The Botched Marriage Ch. 03

CHAPTER 3. FOOLS RUSH IN.

He sat in his favorite recliner, scotch on one side, me on the other. I began sucking as soon as the video started and just kept at it. Unlike most times, when he got fully uninterested in the scene 5 minutes into it, he kept watching this time, his attention split between me and the screen. Even if not totally erotic to him, it was shocking. It was hard to look away.

I kept sucking as he cycled a bit between staying erect and limp. Most of the time, he was in between, leaning towards erect. It was not like him. I figured it had something to do with the emotional implications of the movie, but that he was otherwise enjoying it.

I was so stupid. What I should have recognized is that he was enjoying the blowjob, but that the movie was deterring from the experience. Like if I had sat him down to watch a horror movie and sucked him off while he watched. Except that when we had done that, he had never gone limp the way he was doing here. And if it had been just a blowjob? He would be hard as a rock in my mouth. It was so clear right there, but the dragon kept roaring, hungry to burn the whole world down.

"Which one do you want to watch next? Isn't this... wild?" I asked as I contemplated the eight "related" options being offered when the first video ended. I had kept the remote and was scrolling through. I was really just looking for any related video that had a shapely hot blonde, as I figured that was his type. I found one, clicked on it, and got right back to sucking, while keeping an eye on the screen.

In this one, the husband was filming, so he was never fully in the picture. But his cock showed up some times. He was not small. There was nothing wrong with him. But the blonde mocked him, screaming her pleasure and praising her black lover. She repeatedly insulted him for being white, inadequate, and completely unable to please her. I just kept sucking like a moron. Like a succubus, really, trying to suck my husband's soul away and drag us both back to hell.

The third video was more of an orgy, except it was four or five white couples and a bunch of hung black men. Only the white wives and the black men were having sex. The husbands walked around watching and filming. Did parties like this really happen? These looked like regular people, not like porn stars.

Danny got a little more consistently hard halfway through the scene and, though I never realized it until now, I'm sure he closed his eyes. He put his hand over my head then and pushed me down. I love that, so I saw it as a good thing. I could no longer see the screen but that didn't matter. He was getting into it, my stupid cunt mind thought. He was holding my head and fucking his cock into my face. I started rubbing myself furiously then, unable to control my excitement.

He started fucking my face harder. My eyes closed and tears ran down my face. I loved it. I thought he was loving it. As he swelled up, I exploded into orgasm, groaning and moaning around his cock as it fucked into my throat, gagging around it. His semen filled my throat and I swallowed furiously. I was in heaven.

In retrospect, that moment was anger. He was disturbed by the videos, he wanted it to end, and he fucked my face to make the end come sooner. And as he fucked my face, he got angry. And he fucked me harder, being willing for once to let it go over the line. To not be a gentleman about it. And I loved it, but I shouldn't have. I should have known the moment had not been a healthy one. But I was blind.

I kneeled in place while he got up, clearly meaning for the little moment to end. I looked up at him, my lips shining with semen and saliva, hoping I looked sexy. Didn't matter. He never made eye contact as he mumbled something about having to get up early. As he approached the door, he stopped, thanked me for sharing the interesting videos with him and the amazing blowjob, but never looked at me again.

I listened as he walked up the stairs. Eventually, I heard the shower running.

I should have rushed after him, but I was in no hurry to clean up. I sat for a bit, luxuriating in the feeling of Danny's cum all over my lips and chin and the lingering sensation in my throat. I told myself I would only watch one more video, while Danny showered, but I watched five more and rubbed myself to three orgasms before I went to bed. He was fast sleep by then, or perhaps was just pretending. I felt a little bit guilty, like I was sneaking into bed.

What was happening to me? Whatever it was, it did not stop. It only grew worse.

The next day, I barely worked or did anything productive. As soon as the kids were in school, I went back to the den. I masturbated myself into oblivion as I watched more and more videos of white wives giving themselves to these superhuman black men with horse sized cocks, right in front of their husbands. This became my only fantasy and it took possession of my mind. I texted my gym group, lied about not feeling well and skipped that too, so I could sit there and masturbate longer. Never in my life had I experienced such a loss of self-control. I did it again the next day. For the first time in my married life, we ordered takeout two nights in a row. Instead of focusing on Dan and our children, I became totally focused on how to convince Dan to make my fantasy real.

Dan never denied me anything. I knew I could get him to do anything with enough elbow grease and saliva. Of course, I needed Dan there to share it. The idea of doing this on my own never even crossed my mind. I could never do such a thing behind his back. I couldn't. I needed Dan's permission.

My mind became so twisted with my black cock cuckold fantasy, I convinced myself that if I could just get him to be there, he would enjoy it. The internet, all of the sudden, was full of that narrative. A million erotic stories and ASMR videos made it sound like every white husband reacted the same way to his wife giving herself to a much better endowed black man. First, he was jealous, then paralyzed as the scene unfolded, then powerfully aroused, then addicted. It only went in one direction and it always worked. Sure, some of that was porn, but there were also hundreds, even thousands of amateur videos. And they all reinforced this idea. If I could get Dan in the room, he would be aroused.

I just needed to get him in there.

Once there, he would be aroused beyond control, beyond jealousy or possessiveness, and would soon crave it as badly as I was craving it. And somehow, in some convoluted way that I couldn't even explain to myself, it would "benefit our marriage". It would "spice up our sex life". It would "open up new avenues of communication and take our relationship to the next level."

I know now that one of the main symptoms of a whore mind is that it buys any bullshit that is for sale as long as it supports her whore objectives.

So, after two nights of shamefully hiding the fact that I had masturbated for 6 hours straight that day instead of doing anything productive, I talked to him. When he got home, we made dinner together, but my mind was miles away, in some seedy hotel room, letting Danny introduce me to a handsome black stranger.

We put the kids to bed and I enticed him back to the den. I had a good bottle of wine waiting, some candles going. He looked at me suspiciously but played along.

Since when had Danny Miller looked suspiciously of his own wife? Had that ever happened? I had been entrapping him into sexy stuff our whole lives. The look surprised me and I should have stopped right there, again, but I bulldozed forward. Again.

As he sat down, I asked if he wanted to watch some porn again. He looked at me pensively. I could tell, he really thought about it, like something really important hung in the balance. Who knows what tipped his mind in favor of saying yes. Perhaps he convinced himself this was all about me angling for another good face fuck, rather than the more odious truth.

Like a conniving cretin, I didn't start off with the interracial porn stuff. He actually chuckled when I "warmed him up" with a couple of girl-girl scenes.

"Wait, what's so funny."

"You are so sweet sometimes," Danny replied. "Its cute." But he did not look like he felt any of this was cute. He looked worried.

If my mission was to be subtle, I soon abandoned it because 3 videos in, we were back to the big black cock cuckold porn. Dan was leaning back against the couch, focusing more on his wine than anything else. My head was on his lap, as I gently nursed on his soft cock, alternatively turning my face lightly to keep an eye on the screen and his expressions.

I know now that he hated every second of it. Just did his best to put up with it as I spit and slurped and moaned and made a fool out of myself.

Three more videos in he put me out of my misery. He got a good hold of my head with his strong arms so that I had to face the screen only, unable to turn to him. He pressed the side of my face against his belly to hold me even more still, and positioned his softish cock between my lips, pressing upward. I didn't have any range of motion. He just started slowly fucking up into my mouth, in and out. Looking back on it now, he must have just closed his eyes because he started hardening. The volume of the video was not too high, because of the kids, so I imagine he was able to half shut it out of his mind. He started intentionally stroking me deep, as if to make me gag. He probably just wanted me to make noise, to make it easier to drown out the porn. Once I started gagging and retching, he doubled down on it, faster and faster.

I was beside myself in discomfort and excitement. Tears had filled my eyes and were now streaming down my face, pooling on his flat belly. A vague question floated through my consciousness. Could he tell the difference between all the substances making a mess all over his washboard abs-my tears, his precum, my saliva, and the weird viscous, foul-tasting fluid that was now lubricating my throat?

I could barely hear the audio of the porn movie now, over my own symphony of oral agony. But I could see it. Some cute brunette wife, on her hands and knees, pummeled brutally by a muscular black man as her husband filmed, his camera right on her face. His huge hands were what got my attention. He was holding on to her hips with so much authority as he pounded into her. He was using her for his pleasure, his ownership of her body absolute, undeniable. And as she knelt in front of her husband's cock, she played with it absently, not sucking on it at all, just toying with it lightly as she screamed her pleasure.

It must have been humiliating for him. The wide gulf between the way the black man possessed her and the way she nearly ignored him. It must have been unbearable. I could only imagine the pit of rocks in his stomach. The fear he must feel that this is real. That this could actually be his life, not just a game. I knew a little bit of those rocks. I had felt pebbles of it, in my own stomach, hard and heavy. When Danny challenged me. When he told me I would be tested with anal sex, with face fucking like he was giving me then, with a real spanking, for actually doing something wrong. I knew a little bit about it, but this was massive. This was boulders of that fear, that lack of control, that angst. And Danny and I could share it. I was going to ask him and he would eventually say yes, and that brunette would then be me. I would be looking at Danny as a muscular black man took possession of me. I would scream out my pleasure as his massive black cock....

Like a tsunami, I came. I had not touched myself. I had been holding on for dear life to Danny's side, paralyzed by his strong arms, nowhere to go but to be a hole for his pleasure. My hands flew to my crotch then, of course. They tried to grapple with whatever was squeezing and pulling and pulsing the very life out of me.

And then Danny's cock became erratic, his smooth stroke ragged, hurting me, hitting the back of my throat at weird angles. I tried to keep breathing, but the next wave of my orgasm moved through my body and squeezed the muscles of my lungs into a massive moan. My mouth became filled with sound and cock and fluid. He kept fucking me and a second orgasm hit me as I desperately pinched my clit and rubbed my lips. It came out like a high pitched whine as his cock finally swelled, blocking my entire throat, and began to pulse. I was drowning, as repeated spurts of his semen flew everywhere and exited any way they could, huge wads of it through my nose. He released my face then, and I found out there was nothing else holding me up. I fell on the carpet with a thud, both of my hands still clutching desperately at my pussy, as waves of spasms continued to rock my body. It must have taken me a few minutes to calm down, because by the time I looked up at him, Danny had already found the remote and turned the video off.

I know I looked like more of a mess than last time, this time nearly passed out on the carpet. This time, he did get a good look at me. For several long seconds he took me in, worry etched in neon lettering on his face. I didn't see it. All I could see was how I felt. Exultant. Taken. Free.

"Baby, that was wild," I said, from the floor. I had not moved. I felt too perfect and didn't want to disturb the waves of pleasure still bouncing around my limb body.

He just looked at me, his expressive eyes showing concern, and something else.

"You didn't hurt me. I mean, you did a little bit. But I loved it. You don't feel guilty do you? I don't want you to feel any guilt. I... I know it's a cliché... but I asked for it... and I loved it."

He nodded. "I don't feel guilty. I know you enjoyed that. I did too of course."

I smiled. I was trying to will myself to get back to the conversation I really wanted to have.

"You just look a little troubled. I don't want you to be troubled, baby. Not about us at least. Never about us."

He nodded, then started speaking. "These videos. That last two nights we've done this. They are a bit different from anything we have looked at before. Some of it hit me as sad rather than arousing."

I flashed my eyes at him. A trick I had learned long ago, to convey excitement.

"They are wild Danny. That's why I wanted to show them to you. They are different from anything else, you are right. The anxiety is... so compelling."

Danny tilted his head, puzzled. "Compelling is not inaccurate. All human suffering is, I guess. But these videos, it feels like the emotion they are meant to generate is... a bit like empathy. Most porn videos fetishize something. Most are simple minded - breasts, penetration. Some fetishize more complex things like helplessness. But these, they appeal to something we all feel: possessiveness and jealousy over the person we love and fetishize the idea of turning that on its head. Turning the worst sort of emotional hurt imaginable into a weird form of masochistic pleasure."

I crawled towards him, kneeling at his feet.

"But it worked right? Both times, despite the angst and yes, the emotional suffering, you have given me the two best face fucks of my life. You probably don't know how much I enjoyed them. You were possessed. It was... well it was hell, I was going to say heaven. It was both! And I could never get enough of that side of you Danny. It brought something out of you that I seriously want more of."

Had Danny been less polite, less sweet, he would have told me the honest truth. That the videos did nothing for him, and that he had used my face like a hole in order to make the ordeal end. That he had fucked my face as a way to protect himself from exposure to what he perceived as corrosive content.

Instead, he walked into my trap and I swallowed him whole.

He picked up the t-shirt he had been wearing earlier from the ground, and began cleaning my face off. I knew he was buying time -- cleaning me while he thought about things. He carefully dabbed and wiped, using my water bottle to assist in the task. It felt intimate and I relished in the glow of his tenderness. When I was clean enough and I guess he had thought his answer through, he spoke again.

"You are a lot more sexually adventurous than I am Carrie. You always have been. In fact, you are just more adventurous in general. Braver, temperamental, spontaneous, resilient. Wild at heart is how Father Anthony described you during our pre-marital sessions. I will never forget what he said to me back then, it was his parting message when he finally gave me his blessing to move forward with the marriage."

I nodded. I was glad he had wiped my face. I would have felt blasphemous talking about these things looking like a gangbanged porn actress. But I didn't make a joke. I could see Danny was expressing something important. Even my filthy whore soul had enough sense to respect that.

"So after we finished that last session, he hugged me, pulled me to arm's length the way he does, and he told how proud he was of me, how much he loved us, and he sort of emphasized my connection to the old neighborhood, like he often does. How I was sticking around, rather than heading off to Chicago or LA or whatever. Staying loyal to my roots. And then he drew this connection to you -- how you are those roots. How you are, as he said, the blood of our wild ancestors. It was quite beautiful. And then he said some words I will never forget. He said:

You are her rock, and she is your fire. You are her shelter and she is your wings. You are her solid ground and she is your blue, open skies. Let her be those things for you. Let her lead you into the deep waters of life sometimes. As long as the two of you are holding hands together, I really don't think there is anything in this world that can break you.

Those were his words. Let her lead you into the deep waters of life sometimes. And I have tried. I don't want to stop doing that."

I know my eyes were brimming with tears, remembering those times. The night Danny talked to my dad about asking for my hand. Our engagement party at my childhood home, where Danny got on his knee in front of everyone and proposed. The long weeks of pre-marital classes with Father Anthony. My mom and Ms. Marie coming together to make it all happen. The incredible day of the wedding itself, when the whole community showed up and there was not enough room in the church hall.

It should have all filled my soul with joy and gratitude and clarity. Total clarity about what mattered, why it mattered, how to live in it with reverence and honor. Instead, the winged serpent rattled inside me -- "so close, almost there".

"Anyway," he went on, wiping his eyes, "I bring all that up because sometimes, you scare me a bit. And when that happens, I try to remember to give you the space to do for us what only you can do. And so I will do my best not to judge -- to be open. To trust you."

My whore serpent eyes looked upon Danny then like a pure, helpless lamb. He had opened himself up to me, trusting, innocent. The monster went in for the kill.

"Baby, I think we are talking about the same thing right now," I said, my voice sweet, loving, joyful. "I know it feels weird but this whole thing we've been toying with -- it feels real to me. It feels like an amazing next step for us. I think if you trust me and if you stay by my side through it, I think we should be open to explore this a bit, just for fun, and maybe, if it turns out to be fun, it will make our love even stronger."

His face clouded. He had inched closer during his story, but now he pulled away, all the way to the back of the couch. He looked down at me carefully, a slight smile playing across his lips.

"Sweetheart, I'm not totally sure what exactly you are asking of me right now."

"You know there is this wild submissive streak inside me," I said, as I inched forward a bit, trying to close the distance. "And you toy with it, but I think we both know its not your nature. You play a bit on the edges of it and it always makes my day. But in these videos, these couples are fully committing to a level of total submission and bringing in an outsider to do it. To do it in a manner maybe no husband would be comfortable doing, but a stranger can and will. A bull. A man who lives for that sort of thing. It's like, outsourcing specialized work."

He looked at me, not blankly, but like he wanted to be invisible in front of me.

I kept on, though. "It would allow me to have a moment where all my weird fantasies are not just satisfied, but unapologetically so. It allows you to be a part of it, so its not a betrayal, not cheating, not sleazy. You share in it. And as I understand it, husbands love it, more so than the wives. Everyone wins."

He was no longer smiling. But he was not angry. I think at this time he was controlling his anger in order to make sure he was not being deceived by his ears. He wanted to be sure.

"Carrie, I'm sorry. I just... I need to be clear. I feel like what you are asking me is that we should set up a date with another man, meet somewhere, and have one of these cuckold threesomes with him, where I sit by and watch the two of you make love. Is that, really, what you are asking me?"

"Not make love, Danny," I denied, like it mattered. "It would just be sex. Wild, submissive sex. Different from our love making, which is amazing. This would be just about raw power. About me being taken and a stranger taking, only taking."

"You are asking me to give you permission to have sex with some other man?"

"No. Not permission for me. For us -- we would do this together. We would be together. I would never even bring this up as something for myself. That would be absurd, as a wife. This would be for both of us."

"Are you even listening to yourself Carrie? For us??"

"We could spend a night downtown in a nice hotel and have fun, together. You could video it all and we could watch it together later, right here, like just now. I've read about it a lot. Everyone says it spices up their sex life. The sex afterwards, long after the bull is gone, is supposed to be amazing."

Dan was in deep thought for a moment. Several minutes went by.

I should have sensed his obvious reluctance, his pain, his disgust. But I was crazed. Even this conversation was twisting my mind even more, now that it was out in the open. It was so close I could almost taste it. I was literally turned on!

Dan was looking at my face, like he was searching for something, so I asked him, "So, what do you think?"

"I really need to get up early tomorrow, Carrie, and this is a very long and heavy conversation you've opened. I don't think we have five hours right now to discuss all the ways I feel about it. Let's continue it tomorrow, and the next day, until we resolve it. Time to think will do us both good. That way we won't just be reacting emotionally. I agree with you on one thing, though. You are not letting this drop, and we shouldn't. We can't. One way or another, we need to come to a conclusion for this conversation."

I nodded. I knew better than to push further, as much as I wanted to keep begging for what I ultimately knew he would give me. That's right. Even then, when he had so clearly hinted at the worst possible consequences, I was thinking he would eventually give in to my despicable request.

Before I could say anything else, he got up and left the room.

And for the second time in four nights, I didn't follow him. I sat there, looking at him walk away, only disappointed that it had not gone a little bit better in my favor.

Once he started up the stairs, like a mindless animal, I gave in to the throbbing excitement between my legs. I corralled the remote, and started watching porn again. I was lost.

THE SERPENT'S LIES.

He barely looked at me the next morning. Didn't kiss me goodbye. Didn't touch his breakfast.

When he got home, he got the kids dressed and drove them off to the park.

"Let them burn off a little energy."

I wasn't even doing anything important. I was just sitting on the couch with them, but he just told them to get their shoes on and drove off silently.

After dinner, he went straight to the garage. I found him organizing tools and wiping them clean.

"You're mad," I said.

"Nope."

"You're being weird."

"I'm thinking."

And that was all he said.

That night, he turned away from me in bed. When I reached for him, he mumbled, "Not tonight, Carrie. I really need to think."

I lay there in the dark, heart pounding, not from fear for what I had broken--but from something far worse. I was scared he would say no.

He didn't come home for dinner the next night. I texted. No reply.

I called. Straight to voicemail.

He came in after the kids were asleep. I was on the couch, waiting.

"You weren't at work."

He didn't lie. "Went for a drive."

"Danny, please talk to me."

He walked past me. "I can't. Not right now."

I followed him to the bedroom. "Tell me what's wrong."

He stopped. Turned. His face was calm, but his eyes were fire.

"What's wrong? You handed me a fantasy where I'm a fucking cuckold Carrie. Where you fuck someone else and I have to say thank you for it. That's what's wrong."

"It's just a fantasy," I whispered. "You think I'd actually love someone else?"

"You don't have to love him," Danny said. "You just have to want him more than me."

"That's not true," I said. "It's about power, and permission, and submission. You'd be the one in control. In this fantasy, it's the husband who has all the power!"

He laughed. He laughed at me and then walked away.

"Danny Miller, don't walk away from me like that. That's now how we communicate. That has never been the way you do it. We've always been able to talk through everything lovingly. Always! I don't recognize you right now!"

He stared at me for several long seconds until he whispered, "welcome to the real world, Carrie." Then he walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

After that, I tried everything.

I made his favorite dinner. I wore his favorite lingerie. I curled up next to him with the kids and watched his favorite movie. I waxed.

Nothing worked.

He stayed just polite enough to keep up appearances. But there was a weight between us now.

That night, when the kids were finally asleep, I followed him into our room. Shut the door. Sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not going to bring it up again," I said. "Not unless you bring it up first."

He stood near the dresser, his back to me. "That's not how it works."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't get to inject poison into the bloodstream and then let the patient know it will all be ok since you've stopped. It's done."

"It's not poison. It's just a kink, Danny. A thought. I didn't cheat. I didn't do anything. I just--"

"You wanted to fuck another man, Carrie. You didn't just want. You craved, with every fiber of your being. You are craving it right now."

I looked down at the floor. I didn't want to meet his eyes. I didn't want him to see just how badly

I was craving it, right then. Even as we talked about the future of our marriage, I could not get the images out of my head.

He sat on the bed. Quiet. The space between us felt infinite.

Finally, he whispered, "Do you really think you could ever look at me the same again? After being with someone else? Do you really not understand it would change everything?"

I didn't answer. I knew it would change everything. Deep down in my soul I knew. But I set that aside. The winged serpent took over for me then and spewed the suitable likes about "change is not always bad -- our marriage will evolve", "it will make our relationship stronger", and "our communication will improve."

He stood after a bit of me babbling. "Why do you even bother with that nonsense, Carrie? Is there a single human being in the world who believes that bullshit?"

"Where is it coming from, Carrie? I swear it feels like I'm talking to someone I've never met."

THREE NIGHTS IN PURGATORY (DANNY'S VOICE).

I could see it in her eyes every time we were together now. She was waiting. Her pupils dilated. Her voice hopeful. She wanted it. She was thinking about it constantly.

And I couldn't unsee it.

I didn't sleep that night as she stayed up again, watching more of that filth. She had asked to cuckold me. She hadn't used the word. She had wrapped the delivery in a dozen layers of lies, nonsense, and misdirection. But nothing could soften that blow.

I kept repeating her words in my head, trying to imagine a version of our life where that request could be made, and things would go back to normal afterwards. I couldn't come up with a single scenario.

Even if she were to come to me the next day and apologize, and we set up a plan to get back where we were, I still couldn't imagine what that plan would include. Delete the porn apps and vow to keep away from it forever, sure. Set up marital counseling, of course. Ask Father Anthony to meet with us again, go over our marital classes again with us for another 10 weeks. But would any of it really help?

Could I even trust her again? Could I trust her right now? If she was asking, then she'd already

crossed some line in her head. The fantasy wasn't theoretical. She was in the action stage. How long had she been there. Did she have someone in mind, already? Had she already talked to him? Was he already her lover and she had just tired of sneaking around behind my back?

All those questions would have been unthinkable to me just a couple of days ago. I had always trusted Carrie completely. Even at her lowest moments she has always been totally honest with me. I vehemently wanted that to stay the same. It was a huge perk in my life -- never worrying about checking her phone, never asking where she had been, never looking at her across the room, watching her laughing with another man and wondering what was going on. I just didn't have those concerns with Carrie. It was like a superpower and I didn't want to lose that.

But dammit, who was I kidding? Was my little superpower gone already?

And if she'd come this far, if I said no... she would probably do it anyway. Of course, she would. If she had been willing to break all she had broken by asking, I was already fucked. She clearly did not respect me, our relationship, our vows. That was clear. Taking the last step would just be a formality at that point. Paperwork.

This much I was certain of, if she was going to do it anyway, I should say yes. Because at least I would know. That thought made me sick. But it also made everything brutally clear. This wasn't a test of how much I trusted her. This was a test of how much I wanted to know the truth.

By the second night, I barely looked at her. I couldn't.

She tried everything--her tone, her charm, her body. She tiptoed around me in silk and sweetness. Told me she loved me. Told me I turned her on more than anyone else. That she would never, ever do anything to hurt me.

Really? She wouldn't have made the request then. She wouldn't have said it out loud unless she'd already betrayed me at some level -- I just didn't know yet how far she'd gone.

What if I said yes? I'd rather see it happen, final and brutal, than be lied to for months while she made excuses about surprise get togethers or yoga classed or girls' nights that ended with her phone off.

Fuck. There was so much we had already lost.

If I said no and she did it anyway, I'd have to guess. Wonder. Be suspicious of every text. Every late return. Every whiff of cologne that wasn't mine.

But if I said yes... and she actually did it... I'd know. There would be no pretending.

By the third night, I was so emotionally hollow I could barely hear her anymore.

I don't even remember what she said. Some combination of "I need you to understand" and "It's just a fantasy" and "I'll still be yours, Danny, always." It was like every moment was already poisoned.

I didn't hate her, not yet. That would've been easier. Maybe too easy for a married catholic man that was not supposed to believe in divorce. But it was coming.

I already did hate that I still loved her. I hated that part of me still wanted to believe she was the woman I'd built a life with. I hated the fear that she might do it whether I said yes or not. I hated the idea that my last shred of power was to choose to watch her destroy us, so I'd know it was real.

Most of all, I already hated how she must have known what was at stake. She must have known, that once she failed, it would not be a simple matter of me walking away. Because when I walked, it wouldn't just be from her. It would be from everything. From the way our kids ran to the door when I got home, to bedtime stories and omelet Saturdays.

I would be walking away from a life deeply intertwined with their daily routines and struggles.

I thought about Julie's laughter -- the way she'd shriek and kick when I lifted her by the armpits and spun her through the air. I thought about the way KJ's hand disappeared inside mine when we crossed the street. I thought about MJ's expressive blue eyes. I thought about their innocence, their joy, their belief that Mommy and Daddy were forever.

They were glorious. Perfect. How could they possibly deserve divorce?

And they weren't just little versions of us. No, each of them was everyone. My mom's sharp wit. Carrie's dad's stubborn streak. My grandfather's Han Solo smile when he used to sneak me candy after Sunday school. Even my oldest brother -- the way he would bite his lower lip when he was deep in thought -- I saw it in my son just last week, drawing spaceships in his notebook.

Each child wasn't half me, half Carrie. They were the sum of generations. Of memories, of sacrifices, of people no longer here.

They were promises. Living links to the ones I'd lost -- to Mark, who died in Ramadi before he ever got the chance to be a father. To the parts of my mother I hadn't even appreciated until I saw them echoed in my daughter's eyes.

If I walked away... I'd still be in their lives, yes. I'd still be their dad. But everything would change.

I had built my whole life to be like my father and my grandfather and their fathers before them. Strong, honest, loyal. One of God's servants.

Yet, this was still to be my fate, to be a weekend father, sleeping alone in a tiny apartment, wondering who was fucking my wife that night. Wondering if the children could hear it? Wondering if they were already thinking of him as a father.

And worst of all, they'd never understand why. How could I ever explain that their mother had asked to hurt me, to hurt all of us -- and I had said yes?

But sometime during that third night, the rationale shifted, maybe around hour six without sleep.

I realized something. That the best possible outcome -- the only outcome that didn't end with divorce -- was this:

Let her make her choice, without pressure.

If I say no, and she does it anyway? We're done.

If I say yes, and she goes through with it? We're done.

If I say no, and she backs off? She'll resent me. She'll think I was too insecure to trust her. The fantasy will fester. Eventually, it will break, but it will take years. It will slowly destroy everything, maybe even our children.

But if I say yes -- if I give her the space, the permission, the rope -- and she chooses not to go through with it? That's the only path back.

If she walks away from this because she decides to -- not because I cornered her or shamed her -- maybe we survive. That's what I wanted more than anything: not just to keep her, but for her to choose me again. It would still take work. Therapy. Prayer. Silence. Maybe even distance. But there would still be hope.

The odds were shit. But it was the only chance we really had now.

Giving her the door -- and praying she didn't walk through it. That was the only rational choice.

However, before I gave her that, I needed one more test. Because if she was cheating already, then I didn't have to go through the agony of watching her betray me. I could just call it quits now.