The man entered the small cubical, "Bless me father for I have sinned. I am not a Catholic and have never confessed before."

"Tell me what is troubling you, my son."

The started into his story.

I had tried to figure out when it all went to pieces. When did love, that wonderful, all encompassing, totally into her feeling turn to a compulsive terrible, want to rip her throat out, can't stand the sight of her, urge to chuck it all and leave – hate? It wasn't rapid it took several years. In our seventh year of marriage at the ripe old age of 29, I was too repulsed to even be around the bitch. The irony of the seventh year does not escape me either. I had friends all tell me that love doesn't last. Don't get married, sooner or later you will hate her guts. I thought they were full of shit, but it was I who was wrong.

My wife has always been one of those, 'WOMEN, ' before she was even a woman she was one of those 'GIRLS.' You know the type, that beauty with her perfect, blonde hair pulled back tight, her nose always stuck in the air, viewing others down that cute button nose, and looking unapprovingly at the rest of the world. Carrying herself as if she possessed the world while everyone else was something, lesser, than she. Nothing was ever good enough for her and I always suspected we dated only because we were the most popular people in our class. We stayed together through college resisting getting married, and even sex, until we both graduated and had good jobs. She was an illustrator for a major fashion magazine while I worked as a submission editor for a major publishing company.

I went to work on my great novel, it's still on my computer somewhere. While she moved through her company like wildfire. Climbing in a few short years to be the head illustrator responsible for the look of the publication, both in print and on the web. In my own profession, I have done poorly. I am still, in what amounts to an entry level position as a submission editor. I read books that are submitted by new authors and pass those that are noteworthy to the next editor. The next editor makes the final decision as to what work is passed on to the committee that makes the decision if it is published or not.

It is, at best, a boring job. Even so, as awful as most of the stories are, many of them, with some help and encouragement, could be worthy of publishing. I'm stuck in my job because I like writers and try to encourage them passing on stories that don't have a shot at publication. I also send manuscripts back to authors with notes on how to improve them and resubmit. I was told that wasn't my job and to stop doing it. My last review consisted of three words, 'Competent nothing more.' That is a large part of the problem, mere competence is not enough for my employers, or her. As Sharon advanced I stayed stuck in the mud in my work, stagnation set in with my writing, the few short stories I managed to get published were never reviewed in a good light.

Her own self-importance escalated driving her already egotistical view of herself higher while her view of me diminished. In the fourth year of our marriage, she started to criticize me, nagging me with comments about inadequacies in efforts. In the fifth year, our lovemaking slowed to a few times a month. After lovemaking, she would cut me to the bone with comments about competence. Those comments changed to incompetence, and over time to disparaging, emasculating insults. By the seventh year, we made love no more. I knew she had a lawyer and soon would leave me. I had grown to hate the ground where she walked.

A six-months before the adjustment she moved me to a spare bedroom and that was when I decided enough was enough. I had a friend who I confided in and he made an offhand remark I should have someone rape her while I watched. In my mind I rolled it around, have some big dicked, madman, fuck the shit of her. Humiliate her, degrade her, force the snotty, conceited, arrogant bitch to do the most debasing, acts to please him. In doing so her confidence would be shattered, her self-worth destroyed, bringing her down in such a way that it would possible that my value would rise.

Of course, she couldn't know I was a part of it. She couldn't even know I watched it all happen. I knew my wife allowing anyone to know anything embarrassing about her, well she wasn't capable of that. If Sharon were raped she couldn't tell anyone about, her nature wouldn't allow it. It was perfect I just had to find the right guy. Sitting in the bar with James that night the conversation took a dark turn. I moved from victim to the atrocious plotter.

"Jim, what if I wanted to have her raped, how would I even go about that?" I filled his mug from our pitcher then mine. Holding up a finger as the waitress moved by I pointed down to the mug and she nodded.

"I know a guy. I have to be honest he is brutal. You remember when Annie and I went through that awkward patch several years ago. I thought she was in an affair? Well, she wasn't but I didn't realize that till later. I knew this guy, he always liked my wife's body. I knew him from back in college he had a reputation of taking what he wanted, you know what I mean. It wasn't a secret, but no woman would ever report him, they were, well they thought he might kill them if they did." Looking around he lowered his voice, "They were right on that."

"He is a professional now, not at rape. He works for some guys, you know wise guys. He has the perfect cover as well." He drank his beer down as the waitress replaced our pitcher and took the empty. "On the side he has a small but profitable business. He puts wayward wife's and husband straight, for a price. Cost me three thousand but she is a good woman now and when she starts to get out of line I watch the video. That gets my backbone up allowing me to treat her just a harsh in the right way. I make her do something vile against her will, she is a good girl after that. She doesn't have a clue I know. He mad her do something that if I make her do the thing I thin it triggers all the humiliation and shame. She acts like an angle after that." Again he looked around the room. "Well," he started at me. I wasn't sure what to say.

"I don't know that's a bit extreme. She isn't a bad person just conceited, and haughty. We've grown apart."

"To be honest your wife is a first class bitch," his eyes bore into me and I nodded. "Hey, my wife wasn't cheating on me. She was about to, though. I found that out at the same time I had her humiliated. The guy installs cameras in your place and sets up a recorded." He glanced around then continued, "He watches the stuff till he has her all figured out, then he records her therapy session for you." He laughed for a moment, "That's what he calls it therapy or counseling. He also recorded the bastard and her having coffee and him groping her. Her almost giving in and stopping breathlessly. She would twist her wedding band then make him leave. After the rape, she never allowed him back in the house. She has been a perfect wife since oh once every year or so I have to remind her but still a perfect wife." He sat there drinking his beer he had the most pleased look on his face. "If you want to contact the guy let me know."

"What happened to the guy that tried to get in her pants?"

"Oh, you knew him, Dave Chambers," He looked so happy when he told me.

"Dave?" I asked him.

"Yea, you remember Dave right?" I nodded remembering him and how he was found in the woods, beating to death his cock cut off and shoved in his mouth. I wondered about that.

Our conversation went through my mind repeatedly for days. The thought of her humiliation gave me erections and would stroke off thinking of this guy bust her apart. I contacted my friend telling him I thought I wanted to follow his advice. A few days later a package arrived for me at work. There was cell phone inside with a note. Wait for a call.

When I was at lunch that day, the cell rang, "Hello."

"Is this Sean?" a soft, deep, masculine voice asked me.

"Yes," there was a tremor in my voice.

"I have the particulars already. I have surveilled the subject already setting up around the clock observation of her. She is quite a problem for you. I hear the way she talks to you and about you. I regret to inform you that she has entered into an adulteress relationship with her intern." He fell silent as my mind swam in the information.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" I didn't understand what he wanted.

"Do you wish to proceed with a counseling session for you wife?" the voice was calm and collected not a trace of malice, as a doctor discussing a treatment option.

"Yes, I think I do."

"Not a good enough answer Sean." With polite insistence, he pushed me to answer him.

"Yes, let's do it," I said my guts were wrenching inside, with fear, excitement and disgust. Perhaps I am a poor bad-man or a cowardly one. My appellation to the name 'bad-man' might, in part, only be by association. Unwilling to do the work, by the necessity of need, I find a bad-man worthy of the name to perform it at my bequest. Even so, the need is there I have been wronged and I will be revenged.

"It cost five thousand for her treatment and the eradication of the work entanglement," the statement followed by detailed instructions on manner and means of payment. I was somewhat shocked at where and how the payment was due, not at the fact it was a cash only transaction.

"I thought it was three thousand," I remembered distinctly what James told me.

"Check with him, the three thousand was for his wife. Did he mention the removal of temptation from her path?"

"Yes."

"That was extra and I assumed you wanted the same service. Was I wrong?" I didn't answer right off, I mulled it over for a moment.

"He is only eighteen," I reasoned. Anger at her and him flared up, "Yea, waste his fucking ass!"

"Do you want him violated as well?" If I thought I was less evil than this man before he questioned my desire on this, my answer proved I was not.

"Sure, make him suffer in a horrible manner, her as well I want her fucked up but good," with no effort at all I plotted the despoilment of this mere kid. Frenzy of anticipation filled me thinking of this young, virile man, ruined and murdered, "Can I have a copy of that as well?"

"Yes, can you be away from town from Sunday evening the fifth, and not returning until at least Friday the tenth? You will want to give her that long for her recovery." He spoke in a professional manner, business-like manner.

"Yes," I told him and he continued.

"This way she will ... well, she will seek you out upon your return for comfort. Call her the night of the sixth. She has started to heal but don't expect intimacy for several days as her mind adjust to her new reality. It won't be long until you are her world." While I felt, I was as evil has him I was not a bad-man. He was the genuine article, he lived with no fear of a reckoning, doing vile things without giving a thought to consequences. For a price, he would do, anything, without regret.

Taking a weeks vacation from work I lied to Sharon telling her I was away a publication convention. I was in Vegas where a yearly conference was in progress but of course, no one at my level ever attended these conventions. I played some cards, drank and even visited one of the whorehouses. On my second night in Vegas, I called her, Monday the sixth.

"Hello, is that you Thomas?"

"Yes, pretty dull out here how are you doing?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm tried was sick last night," she hesitated for a minute then continued, "fell down the stairs. I'm afraid I'm dreadful sight."

"Oh, I'm so sorry dear. I hope you aren't hurt too bad." I faked concern and hoped she seethed in pain.

"No, not to bad ... love." She hadn't called me by a nickname in years. Well, not one of affection, "I guess you made an impression on your bosses. They must have realized her value at last." We talked for a long time at last I told her I should let her go. With reluctance at last she agreed.

Wednesday morning the phone in my room rang at nine am. I hadn't left yet for the day I had planned a trip to cathouse outside of Vegas. Picking up the phone I was informed that a package arrived for me and would I like it delivered to the room. I said of course and waited with impatience while checking to see if there was a way to watch the thing. There was a DVD player, it was difficult to sit idly waiting for the recording of my wife's destruction to arrive.