know this will hurt you, but it's the only way. I'm sorry I couldn't work up enough courage to tell you in person.'
Her name was signed with love, and that was it. I had never felt so let down – so alone and abandoned.
I fell into a depression that closed in on me like a vise. I felt like I was living in a world where quicksand was the only element.
Surprisingly, it was Don who came up with a suggestion that might help me. My moping around had even gotten to him.
For the first time in weeks, he came into the bedroom at night. At first I was afraid that he'd gotten horny and wanted to fuck, but he said he just wanted to talk.
'We can't go on like this,' he bluntly stated. There was nothing I could do but agree with him.
For an instant I was on the verge of opening up to him, telling him everything – that's how desperately lonely I was.
But when I looked into his face, I couldn't do it. My own husband seemed like a stranger to me. He would never understand.
So I just sat there in bed, not speaking, waiting for him to make the next move. He did with a firm sureness that indicated he had carefully planned what he was going to say well in advance.
'I want you to see a psychiatrist,' he laid it on the line. 'It's covered in my company health insurance, so there's no reason for you not to go.'
'And if I don't?' I got up the nerve to challenge him.
'I'm seeing my lawyer and taking the kids to stay with my mother,' he replied in a chilling voice. 'You're no kind of wife like this, and no kind of mother.'
'Please don't leave me!' I blurted, ignoring the fact that I had felt nothing for him for weeks. I was so insecure that life on my own seemed unbearable, even if it was with a man who had spitefully withheld his love and support from me in my time of greatest need.
'Okay, then,' he said with enough trace of smugness to suggest that he had counted on this reaction from me. 'I've made an appointment for you tomorrow with a Dr. Higgins downtown. If you go, I'll give you another chance.'
Nothing in my anticipation prepared me for Dr.
Bob Higgins. When I was introduced to him, I initially thought some kind of mistake had been made. I had never expected such a young, handsome, friendly man to be a member of such a forbidding profession.
Right away he insisted I called him Bob instead of doctor. By the time I lay down on his couch and began answering his sympathetic questions, I felt more comfortable than I had at any time since Ann had left. He had a way about him that put me completely at ease. After a few minutes of his compassionate approach, I was ready to tell him all.
'I was raped.' I finally got to the heart of my problem.
'And ever since, your husband has treated you like damaged goods,' Dr. Higgins, or Bob, completed the sentence for me.
'How did you know?'
'It's very common,' he explained. 'There's just something in most men that makes it difficult for them to accept that a woman could be an innocent victim of sexual assault. Most guys assume that any woman who's raped must have been asking for it.'
'But I wasn't,' I wailed.
'I know that,' he gently supported me. 'However, on the other hand, everybody's not a psychiatrist. For example, what does your husband do for a living?'
'He's the manager of a fast-food franchise.'
'Well, there you have it. The clientele your husband serves is probably composed mostly of teenagers.'
I nodded my head that he was right.
'In other words, your husband is probably exposed to a parade of young women all day long – scantily clad in the summer – who seem to be flaunting their firm, young bodies. They seem to be asking for it. You know, a lot of these girls nowadays don't wear any underwear. If a man catches them in the right position he can see everything.'
'But what does that have to do with me?'
'It's simple,' he said. 'Day after day, through no fault of his own, your husband sees attractive young females apparently flaunting their bodies. Without the background to temper his judgment, it's only natural that he starts to believe that this is typical.'
'You mean,' I caught on, 'that he assumes all women really are asking for sex.'
'Precisely,' he nodded. 'And as a matter of fact, I'll bet he's broken up plenty of incidents in the parking lot that tend to confirm his impression even more.'
'But I'm no teenager,' I pointed out.
'But you probably were when you and your husband met.'
I agreed that this was true.
'So it's not surprising that he still thinks of you in this way.'
'In other words,' I followed his line of thinking, 'my husband thinks what happened to me was the same as what he sees every day.'
'Yes, after you were raped, it just confirmed it to him – to use the slang of today – that you were just another horny chick on the make. A cheap tramp.'
I'd never thought of it this way. For the first time I could understand Don's point of view. After all, I'd seen those teenage girls the doctor was talking about. Some of them had their cut-off jeans stuck right up in their tight cracks. I told the doctor this, and he was pleased with my insight.
'What's more,' Bob continued, 'I'll bet when you're around the house you are frequently as provocative as the girls your husband sees all day long.'
I'd never thought about that, and expressed my apparent naivete.
'You won't deny that you have on occasion rim around the house scantily clad,' Bob pressed the point.
'Well, yes, in my nightgown,' I confessed, squirm mw on the couch from the anxiety caused by this revelation.
'And sometimes in short skirts with no panties underneath,' he suggested. 'Perhaps leaning over the kitchen sink with your dress hiked up in back so that plenty is showing.'
'Yes,' I admitted.
'Well, now we're getting someplace,' he said, getting up front behind his desk. 'I'm guessing that a look up your dress is not much different than looking up a cute teenagers.'
'I… I wouldn't know about that,' I stammered, suddenly feeling anxious as he came to the couch and loomed over me.
'I'll tell you what,' he suggested. 'Imagine I'm your husband. Roll over on the couch and throw up your skirt and act like you're reading a magazine or something. I'll pretend I'm your husband walking into the room and finding you this way. While I'm looking at you, I'll share my feelings with you, and perhaps you can understand where you're husband is ht.'
'Do… do you want me to take off my panties first,' I stammered, my skin feeling hot and prickly.
'It would be better,' Bob said. 'And in fact, to make the situation even more realistic, I'll go out of the room so you can prepare yourself to look as natural as possible. When I come back in, you'll be essentially nude from the waist down, and we'll get to the bottom of this.'
It was only when I began to roll my panties down my thighs that I noticed the wetness. When I got the panties off and looked at their crotch, there was a fresh stain. Spreading my legs, I looked down into my cunt and saw that it was glistening with moisture.
I started to hesitate. But when Bob inquired through the door if I was ready, I lost my nerve to resist. I convinced myself that he had a lot more experience than I in these matters and that the only intelligent thing was to do as he said. If there was a logical reason for my pussy being wet, I was sure he had it.
Rolling over on my stomach, I bunched my skirt up around my waist and started to pretend I was reading a magazine. Then, just to make it more authentic, I languidly parted my thighs and flashed my pussy from the rear.
