In a way it was her own fault.

She had come back early.

She had told him she would be away for three days.

In fact it was only two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She came back.

She went into the house.

She went into her house.

Her home.

And she found them.

She found them together.

She found them together in the spare room.

She found them together in the spare room in bed.

In bed making love.

Disgusted with herself, ashamed of what she was doing, she stood and she watched.

It wasn't just that he was making love to another man â€" to his closet friend.

A man she had never liked. Now it seemed with good reason.

It was the way he was making love.

Oh, he was a good lover; she'd give him that.

He was probably the best she had ever known. Would ever know.

Once inside her he could . . .

But he spent very little time on foreplay.

He didn't fondle her, stroke her, touch her, kiss her.

Not as she wanted to be fondled, stroked, touched, kissed.

He never . . .

But he was now.

For more than twenty minutes she watched him.

For more than twenty minutes she watched him touch, stroke, caress, kiss, lick, suck.

For more than twenty minutes she watched him do all the things he never did with her.

For more than twenty minutes she watched him care nothing about penetration and everything about pleasing his partner.

For more than twenty minutes she watched and she knew this was not the first time they had done this.

For more than twenty minutes she watched and she knew this had been going on all the time she had been married to him, and long before that.

For more than twenty minutes she watched before, unable to watch anymore, she fled.

She fled outside the house where she was violently sick.

As she leaned against the wall taking in deep gulps of air, she made a silent vow.

He would pay for this.

She would make sure of that.

He would pay.

And he would go on paying.

And paying.

And paying.