3 comments/ 14496 views/ 2 favorites Memento By: rachelg (C) 2007 Rachel Gumm. You may freely distribute this story digitally, but only in full, crediting me as the author. I welcome feedback, and try my best to reply to it all. You can e-mail me. * This isn't an excuse. I'm not ashamed of my actions, really. I did it, and that's just a part of who I am. You should know my reckless behaviour by now, and I'm not going to apologise for something I did several years ago that didn't harm anybody. And don't tell me I'm a victim, because I made a choice. I'm the one who did it. This is just an explanation. I feel I owe you that much. How it happened was I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, fumbling through my cardboard box of restraints. Joel, my roommate at the time, was standing by the doorway, digital camera in hand, watching me with an enthusiasm he wasn't very good at hiding. He'd known about my sexuality since a few months beforehand. That I enjoyed being tied up, I mean. He also knew I was bisexual, but that never seemed to matter by comparison. That was more a romantic orientation than a sexual one, anyway. Sexually, I'm submissive, and that's pretty much all there is to it. Joel wasn't into that sort of thing, and I didn't see him that way anyway, but this wasn't sex. This was something more than that. I felt like one of those middle aged guys having a midlife crisis, only I'm a woman and I was only in my twenties. The problem was mortality. I know that death's necessary for life, for each species to evolve, for us to get to the state we're in at the moment where we have a society and spend our time listening to music and watching films instead of being hunted by predators. I've always accepted that one day I will die. The thing is, I've always had this inescapable feeling in the back of my mind that I should do something first. I'm not sure what it is. I think that's part of the problem. I knew my body would peak long before my mind. Having a relatively high sex drive for a woman, I've always felt I should be making full use of it before it's too late and I cease to look particularly attractive. Sure, I always hoped that one day I'd settle down with the right person, and that I'd be content to do that. But at the time, I felt there was something I had to do first, to get out of my system, to say I've lived. To leave my mark on the world. The only problem was, I didn't know what that was. Sure, I'm reasonably attractive. I'm of average height, with pale skin and brown hair and eyes. Although my breasts are small, my curves look pretty neat. I watch what I eat. I've got a black spandex catsuit somewhere, skin tight. I'm not even sure where I keep it now, but at the time, it was always in my bedside drawer, next to my socks and tights. I loved how I looked in that catsuit, and the few lovers I'd had at around that time loved it even more. The problem was, it wasn't enough. Just intimate moments with a handful of men and women. Sure, I could have gone clubbing in it, been seen in it, but I didn't. I would still have faded from everyone's memory within the blink of an eye. I even considered trying to get a job as a fetish model, but realistically, I'm not that attractive, only average. That's where Joel came in. Getting mildly drunk one night, we got talking about mortality and what we'd like to do before we die. I told him all this, about how I wanted to show off my body while people would still want to see it. I even told him about my stupid modelling idea. That's when he told me about Usenet. He told me about a place where I could publish photos of myself. Erotica. Where I wouldn't get paid, but people would appreciate what I did, even if I wasn't exactly Jewell Marceau. "So when do I start taking photos?" Joel was still standing in the doorway, pretending to be blase about our amateur photo shoot. It's weird, had I been living with another woman I probably would have felt uncomfortable asking her to do this favour for me, but I got the impression most guys would see it as its own reward. "First, you need to leave for a minute while I get changed." I jumped off the bed. Joel looked disappointed. "You mean I don't get to see you naked?" "No." I smiled, flattered, as I pulled my catsuit out of the drawer and held it up over my clothes. "You get to see me in this, like everyone else." "Not even as a reward?" Joel's tone of voice was playful, but I could tell he really was hoping I'd agree to it. That's what made it flattering. "Maybe afterwards," I relented. "But only as a thank you." His eyes lit up. "And it doesn't mean we're having sex or anything either," I added, just in case he was getting the wrong impression. By the time I called for Joel to come back in, I had everything ready. I was wearing the catsuit, which covered my entire body up to my neck. I'd managed to use a handful of my small padlocks to attach one end of a piece of chain to my bed's headrest, and the other end to the ankle cuffs I'd put on. I'd fumbled a little taking out the keys due to my gloved hands, but I'd managed it. All that was left was for Joel to complete my captivity, finishing what I'd started. I guided him through padlocking my wrist cuffs behind me, to the same piece of chain, next to my feet. He made a pretty tight hogtie, and the thought of not being able to escape without his help made me tingle. He even picked up all the keys and put them in his pocket without any prompting, like a true dom. The next to last item was the spandex hood, black to match my catsuit. I had hoped to get a proper zentai suit with a built-in hood, but it wasn't very practical and I couldn't afford it anyway. Joel carefully placed the hood on my head and zipped it up behind me. It wasn't my sort of thing, really, but I wasn't about to send the world pictures of myself all tied up if I was easily identifiable. For all I knew, our neighbours could have been subscribed to that newsgroup. The very last item was the bright pink ball gag. I had to make sure Joel knew exactly what he was doing before he fastened it around me. Thankfully, he could understand me despite the hood muffling my voice slightly. "What are you going to do next?" I asked, to make sure he remembered. "I'm going to put the gag on you, then take pictures of you squirming for a few minutes. Then I'll post them to the newsgroup, and once that's done, I'll untie you." That was the moment, right there. No going back. "Thank you," I said, naive young woman that I was. "You're welcome." I couldn't see very well through the hood, but managed to open my mouth pretty quickly once I felt the rubber ball pressing against my lips. Within seconds it was tightly strapped in place, and there was nothing else I could do except pose. This was the part where I thought I'd chicken out. I'd made up my mind since he first told me about Usenet. I'd thought long and hard about it, and I'd made my decision. I didn't want to let myself change my mind at the last minute only to change it back again. I'd taken precautions to ensure my anonymity, wearing the spandex hood and setting up a disposable e-mail account, and I was going to go through with it whether I changed my mind or not. In some ways, it was even better than sex. It wasn't an intimate moment between two lovers. It was more than that: it was opening up to the whole world. It was baring your soul for everyone to see, showing people who you really were, your innermost desires and fantasies. And that's the one thing I hadn't counted on: desire. Whenever I had thought about this moment, when I was planning it, I always assumed I'd be almost clinical about it. I was with my roommate, not a lover, and we certainly weren't having sex. He wasn't even touching me. I hadn't anticipated how damn horny I'd get. For the first few minutes I managed to content myself with squirming around on the bed, testing my boundaries. I couldn't even move to the foot of the bed. The chain was too short. I just writhed around, grunting in mild frustration as I mustered the effort to turn onto my front, my other side, my back, all the while listening out for the next click of Joel's camera. The more I struggled, the more aroused I became, knowing Joel was the only person who could release me. Knowing he wouldn't, not until he'd finished taking the most degrading photos of me and showed them off to the world. Slowly, I let my hands creep down my back and between my legs. I gently started stroking my pussy from behind. Of course, Joel took pictures of me pleasuring myself too. I'd told him to take pictures of me, and he didn't realise I hadn't intended to start groping myself. This wasn't part of the plan, but he had no way to know that. I could just about make out the outline of his body as he leaned closer to my crotch to take a close-up. It was so degrading, so embarrassing, but that only turned me on even more, knowing everyone in the world who wanted to would see how damn horny I was, how helpless I'd let myself become. And that just made me want to pleasure myself even more. I started moaning, half with the pleasure of being in the moment, and half in revulsion of what was happening to me. Joel probably couldn't tell if I was trying to express how happy and content I was or if I had changed my mind and wanted him to stop. But then again, neither could I. "No use protesting now. You've already given me strict orders to take photos of whatever you do, then upload them for everyone to see before I let you go again. So if you're trying to tell me to stop, it's too late, you already told me not to do that." He was right. He was only doing exactly what I'd told him to. I was annoyed at myself for telling him not to let me change my mind, but it wasn't his fault. I let out a muffled scream of frustration before giving up and going back to stroking myself. I didn't anticipate what happened next. Joel seemed to get into the spirit of his role. I felt something soft land in front of my crotch. "There you go." Joel's voice was strong and firm. Condescending, even. The voice of someone in control. "If you want to pleasure yourself so much, try fucking that." It was a language I'd never heard him use before. Sure, he swore occasionally, but he never talked to me like that, talking down to me like some sort of pet. I began to wonder if he genuinely had dominating urges after all, and he'd just never told me. I felt the soft object with my gloved hands. It was my pillow. I pulled it between my legs and squeezed them around it. After a short moment of effort, I finally managed to press it against my groin. I was beyond the point of caring what anyone would think of this anonymous stranger, but not beyond the point of being turned on by the thought of people seeing how humiliated I was. I slowly started moving my pussy back and forth, pushing it further into the soft surface. I thrust my groin harder and harder into the pillow. Between the humiliation, the inability to escape, the realisation that Joel was starting to get into his role, the feeling of the soft pillow pressing against my skin, and the feeling of the spandex catsuit gently covering my whole body, stretching with each new contortion, I became lost in the pleasure of the moment. I came. To my surprise, Joel took my gag off. I didn't hesitate to start pleading with him. "Please don't publish those pictures! Please don't show them to anyone! I made a mistake! I know what I told you before, about not letting me change my mind, but that was just about me being tied up and you taking photos of that. I didn't know I'd get carried away and start..." I cringed at admitting what I'd done. "...pleasuring myself. Please, I'm begging you, don't show anyone those photos! I'll make it worth your while, I'll do anything for you, just don't show them to anyone!" It seemed a lifetime before Joel replied. He simply said "Open." "What?" I asked, confused. Before I had time to realise what he'd ordered me to do, the gag was back in place, pressing the wet, black spandex of the hood back inside my mouth. I shouted muffled protests, but it was no use. I squirmed with absolute sincerity for the first time in my life, genuinely trying to escape, but I already knew it was impossible. "I was going to let you talk freely, but if you're just going to beg me to go against your own wishes, that you made when you were of perfectly sound judgement, then I'm afraid I'll have to leave you gagged." I screamed again, almost sobbing into the gag, as I frantically writhed around on my own bed. "I suggest you relax," advised Joel. "I should be done in about twenty minutes, and then we can look at the pictures of you together as they appear online. I'm sure you'll get lots of fan mail." I let out a whole string of loud protests, one after the other, as I heard him leave the room. It was no good. He'd gone off to do exactly what I'd ask him to do, and it was all my fault. I was consumed by genuine frustration about being bound and helpless for the first time in my life, and I finally recognised the strange feeling it was giving me. Despite everything, or because of everything, I'd become horny again. With no one to watch this time, I tugged the pillow back between my legs. With nothing else to do until Joel came back, I figured I might as well enjoy myself. Memento Mori “What a lovely purse!” Monique Marshall glanced up from her plate of hors’ oeuvres at the broad-faced, big-boned, bovine lady in the fabulous Gabriel Scarvelli gown. She recognized her immediately, of course. Anyone would. Unfortunately, it was too late to pretend not to have seen her and quietly slink away, and, of course, ignoring her wasn’t an option. Gertrude Winn, social matron par excellence, was a pain in the ass, sure, but she had divorced her way high enough up the social food chain that one didn’t slight her. Instead, Monique smiled. Besides, the older woman’s praise was welcome. Although Monique had heard this compliment many times during the past year, she never tired of it. On the contrary, she loved to hear such kind words, for they made her think of Richard. Dear, sweet, generous Richard Hunter had been the love of her life, before the heart attack had taken him away from her forever, leaving her with only precious memories of him--and one present as unique and loving as Richard himself had been. “Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it,” Gertrude remarked. “Do you mind?” Monique handed her the purse. “Not at all.” The matron examined the material, rubbing the soft tan leather gently between her thumb and forefinger. “The quality is magnificent,” she declared, “absolutely magnificent.” Monique smiled. “Thank you.” “Most drawstring purses I’ve seen are ornamented with diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, or other jewels, and most are velvet or satin, but yours is just--leather?” “Something like that.” “Well, I’ve never seen anything like it,” Gertrude repeated, returning the purse to its owner. Monique’s smile broadened. “I’d be surprised if you have. It’s one of a kind.” The matron pursed her lips, her brows rising. “Ooohhh! Gucci?” Monique shook her head. “Versace?” Again, Monique shook her head. The socialite’s eyes sparkled. “Surely it’s not Scarvelli?” “No, it’s not Scarvelli, either,” Monique agreed. Gertrude sighed, admitting defeat. “Well? Tell me. Whom are you wearing?” “Hunter.” As she thought of Richard, of his bright, warm eyes and his friendly, open smile, Monique fought a pang of grief. Richard Hunter hadn’t been a famous fashion designer like Guccio Gucci, Gianni Versace, or Gabriel Scarvelli. He hadn’t been a celebrity, of fashion or anything else. He’d been only a loving man of some means who’d loved Monique with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind, and all his strength. He’d also been the most generous man she’d ever known. When she’d confided in him about wanting to change her sex, he’d not only understood, but he’d also encouraged her, even at a cost of several thousands of dollars of his own money, paying for the estrogen, the voice coaching lessons, the electrolysis, the operation that had reduced the size of her larynx, allowing her a more feminine voice, and had offered to pay for the sex-change surgery as well. Monique had no doubt that Richard would have done so, too, had she gone through the final stage of her transformation rather than having elected, at the last moment, to retain her male genitals. Although she’d regarded herself as a woman since her earliest years as a boy, she just couldn’t bring herself to part, once and forever, with her cock and balls. Richard had understood that decision, too, and he’d remained loyal to her. He’d been generous and gracious to the end. Even after his death, he’d demonstrated his unfailing love and devotion to her. Gertrude frowned. “Whom did you say, dear?” “Hunter.” “Hunter?” Gertrude looked puzzled. “Is he someone new?” “No,” Monique said. “He’s not a fashion designer.” Gertrude’s eyebrows rose. “Not a designer? Don’t be ridiculous, dear. No one but a Versace, a Gucci, or a Scarvelli could possibly have fashioned such an exquisite purse as this!” “He was a banker,” Monique said. “You won’t tell me, then?” “I did tell you, Madame Winn. My late love of my life, Richard Hunter, was a financier.” Gertrude smiled. “Oh, I see,” she declared. “He had the purse designed for you.” Inwardly, Monique shrugged. “In a manner of speaking, I guess that’s true,” she admitted. Gertrude looked vindicated. “Who was the designer?” she asked. This time, her tone made it clear that she would brook no coyness. She expected an answer. Monique felt like telling Madame to go fuck herself, but Richard had wanted her to enjoy the finer things in life, even after his death, and he’d worked hard so that she could enjoy the not-so-polite world of polite society as a proper lady. She wasn’t about to ruin her career as a social butterfly before it started, not after the sacrifices, financial and otherwise, that Richard had made her on behalf, so she could attend just such affairs as the debutante ball of Gertrude Winn’s one and only daughter, Louise. She mentioned the designer’s name, and the matron looked suitably shocked. “My God!” she murmured. Recovering quickly, she added, “I should have guessed. Only he could have made such an exquisite purse.” Monique smiled. The designer certainly was among the world’s best, but, to give credit where credit was due, he hadn’t exactly turned a sow’s ear into a silk purse. The amazingly supple, tan-colored leather purse was a work of art, no doubt, but its elegance owed as much to the material of which it had been made as to its designer’s unparalleled skill. In having supplied his scrotum as the material from which the drawstring purse was to be fashioned, Richard Hunter had assured that Monique’s handbag would, indeed, be one of a kind, both a fashion accessory par excellence and an apt and proper memento mori of her wealthy lover’s devoted munificence. Gertrude whispered in Monique’s ear. “Treasure it, my child.” “I do,” the teary-eyed transsexual assured her. “I always will.” Mementos This is a work of fiction. No actual people were cheated on, or harmed in the writing of this story. This is meant strictly as entertainment, so please enjoy reading it. I would like to thank KnightShado2 for reviewing the story, and giving me useful feedback. ***** Present day, driving north on Interstate 30 ***** Did you ever have that feeling that something was wrong, but you couldn't figure out what it was? I've had that feeling for the last 150 miles, and it is pissing me off. My name is John Moretti. I am 30, married, and living in a suburb of North Dallas called Plano. My college buddies picked some place in Arkansas to go fishing this year, and I am just starting my third hour of driving, and getting close to Oklahoma City, which is where a bunch of us are going to meet up, and caravan the rest of the way to Arkansas for a fishing trip. We do this every year, and part of the joy of this is the road trip. We all went to Oklahoma University (Go Sooners!), and I look forward to my trip with my fraternity brothers every year. My wife went with us the first two years of our marriage, but didn't go last year. There are only two of us in the van right now, Antonio Perez and myself, but after stopping in Oklahoma City, there will be four of us. I still can't figure out what is wrong. I go over the stuff in the van once more in my mind: Suitcase and Overnight – Check. Laptop – Check. (OK, I am a workaholic... Deal with it!) Fishing Gear – Check. Coolers – Check, Check, and Check. Beer – No, but we'll get that in Arkansas. Food – Check. Pork Rinds – Check. (OK, SOME people actually think this is food, but not me.) Charcoal – Check. Grill – No, but each cabin is supposed to have a grill. More Beer – No. (See answer above) First Aid Kit – Check. Road Emergency Kit – Check. It was all there. I then went through my home. Did I remember to lock the door? Did I leave the stove on or something? Did I leave the toilet seat up? Nothing! Everything was OK. And I had gone through the list thirty times since kissing Ellen goodbye at noon and leaving home. Something was wrong, but I couldn't put a finger on it. I went over work related things. I had filled out the vacation slip, I had given my location, and my cell number to my boss, so that he could reach me. I even had my laptop. I then thought about Ellen, my wife. Everything was how it was every other year that I had gone on one of these trips. I couldn't find anything in the last week of so that would indicate that something unusual was happening. For just a moment, I had a thought, and then I dismissed it immediately, was Ellen cheating on me? She knew I had become jealous when Ellen received extra attention at a restaurant, or at a dinner party. But after being married, Ellen had always blown the advances off, and had become an ornament on my arm. I couldn't even fathom that this woman would stray. I sent a clear message when I called off the wedding a month before we were married. ***** four years ago ***** Ellen had tried to have one last fling with an old boyfriend, Brian Jennings. They went out of one last date to say goodbye. I expected her to be mine once she has said "Yes" and put the engagement ring on her finger. I heard about the 'date', and had slipped into the bar of the restaurant and watched. If galled me to see her kissing another man passionately with my engagement ring on her finger. After the third kiss, I interrupted the date, and asked for the engagement ring back. I held out my hand. "It's very simple Ellen. You can have your final date with him, or any other men, but not with my ring on your finger." She pulled the ring off. "But we WILL get married. I just need to say goodbye." I continued to hold my hand out. "If I ask you to be my wife again, and you say 'Yes', we will get married. But, I will have to ask you again. The engagement is off." "WHAT!" I calmly looked at her, "What's wrong? I said that you could go out on your date. A single woman can go out on a date with anyone she chooses. If you want to be a single woman, and not a fiancée, just give me back the ring, and we will not be engaged. You will be single again, and say goodbye to him, in any way that you wish to." She just stared at me with her mouth open. I grabbed the ring from her fingers and turned to her ex-boyfriend, "Brian, Please excuse me. I didn't want to cause you to any trouble. Enjoy your date." I walked away. I was clear and precise, and stood my ground. To me, a woman or a man with a ring on their fingers was announcing to others that they had removed themselves from buffet of pleasure for others, so to speak. Before I got to the door of the restaurant, a frantic Ellen caught up with me. "No John, please don't do this, I want to be married to you!" I turned around, "Ellen, you're causing a scene. Please go back to your date, and we'll talk later. You still need to say goodbye to all of your old boyfriends, don't you?" She looked over at her old flame, and back at me. "No, I love you, and only you. Please take me back. I promise! I am done with dating other men!" For the second time in my life, I went down on one knee, held out my hand with the ring in it, and asked Ellen to marry me. The diners at the restaurant applauded as she took the ring. I had held firm to my principles of honor and duty, and imposed my standard of faithfulness on our relationship. ***** Back to the present ***** For the thirty first time, nothing came up, and I was at a loss, because SOMETHING was wrong. I knew it, I just knew it. We were going past Norman, and I needed to start paying more attention to traffic, so I put my pondering at the back of my head. Antonio and I talked about meeting up with the other guys in Bricktown, the Oklahoma City's entertainment district. We were staying at the Renaissance which was in the heart of Bricktown. From my four years at OU, I knew this stretch of road, and where to go. One half hour later, we were checking in at that Renaissance, and putting our bags into our room. It was now a quarter past three o'clock. Our phone was blinking; Antonio looked over at me, and said two words, "Bricktown Brewery." I responded with "Toby Keith's". Antonio picked up the phone, tapped a few buttons, and responded, "Earl's Rib Palace". We both looked at each other and said "Tony beat us here, didn't he?" almost in unison. We both let out a deep sigh. When you roll with two Tony's, one becomes Tony, and the other becomes Antonio. I came with one called Antonio, because he was one year behind Tony, and Tony had "Tony" first. Antonio also took Italian for the first three years of college. Tony loved ribs, and anytime he got to pick the restaurant, it would be a rib joint. Tony had been the first to arrive today, so he got to pick the meeting place. I didn't mind eating ribs, but for a meeting place, I would have preferred a bar and grill. It nearing four o'clock, and I expected that the guys would be shuffling in for two to three hours. We could be hanging around at the bar while everyone arrived, and then we could figure out where to eat. Earl's was a rib joint, and to stick around a rib joint for three hours was going to get tedious. The first thing we needed to do would be to go to Earl's, find Tony wolfing down a plate of ribs, and get him to change the location. Antonio dropped his bag on the bed, "Think we can change his mind?" I dropped my bags beside my bed, "Only after he has finished his ribs. Since Toby Keith's is less than a block away, how about we work together on this one?" Antonio nodded, and we both left for Earl's. Once we were walking to Earl's, I figured it out. Well, I looked at the street sign, Johnny Bench Drive, and figured it out. Earl's and Toby Keith's were both on Johnny Bench drive, and that got me thinking about baseball. And then I thought about my baseball, and I knew it had been touched by someone. When I went to pull out my fishing tackle, I glanced at my baseball, and it was proudly displaying the signature of Nolan Ryan. That was the problem. It wasn't my Nolan Ryan baseball. This was my Pete Incaviglia baseball that Nolan Ryan happened to sign. It was a home run ball that Pete had hit during a game at Arlington Stadium in August of 1989. It wasn't thrown by Ryan, it was hit by Incaviglia, and I had caught it! ***** August 1989 ***** I was nine years old. To a little boy, sitting with your father in the outfield bleachers was heaven! It was just the two of us, my father, Parker Moretti, and me, his nine year old son, with his glove in the ready position. It was August, and it may have been over a hundred degrees that day, but I wouldn't remove my glove from my hand, even with sweat dripping out of it. I knew that I was going to catch a ball today, just like I knew that I was going to catch a ball every time we went to the stadium. I would go home disappointed, but saying to myself I had not tried hard enough. If I had not looked away in the fourth inning, it would have been my day to catch a ball. I had to be pure and focused on the game, and then, and only then, I would get my ball. I wouldn't leave my seat, and would not eat, and would never look away from the batter's box, once a batter stepped in. After the batter stepped into the batters box, I would go into my mantra, "HIT it to me. Hit IT to me. Hit it to ME." I would repeat my mantra over and over again. In the eight inning, Pete Incaviglia stepped into the box, and proceeded to swing for the bleachers, as he always did. I probably need to tell you who Pete Incaviglia is. In 1986, Pete Incaviglia became the 15th player to Major League History to debut in the show without ever playing a single game of minor league ball. That year, he set club records for home runs, and strike outs. I had seen Pete hit one past the outfield bleachers twice. He had actually hit the ball "out of the ballpark". He was a slugger, and my hero. On this at bat, Pete was patient, and started out ahead. This wasn't the classical Pete that I knew and loved. The pitcher's arm was fading, but I didn't know that. I just knew that my hero wasn't swinging at the pitches, like I knew he should. I mean, how could I catch a home run ball, if he didn't swing? When the count went to 2 and 0, Pete reeled back and ripped one, just foul. He then let another by and then fouled off a few more pitches. After the fifth foul ball, and at full count, the pitcher made a mistake, and threw a hanging slider that wouldn't drop, and Pete crushed it, right into my glove! Everything had paid off, my patience, my mantra, my glove, and I had my treasure. For the rest of the game, I studied the ball until I knew every stitch and every mark on it. My father took me after the game to the player's entrance to get it signed. I begged to policeman at the gate to ask Pete Incaviglia if he would sign the ball. There must have been something in my persistence, or in my big sad puppy eyes. But, after about a minute of two of pleading, he got a trainer to take the ball to the locker room to see if Pete would sign it. When the trainer came back, with a signed ball, I turned the ball around, and started crying. "This isn't my ball! Where's my ball! They took my ball Pa, I want MY BALL!" There were tears running down my cheeks, and my chin was quivering, and when the guard told us to move on, but I stood my ground. My father tried to point out the signature, which looked real, but I wasn't buying it. When the guard told us for the second time to move along, my father started to get angry with me, and pulled me away from the gate. My legs collapsed, and I fell as my father dragged me away. "It's got grass stains on it Pa! Grass stains! This isn't MY BALL!" My father stopped, and turned around and looked at me, and back at the guard. He then helped me up, and walked me over to the gate. "OK, son, Convince me." I was only nine years old, but I gave the best speech that I could. "The umpire threw it to the pitcher, and the pitcher pitched the ball, and Pete hit it, and I caught it. Pete Incaviglia ran the count to full, and fouled off many balls. The umpire had to give the pitcher a new ball after each foul ball. The ball Pete Incaviglia hit never touched the ground, Pa. It was only handled by the players. It never touched the grass Pa. It shouldn't have grass stains on it." I started to babble and repeat myself, but my father saw the truth in what I was saying, and knew I was right. He turned to the guard, "He's right, you know. That ball was only used for one pitch, and it was hit for a home run. The ball my son Johnny wants to take home with him is the home run ball that he caught in the outfield bleachers. I don't care if Pete Incaviglia has signed it, I want my son to get his ball back!" At this point, and for the rest of my life, my father became my hero. He had backed me up, a little nine year old, when grown men were telling him to do otherwise. He taught me to stand by my conviction, and on that day, he believed in me, and I was his conviction. Word went back to the locker room, about the kid who knew that the balls had been switched, and the next thing I knew, six balls were brought out for me to choose from. I ignored any signatures that the players had put on the balls, and I picked out the one with Nolan Ryan's signature on it. When I was asked to explain, I proceeded to describe the difference in the stitches, and the smudge on the ball where the bat had made contact. I even described where the Lena Blackburn's rubbing mud was caked on the ball, when the Umpire had prepped the ball before the game. I had gotten it right! Right down to the smudge, which showed three of the digits that partially identified Pete's bat model number. Pete had made contact in the sweet spot of the bat, and the markings were clearly visible. With wobble legs, I pressed the ball into my chest and let out wail. I never took my eyes off my ball as I described all details I knew about MY BALL. I handled it at if it was a sacred jewel. I must have gone on about that ball for five minutes. Then I finally looked up, there was six players in street clothes standing around smiling at me, including Pete Incaviglia. One turned to Pete, and said, "You gotta see if the ball matches the bat, Inky." Pa and I were invited in to the locker room, the sacred home of baseball, and we went to Pete's locker. Pete pulled the bat that he had used to hit the ball, and sat down. Sure enough, the bat actually had the markings smudged where it had made contact with the ball, and the smudges matched. There were several balls in the locker, and all were signed. Pete explained what had happened. After he had hit the game winning home run, he wanted to give out some signed balls to the fans on his way out of the stadium. He signed a half a dozen balls that he scrounged up, and put them in his locker before showering. When the trainer came in, Pete was in the shower, so he simply exchanged the home run ball for one of the signed balls. Pete apologized for the mix-up, and then signed the ball and the bat. My eyes couldn't stop watering as he handed both of them to me. I was in heaven for quite a while.I never remember being driven home, or being put to bed. I must have slept with that bat and ball for a week before my father came home with a ball holder, so that the smudge would not wear down. He even enjoyed telling the story to his friends. After a month, Pa convinced me to stop sleeping with the bat too. ***** Back to the present ***** It's a memory that will stick with me for life, and helped make me the man I have become. So you have to understand, it was not a Nolan Ryan baseball, it was a Pete Incaviglia home run baseball that I had caught. It was MY BALL, The ball that I had picked out, and it would always be displayed with Pete's signature proudly in front, and not Nolan's. I would have never have left the ball in that state. It had to have been looked at by someone else, and replaced. It had not registered consciously, but subconsciously in my mind, as I grabbed my fishing tackle from the shelf. The image was clear though, my eyes had seen Nolan Ryan's signature, and I would have never have left the ball in that position, ever! As I walked down Johnny Bench Drive, I was in a daze as these memories flooded back to me. I lagged behind Antonio, but kept up with him, as we neared Earl's Rib Palace. When Antonio pivoted and changed direction, I followed. When the scent of barbecue finally entered my consciousness, I woke up and quickened my pace. We entered, and found Tony and George, each with a plate of ribs in front of them. George's wife Diane was also there, along with her younger sister, Ashley. We said our "Hello's" and sat down. We argued a bit with Tony about moving to Toby Keith's, and Tony's made his feelings know by giving Ashley a twenty and asking her to get some more ribs. The rules were there, and Tony had gotten here first. Antonio got up and came back with two beers, and I slowly sipped mine, and pondered what to do about my ball. There was really not much I could do. I would feel silly driving back down to Dallas to fix a baseball on a trophy shelf. It would also not tell me what I wanted to know, which was: Who the hell was messing with my stuff? I kept pondering what to do, when George knocked me out of my funk. "John, are you going to become a sad drunk tonight?" "What?" "John, you've only had half a beer and you're getting moody. Snap out of it! Whatever is happening at the office, let it go. You're on vacation! Cheer up, and enjoy yourself." I nodded, perked up, and clinked bottles with George. What else could I do? I then had the thought that if someone had done something with my baseball, they might have done something with my fishing tackle, and THAT was something I had back at the hotel. I stood up, downed my beer, and excused myself, telling everyone that I had to check on something in the van. I ran into two other people on the way back to the hotel, but it was still early, around four thirty when I went through my tackle box. Sure enough, three lures were missing, two of the ones I had used to catch stripers with Ellen's boss Carl earlier this summer. I had used each of them to catch whoppers and Carl had come up short. What was worse, I was hoping to use those lures this weekend. I was pissed! I didn't want to replace the lures, which would have been easy. I wanted MY LURES! I had caught tournament sized stripers off of those lures, and Carl had witnessed it. It wasn't but ten seconds later that I had my keys in the ignition and turning over the engine. As I strapped on my seat belt, I had a moment of hesitation. I put my foot on the brake and a hand on the shifter and paused. Was I crazy? I was about to drive three hours back to Dallas to re-position a baseball, and find my missing lures. I would then have to drive back three hours to the hotel. If I was lucky, I would be back by eleven. This was pretty stupid. But... If I pushed it... I could get back by ten, or ten thirty... I thought of something else to pick up while I was on the way back. Photo albums, I had some photo albums from my years at college, and from the reunions. (OK. I get it... I'm a little anal retentive. Deal with it!) We could pass these around in the evenings, and they were great starters for stories. I put the van in gear, and was off. Before I got out of the parking lot, George called. I told him that I was going to take a nap at the hotel, and join them later. I then looked down at my cell phone, and turned it off. I didn't know if Ellen knew that my stuff had been tampered with. I also wanted to find out when Carl had been over to our house. I felt something was up, and I wanted my trip back to Dallas to be untraceable. Mementos I flew down the highway, and got back to my place about seven thirty, Ellen's car was missing from the driveway. I quickly when to my stash and looked at MY BALL. It was a copy, and it had been switched. Even though it had been over twenty year since I caught that ball, I still knew the signatures, and the smudge mark was gone. CARL! I looked around for my lures and found nothing. Nothing, on either side of the cabinet, below, or behind the cabinet, they were gone! It was Carl, I just knew it! He was ticked off about the fishing, and had swiped my lures. I went into the master bedroom, to get fresh clothes. On the bed was a Victoria's Secret bag, with only receipts in it. Ohhhh Ellen! What the hell are you doing right now? But I had a really good idea of who she was with! CARL! CARL! CARL! My rage was building. I went back out to my van, and pulled out my camouflage pants and shirt. I have never understood fishing in camouflage. Are the fish really going to be fooled? But, it WAS a tradition with the fraternity, so I had some. I went back inside and put them on. I grabbed the fake ball, and headed over to Carl's. I parked the van out of sight, and walked down the alley that went behind Carl's home, and slipped into the back yard. I still didn't have a plan, but I had a camera, and I knew which rock Carl put his spare house key under. I had been to Carl's a few times, and knew the layout. Even if they had used a hotel room, there was a possibility to retrieve my stuff in I talked to his wife Melissa. As I went along the outside of the home, I went by the master bedroom window, and heard Ellen moaning. I knew Ellen's moans, and I figured she may have just ended our marriage. She knew how I felt about infidelity. I had laid this out very clearly a month before we were married. I let out a sigh, I was glad we were still trying to build up our finances before having children. We were renting our house, and still working on a substantial down payment so that Ellen could quit work, and become a stay at home mother. We had only been married four years, and everything could be split up easily. I was still boiling mad, and ready to give it to Carl, but I didn't want to get arrested. I tried to look in the window and see what was going on. I couldn't get any pictures, because the blinds were drawn. As far as gaining evidence with my camera, I was stuck, but I still wanted to get my stuff back. Carl threw some big parties, and his bar in the den was his source of pride. He had a custom built bar with lots of glass. It had a glass top, glass shelves, and neon lights around the woodwork to show off his liquor. There was a chance that he might have put my stuff inside the bar or on the shelves behind the bar. I decided to sneak into his house and check the bar for my stuff. When I got to the door and opened it, I could still hear Ellen and Carl going at it, so I opened the sliding door as quietly as I could and slipped in. Once inside, I paused, and listened. There was no change in the sounds coming from the bedroom, so I closed the sliding door as quietly as I could, and walked over to the bar. On the shelf behind the bar, was my stuff! All of it! The lures, the baseball, and a bunch baseball cards were all there. I hadn't even thought about the baseball cards, but I knew he had taken them too! My life! The mementoes of my life, and he had taken them! I quickly replaced the ball, and put three old lures in place of my prized lures. I had nothing to replace the baseball cards with, so I just took them. I quickly went back out of the sliding door, and started to open it, when I heard Ellen starting to orgasm, followed by Carl. I waited, because Ellen was a screamer. A neighbor might hear it if the door had been open. I waited, and listened. After about thirty seconds, the noises from the bedroom quieted down, and I opened the door it and went out. I was about to close it, when I hear Ellen yelp. "Stop that! What do you think you are doing?" "Relax, I'm just going to take your ass." "No you're not! I haven't even let John do that!" "Relax, I'll be gentle, and you'll know whether or not you want to do it with John." "I don't." "Look, if you ever do it with John, he will want to do it again. If you do it with me, John will never know, and wouldn't know what he's missing." "Are you sure about this?" "Positive, you just need to relax, and let me help you out. John liked some of those positions I showed you, didn't he?" There was silence. "You're going to be gentle, aren't you?" "Yes, you'll just have to relax." "Wait! What's that?" "It's Vaseline, you will stay lubricated longer." "But you aren't supposed to use condoms with that stuff!" "Yes, and you're not going to get pregnant from semen in your ass." "No, I might get pregnant." "But we already agreed Ellen, that I was going to get you pregnant, didn't we?" I hung my head. Was that was all it took? What power did he have over her? I had asked several times for anal sex, and this asshole gets her to give in less than thirty seconds. And on top of that, they were planning on Ellen carrying his child. Any thought of reconciliation was gone from my mind. Our marriage was over. I closed the door and snuck away. I had just replaced the key under the stone when I saw movement in the den. I went behind a bush and watched in my camouflaged outfit. Carl had put on a bathrobe and was going to the bar. With a flick of a switch, and the neon lights in the glass case were on, and the bottles of liquor were lit up. He pulled out a fancy cut glass decanter and poured two drinks. While holding the fancy glass decanter, he picked up one of the drinks and downed it. He then refilled his drink and saluted the shelf where the baseball, the lures and the card were, but the cards were not there anymore. Carl looked as if he was surprised. Before I tell you what happened, I need to tell you that I had always believed in karma. Maybe it was because the good guy is always supposed to win, or something like that. Or, it may have been from when I caught Pete Incaviglia's baseball. Karma meant that if I was worthy enough, a ball would be hit to me. But I got to see a bit of karma hit Carl that night. Carl had seen something was wrong and in rage, slammed down the fancy crystal decanter on the glass bar top. It broke the glass top of his bar, and the decanter crashed into the bottles of liquor on the first glass shelf, breaking several of them, along with the shelf. The shelves below fell like dominoes, breaking bottles, and sending their contents into the neon lights at the bottom of the bar. When the glass broke the neon lights, Carl was engulfed in a fireball. I found out that Carl had put generous amounts of Vaseline on his erection. I also found out that petroleum lubricants on your penis are not you friend when you are engulfed in a fireball. I now know that the flashpoint for Vaseline is 365 degrees Fahrenheit. I saw Carl dancing around with his penis and hands on fire. Ellen came into the den, and tried to put Carl out. Ellen must have also had Vaseline on her hands, because her hands also caught on fire, too. They managed to wrap blankets around themselves and smother the flames. A portion of the den was not on fire, and filling the house with smoke. I decided to leave when I saw Ellen going for the phone. I never saw Carl's wife, Melissa, so I figured that she had to be out of town. I went back to my van, and drove back to my house. As I drove back, fire and emergency trucks sped by me towards Carl's house. I was sure Carl would have a whopper of a story for Melissa, his wife, about all of this. I wasn't sure that I had been seen, so I decided that I would try to get back to Bricktown and pretend to be oblivious to what had happened. When I got to my house, I found out that I could not put MY BALL back in the holder. In desperation, I grabbed a ball and faked the signatures, and probably did a better job than Carl did. I returned the fake ball back to the holder, but, I positioned it with Nolan Ryan's Signature showing and headed back to Oklahoma. I grabbed the photo albums, and hit the road. On the way back, I was in a state of peace. All of the aggression that I had built up had been released when I saw Carl's penis on fire. I had several images of punching the daylights out if Carl, but somehow, watching his penis on fire quenched my thirst for revenge. I had many ideas on how to deal with Carl on my way back to Dallas, but what I saw was far more gratifying than anything that I had come up with. I didn't think he would be breaking up another marriage for a while. I kept on smiling and laughing. I knew that both of them had burnt their hands. I soooo wanted to tell them that I had caught them 'red handed'. It was almost midnight when I ran into my buddies in Bricktown. I was greeted, and asked if I had a good nap, and was given a beer. It was as though I hadn't even left. It looked like my buddies bought it, and would be able to say that I had never made the trip to Dallas and back. ***** ***** The next morning, I turned on my cell phone. I didn't know what to expect. There was a message from Ellen, telling me that Carl had an accident, and was in the hospital. She also said to call her on her cell phone. I was relieved that no one died, but I was not interested to talking to that cheating slut, so I turned my cell phone back off. There was only the one call, and nothing that even hinted that she had done something wrong. She was going to try and cover up her infidelity. I called the credit card companies, and my cell phone providers, and asked for records going back for the last four years. I had to pay a bit to have them e-mailed to my account, but I intended to go over our finances and phone bills to really figure out how long this had been going on. When we finally were ready to caravan to Arkansas, there were twenty four of us, including fraternity buddies, and their wives and girlfriends. I had a good time, but I think I drank too much. George kept checking on me, and eventually assigned Ashley, his sister, as my babysitter. On the second day at dinner, I sat at the restaurant at my own table, with my laptop. Ashley came over and sat by me. "Ellen cheated on you, didn't she?" "Is it that obvious?" "Not to guys, but some women look for things, like a man constantly twisting his wedding ring while gnashing his teeth." I looked down at my hands. "Oh." "It's probably good that you're away, and can work through your feelings. I'll leave you alone." Ashley turned around and started to walk away. I continued to look at my hands and quietly said, "Please stay." Ashley heard me, it was as if she wanted to help, but felt she shouldn't. She turned around and sat across from me. "You don't have to tell me anything. Let's just enjoy a meal together." Ashley had figured it out almost immediately. She kept the beer away, and listened. We talked, just talked. Once I switched over to iced tea, Ashley and I became the babysitters for the entire group. We all fished, and Ashley and I talked. We even did Karaoke one night. I now think watching drunks trying to sing is more fun to watch sober. One by one, the guys also figured it out. My marriage was dead. Some of the guys were not surprised, and told me that Ellen had hit on them. I went through the photo albums with the guys. I discovered that the signs were always there. I had just ignored them. I also received the records for our credit cards and phones. I found patterns. I was happy that I always used my credit card to pay for meals when I went of business trips. I had done so that I could use my credit card bill to verify amounts on my expense reports, but now, I had a clear record of every time I went out of town. I could see visits for clothing, and stops to get her hair and nails done, usually on the day I left town. She always told me that she wanted to surprise me when I got back, but it now looked like she was doing it for her lovers. It was pretty easy to pick out Ellen's indiscretions. I had not looked for a paper trail, but I sure found one! I also found out that there was more than one lover. Ellen was a habitual cheater. On the fourth evening, I had pretty much figured out everything, especially after putting together a profile of each person that Ellen had cheat with, and the three guys that Ellen had flirted with. Ashley came over and sat down. "What's wrong now?" "Ash, you know that line about 'In sickness and in health'?" "Yeah." I turned the laptop around so that both of us could see it. I pointed to the five photos on top of the screen. "These are her conquests". I then pointed to the three photos below, and these are the three guys she flirted with on earlier outings. Do you notice anything similar about them?" Ashley nodded, "They look the same." I pointed to the bottom corner photo, "Just like her father, don't you think?" Ashley gasped, "You don't think?" I shook my head, "I don't know for sure, he died three years ago in a car accident. But I think she is drawn to a specific profile to have sex with, and she may not be able to control that urge. So that's why I am asking you about 'In sickness and in health'." Ashley looked back at me, "You can't trust her anymore, can you?" "Ash, she betrayed me when she went back to Brian Jennings, after I specifically said that it would end our engagement. The only thing that changed was that she hid the affair better. If I take her back, she will have to confess what she has done, all of it. She will have to be treated for this compulsion. Otherwise, she will only learn to hide her affairs better." "John, this is your call, but I don't think you will be happy ever again in this marriage. You will always be checking up on her, and the distrust will kill the marriage." "That's why I am only going to give it one shot. She has to want to marriage to survive, which means a full confession." We ate, and watched my friends make fools out of themselves. I noticed that several others had switched over to iced tea, and were watching the show, too. During dessert, Ashley started giving me looks. "What, do I have whip cream on my face?" "John, I was thinking about how much you are hurting. Would you like to come to my cabin tonight?" I shook my head, "Ash, I don't want a mercy fuck." "I don't want that either, John, and if that's what I'm going to get, then don't bother. I don't want a whimpering man to screw me. I have spent five days with a bunch of ex-frat boys, and I want to be taken, and pounded hard! I am offering a revenge fuck." My eyes must have bulged out and flared. I undressed Ashley with my eyes, and started to salivate. But I held back. "John, you're not the only one with problems. I came up here with my sister Diane to forget how much of a creep my last boyfriend was. I was expecting to get fucked silly this week, by several guys. Instead, I'm finding out that you guys take care of each other. Did you know George did? That damn brother of mine told everyone that I'm in pain, and that I'm off limits this week! I don't think he told you, so I think he is trying to set us up. I want someone to make me forget. Hell, I wanted several of you to just use me this week, and I find out that you bastards have some GOD DAMN code of loyalty to each other. John, I need this, and I think you do too!" "Ash, you don't know how tempting your offer is, but no." Ashley winced. "Shit! That means I'm going to need another set of batteries!" On the fifth day, I had a message from the resort that we were renting our cabins from. It was from Melissa, Carl's wife. She had tracked me down from work, and wanted to talk. I purchased a calling card, and went to a pay phone. She told me everything. She was divorcing Carl. Ellen had burns on her hands, and was treated for smoke inhalation, but was otherwise OK. Carl had burns on his hands, and on his penis, and would recover. She was unsure how much sensation he would have, when the burns had healed, but he would live to fuck another day. She had pryed a confession from the two of them, and they insisted that it was a one time thing. Melissa asked if I would be willing to share credit card and cell phone records, and I said I would. We set up a meeting to compare notes before I would confront Ellen. As best as I could figure out, no one knew that I had come back to Dallas. I planned to use this information to trap my wife. I actually knew a lot more about Ellen's affairs than I wanted anyone to know at this point. I told everyone that my wife had an accident, and had to cut the vacation short. Antonio came back home with me, but the other two found other transportation. ***** ***** When I arrived back in Dallas, I rented a hotel for the final days that I would have been away. I called Melissa, and the two of us compared bills to see if our spouse's story held any water. I didn't tell Melissa about what I had overheard when I had returned, and that the affair had been going on a lot longer than a one night fling. I had already put the pieces together, and knew what Melissa needed to see from my evidence. We eventually found charges on Ellen's credit card that came a day or two ahead of hotel charges on Carl's credit card. We also checked the frequency of calls between the two of them on their cell phones, and they went up just before the hotel charges. By the end of the week, I had a lawyer drawing up divorce papers. I came home, as if nothing was wrong, and gave Ellen a chance to explain herself. She confessed about the one night fling that had gone terribly wrong, and told me that she would make it up to me. I told her to move into the guest bedroom, and get tested for STD's. I checked the baseball, and found that it now had Pete Incaviglia's signature showing forward. I now knew that Ellen had as least repositioned the ball. For three days, she tried to plead with me to take her back, but never changed her story. She never gave me a full confession, so I stood firm. Ellen was served at work. Ellen tried to call, but I had turned off the phone. I wasn't at work, either. When she came home, she found out that I have moved out. She got a lawyer and they insisted on counseling. I had no choice in the matter. I went to counseling, since it was court ordered. ***** ***** At the first counseling session, I listened to the same sob story that she had given me. I didn't buy it, and I started to punch holes in her story. The counselor sided with my wife telling me that I was not being very open. I was told that I was being very judgmental. I was not allowed to refute anything that Ellen said on the first session, I was supposed to just listen to her lies. The counselor sided with my wife, telling me that I was being unreasonable. The session ended with me looking like a jerk. I apologized, and calmly asked if I could talk about my feelings on the next session. On the second session, I talked about betrayal. I brought in the cell phone records from Ellen's phone, along with our credit card bills for the last two years. Melissa also gave me credit card bills that showed when Carl had rented motel rooms. There was a clear record that Carl and Ellen had been having an affair for over eighteen months. I had questions. Why did Ellen go to the hair salon and get your hair and nails done the day BEFORE I left town for a week? If she were doing it for me, then why didn't it happen the day before I got back? Why was Ellen purchasing things at Victoria's Secret BEFORE I left town? When I was out of town, why did Ellen have to fill up you car with gas more than when I was at home? What extra trips was she taking? Mementos I didn't ask these questions to Ellen directly. I used these facts to lay down a foundation for me feeling betrayed by Ellen. Ellen now started to argue with me about my conclusions, but this time the counselor did exactly what she had done to me. She wanted me to be free to express myself, and that meant that Ellen had to be open to listen to me talk about my feelings of betrayal. Ellen then changed her story, but the counselor started to side with me this time. By the end of the session, the counselor was picking apart the holes in Ellen's new story for me. On the third session, Ellen went through a new confession, and insisted that she had had told the complete truth. I then asked the counselor if I could bring Brian Jennings into the office for the forth session, and Ellen turned pale. I then explained how I had also found Brian's number in her cell phone records, and the same pattern of purchases that I had seen with Carl. I also showed some additional information, my photo albums. I found photo's of Ellen with her father, a man that was 6'1" with blue eyes and sandy brown hair. I found photo's of Ellen's ex-boyfriend, who was about 6' to 6'2", had blue eyes, and sandy brown hair. Carl and Brian also fit this profile, along with three of the guys in the fraternity. I had letters from each of them saying that Ellen had flirted with them. When I showed photos of any of these guys with Ellen, she was smiling and looking up in admiration. I still had two more boyfriends that I could have used to push my point. I decided that I would wait for an additional full confession before using them. I didn't want to empty all the chambers, so I also didn't I want to tell Ellen that I had come back. After explaining the incident a month before our marriage, and Carl, told the counselor that I could not trust Ellen with any man who fit that profile. The consoler then asked the question that I didn't want to ask, "Did your father do something to you when you were little?" Tears started flowing down Ellen's face, but she wouldn't say a thing. I got up, and walked to the door. "Counselor, I cannot trust my wife. I feel that her father taught her to be a pathological liar, to cover up what he was doing to her. I feel that Ellen chose me over her past boyfriends because I don't look like her father. I also feel that Ellen wanted for me to raise children sired by her father. I was selected because of my shorter height, brown eyes, and dark black hair would make it easy for Ellen to prove to her father that they were his children, and not mine." Ellen jerked back, and started to protest. I simply held my hand out. "Ellen, these are my feelings, and I have no proof of this. But, this is the mountain of distrust that you will now have to climb, in order to save this marriage. You have told a different story each time we have met for counseling, and I still think we will go through several versions of revisionist history before anything close to the truth will surface." Counselor, I don't think I will ever get a straight answer from Ellen, until she faces what her father did to her. Accepting Ellen back right now will only teach her to hide her affairs better. I also want to tell you that if I was selected for the reasons I have mentioned, then I would want nothing to do with her, for the rest of my life." Ellen looked up, but could not look me in the eye. "Counselor, these sessions have made the gap for reconciliation even wider." The counselor nodded. "I will inform the court that counseling has failed." The divorce went through uncontested after that. As far as I know, Ellen is still in counseling. ***** EPILOG ***** Three months later, Ashley showed up on my doorstep. "John, I saw you take care of 22 idiots, when you were in a lot of pain. I had hoped you take me up when I offered a revenge fuck, and you didn't. This really pissed me off, but you did get to stop thinking about that prick of a boyfriend I had." Ashley shuffled her weight from side to side. "John, aren't you going to say something?" "Like what?" Damn it! You're not making this easy! John, I can't stop thinking of you, and how loyal you were to your wife, and why couldn't I have a boyfriend who was that loyal to me. You fucking ruined it!" "Ash... Slow down. You're not making sense." "The hell I'm not! I wanted to get fucked silly, and bury my sorrow in meaningless sex, and YOU and you FUCKING LOYALTY made me want to save myself for someone who cared about me!" Ashley started to break down and cry. "You have proven to me that I can trust you completely. I think Ellen was an absolute fool for cheating on you. Now that you're free, I think I just found the father of my 22 children, if you're up to the challenge." "Ashley, are you asking me to marry you?" "Lets just start out with a date first, and see what happens. I'm a bit submissive, and I tend to turn into a love slave, and then get taken advantage of. You're a straight shooter, and I feel I can trust you with my heart. I have a week here, and I will be interviewing for jobs during the day, but every evening I will be free and willing to let you show me your world. And when you do decide that I am right for you, I expect you to drag me into the bedroom and claim me." We were married in Bricktown, at the reunion the following year. ***** ***** ***** I hope you enjoyed reading this story. I will try and post the next chapter of "The Contract" in a few days. Comments are appreciated.