Trinity

Then, Brenda paused, oddly still. It was like she was having a hyper-rational moment. Her passage was still milking me, and she was panting heavily but she sat there straddling me with her strong legs gripping my hips, like she had reached some kind of cosmic revelation. It was weirdly spiritual.

Brenda leaned down, opened her incredible eyes, and focused directly on me. I could see her love; as well as something else. It looked like regret. Then she went-off with the kind of cataclysmic force that buried Pompeii. Her passage began to spasm and she shrieked with the sensation. Her hips were a blur of activity and her frantic cries were like the breaking of the surf, "YESSSSSS, OH GOD YESSSSSS!!

It had been a weird enough experience that I was having a hard time coming. But this final display of sheer carnal abandon got me to my destination at light speed. I turned her over, still buried to the hilt, and slammed her flat on her back on that garish bed.

The next few minutes of writhing, pounding, grunting and shrieks was like something out of Animal Planet. Then, it felt like I deposited my entire reproductive system in her frantically churning passage. I was totally exhausted when I got to the finish line.

Afterward, we were lying side-by-side in the moonlight, holding hands, and bathed in sweat. I almost asked her about it then. I should have. But the warning signs were still too new, and we'd been married far too long for me to confront her out-of-the-blue. So, I suppose it's natural to waffle.

I mean seriously?? Who's brave enough to stake their happiness on one throw of the dice after a fantastic night of sex. Your life will be on a decidedly darker path if you come up snake-eyes. I had a great career; a beautiful wife and life was good. So, let's put the questions off for another time.

Brenda turned toward me and said almost desperately, "I love you Davy. Don't ever forget that. You're my man. We'll grow old together, just you and me." That was a fitting benediction to a very strange evening.

*****

We ambled over to the museum the next day. Brenda is an exquisite little woman, with a compact body who looks stunning in a stylish pair of shorts. Latino men are a lot less repressed than Germans, or Norwegians when it comes to the type of booty that she was flaunting So, there was significant gawking as we walked along.

I said amused, "You've got a fan club." She gave me a flirty smile, grabbed one of her butt cheeks and said, "This is only for you." The guy who had just strolled past us ran into a mailbox.

That was our marriage in a nutshell. Some people view their wives as trophies, a living proof of their masculinity. I never saw Brenda that way. She was my peer and my partner. Her beauty was just one aspect of her contribution to our relationship. It was her spunky spirit and her loving, warm heartedness that made her who she was.

But now I was caught in a Chinese finger trap. The more I pushed my wife about the way Turd was blowing smoke up her dress. The more she dug in about me being "mean" and "jealous." At the same time, I couldn't take Turd aside and tell him to knock off the cuck act. I'd sound like a paranoid weenie.

I was holding-off on making any moves, hoping she would either come to her senses, or Turd would fuck up by pushing it too far. I mean seriously, you have to trust your wife. She's the one person in this brutal world you know you can depend on. And it's a very slippery slope if you start to have doubts.

Maybe I'm too cynical. But I thought that Brenda's inherent faith in humanity was her Achilles heel. It made her the logical prey of anybody cruel enough to take advantage of her innate tender heartedness. Of course, you would have to be an amoral douchebag to do that. But I knew one individual who fit the description.

Shakespeare was the first to write it down, "All the world's a stage - and one man in his time plays many parts." In short, what you think of as reality is scripted and directed by you, in your own head.

Turd might be a joke in his role as, "Captain America, alpha-dog-of-the-pack." But alas, he didn't know that. In fact, he thought that he was entitled to all the rights and privileges, and that's precisely how he acted. The reality of his aggressive attempt to game Brenda made him a threat since SHE couldn't see it. So, I had to do something.

I suppose there are people who actually get away with cheating. But most couples get caught because fucking-around is such a complicated process. If you cheat, you have to keep track of all the normal stuff plus a whole shitload of abnormal things. And normal people just can't cover all the bases. That's why folks who're doing what they oughtn't to be doing, will inevitably get outed.

Inexplicable behavior always has a logical explanation. This truism applies in every aspect of life. For instance, scientists discovered the planet Neptune that way. They noticed that Uranus's orbit was out of whack, did the math and found Neptune back there tugging on it. It's why the phenomenon of covert influence is called the "planetary body" principle.

The same concept applies to cheating. There's always some malevolent body behind a change in normal behavior. As I watched Turd and Brenda interact at parties, I could see him trying to pull her into his orbit. So, I made the decision to cross the Rubicon.

I used the six days before the next party to visit a Darknet Market and purchase a simple man-in-the-middle package. I kept it innocuous. Since you will quickly become a person of great interest to agencies both foreign and domestic if you start buying military grade hacking tools in a deep-web souk.

I dropped the bomb at the next barbeque. I was sitting with the rest of the geeks, while Turd bummed around looking like somebody had shot his dog. Brenda was solicitously following him, like I'd told her not to.

I port-scanned Turd's phone. Naturally, it was wide-open. He never sweated silly concerns like protecting his cell from the likes of me. Of course, the only reliable way he COULD have protected it from me, would have been to run over it with his car. But I further digress.

It took less than a minute to drop my little pet on Turd's cellphone. It immediately texted a picture of an adorable kitten to Brenda. The flying monkey was hidden in the steganography. She opened the picture and gave Turd a delighted glance. The rootkit that she launched when she did that, did the rest.

Turd looked confused, as well he should be, since both of them had no idea how much stealth shit I had just added to the background processes running on both their devices. Everything they did from now on, pictures, calls and texts would be under my control and captured in a cloud account that I owned.

I looked at my wife as she "consoled" Tudwell. She was wearing a short sundress with her fabulously long tanned legs sticking out the bottom and the suggestive valley of her two round boobs framed by the spaghetti straps of the top. She was radiating life and happiness. I felt a wave of melancholy. I said under my breath, "Brenda, I hardly knew ye..."

*****

It was the paradox of paradoxes. I wanted to know. I needed to know. But I didn't want to find out. Healthy people don't obsess about life extinguishing events like that. It just proved I wasn't as cool and self-contained as I pretended to be.

The world is tough, and a good marriage helps you through all the shit. It gives you a companion and friend, no matter the threat, or circumstance. Hence, I really yearned to chalk up my suspicions to simple paranoia. I could live with a low opinion of myself. What I could NOT endure was a discovery that would cost me my ordered and happy life.

The figurative symbol of two people's commitment is the professed willingness to limit their intimacies solely to each other. I mean seriously, you can't share your private self with more than one individual and maintain a special bond. And you can't trust somebody who thinks they can.

The problem is that humans aren't naturally monogamous. Hence, it takes a conscious act of will, to stay faithful. A strong and moral person will keep their promises. People without honor won't. So, in many respects fidelity is the litmus test of a person's character.

I'd known Brenda for a very long time, and I knew how important personal integrity was to her. So, I couldn't imagine any circumstance where she would willingly compromise her precious self-concept, especially for the sake of scratching an itch - theoretically that is.

But if you sneak around trying to learn things. You oughtn't to be astonished when you are blindsided by what you find out. Yet, I was - go figure.

The fatal call came at 9:23 AM the Monday after the party. It was Dickhead. Turd said, humble gratitude oozing from every pore, " Brenda, you're the only person who understands what I'm going through. I would have killed myself if it weren't for your love. It's just so hard keeping my hands off you, knowing what we've shared." My heart sank.

Brenda said, with exasperation in her voice, "I told you before Richard, I don't love you, I love my husband. I am only doing this to help you adjust to your new life without Polly."

Doing what??! My brain went to Defcon One - Cocked Pistol!! Turd said in a regretful voice, "I know that. But it's the one thing that's keeping my head above water. Can we get together soon. I really need some of your special comforting."

Brenda said, her voice softening, "I understand. I'd feel the same way if I discovered Davy was screwing around. We can meet one last time. But you're going to have to get through this without any more of my help. I don't want to lose my marriage because you can't cope."

Seriously?!! Was this woman totally delusional??!!

The rest of the call was just the arrangements. Tudwell was going to be down at Holloman for something involving the Air Force and he wanted Brenda to meet him in Alamogordo on the coming Wednesday. That was over two-hundred miles away. So, it must have seemed like a safe distance to hook up. Brenda hemmed and hawed. But Turd's pathetic whining finally overcame her resistance.

Brenda's company owns a fleet of small two-person helicopters. They use them to fly around their service area. You almost had to do that in order to play in the New Mexico property development game, since desert locations aren't exactly close together.

Hence, Brenda had a private helicopter pilot's license and she was accustomed to flying places. It was one of her more interesting quirks. She could easily go down to Alamogordo and get back again in a single workday.

You might think that my wife was either a total moron, or a slut. Nobody with an IQ higher than room temperature would fall for Turd's bullshit. But the man had been on a full court press for God knows how long, aimed solely at gaslighting her. Apparently, he'd succeeded.

Brenda was innately kind, warm hearted, and sentimental. She loved puppies and kittens and she cried at every sappy chick-flick. Regrettably, she was also willing to delude herself into believing that people meant exactly what they said.

The call ended with Brenda saying, "I'll meet you at the usual place. But this is the last time." Turd said, with tears in his voice, "Yes I know and thank you."

My initial reaction was the confused, buggy-eyed, "Oh Shit!" stare that Wile E. Coyote always gets when he discovers he's run off the cliff. And like the coyote, it was immediately followed by the long fall that splatters your guts across the desert landscape. How could Brenda be so stupid?

Stroke, heart attack, take your pick. You're walking down the street without a care in the world, then your life changes. All of the old certainties evaporate, to be replaced by a dreadful and overwhelming sense of desolation and hopelessness. That's how it hit me.

The first blast of anger was directed at myself. I'd underestimated Turd. He was such a caricature of a human being. I just assumed everybody saw through him. But of course, I wasn't present during the long hours that he spent at our kitchen table, painting a different picture for my wife.

Turd must have convinced Brenda that he was sensitive and sincere. A real sweety underneath all the bullshit. In fact, he might have used what Brenda knew about his asshole personality as a form of mental ju-jitsu, to convince her that his obnoxious behavior was meant to protect his tender self from the travails of the cold, cruel world. That would be catnip to Brenda.

Since Turd's social development never got past age fourteen, it probably didn't occur to him that there might be consequences. I'm not the physical type. But I have a particular set of skills. And I planned to shit on Richard Tudwell from a very great height.

*****

This was on Monday. I had irons in the fire at Sandia. But the burning rage in my heart demanded satisfaction. I didn't know the entire story - yet. In fact, I didn't even know for certain that anything had actually happened. My little pet hadn't dug up any new information since Monday morning. Still, I was preparing for the worst.

I was going to be in Alamogordo for the last act because I had to formally close the books with Brenda. Then I could agonize in peace. Of course, my decision to wrap it all up on Wednesday meant that I had to survive two nights with a woman who was doing a bang-up job of appearing to adore me.

Psychologists call it "cognitive dissonance." That simply means that people will merge conflicting facts into a convenient truth. In effect, the person compartmentalizes themselves into two contradictory persona. Tonight, I was dealing with the real Brenda, loyal and devoted. The briefly cheating version only seemed to make her appearance when I wasn't around.

I tried to see any sign that my wife thought that she was betraying me. All I saw was loving and faithful. Her eyes were sparkling with devotion as we ate at La Crepe Michel, which is a little joint we favored because of the vegetarian options. She really believed her lie.

It made me wonder if she hadn't gone batshit crazy. Maybe the stress of adultery turns a person into a nut-case, particularly if they are decent people at heart. Even so, temporary insanity might be a defense against murder. But it doesn't apply to cheating.

I could have begged Brenda not to go, told her that I knew the whole story. But nothing in our situation would change. She had already passed the point of no return. Hence, my aim was retribution, not conciliation. Tudwell had to be brutally punished and it would be a tour de force of the hacker's art.

First, I needed pictures, the more explicit the better. Then I was going to dox Turd's sordid little life to everyone on his contact list - wife, mom, pastor, all the way up to his commanding officer and maybe the Secretary of the Air Force.

The beauty was that I'd leave no fingerprints. Since it would be Turd's own phone that would be sending out the incriminating evidence. He would know it was me. But everybody else would wonder why the guy had decided to commit career and personal suicide. It's intoxicating to have access to a person's fate in one hand-held location.

Then I'd REALLY get medieval on his ass. I was going to post his personally identifiable information, Name, birthdate, and social security number, the whole shebang, on every message board in the Darkweb. By the end of the day, Turd would have a-hundred-and-fifty new mortgages and a couple of thousand fresh Visa cards. Plus, Interpol and the FBI would be looking to talk to him.

After the fruits of THAT atrocity hit the ground, I planned to send the dude a note, no doubt at his new address under a bridge abutment, "Really Tud, don't thank me. It was my pleasure!!" Revenge is truly best served cold

I left for work at the usual time. Brenda was as beautiful and vital as ever, as she kissed me goodbye. I just couldn't understand it. The love in her eyes was genuine. She would have to explain it to me when we talked next. Of course, that would be east of Eden after our banishment from the Garden.

The trip takes four hours by car. So, I didn't get into Alamogordo until close to two o'clock. It's more like an hour-and a half at a hundred and twenty miles an hour as the crow flies. Brenda's Dynali H3 was parked in the desert behind the Quality Inn and Suites on White Sands Boulevard. It was the yellow and white one, which she particularly likes to fly.

Since Brenda had already arrived, I figured I might as well get right down to the nut cutting. The place was your basic chain hotel servicing Holloman AFB. I came into the lobby dressed in business casual, the guy at the desk never looked up.

I sat in one of the lobby chairs and used my iPad to hack the hotel's server. All it took was a simple admin-spoof. The two were in room 217. Tudwell had reserved it under his own name. I thought to myself, "What an arrogant fool."

I don't like messy confrontations. They accomplish nothing and they tend to spiral out of control. My occupation gives me access to cool military grade toys. So, I brought along an Aardvark. It was one of those technological marvels that came out of Afghanistan.

Our guys want to know the situation before they kick in the door. So, they deploy the Vark. It's black plastic, with a flat probe designed to snoop under any standard doorframe, hence the name. The camera gives the user a panoramic view of the room. It records HD audio and video. There are four IR feeds in case the room is dark. It would give me everything I needed to destroy Tudwell.

I could hear the joyous sounds of orgasm as I eased the thing into the room. Brenda is very loud and vocal when she's cumming. I heard her proclaim, "Oh Yeah!! That's it!! Harder!! Fuck me Harder!! Coming!! COMING AGAIN!!"

THAT froze me for a second and it gave the terrible knot that was now permanently embedded in my stomach another painful wrench. Still, it was good for me to hear. Since it hardened my heart. From this moment on there would be no going back.

They'd left the curtains open. After all, it WAS the second floor. So, the scene was nicely lit. The hot desert sun highlighted my beautiful wife, straddling Tudwell cowboy style. Her back was arched, leaning behind, hands on his thighs, staring at the ceiling in ecstasy. Turd was lying underneath, gazing up at her with a look of utter fascination as he massaged her meaty tits.

It sounded like they both might be approaching another thrilling climax and frankly I didn't want to watch that pig inseminate my wife. I had everything I needed. So, I pulled the device, deposited it in my backpack and went down to the Starbucks in the lobby to await my fate.

I sipped a decent hazelnut coffee while I used Filmmaker Pro to craft sixty seconds of "Turd's Best Hits." It was an incriminating and intensely hot little clip. I deliberately kept it short. Some servers have size filters and I wanted to ensure that the whole-wide-world witnessed Tudwell's treachery. Also, I didn't want the viewer's attention to wane. Of course, that was highly unlikely given the sizzling sex.

I made it clear that Turd, in his cinematic debut, was an extremely unfaithful husband. His face was center stage throughout, as he energetically humped my wife. I had carefully edited it to keep Brenda's face out of the picture. I didn't want to broadcast my cuck status to the entire world-wide-web and I still loved the stupid bitch.

Once I had the clip to my satisfaction, I emailed it using Turd's phone. It was upstairs in the pocket of the pants that he'd hastily discarded before fucking my wife. Ain't wireless technology grand??!! It sent the incriminating evidence to his one-hundred-and-thirty-nine phone contacts with the header, "Fun Times!!" That should REALLY let the skunk loose in the ladies bridge club.