Payback for payback for payback . . .
An original story. Chapter 1 of 4.
I know that I usually write story continuations, but there's been enough clamoring, comments and emails encouraging me to write my own, that I figured I'd offer up a few. I don't think the trolls will care one way or the other.
I hope you enjoy this little story, and remember, it's only fiction.
For Information on how I choose which stories to continue, please read my profile.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
"What the hell was that about?" I growled at her, as we pulled out of the driveway.
She was drunk, but not too much to give me shit, as usual it seemed. "God, you're such an ass, Marty. So I flirted a little, what's the big deal?"
"What's the big deal? I have to work with those people. Now I'm going to have to hear about what a slut my wife is for the foreseeable future."
"Fuck you. All I did was dance with a few guys. Get over it." She loosed a beer belch that had me rolling down my window. If only her 'boyfriends' had been around for that one. Hot, huh?
I don't know where the recent disrespect had come from but I was sick and tired of it. "Dance? You were dry humping them on the dance floor. Sitting on guys' laps. They had their hands all over you. Shit, you were kissing that bastard Anderson on the porch! You know how much I hate him."
"I didn't kiss him, he kissed me. More than you've been doing lately."
"Like that's my choice."
"If you treated me a little better, maybe I wouldn't have to get my attention from other men," she sneered.
If you weren't a disrespectful frigid bitch, maybe I'd treat you better,
I thought. "That's the last damn company function you'll be attending if you can't behave like a wife, and feel like you need to act like a complete slut. You humiliated me."
"Having you for a spouse is humiliating," she snapped back.
"Fine. We can end it if that's what you want, Sheri. I'll be damned if I'm going to have a whore for a wife."
"Works for me," she laughed. "Like being married to a loser like you is some wonderful deal."
I knew I shouldn't have started when she was soused. She would deny everything the next day. She was a mean, vicious, sloppy drunk, and I was sick to death of it. I wasn't going to let this one go.
When we got home I ignored her, and she collapsed on the couch. I left her there and went to bed. Something was going to change. I knew that much for sure.
~ * ~ * ~
She was still passed out on the couch when I went to work the next day. I didn't wake her up. In fact, I was very careful not to. I snuck out of the house when we usually did, and hit the office prepared to hear all about her outlandish behavior.
It was worse than I anticipated, which was pretty damn bad to start with. Pictures were floating around of her tits half out of her dress, getting mauled. One had her skirt pulled up in back, unknown hands on her ass, over her pantyhose miraculously. Another showed her making out with two different men including the asshole Anderson. I received them anonymously, and listened to the snickering all day. As you might imagine, I was not in a good mood by the time I headed home.
Walking in the door, I was greeted not by the woman I'd married, five years earlier, but the shrew she'd become in the last few months.
"Why the fuck didn't you wake me up!" she snarled.
"You don't want to be married to me, but you expect me to be your wake-up service?"
"What do you mean, I don't want to be married to you?"
"You told me you didn't want to be married to me. That having a spouse like me was humiliating, that you didn't want to be married to a loser like me. After making a fucking spectacle of yourself last night."
"God, you're such a jerk. You always have to exaggerate everything don't you? I had a few too many drinks, and you dump me on the couch, and sneak out in the morning without waking me?"
"Frankly, I'm sick of your behavior. You humiliated me last night. That's all I heard about all day at work."
"Bullshit. I had a few drinks; I danced with a couple of guys. So sue me."
I threw the pictures I'd printed out in front of her. "You acted like a complete tramp with the people I work with. This is what's floating around the office today. It's what I had to deal with."
She looked at the pictures, and I saw her start to get uncomfortable. Would she apologize? Promise to behave better, offer to drink less? Of course not. This was Sheri, my wife we're talking about. Maybe a year ago, but for the last few months any traces of the loving woman I'd married had disappeared.
"Looks like you work with a bunch of assholes who think it's cool to take advantage of a drunk woman. And you're another one for not protecting me." She glared at me, attacking like she always did.
"I tried to talk to you. I even tried to get you out of there early. You wouldn't hear of it. You were having too much fun, you said."
"And now you want to make a federal case out of it. Grow up, Marty. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't have sex with them. All I did was flirt a little, and some of them got carried away. I went home with you didn't I?"
"For all that's worth. Not much surprise you didn't have sex with them. I think you've forgotten how. It's been over a month since you let me touch you."
"Well, I hope that one was good for you, because it's going to be a hell of a lot longer than that before I let you touch me again."
Yep. That was her solution for everything. If we had an issue, I was cut off. I was getting used to it. It was kind of sad, really, when you think about it.
~ * ~ * ~
Things had warmed up a little, at least I thought so. We'd gone out to a nice dinner, and shared a bottle of wine. She'd been teasing, but she came to bed in her usual, 'no-sex-tonight' pajamas. I tried cuddling up to her, but she pushed my hand away. "I'm too full, Honey," she said. "Maybe tomorrow."
"Tomorrow. Right. That's all I ever hear anymore," I growled rolling away from her.
"You're going to sulk now? Is that it? Did I hurt your precious feelings?"
"Three months, Sheri. It's been three months since we've had sex. Maybe you should see a doctor or something. This isn't natural."
"What? I'm sick now, because I don't want to have sex tonight?"
"Three fucking months." I got out of the bed, and pulled on my shorts. "I'm not going to stay celibate. If something doesn't change, I'm going to have sex one way or the other," I told her.
I headed out of the room, toward the guest room.
"What are you going to do, rape me? Is that your answer, big man?"
I turned in the doorway, glaring at her. "Are you kidding? Do you think I want to have sex with someone who isn't interested in me? There's more fish in the sea."
"If you leave this bedroom, don't be in any hurry to come back!" she shouted at my back.
~ * ~ * ~
Once a week, I tried. I don't know why I made the effort, but at least once a week, I made an overture. She shot me down every time. I kept sleeping in the guest bedroom, my iPad's Internet connection providing the inspiration, while my right hand provided the companionship I wasn't getting from my wife.
At the six month mark I dressed up to go out.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"
We're
not going anywhere. It's been six months since you've frozen me out. I'm going out. I'll probably be home late."
She looked surprised. "You've got a date?"
"No. But I'll be looking for warmer company than I find at home." It was meant to be a wake-up call. Honestly, other than the sex, things had been better lately. The problem was, I still wanted sex. I didn't think that was unreasonable.
"Two can play that game. I can go out and get laid easily enough," she snapped.
"Of course you can. But why would you? You can have all the sex you want right here at home. Nobody's denying you. It's me that's been left in the cold."
"And you wonder why, with this kind of behavior?"
I was tired of the arguing. "Six months, Sheri. I'm twenty-nine years old. I need sex. I don't understand why you don't. For four years, we did it at least two or three times a week. Now it's zero. Is there someone else? Is that the issue?"
"Fuck you, Marty! I've never cheated on you. Never! You have no right to insinuate otherwise."
"Fuck me? That's a laugh. Don't wait up."
I went to Murphy's with a couple of guys I worked with. There were still a few around the office I spoke to, even after my wife's previous effort at humiliating me. I ended up crying in my beer, lamenting my lack of a sex life. They talked me into going to a strip club. It wasn't my first, but it was just what I needed. They each bought me a lap dance. By the time I got out of there, I was $80 poorer, and a gorgeous Latina named Pilar had managed to get me to make a mess in my pants. Not too surprising, after doing without for half a year, Rosie Palm and her sisters excluded. I retreated to the restroom, cleaned up the best I could, and convinced my partners I'd had enough.
It was after 1:00 a.m. I was drunk and tired. That's the only excuse I have for my lunacy.
She was waiting up, in her 'I'm-available' nightie. I'd almost forgotten what it looked like. She looked me up and down. "It's after one o'clock," she said simply.
"Didn't figure I had much to come home to," I told her, leaning against the door-jamb to stay upright.
She approached me and took my jacket. "I didn't mean for it to go this far, baby," she said. "Let's go to bed, I've missed you."
I snorted. "Don't need it now."
She stared at me in obvious shock, as I staggered to the guest bedroom.
~ * ~ * ~
I somehow managed to survive work the next day, and came home to an igloo instead of a home. The atmosphere was so chilly I thought I'd get frost bite.
"I bet you're proud of yourself, aren't you?" she said coldly.
"For what?"
"Going out and getting laid last night. I waited up for you, dressed up for you, and you shot me down."
"How does it feel to be rejected? It's what I've been going through for the last six months on at least a weekly basis."
