I am half-asleep as I hear his heavy footsteps thudding down the hall to the bedroom. The door flies open, and the lights blaze on.
"Is this you?" he booms from the door, rapidly making his way to my side of the bed.
I groan and peel open my eyes to see a phone screen shoved in my face.
"Huh?" I moan incoherently as the image comes into focus.
I squint at the woman on the screen. She is getting fucked from behind, bent over a familiar tan leather couch, wearing a familiar blue shirt, familiar auburn hair tied up in a familiar bun. I frown, is it me? I glance at the video title, 'Chubby MILF fucked ragged.'
Flattering and arousing,
I muse.
"If it is me, I didn't approve of a video," I reply with the first words popping into my brain.
"Is this you?" He repeats, tone hard.
A hand reaches down and gathers up the blue shirt tightly. A tattooed hand.
"No," I reply, certain. "I've never fucked a guy with a hand tattoo."
More details become clear. A pink camouflage blanket - very much not my style, a table lamp when I'd always preferred floor lamps, and a brief millisecond glimpse of an unfamiliar house.
"I don't care if it is," he says, "as long as it was before my time."
Before his time owning my body, claiming my heart and my hand in marriage, he means. We both know I was no virgin before his time.
I remember the photos at the same instant he does, "I know you had your fun. You would tell me, right, if it was you? There were those photos... And you told me then."
The photos had arrived a month after our wedding, a year and a half after they were taken. A set of 8x10 glossies mailed to our house. I had collected them first, opened them, remembered the man who took them - despite my objections. I'd kicked him out of my house that day, when he'd pushed my established boundaries. And here was his punishment, I guessed, a well-timed package designed to end a new marriage.
I could have shredded them right then, and my husband would never know. But who could tell what would be next? Posted online? A visit? I'd been stalked before, and I had come to expect the worst. So, I told my husband, gave him the photos, and that stain would mark him for years to come. The doubt that sprang forth in every argument for the next decade. And still, after twelve years, here it was again.
"That's not me," I say, calmly. "Look at her pussy, mine's pink and hers is brown."
We stare at the video together, marveling at this woman who is my twin, getting absolutely pummeled by the tattooed man's cock.
I wish it was me,
