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Stick It Out No Matter What

By: imhapless



My birth name is almost a cliché; John Jones. So that you can understand how really screwed up I am, as will be clear from the following story, I came from a broken home. It was broken in many ways, not just because my biological parents divorced. My father left when I was five and my stepfather left when I was 13. I don't know why my father left, but my stepfather left because he couldn't stop my mother from sleeping around.

After my stepfather left one of the guys that my mother brought into the house tried to attack my sister, who was 16 at the time. I filled his ass with birdshot so we didn't see him again, although I personally lived in constant fear of retaliation. That is I lived in fear of retaliation when I had time to think about it. Usually I did not have much time, though, because I was the responsible one in our family and I was taking care of my sister, three years older than me, and my brother, four years older.

Despite the fact that my father's and stepfather's losses were hard on me, they were much harder on my sister and older brother. Both of them got into drugs. My older brother committed suicide when I just turned 18, and by then my sister was a prostitute. I left my family at that time and I haven't been in communication with them since.

Fortunately, I did have a couple of things going for me; these things were not acquired skills or traits, but rather I guess I got most the good genes in our family relating to intelligence and endurance. While I was not particularly academic, I always did extremely well on aptitude and IQ tests. Since I only had a high school education despite my "aptitude" I wasn't able to qualify for many good jobs. But when I took both intelligence and aptitude tests, followed by a physical test, with the Army I was given the opportunity to join a clandestine government organization having a budget that is nowhere a line item in any agency's request for appropriations. I found that this agency, which I will not identify but simply refer to as "SCA," did the dirty work for the CIA, NSA, and the military.

Apparently based upon how I scored on the aptitude test I first took with the Army, and subsequent aptitude tests which were written, oral, and hands-on, it was determined that I would make the perfect explosives expert. I worked for almost three years training for just that. I learned to improvise explosives from almost anything, and how to use every detonator and military grade explosive known to mankind. I even invented a new type of device that SCA quickly incorporated into its arsenal but kept secret from everyone else, including the military and CIA.

By the time that I was twenty one I'd been sent to Iraq to work on a six person team doing all sorts of shit that no one else would be willing to do; most was likely illegal under International Law. Every member of the team had a particular specialty. Since SCA "didn't really exist" contrary to what you've probably heard we did have female operatives -- two in fact -- on the team. 

One female operative, Cheryl, was a communications expert. I have no idea how many languages she spoke, but I never saw her meet anyone who she could not communicate with in their native tongue. She also was a whiz at handling electronic communications equipment.

The second female on the team, June, we called the "navigator." I do believe that you could drop her anywhere in the world and within a few days she could find her way to any other place in the world. While she did use a sophisticated GPS system, she didn't actually need it; it was almost like she was a carrier pigeon and had her own unique internal system that was tuned into the Earth's magnetic field, or some such shit. Whenever we couldn't get a GPS signal, or the one we got conflicted with her instincts, we followed her instincts.

Both June and Cheryl also had kick-ass personalities and could handle rifles and grenades as well as the average male combat soldier. They were both about 5'8" tall and 140 pounds. Neither was what most men would consider beautiful, but if you like a hard body they definitely were sexy. They did occasionally grumble that their tits were too big for crawling on the ground or comfortably fitting their backpacks, but none of the four guys on the team ever complained.

The other three male members of the team, Tom, Jack, and Rock, were the toughest SOB's I've ever seen in my entire life, before or since. None of them was particularly big -- but for what we had to do size was more a disadvantage than an advantage. They were all about 5'10" tall and 180 pounds. I'm 5'11", 190, but any one of them could kick the shit out of me with one hand behind his back; I did get much tougher by interacting with these guys, however, and they all taught me "dirty" fighting techniques. All three were also expert marksmen; they could hit a quarter at 100 meters. They also could assemble, disassemble, and use any hand held weapon known to mankind. 

I spent two years in Iraq doing all sorts of either amazing, or horrible, shit depending upon your outlook on things. This included blowing up an entire Iranian platoon that was trying to cause some sort of trouble in Iraq. Neither the Iranian government nor the U. S. government ever acknowledged their existence so I guess I didn't really kill twenty five people in that encounter after all. 

The only thing that kept me sane my two years in Iraq was that the communications expert, Cheryl, and I got along famously. We hit it off from the first minute that we met. Cheryl was two years older and more sexually experienced than I was, but a very willing teacher. We violated about every SCA regulation possible regarding "fraternization" but considering the success we had in our operations no one seemed to care. Also, since our navigator, June, was as sexually liberated as a woman could be, she was happy to fuck any one of Tom, Jack, or Rock if they needed to get their rocks off. Thus, our team had one advantage that most soldiers or agents in Iraq didn't have -- a great sex life.

While every sexual experience with Cheryl was memorable, the most memorable was the night before what ultimately was our second hardest assignment. She crawled into my sleeping bag in the middle of the night stark naked -- just like I was. A sixty-nine is not easy in a sleeping bag, but we pulled it off. By then I knew exactly how she liked her pussy eaten but I had a little surprise for her. After sucking and licking her clit sufficiently to occasion a first orgasm I gave her a "shocker;" that is two fingers in her "stash" and one in her "trash," at the same time that I was sucking on her clit. Given the effect that it had on her if we had been on a bed instead of in the confines of a sleeping bag we either would have been catapulted off of it, or she would have shattered the headboard -- maybe both.

Cheryl had the mother of all orgasms, and before she came completely down from it I got face-to-face with her and buried my sword in her scabbard. She was almost lifeless -- except for her moans -- for the first dozen thrusts, but after that she apparently decided that she needed to fuck me harder than I was fucking her. It resulted in a sexual wrestling match which ultimately landed the sleeping bag in a spot a good twenty feet from where we had started. When I came it was like Roman Candles exploding and god damn if she didn't come -- and squirt -- at the same exact instant. She later told me that it was the only time in her life that she had ever squirted.

I remember gaining consciousness sometime later with my softening cock still inside Cheryl and her comatose and moaning on top of me. I rolled her to the side and she slept on my shoulder until morning. The other four members of the team simply chortled when she dragged her ass back to her own sleeping bag and clothes just as dawn was breaking. My sleeping bag was still wet from her squirting but I vowed never to wash it.

My last operation in Iraq defined my life as much as my family life did. We were to recon an Al Qaeda group. When the mission was described to us all six members of our team thought that it was a suicide mission, and we wondered why a drone couldn't do it. We complained vehemently and at one point refused to go. After a few changes were made and we were promised a discharge from SCA and a bonus after we were debriefed we decided to give the mission a try.

When we made contact with the Al Qaeda group it was apparent that the intelligence that we had been given was way off. The end result was that Tom, Jack, and Rock were killed in fire fights, and June and I were wounded, although still completely functional. I did blow up a hillside that rained heavy debris on the Al Qaeda camp sufficient to kill, or allow we three survivors to safely approach and kill, what ended up to be (counting those that Tom, Jack, and Rock had killed) roughly 100 terrorists.

We got a big surprise in the terrorist camp. As anyone who followed the activities in Iraq knows, hundreds of millions of dollars of U. S. currency just "disappeared." Roughly fifteen million dollars of it was in the Al Qaeda camp.

The three in our team still alive were beyond furious about the mission. We thought that SCA knew that it was a suicide mission and sent us anyway, and got our friends killed. We talked for most of the night about what we were going to do, and came to a unanimous conclusion.

Since we had a fully functional decent sized vehicle, and between the three of us all the skills that we thought we would need, we decided to fake our deaths, take the money, and get new identities. Cheryl made a perfect distress call indicating that the other five members of her team were killed and that she was next, while June and I fired weapons in the background. Then Cheryl pretended she was shot and destroyed the communications equipment.

We decided to return to the States, through Turkey, with the money. We would split $12 million, four each. The other $3 million we would divide between Tom's, Jack's and Rock's families.

How we got back is a complete adventure novel in itself, but not relevant to this story. In the end it worked out almost perfectly. We each had to spend about $120,000 to accomplish it but we ended up in New York City with the best new identities money could buy and roughly $3,900,000 each. My new name was Austen Browne.

Since the U. S. government disavowed that our team ever existed, Tom's, Jack's and Rock's families learned about their deaths from us, although we obviously did not identify who we were and swore them to secrecy. The $1,000,000 in tax-free cash each family got obviously didn't make up for their loss, but it did help tremendously.

Our last night together, Cheryl, June and I had a threesome. While we had had a few during our sojourn back to the U. S. this one was special because it was in ideal surroundings; a luxury suite in a Four Star NYC hotel. Also, the women shaved their pussies and all of us had gotten stimulating and relaxing massages that afternoon. 

I popped several little blue pills during the night and was so super-charged that I kept up with the two erotic women. I fucked each once while simultaneously eating the other one; Cheryl and I did The Wheelbarrow; and I fucked June's ass, the only ass fuck of my life. I also ate both of them numerous other times, and used a vibrator on each of them too.

By the next morning we had gotten virtually no sleep but we were really happy worn-out campers. We all had different things we wanted to do, and places we wanted to go, so despite how well we got along -- especially how sexually simpatico Cheryl and I were -- we went our different ways. We provided each other with an email address, which we wouldn't use for anyone else, in case there was a reason to communicate.

Now, at twenty four, with no really marketable skills unless I wanted to work in demolishing buildings, mountain road construction, or in mining, but with $3.9 million in cash, I moved to a small combined urban-rural county of about 75,000 people in the southern half of the U. S. I set up numerous accounts of less than $10,000 each (so no report to the IRS was necessary), and kept the rest of the money in cash in a safe deposit box. 

I tried as best I could to get different bills from what we had found to open up the accounts with. This was most easily accomplished by going to casinos, buying chips, not really gambling, and then cashing the chips in. Another technique was to buy bearer bonds and then resell them shortly afterward.

I enrolled in a community college, studied computer science -- which I found out I was almost as good at as explosives -- and took other practical courses after getting an Associates' degree. I simultaneously worked as an unpaid intern. I ended up, by the time that I was twenty six, with the equivalent of an advanced degree in computers.

I dated quite a bit since community college left a fair amount of free time and I didn't need to work for a living. When I had just turned twenty five I met someone who knocked my socks off. She was also twenty five, worked as a retail store clerk, and lived about two miles from the apartment I rented. Her name was Denise Richards -- no, not Charlie Sheen's ex-wife, but someone who was just as sexy and good-looking; she could have been the other Denise Richards' twin.

Denise and I hit it off right away. I think that she liked the fact that I was very attentive, always complimentary, and acted like a gentleman. I liked her because she seemed like the perfect person to start a family with. Having had the disastrous situation that I had with my family, I dreamt of having a classic all-American family; two loving parents, two or three kids, and a home with a two-car garage.

I was not naïve enough to believe that I was the only one seeking Denise's attention. Whenever I saw her, whether I was on a date with her not, it was clear that she garnered much male attention and she seemed to enjoy it. This was not a situation like it was in Iraq where Cheryl and I didn't have many other options -- although we were so simpatico that probably wouldn't have made much of difference anyway.

By the time that I had gotten my Associates' degree from community college, completed my internship, and had started my own computer consulting business, Denise and I had been dating about sixteen months. We had been having sex for fifteen and one-half of those months; she was not the hardest woman in the world to get into the sack. While I did not have sex with anyone besides Denise, except for two one-night stands, during that period I'm sure that that was not the case for Denise. I did, however, get the distinct impression from how she acted and what she said that I was special to her.

After having dated her for sixteen months I asked Denise to become exclusive. "If we get married" was her response, with a big smile. I took her to a fancy restaurant and hotel in the closest big city the weekend after that and proposed with the most expensive ring than she had ever seen before in her life. She accepted with a caveat; but she wouldn't tell me the caveat until the next morning, after we had had absolutely mind blowing sex that night.

Denise was a completely awesome sex partner. While she did not have Cheryl's hard-body, hers was absolutely Aphrodite-like, with conical soft tits topped by extremely sensitive large nipples, a shapely pelvis, and a beyond-fabulous vagina. She also had extremely strong PC muscles, so if she was revved up properly she could milk every milliliter of cum out of my cock. That night she was revved up. While normally Denise could not handle more than three orgasms in one session (typically two oral and one cock-induced), that night she had five. The second time that we fucked that night she was on top and did all of the work. She groaned, swore, swung her long auburn hair to and fro, pinched my nipples, ground her pelvis, and undulated her PC muscles. Not only was the physical aspect of her intercourse virtually perfect emotionally it was spectacular too because I loved her.

That special night was followed by a not-as-special morning.

"Austen, I really do love you, and I want to marry you. However I need to be perfectly honest with you about something," Denise said while holding my hands. One quality I admired in her was that she was always honest. If she did not want to answer a question or talk about a particular subject she would tell you that outright; she would never lie.

"Is this the caveat you talked about last night Denise?" I asked.

"Yes. I need to tell you that I've had sex with lots of guys, most of whom still live in the area, and guys hit on me all the time. I want a marriage where I stay faithful and where we have children that grow up in a loving two parent house, but I am not sure that I can avoid temptation. As you know, you got me into the sack after we had actually probably only talked, in the times that we came into contact with each other, for only eight or nine hours. That's happened to me before, and I'm not sure that I'm a strong enough person to prevent it from happening again," Denise said with an expression somewhere between sincere and fearful.

"Wow!" I responded. "Let's stay in this hotel another day and night, and let me think about it. I've learned to process information very quickly, and while you go get a massage I'll get ready to ask you some more questions, and hopefully come up with an answer. How's that?"

"I think that's a great idea, Austen," Denise responded with a big smile on her face.

Although Denise and I did have a great time that day, what she had confessed to me was obviously always in the forefront of my mind. The ninety minutes that she was gone for a massage I took a long run; my stint with SCA had only increased my stamina so that I could easily run for two hours at two thirds speed.

After dinner that night I had some more questions for Denise. "When you say that you may not be strong enough to resist, does that mean that you don't want to resist?"

"No. I really want to remain true only to you. It's just that in some situations I may not be able to follow through. I guarantee you that I will always WANT to be monogamous, it's just that based on my past history I worry that I cannot be. You understand that?" Denise responded with a tear in.

"Would you get angry if I were very proactive in assuring that you did not get into uncomfortable situations, or if I provided an intimidating presence so that the probability of you getting into such a situation was small?" I inquired.

Denise then got a blank expression on her face. I think the main reason was that she didn't even consider the possibility that I might be an intimidating presence as far as other guys hitting on her was concerned. Of course she knew nothing about my time with SCA, that I was an explosives expert, or that I had even been in Iraq. I had a carefully crafted life story that I had told her which included the problems with my family, but between the time that I was eighteen and when I met her included complete fabrications about leading a normal life in a rural area in Montana, something that she would not know anything about or could identify with.

Finally, the blank expression left her face and Denise said "I would love for you to be as proactive -- even jealous -- as possible to help me out. Also, while it's hard for me to believe that you could be intimidating since you're one of the kindest most gentle people I've ever met, if that works I'd be happy with that too," she said with a big smile.

I couldn't help think to myself "Gentle? I don't think that the several hundred enemies I was primarily responsible for killing in Iraq would agree with that characterization!" Of course in my dealings with her and with almost everyone else I came across in the United States, I was at least temperate, if not gentle.


Stick It Out No Matter What



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he use a condom?" I asked.

"Noooo," Denise sobbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Denise frantically asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Stick It Out No Matter What



Her phone was in a good-sized house on a half-acre lot in a nice section of the county. I saw her car parked nearby. I ran up to the house and started banging on the door. It was answered by a big guy about my age who was not very friendly.

"What in the fuck do you want?" was his pleasant greeting.

"My wife, Denise Browne, is in your house and I want to see her now," I said.

"She's busy right now, come back later," the asshole said, trying to close the door on me. I pushed it open, knocking him over, and ran into the house. In the living room I saw Denise on her hands and knees and another guy, who looked a lot like the one who had opened the door, stroking his cock in her pussy.

I went nuts and charged the fucker. He saw me coming and pulled out just before I kicked him in the face. I was trying to help Denise up when I got smacked in the back of my head. The guy at the door had obviously attacked me. I wasn't rendered unconscious so I started to fight back. The fucker joined the fray while Denise screamed.

Fortunately the cops got there shortly after both guys were wailing on me and broke up the fight.

Since I had only been instructed by Tom, Jack, and Rock -- and was not one of them -- I had gotten my ass kicked pretty well, though nothing too serious. The two guys in the house were brothers Dale and Don Cowell. Denise knew them in High School and had foolishly accepted their invitation to come inside for a donation when she was soliciting for her charity. Unfortunately, I didn't hurt either of them too badly, although Dale, who was the fucker, lost a tooth when I kicked him in the mouth.

When the cops separated us I wanted to file charges of kidnapping, rape, and assault against the Cowell brothers. They wanted to file charges of assault and trespassing against me. Denise was frantic. The cops decided to arrest all three males on misdemeanor disturbing the peace charges and let a prosecutor sort out the rest. I told Denise to go to the hospital and have them use a rape kit and test her for STDs.

Denise quietly sobbed into my shoulder. "Austen, I'm so, so sorry. Dale didn't rape me -- I just couldn't control myself."

"Why didn't you answer the phone?" I asked.

"He moved it away from me," she sobbed.

"That's as good as rape in my book, Hon. Listen, do as I tell you and things will sort themselves out later, I promise," I said.

"I can't testify at a trial," she moaned.

"I assure you, you won't have to," I consoled her.

I was already plotting my revenge while in jail waiting for Denise to get back from the hospital and to bail me out. The Cowell brothers, who were in the next cell over from me waiting for their father to bail them out, sealed their fate however when they taunted me. "Your little wifey is an even better piece of ass now than when she was in High School. We'll be fucking that bitch again, and again," they repeated, including with little laughs.

When I got out I did a computer investigation of the Cowell brothers. Even though their parents were politically connected, they were bad seed. They had gotten into numerous problems with neighbors and authorities over the years, and were suspected drug dealers, although there never was a drug charge that the authorities could make stick. While my revenge was going to be severe, it changed to nuclear several days later.

I got a frantic call from Denise saying that the Cowell boys were at our house and banging on the door, and the kids were home and crying. I called 911 and got in my car. A police officer was taking Denise's statement when I got there -- apparently the Cowells had left before the police arrived. Given some of the things that they yelled while they were banging on the door -- and broke one small window in the door frame -- and subsequent harassing phone calls, I was livid and Denise was scared.

The device that I had invented during my stint with SCA was the perfect instrument of my revenge. What is called "the initiator" could be controlled with my smartphone, just like remotely starting a car. I placed the initiator hidden on a guard rail at a location on an open stretch of a two lane country road that I had learned, from my investigation, the Cowell brothers often traveled from their house to a warehouse about ten miles away, in their pickup truck. 

I planted an improvised explosive, with an upwardly directed charge, under the passenger compartment of their pickup, which they always left parked on the street in front of their house. The explosive had a detonator that was controlled by a signal from "the initiator." Once the detonator passed within thirty meters of "the initiator" it would be activated. The detonator would then detonate the explosives ninety seconds later, so that the truck would blow up about a mile from "the initiator." The detonator was also unique, including parts that would be transformed into other common materials by the heat from the explosion so that the detonator would be 100% destroyed.

While just outside the police station I made a call from a burner phone to the Cowell's house one morning. In a muffled voice I told the brother who answered that there were some trespassers by their warehouse and to get over there immediately. I then pretended that I had been grabbed and the phone call cut off. I then activated "the initiator" with my smartphone.

I went into the police station and complained that there had been no action on my complaints against the Cowell brothers. I had to wait fifteen minutes or so for the detective in charge, and I talked with him for about ten minutes without getting any satisfaction. As I making yet one more complaint he got a phone call.

"I have to leave immediately," he said when he hung up, "a pickup truck just blew up on County Route 11A."

"What?" I said asking surprised. "OK, get back to me will you detective?" He didn't say anything as he dashed out the door.

Of course the police came to see me when investigating the Cowell brothers' deaths. By then I had retrieved "the initiator" from the guardrail on Route 11A and had disposed of it. Being in the police station at the time of their deaths gave me about as solid an alibi as a man could have. That, combined with the fact that the only evidence in the pickup truck was that some common chemicals had been used to improvise the explosive with not even a sign of a detonator meant that absolutely no charges could be filed against anyone.

The Cowell brothers died almost five years ago. Since then Denise, my kids, and I have been wonderfully happy. Perhaps not surprisingly, no guy who has lived in our county any length of time ever tries to hit on Denise any more, and I have gotten only one panic button signal from her in the last five years, and that situation was easily defused.

Yes, I am living out my dream. It took some work, and I have to stay on my toes, but I am living it!