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It's Not What You Think

By: zeke81



There is no sex in this story. It's a story about what can happen if you jump to conclusions without getting all of the facts.

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When John Stevenson got home on Saturday afternoon he was immediately shocked. As he pulled his '67 GTO into the driveway he saw that his big new Chevy truck had been trashed.

John got out of the car and was speechless for a few minutes as he walked around the truck surveying the damage. The truck had dual rear wheels and all 4 of them as well as the 2 on the front had been slashed. All of the windows had been busted out. The body had obviously been severely beaten with the sledge hammer in the driveway...his sledge hammer. The mirrors had been busted off. Inside the leather seats had been slashed as had the headliner. The radio had been smashed as well. Whoever had done it did a very thorough job of trashing the truck.

John couldn't think how anybody could have done it with his wife Emily at home the whole time. John began to fear that something might have happened to Emily as well. He rushed to the front door. When he got inside the house was a mess.

"Oh God. Emily! Emily! Are you here?" John asked.

John searched through the house. Every room had been torn apart. That didn't matter to John he was only concerned about his wife. When he got to the bedroom he found that the bed had not been torn apart but the rest of the room had.

On the bed John found a hand written letter from Emily.

"John, you son of a bitch how could you? I've been so good to you for so long and that's how you repay me? If she means more to you than I do fine, I'll go. I hope she's worth it. I also hope you enjoy the mess I left for you. I always kept a neat house for you, but you were always leaving things where they didn't belong. I figured I'd get you started on living your life as a slob before I left. You'll notice that the bed is still perfectly made. That's because I've never sullied my bed by sharing it with anyone but you. You'll be served with divorce papers tomorrow at work. Fuck you John. I hate you so much for this. Emily" John read.

John was blown away. Emily thought that he'd cheated on her. John never would and never could cheat on Emily; he'd rather die.

"I've got to find her...I've got to make this right." John said.

John hurried downstairs, grabbed the phone and the little phonebook that they keep friends and family's numbers in. He dialed Emily's parents first.

"Hello?" Mary asked.

"Mary, it's John, do you know where Emily is?" John asked.

Mary just hung up.

"What the hell?" John asked.

He dialed the number again.

"John, don't ever call here again." Mary said.

She hung up again. Apparently Emily had told her that John had cheated on her. He dialed Emily's sister Lisa's number.

"Hello?" Lisa asked.

"Lisa please don't hang up. There's been a misunderstanding; it's not what Emily thinks." John said.

"I don't know John; it sounded pretty convincing to me." Lisa said.

"Please just tell me where she..." John said.

Lisa hung up before he could finish. He dialed Emily's brother Adam; he and John had always gotten along really well.

"Hello?" Adam asked.

"Adam, I need to know where she is. It isn't what she thinks." John said.

"I don't want to have anything to do with you John; not after what you've done to my sister." Adam said.

Adam hung up. He dialed Emily's friend Beth.

"Hello?" Beth asked.

"Beth if you talk to her tell her it isn't what she thinks. Tell her I can explain it all." John said.

"Oh I'm sure you've got a good batch of lies all worked up John. How the fuck could you do that to her?" Beth asked.

Beth hung up. John couldn't think of anyone else to call so he just sat on the floor in the kitchen and cried. Somehow Emily had heard about or seen him going to the hotel every day and assumed that he was cheating on her. Her note said that he'd be served with divorce papers at work the next day. 

John didn't sleep that night; he just sat there in the dark and sobbed. The next morning at work John's friend Mark saw that he was looking pretty down so he came over to talk to him.

"What's up John? What's got you looking like this?" Mark asked.

"Unless I'm wrong he does." John said.

John pointed towards a man in a suit with a large envelope in his hands talking to another co-worker that had just pointed towards John. The man walked over to him.

"John Stevenson?" The man asked.

"Yes." John said.

"I am here to serve you with these divorce papers on behalf of Mrs. Emily Stevenson." The man said.

He handed John the envelope and turned to go.

"Wait, I need to see her. There's been a misunderstanding." John said.

"She does not want to speak with you Mr. Stevenson." The man said.

He left. Mark looked at John as he stood there with his head hanging for a moment.

"Damn buddy, what happened?" Mark asked.

"Emily jumped to a completely wrong conclusion about something. She thinks I was cheating on her." John said.

"You? No fucking way, you'd rather die than cheat on Emily...right?" Mark asked.

"Of course. I could never do that. It's just...never mind, I'd rather not talk about it." John said.

"Sure buddy. Why don't you take off and go talk to a lawyer or something. I'll tell Dan what's going on." Mark said.

"Okay. Thanks." John said.

John went outside, got into his car and drove over to the office of Ben Thompson. He'd made sure that Ben hadn't been the one to prepare the divorce papers so he hoped Ben would be able to help. 

Ben was an old friend of John's father Thomas so when he saw John walk into his office he immediately smiled, but when he saw John's face his expression turned to one of concern.

"John, my boy, what brings you here, looking like that?" Ben asked.

"This." John said.

He held up the envelope.

"Are you being sued for something?" Ben asked.

"Yeah, by Emily, for a divorce." John said.

"What? Oh my God, what happened?" Ben asked.

"Nothing, that's just the problem. She thinks something happened, but nothing did." John said.

"Am I to assume that she thinks you cheated on her?" Ben asked.

"That's what she thinks, but it isn't true." John said.

"Of course not. So do you want me to represent you? I usually don't handle divorces." Ben said.

"All I really need is someone that can get her to talk to me. I can make everything alright if I can get her to talk to me. As of right now I have no idea where she is and none of her family or friends will tell me anything." John said.

"Well, I suppose if we were to challenge the conditions of the settlement they propose we could try to get them to agree to a face to face meeting." Ben said.

"Do whatever it takes Ben. I need to see her. I can make this all okay if I can get her to talk to me." John said.

Ben looks at the proposed settlement.

"These seem like fairly reasonable terms if this divorce were to really happen. I'll try to ensure that they want to meet with us by pushing for 100% of everything. Obviously we'd never get them to agree to that so they'll want to negotiate. I'll insist that both you and Emily be present." Ben said.

"Whatever it takes Ben, I have to see her, once it's explained this can all be over." John said.

"Just out of curiosity if you weren't cheating on her what were you doing that might lead her to think that you might have been?" Ben asked.

John explains it to Ben. Ben nods his head as he understands how it could be misinterpreted.

"Okay, I'll push them for a meeting and you'll get to say your piece." Ben said.

Two days later John and Ben are sitting in Ben's conference room when Emily and her lawyer Nancy walk in. Emily looks at John with contempt. They sit down across the table from John and Ben.

"I hope you've had a chance to review our counter proposal with your client." Ben said.

"I have and it's completely out of the question. My client will not walk away with nothing after what has happened." Nancy said.

"My client is prepared to back off on the terms if he is allowed to speak to Mrs. Stevenson to explain the truth behind what she thinks she knows." Ben said.

Nancy and Emily whisper.

"No deal. Your proposed settlement won't hold up in court and my client has no interest in hearing what Mr. Stevenson has to say." Nancy said.

John leans forward.

"Emily, if you'll let me explain and you still want to divorce me you can have everything. I'll walk away with just my clothes, my car, and what's left of my truck. You can have the house, all of the money, everything, if you'll only let me explain." John said.

"John, I don't think..." Ben said.

"No Ben. If she still wants to divorce me after hearing what I have to say then she can have all of it. Will you please let me explain?" John asked.

Emily and Nancy whisper for a minute.

"Very well, she will hear what you have to say." Nancy said.

"Thank you. Emily, I gather that either someone told you that I was going to the motel at the edge of town or you happened to see my car there or something; is that right?" John asked.

"That's right. I saw you come out...I saw your tramp...I saw you hug her and kiss her." Emily said.

"I don't deny what you saw, but I wouldn't sleep with that woman in a million years." John said.

"Oh sure then what the hell were you doing in that hotel room with her every day?" Emily asked.

"We were talking." John said.

"You honestly expect me to believe that you went to a hotel room every day and just talked to a woman that you hugged and kissed when you left?" Emily asked.

"Yes. Did you notice that I never kissed her on the mouth?" John asked.

"Yes." Emily said.

"There's a very good reason for that." John said.

"Oh? And what's that?" Emily asked.

"She's my sister." John said.

Emily and Nancy are taken aback for a moment, then Emily fires back.

"She is not. I've met your sister Julie; that was not Julie." Emily said.

"You're right, it wasn't Julie. It was my sister Kelly." John said.

"Kelly?" Emily asked.

"Yes. I've told you about her before. She took off on her 18th birthday and had been gone for a long time. I don't know how she got my number, but she called me. She told me that she wanted to come home, but didn't know how mom and dad would take it. Mom and dad are still pretty bitter with her about the whole thing. She and I had been very close so when she came to town and got a room at the hotel she called me again. She wanted to see me, and I wanted to see her. When I saw her that first day she asked me not to tell anyone that she was in town until she was ready. That's why I didn't tell you what was going on. Well she's ready to tell someone now. Not to tell mom and dad, but to tell you. Kelly." John said.

Kelly walked in from the next room.

"Hi Emily, I'm John's sister Kelly. I can't let you divorce my brother because of what you think he did with me. It's easy to see why you jumped to the conclusion that you did. The circumstances fit what you thought was going on, but that's not what was happening. John was helping me come home. He was helping me build up the courage to go see mom and dad; to tell Julie that I'm back in town. I'm still not ready for that, but I had to tell you. I couldn't be responsible for ending John's marriage. John loves you and would never cheat on you." Kelly said.

Emily's eyes were filling with tears.

"Nancy, I guess I don't need your services anymore." Emily said.

"Okay." Nancy said.

Nancy left. Ben got up and walked out of the room to leave the 3 of them alone.

"John." Emily said.

"Yes sweetie?" John asked.

"I'm sorry about what I did to your truck." Emily said sheepishly.

"It can be fixed. I'm just glad you agreed to meet with me while we could still be fixed." John said.

"Me too. So Kelly, can you come over for dinner?" Emily asked.

"Sure." Kelly said.

"Well then, let's head home." John said. 

It's Not What You Think



Chapter 01

It's two days after the explosion, and I'm in an evac ride to Germany. A little background is in order. Maybe somebody I don't know is gonna read this someday, so I'll watch what I say.

Officially, I was part of what we euphemistically called Operation Sandbox. Oh it had an official name or three, but it was just the U.S. Army's way of making things more complicated than they had to be. I was running a small squad of drones out of a rented space in Abu Dhabi. That's me over in the corner desk, Captain James Monroe Dreyfus: 'Captain' or 'Sir' to the unit, 'Cap'n Jim' when I was out drinking with some pals, and 'Jim' to civilians, and 'Hey you' to those higher ups in the Army. I was 6'2" of (semi-) solid muscle (and adipose tissue, to be fair), with a moderately good build. The Army would only let senior officers and non-coms get seriously out of shape. I had sandy hair that was buzzed off at regular intervals by an Army butcher ... er, I mean, barber. I liked my blue eyes and had developed a mustache while I was in ROTC, trying to look older.

We were unofficially on loan to the CIA, and shooting our missiles at evil-doers in Yemen and Somalia. We were pretty good and only killed some innocents if they happened to be very close to our target. The drones carried a laser-sighted missile and we never missed the target that was painted by a high-flyer, also loaned to the CIA from the Air Force. We never got involved with the selection of targets; it was a target, painted with a laser at coordinates xx,yy, and we'd hit it.

Me and my small troop of six Sergeants -- actually five Sergeants and a Staff Sergeant, my second in command -- were doing quite nicely until some asshole decided we needed additional supervision. We were already a screwy unit: one Captain, no Lieutenants and only Sergeants, who reported to a civilian in the CIA with a dotted line to some staff flunky on the Theater Commandant's staff. Well, the Theater Commandant was senior Admiral J. Fuckwad Ass Hole -- if I used his real name my journal would just get redacted. I didn't think he was an asshole until he decided I needed some supervision.

So, Adm. Hole, sent someone from Naval Intelligence to be my superior officer. According to the orders I received, SHE was a Lieutenant Commander C.J. Johnson. In the first five minutes after I told my guys about the change, she got the moniker of 'Circle Jerk Johnson.'

"Look guys," I was pretty informal in the only room we had assigned to us, "a Lt. Cmdr. is the equivalent of a Major. She's going to be my superior officer. So there's some things I want to make clear. First, she's THE senior officer here, so you'll all address her as Ma'am -- or Commander. I don't want to hear 'The Old Lady' and certainly not 'Circle Jerk' mentioned even in passing -- even if she's out of the country. If she get's a whiff of any of that, you'll probably get a sighting laser pointed at you. Second, I don't want to see or hear that you are second guessing her decisions about what to do, here. If she gives you an order, that's it. You don't need to be looking at me to see if it's ok. You'll still get your operational orders from me. The chain of command is the same: the Staff Sergeant, then me. It's only a little blip above me, and then the same ol' same ol'. Is that clear?"

I got six nods and things settled down quickly.

"Our Fearless Leader, Adm. Hole, has put her in charge. Period."

Three days later, the aforementioned Lt. Cmdr. Johnson came into our room, at about 0930 local, unannounced -- except by her Warrant Officer, a still wet-behind-the-ears boy who looked like he was about twelve. Okay, maybe he was a young looking twenty.

The W.O. opened the door and shouted, "Ten-HUT!"

Part way through his 'Ten-Hut', I snapped a louder: "Belay that." I had made an effort to learn some Navy lingo. "As you were." Then I turned to her, getting to my feet -- at attention -- and said, "Excuse me, Ma'am but these men are in combat right now." She got my best salute. I completely ignored the W.O., who was busy turning a bright shade of red at his gaffe.

The men didn't even look up.

C.J. Johnson, according to the papers she gave me as part of the taking command procedures, was Cynthia Jeowhal Johnson, a Lt. Cmdr. from the Admiral's personal staff and had spent six years in Naval Intelligence. I didn't have any idea if she knew a battleship from a PT Boat, but the Admiral certainly had a good taste in women.

The old joke went, a blonde, a brunette, a red-head and two men all applied for the same job. All had nearly the same skills and qualifications. With no other information, which do you hire? Answer: You hire the woman with the biggest tits.

So... I'm an old school Army chauvinist.

Well, Cmdr. Johnson didn't have the biggest tits. But if you combined the strong angular face, with wide set gray/green eyes, a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the auburn hair (the sign of Irish ancestry, I guessed) pulled back in a military bun under her officer's cap, the sharply tapered jacket that accented the difference between her ample bosom and her tiny waist, all tied together with very shapely tanned legs that seemed to go on forever (actually they only reached the ground, but...) -- combine all that, and one couldn't fault the Admiral's judgment in decorating his Intel unit with her. She was single, as befitting the only woman on the Admiral's staff -- proving nothing, except that maybe she was his 'personal' staff, if you know what I mean. Now, if she was only competent.

"Captain, ..." she said to me in a tight alto voice, returning my salute.

I interrupted her with an upraised finger, then pointed it out to the hall. "Rosie, I'll be outside the door, if you need me." And then I stepped out pulling the door closed behind me.

"I need to keep it quiet when there's a mission going. No distractions that way. Certainly not a change of command, now," I explained.

"Captain," she said again, "I apologize for interrupting. You are quite right about the mission."

I refrained from saying 'You're damn right, I am.'

She turned to the young Warrant Officer. "You're dismissed. Back to the Staff pool with you." She got a snappy salute from the young man, and he put her briefcase and laptop bag against the wall.

"That's why we have the sign, Ma'am." I pointed to the 'Do Not Enter when Flashing' sign over the door. It was flashing.

"Hmm. Didn't even see it, Captain. Sorry. Maybe we can put a lockout on the door or something," she said. "I assumed they'd call you from Security."

"We've never had a visitor before this, Ma'am, but we can enhance our warning system if you feel it's necessary." I looked down the corridor to the security station at the end. There were about ten doors in this corridor, all had similar signs over the doors. I had no idea what was going on behind the other nine doors. "Phones are turned off when we're hunting. That's what we call it when we're on a mission."

"How long is this mission scheduled for?" she asked.

"It'll end two and a half hours from now. Let's go in, you can sit at my station and watch."

"What are your duties, during a mission like this?"

"I'm available if there's a problem. I can jump in and override any workstation."

"Then, I won't take your spot," she said, showing some good sense. "I'll sit alongside you."

I handed her the briefcase, picked up the laptop case, and opened the door. Nobody lifted a head. These guys were the best.

She set up her laptop and pulled a chair over from the empty desk. On my over-sized screen I could see all six drones flying to their targets. We rarely had a six-drone mission, but today we were going to take out a terrorist staging area in Somalia.

Forty-seven minutes later, all six lit off at nearly the same time. All six targets were painted and all six were dead-on hits. They turned for home, in the Saudi desert, and one by one the 'Clear' light went on on their screens. They still had some flying to do to get home, but the mission was essentially done.

I tapped a warning light on #4. "Any problems?" I asked the group.

Sgt. Martinez, flying the #4 drone, said, "I got a warning light on fuel consumption that shouldn't have been there. No problem reaching the nest, but we should check it out, ASAP."

"How about you, Walton? This is your first mission flying with other drones. Any issues?"

"No, sir. It's all nominal."

"All right. The interruption before was Lt. Commander Johnson. She's our new C.O. Take a moment to introduce yourselves after you get home."

She spoke up. "Congratulations on another successful mission. I don't want to interfere with anything in this unit. You've got a 100% success rate going and I sure don't want to tip any cows or get in Captain Dreyfus' way. I want to see how you do it, interface with the Intel people, and generally try to learn as much as I can, and pass it on to other units."

She turned out to be an okay boss, and I eventually had to rescind my insinuations about her and the Admiral. Maybe.

*****

Over the next thirteen months, she was present for every team meeting, every drone launch, every return to nest, and every training mission we held, when she was in country. She also took over the meetings with the CIA Intel gooks, which was a great relief to me.

Staff Sergeant Roosevelt 'Rosie' Harcourt got himself a brevet promotion to Lieutenant and was given C.O. status of a just-forming drone unit, also to be under the guidance of Lt. Cmdr. Johnson. He was a son-of-a bitch drill sergeant of a commander, but his boys (and one girl) took the training missions and began flying missions like ours.

She got promotions for Florio and Martinez, both to Staff Sergeant, and everything was looking rosy.

Abu, as we called it, was a lonely and very expensive post. I was single and unattached, and damned if I could find one woman who wasn't a professional. Five dollar cokes and fifteen dollar hamburgers in town, and the expensive female company, meant that my men and I spent our time on base, mostly.

I spent a lot of time with Cynthia. I came to call her that at her insistence, one night, after watching a movie and walking her back to her room. We got very friendly and I began to think that there might be something there -- except that she was my commanding officer. I wasn't going to go there. Especially since she kept going to the Admiral's staff meetings also. They were always an overnight trip.

Then, one day, Cynthia -- Lt. Cmdr. Johnson, to you -- and I were sitting in a street-side café. The old Mercedes parked at the curb decided to pick that time to explode. The explosion shook pieces of the building loose. I threw Cynthia to the ground pulled a table over us -- not that that did much good -- and waited for the dust to settle.

A large chunk of building decided to land on my legs and I was pinned like a bug. It occurred to me that it was ironic: I was in charge of a unit that was virtually danger-proof, since we never saw any real combat, and now I was going to die from an exploding Mercedes.

That was the last thing I remembered, until three days later. I was in the local Army hospital, there were tubes and wires coming out of me and going into me through every vein they could find. I was half out of it, feeling no pain at all. The told me they would keep me on pain killers and did I want to call anybody? I asked about the unit and Cynthia, but they said not to worry about that. That worried me, but I couldn't do anything about it.

I could, however, and did, begin my journal, like the shrink suggested. And that brings us up to date.

Chapter 02

Five weeks later

I'm not very good at this journal business. I know I'm 'supposed' to do it daily, and the counselors at the hospital encouraged me to do it, but the plain fact is it's too intense for me. It had been over a month; I guess I hadn't been writing very much lately. Too depressed.

My mom had tried to cheer me up with emails and stuffed animals and flowers and such, but it hadn't helped much. She wasn't able to come 'cause she needed to keep her job -- she was the manager at three Quik-Stop convenience stores on the highway outside Waxahachie, Texas, and just couldn't get to Germany. Where I was.

Dad, as usual, was in parts unknown. He'd disappeared when I was sixteen -- thirteen years ago -- and hadn't been heard of since.

On my second day here, the doctors told me and mom (via a laptop hookup) that they were going to have to take both my legs. The damage was just too extensive. I'd almost died four times in the aftermath of the explosion and it was only Lt. Cmdr. Johnson's actions that had kept me alive.

She'd opened a vein in her arm and somehow managed to transfuse blood into me through a drinking straw, a couple of ball-point pens, and a pocket knife. She was type O negative, universal donor. Who does that? Who knows how to do that?

She did, apparently.

It seems that she kept me alive until the medics got me out from under the rubble and to a hospital. Then she passed out, from blood loss, but she recovered quickly enough.

Now I was in Germany and they were going to cut off my left leg above the knee and my right leg below the knee. My mother was crying. I was just numb.

Of course, I wouldn't be in the Army any more. No. I was going to be one of those Vets in a wheelchair you see on the sidewalk of major cities, wearing an old Army jacket and begging for money. I wondered if Fort Worth or Dallas residents would give more. I guess I'd wear the Purple Heart on the outside of my jacket. Should increase the take a little bit.

It was either that or let the flesh-rot continue to eat away at me until I was dead. Those were my choices. Be a homeless bum, begging for handouts, or be dead. It was a close call.

My mom was trying to cheer me up the next day, but I wouldn't be cheered up. Should I be dead and alive -- or just dead and dead?

It was in between my drug shots to keep the pain down that I got an email from Cynthia.

James,

I am so happy to hear that you are alive, but devastated at your injuries.

There were 17 dead and 41 injured in the explosion. Thanks to you, I was not hurt. I owe you my life, so I guess that makes you responsible for me from now on. Do not be down about how you'll come out of this. You are a strong person and you have marketable computer skills. And you are a wonderful man.

Rosie is now in charge of the combined units and is still working at his same old job. And I'm being transferred. I can't say where or what it is, or I'd have to kill you. LOL

I'm going to be in Germany soon, though and I'll be coming to see you.

Be well.

Love, Cynthia.

'Love, Cynthia'?? What was that about? We were friendly, sure. I had fantasies that it was something more, sure. She was hot looking, sure. In her two inch Navy heels she came up to my eyebrows, an almost perfect height. Well, now, I guess I'd come up to her navel, not so perfect any more. That was for sure. She'd never give me a second glance now.

She was coming to visit. Okay. So I wouldn't leave a corpse for her to visit. Wouldn't be polite.

I signed the consent forms, and the operation to remove my legs was scheduled for the next day. Yay. I sent an email to my mom telling her I'd agreed to the operation, and not to worry. Now all I had to do was not worry, myself.

*****

When I woke up I discovered several things. It was Friday, and the last thing I remembered was on Tuesday morning counting backwards from one hundred. And, of course, I had stumps instead of legs. So, if I could have stood at all, I'd have been about two feet short. That's a unit of measure, not an anatomical description -- although that was true too.

Talk about depressing. I couldn't dance -- not that I knew how before, but... I'd never be able to look a man in the eye and shake his hand. I'd be looking up from my wheelchair. They got me up and sitting in a wheelchair soon enough, and I even learned how to use the toilet. I had to have a mirror and sink cut down to my size, so I could brush my teeth and shave. After a while, I was allowed to take showers. That was a joke. I could barely reach the hot/cold controls. Move the shower head? Forget it.

Life was going to be a fucking pain in the ass.

Then, several weeks later, Cynthia Johnson showed up. She arrived just after the nurse had placed my lunch on the table at the other end of the room. It was my job to haul myself out of bed, into the accursed wheelchair and push the entire contraption over to the table. Guaranteed to take about forty-minutes and leave the mystery meat cold. Nothing more appetizing than cold mystery meat covered in thick brown liquid that could charitably be called the leavings of a dysentery patient -- though the Army called it gravy.

"Captain, can I help?" she said in her soft alto.

I'm sure it was a well-intentioned question, but I was pissed off. I had neglected to set the wheel brake when I hauled myself into bed after the morning's torture session -- or in Army lingo, 'therapy.' So the chair was now out of reach.

"Goddamn it. Fucking thing is always moving when I don't want it to," I grumped. I'd reached for the IV pole (now empty of bags of medical stuff) that was near the bed. I shifted and reached and barely nabbed it. When I turned around, she was standing behind the chair and the chair was bedside.

I almost clocked her on the head with the IV pole, before I noticed. Now I had a clumsy pole that could double as a lance, and couldn't really get into the wheelchair. She fumbled with the wheel brakes, got them set and took the lance from my hands. I was shaking, from anger and embarrassment.

"Let me..." she said. She set the IV pole back out of the way and left me to my own devices. She wasn't in uniform, which was strange, I thought. I couldn't complain much about her skin tight jeans and blouse. The blouse had buttons going up the front, and I thought it too bad that more of them weren't undone.

It only took me five minutes to get into the chair and get a blanket around the lower part of my 'shorty' pajamas. By that time, she was settled in at the table, on the non-eating side. At least I wouldn't have to have an adjustment to eat at a table with somebody else: the chair provided me with seating like a normal person.

"Sorry. Fucking mess getting moved around," I said.

"Nothing to be sorry for," she replied. "James, it is so good to see you alive. I didn't know for the longest time what happened to you." She reached a hand across the table and took mine.

I withdrew from the contact, and picked up my fork. I didn't want any pity. Yummy mystery meat and tepid string beans awaited! Pity was less appealing than that.

"I'm glad you made it out alive and intact," I said around the meal. "It'd be a shame to lose a pair of legs like yours." She looked surprised at the comment. "Oh yeah... I can say it now, 'cause I'm not going to be in the Army long. What're they going to do ... kick me out for making a pass at a superior officer?"

"No," she said with a little laugh, "I don't think they'll do that. I know what you must be thinking and going through and..."

"BULLSHIT!" I erupted, talking fast. "You don't know a goddamn thing about it. You've got your own legs. You can stand and walk around. You didn't have to have someone give you training on how to use a toilet, or explain about using a shower, or how to sit in a chair, or anything else... I don't want your fucking' pity, so you can just go and shove that stuff."

She was taken aback by my outburst. "I'm so sorry, James. I didn't think... I'll leave if you want."




It's Not What You Think



I just glared at her for the longest time. Finally she began to gather her things, getting ready to go.

"No. Stay," I said. There was a long pause, and she placed her purse on the floor near the chair she was in. "You saved my life, you know."

"What? Oh the blood thing. That's just something I picked up along the way. Something about 'an Intelligence Officer has to be ready for anything.'"

"Did they teach you brain surgery, too?" After my outburst I was calm again. "... but I meant you saved my life later, too. That's twice. With that email. Puts you one up on me."

"How'd I do that? I only sent you the one email." She looked puzzled. "I got busy with leaving the service and all."

"That email arrived when I had to decide if they were going to cut off my legs or not. I decided to give the hacksaw crew the okay. The other option was to let you visit a corpse, and I chose not to do that. So, I guess this is your fault." I said it light-heartedly, like the decision between a gruesome death from progressive gangrene and permanent disability with no legs was nothing to be taken seriously.

Her eyes widened as she listened, but she kept her own counsel. After a while, she'd apparently decided how to carry on. "Good thing you decided as you did. I've never visited a morgue. Don't want to, either. Oh, by the way, if the nurses ask, I'm your fiancée. It's the only way they'd let me in. From what you said in Abu, you didn't have one."

That shut me up. And my cock got hard. Nice to see that it still worked.

"Well, we better tell my mom. Have we picked a date yet? You got folks you want to tell?" I joked. "At least for a little while anyway."

"Yes, but no folks. ... A little while, anyway. But if you ever decide to fill that job opening, let me know, okey dokey?"

My hard cock lurched a little. How am I still attractive to someone like this? But it's probably just pity -- she can't really mean it.

"Why is a Lieutenant Commander getting out of the service? You weren't wounded, I take it."

"Oh... well, I guess you haven't been keeping up with the news," she replied. "The Admiral..." (there was never any question about which Admiral she was talking about: it was Admiral Hole) "... submitted his resignation about two weeks ago. They've cashiered his whole staff. Seems he had an affair with some newspaper woman who was doing his biography. I can't believe he was that stupid ... laying out the plans for the entire Central Theater in pillow talk. ... So, I am out of the Navy already."

Major league stupid. Make that Admiral AssHole. "So... I'm not going to get in trouble for making suggestive comments to a superior officer, huh."

She laughed. It was a good, honest laugh. It made her eyes crinkle up and her auburn hair ripple. Come to think of it, this was the first time I'd seen her hair not up in a bun; it was shoulder length and had shimmering blonde lights -- no they were darker highlights, almost brunette. Now they looked blonde again. I stared.

"... ... in Dallas?" she said somewhat confusingly. "Hello? Earth to James?"

"What?! Oh. Sorry. I guess I was day dreaming. I do that sometimes. Get lost inside my own head."

"I was just asking if you were going to take your terminal leave in Dallas? That way you could be fairly close to home. I know your mom is in Waxahachie. They have a very good VA Hospital outside Dallas. You have to get some more rehab, right?"

"Uh..." I said, ever the brilliant conversationalist. "Yeah. I guess. I hadn't thought about it. Probably a good idea. Dallas. Uh huh."

"Good. Maybe I'll see ya around in Texas. I've got a job offer from Carbunkle Oil Services, Inc. They're that big oil company that likes Vets. They don't think I got cooties from being an officer on the Admiral's staff," she said with a smile.

I knew of Carbunkle. They had great government contacts. And, of course, there was the rumor that they orchestrated the whole war on Iraq. The Vice-President of the U.S. was a former Carbunkle CEO.

We chatted back and forth, with only an occasional angry outburst from me, for the next hour. She checked her watch and made an excuse to be out of my company. Can't say I blamed her much. It couldn't be much fun to be around a bad tempered cripple with no real prospects, like me.

It was strange, that I could go from angry to regular to kidding around in a New York minute. It unnerved me. Was I manic-depressive now?

Later that night, the nurses changed shifts and the night nurse came in. "I hear you had a visitor. Your fiancée, right? From what I hear she was a real looker. You're lucky she could be here." She was all business, checking my bandages -- all was well there.

"Uh... yeah. I don't know why she even came. I'm a cripple now, not much use to any woman."

"I guess you're right," she said, massaging my sore and tired upper legs. "Why would a good looking woman be interested in a hero who saved her from a bomb blast and ..." her warm hand had drifted from my thigh to caress my dick. It responded. "... who was good looking himself. And whose equipment was still working." She stroked me softly. Her touch was soft. What she was touching was not so soft. It had happened in a few seconds.

"Hey! Don't do that. I'm not..." I spluttered.

"Shhh. I know you've got to be worked up from her visit. And I hate to see a good man -- in every sense of the word -- leave here with an attitude of failure." She tossed back the blankets and sheet and covered my cock with a washcloth. "You just lay back and relax. I bet you haven't had any attention ..." here she gave it a little shake "... in some time. You'll sleep better. Better than an Ambien."

She pressed back on my chest with her free hand and unzipped her blouse -- just to give me a good look at her cleavage. She had some nice knockers. Real nice.

I subsided and let her continue.

She made little encouraging coo-ing noises until I came, filling the washcloth. Then she used another warm, wet washcloth to clean me up, as I drifted to sleep.

She came in and administered the anti-sleeping pill almost ever night thereafter. I didn't mind at all.

*****

Cynthia returned the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. She came every day for nearly two weeks. She was fun and forgiving of my outbursts. She said it was normal after a wound like I'd suffered. I growled at her for that. I hadn't been 'wounded,' I'd been crippled.

Cyn -- that's what I called her when I wasn't furious at her -- said that I wasn't crippled. I could lead a normal life. Not 'normal' like the other 99.9% of the people lived. But I'd get a job -- a good job. Then she outright shocked me, when she said that she hoped that I could get married and have a good sex life and even father children.

Then, one day the Army said that I was ready to move on to my permanent home -- the VA hospital in my home town. Well... permanent until I could be living on my own. Or moving back in with mom. That was an appealing thought for a thirty year-old man.

I was astonished that Cynthia Johnson was flying to Dallas with me. She was still playing her 'fiancée' angle to stay at my side. I was beginning to half believe it. I couldn't figure out her angle in all this. She was young -- about my age, I'd guess, and I was vain enough to think that was young. She was good looking -- how's that for an understatement? She was attractive enough that she'd get admiring glances from any male between 15 and 60 who still had a pulse. She was smart and had secret abilities -- remember the blood transfusion with just what she happened to find on top of the coffee-house table? So, what was she doing hanging around me? I was a crippled vet with maybe a chance at some kind of life.

Okay, so maybe some of her optimism, and that of the counselor (I refused to call him a shrink, but that's what he was), was rubbing off on me. I had months and months of rehab to get through, no job prospects, no place to live, and no real future. Again, what was she doing with me? Surely she had better places to be, better men to be with.

*****

The Army's idea of comfortable transport from Germany to Dallas was terrible. Sit in a transport plane that wasn't really designed for humans, let alone crippled humans. Fortunately, my 'fiancée' made other arrangements, and suddenly I was in the first class cabin of Lufthansa. She said the Army paid for the trip and she had enough frequent flyer miles to handle the upgrades. So, now I was in her debt for that.

I was getting more and more uncomfortable about our 'relationship,' to the extent that we had one. Don't get me wrong -- under normal circumstances I'd be more than glad to be hanging around with a stunningly beautiful woman who was smart and funny, and was interested in me. These were not exactly normal circumstances, however.

The long flight made me realize that one of the things I'd miss about not having legs was I couldn't get up and 'stretch my legs'. If I wanted to use the toilet it would be a world class logistical issue. And, from what I could remember about airplane toilets, how could I get in and out and do my business in there? Like I said already, my life was going to be fucked up from now on.

The Docs in Germany had given me some pain pills. I wasn't in any real pain any more, the pills were for if I got too 'uncomfortable.' I didn't want to take them, however. There is nothing more cliché than a crippled Vet, in a wheelchair, hooked on pain pills. That was not going to be me. Yeah, I'd gotten over the worst of the depression and didn't want to be dead any more.

Now if I could just get over the extremely negative attitude I had. I knew I had it, 'cause I use to be a positive guy, when I ran the unit, and before that. Nothing got me down 'cause I knew that things would be all right. Now, I couldn't see that. It's not like I could snap my fingers and just change the way I thought. The negatives kept crowding out the positive things.

Take Cynthina for example. She was an amazing woman. Smart, beautiful, funny and fun. And all I could think was: why is she hanging around me?

Well, we got to Dallas. Mom met me -- us -- at the airport, even though the flight was about thirty minutes early. Guess she was tracking it in mid-flight. Was I hungry? We'd go to the Ruth's Chris restaurant for some gourmet sizzling steak. Which I knew she really couldn't afford. Thirsty? She suggested a beer, or a vodka, or bottled water ... or bottled water from Fiji. Or bored? A movie? A play? A ballgame? Tired? I should take a nap. For a week. Anything I wanted.

What I wanted was to have my legs back, and that she couldn't do. Sorry. I know it can't be much fun to read about all my negative thoughts all the time. But this isn't really for the reader. I wrote about it in my journal -- the shrink said I should use it to get my feelings out -- and it's overlapped to this account. I'm sure he'll have a wonderful time reading it, if I ever give it to him. Or maybe it's a her, here in big D.

What did surprise me was my mom's reaction to Cyn. Or maybe I should say lack of reaction. It was like: Hi. How was the flight? Oh, fine thanks. Shouldn't we get our luggage now?

Somehow they had obviously met and had a long talk. Skype maybe. That was good. And bad. I was beginning to feel that everything was all planned out by the two of them and I was just along for the ride.

Maybe that was for the best. I didn't have idea one about what to do next, except go to the VA hospital.

Mom had made other arrangements. I wasn't going to be staying in the hospital. I wasn't an in-patient any more. She had found me an apartment near the hospital. It was set up for handicapped access. Wide doors and hallways for the wheelchair. Everything in the kitchen was accessible to a wheelchair victim -- sorry. I should have said a differently able bodied person in a wheelchair.

It was a nice place. Convenient to the rehab center. Convenient to places downtown. I could go to basketball games and the American Airlines Center. All the creature comforts. I hated it because everything was set up for wheelchairs. I just wanted to be normal again. I'd never be that though.

Since the flight had arrived in the early morning, we had plenty of time left in the day. Mom and Cyn even took me around to meet the therapist I'd be dealing with. "No sense getting comfortable in that chair, buddy," he said. "You'll be up and walking with prosthetics soon enough."

Great. Another fucking optimist with a positive attitude. I just grunted at him. He laughed and said, "You'll see."

It was a long day and I'd about had it. Mom had to go back home, so she left for Waxahachie. Which left me in the apartment with Cynthia Johnson -- she with the mysterious agenda.

Turns out she didn't have a mysterious agenda, apparently. She hadn't made hotel arrangements, so she offered to sleep on the couch -- or on the right side of the double bed in my room. I just looked at her.

She put her hands on her hips and looked back at me. "James," she said. "We can do this now or later. We can do this the hard way or the easy way. I didn't follow you from Abu, to Germany, to Dallas, just because I didn't have anything else to do. You saved my life. I saved yours.

"I want to -- need to -- find out if the spark that was lit in Abu Dhabi is something that is going to turn into real fireworks, or if it's just going to gutter. I'm a singularly determined woman.

"I know that right now you're still filled with that 'poor me, I'm a cripple' crap. I understand and I'll deal with it for a little while. If you're going to keep on doing that, however, I'll move along."

All this time, she was getting undressed. The clothes were strewn around the living room. She was down to her bra and panties now -- a pale green ensemble that brought out the color of her eyes and made her auburn curls look just fine. The bra just barely kept her breasts in, or up, or whatever it was that it did. The panties were like boy shorts, but very brief and hung low on her hips. As she stood there, one hip was canted higher than the other; the panties were a little diagonal ... uh ... 'enhancement' to her sexiness. She still had her heels on. I hadn't noticed them in the plane. Maybe she changed. I didn't care. She was sexy as hell.

I was still trying to listen to what she had said, but I was a bit ... uh ... distracted. "Right. Uh... You might move along," I said, somewhat dazed, softly echoing her last. "You... uh... you can't sleep in your heels."

"I was hoping," she said with an alluring tone, "not to go to sleep right away." She took a step toward me.

Suddenly I wasn't nearly as tired as I was earlier. She came around to the front of my wheelchair and pulled on the armrests. It moved toward her, and she backed slowly into the bedroom.

"So... what'll it be. Do I go to the couch, or the bed?"

Well, I may have been slowed by the shock, but I wasn't stupid.

"Oh, the bed. Definitely, the bed."

I found out that the distance from my dick to my mouth was just the right to match the distance from her mouth to her cunt. And my stumps would give me just enough leverage to make her happy when I got inside her and pushed. And her breasts were very sensitive to suction from my lips.

The next morning, I further discovered that her mouth delivered the very best kind of blow job; I saw stars. And that there was about an inch of my dick left over when she found her gag point. And that I could still push up into her, when she straddled my hips. And that I just barely reached her cervix with the end of my cock when I was deep.

Shortly thereafter, I discovered that I could -- and did -- get to the toilet in time for my morning pee, with her laughing the whole time, considering that I had to get into and out of my wheelchair. I pointed out that she wouldn't think it was so funny if I'd used her as a pee-receptacle, if I hadn't made it on time.

I was shocked when she mentioned that that might be fun sometime.

I don't think I'll be turning in my journal to any Army shrink, thank you very much. I wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea about any kinky ideas that my fiancée had. Chapter 03

Over the next few days, we got settled into the apartment. That's 'we' -- as in both of us together. Somehow, we skipped over several parts of the mating dance: dating, boyfriend/girlfriend, being exclusive, etc. And moved right along to living together. We even skipped over getting to know each other.

Now, this is the 21st century. People -- well, at least some people -- are more easy going about sexual relations. But Cynthia and I had gone from sharing a cup of coffee to living together, with only a short stop at a hospital where I was de-legged. I thought that was a little strange. Too fast.

Of course, I didn't complain. I was getting prime pussy, something with which I was unfamiliar. I wasn't a virgin or anything close. I was shed of that condition back in high school. But I had been in the army in a female-hating Arab country for several years -- that's my categorization, in case you didn't know -- any place that arrests women for getting an education and condones 'honor' killing, counts as female-hating in my book. I don't think I'll put that in my journal. But seriously, who else do you think would make categorizations here?

Anyway, point is, I hadn't had any volunteer pussy except when I was on leave. That was damn rare, and it was only bar maids and junior officers at the base's unofficial bar. So, Cynthia, being Cynthia, had my unequivocal approval as a live in sex toy.

And boy was she ever. Maybe she hadn't had any opportunities lately either. She liked sex. Period. Any way, any time. Regular (vaginal) was very popular with us. Oral of course, coming (excuse the pun) in a close second. We discovered that she liked anal when I was mounting her missionary style, once, and slipped. And, well... plunged into her back door. It hurt like hell, she said. It was dry, with only a little of her pussy juice for lube, and she didn't want me to evacuate the premises, so to speak. She said it would hurt if I pulled out. By the time she got over the initial pain -- and me, being mentally fortified by lots of internet porn showing women who loved it -- I suggested that we explore a bit. We did. She liked it a lot. So that became an option for us, with adequate lube, in future sessions.

The strangest thing happened, after our anal adventure. She began to love what I can only call 'rough sex.' I'd pinch and pull at her nipples. Once, when I had her on her back, above me (reverse cowgirl, I think it's called -- you know the position if you've seen porn), she was leaning back against my torso as I plundered her ass. I was stroking or maybe she was, and I slapped her pussy. She erupted. More, more, she said. And that began to be a regular thing with us. Me slapping her breasts, and her pussy, con mucho gusto I might add.

What she loved most -- I'd honestly say, more than even vaginal sex -- was me turning her over my lap and getting her ass cherry-red from spanking. She could have a nice cum just from that, and then she'd fall to her knees and begin giving me the most exquisite blow job. I rested my hand on the back of her head, just to feel the motion. One time, when she hit her gag point, she reached back, took my hand, curled in her auburn tresses, and pushed hard. I quickly got the idea, and pulled her nose into my pubes, and, of course, pushed my cock down her throat. She loved that, when she popped her head off and regained her breath.

Don't misunderstand. Those were the spicy moments in a gourmand's delight of 'normal' sex.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into several months. I was getting nearly continuous rehab at the VA hospital and was learning to get around with my new fake legs. I had, naturally, absolutely no sense of balance -- maybe it was like walking on stilts. I don't know, 'cause I never walked on stilts. Anyway, it was tough. And, of course, I was getting nearly continuous sex at home when Cyn wasn't at work at Carbunkle.




It's Not What You Think



One thing of significance took place about a month after I started rehab. We were gonna have a speaker at rehab -- a member of the Black Knights, the Army's parachute team. Okay, I figured, go and hear another jock. Out walked Sgt. Dana Bowman. A normal man, with two arms and two legs, and a chest full of medals. He told a story about a jumper who'd collided in mid-air with another jumper. One man died when his chute opened and he was dropped into a tree. The other man had both legs amputated in mid-air, landed face down in a parking lot, but survived. Then he pulled up the pants legs to show two prosthetics. He was the man who survived. The audience gasped. I listened to the rest of the story with great attention. I had already spent more time getting over my injury than he had before he reenlisted and was jumping out of airplanes again.

[[True. You can look him up -- it's an inspiring story. www.danabowman.com]]

Thereafter, after making some progress with the prosthetics, I brought them home. The next morning I strapped them on my legs and tried to walk over to the rehab center. It was all of two blocks away. I fell thirty times just getting to the front door of the building. Thankfully, Cyn was not there, or she'd have turned my ass red. I had to give up, fall thirty more times getting back to the apartment and getting in my wheelchair and appearing at rehab late for my appointment. My therapist knew what had happened by the scratches and scrapes on my hands. He just laughed it off, and said I'd get it.

Meanwhile, Cynthia started her job in 'Situation Evaluation -- Overseas Division' for Carbunkle Oil. I had no idea what she was supposed to be doing, except she couldn't talk about it. She made occasional trips to Houston, to meet with the 'higher ups' she said, but those were just day trips.

I bought a van, specially modified so I could drive with no legs. It would handle my wheelchair or, of course, I could just walk in and drive. The Lions Club and Rotary Club of Waxahachie decided I would benefit from having a service dog. That's when I met Bear, the nicest black and white and cream colored Swiss Mountain Dog there ever was -- actually he was part Greater Swiss Mountain Dog and part momma's-boyfriend-the-traveling-salesdog.

Bear was fully trained as a service dog, although I didn't need one really. But they wanted to do it, so Bear moved in. He could answer the door, pick up the phone when it rang, turn off the light, and he barked at intruders and would bark at any danger in the house (like a fire, for example) -- I'd train him to do more useful things for me. Like I said, I didn't really need a service dog and felt badly 'cause somebody who needed one could have had Bear. The guy who had trained Bear said that he couldn't be certified as a service dog, since he was too large. Bear was 125 lbs. and still growing. Every once in a while, I'd get into my wheelchair and let him pull me around in the park. I'd grab his harness and just turn him lose to run. I felt like Ben Hur as he pulled me around the park at breakneck speeds. Usually I had a contingent of kids running along side.

In my sixth month in big D, Cyn, I and Bear decided to move into a house halfway to little W (Waxahachie). With Dana Bowman as my example, I got myself up and walking in my fake legs. With Cynthia as my coach, I got myself set up as a computer networking consultant. I could work from home most days and visit clients when needed.

I asked Cynthia to marry me in October, about a month later. She looked at me like she was deciding, and having a difficult decision.

"I don't know. Are you asking me forever or just..." she started.

I grabbed her wrist and pulled her sharply toward me. She lost her balance and I quickly manhandled her across my lap. I flipped her skirt up and started paddling her ass with my hand. The red thong that she wore didn't interfere at all. I spanked her as fast as I could manage, raising a nice rosy color in no time flat.

She was screaming -- partly out of surprise and partly as a contribution to our little game. Bear was concerned, since we'd never done that in his presence before. "Yes! Yes! I'll marry you, you brute. But you have to promise to do this at least weekly," she cried.

With that, I swung her around and kissed her soundly. Bear was relieved, I'm sure. We decided to get hitched on Valentine's Day. Mom just smiled when we told her on her next visit.

As I said, most days I worked at home. Cynthia would go to the office in Dallas every morning -- she'd leave about seven in the morning and get home about six at night. Once in a while she'd have to go to Houston, usually for the day but occasionally it would be for two or three days.

One Friday in December, Cyn approached me as we were getting to bed.

"I know that Friday or Saturday is usually spankies day," she started. 'Spankies' was what we called it when I spanked her 'til her ass was so red and bruised that she couldn't sit. "Please let's not do it this week. I have to go to Houston all week starting on Sunday night, and I don't want to be uncomfortable sitting in meetings."

Well, that didn't sound like such a strange request to me, so we skipped it. When she got back on Friday next, I gave her a double dose. She couldn't even stand straight for two days. She loved it, by the way, and asked me to spank her titties as well. Which, of course, I did. She came three times during my 'abuse,' and I was very well rewarded for giving her the attention that she craved.

Don't get me wrong. I fucked her in every hole she had, too. In fact, we didn't leave the house except to take Bear to the park.

Same thing in January, about four weeks later. I didn't think anything of it, that time either.

She didn't go on any trips in February, except our honeymoon: a cruise to Grand Cayman. For one of my wedding presents, I got her (or me, [evil laugh]) a light weight flogger that would hurt a bit more than my hand; since I wouldn't have to stop because of damage to me, it would take longer to bruise her, which meant more pleasure/pain for her. I didn't want to hurt my hand, you see, because I'm such a delicate flower. (!!)

When Cyn went back to work, she said she'd have to go to Houston for a longer period this time. Apparently, in addition to the normal full week meeting, there was an off-site meeting on a cruise ship that would sail around for two days and there'd be a team-building event there. So, she'd be gone over the weekend, too.

All that struck me as very strange. We were only a long car ride from Houston -- about three hours. Why did she have to be there over the weekend? And what kind of company had off-site meetings on a cruise ship?

I'd never had any reason to doubt what she told me. At least until this b.s. story about the next meeting / cruise ship was concerned. Now, I was worried. It occurred to me that I didn't know her at all. Just that she loved sex and, seemingly, loved sex with me. Did she really love me? Was she a stable person? She liked kinky sex, so maybe she took a week off now and then from the 'vanilla' sex with me and visited a BDSM club. Who knew?

Christ! We'd just gotten married; we were about to have the one year anniversary of her coming to meet me in Germany. Now I had to deal with the 'Why is my wife telling lies?' issue.

Unfortunately -- or fortunately, depending on your point of view -- I had developed a friend who knew about electronics -- all kinds of electronics. So when Cynthia decided to tell me a lie, I decided to bug her.

She had told me on Monday. I called Jackson Rey, my friend in the electronics bug business, and offered to take him out to a lunch on Tuesday.

"Jack," I started our lunch discussion, "did I ever tell you how I met Cyn?"

"No, not the whole story. You met when you were in the service, didn't you?" he replied.

"Yep," I said. "We met when she was assigned to my unit in Abu Dhabi. I got to know her pretty well over the next year and a half. Then I got blown up in a terrorist bombing. I guess I saved her life, but she saved mine as well. When I got to Germany, she just appeared at my hospital.

"I was very depressed, and there she was. A beautiful angel and she seemed to be attracted to me. I was angry at the world, including her, and sometimes pretty mean. But she kept coming back.

"Then she got on the plane back to the States with me, and just moved into my apartment. BAM! There she was.

"You've seen her. Would you throw her out of bed?"

"Not a chance in hell, man," he said.

"Me neither. She was and still is a dynamo in bed. There's nothing she won't do. For months I kept asking myself: WHY? Why would a beautiful woman like her pick a crippled Vet with marginal business prospects like me?"

"Did you ever come up with an answer?" he asked.

I thought about an answer for a long time, during which our $12 hamburgers arrived. "Jack, let me tell you about a story I once heard," I said by way of answer.

"There was this fly-fisherman. He was a lawyer and lived the good life... perhaps he was not as ethical as he might have been, like so many lawyers. One day, he just keeled over and died of an aneurysm. When he woke up, he saw a bright light, and it coalesced into a mountain stream. 'Greetings,' said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere. 'You'll be spending the next part of eternity fly-fishing. Good luck.'

"Well, thought the lawyer, that's not so bad. A complete rod and reel appeared at his feet. He proceeded to wade out into the stream and looked around for a likely spot for his first cast. Looking around, he saw a shady pool. A backwater that looked likely. He cast.

"Just as the lure hit the water, a large bass leapt out of the water and took the bait. It was a good, long fight but eventually, he landed the fish. He hauled it out of the water, admired it, and set it free in the stream to go back to doing whatever it was that fish did.

"Then he began to look around for another likely spot. He cast. It wasn't his best cast, but again, just as the lure hit the water, another large fish leapt out of the water and took the bait. He thought that was a little unusual, but he fought the fish and again, it was a beauty. Catch and release, again.

"He took off the rest of the day, but the following day, he had nothing to do but fish. So he once again cast his lure into the shady spot. It was a repeat of yesterday. No sooner did his lure touch the water, but a big fish leapt out and took it. He fought it again and once again released it after the struggle.

"This is very strange, thought the former lawyer. He was always an analytical man, and it just seemed so unlikely.

"He stomped around in the stream, mudding the water, chasing likely fish away, and then just dropped his lure right in front of where he was standing. SNAP. Just as before, when the lure touched the water, a big fish took it and after a long struggle, he won again!

"Day after day, he did the same thing. And always got the exact same result.

"This is TOO MUCH, he thought to himself. How can I be the recipient of such good fortune with nothing ever going bad?

"So this time, he cast his lure out into the pasture, nearby, forty yards from the stream. Sure enough. SNAP. As soon as the lure touched the ground, a big fish jumped from the stream and took the lure in his mouth, swam through the mud to the stream and gave him a long fight. This time, he deliberately fouled his line, trying to lose the contest. He won again!

"What kind of heaven is this, he shouted aloud, where I always get what I want without any effort?

"'Who said this was heaven?' boomed the voice. 'I just said you were going to be here for eternity, fly-fishing."

"WOW!" said Jack. "What a depressing Zen story, man. But Cynthia is not your fly-fishing."

So I told him about the week in Houston every month. And the cruise ship. And the weak story that justified it. "I'm worried, Jack. For the past year, I couldn't chase the fish away. I'm worried. That's all."

"Well, what do you want from me?"

"I know you can make some fancy tracking stuff, right?"

"James, I'm surprised. I'd never do anything illegal." He spoke as if into a recorder.

"Relax, Jack," I said. "If I wanted to bust you, I'd bust you for what you did to Credit Suisse's trading account last fall ... I just want you to put together a couple of listening and GPS devices for me. One should be in a gold Cross pen, voice activated listening and GPS broadcasting by burst transmission every five minutes. Another is just a straight pin, or a safety pin. As small as you can make it. Just GPS. And the last is a spike mic, constant broadcasting, like you can pound into drywall and hear what's going on inside."

"Golly, James. Those devices would be illegal, you know." But he wrote 'Thursday, after work' on a napkin. "I could never do that. But you can buy a GPS tracking program for her phone. And some software that'll let your phone ring when she activates hers."

"Oh... too bad. Sorry to take your time, Jack. That's a good idea about the cell phone though."

*****

On Wednesday, I installed the GPS tracking software on my laptop. Just for yucks, I put it in a folder on a hidden partition of the hard drive, and passworded the whole thing. You know, just for fun. Riiiiiight. If I'm looking, I'll assume she's looking too. Then I moved my journal to the same hidden partition. Wouldn't do to have her reading this.

On Thursday, I met Jack and passed an enjoyable hour having a drink after work. Jack also passed me a small package, wrapped in tissue paper.

That night, I slipped out to the kitchen and replaced her gold Cross pen with the new improved version that Jackson had given me.

Friday morning, Cyn just about destroyed me in bed before leaving for work. She got up extra early to do one of everything -- except the spanking -- and left me a wreck. She packed a suitcase and went to get in the shower.

I picked up her birth control pills from out of the suitcase and held them in my hand -- camouflage in case I was caught. Then I quickly rifled through the suitcase. Several of her most slinky and sexy dresses were in there, a pair of her highest heeled shoes too, and it was filled with her best underwear from Victoria's Secret. I placed the safety pin GPS transmitter in one of the side pockets and waited for her to come out of the shower.

"You forgot your birth control pills," I said in an angry tone, "and as I was putting them in your suitcase, I noticed that you've also packed your sexy underwear and dresses and shoes. What damn kind of business meeting is this, anyway? I'm not a jackass, Cyn. What's going on?"

"What's going on," she said with a smile, "is that you're nuts. I took the dresses because I'm going to be there for over a week. I assume that I'll go out for dinner with the guys -- and girls, I might add -- to dinner some night. They are sexy dresses because you won't let me have any other kind in my wardrobe. Here..." she flung the door to her closet open. "... you choose what I should take. Same with my underwear. I don't have any plain-Jane granny style underwear. It's all sexy briefs and thongs and bras.

"C'mon James." She dropped her towel (from the shower, remember?) and slithered toward me. "I'm yours and I'm not going anywhere." She laid a steaming hot kiss that would have curled my toes, if I still had any. At least, it melted the plastic on my prosthetic feet.

"It's just that I don't like these week-long trips," I said. "I'm afraid of losing you to somebody. You're so important to me. I can't believe how lucky I am to have you. ... I'm sorry for thinking like that." And I was, too. She'd convinced me that I was chasing at shadows. I didn't think anybody could fake passion like she showed. OR ... I didn't think, period.

She left to get in her car for the drive to Houston. I walked to my office in the spare bedroom after giving Bear his morning ration of kibble, and turned on my laptop and desktop computers.

I felt guilty as I looked at the directory of the hidden partition on the laptop. Why was I even doing this? Almost on automatic, I opened the windows for the GPS trackers: one each for the cell phone, the pen in her purse and the safety pin in her luggage. They each showed that she was approaching the highway, as expected.

Just to keep in touch, I thought I'd listen in on the transmitter in the pen. I really thought I'd just hear the same radio station that Cyn was listening to. I didn't.

She seemed to be on the phone. I pulled out my cell and saw that her cell was inactive. The transmission was delayed because the pen-transmitter only sent every five minutes, in a heavily encoded burst transmission.

"Yeah. Just checking in..." she said into some other cell phone. "... I'm just hitting the freeway now... No, but he was a little hinky this morning. Wanted to know why I was packing all the sexy clothes and underwear. I told him that I didn't have anything else. Which is true... ... ... No, no problem... No, I won't discuss how I convinced him. You don't need to know that... No, I don't think so... All right, if you insist, but he's never out of the house. How are you going to get them placed? ... You sure? 'Cause if you fuck this up, I'll be really pissed... Right. Well, I'm going to take the 20 to the 45. Should be in Houston by lunch... Okay. See you then."

Shitfuck! Her cell phone wasn't activated, but its GPS was active, so I knew it was working. So she had another phone. A secret phone can't be a good sign. And she was talking to him. I didn't really know it was a 'him' but who else could it be? And he knew about the sexy clothes she packed. And it sounded like they were going to place a bug or bugs in my house.

I called Jackson. "Looks bad for me, friend. It looks like all the fish I've been catching ... well let's just say that I'm not in heaven any more," I said. "I'm going to need something that will find bugs in my house, now too."

"Oh, man. That's bad. I'm really sorry," he said. But he agreed to provide the device I'd need.

"What's the range on that transmitter you got for me?"

"It's about half a mile. The battery will only work for about two weeks, then we'll need to change it."

"Crud! That means I'll have to get myself to Houston. I never thought about that. I was hoping that I wouldn't have to do this at all."

"Well, I can give you a little box that'll receive it, if you can place it within range. It'll store everything on a flash drive. It's about the size of a box of cigarettes," Jackson said.

"Oh, that'll be great. I'll come by and pick them up on my way to swamp city."

So, I picked up the new equipment and drove the van to Houston. Following the GPS dots, I figured that she was staying at the Houston Century -- a very upscale hotel. Not exactly the kind for a business meeting, but maybe that was just my paranoia talking. She must have clearance from her employer for a week every month, so there must be some kind of business purpose. Maybe it was Carbunkle's way of having a meeting -- they were rolling in dough, you know.

Then her cell GPS and the pen GPS moved to a small building some distance away. It was in an unnamed five story building, according to my GPS software. For the rest of my drive those two GPSes didn't move.

Bear and I got to Houston about 2 p.m, a couple of hours after Cyn should have arrived. We might have been earlier, but I needed to stop to let Bear unload the 'processed kibble' from this morning. I drove be the Century Hotel. Very fancy. Then I went to the other site. As I got closer, I picked up the transmission from the pen. Some guy was going on about the first quarter actuals in South America and the second and third quarter projections in the oil market, world wide.




It's Not What You Think



I don't know what I expected, but I didn't expect to see a building next to a parking garage in a kind of seedy part of town. Didn't fit the Carbunkle image, you know? Where would all the high powered execs go for lunch? Why was it so far from Cyn's love nest at the Century? I pulled into the garage, got my parking ticket, and drove through the multi-story garage to find a likely place for my receiver. I left it on top of an emergency phone box on the third floor. As I was leaving, I thought it strange that so many of the cars were Fords and Chevys. Not an import in the place that I could find. Not a Honda or Toyota or Beemer in the garage. Strange.

I got to brooding on the way home. What was I going to do now? I was pretty sure that my marriage was about done. If it was a marriage at all. I mean... fucking around for one-quarter of the time? It had started before we were married but after we moved into the apartment. Any significance to that? I couldn't believe the passion she showed me this morning was faked. Maybe she was a great actress. But why bother? She could have just broken it off with me and run off to be with Mr. Carbunkle or whoever.

Maybe I'll just call him the asshole. Maybe it was Admiral AssHole. I hear that former bigshots in the service could always get a nice posting with Carbunkle, or some other defense contractor. Maybe Cyn and the Admiral were trying to keep it secret from his wife. Maybe Admiral AssHole was still schtupping the reporter. Or maybe it wasn't him at all.

Fuck! This wasn't heaven at all, that much I was sure of. Chapter 04

I didn't sleep well that night. The more I thought about things, the worse they seemed. Cyn clearly decided that it would be profitable for her to lie to me. It was absolutely true -- she lied. I had no idea in what sense she 'profited,' but she wasn't doing this for just fun. No one would go through all the trouble of setting me up like this for nothing.

Or... she was dumber than shit and doing all this for love and lust. Because it was a hell of a stupid thing to do to me and for her. She didn't seem like the type.

I thought about it a lot. The more I thought about it, the worse it seemed, like I said. It was all a set up. The amazingly quick latching on to a depressed, almost suicidal, seriously wounded Vet. That was the first fish. I didn't even have to cast the lure. It was taken by a beautiful fish and I was mesmerized. She reeled me in here in Dallas. Shit, I don't know if I was the fish or the fisherman, and my metaphor is getting confused ... but my mom always said if it looks too good to be true, it almost certainly is. Why didn't I think about that months ago?

I guess I knew it was, all along. But why do it? Who cared what the reason was? I just wanted out.

Of course, I might be making all this up. I had a fear of losing the best thing in my life, because I thought I wasn't worthy of that best thing. Was it a justified fear, or an unjustified fear? Fuck if I knew.

I wanted to be out of this mess, and, at the same time, I didn't want to end it with Cyn. She lied to me and I hated it ... and I still loved the woman that saved my life, not once but twice. And did so again here in Dallas. She was a wonderful partner. Sexy. Fun and funny. Attuned to me. Sigh. Well, she was attuned to me the 75% of the time she was married to me. So, maybe 75% or maybe not 25%. I'd have to give it one more month -- one more week long meeting -- before I decided what I was going to do.

By then I'd have the tapes of her 'seminar,' or 'team building cruise,' or secret meeting with the boyfriend.

*****

Meantime, I had real work to do. It was late Friday afternoon, and I checked in with some clients. They had no new business for me. I got a call from a new client who needed me to come to Fort Worth immediately. I've done some cold calling in the past few months, but I've never received an incoming cold call. I asked 'Fort Worth Printing, Inc.' how they heard of me. They said he heard of me from North Texas Consulting. I told him I was on another line and would call him right back.

NTC was a legit customer, so I called Marcy, the accountant at NTC who ran the computer system. I asked if she knew Fort Worth Printing. Yes, since this morning, as a matter of fact, she said.

Gee, what a coincidence! Cynthia has a conversation with Mr. Anon, about getting me out of the house so they can bug it, at 7:15 a.m. By 5 p.m., they have a guy with a contact at a client of mine, call me to set up an 'emergency' meeting.

So I called them back and took the meeting. I could be there by 6. I had nothing better to do, what with my wife off in Houston, sucking the dick of Mr. AssHole. Or getting fucked in the ass, or slinking around in her fancy underwear, or some other damn thing.

I didn't want anything to happen to Bear, so I took him with me, to let them plant their bugs. We went off to Ft. Worth. They'd had only a few hours to set this up -- either that or they already had some company just sitting there doing nothing. This was a whole lot bigger operation than just Cynthia fucking some guy in Houston.

FWP had a baby sized network with a virus in the Outlook server. It took a couple of hours to de-louse the server, and the guy was truly grateful. Wow. They had some serious actors in this outfit. Last week, I would have believed him. I should berate them for letting somebody browse the porn site that had the virus, but I didn't think I could act that well.

When I got back to the house, I tickled the bug detector over to the vibrate setting. One buzz was a non-active voice only bug, two buzzes was for actively transmitting, one long buzz was for an active video bug. In the case of any active bug, there'd be a receiver just like the one I planted this morning in Houston.

I walked in the door and the detector in my pocket started jumping around. I got several 'hits' in every room. Upstairs, the basement, office, bedroom, kitchen, even the bathroom. What a bunch of perverts, looking at a crip beating off in the privacy of his own bathroom. They had video active in my office and in the bedroom. Perverts, like I said: looking at a couple in their own bedroom!

I went back to the van and set Bear loose in the house. I opened the door to the bedroom and the door to the office. Neither was a room where he was normally allowed without me. Naturally, he went in there and moved from room to room. That should keep the videos in almost constant 'send' mode.

I tracked the transmission and found the receiver stuck on the underside of the gas meter outside the garage.

So Bear and I entered the office, where I had my desktop, and I set up my laptop. I 'accidentally' moved some books around on the shelf, covering the video. It would now see the inside front cover of a book on TCP/IP protocol handling. I had to move that out of the way to get to a book on Outlook. I just wanted to make sure the new client got the right fix, you see.

After a little while, I put that book down and opened the browser on my desktop to a porn site. The ooh-ing and ahh-ing and yes-baby would fill the airwaves and keep the audio and blinded video transmissions full. After all, if they wanted to be perverts, I could only help.

While that was going on semi-loudly, I plugged my headphones into the laptop and clicked the apps I'd opened earlier. The GPS devices still hadn't moved. They still showed her luggage in the Century hotel and her pen was still in the funny unnamed building. The cell phone -- the one I officially knew about -- was in the funny unnamed building, too. I couldn't hear what was the pen was recording, of course.

So, if this scenario was to be believed, she checked in to the hotel, immediately left there for the unnamed building -- where, by the way, I didn't see her Mazda Miata at all -- and stayed there all day. Then she left for her room, when the 'seminar' was over, but left her cell and her Cross pen behind. Friday wasn't even supposed to be a seminar day, now that I think of it.

Sure. That was very likely. Not.

I wasn't looking forward to the weekend at all. I packed up Bear and the small mountain of kibble he'd eat and headed off to Waxahachie, to visit my mom. It was okay. We had kind of a heart-to-heart about why Cynthia wasn't around. I told her that she 'had to work' and would be gone all next week, too. I put air quotes around it, so she knew that I didn't think it was true.

Mom really liked Cynthia. That was okay: I really liked her too. Actually, now that I thought on it, I loved Cynthia, but I didn't like her very much. Mom said she probably did have to work and I agreed in a desultory way. In reality, I was sure she was working, but not doing the Carbunkle job that she said she was doing. Or maybe she was 'on the job' for Carbunkle.

We watched an old movie, and on Saturday, I watched the Waxahachie Warriors basketball team take a drubbing from Cardinal Bellore High. The Warriors lost, but I had a pretty good time. I especially had a good time watching the HS cheerleaders on both sides. They say you're really old when you can watch beautiful young cheerleaders and you tell yourself that you're too old for them... or maybe they're too young. Anyway, internally I drooled over them, probably just like every other male in the gym.

Saturday night my cell phone chirped. It was Cynthia.

"Hi," I said in as cheerful a voice as I could manage.

"Hi! I called you at home but there was no answer. Where are you?"

I thought briefly about spinning her a story about meeting an old girlfriend. But decided against it. "In Waxahachie. How are you getting a phone signal out in the Gulf of Mexico? I thought your cell phone wouldn't work out there."

"I'm not on cell, silly. I left that thing in my suitcase. I'm on the ship's phone system."

Well... an easily provable lie. Cell was in the unnamed building. Suitcase was in the hotel. "Oh... having fun?"

"Nope. It's a drag, but I gotta do it for good ol' Carbunkle. Did you know there's a company song?"

"Really... must be like college. Keep away from the frat parties. I bet you really set 'em on their ear when you showed up in your slinky, sexy dress at dinner."

"Well, I did actually. Got some offers but, of course, I turned them all away. I'm a married woman, after all."

I didn't think I could take much more of this. "Good. Save it for next weekend, and I'll scratch your itch. Gotta go now. Bear is doing the peepee dance. I can't let him out alone here. He doesn't know the neighborhood. Have fun, Cyn. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Okay. See ya soon..."

And I hung up. I don't know if she was going to say 'Love ya' like she always finished phone calls. Probably. I didn't want to hear that particular lie, just then.

On Sunday, Mom and I went to church and then we took Bear for a long romp in the park. I, myself, didn't 'romp' like in the old days, but I let him wander around off leash. The lack of the service handle let him know that he wasn't 'working' and he had a wonderful time. He must have chased a hundred squirrels and just from watching him, I now understood the meaning of 'barking up the wrong tree.'

Sunday night found me back at home in bug central. I fired up the trusty desktop porn channel, and while the 'harder, deeper' crowd kept the voice bug busy in my office, I took the laptop into the living room. There I must have read 150 stories about cheating wives, on the internet. That was really sad, considering that I was sure my wife was off in Houston, doing just that. Everything from Burn the Bitch to the wimpy cuckold stories. I needed to do what was right for me. I was the victim, not the offender. Did I want to live the rest of my life alone? Or did I want to live my life with someone I didn't -- couldn't -- trust? Okay, maybe not the rest of my life, but a big slice of it.

*****

You know how you have a thought while you're sleeping and that thought triggers something and suddenly you've got another thought? Well, that was me, Monday morning.

I decided that maybe Cynthia was working for the Feds. Change 'maybe' to 'probably.' Some sort of three-letter outfit: FBI, CIA, DOD, NSA, XYZ or something. Who else could possibly have set up a black bag bugging operation so quickly or had a 'spare' company they could throw at me?

Maybe she wasn't seeing somebody in Houston after all. That thought kept me occupied while I ate my oatmeal and banana breakfast. She was an Intel officer back in the Navy, and she migrated directly from that job to this.

Then I thought about her luggage. Why did she need to be gone for the weekend and why did she pack her sexy clothes? And the lies about the cruise. Fuck. I was depressed again. So what if it was a three-letter operation -- she was in Houston to fuck some guy.

I had to do something or else I'd go crazy. I decided I needed to learn a skill. I picked making websites so I went out and bought books on XML and Style Sheets and making websites. $137.85 later I had brought several books home and plunked them noisily on the desk in the office. I turned on the GPS tracking windows in the laptop. None of the GPSes had moved from their location on Saturday.

Cynthia must be on one hell of a cruise. Maybe in the oversized bathtub that the Century Hotel probably had. She said she had taken her luggage on the cruise, right? And the GPS said her suitcase hadn't moved. So obviously she cruised around the room.

She probably didn't even need her bed, being on a cruise and all. She'd cruise around Mr. AssHole and stop every once in a while so he could plug one of her portholes. Fucking slut.

My thoughts turned to the time after Cynthia would be coming home. I certainly didn't want to perform in front of the cameras, and I couldn't imagine how to act 'normal' when I was thinking about her and Mr. AssHole in Houston.

Maybe I'd get an attack of PTSD. I'd never had any flashbacks, being busy during rehab, and having an ultra-positive sexy woman next to me almost 24/7. I was depressed enough. Now I was depressed again. I thought about it and figured that I'd better have some night-terrors while she was away. Make the cameras work for me.

I sort of felt bad using PTSD as an excuse when so may Vets really had a problem with it. But I had a problem too, right now -- not the same kind, but... At least this way, I could not fuck her, which would be good for my psyche and not give a cheap thrill to the folks at the CIA or whoever.

Anyway, I wore my watch to bed, which I sometimes did anyway, and set the silent alarm (just an increasing tingle on the wrist) to wake me in the middle of the night so I could 'wake up screaming.'

It was about 2:30 in the a.m. when I woke. I screamed, gave myself the shakes and sat upright. Then I put my head in my hands and tried to act panicked. Hell, I didn't know what a flash back/night terror/panic attack looked like. But I figured, this would be my PTSD attack.

I got up, made myself some warm chocolate -- I hated drinking hot chocolate, you know, where you burn the roof of your mouth when you take a sip? -- stumbled around a bit and then went back to bed. Maybe when Cyn got here, I should take a shot of whiskey instead.

Slept through the rest of the night.

I alternated for the rest of the week, studying XML and websites for part of the time, and reading about cheating wives for the other part. One was just boring and ... come to think of it, they were both pretty boring. After a couple of hundred cheating wife stories, there wasn't much variation in the theme, you know? Some poor schmuck discovers the cheat, agonizes for a while (usually several pages) and then either wimps out and takes her back or there's some kind of scorched earth. Sigh.

And I watched the GPS indicators not move.

Cynthia didn't call at all the rest of the week. Busy, I guess. Maybe she was 'tied up' on Mr. AssHole's bed, and couldn't get away.

Finally on Friday morning, they moved. The suitcase moved first. It became a dot moving toward the phone and the pen. They were all together for about an hour, then about 11 a.m. they started moving back toward home.

'Home.' What a laugh. The indicators moved toward 'our pretend home.' Filled with bugs from her government friends, the house would be a good location for the lying bitch with the just fucked pussy to spend time before she went off again.

I didn't think they (whoever 'they' were) would come and collect the recordings while I was home. Probably they'd wait till I was out of the way and then send a 'meter reader' out to change the electronics.

I'd have to do the same. I had no idea what was recorded from my little pen transmitter. I seriously doubted that the pen was anywhere near Cynthia, however, most of the week. I figured she was in the Century Hotel, using all that passion that she so cleverly could call up on demand. Or maybe she really got off on this guy.

Thursday night was a particularly 'bad' night in terms of fake-PTSD attacks. I'd manufactured two of them.

Come morning, I mixed up a dilute solution of soap and water, diluted it again in more water, then put a drop in each eye. It burned like a S.O.B. for a few seconds, but my eyes were convincingly red by the time Cynthia got home at 4 p.m.

I met her at the door, unenthusiastically. "Hi," I said in the middle of our hug. "I'm glad you're home. Been having a hell of a time."

"What's wrong?" She was all solicitude and concern.

"Some bad dreams. Some flash backs to Abu and the explosion -- during the day, too. I've already made an appointment with the VA shrink -- next Tuesday. I'm afraid I know what it is."

"Oh no. Well, we've got to change your mind set and get you thinking about the good times. How about we go to Armando's for dinner. I'll just get changed and we go out and get some nice Italian food. It'll be an early meal, and then I can feast on you afterwards."

So... Armando's equals time for the 'gas man' to change the recording device. And there ain't going to be any play time later, in front of the camera or fucking my just-fucked wife. If I ever had a real wife.

I looked at her. "I don't think I'll be ready for any play time later. I just feel crummy."

She looked disappointed. I thought about it. A real cheater would have looked worried about the change in my behavior -- at least a flash on her face. But she was a good actress, I had to admit. Just 'disappointed' with a fair amount of 'concern for my condition.'

I let Bear out in the back yard, while Cyn changed. She put on a dynamite dress. It was just below the knee but had a slit up each side to about mid-thigh, high neckline in front but dipped way down to nearly her ass in back. It was sea foam green. It was one of my favorites. I was horny just looking at it.

Maybe I could get something in the car. We piled into the van, me on my legs but with a wheelchair in back just in case, and her flashing a little panty shot at me as she got in.

I got a couple of hundred yards down the road and pulled over. I had a (faked) breakdown. "Oh Cyn," and I reached for her. "I've missed you so much. I was all alone and having these attacks and..." She came to me across the open space between the two seats. I buried my head on her shoulder.

Pretty good acting, huh? I'd see her 'disappointed and concerned' look and raise her a 'PTSD induced breakdown.'

She was down on her knees hugging me, as I swiveled the driver's chair to the middle.

"I need you so much," I groaned. After a few minutes, my hands started roaming on her naked back. Then they wandered to the back of her neck where the high collar buttoned. The buttons came apart and there was nothing holding up the dress except our clinch.




It's Not What You Think



I moved my hands around and fondled her breasts. I kneaded and stroked, and then I began with the little pinches and tugs that should get her started. Unless she was completely fucked out, I remembered. My hard on wilted a bit.

She began to breathe heavily, and reached to stroke my cock through my pants.

I went back to giving her nips the gentle treatment and suddenly grabbed them and gave her now-hard nipples a vicious twist. She gasped and had a sharp intake of breath.

"Promise me you'll always be mine," I said, pleading. I couldn't tell if I was acting or not. I really did want -- maybe need -- to have her in my life. The prospect of many lonely years loomed large in my head at that moment.

"Promise." And with my repeated demand, I twisted her breasts even harder. I thought I was going to rip her tender flesh.

"Oh... yes, James. Always. I'll be here." And she began to unzip me. I was no longer wilted. A whole week without my sex toy? I was diamond-hard.

I had a fleeting thought about the hundreds of cheating wife stories. None of them had a Cynthia in them.

Her mouth descended on my shaft and when I was in the back of her throat, I gave her breasts a savage twist again. Ever had someone gasp with pleasure while her mouth was full of cock and it was knocking on the gateway of her throat? It was beyond explaining. At least for me.

I couldn't decide if I was so pissed off at the cheating bitch on her knees in front of me, or giving pleasure to my sexy wife/partner/life-saver.

I grabbed at the back of her head. "Oh... Cyn, Cyn, Cyn." I moaned, as I tried to fuck her throat. She hadn't had any air in a while, but she paused, then attempted to swallow. That put me over the top. I came in hot ropes of lust, shooting down her throat.

Then I collapsed back into the chair. And she collapsed on top of me, naked to the waist and her head in my lap.

"Oh God, James." She put her hands over her used and abused nipples. "That was so hot. I'll feel your fingers for a week." I looked down at her. Did I see the outline of teeth marks near her right nipple? It was partially covered by her hand, and I really didn't want to know.

She rebuttoned her dress at the back of her neck. I thought at first she chose one of my favorite sexy dresses, but now I entertained the idea that she might have been covering her chest to hide a bite mark from her lover.

Fuck. It turned everything around. I was depressed again. I thought that tonight before bed might be time again for a flashback, to end any thought of continuing this. I really did want her though. But it didn't seem like there was any Cynthia to love me back, at least no Cynthia who'd take me exclusively. And I couldn't accept less.

Certainly not 25% less. Was it just the percentage? Suppose she was 'out of town' just 10% of the time. Or supposed she just wanted -- or needed -- some Mr. AssHole just once in a while.

No. That wouldn't do it. I wanted someone who wanted me 100% of the time. I could have forgiven a drunken one-night stand with somebody. But not this.

And the lies. The lies. The lies were there 100% of the time. All the time. Every day. Every minute we were together.

I tried to remember that just a moment ago I was in ecstasy. Now I was in misery.

We drove on to the restaurant, each of us acting happy and pleased to be with the other. I know it was acting on my part because, right now, I couldn't stand to be around the cheating bitch.

After dinner, it was still early when we got home: about 8 p.m. Time for my 'after dinner show.'

I pulled into the driveway, and froze up just as we were getting into the kitchen. Bear was always glad to see me. You know how dogs are. I bent down to greet him with a hug, then stopped moving and crumpled to the floor. He thought it was a great game. When Cyn came back from hanging up her shawl, she saw me on the ground, and Bear lapping at my face. It was all I could do not to respond to the only true friend I had. Bear was incapable of lying.

She pulled Bear off me, and then came to cradle my head in her lap. Bear came back, but she had him just sit near me. She made coo-ing, soothing sounds and stroked my hair. That felt nice actually: her softness, her caring.

I finally 'came around,' and asked what I was doing on the floor. I got up somewhat shakily, and said I was going to bed. I went in to the bedroom and took off my legs, then got in bed. Cynthia came in and just sat on the bedside and stroked my head softly. I feigned sleep. Eventually she left the bedroom. I set my wrist alarm for midnight and 4 a.m. then really went to sleep.

I had a nice dream of her blowjob in the van. The dream included the savage nipple abuse which let me get some of the hatred out of my system. I awoke twice that night, each time screaming and holding my face in my hands. Each time Cyn awoke shortly after me and 'shhhh'd me back to sleep, my face against her breast, my body in her arms.

On Saturday, I could see that I'd had a much more restful night than Cyn had. She was bleary-eyed. I walked into the kitchen and put on a tired face. This acting shit was for the birds. How was I going to keep it up for a whole month? Oh wait! It was only going to have to be three weeks, because one-fourth of our marriage was set aside for Mr. AssHole. That was much better. Not.

I know. I could move in with Mom again. I could claim that I slept better in my childhood bed. Then I'd come back here in the mornings. That idea sounded weak even to me, but it was worth a try. Anything to get out of the bedbugged house at night.

I told Cynthia I wanted to go and visit my mom in Waxahachie. Maybe I'd feel better there. Cyn agreed to try that and she'd go with me.

A weak story it might have been, but it worked. We stayed at my mom's house over night. I slept in my old single bed, Cyn in the guest room. The following morning we drove back to my home, so Cyn could get her car. She followed me back to little W. Cyn, Bear and I went to the park while mom tended to her three stores. Then we all had dinner and she drove back to the casa de bugs, so she could go to work at Carbunkle -- or wherever she worked these days. She probably had some kind of cover job at big C. They were in bed with the government agencies and were big enough that they'd cover for her, if I ever called. Cynthia, of course, was in bed with Mr. AssHole.

My 'PTSD panic attacks' were remarkably better when I was sleeping in my old bed. Actually, of course, they were better when I was away from Cynthia.

Early Monday, I went back to my office, which was also my house. I called some clients and had a legitimate visit to schedule in North Dallas. I saw them later that same morning, and then made a visit to a small Foreign Exchange business at Love Field in Dallas. (Love Field is the smaller airport in Dallas, DFW is the big boy.) I made a quick stop at the client and then got on a Southwest flight to Houston. They leave every half-hour and it was only a short hop to Houston.

Naturally, I boarded first with my service dog, and my handicap. This is one of the only times that being a crip worked to my advantage. That and cutting in line at amusement parks.

I got to Houston, grabbed a cab to the parking garage, took the elevator to the third floor, grabbed my remote recorder, took the cab back to the airport and caught the next flight to Love Field. Elapsed time: two hours forty minutes.

I immediately played the files recorded on the thumb drive in my van on the way back to mom's place. I was still playing that game at nights.

The recording was a boring accountant telling about projections in Saudi, and Japan and the North Sea. It went on and on. Must have been a real boring session. Funny thing though. I never heard Cynthia's voice on the recording. I mean, it was supposed to be her attending an all week meeting. There should have been some breaks when she would talk loud enough to get picked up on the pen/transmitter.

The guys who were doing her cover had obviously found my transmitter and dubbed in some boring lecture about the oil markets. That was smart. But it was stupid not to have some of Cyn's voice on there as well.

There goes the conspiracy theory of the CIA being responsible for the World Trade Towers. I mean if they couldn't put together a decent audio file, how could they ever manage to pull off a conspiracy for a major international terrorist attack? I didn't think the CIA would be involved anyway, but it was nice to think -- nay, to know -- they were incompetent. Might not have been the CIA either, I remembered. That was just my code name for whoever 'they' were.

I milked the 'stay at mom's house at night' scheme for the rest of the week. I went to the VA shrink and lied about the panic attacks and made up stories. That was the only thing I really didn't like -- taking up resources that somebody might have needed.

Like it says in the Good Book: And the morning and the evening were the second day. It wasn't my second day in hell, more like the second week. Or something. Chapter 05

It's pretty easy to lie, once you get in the rhythm of it. It's like watching a TV program. You get immersed in the alternate reality, you start to think of it as 'normal,' and then you can tell the next part of the story, untrue as it may be.

So I spun out the falsehood that I was better sleeping in my childhood bed. I arrived home most mornings after Cyn had gone to work and left in the evenings shortly after she got home. I kept my appointments with the VA shrink.

My sex life had disappeared. It used to be once a day and several times on weekends. Now it was zero. Surely Cynthia would have noticed. But I kept on with the panic attack story and the visits to the shrink and she seemed to be buying it. I guess liers couldn't believe that they could be lied to.

Exactly three weeks from the last 'weekend cruise' she was getting ready to go. She passed me on the road and turned around to follow me back to the house. Not 'our home' any more. When we both turned into the driveway, she jumped out of her car and waited while I got Bear out of the van.

"Oh, James. I've missed you so much." She hugged me; I put my arms around her. "I'm so sorry about all this travel. I haven't even had a chance to talk with you this week. Carbunkle wants me to travel to Mexico to evaluate a project. It's outside the city, so I won't even know where I'm staying, yet."

"And you have to leave today? You'll be gone for the weekend?"

"Yes... it's the travel plans. It takes days to get there."

"What about coming back? When will you be back?"

"Probably on Sunday," she said with a sad voice. What an actress! She was superb.

"Wow. So two weekends and a full week," I looked stricken. So the 'away' time was stretching out. Pretty soon it would be a two week trip to ... I don't know, Cambodia or Venezuela or some such. I really was stricken. Any thoughts I had about trying to put the marriage back together were flying out the window.

"Okay. I guess if you gotta, you gotta," I tried to look up at her. The tears in my eyes were real.

"Just wanted to tell you. There's a note in the kitchen saying the same thing," she said. "Love ya." It was the last words I heard from her for a long time. Well, except for some "oh yeah baby"s that weren't directed at me.

*****

I visited Houston on Saturday morning, the same way I'd done it before. This time I didn't take Bear; I left him with mom for the day. She asked if I'd worked things out with Cynthia and I said that whole thing had gotten shelved when I started having these panic attacks. Another lie, this time to mom. I hated this.

I had a roll-on suitcase and my laptop. When I got to Houston, I unlimbered the GPS windows for the three active devices and saw it was the same setup: two in the unnamed building and suitcase in the hotel. This time I headed for the Century.

I waited in the coffee shop across the street and watched the entrance. After about an hour, I saw Cynthia come out of the hotel with a man. She was holding his arm in that very familiar way that lovers have. He was wearing jeans, a cowboy shirt and cowboy boots. She was wearing her painted on jeans, a sexy silk blouse I'd never seen before, and knee length boots. She'd tied her hair back in two little pony tails, one on each side.

The nasty thought crossed my mind that maybe he liked to have something to pull on when he fucked her mouth. I waited while a valet came around with his sports car -- it was 'please-give-me-a-ticket' red, naturally, but I didn't make out what kind it was. They got in and went off. I almost said they got off, but they probably did that some time earlier, in the room.

I crossed to the hotel with my usual limp. Hey! I had two artificial legs, I always limped on one side or the other. With my roller suitcase and laptop and sports coat, I fitted right in with the Saturday crowd at the posh Century Hotel. I walked in and headed straight for the coffee shop.

Coffee shop to coffee shop. If I didn't watch it, I'd spend most of the rest of the day in the men's room.

I opened the laptop and got a 3-D view of where the GPS safety pin was broadcasting. All the way up, apparently. Only the best for Mr. AssHole: the penthouse, my wife. Soon to be ex-wife, I expected.

I went up to the 27th floor. The 26th if you want to be accurate, because there wasn't any 13th floor.

It had the normal compliment of doors. That surprised me. I expected a penthouse suite. That would have made my next job harder.

The GPS was singing to my laptop again. It turned out to be almost at the end of the corridor: 2714.

Making sure that there was no one in the hallway, I placed the narrow, stainless steel spike just about four inches off the floor and gave it a sharp push. It parted the drywall easily. Just like that I had a microphone that would pick up any sounds in 2714. I didn't have time to paint over the hole, but it was very small and close to the ground. I hoped it wouldn't be noticed.

I pulled out the remote receiver and checked it. All the telltales were green.

Next, I checked out the underground car park. Too much interference for my little receiver. So I went back up, this time to 23, and hid it behind the firehose in the emergency cabinet.

Then it was back to the taxi stand, back to the airport, back to Dallas, back to my van, back to Waxahachie to get Bear, and then back to my house. I tried not to think about anything during all that 'back to'-ing. But I couldn't.

What I couldn't decide was whether to go for a straight divorce, or a divorce based on adultery. We'd been married for only three months, now, so perhaps an annulment. Maybe the annulment was better: "it never happened" was as good a way as any to finish this.

I called a friend I'd made in the VA hospital months ago. He was a lawyer, and pointed me at somebody who could do 'marriage work,' as he said. He said, also, that he was sorry to hear about it.

I called the marriage lawyer, reaching her at the emergency number I'd gotten (it was a Saturday -- that's as 'emergency time' as could be for a lawyer), and told her that I wanted irreconcilable difference divorce papers, adultery divorce papers and annulment papers all to be ready by Thursday afternoon. She started saying she couldn't do that, and certainly couldn't do it by Thursday, and that it would be triple the cost for the extra filing.

I laughed at reply. Typical lawyer answer.

I couldn't have shot the man because I was in Phoenix. I didn't even own a gun, anyway. The gun I had was stolen last week. And if you found a gun, with my fingerprints on it, it was probably not even the gun used in the murder. If it was the same gun, I was mentally ill and was having a break down when I shot him.

Throw it all at the wall, and something will stick.

I just told her that I'd pay for the expediting and that triple the filing cost was ok. Just have them by Thursday at 3 p.m. She said okay. I was getting tired of all the extra expense of all this. I wasn't making Carbunkle money after all.

On Wednesday, I drove the van and Bear to Houston. We set up a temporary HQ at the Red Roof Inn, where they'd allow dogs. I took the wheelchair to the registration desk and put Bear into his 'service' mode. They smiled and welcomed me to Houston.

I walked in, on my fake legs, to the Century, got to the 23rd floor and retrieved my transmitter. I left a new thumb drive in the receiver , and was in and out in ten minutes. When I got back to my room, Bear and I heard a whole bunch of 'oh baby' and 'god, you're so big' and 'I love your tight ass' and so on. It was like playing the porn channel on my home computer, when I wanted to keep the audio pick ups busy. In fact, I think I'll do that, when I get home. Just leave this recording on continuous playback, so the whole CIA can enjoy it.

I didn't hear any mention of me on the recording, but that's hardly a good thing, considering what I did hear.

I spent Thursday, driving back to Dallas, picking up the triple marriage ending papers, and changing the locks on the doors of the house. I left the papers in a plastic bag, propped between the front door and a flower pot. I didn't want to take a chance that the automatic lawn sprinkler would ruin the papers, hence the plastic. I set up the desktop to play the hotel recording on a continuous loop.

God, but I was tired of all this. Finding a cheating wife and terminating a marriage was exhausting. Plus, I was a cripple. Pity me. Boo Hoo. Fuck. At least it was going to be over soon.

I'd decided that I would make myself visible on Thursday, to see what reaction I got. If I got none, I would pay them a visit early Friday in lovenest 2714. Maybe I'd get the snot beaten out of me, but I'd at least get to meet the bastard face-to-face.

*****

Thursday morning, I got myself outfitted in an old Army jacket, my rattiest pair of jeans, that would be tucked under my amputated stumps, and got into the wheelchair. I got into the van with Bear, and drove into town. Parking at the public lot near the Century, I wheeled myself, with Bear's help, to a good spot, in sight of the valet parking pickup.

I was close enough to the hotel that I could pick up the transmission from the spike mic. So, as the morning progressed to afternoon to early evening, I heard a whole bunch of 'ooh baby' and 'suck it, take it all, slut' and 'you're so big' and sounds of a long, long shower through the laptop's pickup and my ear buds.

It was clear that they were going out to dinner, because I heard them plan their outing. They were going for high class Mexican cuisine.

Well... there was one touch. "Don't wear any panties, Cynthia my love." His voice was a rich baritone with a touch of Spanish accent. "You know I like you available to me at all times."

She answered back, with a laugh, "It shall be as you say, Don Carlos." I knew that laugh. I'd heard it many times. It meant she was doing something that she wanted to do anyway.

Fuck.

I'd taken a post near the main exit. My wheelchair and folded over jeans disguised me a bit, and an old AmVets ball cap completed my 'disguise'. I had a hand lettered sign that said "I lost my legs in Iraq. Please help." I put a tupperware bowl on the ground in front of me and had Bear under the wheelchair. I had to empty it several times during the course of my panhandling. Overall, I turned about $26 in gifts; the people of Houston were fairly generous.

They came out about 6:30 for their evening of good food and happy memories. He wore a tuxedo tonight. Very dashing. The perfect AssHole. Tall, handsome, somewhat older, a touch of white hair in his sideburns. Very shiny black loafers with tassels on them. Personally, I thought that tassel loafers were kind of effeminate, but that was just me. What did I know? I had plastic feet.