Disclaimer: According to the psychological definition, "denial" is a subconscious mechanism that shields us from thoughts, feelings, or events that would otherwise cause us harm. It protects us from what we can't handle right now. It isn't something we do knowingly.
*
My name is Bob Green. I love my wife Debbie with all of my heart, and no matter what our friends says, she does not screw around. She is one of those women who just seem to get more beautiful as she aged and developed laugh lines. Most people wonder how I could keep her as we seem so different. Her beautiful and outgoing, me rather plain and quiet. She is a registered massage therapist and maintains a massage room in our home. I'm not allowed in there, client confidentiality and legalities, you know. She also has a folding portable massage table with handles that she takes out to client locations, such as their homes or offices. Sometimes they even rent a room at one of the many by the hour motels if that is what is convenient. She keeps odd hours sometimes, as she feels it's an advantage to be flexible in respect to her client's availability. Sometimes she has early morning bookings, lunch usually, and sometimes even into the evenings. I'm an accountant, which most people find boring. I work in a nearby business district, 8-4. We live alone, as our only son is away at university.
To accommodate her schedule, I make dinner late, and she tries to make it as often as possible, even if she has to go back out later. This hectic schedule means I do most of the housework, shopping, laundry, and yard work. It's a big help to her, and she says she doesn't know what she would do without me, which makes me feel special. I was just finishing making Chicken Cacciatore for dinner when she walked in.
"Sweetie pie," she called. "I'm home."
I ran to greet her, to take her bags, and to get a hug. Then I saw the envelope under her arm.
"You got another one, no postmark again," she stated.
Odd, I had just checked the mailbox ten minutes ago hoping to spare her this. I threw it down on the coffee table and told her dinner was ready so we should eat first. She told me all about her day. I don't share much because accounting is not very interesting to others. A dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher, then fixed her a drink and joined her in the living room.
"Go ahead and open it dear, let's get it over with."
"Oh alright," I said, as though there was a chance I wouldn't have listened to her. The address was typewritten, to me, and contained several 8x10 photographs.
"More of the same," I declared. "Nasty photos of that same slut taking cocks in every hole. Why send these to me?"
As was our custom, I looked at each one and then handed each to Debbie to scrutinize. The first was simply the slut on her knees, sucking a rather large cock, taken from about 10 feet away and over her left shoulder. The man's head was cut off.
"The woman has the same shape of Celtic tattoo on her lower back as you do," I said. We had discussed this point before, with other envelopes of pictures. It was wide across her lower back but pointing down toward her ass crack.
"They are so common for the location due to the shape," she offered, not for the first time.
In the second photo the slut had straddled the guy's lap and his cock was visibly entering her. Taken from behind, his face was hidden by hers as they kissed.
"She has your hair," I declared as I handed the photo to her.
"You think so?" she queried. Truth is it was hard to say unless they were recently taken, since Debbie seems to change her hair style and colors weekly.
In the third photo, from the same angle, she was holding his cock and apparently trying to work it into her asshole.
"What a slut!" I said disparagingly. In the last photo the guy knelt over the woman and was shooting his cum all over her face and tits. Beautiful C cups, like Debbie's, although obviously not as pert as my darling's. In the lower portion of the photo, a red rose tattoo graced her lower belly, just above her pussy on her right side, where my wife has the exact same tattoo in the same place. I handed it to her, commenting on what a coincidence it was to have two tattoos in the same place as hers.
"Well, I suppose darling, but again a rose is so common. I mean what else does a woman put above her pussy, and it would likely be on one side or the other."
"You're right my dear, of course, I'm just saying it's such a coincidence. Want another drink?"
"Yes please. Then you can rub my feet."
When she raised her skirt to allow me to remove her pantyhose, I noticed she wasn't wearing any underwear.
"I thought I saw you pull panties on when you got dressed this morning, dear."
"Oh I had a little accident, trying to hold my pee until after an appointment," she explained. They're in my purse."
"Oh, good, at least you didn't have to throw them away again. That gets expensive."
"Yes, but then we get to go shopping and have you pick me out new ones to wear, and I know how much you love that."
It was true; she was doing me a favor I guess. She opened her purse and held out a pair of red panties.
"Make sure you hand wash them darling."
"Well of course dear," I said in a tone like I was insulted I'd need to be told. I mean, really. I examined the red panties as I held them, and as usual they were white and crusty in the crotch. Debbie always seemed to ooze pussy juices. I couldn't resist putting them to my nose and inhaling deeply. There were stains, but it didn't smell like pee.
"Now, now," she said. "You can have your fun sniffing my panties later.
I blushed, feeling embarrassed that she knew me so well.
I rubbed lotion into her feet, and began telling her about a visit we received last evening while she was out. Richard Tallet, one of our long time friends dropped by to see me. He said he was sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but he felt it his duty to tell me.
"My goodness, tell you what?" exclaimed Debbie.
"Well, to put it bluntly, that you were fucking around behind my back."
"The nerve," she hissed. "Richard is such a dick. And what proof did he offer with such scandalous accusations?"
"None really. Blurry pictures on his cell phone at various parties. There was a series from the Brocks' Christmas party with some people I recognized all over some tramp in a short little Santa dress and hat. Remember that outfit you wore?"
"Yes, me and half the women there."
"Right," I said. "Well he showed me pictures of her over someone's lap getting her bare ass spanked, her partners cupping her ass while slow dancing, sitting on someone's lap with his hand between her thighs, even one where she was going down on a guy in a Santa suit."
"White or Black?"
"Red."
"Not the suit, the cock."
"Oh. White."
