Her name is Pamela. Gorgeous in that soft, wounded way that makes men want to ruin her and save her in the same breath. Wide blue eyes that look like they’ve seen too much and still hope for more. Her posts are careful, curated, but the anxiety bleeds through every caption.
I have no ill feelings toward her. Instead, I feel a strange connection. Because I felt her in our sheets before I ever saw proof.
He came to me after being with her, his hands different. Hungrier. More precise. He gripped my hips with a new confidence, forced my legs apart like he’d been practicing. When he pushed inside me, it wasn’t the Allan I knew. It was a man who had just learned new tricks from another woman and he was now testing them on me.
He fucked me like he loved me that night. Deep, possessive strokes that made my pussy rain. “You are never going to forget this,” he shouted over and over and over again. He thrust harder and harder pulling my hair so tight I could not escape. “YOU WILL NEVER FORGET THIS!”
He had always been bad in bed, but feral. The feral part I liked. Except that night he choked me in my Loreto villa.
The next morning, I took pictures.
Me, naked and glowing, sheets tangled around our waists. My lips still swollen from his kisses. His handprints faintly visible on my hips.
I wanted proof.
Not for revenge.
For the record.
Because I could feel her. And that would not be the last time I felt her in his newly mastered strokes.
I knew. But he kept gaslighting me.
Finally learning the truth was a deeply haunting, crazy-making, traumatizing experience.
Allan cheated on Pamela Sue Martin. Repeatedly. For years.
I know because I am the woman he cheated with.
And other women told me their stories and showed me evidence.
He’s lucky we are so restrained.
He tried to mark me with feral sex. He smiled mischievously when I confronted him about his intentions to mark me. Then he confessed the impact on him: “I cannot forget, either. It’s on my mind day and night.” Now, the simultaneous combination of rage and memories.
I still wonder who carved that scratch into the hood of his car. Seemed like the wrath of a betrayed woman.