Confessions Of A Trophy Wife

Confessions of a Trophy Wife

by

Vandemonium1

Another story of someone regretting the choices they made. This one has been independently rated at 3.5/5 pickaxe handles. There is little sex in it.

You can thank the followers of our blog for reviewing it, particularly Norman, and CTC for her usual highly skilled final edit.

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Susan Cathcart, Susie to her friends, picked up her bag of purchases from the passenger side of the car, shut the door, and headed inside through the internal door in the garage to the house. Just as she reached it she looked back, in thought.

After two years of shit decisions, you finally made a couple of good ones, girl.

The first decision in question was to take the Porsche 911 to the shops to get her supplies. The second decision was deciding to drive herself rather than getting Jeeves to chauffeur her as was her usual want. Jeeves had made it quite obvious he was peeved at her decision. His suck-lemon face being a dead giveaway. He considered the collection of cars, consisting of the Bentley, Mercedes, Porsche, Range Rover, and vintage Mustang, as his private property, which he occasionally allowed other people to ride around in the back of. Susie knew he was hovering somewhere, ready to leap out with polishing cloth and vacuum cleaner as soon as she was out of sight. Heaven forbid so much as a hair from her head be left behind to sully the pristine cleanliness of the Porsche.

Susie's heart was still racing from her outing. After driving quite responsibly into town and making her purchases she'd then headed in the direction of home at the same sedate pace, the Porsche like a stallion being reined in, before an urge became too strong to resist. Taking a right, then another right, she'd headed all the way across town to the neighbourhood she'd grown up in. The one on the 'other side' of the tracks.

What a buzz it had been driving down streets in a car worth more than the houses she was passing. Wearing a designer outfit that probably cost more than the entire wardrobe of the women pushing prams along the sidewalk. That had been her. But no longer. She'd escaped. By hard work and determination, she'd improved her situation to the point she could sneer at her old neighbours.

Now, despite the adrenalin still pumping through her veins, she accepted it was a mistake to drive down her old street but, at the time, her hands on the steering wheel had seemed to be on autopilot.

She recalled how she'd smiled with fond memories when she'd had to stop while the game of street cricket being played on the road by some scruffy ten-year-olds was temporarily disbanded so she could pass. That meant she'd been going quite slowly when she passed her old house. She'd only glanced at it briefly before feeling an overwhelming urge to get home as quickly as she could. She'd stopped only long enough to make some more purchases, before heading back to the mansion. Once past the city limit, she'd opened the powerful engine up as quickly as she'd dared and relied on the car's legendary road handling to arrive home alive.

Susie made a brief diversion into the servants' wing of the house to tell Jenny, their cook, '

No,

' Susan corrected herself, '

My cook

,' what she wanted for dinner, before heading to the formal side of the mansion. Walking past the library, pretty much sealed since her husband's death, she went into her favourite sitting room. It was the smallest of the sitting rooms, the others being too big for her when she felt lonesome as she did tonight.

She took her latest purchases to the bar at the end of the tastefully decorated room and removed the not so tastefully wrapped bottles from their brown paper bags, tequila and Cointreau, and proceeded to make herself a very large margarita. Noticing there was no ice in the fridge, Susan was about to ring for the butler to bring her some before remembering it was his day off. She decided she'd do without and carried her drink to an overstuffed couch and did what she'd done for the last two nights; sat and wondered what to do with her evening.

Three days ago, she'd sat in the very same spot and given her last two friends their marching orders. They'd been the last of her old friends, the last two that hadn't abandoned her. Susan had been perfectly sober at the time while her friends were drunk on her expensive champagne, after going out to the most expensive restaurant in town. That, too, on her coin. Looking at them, giggling and slurring their words, Susan had had a sudden revelation. Neither of them was her friend. Not really. Not true friends. In her old life, they'd been mere acquaintances and had only been promoted to friend status when the others had slowly or otherwise drifted off. Curled up on the couch, much the same as she was now, Susan had realised they were users, only hanging around for the things she could provide them with.

After that revelation, Susan had acted decisively and they were unfriended. They'd said some pretty hurtful things on the way out, reinforcing to Susan that they'd been pretending friendship and that she'd made the right decision in ousting them.

The rightness of her decision hadn't stopped her feeling incredibly lonely the rest of that night and the following one. Susan had never been one for self-doubt and philosophy. She'd never been sentimental but she now realised the one thing her millions would never buy her was a friend.

Deep in thought, Susan lifted her glass only to realise it was empty. Sighing, she rose and made herself another. Less lemon soda in this one, she had a figure to maintain, after all. Susan estimated it would take three of them to blot out her error of judgement of the previous night.

The error where she'd resolved not to spend another night alone and had put on her finery and hit a couple of bars near the centre of town. In the words of her old vernacular she'd, 'tied one on'. It was no great surprise to her when she'd been awoken the next morning by her bedmate attempting to sneak out of her bedroom. Turned out he was no better at escaping than he was at screwing. He tripped over something and cursed loudly enough to wake her. Through half-closed lids, he'd looked to Susan to be less than half her forty-five years and mustn't have liked what he'd woken next to. Certainly not enough to stick around for some morning delight with her. She hadn't cared enough to confront him and, after turning on her side, she'd drifted off to sleep again and so never knew whether he'd emptied her purse of all notes before or after he woke her with his clumsiness.

Susan's hand froze mid-movement with the sudden thought that she'd never really be sure if a guy was interested in her out of love or just after her for the money and lifestyle. The realisation triggered the deepest loneliness in Susan she'd ever experienced.

'

Hah, love'

, thought Susan, '

Who could ever love you

?

Those days are gone

.'

Those words had been spoken to her reflection in the mirror when she'd finally roused herself from her hangover. A mirror she was finding it increasingly more difficult to look in.

The looks the entire household staff gave her that day told Susan that not only did they not approve of her wanton behaviour of the previous night, but they thought it too soon after their master's death for her to be soiling his memory.

Memory of these thoughts forced any effects Susan was feeling from the two margaritas out of her head. She looked around the room and decided that things her two former remoras had said during their eviction had spoiled this room for her as well.

Pouring a third, she went in search of a new room to call her own. The problem was that just about every part of the mansion held one bad memory or another. She felt uncomfortable in the whole wing that contained the library. That was her late husband's domain and still smelled of him and his beloved pipe, over the smells of old leather and paper.

She knew that forever more she would associate the smell of pipe tobacco with him. Once upon a time she'd loved the smell but over the course of their marriage she'd grown to hate it. Same as she'd grown to hate him.

Internally, she'd been immensely relieved at his death the previous week.

That left the east wing of the house, and the servant's wing, but the servants had made it clear with their body language, if nothing else, that her presence in their wing wasn't welcome. In the east wing were her bedroom and the relaxing part of the house. Susan hadn't been into the master bedroom since Winthorpe had died. It held very unpleasant memories for her, being the first place they'd ever had sex. Well, intercourse, that is.

Susan wandered from room to room.

'Not this one, that's where Winthorpe and his daughters planned the wedding,'

thought Susan. The girls being excited by the responsibility and the unlimited budget, if not by their prospective stepmother.

'Not this formal dining room, that's where I realised Winthorpe's friends would always look down on me because of my accent and the fact my father wasn't rich and couldn't trace his ancestry back two hundred years.

'And certainly not this lounge,'

thought Susan,

'That's the couch he once bent me over and fucked me with his pathetic penis, thinking he was a mighty cock warrior, who magnetically attracted a bride thirty years his junior.'

The memory of him pawing her whenever and wherever he liked, made Susan ill.

'

Ok. So, I was a trophy wife. After struggling all my life, wasn't I entitled? Sure, I didn't think it would come at such a price, but what is done is fucking done.'

Susan retreated to her former sanctuary because her third mind deadener was empty. She re-filled it and recommenced her search for a new haven.

'Not this one. This is where Winthorpe's son and two daughters sat me down three nights ago to let me know they'd been disgusted with my behaviour and attitude at their father's wake the day before. Up until then, they'd thought I had some love for their father but after the wake they realised I was a deceptive money grabber that just viewed their father as a sugar daddy and was now happy he was gone.

'

'I certainly am,' thought Susan, 'No more gagging when I couldn't avoid spreading my legs for him. No more feeling like puking when I had to suck his pathetic cock or pretending pleasure when he stuck his lubed four inches up my ass. Probably shouldn't have gotten drunk at the wake and laughed so much, though.'

The caterers had been paid till midnight, but the place was empty by seven.

Winthorpe's children made it plain that they wouldn't contest their father's will, they were all very wealthy in their own rights, but they wouldn't be darkening her doorway again. That suited Susan, she had trouble meeting their gazes anyway.

Not that she couldn't afford to give them half of what Winthorpe left her and still live in luxury for the rest of her life. She might have to let half of the staff go if she lived over a hundred, though. No, money was the very least of Susan's worries.

Susan's feet, on autopilot, took her back to the only room that didn't contain conscious-wrenching, painful, or negative memories. Digging through her Prada handbag she unearthed her one link to her past life; her address book. It was battered with a faded florally cover, as befitted the purchase made by her sixteen-year-old self, all those years ago. Flipping through it was like an animated history of her life. Three or four friends from high school who'd sworn to be friends for life, but quickly disappearing, never to look backward, when they found an escape route out of the ghetto.

One name, in the Cs, gave her pause for thought. Claire Gourlay. She'd really stuck out at their school. She was the daughter of the town's biggest employer and had returned home from an exclusive boarding school in a little shame, if you believed the rumours. Abortion complete, daddy chose to keep her on a shorter rein and enrolled her in the local school.

Susan had befriended her, rather than give her shit like the other girls, and it had paid off. She'd spent the equivalent of weeks at Claire's house, wearing Claire's old, but better than her own, clothes, dining with real silverware, and hobnobbing with Claire's posh friends. When Claire left for university a year later, she pretty much cut ties with Susan. If it wasn't for an article in the local paper's social section, noting Claire's marriage to an aging multi-millionaire, Susan would have no idea where she'd ended up.

Susan never forgot that glimpse into the life of luxury and would envy it strongly until she met Winthorpe and made it a reality.

Susan continued working her way through the old address book.

There was one of the bitches she'd sent packing this week. The bitch had had the cheek to ask Susan to pay out her and her loser husband's mortgage, thus cementing in her mind that she wasn't a friend, just a fucking parasite.

Susan made it all the way to the Hs before the next attack on her mood occurred. Helen Botham. Best friend since Susan had started work at the factory. The older woman had taken Susan under her wing. Loyal, caring, amiable, Helen. Really? She'd been very rude and abrupt when Susan rang her and invited her to be matron of honour at her wedding to Winthorpe. No amount of talking about the $15,000 dress Susan was thinking of getting commissioned for each of the bridal party would dissuade her oldest friend from breaking off the friendship and inviting Susan to rot in hell. '

Bitch.'

One by one came the rollcall of depression, as name and address of former good friends appeared. All had either sent emissaries to unfriend Susan or done it in person. '

All bitches,'

thought Susan.

The last name Susan had written in the book was on the page marked P; Portia. She and her husband were old friends of Winthorpe and his late wife; Susan had met them, along with many other friends of her new fiancé, last year at her engagement party. They'd seemed friendly enough and happy their friend had met someone he loved. That was until Winthorpe had a little too much to drink and regaled everyone with the story of how he'd won Susan.

A new coldness and distance marked all conversations Susan participated in after that. None of her old friends were at the party, for one reason or another, but the chief of which was Susan just didn't think the roughnecks would fit in with her new circumstances. Their rough and ribald ways would only reflect badly on her.

All Winthorpe's old female friends gave Susan their numbers sometime that night but none of them ever rang Susan or visited much after that.

'

Bitches.'

thought Susan, '

What would you have thought of good old Windy if you knew he died with a big dildo up my arse while I was pushed over the back of a couch, squealing?'

Susan had compliantly bent over the couch when her husband lifted her skirt and pulled her knickers down. She'd silently sighed as he worked lube into her sphincter. He'd come to insist on anal quite regularly, but honestly, his cock was so small that it didn't bother Susan that much.

Her attitude certainly changed when something cold and feeling about the size of a baseball bat was forced up into her bowels. The excitement must have been too much for Winthorpe as his heart failed just as he climaxed. She could only assume he'd been rubbing himself with his other hand. '

If it wasn't for me cleaning him up, the paramedics would have a tale to narrate, I can tell you.'

Susan couldn't admit to herself that the real reason for the clean-up was to protect her reputation, not that of her husband.

Susan skipped to the end of the address book, the alcohol shielding her ego from the full weight of a truth her subconscious knew full well. She had no friends.

Furthermore, she'd never know if someone in the future befriended her for genuine reasons or just for her money. A glimpse of an achingly lonely life surrounded by riches teased at the edge of her mind.

This spurred Susan to refill her glass. All the lemon squash was gone but that wasn't a problem for her. Her search for a friend became a little more frenetic.

One name from the hurled address book screamed into her mind and gave her a purpose. Not only could they rekindle their friendship but maybe Claire could tell Susan the secret of how to make some real friends and maybe a genuine romantic partner or two.

It took her all of ten minutes to match Claire's new surname to an address in another state, and a phone number that was answered by a snooty sounding butler. Luckily, the answer to the question, 'I shall enquire if the Mistress is available', was yes, and soon Susan was chatting to someone she hadn't seen in almost thirty years.

The upshot was, there was no secret.

Since her husband had died, Claire had been lonely and threw herself into charity work to give her life meaning. Not that she missed her husband that much; she'd accepted she was a trophy wife; to be trotted out when required, then put away like his best golf clubs. She drifted away from her former friends and the only ones of her husband's friends who visited after his death were obviously looking to bed her. Because they'd packed their two children off to exclusive boarding schools at eight years of age, both were emotionally distant from her. She lived in hope that would change when they had children of their own.

Claire thanked Susan for reaching out and was very interested in catching up in person. Susan didn't commit to a date; the conversation with her former friend had really, really depressed her. She quickly drained her glass. Standing to get a refill, she almost collapsed; her balance shot to pieces. She wisely decided enough was enough and lock-stitched her way to the room she was sleeping in. It was the smallest bedroom in the house but still huge by any standard. She'd chosen it because Winthorpe had never fucked her in it.

Half-way through getting undressed, the tequila and Cointreau she'd imbibed made a break for freedom and Susan spent the next ten minutes on her knees worshipping the great porcelain god. When she felt it safe, she rose from her knees and rinsed her mouth of the foul, biting taste.

Looking up from the sink, she came face to face with her reflection, clad only in panties. Reflexively, she lifted each D sized breast one at a time to see if the scars had disappeared yet. This triggered the same memory it always did. The main memory that had caused her to go to bed drunk every night for a long time.

Her ex-husband, Dave, bought her these beauties. She'd nagged and nagged him for three years to support her request. He resisted, citing the need to put all their spare cash into helping their children get educated as well as their class of people could, without crippling student loans at the commencement of their working lives after graduation. He was absolutely devoted to raising children that had a chance of breaking out from the social circumstances he'd never been able to. But Susan was determined and finally after six months of no sex, her husband agreed to do even more than the twenty hours of overtime he was already doing every week.

Susan found a surgeon that would do the job on a payment plan and within months her B's had become D's. Within months of that, Susan was swooning over the extra attention she was getting when she went out with her friends. She never went out with her husband anymore. He was either working overtime or too tired from it.