Divorce Annulled

I was working in the den when he finally got home. I suppose I should have been upset that he'd missed dinner and was three hours late for a movie we'd agreed to go see together. But we weren't doing together much these days. We'd already been through years of the too-comfortable daily routine that inevitably ground down to monotony, replaced by the big mood swings, the fireworks, and the fallout; everything but the divorce, I guess. I wasn't sure what we were waiting for. Maybe each of us hoped the other would pull the plug so the one who didn't could pretend dignity. There wasn't much else left.

I didn't even pretend to listen for his car anymore, and was so engrossed in editing my first attempt at film that I didn't hear the door or his footsteps coming down the hall. I jumped when his calm voice, from the door behind me, cut through the background music of the Dave Grusin CD.

"I'd like to talk with you," he said.

"I'll be at a breaking point in another forty-five minutes or so," I mumbled, not bothering to look up.

I jumped again when his arm came over my shoulder and hit the computer's power button. A window came up and asked if the file should be saved. He hit the Enter button, the file saved, and then the computer winked off.

I swung around on my chair and glared at him. "That was uncalled for."

"In the dining room, please." He turned and walked out.

"I was in the middle of editing that piece." I followed him, more curious than angry. I didn't believe there was much he could do to anger me anymore. I'd lived with anger for so long; even I was sick of it and had refocused the energy on building a new career.

The curtains in the room were still open, framing the dead night beyond. He'd turned on the chandelier and the room blazed with its light.

He was seated at one end of the dining room table. The chair adjacent to his was pulled out. I sat in it. His briefcase lay next to his elbow and he opened it and pulled from it a file.

"I'd like an explanation," he said. "I believe I deserve that much."

I was lost. "An explanation? For what?"

He laid the file folder in front of me, aligning it precisely with the edges of the place mat beneath.

I looked at him, but he only sat, with his chin in his hand, looking back at me.

He was quite calm and without emotion. There was none of the recent sanctimonious judgement in his voice and I had no hint anything was amiss.

I opened the file folder and felt my stomach twist in a nauseating contraction. In the center of the file was a neat pile of photographs. My hands went damp with the kind of flop sweat I hadn't experienced since my high school prom and they trembled as I rapidly flipped through the stack. I felt the heat flood into my cheeks and tried to think what to do. I re-stacked them and quickly closed the folder on them as though with the action I could erase their existence.

"God," I said stupidly without looking at him, "how did you get them?"

"They were mailed to me at work," he said. "Fortunately, Doris respected the 'personal' stamp on the envelope and didn't open it first."

I thought I might throw up. "Ty—" I said.

"When were they taken?" he said.

"Tyler—I'm sorry, Ty. I never meant—you were never supposed to—I didn't—"

"When were they taken?" he continued as though he'd asked if I'd noticed the weather that morning.

"Look, maybe we'd just better call it quits, and have done with all this." There would be no chance for mediation now. Better I pull the plug and let the whole soggy mess swirl down the drain. I almost felt relieved. I started to stand.

"Sit down," he said and suddenly his voice was filled with emotion.

Surprised, I sat.

"I asked you," he said in the quiet way he expressed rage, "when the photographs were taken."

He did deserve an explanation. I met his eyes then. They were cool, detached.

"You were on the New York-Boston junket."

"Four months ago in June."

"Yes."

"Where were they taken?"

"A man's home."

"A man's home." He picked up the file folder and centered it on his place mat. "The photograph's were taken in a man's home."

"Yes."

"What man?"

I cleared my throat. "I don't know his name. He calls himself Steve."

Ty's eyes seemed colder. "These photographs of you were taken in a man's home. But you don't know his name."

I looked down at my hands clenched together in my lap. The diamond in my wedding band needed cleaning. I touched it, miserable. I didn't think there were any words I could say. I nodded.

"This man who calls himself...Steve," Ty opened the file folder and pulled out a snapshot. He studied it and then held it in front of me. "Is this his cock you're sucking?"

"Ty—please—I'm sorry—"

"Is this...Steve's...cock in your mouth?"

"Yes," I said.

"How did you come—excuse the pun—to suck on Steve's cock in his home?"

I twisted my fingers, helpless to save him from further hurt. "He was my...birthday present."

Somewhere in the house, a faucet dripped a single drop every few seconds. I counted eight drops before the phone began to ring.

Ty laid the photograph down in front of him, pulled his cell phone from his briefcase, and flipped it on. "Hello," he said. His eyes did not leave the picture.

"Yes," he said, and picked up the photograph again. "Yes, I did."

He listened.

"They seem quite self-explanatory, though your note was enlightening, too...yes, yes; I'm very interested in the details. I may have a proposal for you soon. May I get back to you?...Yes, I have your number, thank you."

He punched the phone off, and placed it back in his briefcase, his eyes still on the photograph. "You were explaining about Steve—your—birthday present?"

"Must I continue?"

He looked at me. "I think you must, yes."

He made me nervous. Ty didn't lose his temper easily. In the years we'd been together I'd seen him lose it three times, and each event remained a vivid memory. "It was Sherri and Gail. They knew we were having...problems...and I think—"

"What sort of problems did they know about?"

"They could see for themselves what we were going through, Ty," I said carefully. "They are my friends. We talk about our lives, and I never lied to them."

He smiled. "You never lied...to them."

Carefully, I said, "I never lied to you either, Ty."

We watched each other.

"Go on," he said.

"They knew you were going to be gone for my birthday, and I think they felt sorry for me. I guess I'd been babbling 'poor me' a lot." I pulled at the ends of the fringe on my place mat. "I didn't know anything about it. They took me out to lunch. We ate, drank some wine, and they had balloons and flowers and presents, and there was this envelope. With a gift certificate." I tugged hard on one thread that was longer than the others. "It said 'a four-hour session with Steve.' I asked them what it was for, and they giggled and joked about how Steve was going to give me the make-over of a lifetime."

I sighed. "I thought that meant hair and make-up and I never felt less like going for a make-over. But, they were insistent, and after all the trouble they'd gone to, not to mention the money they'd spent, I didn't want to hurt their feelings. They delivered me right to his doorstep. There wasn't much I could do, but go in."

Ty picked up another photograph. "But Steve didn't do hair and make-up."

My voice seemed to come from far away. "No," I said.

"How did he explain himself?"

"He was matter-of-fact about it. 'My business is to provide safe sexual experience and experimentation. We have four hours together.'"

"How did you respond?"

"I thought he was joking! I thought, the girls have really outdone themselves this time and are having one off at my expense. But he didn't laugh—only watched me sort it out and put it together, and then I realized—and I wanted to leave. But the girls had driven off, and when I asked to use the phone to call a cab he said he'd be happy to let me use the phone—if I'd talk with him for at least fifteen minutes first."

"What did you talk about?"

I pulled so hard the thread snapped. "He asked a lot of questions."

"Like what?"

"What I...liked...past experiences...fantasies...things like that."

"What did you tell him?"

I began to shred the thread, pulling the weave apart with my fingers. "I don't know, I can't remember, Ty."

He plucked the thread from my fingers. "I think you remember word-for-word, and that's how I want to hear it."

Suddenly weary, I rested my head in my hands. I didn't have the strength left to pitch another battle.

"If I can't get it from you, I'll get it from Steve," he said.

I snapped upright, "You wouldn't!"

"Oh, yes," he said, and picked up another photograph. "I will."

I crossed my arms across my chest and leaned back in the chair, away from him. It was going to be a long night. I thought we'd been through the worst, but this was going to be a new low. I knew he was just getting warmed up. "He asked how often I had sex. I told him we used to have sex a couple times a week, but that it had been...some time...since we'd last...he asked how long...I said three months...he asked..." I lapsed into silence, remembering my initial embarrassment at Steve's intimate questions.

"He asked?" my husband prodded, doggedly.

"He asked...how often I...masturbated...I said I ran hot and cold...he asked me to explain..."

"You masturbate?" my husband enunciated the syllables with some precision, as though it were the first time he'd heard the word.

I'd been married to the man for eleven years and thought I could read his every expression, but I couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Sometimes," I said, faintly.

He looked at me, but he had gone someplace away from me. "When do you masturbate?"

"Well, it's not like I have a schedule—I just—do—when I—" I was having difficulty remembering words.

"When you—what?"

"When...when I'm...aroused, I suppose."

"And your arousal runs hot and cold."

I fidgeted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position in an increasingly discomforting conversation. "Yes."

"How did you explain it to Steve?"

"Sometimes, I don't think about it for weeks...and other times..."

"Other times?"

"It seems about all I can think of...like I'm..."

"Like you're, what?"

I felt warmth spread across my cheeks. "In heat."

My husband laid down the photograph and took a long look at me. "Do go on," he said.

"He asked when was the last time I masturbated...I told him that morning...'Before that?' He asked." I swallowed, my mouth felt dry. "I said...'The previous night'...'And before that?' He asked...'That morning'...'So,' he said, and then he smiled at me, 'you're currently in heat.'"

"When I'm on trips, sometimes I call you at night and the line is constantly busy. When I do get through and ask, you tell me you've been online," my husband said with the pleasant manners he reserved for strangers. "What exactly do you do online?"

I stood. "I'm thirsty," I said, and walked into the kitchen.

I got a glass from a cupboard. The crystal was heavy and cool in my hand. I went to the sink and turned the faucet on. With both hands, I held the crystal beneath the faucet and let the cold water fill it, until the water spilled over onto my hands. I leaned against the sink and looked again at my ring. I set the glass down hard on the counter, and tried to pull off the ring, but even in cold water, it stuck.

In the dining room behind me, my husband's voice cut through the sound of the running water. "Dana," he said.

I jumped. "Yes," I said. I picked up the glass and gulped water. "Coming."

I turned off the faucet. With a dishcloth, I blotted the outside of the glass and then my hands, and with excessive care, carried the full glass back to the table.

When I sat on it, the chair felt stiff and unforgiving.

The photographs lay across the width of the table in sequential rows.

I did not look at them.

He waited.

"Sometimes," I said, "I'm doing research for my projects."

He waited.

"Sometimes...I chat."

"With men."

I sipped more water and cleared my throat. "Yes."

"Sexual chats."

"Yes."

"Do you masturbate after these chats?"

"Yes."

"Do you masturbate during these chats?"

I ran my fingers over the glass. "Sometimes."

"How long have you been having sexually explicit chats online?"

"I don't know—maybe a year?"

"And phone chats? Have you ever talked with any of these men?"

My throat seemed paralyzed, and I had to try again before I could speak. "Two."

"Did you tell all this to Steve?"

I laid both hands flat against the table to steady myself, and exhaled. My body suddenly felt alien and out of balance. "Yes."

"What happened after he asked you all these questions?"

"He...asked me...if I was...wet."

"Were you wet?"

"Yes."

"What, then?"

"He...told me he was...going to...fuck me like I'd never been fucked before."

Ty looked at the photographs. "You were visibly aroused."

"I couldn't help it—it just—I wasn't—" I pressed my hands against the surface of the table. "Yes."

"He didn't wear a condom."

"No."

"Did he discuss this with you?"

"He asked if I used protection."

"You told him I do. But, you don't."

"Yes."

"How did he respond?"

I stared at the table. "He told me that he was going to fill my cunt with his cum so that when I left I'd be dripping with it."

"Did that excite you?"

"Yes."

"Stand up."

"What?"

"Stand up."

He grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me, roughly, to my feet. He kicked my chair away, his arms circled my waist, and he fumbled with my pants.

I didn't understand.

Shocked, I realized he had unbuttoned and was unzipping my pants.

"Ty," I said.

His thumbs dug inside the waistband and in the next moment as I began to resist, he stripped down my pants and panties, exposing me.

"Ty," I said, in disbelief, "stop."

"You're wet just telling me about it. You've soaked your panties right through," he said. He placed a hand on the back of my neck and applied his weight to push my head right down onto the table. "Spread your legs," he said and, when I didn't move, levered his knees to force mine apart.

"Ty—don't do this—"

I heard him unzip his pants, and tried to stand, but his entire weight was on my neck and the thought came to me that he might actually hurt me.

"All these years. I believed I married the girl next door," he said, and then he shoved his rigid cock up me and began to fuck me with savage force. "All these years. When the reality is—she's quite the nasty little slut."

"No—Ty!" This was not the man I had married either. This man frightened me.

"I've got a lot of fucking time to make up," he said and rode me with deliberate, hard, deep strokes. "I'd forgotten how tight you are, and Christ, but you are wet." He put a hand between my legs and began to stroke me. "He must have really enjoyed you."

In spite of myself, when I felt his fingers on me, I cried out.

"How many times did he fuck you that day?"

It was impossible to remain still against those fingers.

"How many times?"

"Three," I said.

"How many times did you cum?"

"Seven," I whispered.

"You must have been good," he said, "because he wants to do you again."

"What?" I said, shocked motionless. "What did you say?"

"That call I took. That was Steve. He sent the pictures because he wanted to ask me if he could use you again," my husband continued to fuck me, "on a regular basis."

I moaned and rotated my hips, suddenly in an agony of need, wedged between his fingers and cock.

"I'm thinking about it," he said, pressing the full length of his cock into me, "but I'll want to be there so I can watch." His fingers stopped moving, "Jesus, your clit just went rigid." He squeezed it, hard.

I moaned. "Ty."

He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled until I had to arch my back. "Do you know what happened when I opened that envelope and pulled out those pictures of some stranger fucking my wife, Dana?" He held me, speared on his cock, while he spoke quietly into my ear. "My cock got hard. I can't remember my cock being so hard." He pulled back, almost pulling out of me, then rammed the length of himself in, his balls slapping loudly against me. "There was my beautiful wife. Her legs tied open. Her wet cunt spread wide. Your cunt was hot pink, Dana, and so swollen. You were obviously in great need. You already had some jism leaking out of you—and there was somebody else's stiff dick ready to fuck you."

I was very close to the edge and couldn't stop squirming. I moaned, my tits painfully flattened against the tabletop.

"And then, it was fucking you. His cock. Up my wife. I thought I might have to jack off right there in the office, looking at those photos of somebody else's cock up my wife's cunt." He took his hand off me.

"Ty—please—"

"He shot his cum in you," he said, and I felt his cock spasm. "I want to watch him shoot off in you." He said and his body went rigid as he came.

I felt enflamed, my body hot, swollen, ripe.

He stood panting over me until his cock went limp enough to slip out. I heard him zip himself up.

"Well, well, well," he said.

I stood on legs that shook. "Ty," I said and turned to him.

He was looking out the window at the end of the table. "Seems you've already got another audience."

Through our picture window, our next-door neighbor stood silhouetted in his. He was obviously watching the tableau we had unwittingly presented.

"Shit," I said and tugged at my shirttails in a panic to cover my nakedness.

"No," my husband said. Facing the window, he slammed me tight against him, and ripped the shirt down off my shoulders.

"No!" I shrieked, struggling to pull away.

"I want to show him how nasty my wife is," he said and bit my neck while he pulled the cups of my bra down, exposing my tits. He pinched my erect nipples. "Spread your legs for him."

"Please don't do this to me—"

"I know how much you need it." His fingers returned and began to stroke my clit with light slow strokes. "I want my slutty wife to perform for my neighbor."

I knew I must be displayed in the most lewd fashion but couldn't seem to think beyond the feel of his fingers against my engorged clit. I cringed from shame, but couldn't move from his fingers.

"Make him hard, my little slut," he breathed into my ear. "Make him so hard watching you that he's gotta take it out and stroke it for you."

"Oh, god, Ty."

"You know, I intend to publish Steve's pictures of you on the net."

"Nooooooooo—"

"Yes, baby. Just think. All those men you chat with can jerk off looking at your wet cunt. My wife's nasty wet cunt."

"Oooooooooooooo—"

"That's my nasty girl. Fuck my fingers. God, I love you like this."

I came on an explosive wave that roared through my body, leaving me shattered, whimpering, shamed, on unsteady legs.

"Consider this a reconciliation, Dana," he whispered as he braced me against his body. "Same marriage, with a whole new set of rules. But this time," he ran his hands possessively down my body, "I'm writing them."