The husband’s revenge struck the wrong target…..😒🌿
As years passed, their love didn’t fade—it only grew stronger, to the envy of everyone around them. In seven years, no shadow of mistrust had ever crossed their path. The only thing troubling Stanley was the slow, gnawing ache of jealousy, that eternal companion of marital bliss. Being a man of restraint, he never let it show, swallowing every suspicion whole.
But who could say what storms raged beneath the surface of this stoic submariner, watching men’s lingering gazes on his wife and enduring the smooth-tongued compliments of his colleagues at formal gatherings? Yet outwardly, nothing seemed amiss. Even Lillian, blissfully unaware, noticed no hint of her husband’s unease—nor did she care to. And Stanley? He festered quietly, like a boil ready to burst.
The ship departed for a routine patrol—ten days of tension, sleepless nights, and mechanical failures. Stanley, a skilled engineer, spent his days and nights wrestling with temperamental machinery. When the captain ordered an early return due to technical failures, frustration simmered in Stanley—but it was soothed by the thought of Lillian’s warmth awaiting him three days sooner. The journey home was spent in a fevered dream, his mind painting vivid scenes of reunion.
They docked late. Skipping the traditional post-patrol drink, Stanley bolted home like a racehorse, already tasting the sweetness of burying his face in his wife’s embrace. He flew up the stairs to their flat, pausing at the door just past midnight. *They’re asleep*, he thought, picturing his stealthy entry, Lillian’s startled gasp, and the delightful impropriety to follow.
With trembling hands, he turned the key—the well-oiled lock, his pride and joy, didn’t betray him. But disappointment struck immediately: Lillian wasn’t asleep. A sliver of light spilled from the ajar bedroom door, and muffled noises reached his ears. Heart pounding, he crept closer—then froze.
There, bathed in the dim glow of a bedside lamp, was a sight no nightmare could conjure. His marital bed lay defiled. A woman—blonde hair fanned across the pillows—lay sprawled shamelessly beneath a man thrusting wildly. Her moans, louder than Stanley had ever heard, pierced the air. His world shattered in an instant.
How long he stood there, paralyzed, he didn’t know. But when awareness returned, reason had fled. Police reports would later call it “a state of severe emotional distress.”
Blind with fury, Stanley fumbled for his sidearm—gone, of course. No dagger either. He stormed to the kitchen, grabbing the first weapon at hand: a silver-plated fork from their wedding set. Gripping it like a dagger, he charged back to the bedroom and, without hesitation, drove it deep into the adulterer’s backside.
The scream that followed defied description. A veteran in the flat next door, survivor of the Blitz, later swore he woke shouting, “Bombs!” and spent forty minutes convincing his family no air raid was happening. Upstairs, children wet themselves, and the neighbours’ Alsatian howled till dawn, as if mourning the dead.
Stanley left the fork lodged in the offender’s rear, turned sharply, and marched out—only to find Lillian in the hallway, wrapped in a dressing gown, towel on her head. Beautiful. Confused.
Stammering, Stanley managed, “Your—your brother Simon… his wife…”
Lillian blinked. “Yes? They just arrived. I gave them our room while you were away. I’ve been sleeping with Timmy down the hall. What on earth was that noise?”
Stanley’s legs gave out.
In the end, things turned out better than expected. Simon’s backside was stitched up by an amused army doctor, who assured him, “You’ll never get haemorrhoids—it’s as smooth as a pipe in there!” (He listed the injury as “sat on a nail.”) Simon couldn’t sit properly for weeks, wincing at every trip to the loo, but he eventually healed. His wife, Emily, needed four nurses to pry her legs apart, and she stuttered for months—but only in bed.
Life went on. Stanley and Lillian still walked hand in hand, cooing like doves. The sun still rose, and ships still sailed.
But Lillian now locked away anything sharp—even toothpicks. And Stanley? He rang the bell five times and waited.
As for Simon and Emily? They forgave him. But they never stayed the night again.
