The Picture Told A Story

THE PICTURE TOLD A STORY

Sometimes a picture really is worth a 1000 wordds

Author's disclaimers: This story is relatively short, dark, and has little sex in it. There is not much plot or character development. It is in the Loving Wives category because there is a cheating wife and the story follows many of the LW tropes, but it is not a BTB tale. I don't have an editor yet, so expect some errors. This is purely a work of fiction written to exorcise demons I didn't know I had. If any of these things bother you, please read one of the many other stories on this site. Everyone in this story is over eighteen. Constructive criticism is welcome. I

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I couldn't stop the destruction of my marriage by closing my eyes. Some things, once seen, can't be unseen. But in the pale light of dawn on that spring Saturday morning, sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee that was now cold, I knew that what I was looking at would haunt me for the rest of my life.

I was looking at a color photograph of my wife. The woman who I had been married to for five years. The love of my life. The most beautiful woman I had ever met. The woman I made love to when I got home last night. The woman I heard stirring upstairs, who had just finished showering, and was preparing to start what would have been an otherwise perfectly normal day, except for the picture in my hands.

I had printed out the picture from an image attached to a text I had received last night from an unknown number. The text had been short. It read: 'Sorry. I found this on my husband's phone, and I thought you needed to see it.'

After staring at the picture for several long hours during the dark night while my wife slept upstairs in our bedroom, I had decided to check her phone. We knew each other's passcodes. The picture was on her phone too. She hadn't tried to hide it. There was text after text from various guys, some of whom I recognized as neighbors and work colleagues of my wife. The texts went back so many months that I gave up looking through her history. The texts were filled with logistics, arrangements, and scheduling of when and where my wife could get together with these men. Some of the arrangements were to make sure I wasn't going to be around. Their get-togethers apparently happened once a month or more, whenever they could get together while I was gone. Scattered among the texts were flirty comments from my wife about how much she was looking forward to their next session and telling the guys that they better eat their Wheaties.

None of the texts had been hidden or kept in secret password-protected files. They were just sitting in her phone where anyone could find them.

The picture I held in my hands was a photo of my wife being gangbanged by four men in our bedroom. My wife was naked on her knees on our bed. Her round tits were hanging free with white strands of cum dripping from her erect nipples. One guy was obviously fucking her from behind. She was sucking on the large cock of another guy. She was holding the dicks of two other guys in each of her hands, cum coating her fingers.

That wasn't the worst part about the photo, though. The worst part was the image of her face. She was looking directly at the camera. She had a twinkle in her eyes, obviously enjoying the fact that she was being photographed while being gangbanged. There were streaks of cum dripping down her cheeks.

But the absolute worst thing about the photo was the look of rapture on her face and the mischievous smile on her lips as she sucked on the cock in her mouth--the mischievous grin that she only used with me when she knew she was doing something she shouldn't.

I could not get my head around what I was looking at. This was not the wife I married. My wife was a smart, down-to-earth, matter-of-fact woman who was never too up or too down, and certainly never wild or crazy. We had made love last night and the sex had been great, but my wife had always been the one who was very slow to try new things in the bedroom, like new positions, sex toys, role-playing, or anything other than straight fucking, really. So, who was this woman in the photo?

I heard my wife coming down the stairs. I put the photo out of sight on my lap under the kitchen table.

She walked into the darkened kitchen and turned on the light. She was barefoot, wearing shorts that showed off her long, toned legs. She wore a white T-shirt without a bra as her high, round breasts swung freely under the fabric of her shirt, the same breasts that had been covered in cum in the photo sitting on my lap. As she came into the kitchen, her eyes were clear. Her face was freshly scrubbed from her shower; no cum dripped from her cheeks this morning.

She smiled at me absentmindedly and brushed a kiss on my forehead as she headed to the coffee machine. "Good morning, honey," she murmured. She poured herself a cup of coffee and reached into the refrigerator for the cream, bending over and showing me her perfect ass that some other guy had clearly been fucking in the photo. Everything that she was doing this morning seemed so normal.

But now her normal behavior was tainted in my eyes, poisoned by the photo, twisted by this newly revealed side of her, a side that was apparently normal for her--a normal that involved her regularly getting fucked by groups of men who dumped loads of cum on her and in her to her rapturous delight. Then she would come home to me and slip back into her normal life of pretending to be my loving, faithful wife.

My wife finished preparing her cup of coffee, leaned back against the kitchen counter, effortlessly beautiful, took a long slug, and looked at me over the rim of her mug. She finished her sip and held her cup in both hands, and looked at me for another long second before she said in a teasing voice, "Babe, I know you're not a morning person, but you look like your dog just died."

I knew how I looked. I was pale, haggard, and unshaven. My hair was a mess because I had torn at it during the long, lonely night I had spent sitting in this chair in my kitchen, staring at the photo of her. I felt the dark circles under my eyes that were red rimmed from lack of sleep and crying. I had cried off and on during the night, but I was not crying now.

I took another long look into her bright blue eyes and saw only curiosity and perhaps a slight sense of concern as she waited for my response. Finally, I said in a raspy, flat voice, "It wasn't my dog that died. It was my marriage... to you."

She looked at me with a perplexed expression on her face, her brow furrowing as my words hung in the air, ominous and heavy, and she tried to make sense of them.

"What do you mean?" she asked, still clutching her cup of coffee to her chest, a growing glint of fear in her eyes.

I put the photo on the table and slid it over to her. She sat at the table opposite me, picked up the photo, and studied it for just a second. Then she carefully set it down in front of her. She obviously recognized it immediately. For the briefest instant, I saw the shadow of a smile cross her face as she fondly remembered the events in the photo. But then her face went blank as she remembered where she was and who she was with.

She looked up at me as I stared at her. I saw sadness, concern, resignation, and maybe a hint of regret cross her face as she started to recognize the devastation the photo had caused. No sign of guilt or remorse, though.

"I hoped you'd never find out, but I guess I always knew you would eventually," she said in a soft, wistful voice.

I waited for her to say more for several seconds. "Really?" I asked in disbelief. "With all you've done, that's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say?" She said, looking at me as if I was criticizing her for denting the car.

"Nothing, I guess," I said tiredly. "The picture says everything there is to say."

We sat looking at each other in silence for several minutes until she finally asked, "Don't you have anything you want to say to me? Don't you want to call me names? Why aren't you angry with me? Don't you have any questions for me?"

"None that matter," I said with a sigh. We sat there looking at each other for another few moments until I broke the silence and asked some questions, not really wanting to know the answers, "How long has this been going on? How long have you been a whoring, cheating, lying, deceitful cum-slut who has begged for multiple other men to fuck you and dump their cum in all three of your skanky, disgusting holes?"

"Wow, that's a lot of name-calling. I know you're angry, but..." She began, lifting her chin defiantly.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION, YOU FUCKING CUNT!" I shouted at her. Her eyes opened wide, and she cringed back in her chair. I had never spoken to her like that before.

"For over a year, I guess. I'm not sure." She answered quietly, no longer looking at me.

"And how many gangbangs did you arrange to be fucked by guy after guy until they had filled your cunt, your ass, and your lying whoring mouth?" I demanded.

"Maybe twenty times. Maybe more. I didn't keep count." She said with her head down.

"So more than twenty times, you let me come home to you after you had fucked multiple other men in our bed, right? More than twenty times you let me blindly, pathetically come home to you while you pretended to be my loving, caring, faithful wife after you had been filled with other men's cum dripping out of your gaping, over-used cunt and ass, didn't you?

"No," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "It wasn't like that. I never pretended..."

"STOP LYING, YOU FUCKING WHORE!" I said, trying to keep from screaming in her face. "It was exactly like that. Over and over, you kissed me with your filthy mouth that had sucked other men's cocks and swallowed their cum just hours before I came home, right?" I asked, my voice rising as I got angrier by the second.

She just kept shaking her head, looking down at the photo, but no tears were running down her cheeks, at least not yet.

"And after all those fucking gangbangs, you gave me their sloppy seconds, didn't you? You let me eat your cunt and fuck you, knowing your cunt was filled with their cum. Or were those the nights you pretended that you weren't feeling well or that your period had started or that you were too tired? Which was it, you fucking whore?"

"Neither," she replied quietly. "I never made love to you after I was with them. I would never disrespect you like that."

"Don't you see that's worse, you dumb bitch." I groaned. "You gave them everything and I got whatever pity-fucks you decided to throw my way. Me, your stupid, unwitting, faithful husband who loved you and never cheated on you. I never even thought about cheating on you and never dreamed that you would ever cheat on me. How fucking stupid was I?

"I loved that you love me," she began, looking up at me with tears in her eyes for the first time.

"I am sure you did love being loved by me. You knew that I loved you with all my heart. You knew that I was faithful to you, even though you weren't faithful to me. You knew that I trusted you, so you were free to arrange your secret fuck fests. So, I am sure you loved being loved by me because it allowed you the freedom to get fucked by multiple strange cocks as many times as you could, isn't that right?" I hissed at her.

She just looked at me with pain in her eyes.

"Answer me, you fucking cunt. And don't lie. We are way past the point of lying anymore. ANSWER ME!" I demanded.

She nodded her head in resignation and whispered, "Yes, I get why you think I abused your trust and your love. But I always missed you. I always wished you could be with me."

"Oh my god," I cried. "You wanted me to be your cuckold. That's how little you respect me."

"No," she said earnestly. "I just wanted us to share the experience together. I always wanted you there so you could protect me, reclaim me, and reaffirm our love."

"And you never thought that I would be repulsed and devasted watching you fuck and suck other guys?"

"I guess in my heart of hearts," she sighed, "I knew that. That's why I never told you about them or asked you to join."

The bright morning sunlight was now streaming in the windows of our kitchen, highlighting the shadows on her face and the strain that our confrontation was having on her.

"You know, I just realized something," I said as I got up to get myself another cup of coffee and without thinking filled up hers as well. "You don't think that what you did was so bad, do you?"

"Well," she said, blowing on her coffee and taking a sip, just like as if we were having a normal conversation over the breakfast table. "I guess I always knew that you'd be hurt if you found out but, honestly, I kind of thought of my... Uhm... get-togethers like a spa day. That what I did there didn't really affect you as long as I came back to you refreshed and relaxed." She hurried to add, "I see that you think my analogy is fucked up, but you did ask how I thought about them. So, no, I guess I did not think that what I was doing was so bad. Stupid, huh?"

Her answer horrified me. But I couldn't stop myself from asking questions that made me sick to my stomach. "It was the best sex you ever had, wasn't it? You loved being used as cum-dumpster, didn't you?"

She looked me in the eye and said matter-of-factly, "Well, if we are being honest, the sex we had was amazing. They'd fuck me and fuck me until I came so hard and so many times that I'd pass out. Is that what you want to hear? But don't forget that I always came back to you. I came back happier, saner, and a better wife... for you."

"No," I said, shaking with anger. "You came back a fucked-out slut and pretended to be my loving, faithful wife until the next time you needed an infusion of cum from multiple cocks."

"Don't say that," she asserted. "We've had five wonderful years of marriage. I made you happy, didn't I? Don't act like everything we've had together has been a lie. I never pretended about loving you," she insisted.

"But you pretended to be faithful, didn't you?" I sighed. "And your idea of loving me was to cheat on me with as many other assholes as often as you could. Is that really what you mean by 'loving me'?"

"You're twisting my words." She cried out.

"No, I'm not." I insisted. "You loved being their slut more than you loved me. You gave them everything and gave me nothing but a pretend version of you. You were never truly the wife you pretended to be, and you were certainly never a slut for me, were you? Just for them."

"I could be your slut now," my wife asserted. "I'll fuck you into the mattress anyway, and any time you want. Nothing would be off the table. Let me be your personal sex slave now, okay?"

"Bitch," I said, shaking my head vehemently. "Knowing what I know now, I wouldn't touch your nasty twat with a ten-foot pole. The time for offering to be my personal slut was BEFORE you fucked all those other guys, not now after you've been caught."

"But I was afraid to show you my slutty side before," my wife said, biting her lip and looking at me with doe eyes. "Because I knew you'd react just like you're doing now. I knew that if I showed how much of a slut I can be, you'd be horrified, lose respect for me, and stop loving me. And that's what you're doing right now. I can see it in your eyes."

"You just don't get it, do you?" I asked her as my wife gave me a puzzled look. "I don't hate you because you're a slut. I hate that you were THEIR slut, not mine. You knew that I wanted someone who was my wife and my slut, but only MY slut. But you couldn't or wouldn't be that for me. You chose to be THEIR gangbang whore instead. Now, you say that you chose to lie, deceive, and betray me to be their cum-slut for over a year because you were 'afraid' to show me what a slut you are. That's bullshit! Let's be honest here, you CHOSE to be a lying, cheating whore because you love being fucked by multiple guys way more than you like being fucked by just me."

"That's not true," my wife said loudly, as if she was trying to convince us both. "I admit I love getting fucked all at once by those guys. It was such an intense experience. But I loved getting fucked by you too. Nothing else comes close to the emotional connection I feel with you. Because I love you, not them."

"Sorry, that's more bullshit," I called out. "You love the orgasms they give you more than you love me. Because you weren't going to stop fucking them, even though you knew how devastated I would be if I found out what you were doing behind my back, betraying me and our marriage in every sense of the word, were you?" I asked, glaring at her.

"No, I wasn't going to stop," she replied, as if her honesty would earn her bonus points.

And you're not going to stop even now that your slutty fuck fests are out in the open, are you?" I pressed her.

"i... I... I don't know. A big part of that decision depends on you." She whispered hesitantly.

"STOP LYING, YOU CUNT. BE HONEST FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE." I shouted at her.

"Okay," she replied, glaring at me. "I am not sure if I am going to stop. I'm not sure if I want to stop."

I looked at her with more sadness than I had ever felt in my life. "Well, I guess there's not much more to say. One last question, though. Did you make them wear condoms?"

My wife looked at me with sadness of her own in her eyes, knowing that her answer would probably be the final nail in the coffin of our marriage. "No," she sighed, "but I made them get tested each time we got together."

I sat back in horror. "Oh, you heartless, stupid, evil, destructive bitch. You're too much of a slut to care about your own health, but you didn't even give a damn about whether you might give me an STD, HIV, or AIDS."

For once, my wife had no answer for me. She reached out to grab my hands, but I recoiled as if a snake was attacking me.

"Okay. I get it. You hate me. So, where does that leave us?" she begged. I know you don't believe me, but I don't want to lose you."

"I'll bet you don't," I sneered. "You want to be able to continue to fuck those assholes whenever you want and then come home to me so you can and live a nice life that I provide for you while you pretend to our friends and family that you are a normal, respectable, faithful wife, instead of the lying, cheating whore that you are, all while I am supposed to be the willing cuckold."

"No, I never meant for It to be like that," she cried out. "I love you. I have always loved you. I was always so happy to come home to you, knowing that you loved me. What I had with them was different from what I have with you. I needed you, but I needed them too. It was wild, crazy, and free with them. I could lose myself and enjoy the orgasms that they gave me. I couldn't resist it. I didn't want to resist it. But they could never give me the love that you gave me, the sense of belonging and connection that I have with you. They never touched my heart and soul like you do."

I put my head in my hands and said, "That is the definition of a slut, a lying, deceitful slut. No one who loves someone would do the things that you did to me, just so you could have multiple orgasms.

She tried again, using the voice she used so often to get me to do what she wanted. "I know I have deceived you and hurt you terribly, but if you could just accept me for who I really am, we could get past this and still have a wonderful life together."

I leaned back in my chair to put as much distance between us as possible. "We've been married for five years, and we went out for two years before that. You know me. What about me gives you the idea that I would ever accept being married to a lying, cheating whore?"

"I guess I hoped that you loved me enough to forgive me and accept me for who I really am."

I shook my head and said, "You didn't really hope that I loved you enough to accept the fact that you are a lying, cheating, narcissistic, manipulative slut with self-destructive tendencies and an obvious sexual addiction disorder, did you?"

She sat for a moment and shook her head. Then, she looked up at me and leaned toward me, searching my eyes for anything that might stop the onrushing end of her marriage, and she pleaded, "What if you're right? What if I have a disease, a sex addiction. I mean, look at all the horrible, destructive shit that I have done and that I can't seem to stop doing, even though I know it will probably blow up my marriage to the most wonderful man I know. I must be crazy, right?"

I could only nod at this sudden pivot by my wife.

Crazily, hope filled my wife's eyes, and she tried to bargain with me, "What if I stop those get-togethers, and if I got professional help, and we went for intensive marriage counseling, would you stay with me?"

I leaned in toward her until our faces were only a few inches apart and said with all the caring I could put into my voice, "Look at the photo. Look at your face in the picture."

She looked down and her eyes saddened at the expression on her face in the photo.

"The look on your face says it all. I never saw you look like that with me. You love being gangbanged too much, way more than you love me. You'll never give them up. And even if you did, you'd end up resenting me for not letting you be your true self--you're a slut."

"But if I have a disease, maybe there's a cure, a treatment that will help me overcome this addiction?" She went on, begging now. "Can't you stay and help me get the treatment I need?"

"You need to get treatment. And I hope you get it. I'll even try to help you. I owe you that much for the good years we had together before... you know." I said, but then I held up my hand to stop the look of hope in her eyes. "But I can't stay married to you, not after all that's happened. Maybe after you've gotten the treatment you need, we can see if there is anything left to salvage of our relationship. But I'm not making any guarantees. You need to get help first."

"So where do we go from here?" she asked with her eyes filled with tears and her chin trembling. But although she tried to hide it, she also looked a little relieved. She always liked to cut to the bottom line in any discussion we ever had.

"You leave, and we get divorced," I said with finality.

When the weight of my words hit her, she cradled her head in her arms on the table and let out a single sob. Then, she looked up and tried again, "No, please not that. Please don't throw me away. I know I don't deserve it, but please don't give up on our marriage. I don't want us to part. I want us to be together and work this out. Can't you forgive me? I truly want that."

"Look, I'm trying not to be an asshole here," I pronounced grimly. "But I really hate what you did to me, to us, so I don't really give a shit what you want right now. Just like you weren't concerned about what I wanted when you fucked all those other men."

My wife grabbed my hands in hers and pleaded, "But if I had come to you and admitted what I had done; if I hadn't deceived you all those months; if I had recognized that I was sick; would you have forgiven me and helped me get treatment? I see now that I need it if I'm going to save my marriage."

Holding onto my wife's hands for perhaps the last time, I said, "We'll never know what might have happened. But the time for seeking my help was before your two years of lies, deceit, and betrayal."

My wife kept my hands in hers and looked at me with the face that had won my heart when we first started going out, and that had made me happy during our five years of marriage. "My love," she said, wincing slightly, "and yes, I love you, despite what I have done and what you feel now. I can't change what I have done, but I can try to make it up to you. I can try to change and become the wife you've always wanted. I can be the slut that's yours and only yours. I can do all that. I want to do all that... for you. Won't you please let me try? Won't you please forgive me and give me one more chance?"

I sat there staring at the beautiful woman who had been my wife for five years, my anger at what she had done warring with the love I still had for her. But finally I sighed. Tapping the photo with my finger, I told her, "I am sorry, my love, but some things can't be unseen, and some things can't be forgiven."

THE END