Author's Notes: This story has been posted to Literotica.Com with the full knowledge of the original author, JimBob44. No part or whole of this story may be reprinted in any other format or on any other web site without the express written consent of the original author.
Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
This story has been edited by myself, using Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
He came into the living room, dripping water from his raincoat. The spring at the top of the door caused it to slam shut with a loud bang. Removing the lined raincoat, he shook it a few times. Deeming it as dry as he could get it, he opened the closet and hung the wet coat on the hook inside of the door.
"Oh, really! Really? Look. Just look at all the water you got on the floor," his wife complained, stepping into the living room from the kitchen.
"Sorry, sorry; it is really coming down out there," he muttered.
He knew his words, his apology would do no good. Her precious floor was wet and it was his inconsiderate actions that had caused this major inconvenience. Sighing, he stayed on the small rug in front of the door and removed his sodden shoes. He placed them into the same small closet then debated on whether or not to remove his wet socks and get wet footprints from living room to bedroom or leave the socks on and get wet footprints from living room to bedroom.
"Oh, look! Would you just look at what you're doing now," his wife complained bitterly as he trekked from doormat to bedroom. "Must you? Must you really do that?"
"Well it was either that or just sleep on the mat by the door," he retorted.
After a hot shower, after dressing in warm pajamas and soft comfortable slippers, he found the mop and retraced his steps, mopping up the wet trail from bedroom to living room. And, of course, he was doing it all wrong; he was making bad enough worse, according to his wife.
"Really hate this time of year," he said, sitting to a bland, uninspired meal.
His comment garnered no response. She placed her own plate on the table, sat down and began stuffing meal into her mouth. She found a space to the left of his head to be of interest to her.
She used to be a much better cook. Nine years ago, when they'd married, she'd been an excellent cook. He'd bragged to his coworkers about the meals he would come home to.
"What exactly was this supposed to be?" he wondered, unable to identify much of anything on his plate.
There was rice and some sort of meat. There was a mushy green vegetable and a congealed gravy. Getting to his feet, he went to the refrigerator. Of course, she shrilly demanded to know what he was looking for when he took a millisecond too long searching through the haphazardly arranged contents of the refrigerator.
"I found it, I found it," he snapped; his head was beginning to pound from the unrelenting tension and her loud, braying voice.
"And remember, you're on your own for supper this weekend; remember? I'm going to Darlene's," his wife said.
"Mm hmm," he said, sprinkling some hot sauce onto his bland food.
At ten o'clock, he turned the television off; he'd not seen or heard a single thing. Coming into their bedroom, he could just make out her silhouette on the left side of the bed. The single night light from the bathroom softly lighted a safe path from bed to toilet and he could see her form by this light.
It was Thursday night; she'd taken the following day off. The bank had a policy regarding their PTO's; use it or lose it. So she had decided to have a three day weekend.
A few years ago, he would have also taken the day off; his Teacher's Aide could handle the three classes he taught on the Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule. They would have lighted candles, put on some music; he loved old Rod Stewart, perhaps 'A Night on the Town.' Or, he would compromise and put on some Al Jarreau for her.
She had a collection of frilly lacy things; the black bustier with matching thong panties had been his favorite. With kisses and touches and giggles and coos, they would undress one another.
If the bottle of almond oil was on the nightstand and the rubber sheet was draped across the bed, he would 'paint' her heavy breasts with his greasy fingers. Her nipples would grow rock hard, two bullets sticking out, begging for his mouth.
Dribbling the oil down her somewhat soft belly, he would again 'paint' her flesh. She would gasp and grunt as his magic fingers came closer and closer to her hairless mound; she always shaved herself smooth for the nights they would use the almond oil and rubber sheet.
After licking and fingering her very wet sex to an orgasm or three, he would forcefully twist her to lie on her belly. She would demand to be let up at once. She would state, very firmly that she would not indulge his sick desires. As she complained and demanded, he would massage the oil into her flesh, coming closer and closer to her large buttocks.
She always said her ass was too big. To him, her ass was perfection personified. Yes, it was large; her hips and thighs were heavy. But he loved her ass.
Soon, her buttocks would be slick with oil. Her deep furrow would be shiny as oil and saliva mingled on her flesh. Then he would find her tight little pucker and use tongue and fingers to open her.
Staring at the dark ceiling of their bedroom, remembering those days, he developed a weak erection. The light from the bathroom showed the small smudge on the ceiling; she'd been frantic. There was a spider defying gravity as it sought to build a web in their bedroom, their sanctuary. A rolled up issue of Cosmopolitan ended that ambition.
He had sobbed the day she showed him the '+' on the pee stick. A baby. He had sobbed and held his sobbing wife, kissing her over and over.
Then she found some spotting in her underwear. She lost the baby in the middle of the first trimester. When he burst into heart wrenching sobs, she angrily demanded he stop. He was not the one that had lost the baby; she was. She was the one that had endured the cramps, the sharp pains, then the horrible realization that she would not be a mommy.
"No, I did not go through the physical pain," he replied once he was able to speak. "But Darling, it is my loss too. I, I lost my daughter, my little princess. It's my loss too."
A few months later, he had tried to get intimate with her. She screamed hateful, hurtful words at him, sobbing and flailing her pudgy arms at him.
The alarm clock came on, playing an old Vince Gill tune. Even though he knew it would irritate her, he listened to the music as he slowly work from another night's futile attempt at sleep.
"Turn that off! God, just, just turn it off; I know you're awake. You're not snoring anymore, I know you're awake," she demanded angrily, lumbering out of the bed toward the bathroom.
He did not turn it off until the last notes died out. After all, she was in the bathroom, behind the solidly closed door. A Garth Brooks song started and he shut his alarm clock-radio off. He knew she liked Garth Brooks and especially that particular song.
"Remember..." she began as he drizzled some maple syrup onto his hot Cream of Wheat breakfast.
"Yeah, yeah, Darlene's," he muttered.
"Thermometer says twenty degrees out there," she mused, more to herself than to him as she peered through the kitchen window at their rear yard.
"And after that rain, bet the roads are all iced over," he said, taking a sip of his coffee.
Grabbing the bottle of alcohol-water mixture from the living room closet, he stepped outside into the frigid morning air. True to his prediction, yesterday's rain was today's ice. He almost fell on the concrete steps from small porch to walkway.
Spraying the windshield of his car, he managed to break the thin sheet of ice from his car. After a moment's pause, he also treated his wife's car with the solution and removed the ice from her car as well.
He heard her talking with someone, hushed murmured words when he brought the nearly empty spray bottle into the house. He said nothing as he set the bottle on the kitchen counter. The look on her face told him she was not on the phone with her sister. He said nothing as he stared at her for a long moment. Then, still silent, he left the kitchen.
He had suggested counseling. Marital counseling, grief counseling, individual counseling. She'd refused any suggestions of his. And her sister had backed her up.
Parking in the faculty lot, he carefully made his way to his first class of the day. The grounds keeping crew had been busy that morning; the steps were cleared of ice. But he was still cautious as he climbed the five long steps from walkway to heavy glass door. Not for the first time, he wondered at the design of the steps. Each step was four inches in height but twenty eight inches in width. Even with a long-legged stride, it was impossible to skip over any step.
His Sabbatical was scheduled; he planned to devote a few months immersing himself in the various libraries in the United States and Canada. Perhaps he would devote some time to obtaining his second doctorate.
"Or finally write that historical fiction novel about Madame Campion, lesbian courtesan to the French noble women leading up to the French Revolution," he mused.
Then a true weariness overwhelmed him. He didn't know who she was on the phone with. Nor did it matter.
"And, isn't that just a little sad?" he said, laughing without humor. "That it doesn't matter?"
