Erosion 3

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.

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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?"

"Dianne," he said to the teacher's aide when she came into the office, hugging herself against the chill. "You've got my classes for the day. Exams start Tuesday; the monitors are already scheduled so you'll just need to bring the exams and unlock the classes."

"Getting an early start on that Sabbatical?" she asked, pimpled face creasing into a smile.

"Exactly!" he said, looking around at the neatly packed office. "Frank, I think it's Frank. Frank or Fred; they've been notified to put this stuff in storage."

"I swear, it's getting colder," Dianne said, grabbing her coat again.

"Cold front's coming through; supposed to get down below zero tonight," he agreed as he left the office.

Arriving home, he saw that her car was gone. Entering the home, he grabbed the first suitcase he'd already packed and brought it to the car. Then, returning to their bedroom, he noticed a piece of cloth sticking out of a drawer on the low dresser. Sliding the drawer open, he saw that his wife had packed the black bustier and matching panties, the bright scarlet baby doll and matching panties, and the bright scarlet teddy with snap crotch for her trip.

"Oh, I'm sure Darlene will really appreciate those," he said drily.

Suddenly, he slammed that drawer shut and swiveled to the foot of the bed. Lifting the hinged lid of the chest at the foot of their bed, he saw that the four sets of sheets had been disturbed. Parting the stacked sheets, he felt around and felt... Nothing. She'd packed the rubber sheet for her weekend trip to her sister's home.

The gas station at the end of the drive sold him some very sturdy boxes. In their home, he packed the most precious of his belongings. The urns that held his mother and father's ashes. The good china his mother's mother had given to his parents on their wedding day. A sudden thought came to him and he returned to the bedroom. He smiled tightly; his wife had removed the wedding set and placed it in the secret compartment hidden in the bottom of the quite ugly heirloom from her own mother's mother. He wiggled his plain gold band from his finger and put it into the compartment, pocketing the family wedding set in his coats inside pocket.

The three boxes were placed into his office. Frank or Fred or whomever would not be rifling through the boxes to verify that everything was related to his studies and his tenure to the university. Confident that his china and the ashes of his beloved parents were as secure as he could make them, he took one last look around the office.

Home once again, he made himself an early lunch. His anger spiked slightly as he looked at the very meager provisions she'd left for him. He would be on his own for breakfast, lunch and supper throughout the weekend but would have been hard pressed to actually find anything to eat in their home.

Lunch completed, he brushed his teeth then jammed the toothbrush and tube of toothpaste into his shirt pocket. He rubbed his face with his hand and shrugged. Maybe he would grow a beard and mustache during his Sabbatical.

He slid the bathroom window open and shivered at the blast of cold air that greeted him. Then he pulled the stopper on the bathtub and turned the cold water tap to full blast.

In the hall closet, he shoved her coats aside, opened the breaker panel and flipped the main switch to 'OFF.' The house gave a slight 'whoosh' then fell to silence. He slid the kitchen window open and again shivered when the arctic blast greeted him. Then he left the house.

## ## ## ##

'The Amorous Annette Campion' was an immediate sensation. He received accolades and high praise for tackling the subject matter and doing so with compassion and restraint. A few even believed that Annette Campion had been a real figure in the early days of the French Revolution, despite the very clear subtitle informing the reader that this was fiction.

La Langue streaming services reached out to his foreign agent, wanting to buy the rights to 'The Amorous Annette Campion;' they wanted to do a weekly series on French television. In the United States, Crasseuse Magazine wanted to do a full-length film based on the novel.

The provost of the university contacted him; in addition to teaching history, they wished for him to teach French Literature. He agreed, citing a desire to obtain a doctorate in French Literature. He was slated to return in time to resume teaching the following semester.

Again, looking around at the accommodations, he felt a weariness descend. He'd been in Paris for nearly seven months and in seven months, he'd accrued nothing of true value to himself. No knick-knacks, no keepsakes, no mementoes of his time in the City of Lights.

"Well, that's not entirely true," he grumbled, rubbing his paunch.

The university did have a gym; he vowed to make use of it. Grabbing his suitcase, he called for a taxicab to take him to the airport.

## ## ## ##

Driving past the house, he was shocked to see that the house had been abandoned. The lawn was knee high, a few windows were broken and the front door was splintered. Pulling into the driveway, he could see that the north end of the house sagged significantly.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, he backed out and drove to the university. He had to introduce himself to the provost; apparently his beard and extra pounds had really changed his appearance. The provost was ignorant of the condition of his former home but did disclose that his wife had called a few times, looking for him. And, a lawyer, presumably hired by his wife had also called and had even attempted to subpoena the items being stored for him.

Deciding to face the music, he called his wife's sister. Darlene had always had an intense dislike of him; he could never figure out why the militant feminist had harbored such an immediate grudge against him. And, upon identifying himself, he found that time had not softened her feelings. His laughter when she gleefully announced that his wife was no longer his wife; she'd filed for a divorce just days after he'd abandoned the marital home caused Darlene to scream her hatred of him and disconnect the call.

The provost had given him the name of the lawyer and he called the man's office. The bored sounding receptionist promised to pass the message along and three hours later, the attorney verified his former sister-in-law's claim; he was divorced.

"Of course, there is the matter of the damage to the domicile," the man intoned.

"Yes; I saw the home as I drove past this afternoon," he admitted. "So, what happened?"

"Uh, well, strange as this might seem; I thought you were supposed to be some kind of smart guy or something," the lawyer sneered through the cell phone connection. "When you dump three inches of water onto a floor then freeze it? It damages the foundation."

"Yeah, that was genius, wasn't it?" he chuckled. "She froze me out of my home so I returned the favor. Was there any kind of judgement against me?"

The lawyer admitted he did not know; he had handled the divorce. Moments after that call ended, he received a call from a familiar phone number.

"Hi! I see Darlene called you," he said cheerfully. "So... What's new?"

He chuckled as he held the phone away from his ear. When she paused to take a breath, to think of new insults and threats to scream at him, he asked her about any judgements against him.

"Why? Why did you destroy... It can never be fixed," she sobbed. "My house; it's ruined."

"You destroyed it long before I did," he said quietly. "But when you took the rubber sheet... So, was it worth it? Whatever his name was. Was he worth it?"

"No," she admitted.

"I saw where you took all the money," he said. "Out of our joint account? You took all the money."

"My, our house! You destroyed our house! I, I had every right to that money; I needed a place to live, God damn you," she screamed.

Through his US agent, he secured an attorney. His attorney and her attorney reached a dollar amount for his portion of the damaged home. As they sat at the conference table, she stared hatefully at him. His relaxed, easy smile seemed to infuriate her and twice, her attorney had to request a recess.

'The Erosion of a Marriage' had critics divided in their opinions. Some said it was far too dark, even darker than 'The Amorous Annette Campion' had been. Others lauded the book for its unflinching look at the silent destruction of a once strong, vibrant marriage. Crasseuse Magazine again campaigned heavily to buy the film rights for the book.

Grudgingly, the University did not schedule any summer classes for him; he was on a nationwide book signing tour. After two months of backwoods towns, cheap motels, grease-laden meals at diners, cookie-cutter chain restaurants and the occasional dive, he was grateful to reach the end of the tour.

His last signing was in the town of his university. He was treated as returning royalty; the local news station had a camera crew and a very attractive young female reporter there to cover the event. Many of the University's deans and faculty were there, swilling free champagne, shoveling the watercress and cucumber sandwiches into their maws as quickly as they could.

"Hi! Who do I make this out for?" he cheerfully asked the heavy-set woman as she approached, a copy of 'The Erosion of a Marriage' in hand.

"You know who this is," Darlene snarled, dropping the book and pulling a.45 from her large handbag.

The End

**Author's Notes: I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. I thank you sincerely for reading my stories.

I especially thank those that take the time to leave comments, good and bad. I also thank those that take the time to rate my words, those that 'Favorite' my works.

This is another anomaly; there are no characters from any other JimBob44 story making an appearance in this story.

And for anyone screaming 'you didn't finish the story!' Really? Do you really think he's going to survive a.45 slug at close range?

Have a swell day. And some of you, have a swollen day.