All characters are 18 years old or older.
Thank you for waiting so patiently! I've enjoyed all your suggestions and comments. This story is written for therapeutic purposes and most likely will not feature "breeding" as a main point. This is my story that does not center around objectification/heavyS&M/breeding/degradation. This story is purely about self-improvement/guidance. That being said, I am working on a new story which may feature those aforementioned elements to small degrees. Stay tuned! And as always, enjoy!
*****
Darcy watched her husband talk, unsure about what he was saying. Jesse was explaining to her, for the third or fourth time, the mechanics behind the poetry he'd just read to her. Darcy hadn't the faintest idea of what he was talking about. Rhyme, alliteration, iambic pentameter, none of it was really sinking in.
A discouraging voice arose in Darcy's mind, like a sinister sort of thought. Darcy was reminded, quite painfully, that her husband was simply attempting to create her into the woman he needed. She was for her husband, a blank canvas to be made beautiful and important by his hand. She possessed none of those qualities on her own. She couldn't achieve any sort of greatness without the help of her husband, the small voice reminded her.
Those thoughts used to feel like a punch in the gut; now they felt normal. They felt right. And they were right, Darcy thought. It was her husband who pushed her to learn to read when her parents had neglected to do it. It was her husband who chose to mold her in the fashion which he found most suitable. She was his artwork, and he worked tirelessly to improve her. Yet, it brought her no joy.
It was true that the list had helped for a while. Darcy was able to see her best qualities written in her husband's hand and posted on the wall. She would often read the list and feel encouraged. Slowly, however, it became easier to negate what had been written. There were times when Darcy fell short of her list. She was not always obedient, kind, or selfless. There were times when saying so, made her feel like a liar.
Darcy felt discouraged at the fact that her husband was always trying to show her new things. He would bring her to a new place and tell her the names of trees and flowers. He would buy her a book and read a story she'd never heard. He'd ask her what she thought. And that was always when she was most discouraged. When she had nothing good to offer. Any comment of hers would have been of little meaning, little worth.
Often she would avoid answering such open-ended questions for fear of saying something unintelligent or embarrassing. She wanted so badly to be allowed to engage with him intellectually that sometimes the need was suffocating. Even so, from the moment she had become his wife, Darcy had always felt the impossibility of such a desire as if it were tangible. Her heart ached at the thought of her own incompetence and inability to please her husband.
"Darcy, are you even listening to me?" Her husband said, setting down the book to look her in the eye.
Darcy stared at the table in front of her. She shook her head. Tears were brewing in her eyes. She could keep them at bay only if she got up and focused on something else, preferably something she was good at. Clearing her throat she spoke softly.
"I'm not feeling well," She lied, pressing a hand to her stomach, "I think I might go outside and just sit for a moment in the fresh air. Could we finish this lesson tomorrow?"
Jesse nodded in agreement and watched as his wife left the house. There was something going on with her. She had been improving greatly in terms of confidence, and then suddenly backtracked. He wondered if he was pushing too hard. He only gave her what he thought she was capable of understanding. His wife was very bright, there were subjects that she struggled with, but she was a fast learner overall.
Before she had left, Jesse noticed the look on hr face. It was a mix of shame and embarrassment. Perhaps he was pushing too hard. He didn't mean to discourage her, quite the opposite. He wanted to challenge her. Providing her with new and stimulating materials was his favorite thing to do. Maybe he needed to take a step back and ask her what she really wanted.
Jesse set the book down on the bookshelf before he headed out of the house. The crisp morning air was colder than he'd thought. It was only beginning to be fall. The leaves hadn't changed colors yet, and the grass was still mostly green. The flower beds that Darcy had planted near the garden were beginning to appear as if they would die soon. The petals had already begun to grow stiff and brown at the edges. Others were starting to wilt.
Darcy sat with one in hand. She wondered if there would be a time when she would be able to feel happy with herself. Pulling at the petals of her flower, she thought of how pleasant it would be for her to know that she was worth everything she'd been given. A beautiful house to call her own. A large plot of land. A good husband. Money, and food, and clothing. Many books and other gifts. She didn't deserve a bit of it.
Jesse saw her sniff, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She let out a deep breath as she sat, hunched away from the house. He stepped closer to her. Hearing him, Darcy sat up straight and turned to look behind her. Jesse took a seat on the grass beside her and without asking, he pulled her onto his lap. He caressed her face gently as he held her close.
"Why are you crying?" he pursued the question with a gentler voice.
She only shook her head, not wanting to speak to him about all the thoughts buzzing around in her mind.
"Darling, please tell me if it's something I've done."
"It's not." Darcy said quietly, without looking at him, "It's me. I'm no good at understanding anything."
"What? Of course you are."
"No, I'm not. I don't ever understand what you mean when you tell me about new things. And on top of that I ruin the fun you have explaining things to me by getting upset about it which is the very reason I came out here."
"All this is because of that poem?"
"No." Darcy continued quietly, "I just feel sad sometimes especially when I remember all of the bad things."
"What bad things?"
"The bad things about myself," she said as if it were painfully obvious.
"Like what?" He laughed.
"Like being stupid."
