to curl up in a ball, I felt like I needed to get away from Tim and David and Laurel and I felt like I needed to fight for my family and I felt like I was going to detonate like an atomic bomb and take out half the city when I went. My skin felt like a stranger and my tongue was twisting in my mouth like a fish. In other words, I was having a massive panic attack. I wasn't even aware that I had thrust myself past David and run up the stairs until I slammed my bedroom door behind me and threw myself onto my bed, my eyes closed tightly. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I felt like I was having a heart attack. Honestly, at that moment I felt like I was going to die. The worst part of it is that it actually sounded like a pretty good idea at the time. A few moments later David came into my bedroom. I tried to scream at him to get out but my mouth wouldn't work and instead I ended up curled in the fetal position, eyes closed, shaking like a leaf and sucking great, useless breaths that just made my lungs hurt more. A few moments later David sat down on my bed, tucked his hand under my head and lifted it gently. "Come on mom, open your eyes. You need to take this." I tried to tell him I didn't want to take anything but I couldn't exactly talk. I did manage to open my eyes and saw that he had a glass of water and a little white pill – an Ativan that I had left over from a couple of years before when I got rear-ended on the highway (not nearly as sexy as it sounds, unfortunately) and had some anxiety in cars for a while. Usually I only took half a tablet, but David put the whole thing in my mouth and forced me to drink some water to wash it down. Then he left me alone to cry, which I did until I fell asleep. Ativan's a hell of a drug. I didn't sleep for long, maybe 45 minutes, but when I woke up I wasn't panicking anymore. I felt like hell, but I wasn't panicking. In fact, I was focused on a single thought: how much I hated Tim. I can't even tell you how I felt about my husband at that moment. Since we married, or shortly thereafter, I was with a man who was cheating on me, repeatedly, over and over and over again, with one underage girl after another. How many had it been? How many little girls had he seduced, corrupted, used? How many times had he watched over our friends' daughter when they were 5 of 7 or 9 years old and lusted after them? How young was the youngest girl he ruined? And now his sights were set on our daughter, our lovely, precious, innocent daughter. He was corrupting her, making her lust after him because she didn't know any better. And soon, if I didn't stop it, he would have his way with her, just like he'd done with the girl he was using as her surrogate. And that wasn't all. Because he was a disgusting, perverted monster, he had ignored me. He had scorned my needs and my wants and my happiness and made me turn to others. It was his fault I had done what I did with Charlie. It was his fault that David now had the opening to work his designs upon me. It was his fault that I had been driven into the arms of women to find a little comfort and release. Him, it was all him. Tim was the author of my misery as surely as I breathed. His perversions had perverted me without my even knowing about them, and because they had perverted me I was powerless to do anything about it. I was trapped, and that animal, that less than human thing I had married, had trapped me. I was no longer panicking, but my thoughts were black and I wanted to do something with myself, something physical that would burn away some of the energy I felt surging for release. It occurred to me that I had some flowers that needed to be put in; I've never been as much on gardening as Tim is, but right now the idea of wielding shovel and trowel and breaking earth seemed like about the most useful thing I could do to prevent another freak-out, so I put on an old pair of jeans and a battered, shapeless tee shirt and headed outside. Charlie was there to greet me with an enthusiastic tail wag and a snout thrust between my legs; he was surprised and confused when I put my both hands on his head and shoved him away roughly. I put his head low and his tail between his legs, immediately assuming he had done something wrong. That's the thing about dogs, of course, they just assume they deserve whatever treatment you give them. But of all of us, he was the only one who couldn't be blamed for a thing. He was the only innocent member of my family. All he had done was what instinct and my own desires pushed him to do... And of course that made me realize that my own desires were no better than Tim's. Tim fucked little girls, I fucked dogs. What was the difference between us? How was I better than he was? What room did I have to claim moral high ground? No doubt he'd think I was as disgusting and sick as I thought him. No doubt he'd be right. I felt my rage bleeding out of me as I walked with stiff, numb legs to the garden shed. Tim and I were bad enough to deserve each other. More accurately, we were bad enough to deserve prison. Our children deserved someone else for parents, someone not wicked and diseased and twisted, someone who could teach them to be good and decent and honorable human beings. Neither Tim nor I had a chance at doing that; neither of us had any first hand experience. We were catastrophes. I got the shovel and the trowel, the rake and the hose and the fertilizer. I was moving like a zombie, and, to be honest, I think I had all the higher brain function of one too. I retrieved the flowers from the workbench in the garage and set about putting them in, mechanically, row after row. My body and my hands moved but I don't know what I was thinking, except that I hated myself more and more with every passing minute. Poor David had been twisted by Tim and I into a criminal, and now poor Laurel was going to be ruined too. It wasn't bad enough that we had fucked up our own lives but we had to take two blameless children with us. We were the worst monsters in the history of the world. I'd lost track of time there because I was surprised when I heard Laurel's chipper voice behind me saying, "Hey, there you are! Oooh, pretty flowers!" And when she spoke, a flash of pure, undiluted hatred roared through me. I've heard the term "seeing red" when you want to kill someone, but it had never happened to me before this moment. I turned slowly to see Laurel coming through the back door into the yard, dressed in her school clothes, a big smile on her face, and my vision actually went the tint of blood – her blood. In that instant I loathed her. How could such a corrupt, husband-stealing abomination ever have crawled out of my womb? She had perverted my sweet, innocent husband, torn him from me for her own foul use. I felt my hand tighten around he handle of my trowel as she walked without a care across the lawn toward me and my garden. She stood by my side, surveying my work, and asked, "What are the purple ones?" I stood and, in a single smooth motion, drove the trowel blade up underneath her jaw, into the soft part that was unprotected by bone. I felt the tissue of skin and tongue yield before me as it swept up through her mouth, and felt the crunch of skull as the trowel blade penetrated her brain from below. I saw her eyes flare wide in surprise and, in her final moment of life, as blood bubbled on her lips, I saw guilt in her eyes as she realized why I had to kill her. Except, of course, that only happened in my mind. I kept my eyes on the hole I was digging and said, "Those are African violets." I was amazed at how normal my voice sounded. It wasn't harsh or angry. It wasn't tense. It wasn't even numb. It was just...me, normal, like nothing was wrong in the world and I didn't just find out that the fucking evil scum-whore daughter standing by my side was trying her best to take my husband from me. There wasn't a trace of the bitter, bone-deep hatred I felt toward her. "They're really pretty, I like them," she chirped wickedly. I forced a smile onto my face as I stood up, though it felt brittle and false and deceitful. I could feel the muscles in my arm contracting, itching, wanting to drive a balled up fist into my daughter's effortlessly flat stomach or slam an open palm across her little- girl face. To this day I have no idea how I kept from hitting her as she leaned in, unsuspecting, and kissed my cheek. I hated her so much, so vividly! I wanted to bring her the pain she had brought me, the agony, the feeling of being suspended between earth and sky with nothing solid to rest her feet on. It would have felt so marvelously perfect to strike her, drive her to her knees, kick her when she fell, feel hand and foot, elbow and knee, colliding with the treacherous flesh of my flesh and seeing the perverted blood of my blood flow. I wanted it so badly... but I didn't do it. Somehow, I didn't do it. Instead I hugged her just a bit, feeling my flesh crawl where she touched me, and then pretended I could hear her voice instead of the blood hammering in my ears when she told me about her day, about the minutia of her worthless teenage temptress life. I even managed to make some appropriate sounds at the right times, though I have no idea how I managed that. When she asked what was for dinner, it suddenly hit me that I had to cook for three other people, two of whom has stabbed me in the back and the other one of whom who knew it, and the very thought made me ill. I couldn't prepare food for them – I'd spike it with something that made them all sick as hell, as sick as they made me. And so I said, "We're ordering pizza." Laurel arched an eyebrow. "Takeout two nights in a row? You feeling OK?" Laurel knew my rule about healthy eating – take out once in a while was all right for a treat, but you never, ever had it on back to back nights. I knew she'd volunteer to cook if I said I didn't want to – she loved preparing meals for the family – but I knew that anything she made would feel like ashes in my mouth and make me vomit. So I forced that fake smile again and said, "I sure am. I just want pizza tonight. I hope you don't mind?" "Heck no, I love pizza!" We passed a few more moments in conversation and then she left me alone. I didn't watch as she walked back into the house for fear I'd snatch up my shovel and brain her with it. I just went back to my flowers and thought about how much I hated her. I was still stewing in those juices an hour later when Tim drove up. I felt all the anger at my daughter suddenly shift and fall away, replaced instantly by rage directed at my husband. He would could out and find me, I knew, and he would put his lips on my cheek the way he always did, those lips that had been around our daughter's nipples, and he would touch me with the hands that had caressed our daughter's skin, and how I would keep from flying into a rage and attacking him I didn't know – "Oh, there you are!" came his voice as he stepped into the back yard and came toward me, a smile on his face. And suddenly all he anger toward him simply melted and was replaced by an ache, a deep-down pain of regret and loss. Because he wasn't mine anymore, even if he never touched Laurel again. It was one thing to think he had simply lost interest in sex altogether; that was galling and hurtful, but it wasn't a betrayal. But this – him catting around with teenaged girls, lusting after our own daughter, probably bedding her soon enough – was a knife right into my heart. I was already tearing up when he reached me. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice as he put his hands on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. "Oh, nothing," I said, fighting to keep my voice from cracking. "It's pollen or something, I've been doing it all afternoon." His frown deepened, and I knew instantly he didn't believe me for a second. "Really?" "Yeah, just something in the wind. How was your day?" "Fine" he answered, still looking at me searchingly. "Just another day. I think we may be getting a new contract though, which is good. In this economy, every little bit helps, right?" I nodded, and as I did I knew I shouldn't ask the question that was forcing its way to my lips, but I heard myself speaking before I could stop myself. "That'll probably mean more weekend lunch meetings, I guess? And evenings?" "Probably," he replied. There was a tone of regret in his voice, but I couldn't tell if it was a fraud put there to placate me or a real sense of loss as not being able to fuck his substitute daughter in a sleazy motel as often. "But at least I have a job." "At least you do." He looked at me strangely again, then changed tack. "What did you have planned for dinner tonight?" "I thought we'd get pizza." He looked surprised. "Take out two nights in–" "Takeout two nights in a row, yes," I cut in, a tiny but genuine smile forcing itself to my lips. I had trained my family well. "I just want pizza." "Oh...well, OK. Um... is everything all right?" Nothing was all right. I didn't know if anything would ever be all right again. But I didn't tell Tim that. I simply nodded and told him that it was, and he turned and went inside the house again. As I watched him walk away, it felt like he was walking away from my grave and I was watching him from below six feet of soil. Tim... oh God, Tim, why couldn't you just have loved me? Why couldn't I have been what you wanted and needed? None of this would ever have happened if you had just been able to want me. I was so miserable by the time Tim came back with the pizzas an hour later that the thought of eating turned my stomach, but I couldn't avoid the family. I would have to face them, with my husband and daughter exchanging secret glances and my son knowing that I knew and was miserable. I had to swallow my bile, put a smile on my face and act normal. I had to because David was right: I had to hold myself together until I figured some way out of this, some way to rescue myself, or punish myself, rescue Tim or punish him, punish Laurel or rescue her. I had to make sense of the nonsense I was feeling. I had to control myself. Somehow. To say that dinner was a profoundly uncomfortable experience would be to dramatically understate how uncomfortable it was. Tim and Laurel both came to the table bright and bubbly, but my black, conflicted, turbulent mood drained them of joy pretty quickly. David just kept his eyes on his plate and his mouth shut. Charlie caught the mood, of course, but the scent of pizza overrode his caution so he was the only truly relaxed and eager member of the family in the room. There were a few attempts at small talk that died like kittens under a steamroller and after a few minutes we all just ate in silence, staring at our plates. Five minutes after dinner was done, I threw it all up again. An hour later I was sitting in the living room staring at the television (not watching it, because I couldn't have told you one thing I saw) and thinking about what my daughter and her father were doing up in her bedroom. There was a knot of tension in my gut, like a fist twisting my intestines. I thought I might vomit again. Every couple of minutes I felt tears flowing down my cheeks, though I was never really conscious of crying – I felt too desolate for that. Somewhere in the back of my head I knew I needed to focus, to figure out what the hell I was going to do – but I couldn't. I couldn't hold a thought in my brain for more than a few seconds before something even worse came along and knocked it out again. It was around then that David came and sat down in the easy chair across from mine, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him. He looked at me; I didn't look back. He waited for me to speak until the waiting became uncomfortable and then he asked, quietly, "Mom? You want to talk?" "No." "Are you sure?" "Yes." "What are you thinking?" "Nothing. Everything. What difference does it make?" "I'm sorry, mom. For what it's worth, I really am." "Oh, David...I don't believe you for a second." He paused at that, then continued. "Well, it's true anyway. I wish it wasn't." "Why did you show it to me?" I guess the question caught him by surprise, or else he wanted me to think it did, because he took his time answering. "I thought you needed to know." "Why?" "Because your husband and your daughter are fooling around with each other, and your husband is fooling around with one teenage girl after another. I figured you ought to know about that." "Oh." Another pause, then, "And I couldn't just go on knowing and not telling you. That would have been messed up. I mean, I know this is hard on you, but not knowing would have been worse." "How?" "Well...isn't it always better to know the truth?" I chuckled humorlessly. "No. No, it is not." "So you'd rather not know about dad and those girls? About dad and Laurel? Really?" "I don't know, David. I don't know anything right now except that I want to crawl under a rock and die." He stood up and crossed to me, kneeling down beside me and taking my hands in his. "Mom, do you know I love you?" I looked at him for a long moment. I don't have any idea what showed on my face because inside I was feeling so many different things at the same time that I was basically feeling nothing at all. I don't know if that makes any sense, but there it is. Finally, I said, "No, I don't. I don't know anything." A look of hurt flickered through his lovely eyes and he leaned in. His lips found mine and were warm and soft, gentle, coaxing, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to let myself fall into them, to fall into him, my son, to give myself to him wholly and completely and never look back. I would have everything I needed in his arms... And then once more my emotions narrowed to a single steel-hard point. I put both hands on his chest and shoved as hard as I could while I leaped up, and I sent him sprawling back onto his ass with a stunned expression on his face. "God DAMN you, David!" I told him, fighting to keep my voice low enough that Tim and Laurel wouldn't hear it over their make-out session above. "Don't! Don't you DO this to me!" "Mom, I just–" "No!" I cut him off sharply, wagging my finger at him as he sprawled on the floor. "Don't you say a word! I can't trust you! I can't trust a word you say or a thing you do! We are finished, David!" He looked very surprised at that, and I don't think even he's a good enough liar to fake how stunned he looked. He rose to his knees and slowly got to his feet, and I could see him fighting to keep irritation off his face. "What do you mean?" "I mean you keep your god damned hands to yourself from now on!" I hissed, real venom behind my words. I was just as angry at him as I had been at Laurel, and at Tim before that. "You don't touch me, you don't kiss me, you don't even fucking look at me. We're finished. You're not my lover and you never will be. Understand? You're barely even my son anymore!" He tried to protest but I spun on my heel, stomped out of the room, and went off for a drive in the May twilight. I wasn't even really aware of where I was going, I was just driving. All I really remember about it is that, when I was on Highway 7, I realized I was going too fast and crossing the center line, aimed straight at an oncoming semi. I wasn't even aware of a conscious decision to do it, I was only aware that I was doing it, and for an instant – less than a second, I suppose, though it was timeless when it was happening – I was pretty sure I would just keep going and drive smack into the truck, just end it all. It seemed like such a seductive idea! There would be no problems and nothing would matter, not Tim or Laurel, not David, not the home that had suddenly become a nest of perversion, not threats or intimidation. There would be a brief instant of pain, perhaps a bright flash of light, a sound of tearing metal and shattering plastic, and then it would all be done with. It sounded so attractive... But the truck's horn blew and I veered off, back into my lane; the driver flipped me the bird and shouted something I couldn't hear as we passed. As quickly as it had come, that urge for death passed me by and left me numb again... I got home well after dark. Laurel's light was on in her bedroom, and I wondered again what she had done with Tim that night, how far they had gone. This time when the hatred and anger flared up it wasn't focused on one more than the other; they shared it equally between them, a pair of monsters who were conspiring against me, against the home I had struggled to make for them. They had both betrayed me, driven me to something I never wanted before they did what they did. I was blameless and they were evil, both of them, souls as black as night. And yes, I know how untrue that is – the last part especially – but that was how I felt then. Like I said, I want to be as honest and as open here as I can be. I don't want to hide anything. I'll just throw it all out there and you can be the judge, if it's judging you want. Tim was already – or still – upstairs when I got inside, but Charlie was there with his whumping, thumping tail and his love, and his desire to be petted. He sniffed my pussy and once more I pushed him away; I just stayed in the kitchen petting him and trying to steel myself to go and lie down next to my philandering pedophile husband. How the hell was I going to do that, knowing what I knew now? How could I sleep next to him, knowing that he had certainly discussed my failings as a lover, a mother, and a woman with my own daughter? How could I not strangle him in his sleep? Would I have the courage to do that, any of it? God I wanted to leave. I wanted to run away from this place and never look back. This house, this place that was my soul and my refuge and the center of my world, suddenly felt like a slaughterhouse. I was the dumb cow who was going to march up the stairs and pretend I didn't know what was going on, pretend that my daughter and my husband weren't the gun at the back of my head. I had to smile at the man who destroyed my life and somehow keep from showing him the pain and the rage and the betrayal. I had to act like I didn't know any of the things I knew. I honestly didn't believe I could do it. After 20 or so minutes in the living room I forced myself to get up and move to the living room, but it took a physical effort to make myself get out of the chair. I felt like I weighed a thousand pounds. I laid down on the sofa, Charlie on the floor beside me, turned on the TV, and just stared. A few minutes later I heard feet coming down the stairs. My mind ran through the possibilities of who it could be, and somehow each member of my family seemed worse than the other two, until I thought of another one, who then seemed worse. I hated them all. It was David. He stood by the sofa looking at me spread out. I ignored him. Finally he said, "Mind if I sit down?" "Yes." His voice was peevish when he said, "Mom, we need to talk." "No we don't. What do we have to talk about?" "This. This whole situation. You're holding everything inside and you need to have someone to talk about it with." "And that someone should be you, huh? An impartial observer? Just a friendly ear?" "Look," he said, placing his body between my eyes and the television and crouching. "I know what's going on here. In the house, I mean. Nobody else does. You need to talk and I'm the only one you can talk to, so yes, you ought to talk to me." My eyes narrowed. "I don't want to talk to you, David. In fact, I'm not planning to talk to you at all, at least not any more than is absolutely unavoidable. Now leave me the fuck alone." I wasn't looking at his face to see his reaction, but his voice definitely held an edge of being peeved. "Mom... I don't think you're being reasonable about this." I snorted a laugh. "Oh, I'm not being reasonable? My husband has carried on a series of affairs with underage girls, my daughter is the next willing victim on his hit list, and the only person I can talk to is my son, who incidentally has blackmailed me and pledged to fuck me. Gee, I can't imagine why I'm not being reasonable!" "Mom..." Leave me alone, David. Leave me alone. Leave me alone." He paused there for a moment, then grunted and muttered, "Shit." "Watch your language." Another pause, then a disbelieving, "Wow." I said nothing, and he said nothing, and finally he emitted a disgusted sound and walked back upstairs. I stayed were I was, looking at nothing and feeling like I wanted to puke, for another hour. I couldn't bring myself to go upstairs, and I guess I thought if I waited long enough Tim would be asleep. Finally the ten o'clock news wrapped up and I made myself rise off the couch. I let Charlie out, turned off the lights, and trudged up the stairs like a condemned criminal walking to the guillotine. Laurel's light was out, thank God, but my heart dropped when I saw that the light in my bedroom was still on. My feet kept moving though, and I opened the door and stepped inside. Tim was sitting up in bed, reading a novel, and he smiled at me a little worriedly. "Hi." "Hi." I hoped I just sounded tired and not shattered. He pulled down the covers on my side of the bed, watching me as I undressed. "Where'd you get off to tonight?" My back was to him as I put my clothes in my hamper and found my nightgown, which made it a little easier to lie. "Oh, I got a bug to do a little shopping and I lost track of time." "Oh," he said, and I could hear the relief in his voice. "I was wondering if maybe something was on your mind?" I let the cotton nightgown fall over my head and turned to face him with a smile I couldn't feel. "No, nothing much. Why?" "Well, this afternoon you seemed a little preoccupied." I sat down on the edge of the bed. "Honestly, fast food two nights in a row and you guys think the world is ending." He chuckled. "Well, that was part of it. But it really seems like there's something bothering you. Do you want to talk about anything?" Yes Tim I want to talk about how you've been banging high school girls since were married. I want to talk about how you've neglected and scorned me and nearly driven me into the arms of my own son. I want to talk about how you're corrupting our daughter and about how she's seducing you. I want to talk about how much I hate you. I want to talk about wanting to see you choking on your own blood. I want to talk about a divorce. I want to talk to you through the bullet-proof glass of a prison visiting area. "Ummm...no, not really. Are you mad I went shopping tonight?" "No, of course not," he said as I made myself lift my legs and swing into bed next to a monster. "You can go shopping whenever you want, you know that. But I think there's something bugging you. You know you can talk to me about anything." I know I can talk to you about nothing. "I know," is what I said as I leaned across and put a kiss on his cheek. "Was there something you wanted to talk about?" He looked me in the eyes and shook his head, and I suddenly knew what he thought, just as surely as if I had telepathy: he thought I was having an affair. He hoped I was having an affair. He wanted me to be getting it on the side good and hard from some young stallion, not because he wanted us to be over and divorced, but because he loved me and he wanted me to be happy and he thought a fling would satisfy me. He knew he couldn't give me what I needed and so he was hoping that what was bothering me was the same guilt that he must occasionally have felt when he was with one of his young lovers so that he could hold me and tell me that it was all right, he accepted it, it wouldn't come between us if I was just discrete... I almost laughed, but if I did there would have been no humor in it. God, I knew him so well. Fuck you, asshole. You aren't getting off that easy. "Nope. I'm just worried about you, that's all." "Don't be worried, silly," I replied, pulling the sheet over me and nestling in. "I'm all right. If it's anything I'm just worried about getting old and saggy." He chuckled. "Well, you've got a long time before you have to worry about getting saggy." "Oh, you're a liar." Somehow my voice was teasing, but I tasted vomit. "I'm gonna go to sleep, I'm beat." "Ok. Want me to turn off the light?" "Oh no, I'm fine. Good night, Tim." "Good night, babe. You know I love you?" "I know, babe. I love you too. Good night." I closed my eyes and in a few minutes I pretended to be asleep. I know Tim was watching me, and I know I didn't convince him. He still knew something was up. But dammit, it's hard to lie to someone who knows you so well; especially when you've just found out some horrible secret they keep. So I lay there for another fifteen minutes, feeling my skin crawl at being so close to him, until he turned off the light. A few minutes later he began to snore in the faint, familiar way he has that I had always found so comforting but now thought was repellent and sickening. From the first I knew sleep was impossible. I laid there in the darkness with my eyes wide open, facing away from Tim and staring at the wall, my foot idly rubbing Charlie as he slept on the bed. It was as bad as I thought it would be, lying in this bed with Tim. I could feel his warmth and the way his body depressed the mattress and I hated it. For the first time ever, I hated being in bed with my husband. I won't bore you with the details of every little thing that ran through my mind that night. Most of it wasn't very coherent anyway, and just me rehashing all the other incoherent thoughts I'd already told you about. Tim and Laurel, Laurel and Tim, whose fault it was and what was I going to do... The clock said it was 3:26 AM when the thought occurred to me. I didn't seek it out. I didn't "think my way to it." It just popped into my head, fully formed, and when it did I nearly sat bolt-upright like someone who awakens from a nightmare in a TV show. The thought, simply, was this: this cleared the way for me and David to be together. I know, I know, most people reading this probably thought that right away, but the shock and the hurt kept my mind away from it until now. Now, though...now I knew that Tim couldn't possibly object, even if he found out. I could go to David's bed and he could take me, touch me, love me, fuck me. And he could make me happy – I knew that he could, I knew it in my bones, completely and without question. He would be everything I have ever, ever wanted in a lover, willingly and eagerly. I would never need to beg him for sex, no matter what time day or night I wanted it. There would be nothing I wanted to try that he wouldn't be willing to try with me, no fantasy or desire too corrupt or outrι for him to satisfy. He would accept me for who I was, love me, cherish me, and never even think of condemning me. Let my husband and my daughter do what they wanted to – I would have my beautiful son's beautiful cock, and his mouth and his fingers and his hard body and deliciously wicked mind to keep my body thrumming with joy. There wouldn't even be a need to hide it, or to feel ashamed. I could simply be me with the mate I had always needed... And no sooner had that thought occurred to me than another followed, one less pleasant by far: I had been set up. David wanted me and Laurel wanted Tim and they worked together to lay a trap for us both. That was how David knew to put a camera in Laurel's room that night. That was how Laurel knew to look in my lingerie drawer right after I bought some naughty things. My children, my wicked children, had hatched a scheme together and my husband and I had fallen right into it! All right, with the perspective of time, I know how ridiculous that is. Laurel and David couldn't spend two minutes together without fighting, much less cook up a cockamamie plan like that and make it work. But in the state of mind I was in, at 3:30 in the morning on a sleepless and miserable night of almost unbearable stress, I believed it completely and without question. A sick feeling settled in my gut at the implications of so unnatural and monstrous a plot, and I very nearly woke up Tim and told him of my "realization." Lord, I'm glad I didn't. Instead I stayed where I was, more awake than ever, getting angrier and angrier at my children until, had I seen either of them, I'm sure I would have attacked them physically. It seems so silly now, but there it is. All I can say is that at the time, it didn't just seem reasonable, it seemed inescapable. And it led, with as much logic as my brain was capable of at that moment, to my next conclusion: I needed to stop everything I was doing. I needed to get off the crazy train I had been on since David found me getting licked by Charlie. No more fooling around with my dog. No more fooling around with my son. No more sneaking off to have sex with women or flash my body in public. No more wearing slutty clothes, even underwear. Hell, no more shaving my pussy. I had to stop the march to madness before I took it one more step. If I could stop it for myself, then I could figure out a way to stop it for Tim, and for my children. Poor Charlie wouldn't understand, but that was a price that needed to be paid. I had to put things back the way they were. I had to do it or we'd all go to a hell of our own devising, and I couldn't let that happen to my family. Yes, I know, all the king's horses and all the king's men. But the certainty of my ludicrous conviction brought me a kind of peace, and it wasn't all that long before I actually went to sleep. May 28 I was strong in the morning. I really was. I put my new clothes and new lingerie in a bag and stuffed it into the back of the closet, and dug out the sensible underwear from where I had it stored. When Charlie sat down and whined for me to dig out my dog-fucking clothes, I gave him a very firm no and sent him outside (it was raining, so he didn't like that much!). When I took my morning shower I ran my hand over the faint stubble on my crotch and smiled, sure that I had shaved it for the last time. As I ate lunch I had a few dark thoughts but I pushed them aside. This was, I thought, a problem I could handle. I could figure out a way. I was smart, I was determined, and I would make an out. That was all there was to it. It was on my run with Charlie that I broke down. I was moving along, feeling my legs pumping and my heart beating and honestly not thinking about anything in particular when suddenly the image of Tim and Laurel together exploded into my mind. And not the way you'd think, either – the image was them post-coital, sweaty and naked, a pile of bare flesh and tangled limbs, his arm around her as he whispered into her ear what a failure I was as a mother, as a human being, how I had never pleased him in bed or out, how he had only gone out with me out of pity, how he pitied me now, and she would say she pitied me too and they would pity me together because I was pitiful and beneath contempt, I was nothing more than a minor obstacle to keep them from finding happiness together but not to worry she'll be out of way soon and you and I can be together and we'll never have to think of her again – I stumbled on the rain-slick running path, floundered into a telephone pole and leaned against it with all my weight, both hands on it. The rain was hammering at my bent back in cold sheets but I barely even noticed it – I was lost in another attack of sheer, unadulterated panic. Charlie snuffled and me and chuffed in concern, but I didn't even have the strength to try to comfort him. I knew I needed to make it home, swallow another Ativan and let myself freak out in the privacy of my own bedroom, but the idea of going back there was terrifying to me. Laurel would come home and find me there and I was so utterly terrified of her! Yes, terrified. Not angry or resentful, just scared, plain and simple. I know it's a baffling reaction to have – she being the kid and me being the adult – but I didn't know what Tim had told her about me, or what she had told him. I didn't know what promises he had made to her. I didn't even know how far they'd gone together. And most of all I didn't know what it was about her that let her steal Tim from me. She had something I didn't some power, some ability, some quality that made Tim want her when he didn't want me, and whatever it was terrified me. I don't mean to suggest that my fear was rational, because it wasn't, but that doesn't make it any less real. It took me fifteen minutes before I could force myself up and get myself moving again, and every step required force of will. On the way home I stopped twice more, overcome with panic and unable to take a step. Poor Charlie and I were both freezing by the time we got home – the rain was cold and we weren't moving anything like fast enough to keep warm. I dried him off, trying not to think about Laurel or Tim or anything at all, but my mind kept coming back to the same things over and over again like steel to a magnet. I took an Ativan and a hot shower and laid on my bed feeling like the walls were closing in on me. I couldn't get past the image of Laurel coming home and looking at me with those eyes, eyes that pretended at innocence but had secrets and knowledge and power I couldn't understand or match. She had my husband – the man who couldn't bear to touch me was wrapped around her finger and had fucked a series of substitutes for her, only now she was old enough he didn't need those substitutes anymore and he would take her and they would do things and say things and I was helpless and hopeless... And I had to make dinner. I could just barely get away with having takeout twice in a row, but three times and my family would call the police. If I was going to avoid suspicion, I needed to get up, get out of bed, and prepare a meal. It would have to be something simple, like baked chicken, but it would have to be SOMETHING. And so it was that I wound up in the kitchen when Laurel came home and I nearly sliced my finger off. Maybe I ought to explain. I cut up a chicken for baking, scrubbed some potatoes and washed a head of lettuce for a salad, and all the time I was dreading Laurel getting home because I knew that when she did I'd have to look at her and honestly I didn't know if I could do that. It was bad enough that I was even hoping David would get home before her, not because I wanted to see him (I didn't) but because I knew he would talk me down off my cliff if I let him; unfortunately, he picked that day to go out with friends after school, which meant that the time before Laurel walked in the door was an absolutely miserable two hours that took about 47 years. I had just decided to add some fresh asparagus to the meal and was cutting it up when Laurel strolled in with a cheery, "Hi mom!" I jumped about a foot and the (very sharp) knife I was using slid right into my left index finger. And I mean slid into my finger, as in I felt the blade scrape into the bone and I instantly started bleeding like a pig. "MOM!" Laurel cried, leaping to my side and turning on the cold water in the sink. I held my hand underneath the spray, clutching at it and watching the crimson swirl go down the drain. I felt very...outside myself as Laurel fluttered and gasped and said she was going to puke, and all I could do was nod dumbly when she said, "I don't think the bleeding's gonna stop on its own, mom. Oh my God, that's so gross. You better go to the ER." "But I have to finish making dinner," I said meekly, as though Laurel would have snapped and beaten me if I didn't feed her. "Gah! I'll finish cooking, not like I'm gonna eat after this! Go! Go!" I did as I was told, trembling from head to toe as I did – not because of the cut (it was a bleeder but I've had worse) but because she told me to and I was so damned scared of her that I'd have jumped off the roof if she'd have ordered me to do it. I slapped an old dish towel around it so I wouldn't bleed all over my car, marched myself out to the garage, and drove to the urgent care clinic near Southdale shopping mall. It was a very peculiar experience, sitting there in the lobby quietly bleeding while my mind ran a million miles an hour. In a way I was even glad I'd sliced myself like a ham because it got me away from the little girl who had suddenly become so unknowable and terrifying. A part of me knew it was silly to be so afraid of her but honestly I couldn't stop. After 20 minutes they took me back into the exam room, put in a couple of stitches, and gave me a prescription for an antibiotic; I HATE being on antibiotics because they give me the worst diarrhea (too much information again?) but I didn't utter a peep, I just took the scrip and drove to the Target just on the other side of the mall to get it filled. Another weird thing happened there, as I stood waiting silent and motionless for the pharmacist to give me my med. The sudden conviction hit me that this whole thing was entirely and completely my fault. All of it. David was treating me like a whore because I deserved to be treated that way. Tim had sworn off sex with me because I wasn't worth having sex with. Laurel had stolen his affections because I wasn't good enough to keep them. It was all me, all my fault, and I was getting exactly what I deserved. Now, coupled with my continuing terror of my daughter, this made me feel as bad as I ever have in my life. I felt like the lowest thing on the planet, the most shameful, most worthless, most disgusting person ever to walk or crawl. I felt ugly, stupid, senseless, awkward. I felt despicable and lowly. Tears were rolling down my face by the time I took the medication from the pharmacist, and she even asked me what was wrong. I was too low even to speak, I just shook my head and made my unsteady way out of the store, my vision so blurry from crying that I nearly collided with four or five people on the way. I made it to my car before I started blubbering, but as soon as the door closed I was wracked with sobs and a weird feeling of pain shooting up my spine that was so intense I couldn't even feel the cut on my finger. I held onto the steering wheel with both hands and wailed as the cold rain pummeled down on my car and people walking past in the parking lot gave me strange looks. Oddly, I felt a little better after that. Sometimes a good breakdown does wonders. By the time I got home I was still leery and nervous of Laurel and still pretty sure I had somehow fucked up and brought all this hell on myself, but I felt ten times better than I had before. I still felt edgy as anything when Laurel came running up to me and demanded to see my finger, and I still felt miserable when Tim hugged me, but I was strong enough that I didn't have another panic attack. Thank God for small favors, huh? I was exhausted from not having slept much the night before and having a heaping helping of stress all day long, so after a re-heated dinner and a little while reading a cheesy romance novel (oh bite me, like you don't have any guilty pleasures) I tried to go to sleep. I was almost there when Tim came in to go to bed, and that set off another flutter in my chest that I was coming to recognize as the first stage of panic. I went into the bathroom, got another Ativan, and managed to get to sleep. Thank God. May 29 When I woke up and marched down the stairs to make breakfast, I felt a lot stronger than I did the day before. I wasn't afraid of Laurel anymore; I thought she might hate me, given that I was married to the man she wanted, but I wasn't afraid of her. It didn't seem to me that the whole thing was my fault, though I thought some of it might be – maybe I just hadn't insisted hard enough that Tim stay physical with me. I didn't know, but I didn't feel bad. After a good night's sleep, I actually felt like the situation might be handleable. I'm not sure if "handleable" is a word, come to think of it, but you know what I mean. Laurel was excited about school coming to an end; this was their second to last week before summer vacation started, and Laurel was thrilled with the summer activities she had planned, not to mention the fact that this weekend was her last track meet of the year (unless she made the State tournament, which she thought she still had a good chance at, in which case she'd be running the first week of vacation). She was going to riding camp, wilderness camping in the Boundary Waters for a week and a half, white-water rafting in Jackson Hole...and David was looking at her with undisguised contempt. "Jesus, could you be more pathetic?" he asked her finally. "You're like a walking advertisement for Teen Spirit." David's not much of a one for organized activities. Laurel just sneered at him. "Well I was thinking of sitting around on my butt all summer getting high with a bunch of losers but I don't want you to accuse me of being a copycat." "Enough from both of you!" Tim interjected on his way out the door, giving both kids an equally stern look. I have to admit I thought it was remarkable that he could be doing what he was doing with Laurel and still treat her the same as David when they were both at fault for something; oh, don't get me wrong, I still thought he was a perverted son of a bitch, but at least he was a fair one. "I'm tired of you two arguing all the time. You're brother and sister and I expect you to treat each other decently, all right?" Neither David nor Laurel answered, and so I kissed Tim on the cheek and sent him on his way. I did it automatically, without even thinking, and the weird thing was that it didn't even feel grotesque, the way it had the night before. It was just...Tim, and I was just kissing him goodbye the way I did every day. It was just normal. I didn't realize until after he was out the door what I'd done, and I marveled at myself for being able to do it. Laurel left a few minutes later and she got a kiss and a hug too, same as always, as she ran out the door to catch her bus. David watched all this, of course, and when we were alone he said, "So you're feeling better, I see." "I'm...stronger, I guess. That's fair to say." "Do you feel like talking about it now?" I shrugged, even though a twitter of nervousness rippled through me at the thought of actually discussing things in detail with him. "Well not right now, you have to go to school." "This afternoon? Before Laurel gets home?" "We'll see. I'm not sure I'm that strong yet." He stood as he downed the last of his milk. "You'll need to deal with it sooner or later, mom. This situation isn't going anywhere. Dad and Laurel are still doing what they're doing." I paused. I didn't want to ask he question, but I had to. "Are you sure? The camera..." "I took the camera out of her room. I don't leave it in there all the time, just once in a while. I don't want it to be found." "So you don't know..." He gave a soft chuckle, more of a dismissive exhalation than anything else. "Why would you think they stopped?" On that note, he left me alone. In the morning I talked to Sue and a few girlfriends. Patty had another date with Maria scheduled for that night, and they were both practically in heat; they had a nice dinner at Maria's place planned, but Patty was pretty sure there wouldn't be much food eaten. Pussy, yes, lots of it, but not food. I cleaned, went to the post office, called the repairman about the water heater that had been acting weird, and was generally productive... Until that is, around noon, when a damned fool idea hit me. Isn't it funny how the really foolish ideas always seem so obviously foolish later on, but sound like such good thinking at first? This was definitely one of those situations. The whole thing turned out to be so embarrassing, but...well, my idea was that I would seduce Tim. I would show him I was a great wife, a great lover, someone worthy of his respect and adoration – and his fidelity. I would fuck his brains out. I would show him I was better than any little underage bimbo could ever be – especially our daughter – and when I was done with him he'd never even look at another pussy but mine ever again. It honestly seemed like a good idea at the time, and I was convinced it would work. I didn't have a shadow of a doubt. I would recapture my husband, rescue my daughter, save my marriage and extricate myself from the fix I was in with David with a single night of unbridled marital passion. What could possibly go wrong? I decided I'd begin by making Tim's favorite dinner: moussaka with eggplant (not my favorite but Tim loves it) with a tomato and feta salad, crusty Italian bread, a nice Argentinean Malbec, and for dessert some little fried honey balls called loukoumathes. Candles, some soft music... Of course, this meant that the kids couldn't be around for dinner, so I called them on their cells and told them to find somewhere else to eat. Kind of a jerk move at such short notice, I know, but I felt I was justified – and besides, neither of them minded. Laurel seemed to guess right away that I was planning a romantic dinner and she wished me luck with what sounded like sincerity; I accepted it with what sounded like grace. David just laughed and said he'd be home about nine. I spent the rest of the afternoon making the perfect dinner, the perfect setting, and the perfect me – I spent a long time on my hair and my makeup, and I wore exactly what I did on my date with David: the slinky red dress, the hooker shoes, and not a damned thing else. I know it should have made me feel guilty to wear that dress to seduce my husband, given what else had happened when I wore it, but it didn't occur to me. I was, to put it simply, focused. And I was positive it would work. Tim called to say he'd be fifteen minutes late because he was in a meeting that ran late, which was fine. I used the time to put finishing touches on the table settings. The shades were pulled, the candles were lit, the silver was glistening, and soft, sexy jazz was playing when Tim drove up. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, posed just exactly so, a seductive smile on my face and one hand draped with studied casualness over a chair. Tim opened the door, started to say hi, and then froze, a puzzled and pleased expression on his face. "Oh...well hello." "Hello," I replied, sashaying across the room. I pressed my body against his...and then took his briefcase from him. "Come on in, I have some wine ready and the moussaka is almost done." "Moussaka? What's the occasion?" "Mmmm, no occasion, sweety. Can't a wife cook for her husband?" He smiled. "Well you won't hear me complaining. And you look fantastic." I did a little runway twirl and walked off to pour him a glass of wine – and, of course, to let him look at my ass. I had a woman's ass, not Laurel's flat little thing, and I knew I looked fantastic. And furthermore, I knew Tim would be drooling. "By the way, the kids won't be joining us. They've made other plans for dinner." "No kidding," he chuckled as he sat at the table. When I turned around with a glass of his favorite wine, he was wearing an expression of mostly-concealed curiosity, like he couldn't quite figure out my angle. Well, I said to myself, that was all right. It would become apparent to him soon enough! I handed him his wine – leaning over and giving him a look at my girls as I did – and then went back to the oven to check the moussaka. I returned with the salads and snuggled down in the chair I had carefully placed next to his. "Well this is fantastic," he said after a bit. "Are you sure it's not my birthday or something?" "Well...I'll have a present for you later, but it's not your birthday." He laughed, but I detected a note of unease in it. I didn't let it bother me though – I had no doubt he'd succumb to me in due time and forget all about his little girls. We made some chitchat until the moussaka was ready to serve, and I didn't let the fact that he seemed uncomfortable bother me. I started getting a little uneasy myself as dinner wore on...and "wore on" is a deliberate choice of words. Tim was uneasy and it showed. I was expecting him to be looser by this time, anticipating an evening of wild sex with his gorgeous wife. Even if he didn't walk in the door wanting it, I thought any man would be lubricated by great food, good wine and the prospect of pussy. Apparently I was wrong. By the time dessert rolled around, I knew things weren't going to be as easy as I'd thought. I hadn't given up – not by a damned sight – but I knew we wouldn't be rushing up to bed from the dinner table, much less fucking ON the dinner table like I'd imagined. Some dancing might do the trick...yes, slow dancing, moving together to soft jazz, me pressing my softness against his hardness...him smelling my hair and my arousal...my hands on him, his on me...that would do it. No doubt about that. "Well," he said with feigned reluctance as I cleared away the dessert dishes, "I have some work I need to do. There was this meeting at the office that ran late..." "Oh, no, let's dance," I urged softly, taking his hand across the table. "It's been ages since we danced together, hasn't it?" "Well...yes. I mean, I don't even know if I can remember the last time..." "Come on then," I whispered, standing and tugging him. After a moment he got up, looking a bit green around the gills. A flicker of irritation crossed my mind – Christ, what was he so scared about? Was I that ugly? I pushed it aside though; I'd still get him. He was just nervous because it had been so long since he'd been with a real woman, that was all. He'd get over it when I got him hard and he slid into me – no girl could compare to a woman with experience and determination! We moved into the living room and I moved into his arms. It was dark, lit only by the lights of the stereo, and I put myself against him the way I used to do when we were dating, my arms around his back, my head nestled into his chest, my breasts pillowed out against his ribs. We used to dance like this all the time...except that then he didn't have the nervous, awkward feel that was coming off of him in waves now. He held me like I was made of porcelain, his hands well above my waist, and he barely moved at all. And I felt absolutely no stirring whatsoever in his pants. After three songs, even I began to get the hint that I wasn't getting anywhere with this. The thought made me cringe inside – I had absolutely not been prepared to fail, and this was stinging. As I shuffled slowly and halfheartedly in his arms it occurred to me that if I were Laurel, or one of his girlfriends, he would be hard as a rock right now. He would have his hands all over me and urging me to my knees to take him into my mouth and get him wet so he could fuck me right here on the floor, fuck me like a slut... No. I was better than that. I had to be better than that. I took him by surprise when I started pushing him backward. He let me guide him, not completely sure what I had planned, and when the backs of his knees met the edge of the sofa he sat down abruptly. I was down in a flash, on my knees and tugging at his belt and his zipper, loosening his pants. "Honey..." he began, but I shushed him with a hand across his lips as I yanked his underwear down over his hips. His cock was in front of me, timid and flaccid and useless, but I didn't hesitate. I knew how to get a cock hard – I knew it better than some ignorant little teenage bitch, and I sure knew it better than my own daughter! I put my mouth on it, taking it past my lips. My tongue met the velvety softness of the head and I flicked at it with the tip, caressing the hole and working underneath the crown in the way I knew men adored... Nothing. "Oh...Angela..." He sounded vaguely worried. I ignored him. I took the whole thing into my mouth, burying my nose in his pubic hair and sucking, licking, rolling it against lip and tongue a cheek, then slowly let my mouth off of it, then back down again. I pulled my tight little dress down over my shoulder and let my breasts free, knowing that my pale skin would glow in the faint stereo light... A twitch. A shiver, perhaps. The ghost of excitement. That was all the encouragement I needed (and it was all I got, because the tiny, worried sounds my husband was making were anything but encouraging). I sucked, licked, teased his balls with my fingertips. When that didn't make him any harder I lifted his cock and took his balls into my mouth, one after the other, as I gazed up at him lustfully... It was pretty dark, but I'd almost swear the expression on his face was anxious and a bit miserable. "Honey...I don't know...I'm sorry..." And that was when it hit me. I had made the biggest jackass out of myself that I had ever done in my life. It's odd how clear it all was in retrospect, how obvious that my little plan stood no chance of working. If Tim had wanted me, he'd have taken me some time in the last ...what, five or six years since the last time we did it? He didn't want me, and so he didn't take me. He wanted teenagers. He wanted our daughter. And here I was, dressed like a desperate middle aged slut with his limp cock in my mouth. Humiliation? You're soaking in it. The worst part is that I didn't stop when I realized it. I mean, I should have, but the humiliation was just too intense to let me cut the humiliation short. Again, nonsensical, but then I suppose you're used to that by now. It had been a nonsensical few days. And so I carried on, sucking my husband's cock, sucking his balls, licking him, moaning, telling him how good he tasted. I got him to about half mast, but he only stayed there for a few seconds before fading away again. Honestly, I think I'd still be there, sucking like an idiot, if he hadn't put his hand on my cheek and said, in a voice hollow with genuine sorrow, "I'm sorry, honey." I paused for a long heartbeat, his limpness still in my motionless mouth, and then slowly pushed myself back, glad of the darkness in the room as the miserable gut- punch of failure landed on me. I was an idiot. Pure and simple, I was an idiot. I couldn't look at him; I just kept my eyes on the persistently soft cock that was the symbol of my foolishness until, after a few moments, he moved his hands over it defensively. "Honey, I'm so sorry..." I interrupted him with some kind of a noise that didn't reach the level of a word. It was somewhere between a sigh and a moan and a sob (though I wasn't crying) and while you couldn't look it up in the dictionary, I think my meaning was pretty plain. "Honey..." I just shook my head as I pulled my dress back up to cover myself. I couldn't say a word. "I'm really sorry, it's just..." I stood slowly and began to walk to the stairs. "Baby...can we please talk about this?" I paused at the foot of the stairs and managed to say, "Would you mind washing the dishes?" I was amazed at how completely ordinary my voice sounded. It was almost as though I wasn't just completely and utterly humiliated. "Um...sure. Honey?" "What?" "I'm sorry." Another heartbeat, and I pronounced the simple epitaph of my sex life with my husband: "OK." I went up the stairs with legs as heavy as lead, feeling as utterly and completely stupid as I ever have in my life. I felt about an inch tall. I wanted to find a deep, dark hole, crawl inside, and never come out again. What a fool I had been. What a complete fool. In my bedroom I sat on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands, naked, staring at the floor and wondering at myself, at the sheer stupidity I had displayed and how completely I had humiliated myself. I knew that... Honestly, I don't even want to talk about it anymore. I know I said I'd come clean about everything, and I tried, but this thing just hurts too goddamned much, even now. May 30 It was 2:48 AM when I woke up from a dream I can't remember. One second I was sound asleep and the next I was wide awake, eyes open, staring at the red numbers on the clock and feeling the most profound sense of relief I think I have ever felt in my life. I had given my marital bed every single chance in the world, and it had failed. It had failed not because I lacked the desire or the ability, but because of Tim. He wanted something I couldn't give him anymore – youth – and that was no fault of mine. I had done my best. I was free. I can't even start to tell you how that thought made me feel. I owed Tim nothing now – sexually at least. Did I owe him anything else? Was I to stay married to him? Was I to be a good and dutiful wife? I didn't know, but at that moment I can truthfully say it didn't matter either. Those things could sort themselves out later, and they would. I didn't need to figure everything out now. I could take things one step at a time, because one step at a time was fast enough. And if something happened between Tim and Laurel in that time...well, then something would happen between them. I couldn't stop it. And tomorrow, I was going to let my beautiful dog Charlie fuck my ever loving brains right out of my head. If Tim had shown the slightest interest in me – even if he hadn't been able to maintain an erection, if he'd have at least gotten one – then I wouldn't have been able to go to Charlie. But now there was no reason in the whole world to deny myself the pleasure and the completeness my dog brought me. I went back to sleep with a smile on my face. Tim looked sheepish when I came into the kitchen that morning, but I was all smiles. I didn't feel great – the worries were still there, for all my bravado – but I did feel as though an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. In fact, I felt younger than I had since before I got pregnant for the first time. I guess that's what a whole world of new opportunities opening itself in front of you can do. Tim seemed immensely relieved that I wasn't angry at him, and he relaxed visibly when I kissed him good morning on the cheek. Laurel shot me a significant look, and I knew that my husband would fill my daughter in on my abortive sexual efforts ("All I could think about was you, baby...") but what difference did that make? If that was the road they both wanted to travel, then so be it. David shot me a significant look too. I didn't even need to tell him what had happened. I was sure he had known how it would go down as soon as I told him about my bright idea the day before. "Mom, are you coming to the track meet on Saturday?" Laurel asked. "I sure am," I said brightly. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." "Oh, great!" she said excitedly. "You and daddy will both be there and –" "Oh crap!" I interjected as my memory suddenly kicked into gear. "I can't! I promised I'd help grandpa set up his financial software on Saturday!" And the thing was, I wasn't even lying. My dad was trying to start a small part-time business doing custom woodworking, and he was overdue on getting his financial end in order. He was going to be audited, and if he didn't have everything straightened out within the next few days, he was going to be in Dutch with the IRS. It was only because of all the stress over the past few days that it had slipped my mind at all. "I'm sorry, honey!" "Oh...well... all right." She didn't look too terribly disappointed, truth be told. "Well, daddy will be there, right?" "I sure will," Tim nodded around a mouthful of jelly toast. He swallowed, washed it down with a swig of coffee, and added, "And I was thinking – since we're going to be all the way up in Hibbing anyway, maybe we could swing by the North Shore? Maybe even spend Saturday night in Duluth." "Oh, wow! I'd love that!" Laurel said, genuinely enthused. The North Shore of Lake Superior was one of Laurel's favorite places in the world, true enough, but I wasn't foolish enough to believe that that was the reason she was excited. Not today I wasn't that foolish. The weird thing was, I found I didn't mind that much. Oh, it stung, and it made me a little woozy, but I was nowhere near the rage or the panic I'd have felt before. I had recognized my limitations, I guess...for the moment. Later it was a different story, but for the moment I was able to accept that my husband and my daughter would, in every likelihood, be sharing a bed on Saturday night. Isn't it strange how the mind can become accustomed to almost anything? A few minutes later Tim was out the door, and I was honestly thinking mostly about Charlie screwing me later on. It had been a while; I wasn't really horny, but I did need it. I needed to feel it, to know that it was something I was doing because I wanted to. I think most of all I needed it because I needed to prove to myself that my twat didn't die the night before. Laurel ran off to the bus, leaving just me and my son. I was expecting him to say something flip about me making a fool of myself last night, or maybe once more urge me to talk to him about what was going on. I was not, however, prepared for what he really did say. "Mom," he told me casually as he finished his cornflakes, "when Dad and Laurel are gone this weekend, I'm taking you to bed." To be continued... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world contract HIV every year. You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 62