The Morality Vixen

I'm Ashley Catlin; unlike many women, I'm a female of few words, so I'll skip any bullshit that isn't relevant to the moral of my story -- cheating has consequences -- or doesn't somewhat explain why I did what I did. That assumes that what I did will at all appear logical to you.

I was the middle child in a family of three, with a two year older flaming gay brother, Josh, and a two year younger prissy sister, Ramona. I was my Dad's obvious favorite, something that I held against him since even at an early age I had a strong, and in many instances unusual, sense of morality; I thought that we all should be treated the same.

Since my Dad couldn't deal with my brother's sexual orientation, clear since the time he was a little kid, and since he couldn't even begin to understand my prissy little sister, I was his only "son." He taught me everything he knew about "guy stuff." I could accurately shoot any except the most powerful guns, both long and short, by the time that I was twelve, and as soon as I was legal he got me a concealed carry permit for a .32 magnum hammerless revolver, loaded with .327 magnum cartridges. That meant that even though it was light and easily concealable that it had the stopping power of a .45; hey, if you're going to carry a handgun it might as well be able to stop a bear.

My father also taught me to hunt, fish, break down a carburetor, swing an axe to split wood, dribble and shoot a basketball, and do light electrical work. I was what used to be called a "tomboy."

Since I never bothered with my appearance, and since I didn't take shit from anyone, not many guys in High School either wanted to, or had the guts to, ask me out. That changed when I was invited to the Homecoming Dance by a senior when I was a junior; I had just turned 18 a week before the dance. He was a decent guy -- we played for our school's basketball teams and that's how we got to know each other -- but not someone I was particularly interested in romantically. Nor did I think that he was really interested in me -- my impression was that he asked me because I was the second tallest girl in school at just a shade under 6 feet, and he was 6 feet 8 inches tall and would look ridiculous with an average height girl.

My Mom was more excited than I was. Although she was usually subservient to my Dad she didn't even bother consulting him before going out and getting me a very fashionable, though short, gown, had my hair and makeup professionally done, and gave me her prized matching necklace and earrings to wear. I realized that something was different when my Dad's eyes got as big as baseballs when he saw me fully decked out, my mother got a big grin and started tearing up, and my little sister stormed off pouting. It was confirmed when my date arrived and all he said for the first thirty seconds, while mechanically shaking my parents' hands, was "Oh, My God!"

At the dance I was the center of attention -- at least of the guys. There were a lot of pissed off females. Since dancing wasn't in my repertoire of skills I mostly danced only slow dances, just shuffling back and forth. Every guy wanted to dance with me, and I think I pissed my date off by accepting most of the requests; I noticed a lot of poles tenting the front of the guys' pants when they danced with me -- I pushed my crotch into them and just smiled.

I guess I have to describe myself when all done up; at least this is the assessment of at least a dozen people I've met, not mine: I look like a taller, more muscular, big-titted version of Ashley Judd. When I saw a photo of her when she was just a few years older that I was I was absolutely thrilled that people would think that I was that sexy.

It wasn't long after the Homecoming Dance that I had another dramatic change in my life. As the school varsity women's basketball team I was on was bussing to an early evening game, we went past a cheesy motel at the outskirts of town. There, standing next to my Dad's unmistakable pickup truck was my illustrious father passionately kissing a woman definitely not my mother. As I peered out the window as we went by they broke their kiss and I saw his hands cupping her ass.

I had my worst game of the season, scoring only five points and fouling out in the third quarter when I clotheslined an innocent girl on the other team. Fortunately the rest of the team played well and we still won. I explained to my coach that I had gotten some bad news on the trip to the game and apologized for my behavior and ineptitude, and she told me just to do whatever I needed to do to get my mind back in the game.

That night I confronted my father. At first he tried to deny it, but when I told him that there was no mistaking it he had some lame excuse like "I'm sorry, but sometimes I just have other needs." I stormed away after calling him a 'cheating asshole;' he didn't like it, but already had had more confrontation than he wanted so he kept quiet.

I went straight to my mother, who was in the kitchen, and asked to talk to her. I took her into the garage for privacy.

"Dad was having sex with some bimbo in a no-tell Motel this afternoon -- I saw them in the parking lot during the bus ride to the game, and he confessed other affairs, or whores, whatever they are, to me when I confronted him," I told her with a nasty look on my face in a no-nonsense voice.

She turned ashen, and then started to quietly sob. After about thirty seconds of that I asked "What are you going to do about it?" since I was perturbed that she wasn't screaming and getting a butcher knife to use to cleave off his nuts.

"It's complicated, Ashley," she said, almost too quiet for me to hear. "He has his faults, but I need to keep the family together. You kids need him, and I need him, so..."

"So you're just going to let him run roughshod over you?" I questioned in a loud voice.

"I'm so sorry you saw that weakness in his character, Ashley, honey," she replied, still lightly sobbing and now unable to make eye contact with me. I stormed back into the house and slammed the door to my room closed.

I lost complete respect for both of my parents that night, and since I never did like that prissy little drama queen Ramona, I considered Josh my only real family member.

I avoided my parents as best that I could, although I did have two screaming matches with my father when he tried to tell me to "Get over it." For the second one he got so mad that he said "You're just a spoiled brat with no idea of the real world. I ought to slap some sense into you." My response sent him fleeing.

"You touch me you fucking asshole and I'll put a bullet in your brain. I'm not a wimp that you can run over like your wife. I don't tolerate shit." I lifted up my skirt, exposing my .32 revolver in a holster strapped to my thigh. He turned red and fumed, but left me alone.

As soon as basketball season was over, I went to live with a widowed Aunt, my Mom's sister, who lived in the same school district as my parents. She hated my father and was happy to take me in to spite him. After that the only time I saw my parents was on holidays. It made my mother distraught but I always had the same refrain when she called me, about once a week. "If either you, or he, put a stop to his whoring I'll come back; not until!"

I saw Ramona at school, but rarely talked to her. Josh had a job and an apartment with his "partner," and Josh and I hung out quite a bit.

____________

I had my share of sex in High School in the year and a half after up coming-out party at the Homecoming Dance, and in college. While sex was decent for me, to be honest for a long time I was never completely overwhelmed by it, like many of the females I knew were. This may have been due to the fact that I absolutely insisted on condoms; I was fine with a guy eating me, or sucking his cock up to the point of discharge, but cum was not entering my body because I didn't want any STDs. Only one guy tried fucking me without one, but my .32 revolver in his face gave him religion, and also meant he didn't get any pussy of any type from me.

I thought it very strange, however, that even though sex was just "good" for me, that the guys who I fucked, or fucked me, seemed to be supremely thrilled, despite the use of a condom. I chalked this up to guys being more easily visually stimulated and enamored by the looks of my "killer" body (not my words, that of dozens of guys who referenced my body). I found out my junior year in college that was only partly correct.

Even though I had basketball scholarship offers to play in college, I took an academic scholarship at the most academically prestigious university within a four state area of my home town, with a double major in biology and chemistry. My lab partner my junior year was a really cute, big, senior named Brent, who had quit football to make sure that he got grades good enough to get into graduate school. He and I hit it off and by the fourth week of class we were fucking two or three times a week. Brent was more direct, and easier to talk to, than any other guy I had sex with, and he was the first to point out why I was considered a great fuck, when after one really satisfying session I brought up my "visual stimulation" theory.

"Ashley, that may be partially correct. However, you are my best fuck ever because you have powerful pc muscles, and really know how to work them," Brent told me during pillow talk.

Being a biology student of course I knew what the pc muscles were, but was under the mistaken belief that they were only relevant for pregnancy.

"What do preggo muscles have to do with me being a good fuck, Brent?" I innocently asked.

"No, not a good fuck; a GREAT fuck. You need to take a sexual anatomy class, girl, because those muscles are not just to help you during pregnancy. Your pussy can squeeze a dick like a milking machine -- that's the primary reason you're so awesome to screw," he said with a big smile.

The very next day I did research on pc muscles and found out what he said was true, and then some. I found exercises -- and even an exercise device -- specifically for working out those muscles. I became obsessed with having the strongest pc muscles ever, and exercised them at least six days a week.

I found that when I concentrated on using my pc muscles the sex with Brent was the best I ever had had. Brent also introduced me to a finger up my ass, later followed -- at my suggestion -- with a butt plug while we fucked. With the butt plug and concentrating on squeezing with my pc muscles I really started to enjoy sex, ultimately as much as Brent did, I do believe.

While I liked Brent, I never looked upon him as marriage material. After my junior year he went off to some far distant graduate school after a completely awesome good-bye fuck. My senior year I met my future husband, Brady.

Brady was good-looking, witty, smart, muscular, and about two inches taller than I was. He was also incredible in the sack. Oftentimes a first fuck can be less than stellar because the people don't know each other's erogenous zones, or what types of activities turn them on. With Brady that wasn't a problem.

My first sexual experience with Brady was unique. He took more time than any other guy I ever had sex with, giving me a complete body massage before gumming my clit and fingering my asshole so that I achieved two orgasms. He was the first guy ever that didn't even want to try bareback, but rather pulled out a condom without any suggestion from me. I pulled out my butt plug at the same time that he rolled his condom on, and he got a big smile on his face when he saw it.

After gently inserting the butt plug, he put my heels on his shoulders and manipulated my tits as he slowly inserted his dick into my pussy. His dick was the perfect size and hardness for my cunt (which is small for my size), and his cock had a slight upward cant, so that in this position it rubbed on my G-spot. As he patterned his stroking -- nine gentle strokes, then one hard one; eight gentle, then two hard; etc. -- I pulsated his cock with my pussy as vigorously as I could. By the time that he got to four gentle and six intense strokes, he and I both lost all awareness and started squirming and bucking like we were having seizures. I swear that I could feel his hot cum squirting into the condom as we both screamed in ecstasy and melted into each other's arms.

Brady and I moved in together in an off-campus apartment just before graduation when I had already lined up a job doing research on STDs at a pharmaceutical company, and he got a job in engineering sales of high level computer equipment for a big electronics company. Since we were exclusive, and both tested negative for any STDs (we got tested by completely mutual agreement), we stopped using condoms and the sex got even more incredible.

Brady and I got married two years after we graduated. We both made good money, lived together in a modest apartment, and saved enough to finance a medium-size wedding ourselves.

Brady knew that I didn't have much contact with my father, although over the years I had increased the level of contact with my mother; but he didn't know why. As we made plans for the wedding I felt obligated to tell him since I was going to have my gay brother Josh walk me down the aisle, not my father.

"Wow, what could he have done to cause you to do that? That's really a slap in the face for a father," he remarked when I told him my plan.

"He's a philandering piece of shit and always will be. He's never given up his whores so I've written him off. Infidelity is something I just can't countenance," I aggressively replied. That really made an impression on Brady.

"Does your mother know?" he defensively asked.

"Yeah, and she's too scared to do anything about it. If I were her I either would have divorced him or put a bullet in his brain the second time that it happened -- maybe both," I retorted, even more agitated than before.

"OK -- it's your family, deal with them whatever way you want to," he meekly replied, throwing up his hands.

My parents did come to the wedding -- my father walked my mother up the aisle -- and I even danced once with my father, but I wasn't warm and fuzzy toward them. My sister Ramona didn't attend because she was pissed that she wasn't a bridesmaid; that was fine by me. Josh was so happy and so proud when he walked me down the aisle that I knew that I had made the right decision.

Brady and I had two kids, a boy James, and a girl, Alicia, three and five years after we were married. I took leaves of absence the last two months of pregnancy and the first five months of each of their lives, but had no trouble getting my job back. In addition to doing research on STDs I supervised a lab that did STD testing, mostly for hospitals, but also for members of the community if they were willing to come to our research facility, where the lab was located.

After we had been married for seven years Brady was promoted to supervisor of an entire sales area, which caused him to travel more than before, although just to two different cities each about three hundred miles away.. I didn't like it, but I didn't want his career to remain stagnant either. Our marriage had been great, with plenty of sex, so I knew that I could "spare him" an average of one or two nights a week. That is when a problem started, however.

After Brady's third two night trip to City X there were suspicious things in his luggage, and he seemed a little "off." It's hard to describe exactly why I felt that, but I did and my intuition was usually right. I decided that some investigation was necessary.

The next time Brady went to City X I had a female private eye monitor his post-work activities. The report that I got was that a blonde woman went up to his room with him about 9 p. m. -- shortly after he got off the phone with me -- and that she looked "slutty." I didn't want to spend a lot on the P. I. so I told her just to wait two or three hours to see if the blonde exited, and then leave. The next day the P. I. called to tell me that the woman left his room about 11 p. m. after a kiss at the door, and in the elevator she was leafing through several $100 bills.

I sent the kids over to my brother's apartment so that they wouldn't be around, and confronted Brady when he got back. I told him that someone I knew from college who worked in City X saw him with a trashy looking blond entering the elevator of his hotel around 9 p.m. and accused him of whoring. Of course he denied it, said she was a business associate and that she left right after picking up some papers, "No more than fifteen minutes," he whined. He offered to have her call me to confirm it.

Of course I knew that he was lying, although I didn't tell him how I knew that he was lying. I went ballistic, yelling and screaming with every ounce of passion that I had. As I left to pick up the kids I told him "You get a pass on this one, asshole. If you fuck anyone else I swear that I'll put your nuts in a grinder. Also, you better fuck me the best you ever have in your life tonight or you'll be spending the rest of the month on the couch."

Why did I tell him that, you ask, after just being sure that he cheated on me? Why should I penalize myself -- since I hadn't been laid in three days -- because of his actions? I knew that he was so disease averse that he would have used a condom, although I was going to get tested tomorrow anyway, so why not? I wouldn't have had any love in my fuck, but I wanted it to be over-the-top physically.

Brady came through that night. He was as enthusiastic as he ever was when he ate and fingered me to two orgasms, then vigorously did me doggy -- my favorite position -- while simultaneously stroking a butt plug in and out of my anus. I pulsed my highly developed pc muscles as intensely as I could as he was stroking in and out, trying to rip his dick off, and he came with such force that I probably went comatose for a few seconds, only the second time that ever happened to me in my life.

Even though I was physically satisfied the next morning, my trust had been destroyed. I needed to seriously contemplate what to do "when" -- not "if" -- it happened again. I knew that my blowup would likely put him off for his next trip or two, but no longer; and I knew that he would be more cautious.

After an entire week of contemplation and research I came up with a plan. The final spark was provided when I went met two out-of-town equipment salesmen for lunch. They were both married, and knew that I was, yet they made every effort to pick me up rather than discuss equipment. I could have shut them down completely by yelling at them, but I wanted to see how far that they'd go. Their come-ons like "I have an open marriage," "threesomes are really fun," and dozens of other trite lines made me realize that they were sure that there would be no consequences for their actions.

I guessed that Brady and my Dad had the same attitude.

My parting words of "Don't ever call me about selling my lab equipment again. We don't deal with slime like you assholes," didn't sit well with them. One yelled "You bitch, you led us on." I turned, stalked back to the table recognizing fear in their eyes then kicked the tabletop, spilling all the leftover food and drink on it into their laps. "Say one more word and I call your supervisor and wife," I said with a big grin.

For some reason the place was quiet as I sashayed out.

After serious introspection I had decided that the time was not right to divorce Brady. At the young age our kids were they needed a father. He was attentive to the kids, they genuinely loved him and he they, and except for the major exception of philandering he was otherwise a good husband. I needed to get the kids to the age where his loss as an everyday Dad would not be devastating, and to get myself in the best possible position for life after Brady. But I couldn't be like my Mom and just accept his philandering, so my plan included general revenge on philanderers, and when the time was right revenge on Brady.