“Please,” the one-word reply was all I could manage.He jumped to his feet and a few minutes later brought a steaming cup to the bedside. I sat up ...gain and sipped the hot liquid tentatively as my husband’s eyes bored into me, a look somewhere between awe and admiration on his handsome face.“Don’t stare at me, Pete,” I frowned.“Sorry Penn,” he smiled, embarrassed. “It’s just that I can’t believe…”He let the words fade.“How do you feel this morning?” he eventually asked.“Tired and achy,” I. Perfectly normal.The difference, he tells me, is that I didn't actually do it, except that one time when I didn't realize how strongly it would impact her. When push came to shove (and what exactly does that mean, anyway?), I not only didn't join in with the gang-not-rape-exactly, I took steps to stop it. My virtue, he tells me, is stronger than my lust, for either sex or vengeance. For all that she'd been my enemy, I'd helped rather than hurt somebody who needed help. So I'm a good person.Well. More

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