I Took Extreme Revenge After Catching My Cheating Wife

Our friends in blue turned up at the garage I owned in the form of two officers in a patrol car. I watched them surreptitiously from my position under the hoist. It was unusual to see such happy-looking policemen. Their expressions turned more serious as they approached me. They confirmed my identity and said they’d some bad news for me.

Something had happened to my wife at our house and she was in hospital, but they couldn’t go into details. I tried to leave straight away, but they stopped me wanting a few answers. “Can you account for your whereabouts for the last 3 hours, sir?” “Yes, officer. I’ve been here all day. Just ask my two mechanics.

Sorry, I did slip off for 10 minutes around 11:00 a.m. to get us coffees.” One of the policemen wandered over to talk to Mike and Pete. The other wrote down details of which coffee shop I’d been to. “Can you show me your car, sir?” he asked. “Sure. My truck is outside.” I led him outside to my pride and joy. The thorough bastard scoured the interior, then popped the hood and felt the engine.

Stone cold. “Right. That’s all, sir. You can go to the hospital now.” There was a look of concern on my face while the staffer at the hospital explained the extent of Kate’s injuries, the fact she’d received a blood transfusion, and then informed me she was being operated on now. She was expected to be out of it until the next morning.

I thought it was very unprofessional for the doctor to be half smiling the whole time he was talking to me. On the way out of the hospital entrance, I was intercepted by the same two policemen who’d been to the garage earlier. They wanted some more answers. We retired to the hospital cafeteria for some much-needed coffee.

They wanted to know how my relationship with my wife was. I explained that we’d met and married relatively late in life, 8 years ago. Kate worked a lucrative career as a defense lawyer with a large local firm. She was keen to have children, but had resisted my pressure until now when she was almost 40, as she wanted to establish herself in her job.

They asked me why it was she was at home on a weekday. I went on to explain that Kate had quit work a month ago so she could have a break before getting pregnant. A sort of holiday before at least 10 years of domestic service. I then added in summary that I loved my wife and we were fine and looking forward to a family.

They asked me if I knew a John Barton. When I replied, “No,” and asked why they’d asked, they became evasive and took their leave. I knew I could rely on my guys to lock up the garage, so I went straight home. A deep sadness began to descend upon me. At the house, a couple of forensic guys and a lone detective were nosing around.

The detective introduced himself and explained what he knew. He then asked me the same questions the earlier officers did, plus one new one. “Can you explain why we found a few drops of blood in the downstairs toilet, sir?” “Sorry, no idea, detective. Now, can I ask you something?” “By all means, sir,” he replied.

“It’s pretty obvious you aren’t treating this as an accident and also that I am being treated as a suspect. If it was foul play, can you assure me you aren’t concentrating on me as a subject, but are also looking for the real perpetrator?” “You can be assured, sir. We have a few lines of inquiry. My colleague is over talking to Mrs.

Barton right now.” “Who is this John Barton I keep hearing about?” I asked. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think it is appropriate for me to comment.” He and the forensic guys then took off, leaving me seemingly confused. I went upstairs to the master bedroom and looked at the scene of carnage. I would have been really shocked if I was looking at it for the first time.

Earlier that day. About 10:00 a.m. at work, I really started to think about intimacy. Nothing unusual about that. They do say that guys think about intimacy on average 67 times per waking hour. Let me tell you, men who have been virtually cut off by their wives for a month can at least double that. Ever since Kate quit work, our two to three times a week had dropped to practically zero.

Kate was either not in the mood, missing work and depressed, or too tired. Personally, I thought it was because her life as she knew it was almost over and she was just plain scared. Being the considerate husband I was, I didn’t want to pressure her. She would get out of her funk at her own pace. I knew my life would change after kids, but realized hers would be turned upside down.

I continued daydreaming about how our love life had been in the first few years of our marriage. Anywhere, anytime, anyhow. We’d made the effort to keep it fresh and new for as long as our imaginations lasted, then slowly lapsed into the automatic mode two long-term partners often slip into. I snapped out of my torpor.

I knew what to do. Bring back the spontaneity. Go home right now and have Kate senseless. Right. Decision made. Time to clean up and get home. I told Mick and Pete I was heading out for a while. Pete asked if I could take the car he’d just finished servicing for a test drive. No worries. Arriving home, I was disappointed to see a car I didn’t recognize in the driveway.

Bugger. A friend visiting scuppered my plans. I decided to go in anyway. Maybe the friend could be encouraged to leave and my plans could be salvaged. With no suspicions or attempts at stealth, I opened the front door. Immediately, my hackles rose and I knew my marriage was over.

The obvious sounds of enthusiastic sexual activity were literally booming down the stairs. It was almost a reflex action to take out my phone and start recording the video. Whenever a customer delivered a car to the garage, I always made a quick video log so we couldn’t be accused of scratching it. With my heart racing, I sprinted up the steps and with video at the ready, looked in the master bedroom door.

Yes, it was Kate. And yes, it was some guy I didn’t recognize messing her with gusto on our bed. Fighting every instinct I possessed to pounce and kill, I turned away. I can truthfully say it was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. With legs no longer able to support my weight, I slumped down on the floor just outside the door.

Utterly devastated, I was only vaguely aware of the dual sounds of them reaching their peaks just around the corner. I don’t know how long I was there, but gradually became aware that all sounds of their adultery had ceased and there was only talking happening. That was just as bad and still rankled my soul to its core.

I instinctively knew that I must get out of earshot so I could gain the time to process. I was fully aware that all input to the brain goes straight to the emotion center before going to the logic part of the brain for processing. I also instinctively knew that any reaction of mine based on emotion would end up with at least him in the hospital and me in prison.

I needed time to think. Quietly, I got up off the floor, tiptoed downstairs, and collapsed onto the couch. I knew that if they came downstairs soon, I wouldn’t be capable of controlling my actions, but my legs just wouldn’t take me any further. Frankly, I was in emotional crisis. I couldn’t have been more overwhelmed if I’d walked in on Mother Teresa being screwed by all seven of Snow White’s dwarves.

Away from the sights, smells, and most of the sounds of betrayal, I was freed from emotional distractions. I did what I knew I did best and came up with a plan. It was blatantly copied from the coalition’s invasion of Iraq in the second Gulf War. Shock and awe. Strike with such speed and ferocity that all reactions were stupefied.

Drag him from the room and out of her sight. Beat the hell out of him somewhere it wouldn’t bruise too much. The stomach should be just right. Then throw him naked out the back door. Return for her and throw her naked out the front door. That should give them the right impression and leave me with my liberty assured. With no bruising and no witness, hopefully, I would avoid the law.

Luckily, I had the perfect shock and awe weapon in my workshop. Two years ago, I’d been in the Army Reserve, National Guard, where due to my mechanical skills, I’d been made an infantryman. Yeah. Logical, right? After one weekend exercise, I had been detailed to clean out the trucks we had returned to base in.

That’s where I found an itty-bitty device that was going to come in handy now. The police call them stun grenades. Special Forces call them flashbangs. Slightly larger than a normal grenade, they are basically a small canister with a lever and pin mechanism for ignition. They were specifically made for hostage rescue and were designed to do little physical damage so they could be lobbed into a room full of innocents with no lasting harm.

Sure, they would blow a few fingers off if you held one in your hand, but were generally harmless. What they did do, however, was go off with an 8 million candle power flash and a 170 decibel bang. The flash alone could stun a person to extreme non-function for at least 5 seconds. My devious mind, driven by newly acquired hate, quickly formed the rest of the plan.

I didn’t want to damage to my own house, so I couldn’t just lob it onto the floor. Plus, the noise of it hitting would alert them. I didn’t want that. I retrieved the device and quickly taped a short piece of rope to it, then put a loop in the end of the rope. Thus prepared, I tiptoed back upstairs. As I got closer, I realized that stealth was again unnecessary.

I could plainly hear a man’s groans coming from the bedroom doorway. Stopping only to pick up my phone from the floor outside the door where I dropped it, I glanced around the doorframe. Obviously ready for round two, the guy was standing at the foot of the bed facing the door. Kate was on her knees with her back to me, seemingly getting him fully excited with one of her signature moves.

Her head was languidly bobbing backward and forwards. She was good at this. I tried desperately to disassociate what I was seeing with any emotion I was feeling, but was only partly successful. Glancing around the corner again, I confirmed that his eyes were tightly shut. This time I noticed that he had his hands on either side of her head.

Mentally rehearsing the sequence of events I’d decided on, I then took a deep breath and sprang into action. One step into the room, loop the end of the rope around the hook on the bottom of the light fitting, leaving the device hanging halfway to the floor. Pull pin, slip into pocket, out the door again, fingers firmly in ears and eyes tightly shut.

Even with my precautions, the effect was awesome. I could plainly feel the shockwave and sense the bright reflected light through my eyelids. Following the plan, I leap into the room again, ready for action. This time it was my turn to be stunned. I don’t know exactly what I expected to find, but it was nothing like the scene that confronted me.

Mr. Anonymous was sprawled on his back on the bed with blood absolutely fountain from his groin. Either nature had been extremely unkind to him, or there was some of his equipment missing. Kate was flat on her back on the floor with vacant eyes and her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, face covered in blood.

Confused, I retreated out into the hall again to think. My reverie was disturbed shortly afterward by twin unholy shrieks from the bedroom, followed by various thumps and doors slamming open. I was starting to realize that I was in deep My plan had gone badly right. Sorry, I meant wrong there. I looked around the doorframe once more into the scene of carnage.

The guy had rolled off the bed and was curled up on the floor holding his groin, still shrieking like a banshee. Do you know how many nerves there are in a penis? Kate was nowhere in sight, but there was a blood trail leading to the bathroom. Must remove evidence. I reentered the room, scanned it, and quickly found the detonator mechanism from the device, adding it to the rope in my pocket.

I couldn’t find anything else, so concluded it must all have been consumed. I started towards the bathroom, being very careful not to step in any blood, which was a big ask, I can tell you. Kate was on her knees spewing into the toilet. I fought the urge to go and help her. I just didn’t care anymore. On the way out the door, I spotted something amongst the blood on the floor. I picked it up.

It was warm and squishy and about 3/4 of an inch long. On the way out the front door, I detoured to the downstairs toilet and flushed it away. They wouldn’t be sewing that back on. Careful not to screech my tires, I sped off down the street, thankful once again that we lived so far from the neighbors’ houses. Halfway back to the garage, I dumped my pockets into a roadside bin.

10 minutes later, I was back in the small garage that I called work. I called over Pete and Mike, the two grubby oil-stained guys I call my employees and friends. They hurried over seeing I was rattled. Guys, I need you to be my alibi for the last 45 minutes. What do you say? “Sure, boss.

” Came almost simultaneously from them. Well, before you agree so hastily, I’d better tell you that what I have done is pretty bloody serious, and once I tell you what it is, you may not be so quick to answer. I don’t know what the heck I will be charged with, but it could mean prison time. Before I explained it to them, I went to my office and threw on an old, dirty set of coveralls.

I then went over to the bin and grabbed an oily rag, rubbing it into my face and arms. I didn’t know when the police would be here, but I fully expected them. Both guys looked at me a bit bemused. I gave them a quick rundown on events of the last little while. They looked at me with stunned expressions. Mike was the first to break.

He tried to hold it in for a good 15 seconds, then erupted in laughter. That broke the ice for Pete, who shortly joined Mike and me in uncontrollable hooting. Mine was driven by the aftermath of an adrenaline rush. It was fully 5 minutes before we all regained control, and with handshakes and promises of support, they returned to their oily engine bays.

For the next hour, spontaneous chuckles could be heard from inside various grimy spaces. My wife, Kate, was about to reap the reward she’d earned for being aloof with my lowly friends in the past. Do you know how hard it is to clean blood up? Bastard stuff sticks like poop to a blanket. I ended up only cleaning the bathroom floor that night.

I decided to just throw the bed linen away and made a note to get a new carpet for the bedroom. The ripped curtains would have to go as well. I tried to keep busy, avoiding thinking. That process wasn’t helped by the constant phone ringing and knocking at the door. Yes, the media were in feeding frenzy mode.

The combination of adultery and a guy getting his manhood bitten off was a story sent from heaven for them. I only answered the door once and soon unplugged the phone. Finally, with nothing left to distract me, I got around to my soul-searching. Did I regret what I’d done? Strangely, no. I hated cheaters with a passion.

I’d seen too many guys turned into woman-hating recluses when they caught their partners out. The funny thing was that until before lunchtime today, I would have bet my life on my wife sharing that passion. I was still stunned that I’d been so wrong, not to mention utterly bemused at Kate’s motivation. She seemed to be as devoted to me as I was to her, and our love life was just fine.

Well, until recently, that was. After hours of internal turmoil, I could only come up with one solitary clue. I recalled the hairs on the back of my neck playing up about 2 months ago when Kate announced she was resigning so she could enjoy her last days of freedom. I expected her to work until at least the 7th month of her pregnancy.

Something about her statement that she wanted a last hurrah before children struck me as odd. My rumination was interrupted by my private cell phone ringing. Not many people knew the number. Caller ID showed it to be Kate’s parents’ number. They lived in the same state, but about 3 hours’ drive away. I’d always got along with them fantastically, so I answered.

After way less than the usual pleasantries, her mom cut to the chase. “Dave, what’s going on? Do you know why there are a bunch of journalists besieging our house?” Well, they had to find out sometime. I just couldn’t bring myself to go into detail. “Mom, did you watch the local news tonight? The top story, maybe?” I asked.

“What? The one about some cheating woman biting her lover’s toy off?” I’d always loved her mom’s colorful language and no-nonsense views on life, but hell, she wasn’t making this conversation easy. “Yes, Mom. Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just launch straight in. The woman was Kate.” Luckily, my discomfiture was cut short by a scream, followed by a dial tone.

As I pressed the end button on the phone, I noticed an alert on the screen. Memory full. That reminded me that I’d recorded the ending of my marriage a bare 8 hours before. I had vague memories of leaving the phone recording outside the bedroom door. I knew that if I never discovered and believed the reason why Kate had done what she did, I might never trust another woman ever again.

There was a good chance I would die a lonely misogynist, doomed to a wasted life. With desperate hope, I started the video playback. The screen showed the view I saw walking along the hall to the bedroom. I closed my eyes when it peeped through the door. I already knew what it showed.

Kate with her head on the pillow, back in the air, being engaged from behind. The pain was just too fresh to relive that scene yet. I opened them in time for when I’d put the phone on the floor. With no visual, just a view of the hall ceiling, I had to imagine Mr. and Mrs. Adulterer lying side by side on the bed.

I couldn’t make out the audio clearly, so downloaded the file to my computer and ran it through an amplifier. This is the relevant part of their conversation. “Wow, Kate, that was fantastic. In fact, the last week has been great. Does it have to end today? My offer still stands. Just give me the word and I’ll divorce Sarah and marry you.

” “Yeah, like that will work. Great start to a marriage hooking up with a guy that will mess around on his wife and kids. No. I love Dave way too much to hurt him like that. Besides, he is a great husband and will make a good father. After today, I’ll be Mrs. goody-goody’s housewife, at least until the youngest of our kids goes to school.

You can’t love him that much. It’s not him lying here, is it? No, you’re wrong. I do love him dearly. The moment I met him, I knew he was my one and only soulmate. I’ll never meet another. We are so in tune sexually that he can take me places no one else ever has. I feel blessed that I have such a good man to spoil me and nurse me when I get a big belly from his two or three babies.

No. I want nothing more than to die in his arms surrounded by our grandchildren. Well, that was a fine speech, counselor, but one that begs the obvious question. Why is it that I’m here with you? At least Kate had the humanity to give this some thought. There was a good half a minute of silence. I guess I just miss being single.

I didn’t get married until I was 31 and was a bit of a wild girl. I miss just going into a bar and getting hit on by a variety of guys. The thrill of leading a guy on and then deciding on impulse if he’s going to score or not. Every second weekend lately, Dave has been going deer shooting with his buddies. Three weekends ago, I decided to go for a trip down memory lane and hit a bar.

That led to a one-night stand, which was kind of all right, but unsatisfying. Then last Saturday, I happened to go to the bar where you were, and so here we are. Christ, that’s cold, Kate, he replied. Just think of it as the last hurrah. Anyway, what are you complaining about, Mr. Big? Come here. I said it had to end today.

I didn’t say it had to end right now. I turned off the audio. I knew there would be no more intelligent conversation. At least now I knew I was a good lover and husband. The problem wasn’t me. The next days were an anticlimax. After 2 days, the reporters demobbed and left my quiet street. I did get a phone call from a hospital administrator passing on a message that Kate would like some of her pajamas.

I passed on that one. She could put up with those humiliating hospital issue gowns. 2 days later, her father rang me. He apologized for his daughter’s behavior and hoped I would stay in touch. To try to sweeten the deal, he reminded me that he did have another daughter, and she was recently divorced. Sorry, Dad, just too weird.

4 days after the event, it was back on the news again. Mr. Not-So-Big was released from the hospital. The journos had done some digging and exposed him as a serial cheater. Thus, they took some delight in announcing that although the surgeons managed to sew his manhood back on, it was very unlikely that it would achieve at least one of its designed functions.

At the end of that week, I received a surprise visitor. Mrs. Barton, or Sarah, as she insisted I called her, was a fine-looking lady with sad eyes. She told me that she’d heard a rumor that I may have some evidence that may help her in her divorce case. I explained that maybe I did, but couldn’t admit to it without incriminating myself.

She understood and was very apologetic for asking. I told her I thought there was such a glut of circumstantial evidence that she wouldn’t need what I had. If that proved wrong, then I urged her to come back and I might reconsider. She had such sadness about her that I took pity. Pulling the video file up, I played her just the aftermath of the big bang.

The shock at her husband’s screams made her cringe initially, but she soon rallied. Suffice it to say, when she left, the sadness was gone. Being the helpful guy I am, I invited her to come over whenever the sadness returned for a pick-me-up. Oh, yes. That wasn’t the last time I would be seeing Sarah Barton. The last visitor I received was probably the strangest.

On Saturday, I answered the door to the detective that I’d talked to at the house on the day of the big event. Gone was the suit, just jeans and a shirt. Hi, son. No, I won’t come in. I just wanted to say that with insufficient evidence, I have recommended the case be closed. At my thanks, he turned to walk away, then paused and looked back.

Look, I’ll be retiring at the end of the year. If I come back after that, would you tell me how you did it? I just smiled and bid him a good day. The letter from Kate arrived the following Tuesday. My dearest Dave, I cannot tell you how ashamed and sorry I am for what I did to you. I fully understand why you haven’t been able to bring yourself to visit me, and I forgive you without reservation.

I never thought of the full extent of possible repercussions for my actions. I certainly never knew my parents would virtually disown me over the phone. I know that I have forever lost your love, trust, and respect, which hurts me more than I can possibly describe. I understand if you don’t ever want to speak to me again, but it may help your recovery if you allow me to explain why I did what I did.

Just be assured it was all my fault. It’s your choice. You know where I will be for a while. The doctors say I won’t be able to speak properly for a long time, if ever. They think I swallowed the tip of my tongue when I bit it off. They are telling me about some experimental stretching techniques that may restore some function.

I hope it works so I can at least return to my career as some distraction from the dreary, loveless, childless future I now face. Ask for anything you like in the divorce, and I will sign it. If you could find it in your heart to keep me on your medical insurance for the near future, I would be eternally grateful.

Goodbye, my love. I wish you nothing but happiness in the future. I hope I haven’t totally wrecked yours as well. Yours, Kate. I must say the letter moved me. So much so that I immediately decided to reverse a previous decision. I thought long and hard. Damn it, I would drop her pajamas off at the hospital. Now, where are Mick and Pete’s phone numbers? I owe them a beer.

A keg each should do it.