“Slugger”
by c.w. cobblestone
by c.w. cobblestone
Miranda rolled double sixes, putting her up by 15 points, I countered with snake eyes, the worst possible outcome. She snickered at my plight.
As my wife was about to toss the dice again, her cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and broke into a familiar smile.
Game over.
“Hey, babe.” She pushed the gameboard away. “Nothing, just sitting here watching TV. What are you up to? Oh, sweet — see you when you get here.” With a faraway glint in her eye, she hung up. “His wife’s staying in Boston another night, he’s on the way.”
My shoulders slumped. “Can’t you say no once in a while? Tell him you’re studying for a test or something?”
“I’m not gonna lie to him.” Her lips tightened. “I can’t lie to him.”
“But we never spend time together anymore.”
“We spent time together tonight.”
“Wow, a whole hour.”
“Look, smartass, if you want to tell him to stop coming over, be my guest.”
I blanched. My wife scoffed.
“Didn’t think so.”
“I … we … he … uh, listen, honey, do you think maybe … maybe this is going too far?”
“Too far?” Her eyes flashed. “Don’t start this shit again, Bob. You agreed to this.”
“I didn’t agree to him moving in with us.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid, it’s just a few times a week.”
“He’s been coming over every night lately.”
“Well, his wife’s been out of town and he wants to take advantage of it.” She sighed. “As I said, if you want him to stop coming here, then ask him to take me to a hotel from now on. I doubt he’s gonna go for that — he says someone always recognizes him out in public and wants selfies, which is why he started coming here in the first place. But if you want, go ahead and ask him. See what he says.”
I winced. “Can’t you?”
“Can’t I what?”
“Ask him?”
“Why in the world would I do that?”
“Well … I … it’s just …”
“Just what?” She looked at me like I was the most pathetic motherfucker on earth. “I’m not the one who wants him to stop coming over, Bob. You are. If you’re too much of a wuss to stand up for yourself, that’s not my problem. I like him coming here, so why would I ask him to stop?”
I had no answer.
Miranda sniffed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go get ready.”
She drifted to the bathroom with me trailing behind. Miranda didn’t need to do much to prepare for her lover’s visit because she was naturally beautiful, and as I watched her apply makeup I was reminded of all the reasons I’d fallen for her — and why I was enduring so much to hold onto our marriage.
My wife glared at me through the mirror. “Can’t you go find something to do? I hate you moping around in the damn hallway when I’m trying to get ready.”
“S-sorry.”
“You creep me out standing there like that.”
“Sorry.”
She dabbed the eyeliner pencil against the corner of her eyelid. “Go pour me some wine, why don’t you? And fix him a drink while you’re at it.”
Demoralized, I trudged to the kitchen.
As I opened a new bottle of Pinot Noir, I shit my diaper and cried like a baby.
++++++++++++++++++++
It was supposed to have been a “routine operation” to remove a benign tumor in my groin, but the doctor fucked it up. The botched procedure rendered me impotent and incontinent, snuffing out my sex life and forcing me to wear Depends. The nerve damage also caused a severe lower back condition that prevented me from doing physical labor or sitting for long periods.
I tried suing the quack bastard, but he skipped town after it was revealed that he’d been performing surgeries as an osteopath with an expired license, and had killed two patients before injuring me and six others. He was eventually arrested living under an assumed name in Billings, Montana, but he didn’t have any assets or insurance. It took months for his case to go to trial because the defense attorney kept requesting psychological evaluations, with the judge rubberstamping every motion.
Meanwhile, life as I knew it was over at age 24, all because of some piece-of-shit sawbones. I was unable to continue working on the dock at the Acme Refrigerator Warehouse. I couldn’t get any kind of office job, either, thanks to my inability to sit for more than a few minutes at a time. Having no other choice, I went on government assistance.
After the fraudulent surgeon was finally deemed competent to stand trial, he was sentenced to life in prison, although there was no justice for his victims. I got nothing, other than a paltry government check every month, a broken dick, shit-and-piss-filled diapers, a bad back that prevented me from earning a living — and an irritated, unsatisfied wife.
Sex between Miranda and me had never sparked fireworks even when my penis was functional. But our intimacy stopped altogether after the operation, and her frustration steadily mounted until eventually boiled over.
It started a few days after I came home from the hospital when Miranda barred me from sleeping in the bed with her. “No offense, but I can’t take the smell when you shit your diapers,” she said with a crinkled-up nose. From then on, I was relegated to the couch.
My physical limitations were exacerbated by my financial shortcomings. The SSI checks were paying the bills, but barely. Miranda was in college working toward a public relations degree, and we had initially agreed that I would support us with my warehouse job while she finished school. Unfortunately, Doctor Dickhead fucked up those plans, although my ambitious wife was determined to overcome the misfortune and graduate on time. She didn’t want to work while carrying a full load, though, so we tried to tough it out with my assistance checks. It was like swimming in quicksand.
I tried to make up for my lack of income and virility by picking up 100% of the chores around the apartment, buying inexpensive-but-cute little gifts, and generally sucking up to my wife at every turn. Cleaning destroyed my back, but I pushed myself to do it every day. For her. Nothing I did seemed to work, though. The more I tried to please her, the more annoyed she became. She was always bitching about something. I was a loser. I was pathetic. I was dragging her down. She never should’ve married me. That last one always cut the deepest, especially after she stopped wearing her wedding ring.
Finally, on a sad, rainy evening I’ll never forget, she put it all out there.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she told me. “I need sex, Bob. I can’t keep living like this. I’m still in my early 20s — am I supposed to go without physical contact for the rest of my fucking life?”
Although I was crying inside, I put on a brave face and agreed that she should find someone to fulfill her needs. At that point, I was willing to try anything to keep our crumbling union together. From Day One I’d realized that Miranda was far out of my league, and I’d always been thankful that she was young and dumb enough to elope with me at age 18. Now that she was starting to question that decision, I vowed to do everything in my power to prevent her from leaving me, including consenting to her having affairs.
I asked only one favor from my beloved bride after she decided to start stepping out:
“Just don’t do anything to embarrass me, okay?”
She assured me she wouldn’t.
Bull fucking shit.
++++++++++++++++++++
Miranda came in contact with a lot of guys at college, and once she made it known that she was available it wasn’t long before her classmates started asking her out. It tore me up inside to watch her get ready for dates, but I bit my lip and stifled my tears, knowing I had no other choice if I wanted to stay with her. There were a lot of lonely nights and wet pillowcases, although when she’d get home the following morning well-fucked and exhausted, I’d greet her with a fake smile and a hot cup of chai tea. I’d learned early on that she preferred to be left alone after her trysts, so I’d make myself scarce on those “days after,” only checking in with her once in a while to see if she needed refills.
My wife became much nicer to me after she started getting laid regularly. The constant bitching stopped, and she seemed to be in a better mood most of the time. We returned to watching TV together and playing board games, just like in old times. But the balance of power had shifted. My acquiescence to her affairs proved how desperate and clingy I was, and once she realized she could get me to do practically anything she wanted, she started lording it over me in various ways. She became a lot more demanding when it came to things like laundry and housework, and soon the requests turned into orders, with the word “please” completely vanishing from her vocabulary.
Although she seemed happier, Miranda’s cruel side would sometimes emerge, particularly after she’d had a few glasses of wine. She’d lay into me about how my condition had thrown us into poverty and forced her to see other guys. “Useless” was her go-to insult during these drunken tirades. I’d sit there with my head down, silently absorbing the abuse.
I guess you could say I was an idiot for putting up with it all, but I felt I had no choice. Sure, I could’ve left her, but that would’ve been a guaranteed one-way ticket to Lonely Street. Who else would’ve wanted me? I was damaged goods, a literal welfare case with no earning potential, a dick that didn’t work, and a dependency on Depends. I realized women weren’t exactly going to be beating down my door, so I kissed Miranda’s sexy little ass and hoped for the best.
We carved out an existence we both could live with: She focused on school, enjoyed her flings, and did whatever the hell she wanted, while I stayed in the background and did whatever she told me to do. In return, she treated me halfway decently most of the time. Now and then I’d muster the courage to voice an independent opinion, only to wilt at the slightest frown of disapproval. No question wore the pants in our relationship — and who wore the diapers.
I was getting the raw end of the deal for sure, and it was devastating to sit home alone on the nights when Miranda was out getting laid. But I learned to cope. She seemed a hell of a lot happier and wasn’t always yelling at me — and most importantly, she’d stopped constantly lamenting her decision to marry me. So, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. I was counting my blessings, such as they were.
Then, during Miranda’s senior year, everything went haywire when she started an internship at J.T.W. Marketing, Inc. as an assistant to the owner, James T. Wallace.
++++++++++++++++++++
He had once been a promising first baseman for the Worchester Blue Sox, not quite an All-Star but a decent young major league ballplayer for three years before he ruined his knee sliding into second. He struck out a lot but hit the ball a country mile when he connected, as he did in Game 2 of the 2005 Championship Series when he blasted a 452-foot walk-off grand slam into the upper deck of Fervor Credit Union Stadium. Although the Blue Sox ultimately lost in five games, the homer was the highlight of James’s otherwise-unremarkable career, in which he hit .257 lifetime with 46 home runs and 379 strikeouts, an average of 15 dingers and 126 K’s per season. The word on James was that he would’ve likely developed into a better hitter had he not gotten hurt — the same misfortune that had befallen hundreds of hotshot prospects throughout the history of the game.
James hadn’t been in The Show long enough to make an astronomical salary, but he’d been smart, saving and investing a good portion of his signing bonus and earnings. When his playing days were over, James opened a PR firm that focused on sports marketing, and it was an instant success. Life after baseball suited the former slugger; he was married, but like a lot of rich, powerful, handsome ex-major leaguers, he had an array of young, sexy sidepieces on standby.
After Miranda began her internship at J.T.W., she quickly became his main squeeze. She was happy to serve as a booty call for her dashing, forty-something African American boss, and would drop everything whenever he’d get an opportunity to sneak away from his wife for a quickie, or on rare occasions, overnight visits that involved sex until dawn.
Miranda had fucked several of her classmates, but those had been casual hookups. She was falling for this James Wallace guy, and it scared the shit out of me. Literally. Whenever the thought crossed my mind, anxiety churned my stomach, and I’d fill my diaper, wallowing in shame and excrement.
It got shittier when James started invading my home.
He didn’t like hotels. While he wasn’t exactly a household name, there were plenty of people who recognized him and wanted their pictures taken with him. He was afraid his wife might go online and see a photo of him posing with a starry-eyed fan in the lobby of some no-tell motel.
“He’s gonna start coming here,” Miranda announced one evening shortly after beginning her affair with the middle-aged, married ex-ballplayer. “If he comes in through the backdoor, he’s not likely to run into anyone because nobody in the building ever uses that entrance.”
I groaned. “Can’t he rent one of those Airbnb places or something? He’s got the money. Does he have to come here, Miranda?”
She flipped her hair. “Listen, we agreed I could see other people. That means more than just a hard dick, Bob. It means having a relationship with someone. And having a relationship with someone means inviting them home once in a while. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it. Don’t try and make me feel guilty; if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t need to have a man come over here in the first place — would I?”
I bowed my head. That was that.
James’s first visit was two days later. There would be many more.
At first, I’d go to the Pyramid Bar and get ***** while my wife entertained her debonair guest. After closing time, if his car was still parked outside the building, I’d rent a cheap motel room and cry into a strange pillow until passing out from vodka and anguish.
Occasionally, I didn’t have time to escape. James would phone from 2-3 blocks away at all hours of the night. After Miranda gave him a key early on in their relationship, he sometimes wouldn’t even bother to call, barging in like he owned the place, pulling my wife into our bedroom, and fucking her brains out before dashing off into the moonlight.
His visits became routine, and my bar tabs and motel bills started adding up, so I learned to set my jaw and stick it out when James dropped by, holing up in the kitchen while he took my wife. I almost always had tears in my eyes during these escapades, but I’d be lying if I said listening to Miranda’s animal cries wasn’t also starting to turn me on. Maybe it was a coping mechanism to help me deal with James’s humiliating booty calls … but my wife sure did sound sexy when she was getting railed. She’d never moaned and groaned that way with me — back in the good ol’ days when I had a dick that worked.
I tried to avoid James as much as possible during his visits but that was nigh impossible since our one-bedroom apartment offered few hiding places. He didn’t say much to me when he came over, although he regarded me with a sort of amused disdain, making it abundantly clear that he had no respect for me whatsoever.
To be honest, I could understand where he was coming from. After all, I was passively standing by while he came to my apartment whenever he pleased and fucked my wife in what had once been my bed. I couldn’t look the man in the eye and acted like a scared child around him.
Respect?
I didn’t deserve any goddamn respect. He knew it and so did I.
So did Miranda.
++++++++++++++++++++
From my seat at the kitchen table, I could hear the front door open and close, followed by a girlish squeal and the wet smack of a kiss.
“Damn, baby, you look amazing,” the familiar, manly baritone rang out. “As always.”
“So do you,” my wife purred. “As always.”
I slammed Popov from the bottle as the bedroom door creaked open. Nobody bothered closing it.
For the next hour, while James and my wife fucked, I got ***** and played solitaire in the kitchen. Because of my bad back, I could only sit for a short time before I had to lie down on the floor. Having done this many times, I’d planned and brought a blanket and pillow, along with extra diapers. I drove myself crazy during my lonely vigil, trying one minute to ignore the moans floating through the apartment, and the next minute straining to hear every bedspring creak and labored breath. The sounds started making me horny.
What a pathetic sight I must have been, lying there on the floor with my diaper and sweats around my ankles, playing with my deceased ding-a-ling, ear cocked to the door, eyes closed in shame while I listened to my wife get nailed in the next room by a better man.
The action eventually built to a crescendo of screams, followed by a moment of silence.
My wife’s voice made me flinch:
“Bob! Bring us some water in here, would you?”
With a bitter sigh, I lumbered to my feet, yanked up my diaper and sweatpants, sucked down a nip of vodka, and grabbed two bottles from the fridge.
I kept my head lowered but in my peripheral vision, I could see James sitting on the edge of my former mattress putting on his shoes. I handed my wife her water before offering the other bottle to her lover. He snatched it from my grip.
“Thanks, Bobby, this should hit the spot — we got a good workout in here,” he said with a smirk.
“Uh, no problem,” I mumbled, turning on my heel and scooting back to the kitchen as fast as my bad back allowed.
As I swigged more vodka, I listened to James mark his territory with a 60-second piss. The tinkling echoed tauntingly throughout the apartment, reminding me that I did most of my urinating in adult diapers. After a flush, I heard the water running in the sink. There were whispers in the hall, the smack of a goodbye kiss, and the door’s click.
I sat stock-still at the table with my ears pricked, hoping Miranda might call for another drink of water, more wine, or a post-coital snack — anything that would allow me a few precious seconds of contact with my faithless bride. Unfortunately, like most nights after James’s visits, she flopped into bed and dozed off without so much as a grunt my way.
++++++++++++++++++++
By the time Miranda woke up the next morning, I had a hot plate of French Toast with whipped cream and strawberries ready. Breakfast in bed was served with a forced smile.
“Hey, sleepy-head.” I set the tray on the mattress. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Fine.”
I could tell she wasn’t in the mood to talk so I made myself scarce, heading to the bathroom to hopefully impress her by cleaning the toilet. While I scrubbed — making sure to do it loudly so she’d hear my efforts — her phone’s text tone beeped, followed by an excited “YES!”
When the commode was sparkling, I washed my hands and refilled Miranda’s tea.
“I’m gonna be late tonight,” she said. “I’m working at J.T.W. after class, and James just texted; he wants me to stay after. Patrice is coming back from Boston, and he says he can’t come over tonight. But he wants a quickie at the office before he goes home.”
“Um, okay. Uh, have fun.”
She sipped her tea. “I wish he’d just leave the bitch. He’s not happy with her.”
“Well.”
She slammed her cup down. “Don’t be a smartass, Bob. Quit running your fucking mouth about him — what he does is none of your business.”
Instead of asking her why she’d broached the subject if it was none of my business, I folded as usual and peeped out a submissive “Sorry, honey.”
When Miranda finished breakfast, she showered and dressed before heading off to school.
“Bye, hon, have a good day, I love you,” I called as she left the apartment.
She shut the door without saying jack shit back.
I spent the next few hours slumped in front of the television playing video games, downing vodka, gobbling Cheetos, and feeling like a total fucking loser. Most days while Miranda was at school, I’d veg for a while, get *****, take a nap, and then pull myself together to start cleaning, so the place would be in order by the time she got home. Knowing she was going to be late, though, I stayed on the couch a bit longer — and drank a bit more — than usual.
A half-fifth of booze and several rounds of Art of War later, I dozed off. I was able to take a three-hour nap and still have the apartment spotless and dinner on the table by the time Miranda got home.
I noticed she was carrying a bag. Without a word, she made a beeline to the bathroom, and I stood in the hall for several minutes wondering what the hell was going on.
Finally, she emerged with a worried look on her face.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
I lost control of my bowels and filled my diaper.
++++++++++++++++++++
I held my wife’s hand while she gave birth to her lover’s son.
James Junior was a big one like his ***, checking in at a robust 10 lbs. 7 oz. He also had his father’s complexion, making my cuckold status obvious to everyone in the delivery room. The doctor and nurses seemed unfazed, but I felt like crawling into a hole and dying, even though I’d been preparing for the moment. Miranda had told everyone in our Lamaze class that I was her husband but that it wasn’t my baby, which was humiliating enough. But the shame I felt immediately following the birth represented a new low.
The real father never showed up. I’d called him from Miranda’s cellphone while driving her to the hospital, leaving a message explaining that his child was about to be born. He never called back, although a dozen roses showed up in the recovery room a few hours after Little James was delivered. The unsigned card was inscribed “Still my TFP,” which made my wife giggle. I had no idea what it meant, but I knew what her smile meant —the flowers were from Big James.
Since there were no medical complications, Miranda was home with the baby two days after giving birth. Three days later, James finally called to say he was coming over.
Grabbing a pillow, blanket, and a few extras Depends, I headed toward the kitchen, only to have Miranda stop me.
“Don’t go anywhere; James says he wants to talk to you. Plus, I need you in here to help with JJ. Now, go wet a washcloth with warm water and bring it here. And I could use an orange juice while you’re at it.”
I wasn’t happy but I complied and then hunkered down in the easy chair, wondering what in the world my wife’s lover could want to discuss with me.
James let himself in with his key and made a beeline for Miranda, kissing her deeply before pulling back with a sorrowful expression.
“I’m sorry, baby, I would’ve come earlier but I couldn’t get away from Patrice,” he explained.
Miranda — who tore me a new asshole whenever I was five minutes late for anything — just smiled and presented the king with his heir.
“I can’t believe it,” he said over and over as he cradled his son in his arms. “My little slugger.”
According to Miranda, James’s wife couldn’t bear children, and JJ was his firstborn. I was skeptical when she initially told me that, but seeing how he reacted after being introduced to his son changed my mind. Whereas I’d fully expected the bigshot ex-ballplayer to be an uncaring, absentee sperm donor with kids from multiple mistresses scattered throughout the continent, he genuinely appeared to be overwhelmed with joy, and fatherhood seemed like a new, magical experience for him.
The baby dozed off, and James handed him to me so he could cuddle with my wife on the couch. This wasn’t a booty call, since Miranda had just given birth and was in no condition to fool around. Mother and father simply nuzzled each other and relaxed while I sat across the room from them in the easy chair, rocking their slumbering infant and seething with jealousy and resentment.
It was killing my back to remain seated for so long, but I bit my lip and swallowed the pain. I also filled my diaper while I sat there, but tried to be quiet about it. Thankfully, with the aid of the anti-odor lining, no one seemed to notice.
“I’m gonna get you into a better place,” James told my wife as he glanced around our tiny, spartan apartment. “Then, once you’re rested up, we’re gonna get you started at the company full-time as we talked about.”
“Well, I appreciate it, baby. I love you so much.”
“Love you too, babe.”
My wife snogged with her boyfriend for several minutes while I averted my eyes, holding their child and feeling like an unwanted, unloved, lowdown loser. To top it off, I was developing a rash from my dirty diaper. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
After breaking off the kiss, James glowered my way. “So, what are we gonna do about you?”
I blinked. “Um … sorry, what?”
“I said, what are we gonna do about you? I’m moving my woman and son into a nice house; gonna hire her as a VP at the firm, so she can take care of my baby. So, where does that leave you?”
Tears filled my eyes. “OMG, Miranda, please, I’m begging you, don’t get a divorce. Please … PLEASE??”
My wife turned to her boyfriend and grimaced. “He’s such a loser.”
James stared me down. “Well, he has to know what’s what. Otherwise, this ain’t gonna work.”
“Oh, Bob will do what he’s told.” My wife smirked at me. “Won’t you, Bob?”
They had something cooked up, but I brushed aside my misgivings and kowtowed.
“Yes, please, Miranda, whatever you want. Please, I’ll do anything.”
James rubbed his chin.
“Anything?”
I gulped. “Um … of course.”
He grinned. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Bobby. I am. As long as you do what you’re told, this might just work out for everyone. Now, then, let’s talk about your new job …”
++++++++++++++++++++
I’d always heard about rich guys who had secret families on the side, but I never dreamed I’d be part of such a household.
Well, it might be a stretch to say I was a member of James’s second ******; my roles were servant and babysitter, per the terms of the “new job” I was forced to accept to keep Miranda in my life. In exchange for being on the clock 24/7, I was given food, shelter, and the opportunity to stay married — if only on paper.
While I busied myself every day watching JJ and fighting through back pain to clean the cozy new suburban home James had purchased, Miranda’s career took off. She’d been awarded a vice-presidency right out of college because she was fucking the boss, but it turned out she was a marketing genius who ran circles around her more experienced colleagues. Her six-figure salary meant I no longer qualified for government assistance, which rendered me completely penniless and at the mercy of my wife and her benefactor.
James refused to have his young prince bottle-fed, so Miranda took JJ to breast, although when her lover wasn’t around, she constantly complained about how much she hated it. James bought one of those harnesses for me to wear while Miranda was at work so that JJ could still have his mother’s milk without breaking the suckling routine. It wasn’t something I enjoyed doing, but my wants and needs were never a consideration.
My life had fallen completely off the rails. I had no ****** and was glad my parents were dead so I wouldn’t have to explain why my wife had given birth to a mixed-race child. I did have in-laws, although Miranda’s mother and sister knew all about our situation and thought it was great. Luckily for me, they both lived on the other side of the country, so I rarely had to face them.
Feeling I had no other choice, I threw myself into my “new job” as the ****** servant, but it wasn’t easy, either physically or spiritually. Every night Miranda returned to a spotless house, a clean, rested, well-fed son, and an eager-though-exhausted toady waiting to obey her every whim. My wife never wanted anything. She never lifted a finger or changed a diaper.
Life was good — for her.
For me, it was soul-crushing. I knew I’d made a deal with the devil to keep Miranda in my life, and I constantly questioned whether it was worth it. My marriage hadn’t exactly been all sunshine and rainbows before I’d started my “new job” — but under this new arrangement, any vestiges of our old life together were wiped off the face of the earth.
Gone were the nights spent binge-watching favorite TV shows and playing board games. Gone were normal husband-wife conversations, even those we’d had after the operation when I was desperately sucking up and agreeing with everything she said. Those were one-sided discussions to be sure — but at least we were talking. After James hired me for my “new job,” Miranda started treating me like her employee, and our interactions either involved her barking orders or bitching about something I’d done wrong.
I became a mere appliance while she focused on her child, career, and boss — and not necessarily in that order. She remained at James’s beck and call and would drop everything to accommodate him. At the office, from what I could glean, they were the Dynamic Duo, working elbow-to-elbow and pushing the firm to new heights. Colleagues whispered about them having an affair, but James and Miranda kept their romantic relationship under wraps at work, and the watercooler scuttlebutt remained unproven.
Since James owned our house, he of course had a key, and as had been his practice at our old apartment, he often dropped by unannounced whenever he could get away from his wife. It was stressful as hell living with his specter constantly hanging over my head, knowing at any time he could suddenly come strutting through the door. The atmosphere in the house would completely change when he’d cross the threshold. My wife would squeal to JJ, “Daddy’s here!” and I’d usually end up shitting myself from the stress.
Because Miranda’s world revolved around James, that meant he occupied a prominent spot in my headspace as well, whether I liked it or not. The refrigerator always had to be well-stocked with his favorite foods and beverages, and it was understood that those items were off-limits to me. While he wasn’t a Muslim, he’d been raised to reject swine, so pork wasn’t allowed in the house at all, despite my love of bacon. James liked his whiskey chilled, so I kept a full flask in the freezer. He preferred jasmine incense. He thought green apples tasted better than red ones. The orange juice had to be free of pulp. And he liked my wife in red negligées, so I made sure they were always hand-washed and ready to wear.
My relationship with James had changed, too, and not for the better. Whereas he’d pretty much ignored me before JJ was born, once we moved to the new house he started treating me like shit. Maybe he felt some primal need to establish who the “real daddy” was, or perhaps he just lost all respect for me after I agreed to his ridiculous “job offer” and became a literal servant to his second ******. Whatever the reason, he took to dogging me relentlessly when he came over. Making it worse, Miranda thought the way he treated me was hilarious. She especially liked how he made me call him “sir;” I overheard her on the phone telling her sister how much it turned her on.
With a bowed head and a submissive smile, I put up with it all. But I paid a steep personal price and was consumed by self-hatred. I stopped looking at myself in the mirror, even while shaving or brushing my teeth because I was ashamed of what lurked behind those dead eyes.
The soul of a loser. A pathetic, cuckolded loser.
++++++++++++++++++++
Miranda’s screams rang out from the next room while I sat on the rocking chair, feeding little JJ from my breast contraption. Now and then, my back would get aching and I’d stand up and carry the boy around the room, bouncing him gently with each step. Then I’d sit back down and return to rocking him, hoping to keep him quiet so I wouldn’t disturb his amorous parents.
Things got quiet for a few minutes, and then I heard conversation and giggles. Finally, James’s booming voice summoned me:
“Bobby! Bring JJ in here.”
I hurried toward the bedroom. James smiled as I handed over his baby.
“Hey, Slugger!” He leaned in and touched his nose. JJ giggled, as did his mommy.
I stood there vicariously enjoying the ****** moment until Miranda glanced up at me, pointed to her empty glass, and snapped her fingers. I hopped into action, and when I got back with her refill, James was discussing vacation plans.
“The convention in the Bahamas got canceled, but Patrice doesn’t know that,” he said. “It’s a whole week. I’m thinking we should just go.”
Miranda beamed. “Hell, yeah, that would be so awesome! Are you talking about bringing JJ? Or … more like a romantic trip?”
“I don’t know.” James scowled at me. “I’m not sure I’d trust leaving my son with Pussyboy for a whole week.”
I squirmed at the use of the humiliating nickname he’d given me. Miranda giggled.
James scratched his ear. “Maybe we could just bring the little wimp with us. I want to spend more time with JJ, but I also want to have a little fun.”
“As long as you don’t mind, that probably would be the best of both worlds,” Miranda agreed. “Bob could watch JJ while we went snorkeling and stuff — and I wouldn’t have to change diapers.”
“What do you think, Pussyboy?” James sneered. “You up for a trip to the Bahamas?”
++++++++++++++++++++
I never knew what true love looked like until I spent a week with Miranda and James on a tropical island.
It had been a long, grueling flight to Nassau. Miranda and James sat in first class while I was stuck with the riffraff in the rear holding JJ in my lap. It was murder on my back, especially during stretches where I had to remain seated with the seatbelt on. By the time we landed, I was in excruciating pain. That didn’t stop James from saddling me with the luggage, and I struggled to keep up as he strode through the terminal cradling his son in one arm while my wife held his other hand.
On the ride to the hotel, I sat in the back of the taxi van with the suitcases while Miranda and James chatted with the driver up front. Luckily, a bellhop met us at the hotel entrance and grabbed the bags, saving me from having to carry them. James had rented a luxury suite that provided a stunning view of the Atlantic Ocean. I was assigned a small, windowless room two floors below theirs.
“Unpack everything and then stay up here and watch JJ; we’re going exploring,” James announced after the bellhop brought in the bags and rolled a crib into the suite. James tipped the porter, grabbed my wife’s hand, and swept out the door.
JJ was cranky from the long trip but he finally went down for a nap. I lay him in the crib and idly drifted through the room, stopping in my tracks when I spotted the minibar. I felt a sudden thirst that needed quenching.
A fierce internal battle raged inside my head. Should I? What would James say? He’d surely get pissed off … wouldn’t he? Then again … so what if he did? What’s the worst that could happen? I had put up with so much bullshit; didn’t I deserve a goddamn drink once in a while? I knew those in-room minibar bottles were ridiculously expensive, but it wasn’t like James didn’t have the money. One drink wasn’t too much to ask. Was it? Then again …
I managed to hold out for a half hour before slipping a bottle of Grey Goose from the sleeve and downing it. A warm feeling immediately washed over me, and I smiled as I stood in front of the picture window, marveling at the beauty of the expansive, bluish-green ocean, which glimmered in the tropical sunlight. Even though I had been brought along on the trip to serve as babysitter-slash-gofer, I figured I might as well enjoy the vacation as much as possible.
My good mood lasted about five minutes. Then, Miranda and James came back to the room.
He frowned at the empty bottle on the table and stormed toward me. I cowered as he leaned in and smelled my breath.
“You have been drinking when you’re supposed to be watching my son, Pussyboy?!”
I crapped my diaper. “Um, it was only one, sir. I didn’t—”
Before I could finish the sentence, James leaned forward and grabbed my earlobe.
“Ow, ow, sir, ow!”
Miranda crossed her arms.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Bob? We thought we could trust you.”
“I’m sorry, it was just one drink,” I bleated while James twisted harder.
“That’s one drink too goddamn many,” James snapped as he let go of my ear and pushed me away. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“I … I won’t, sir.”
“Good. Because if I can’t trust you to take care of my kid, then we got no use for you, Pussyboy.”
Miranda scowled. “Do you ever drink at home when you’re watching JJ?”
I cleared my throat. “Um, sometimes. But never more than one or two drinks.”
“Well, that stops now.” My wife shook her head. “As James said, if you can’t take care of JJ right, I don’t see the point in even keeping you around. I’ll just hire a damn babysitter and you can move your useless, sorry ass on down the road.”
In a panic, I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands. “Oh, please, Miranda, please I won’t drink anymore when I’m watching him, please.”
“No, Pussyboy, from now on, you won’t drink at all.” James bared his teeth. “Got it?”
“Yes, sir. No more drinking, sir.”
“You better shape your ass up, Pussyboy. Or you WILL be out on the street, and I’ll just hire someone else to do your job. You got it?”
“Yes, sir. Please, sir, I’ll … I’ll do whatever you say, sir.”
He nodded regally. “That’s what I like to hear, Pussyboy.”
JJ started to stir, and Miranda ordered me to change and feed him. While I took care of that, my wife and her lover disrobed and donned swimsuits. I tried not to gawk at Miranda and then felt ashamed that I was reluctant to look at my own wife’s naked body.
“You want to bring the baby?” my wife asked her lover.
“Sure — Bobby, get everything together and meet us on the beach,” James said before leading Miranda out of the suite. I took note of how he’d called me “Bobby” in front of his son instead of “Pussyboy,” and I wondered if that meant anything, even though JJ was far too young to understand words.
It took only a few minutes to grab a beach blanket, some towels, and JJ’s diaper bag, which contained a few of my own Depends, along with the breastfeeding contraption and some toys. I carried the baby through the hotel hallway to the elevator, which was empty until stopping on the 3rd floor to pick up an elderly couple. They looked at me, then glanced at JJ before frowning and turning away. I was used to that reaction, and nothing was said as the elevator made its way to the lobby, although I muttered under my breath, “fucking racists.”
I found my wife and her boyfriend relaxing on a bench near the sand.
“Spread the blanket out over there.” Miranda pointed toward a spot near a palm tree before holding out her arms, indicating that she wanted JJ. I handed over the baby and hopped to it, getting the blanket set up in less than a minute.
My wife made me stand there waiting while she and James relaxed on the bench playing with JJ. She finally passed the kid back to me. “We’re going swimming,” she said. “Keep him in the shade.”
I found a spot under the palm tree and watched my wife and her lover stroll hand-in-hand down the beach. I wasn’t the only one looking at them; despite their age difference, they made the perfect couple. Years after retiring from baseball, James was still in splendid condition, while my wife quickly regained her figure after giving birth to JJ. Lots of heads turned as they ambled through the sand chatting and laughing, stopping every few yards to kiss.
As they approached the ocean, they both broke into a sprint before diving into the water at the same time. I spent the next 45 minutes taking care of their baby and watching them swim, splash each other and make out. Waves of jealousy made me nauseous and anxious, causing me to fill my Depends. I tried to focus my thoughts elsewhere, but there was nowhere else to go. James and Miranda were in love. Everyone on the beach could see that.
I sat there resenting James from the depths of my soul. My ear still throbbed from his pinching it so violently. That punishment had followed months of verbal and emotional abuse from the smug sonofabitch. He’d made it clear from the first day he’d barged into our apartment to fuck my wife that he had no respect for me whatsoever, but for some reason, he started treating me like a slave after JJ was born — and he seemed to be enjoying that dynamic.
After pondering the matter long and hard, I concluded that while James hadn’t thought much of me one way or another when Miranda was just a booty call, once their baby was born and their relationship developed, I needed to be dealt with somehow. And James chose to keep me on as a whipping boy. He wanted to rub my nose in the fact that Miranda was in love with him, not me, and that I was forced to live as her employee and change their baby’s shitty diapers if I wanted to keep her in my life. He loved making me call him “sir,” and putting me down in front of the woman I loved.
James, I concluded, was a sadist.
Otherwise, I could think of no other reason why he was allowing me to stay under his roof as a servant to his second ******. Miranda would’ve divorced me and hired a maid and babysitter in a second if James had told her to, but because he was happy with our arrangement, she was, too, and got a kick out of watching her lover push me around.
I hoped there also was a strand of our old emotional bond left somewhere deep inside her, at least to the extent that she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she could trust me to take care of her son, and that I’d never do anything to hurt him because I was so much in love with her. She also knew that no maid or babysitter would ever put up with her snooty shit the way I did.
I figured as long as I plastered on that fake smile of mine and did what I was told, Miranda and James had their uses for me. As I watched them romp around in the scenic ocean, I did my best to stop feeling sorry for myself and focus on their happiness.
It didn’t work. Like a lovesick sap, I sat there under the palm tree wallowing in self-pity and jealousy, changing one diaper while filling another, as a better man romanced my beloved wife.
++++++++++++++++++++
I stayed in a funk for months after we got back from the Bahamas, a trip that cemented the love between my wife and the father of her son.
James started coming over every evening, often staying overnight. He didn’t seem to care anymore whether his wife was suspicious. I knew things were serious when James asked Miranda, not Patrice, to accompany him to an annual sports marketing banquet in New York, which the ex-ballplayer and his wife had attended together for years.
It was obvious to me where this was headed. Or so I thought.
But life has a funny way of throwing a knuckleball at you when you’re expecting the heater. You think the fast one’s coming, take a hefty swing — and fall flat on your ass.
++++++++++++++++++++
A single point of light glimmered in the darkness, faintly at first, accompanied by a warbling buzz. The throbbing quasar expanded, taking on different shapes and colors before morphing into a series of blurry pictures that flitted in and out of my mind’s eye …
… the familiar vision of James barging into our house …
… that smirk …
… him handing me a bottle of water and telling me to drink it …
… a strange glint in Miranda’s eye …
Then … nothing. Pure blackness.
I blinked as the real world slowly came into focus. I found myself in a hospital bed. Something felt … different. My torso. I glanced down and gasped.
Breasts!
MY breasts!!
I squeezed my eyes shut, figuring I had to be hallucinating. I looked again. Two boobs still protruded from beneath my hospital gown.
In a panic, I reached for my genitals, sighing with relief when I confirmed that my twig and berries were intact. But I noticed other changes. When I licked my lips, they felt bloated. My hips were wider. My fingernails and toenails were painted red. And I wasn’t wearing a diaper.
“What the hell’s going on?” I wailed, and my unfamiliar, feminine voice made me flinch.
There was no one in the room to answer me.
Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, I lay there crying for what must have been several hours, inspecting my large breasts, trying to figure out where implants might have been embedded. But everything seemed natural. There were no scars that I could see — nothing.
Following an eternity of panic and confusion, the door opened and James led Miranda to my bedside. As they approached me, icicles formed in my gut.
“You okay, there, Bobbi?” James sneered. “You look kinda scared.”
I blinked. “Uh … what’s … what’s going on, sir?”
“We got you fixed up.” He pointed to my breasts. “I’m sure you noticed.”
Miranda rested her head on her lover’s arm. “I know you’re probably confused, Bobbi. It’s a lot to process, I know, but you might as well forget about your old life because as far as everyone is concerned, you’re dead.”
“D-dead?” I gazed into my wife’s eyes, searching for answers but finding only a shark-like coldness.
“Yeah, dead.” James smiled. “It’s amazing what you can get done when you have the money.”
“Your old self is gone,” Miranda explained. “Died January 14 of a heart attack. It says so on the death certificate. It was a nice service, although not many people bothered to show up. You weren’t exactly Mr. Popular, but we had to keep up appearances, so we held a funeral anyway, and I acted sad. Per your wishes, your ashes were scattered in the ocean. So, there is no more Robert Harrington. Only Bobbi.”
James nodded. “Consider this a favor, Bobbi. You did so well in your old job, we decided to give you a promotion. You just graduated from plain old servant to maid. And pretty soon, nursemaid.”
I blinked. “Uh … what … um …”
“Miranda and I are in love, Bobbi.” James patted my wife’s belly. “She’s pregnant again, and I don’t want to keep her, or my children are hidden away from the world anymore. I’m not tucking her away — I love this woman. I’m divorcing Patrice and Miranda and I are getting married … and then I’m moving my ****** into a nice, big house so we can all live together. Patrice is okay with the divorce, and it’s been amicable. Our only problem was what to do with you. It was one thing to have you hanging around as a servant while Miranda was out of the spotlight. She says you’re such a sap for her, you’d never do anything to hurt JJ, and that you’d give your life for him because of her. I don’t like the idea of some stranger watching my son, so I figured you had your uses. But once Miranda and I are out in the open, it would be too hard to explain why her ex-husband was still living with us. Plus, there’s the issue of breastfeeding. That was the deciding factor.”
My wife shook her head. “Ugh, I hated that, but James doesn’t want his babies to be bottle-fed. So, this is the perfect solution, Bobbi.”
I blinked. “Wha … what … I … I don’t understand.”
“One of my clients is a sports doctor,” James explained. “He’s also a very good friend. The man is a genius; he’s devised a radical regeneration procedure that can heal damaged nerves. He’s still trying to get approved to do the operation above the board, but it works. You’re living proof, Bobbi. Your back is healed.”
“Congratulations.” My wife smirked. “You don’t have to wear diapers anymore.”
“Um … I … I …”
“James told him to keep you impotent, though,” Miranda added.
Her lover nodded. “You’ll be too busy with the babies to worry about that little thing, anyway, Bobbi.”
My mind was reeling as James continued: “Dr. Evans is also an expert on how the body processes hormones and has found ingenious ways to enhance sports performance by increasing testosterone levels in athletes while avoiding detection. When he told me at the banquet last month that he also does gender surgery, and that it’s possible for biological males to lactate when infused with high levels of prolactin … well, everything just clicked into place, Bobbi.”
“James is going to give me lots of babies,” Miranda beamed. “And guess who’s going to be doing all the breastfeeding?”
I couldn’t process another word. Consciousness circled the drain until the world turned black again.
