The "event"

I'm not going to go into every detail of my life, looks, wants, or needs because – simply put – most of it isn't important. I'm a "just the facts ma'am" guy so forget the window dressing.

While my story revolves around what I always refer to as "The Event," there is some background necessary so that the average reader will perceive this story to be more like "Argo" and less like "Mission Impossible."

By the way, I'm Brett Compton.

***************

I had a rough upbringing. My parents lost all their savings in a Savings and Loan collapse (one that didn't have FDIC), and money was tight. That made it so that I didn't trust banks and financial institutions in general. I helped the family out by hunting squirrel and wild turkey in the rural area we lived in – with a .22 rifle. For those of you uninitiated in firearms, that means that I am a good marksman.

I also got into lots of fights all through school, including until my senior year in High School. I was never the biggest or smallest guy at five feet eleven inches tall and 185 pounds, but pound for pound I was the toughest.

My life started getting better when the summer before my senior year, after having just turned 18, my family got a break and my dad got a decent job in a medium sized city with a good High School. The students and neighbors there were not as pugnacious as in my previous schools and neighborhood, and after only one fight in the summer I never had to fight again (it may have helped that I kicked the shit out of a guy who outweighed me by forty pounds in that lone fight).

At my new school I got a real education for the first time; and not just "book learning." I was a little behind the curve in view of my previous less-than-challenging rural schooling and got put in a remedial English class taught by Ms. Bell. She was the first teacher that I ever had that made me believe that she was truly interested in helping out the average, or below-average, student, and I took her up on her offer for after school academic assistance.

Ms. Bell was not very good looking, and in her early forties – which to an 18 year old seemed ancient. Even though I never repeated it, or even chuckled at it, myself some of the wise-asses often recited a poem about Ms. Bell: "You've got more curves than a roller coaster, your clothes fit like a glove; There's only one thing wrong glamorpuss, you've got a face only a mother could love."

One thing led to another with Ms. Bell, and one weekend when she was helping me not only with English but with smoothing off my many rough edges as far as manners and social interactions were concerned, we ended up fucking. It wasn't my first time, but it was my best up to that point, and excellent on an absolute scale. She really knew how to use her mature pussy and her mouth was talented; plus she had the equipment and desire for some exceptional titty-fucking. Also, she insisted that we both get tested so we had no use for condoms, necessary with women my age.

My relationship with Ms. Bell was a relatively short-term match made in heaven. I was much better looking and more sexually aggressive than any guy she had ever dated, and she was a much more responsive lover than any I had ever had, with a body as nice as any I had ravished. Even though I was 18 we knew that she could get in trouble if we were found out, so we were very discreet. However, that didn't stop us for fucking up a storm at least three times a week for the entire last semester of my senior year.

I came to think of her as "Ms. Ring My Bell" She laughed at that. However she never laughed at any type of uncouth behavior on my part. In fact, after my senior year of High School, and two years at the local community college where we continued our liaisons on an at least a twice weekly basis, she had transformed me into a well-mannered polite dude who was in the process of achieving his full intellectual potential.

We had a weekend for the ages a few days before I left to complete my education at a University – where I had actually gotten a scholarship – after graduating from community college. We parted with fond memories of each other, but no expectation of any future relationship.

Once I started earning money I kept the first $25,000 of disposable income in cash – still distrusting banks as a result of my parents' fiasco with the bankrupt Savings and Loan. After that I started investing, but kept my cash nest egg in a safety deposit box.

I don't know if it was my relationship with Ms. Bell that was responsible for it, but I developed a taste for older women. I rarely went out with anyone not at least five years older than I was, and sometimes twenty years older, and I absolutely loved fucking mature pussy – and tits.

While I enjoyed most mature pussy, I had a rule against married pussy, both on moral and practical grounds. The only married pussy that I ever fucked I didn't know was married until I caught her in a lie after we had spent, over a two week period, three nights of absolutely wanton toe-curling sexual bliss together. That was really too bad, too, because she was an even hotter fuck than Ms. Bell and much better looking. I dumped her like a bad Chipotle burrito as soon as I found out her marital status, however.

It was no surprise to me that I eventually fell in love with a woman five years older than I was. I got married to Susan when I was twenty five, she thirty.

************

The "Event" occurred after Susan and I had been married six years. Susan and I seemed very compatible out of the bedroom and extremely compatible in the bedroom. I'm sure that there were aspects of my personality that mildly irritated her, and her social-climbing and flirtatiousness irritated me, but we never had any blowups. I did on occasion, however, warn her that some guys took her flirtatiousness as real interest and it could get her into trouble. I'm not sure that she ever took that seriously – or even believed it – because the few times I did point that out she playfully called me "my jealous caveman," and then did her best to make sure that the next day I walked bowlegged because my cock hurt so bad from overuse.

Susan had taken a Thursday off work to get up to date with a number of social and personal financial projects she had been working on, and I told her that I would try and get home for lunch – although she was distracted when I told her that and subsequent events indicated that it didn't register with her. When I got home around noon hopefully for both a quick lunch and a "quickie," there was a car on the street. As I walked into the living room I heard "Don't...Stop... Don't...Stop" in Susan's high-pitched stressed-out voice coming from the first floor guest room. After that my mind went almost blank and I proceeded on instinct alone. Immediately afterwards I sure didn't recall everything well, although it must have registered in the back of my brain because later I was able to fill in details.

Basically what occurred was that I saw some big older-than-Susan guy apparently raping her, as she was blindfolded with her hands tied to the bed frame. I reverted to my early rough life days. As best I can remember I grabbed him by his long hair, pulled him off Susan with enough force to send him crashing into the nearest wall, and as he was trying to get up hit him with my right elbow in his left temple, rendering him unconscious.

Susan was crying hysterically and pulling on her restraints. I hugged her to comfort her while undoing her restraints and removing her blindfold, and then immediately called 911 and told the operator to get the police and an ambulance to my house ASAP. The cops arrived first, in only a couple of minutes, closely followed by an ambulance. The cops couldn't interview Susan because she was crying so hard, but given my description of events and after showing them my ID and the restraints they cuffed the asshole, stuck his head under a faucet to wake him up, got him half-way dressed and when he was able to walk and one of the EMTs gave her approval took him away in a squad car.

The EMTs took Susan to the hospital and I followed in my car. Apparently she had damage to her vagina and bruising to her crotch area, as well as bruising on her wrists – which highly concerned me, and also infuriated me. At that point in time I wished that I had killed the rapist.

Susan had a quick operation, which the doctor assured me was a simple one with no long term consequences. The hospital used a rape kit procedure even though there was no sperm in her, although there was foreign DNA at her crotch area and some fluids, likely sweat. After the operation I held her hand for several hours as she slept.

*************

Things got complicated after that.

The asshole turned out to be John Wellborn, a respected and socially prominent businessman who I had apparently met once at some charity fund-raiser that I attended with Susan, although I didn't recognize him naked on top of my wife. In his court appearance he maintained that the sex was consensual, and his slick attorney got him out on $200,000 cash bond, and with an ankle monitor but no home detention. I had talked to the prosecuting attorney ahead of the hearing and got her to require as bail conditions a restraining order and to allow me to access to the GPS information from his ankle monitor, alleging that Susan was in fear of Wellborn.

Susan was depressed after The Event. She recovered from her surgery within about two weeks, and tried to resume normal activities, but was obviously distressed about the possibility of testifying against Wellborn in court. She did tell the police that she was being raped when I intervened and the bruising at her crotch area, the tearing of her vagina, and her restraints, supported that. Still she wanted to drop the charges, but when I pitched a hissy-fit she agreed to continue.

I was fixated on getting revenge on Wellborn since I didn't know how a court case would come out, and if Susan might chicken out in the future, or if the possibility of testifying in court would have an adverse effect on her mental health. After thinking about it for several weeks I had an inspiration. My revenge scenario was complicated, but I could pull it off – especially thanks to the untraceable $25,000 in cash in my safe deposit box.

***********

My complicated plan had several prongs:

–Get fake lyme disease and a doxycycline prescription from a doctor;

–Find some dude who is built just like me and with a sun shield ball cap and sunglasses on (necessary in view of my fake lyme disease and sun-sensitivity due to doxycycline), along with my clothes, would pass for me on security cameras to give me an alibi;

–Get some Africanized honeybees;

–Get a low velocity dart gun;

–Get a non-fatal but debilitating poison.

The fake lyme disease part was easy. Paying with cash I had a tattoo artist – with non-permanent ink – simulate a lyme disease bullseye rash on the inside of my left tricep. Then I went to a GP doctor and complained of light sensitivity, chills, fatigue, and joint pain some days after gardening. He immediately came up with a lyme disease diagnosis on his own – I didn't have to prompt him – and gave me a prescription for doxycycline. Anyone familiar with that drug knows that you have to protect yourself from direct sunlight when you're on it. I ultimately filled the prescription but had no intention of ever taking the pills.

I found a student named Sven Jacobsen with lots of student debt who was about to graduate from the local university and then move back to his native Sweden. He was five ten and 1/2, 180 pounds, with coloring similar to mine (although hopefully it would not be visible with the extensive clothing he would wear). I bought a distinctive sun shield ball cap and sunglasses and gave them, along with long pants, a long sleeve shirt, and shoes that I owned and fit him nicely, to use on the appointed day, along with one of my credit cards. That, along with $5,000 cash, made him happy.

I purchased a low velocity dart gun that looked and felt very much like the .22 rifle that I had as a teen that I went squirrel hunting with, and some darts, all with cash and while wearing a disguise.

I found a source for Africanized honey bees and purchased around a hundred, but obviously no queen. The owner estimated them to be about two weeks old, and they usually only live for a month, so I didn't have to worry about causing an environmental problem when they were released. I got a nice aerated container with pollen and nectar in it to keep them alive for a few days before I would release them. These I also bought with cash.

The proper poison was the biggest problem; however I solved it when talking to an expert about lyme disease in doing my research before I started my quest. Lyme disease is caused by the bacterium Borrelia burgdorferi and is transmitted to humans through the bite of infected blacklegged ticks. I was able to get some of the bacterium in a suspension and effectively dip the tips of several darts in it (in case I wasn't as good a shot as I remembered – although I practiced and felt that I hadn't lost any accuracy).

Since I had Wellborn's GPS information and knew where he lived I checked on him a few days and found that his routine was almost always the same. On weekdays he would get home from work around 5 p. m., check the rural type mailbox at the bottom of his driveway, collect the mail, and then go up to his house. His wife had left him shortly after his arrest, so he was normally alone.

On Wellborn's most regular day – Tuesday – once I had everything ready to go I told Sven to go to a restaurant in a local mall that I knew had security cameras at the entrance and with my sun shield ball cap, sunglasses, shirt, pants, and shoes on to arrive at about 4:15, eat an early dinner, and leave about 5:30. I told him to keep the cap and sunglasses on even inside, to communicate with people as little as possible, and to pay with my credit card. I told him to wear a glove when he handled the credit slips and gave him a facsimile of my signature to practice. He would meet me the next morning, give me the credit slip and credit card back as well as all of the clothing, which I would have cleaned to remove any of his DNA. Then I would pay him $4,000, the rest of the amount I agreed to pay him minus a $1,000 up front payment.

About 4:00 p. m. that Tuesday I cut a small hole in the bottom rear corner of Wellborn's mailbox – which was on a secluded street (he was wealthy) – and put a honeycomb on the inside over the hole. An expert would know that the honeycomb wasn't a legitimate Africanized honeybee one, but no non-expert would. Then using a blower of my own design I blew about 100 Africanized honeybees into the mail box through the open front, and then quickly closed the flap. Only one escaped and I was able to swat it so that it didn't sting me. Then I hid in nearby bushes to wait.

Wellborn was right on time at 5:02. As soon as he opened the mailbox and the first angry bees came swarming out I shot him in the neck with the low velocity bacterium-tipped dart. I easily slipped away without him even knowing that I was there since he was running toward his house trying to fight the bees off of him and screaming like a madman. I'm sure that the dart fell off his neck as soon as he started running and swinging his arms. Given the number of bee stings that he would be getting, no one would ever notice anything different about the dart prick in the back of his neck.

Things worked out even better than planned. Unbeknownst to me Wellborn turned out to be allergic to bee stings. From a copy of a photo given to the prosecutor shortly after Wellborn got to a hospital his entire face, neck, and hands – all the exposed parts of his body – were covered with enormous welts, so that he was unrecognizable. His lyme disease went undiagnosed for several months, which caused him severe long-standing problems. I had exacted all of the revenge I needed to satisfy myself.

************

As I was planning and executing my revenge scenario my recollection of The Event was progressively getting better – or at least more complete. Also, I was observing Susan carefully. Our sex life had gotten back on track, however her consternation every time that she thought about her upcoming court appearance became more and more debilitating. Shortly before I executed my revenge on Wellborn I had an epiphany – and not a good one.

Was Susan really saying "Don't" and then "Stop" as my mind had interpreted it as Wellborn was fucking away. Or was she saying "don't stop" instead, obviously with opposite meaning? Was her bruising at her crotch and the mild tearing of her vagina due to the force of my pulling Wellborn off of and out of her and not by violence on his part? Had she focused at all on my statement to her the night before that I would try to come home for lunch? Had she invited Wellborn over thinking that I wouldn't be there and to have a little social-climbing tryst?

These ideas caused me to reconsider my entire marriage. I tapped the home land line and her cell phone. It was about two weeks after I had executed my revenge on Wellborn – when he was still at home recovering from his bee attack – that my questions were answered.

"John, I'm so sorry to hear about your bee attack. How did it happen?"

"I really don't know, Susan. I ultimately found a hole in the mailbox and a honeycomb, but they must have been recent because I never noticed any bees swarming around the mailbox before, and they didn't attack the mailman that day. Just my bad luck – almost as bad as your husband Brett coming home during our tryst."

"I'm really so sorry, John. I'm going to try again to get Brett to agree to let me drop the charges so I don't have to tell him the truth – that would ruin my marriage and I really don't want that. I just wanted to fulfill a fantasy of being blindfolded and restrained while a sexy older socially-connected stud like you pretended to rape me."

"Yeah – well that sure didn't work out, did it Susan. If you could talk Brett into some sympathy due to my condition, I would be so grateful. I don't think that it will allow me to get my wife Laura back, although I'm still working on that and dismissal of the charges would help."

The rest was more of the same; I didn't really need to hear anymore.

The night after I heard the recordings I gave Susan the fucks of her life. I blindfolded her, tied her to the bed frame since that obviously was a fantasy of hers that she never shared with me, and periodically ravaged her the entire night, including leaving a number of "love bites" on her tits and ass. I didn't really care whether or not she enjoyed it – it was just my sexual swan song with her – but to my surprise she seemed to orgasm as intensely as I had ever seen her, and the next morning she cooed as she called me her "studly caveman, who gave me so many orgasms my mind will overflow with endorphins the entire day.

When the next night Susan cautiously approached me with the idea of dropping the charges in view of Wellborn's physical condition I calmly replied "I think I can agree to that – of course that's with the proviso that we both leave the marriage with what we came into it with, and split everything since 50-50."

With her lip quivering she stammered "Wh—wh—what do you, uh, mean?"

"Simple, Susan. I have finally figured out that you weren't being raped, but cheating on me. I have no use for cheaters. Sign this document," I handed her a short but sweet document that my attorney prepared, "and not only will you be completely free of me to fuck other men, but you won't be charged with – and jailed for – filing a false police report."

Susan dissolved into tears. I could give a shit. A week later Susan and I went together to see the prosecutor, told her that the mental stress was worse than the rape and that we wanted the charges dropped if Wellborn would agree to a restraining order and plead guilty to misdemeanor assault with no jail time, just probation. Two days later Wellborn excitedly agreed and went before a judge, who accepted his plea and sentenced him to probation. I noticed that he walked stiffly out of court – I guess no doctor had yet diagnosed his sore joints as a symptom of lyme disease.