Well, here we go again. Another long night sitting alone in my damp basement cubby hole, staring at the clock and trying not to cry. It's a terrible way to spend an evening, I know, but unfortunately I'm getting used to it.
Going on midnight, and still no sign of her. I have a pretty good idea where she is, though. She's out with that creep from work again - either that or her car's broken down somewhere.
Fat chance. Luke has been calling the house a lot recently, and Natalie has been coming home later and later.
So I sit here and wait, like a sap, like I always do.
Don't ask me why I put up with it. It's love, I guess. Well, okay, maybe this isn't what most people would call love. Maybe it's some kind of manic-depressive infatuation. I don't know what you'd call it. Whatever it is, it sure has me hooked.
It's not easy being married to Natalie. She treats me like a dirty dishrag, but I always come running back for more.
She says her job has been stressful lately; maybe that's why she treats me the way she does. I'm trying to understand, and I've resolved to put up with it for the sake of our marriage. Natalie is an assistant prosecutor with the state of New Hampshire, and I suppose that has to be quite demanding. She puts in a lot of hours and sometimes the strain gets to her, I guess. But she's passionate about her career - she defines herself by it - and she has no intention of giving it up.
So she ends up taking all her frustrations out on me.
Still, a demanding career is no excuse for the terrible way she abuses me. It goes far beyond simple stress. Natalie goes out of her way to make my life miserable. She seems to derive an unholy joy from sticking the dagger into my gut and twisting it, all the while laughing at my feeble attempts to somehow make this marriage work.
And I can't fight back. Natalie has a quicksilver tongue, and her satanic green stare has been the downfall of many an intimidated witness on the stand. I'm certainly no match for her!
Whatever my wife wants, I've learned to just bow my head and say, "yes, Natalie."
I lost my job about a year ago. I used to be an accountant with a large corporation, but after my company downsized, Natalie told me not to bother looking for another job. She brought home most of the money anyway, she said, and we could get by quite comfortably without my salary. She told me it would be more convenient for her if I stayed at home and took care of things.
So that's exactly what I did. I stopped working on my resume and became quite the little house-husband, happy for the chance to finally do something that might please my estranged wife.
But it isn't easy. Natalie is a hard woman to please.
I work hard to keep our home spotless. I make sure dinner is hot on the table when she comes home from work every night. I keep her business suits clean and pressed. All her jewelry is kept polished and meticulously organized, and her shoes are always shined and arranged in neat rows in her walk-in closet. I take care of all the bills, do the grocery shopping, wash her Mercedes once a week, and even make sure Natalie's magazine subscriptions are faithfully renewed.
Not that my wife appreciates any of it. Natalie comes from a well-to-do ******, and she's pretty much a spoiled brat. I'd never say that to her face, of course, but it's true. To the outside world she's the cool professional, elegant in demeanor and always the dynamic life of the party. But they don't see the side of her that I see: the bitch side. I work my ass off to please her, but she always finds something to complain about. If she's ever once said "thank you" for all my hard work, I sure don't remember it.
Still, I stick around.
Maybe if I lay down and close my eyes, I can block it all out, and pretend for a moment that she really does care for me...
Well I can dream, can't I?
* * *
I woke up from my short nap and glanced at the clock. Quarter-past twelve. My fertile imagination started conjuring up all sorts of possibilities. Maybe her car really did break down somewhere...or maybe she was hurt or something, and couldn't call.
Yeah, right.
I couldn't just sit there in the basement wallowing in self-pity, but what else could I do? When your wife is out on the town with her boyfriend while you're sitting alone at home, self-pity can be your only friend.
I idled upstairs into the kitchen to check on the pot roast. I figured it was beyond repair; you can only keep dinner warm for so long. But, lo and behold, when I looked in the oven the meat didn't appear to be too dried out. I cut a small piece and it seemed to be okay.
Maybe she'll be hungry after a hard night of fucking!
I wandered around the house, unsure of what to do next. I drifted into the laundry room and started folding some clothes. Just touching Natalie's shirts and dresses was making me weak! I held one of her blouses up to my breast, and I swooned. I can't help it. I still love her. I'll never stop loving her, no matter what.
Three and a half years. That's how long it's been since I've had sex with my wife. Actually, we've only done it three times during our whole marriage, and that was all within the first few months.
But after we were married for about four months, she dropped the bomb on me. One night, I was feeling boldly amorous and I asked Natalie if we could please make love. She stopped me cold and told me to sit down on the side of the bed.
"I've got something to tell you, Brian," she said seriously. Her calm, green gaze cut right to the marrow.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings too badly...but..." She paused, and an ever-so-slight wicked smile played on her lips. "Well, let's just put it this way: sex with you makes me nauseous, Brian. I'm sorry, but you fawn all over me. A woman doesn't like to be slobbered on, Brian. It makes me ill."
I was shattered. How do you respond to something like that? I sat there for a minute, stunned. And then I started to cry - which of course fueled Natalie's contempt.
"Awww, I hurt his little feelings," she said in that syrupy baby-talk she uses when she knows I'm on the ropes. "Don't worry, darling. I won't leave you. I just don't want you slobbering all over me. Sex with you just doesn't do the trick, Brian. You can understand that, can't you, little wuss?"
Well, from that time on, I haven't even thought about approaching Natalie for sex. I can pretty much forget about ever making love to my wife again. I guess I've accepted that the best I can. And I've grown to accept her little flings as well. I suppose I can't expect a woman like Natalie to go without sex...I just wish I was the one doing it with her. After all, she is my wife.
But, again, I put up with it all.
I often wonder why she even married me in the first place. It certainly wasn't love. Maybe she needed the security of having someone to come home to. I don't know. But she's too much of a free spirit to be bogged down by something as serious as love.
As for me, I think about my wife every minute of the day. She's my everything.
And it's weird, but I think my undying devotion is what makes her treat me the way she does. She resents the fact that I love her so much, I think. I don't know; I'm not a psychologist. Maybe she does love me in some kind of depraved way. I think she needs me, anyway.
I surely need her...
I awoke from my daydream and finished folding Natalie's blouses. After the last shirt was folded, I started on the dirty laundry. Spying a pair of her panties in the hand-wash basket, I fished them out, feeling a little guilty about fondling my wife's dirty underwear. But my desire quickly overcame my guilt. I untwisted the lacy white material until I found the crotch area then held the underwear up to my face, breathing in the faint scent of my wife's perfume mixed with her dried secretions.
As I stood in the laundry room with my face in Natalie's panties, I heard the key in the front door. She was home!
I tossed the panties back into the basket, then rushed out to the living room to greet my errant wife.
She was a mess. Her hair was standing up all over the place, the makeup around her eyes was mussed, and she was carrying her pumps. Her skirt and jacket were wrinkled beyond respectability.
Natalie gave me a wry smile as she handed me her shoes.
"He-llo, Brian," she sang pleasantly. She sniffed the air and smiled to herself. "Smells good! That's sweet, honey, you kept dinner warm. But, awwww, Luke and I already ate at the Tavern tonight. Sorry." She giggled and touched my nose lightly with the tip of her painted finger. I stood there in a sad daze holding her shoes as she breezed past me into the living room.
She flopped down onto the couch and stretched languidly. She looked like a sensuous, tired feline. "Brain, I'm EXHAUSTED!" She yawned loudly and ran her hands through her thick brown hair. "Whew! I got quite a workout tonight, Brian. Quite a workout..." her words drifted off as she peeled off her nylons one by one and handed them to me. "A night with Luke is better than 10 aerobics classes!
"Go get me a nice glass of wine - and get me my robe," she sighed.
I rushed to obey. After I fetched her wine and robe, I went into the kitchen and turned off the oven. I sadly cut up the roast I'd been worrying over all night and put it into a Tupperware bowl, in case Natalie wanted leftovers tomorrow.
By the time I'd finished in the kitchen, Natalie had already gone to bed. I was upset because I didn't get to spend any time with her tonight. She's never home anymore. It seems she's always out with Luke, and my time with her is very limited.
For a few minutes, I stood in the living room feeling sorry for myself, gazing unconsciously at the half-empty glass of wine she left sitting on the table.
Before going to bed, I peeked in on Natalie, peacefully snuggled up to her pillow. She looked so angelic, you wouldn't have guessed that she'd just had her brains fucked out a few hours ago. A tear worked its way down my face as I quietly shut her bedroom door and walked downstairs to my lonely room in the basement.
STAY TUNED FOR PART 2
Going on midnight, and still no sign of her. I have a pretty good idea where she is, though. She's out with that creep from work again - either that or her car's broken down somewhere.
Fat chance. Luke has been calling the house a lot recently, and Natalie has been coming home later and later.
So I sit here and wait, like a sap, like I always do.
Don't ask me why I put up with it. It's love, I guess. Well, okay, maybe this isn't what most people would call love. Maybe it's some kind of manic-depressive infatuation. I don't know what you'd call it. Whatever it is, it sure has me hooked.
It's not easy being married to Natalie. She treats me like a dirty dishrag, but I always come running back for more.
She says her job has been stressful lately; maybe that's why she treats me the way she does. I'm trying to understand, and I've resolved to put up with it for the sake of our marriage. Natalie is an assistant prosecutor with the state of New Hampshire, and I suppose that has to be quite demanding. She puts in a lot of hours and sometimes the strain gets to her, I guess. But she's passionate about her career - she defines herself by it - and she has no intention of giving it up.
So she ends up taking all her frustrations out on me.
Still, a demanding career is no excuse for the terrible way she abuses me. It goes far beyond simple stress. Natalie goes out of her way to make my life miserable. She seems to derive an unholy joy from sticking the dagger into my gut and twisting it, all the while laughing at my feeble attempts to somehow make this marriage work.
And I can't fight back. Natalie has a quicksilver tongue, and her satanic green stare has been the downfall of many an intimidated witness on the stand. I'm certainly no match for her!
Whatever my wife wants, I've learned to just bow my head and say, "yes, Natalie."
I lost my job about a year ago. I used to be an accountant with a large corporation, but after my company downsized, Natalie told me not to bother looking for another job. She brought home most of the money anyway, she said, and we could get by quite comfortably without my salary. She told me it would be more convenient for her if I stayed at home and took care of things.
So that's exactly what I did. I stopped working on my resume and became quite the little house-husband, happy for the chance to finally do something that might please my estranged wife.
But it isn't easy. Natalie is a hard woman to please.
I work hard to keep our home spotless. I make sure dinner is hot on the table when she comes home from work every night. I keep her business suits clean and pressed. All her jewelry is kept polished and meticulously organized, and her shoes are always shined and arranged in neat rows in her walk-in closet. I take care of all the bills, do the grocery shopping, wash her Mercedes once a week, and even make sure Natalie's magazine subscriptions are faithfully renewed.
Not that my wife appreciates any of it. Natalie comes from a well-to-do ******, and she's pretty much a spoiled brat. I'd never say that to her face, of course, but it's true. To the outside world she's the cool professional, elegant in demeanor and always the dynamic life of the party. But they don't see the side of her that I see: the bitch side. I work my ass off to please her, but she always finds something to complain about. If she's ever once said "thank you" for all my hard work, I sure don't remember it.
Still, I stick around.
Maybe if I lay down and close my eyes, I can block it all out, and pretend for a moment that she really does care for me...
Well I can dream, can't I?
* * *
I woke up from my short nap and glanced at the clock. Quarter-past twelve. My fertile imagination started conjuring up all sorts of possibilities. Maybe her car really did break down somewhere...or maybe she was hurt or something, and couldn't call.
Yeah, right.
I couldn't just sit there in the basement wallowing in self-pity, but what else could I do? When your wife is out on the town with her boyfriend while you're sitting alone at home, self-pity can be your only friend.
I idled upstairs into the kitchen to check on the pot roast. I figured it was beyond repair; you can only keep dinner warm for so long. But, lo and behold, when I looked in the oven the meat didn't appear to be too dried out. I cut a small piece and it seemed to be okay.
Maybe she'll be hungry after a hard night of fucking!
I wandered around the house, unsure of what to do next. I drifted into the laundry room and started folding some clothes. Just touching Natalie's shirts and dresses was making me weak! I held one of her blouses up to my breast, and I swooned. I can't help it. I still love her. I'll never stop loving her, no matter what.
Three and a half years. That's how long it's been since I've had sex with my wife. Actually, we've only done it three times during our whole marriage, and that was all within the first few months.
But after we were married for about four months, she dropped the bomb on me. One night, I was feeling boldly amorous and I asked Natalie if we could please make love. She stopped me cold and told me to sit down on the side of the bed.
"I've got something to tell you, Brian," she said seriously. Her calm, green gaze cut right to the marrow.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings too badly...but..." She paused, and an ever-so-slight wicked smile played on her lips. "Well, let's just put it this way: sex with you makes me nauseous, Brian. I'm sorry, but you fawn all over me. A woman doesn't like to be slobbered on, Brian. It makes me ill."
I was shattered. How do you respond to something like that? I sat there for a minute, stunned. And then I started to cry - which of course fueled Natalie's contempt.
"Awww, I hurt his little feelings," she said in that syrupy baby-talk she uses when she knows I'm on the ropes. "Don't worry, darling. I won't leave you. I just don't want you slobbering all over me. Sex with you just doesn't do the trick, Brian. You can understand that, can't you, little wuss?"
Well, from that time on, I haven't even thought about approaching Natalie for sex. I can pretty much forget about ever making love to my wife again. I guess I've accepted that the best I can. And I've grown to accept her little flings as well. I suppose I can't expect a woman like Natalie to go without sex...I just wish I was the one doing it with her. After all, she is my wife.
But, again, I put up with it all.
I often wonder why she even married me in the first place. It certainly wasn't love. Maybe she needed the security of having someone to come home to. I don't know. But she's too much of a free spirit to be bogged down by something as serious as love.
As for me, I think about my wife every minute of the day. She's my everything.
And it's weird, but I think my undying devotion is what makes her treat me the way she does. She resents the fact that I love her so much, I think. I don't know; I'm not a psychologist. Maybe she does love me in some kind of depraved way. I think she needs me, anyway.
I surely need her...
I awoke from my daydream and finished folding Natalie's blouses. After the last shirt was folded, I started on the dirty laundry. Spying a pair of her panties in the hand-wash basket, I fished them out, feeling a little guilty about fondling my wife's dirty underwear. But my desire quickly overcame my guilt. I untwisted the lacy white material until I found the crotch area then held the underwear up to my face, breathing in the faint scent of my wife's perfume mixed with her dried secretions.
As I stood in the laundry room with my face in Natalie's panties, I heard the key in the front door. She was home!
I tossed the panties back into the basket, then rushed out to the living room to greet my errant wife.
She was a mess. Her hair was standing up all over the place, the makeup around her eyes was mussed, and she was carrying her pumps. Her skirt and jacket were wrinkled beyond respectability.
Natalie gave me a wry smile as she handed me her shoes.
"He-llo, Brian," she sang pleasantly. She sniffed the air and smiled to herself. "Smells good! That's sweet, honey, you kept dinner warm. But, awwww, Luke and I already ate at the Tavern tonight. Sorry." She giggled and touched my nose lightly with the tip of her painted finger. I stood there in a sad daze holding her shoes as she breezed past me into the living room.
She flopped down onto the couch and stretched languidly. She looked like a sensuous, tired feline. "Brain, I'm EXHAUSTED!" She yawned loudly and ran her hands through her thick brown hair. "Whew! I got quite a workout tonight, Brian. Quite a workout..." her words drifted off as she peeled off her nylons one by one and handed them to me. "A night with Luke is better than 10 aerobics classes!
"Go get me a nice glass of wine - and get me my robe," she sighed.
I rushed to obey. After I fetched her wine and robe, I went into the kitchen and turned off the oven. I sadly cut up the roast I'd been worrying over all night and put it into a Tupperware bowl, in case Natalie wanted leftovers tomorrow.
By the time I'd finished in the kitchen, Natalie had already gone to bed. I was upset because I didn't get to spend any time with her tonight. She's never home anymore. It seems she's always out with Luke, and my time with her is very limited.
For a few minutes, I stood in the living room feeling sorry for myself, gazing unconsciously at the half-empty glass of wine she left sitting on the table.
Before going to bed, I peeked in on Natalie, peacefully snuggled up to her pillow. She looked so angelic, you wouldn't have guessed that she'd just had her brains fucked out a few hours ago. A tear worked its way down my face as I quietly shut her bedroom door and walked downstairs to my lonely room in the basement.
STAY TUNED FOR PART 2
- Next: Obscure ch. 02
