Paying Hubby's Debts on The Installment Plan
(c) 2015, 2022 by Sir Render
Her husband was downstairs in the den/office. He had spent hours each night for the past week down there rummaging through financial documents, trying to find anything he could sell or cash in to make ends meet. Predictably, she thought, he had found nothing. Meanwhile, in the upstairs master bathroom, lavishly appointed with his and hers monogrammed towels and sporting a full makeup table with mirror outlined in lights, she sat wearing her favorite fuzzy bathrobe over top a semi-sheer corset, panties, garter belt with straps running down to dark tan thigh high stockings and six inch ruby red heels while carefully brushing blush over her slender cheek bones.
It was one week ago when her life took a most unexpected turn and she had moved from being the trophy wife of a gambling-addicted former multi-millionaire to having all the power in their marriage.
She had long suspected that her husband's in-home business meetings were less about products and sales strategies and more about high stakes gambling. He had made his millions in legitimate business but kept himself going on the occasional big win. Their spending -- vacations to Europe and Tahiti, a new car every two years, dining in fine restaurants -- was more than his salary alone would bear.
On that night two men -- two very large, exceptionally muscular men -- arrived at the front door of the couple's spacious uptown home. She thought maybe she recognized one of the men from her husband's business dealings, but they never involved her and she found business talk boring so she usually left the room whenever her husband met with someone. The one she might have seen before was a huge black man, at least six feet seven inches with a barrel chest and enormous biceps. He wore his short black hair in cornrows and sported a sharp goatee.
Sitting before her vanity mirror, at last satisfied with the job she had done blending her face makeup, she found her brightest red lipstick and began to apply it meticulously to her full pouting lips. Too much and she would look like a cheap whore. Crooked or uneven and she would give the impression that she didn't care. Being a trophy wife means always looking your sexiest and she needed to be sexy for the big night she had ahead.
When the two huge men whose biceps were as big around as Easter hams showed up at their door, her husband had sent her away telling her to go watch television or a movie or to spend all night on the phone to her girl friends. This was nothing unusual and she thought little of it except that her husband's manner that night seemed a bit nervous and she could see that his neck and back were tense. But that was just one of the things over the past few years which had led her to suspect he was gambling their life savings away and so again while it was plain to her how tightly wound up he was that night, it wasn't entirely out of character.
She had gone to another room and poured herself a glass of wine, then turned on the television and begun flipping through the program guide to find something worth watching. All was well until she heard a loud crash from the other room, like a glass lamp or the door to the liquor cabinet had been broken. With a start she jumped up and, still with the glass of wine held in her left hand, hurried to see what had happened.
It was a lamp, sure enough. It lay in broken shards against the wall opposite from where it had always stood atop an end table. One of the huge men had a huge hand on her husband's shoulder as he sat scrunched down on the leather sofa. The other man, the one she thought she might have seen before, stood near the now barren end table.
All three men looked up at her when she entered the room. Her husband choked out, "This doesn't involve you, sweetheart. J-just go upstairs, okay? Please?"
The six foot three or four white man with the bald head and dark sunglasses who had his hand on her husband's shoulder said, "No Mike, why don't you tell her what you did? Tell her what's going to happen to you so she won't be afraid. We wouldn't want to frighten your little doll."
Her husband gulped and avoided eye contact. The man standing behind him bent and used his other hand to forcefully turn her husband's head to face her. "Tell the little lady what you've done, Mike."
"I-- I lost a bet."
"Ho ho, not just a bet," chortled the black man as he moved across the floor to drag her into the room by the elbow and shut the door behind her. "Not just a little, measly, meaningless bet. Tell her everything."
Her husband tried to look away but the bulky white guy kept his face pointed toward her while the even bigger black man's hand began to squeeze off the circulation in her arm.
"I lost... twenty-five thousand in a bet."
The black man said, "And?"
There was a moment's pause before her husband admitted, "And I lost the BMW."
"And when were you supposed to make delivery?" the big white guy asked.
"Today. By noon."
"And?"
"I gave the guy the keys to the car, but I couldn't come up with the cash. Honestly guys, I'll get the money. I just need time to get it. It's tied up in savings and investments, but I can get it out, I just need a little time."
"Time is up," announced the black man still gripping her by the arm. "Now tell her what's going to happen because you didn't pay your debt."
"They're gonna beat the shit out of me," her husband almost whimpered. His lip was trembling.
